"Stop this nonsense." The roar of the loud-hailer silenced them all for a critical moment, as they tried to figure out who held it and what was happening. Brun blinked the lights, and spoke more calmly, but still in the loud-hailer. "We have serious issues to discuss—and I mean discuss, not have screaming tantrums over."
"Who told you—!" began Oskar Morrelline.
"Sit down, Ser Morrelline, and be quiet. If you wish to be recognized, you will request it with your button."
"You—" he glared at her as if he would leap down three tiers and knock her to the ground, but men on either side of him pulled him back to his seat, whispering urgently in his ears.
"Thank you," Brun said. She put down the loud-hailer and set the Speaker's mic to a medium volume. "I see many lights are lit. Please wait your turn; please limit what you have to say to factual information or a brief expression of support or opposition to the topic." She took the lights in order, according to the computer's log.
The first to speak, having pressed their buttons before the uproar, now had trouble remembering what they had wanted to say. Brun waited for them, not rushing them. By the time ten had spoken, the others were all settling down, like a team of restive horses that now felt an experienced hand at the reins. She was careful not to grin, not to let them see the triumph she felt. She went on being calm and cool and perfectly fair until even the Consellines were able to leave off sarcasm and discuss the issues. She had seen her father do this often enough. Boring them into good behavior, he'd called it.
When the debate on Ageists and Rejuvenants heated up again, Brun stepped in.
"This is an important issue. We must come to some new understanding of how to constitute our government. But right now, at this time, we need to make sure we have a government, and a polity to govern. We have heavily armed warships roaming around inside our borders, any one of which could hold a planet hostage. Suppose one or a group of them decided to take over a colony world? Some colonies do not even have efficient communications access out of their own system. You know more and more of your children have been going to the colonies—do you want to deliver them to slavery?"
"No . . ." came a murmur.
"Most of us here own stock in, if we don't completely own, the trading consortia that move our goods from place to place. What will piracy do to our profits?"
A thoughtful silence.
"What we must do is secure our borders, and rid ourselves of the menace of these mutineer ships. We don't want them defecting to the Benignity or the Bloodhorde—"
"No one would go there—"
"No? Why not? If they are, as Minister Solinari says, part of a cult of strength-through-killing, isn't this just a sophisticated version of the Bloodhorde's beliefs? I can see a mutineer or so running to the Bloodhorde—and then teaching them how to maintain and use the advanced technology of the ships they stole. I can also see the Benignity being extremely upset with us for being so careless."
Another thoughtful silence.
"So—you think we ought to do what?" That was Ronnie's father.
"First give Fleet our support, as Minister Solinari said, to put down the mutiny and secure our borders. When we've done that—which should not take long—then we need to deal with these other issues. We need to reassure our neighbors that we are not planning to encroach on them. We need to find a way to open opportunities to more of our citizens—to the young, now kept from advancement by their elders who have rejuved repeatedly, and to those not in the Great Families—to the many people now shut out from all decision making."
"What? You'd let outsiders into the Grand Council?"
"Not outsiders. People who have been in our polity for generations . . . just ignored. But this is for later discussion. Right now, I'm calling a vote on Minister Solinari's request that investigation be deferred, and support be given to the Regular Space Service."
"You can't do that."
"I just did." Brun smiled at Cerion Conselline. "Ser Conselline, we all know that the chamber dissolved into disorder, into name-calling and useless arguments. It was necessary to restore order, and I did that. In doing so, I took over the authority to decide what issues would come up—and right now, I'm calling for a vote. You can criticize me later, but at this moment you will vote or abstain."
Brun stood there, unmoving and silent, as the votes began to trickle in. A flurry of "no" from the main Conselline Seats, a scattering of "yes" from minor houses, then a block of "yes" from the Barracloughs. Another cluster of "no" from several minor families among the Consellines. She'd hoped for a bigger margin; this would be down to the wire. Suddenly she noticed a scurry of movement among the younger Consellines. Votes began to change. She held up her hand. Everyone sat back and watched.
"Excuse me," she said, her eyes on the display, not on the Conselline tables. "I notice votes changing—this is legal, but I want to be sure that the individuals changing their votes do so willingly and not under any duress."
"They're changing your way," Oskar said.
"That's not the point," Brun said. "I'm not here to win; I'm here to see that you all have the opportunity to vote your true convictions. May I have affirmation?"
One of the young Conselline men stood up; Brun nodded. "I'm changing my vote on my own, 'cause I think it's about time we had some young leadership."
Two others rose and without waiting said, "What Jamar said." Brun nodded again, and waited until all the changers had spoken. Cerion and Oskar were white around the mouth but said nothing more.
When all the votes were in, Fleet had its support, with over two thirds of the votes. Brun turned to Solinari. "Ser Minister, we trust you will convey to Fleet our full support."
"Yes, sera." He did not grin, but his eyes twinkled at her.
In the next hours, days, weeks, Brun struggled to convince the Seats of the Great Families of the need to expand the franchise and find a way to organize a society that would be, in the long run, comprised of near-immortal individuals. Fleet's success against the mutineers helped her; as the news came in about the destruction of the mutineer flagship and the other mutineer ships, her prestige grew. When Fleet reported on the fate of Harlis Thornbuckle, other Families who had considered treating separately with the mutineers changed their minds and this also increased her influence.
The young people, those who had not rejuved yet, understood the problems of rejuvenation clearly, though they were less receptive to bringing in non-Family representatives.
"They're rejuvenating too," Brun pointed out, over and over. "They'll live just as long as your parents and grandparents—and they're going to want power. We can't stuff the rejuvenation tiger back into the box. It's out, and it's going to stay out. What we have to do is design a system people can live with, Rejuvenants and those who oppose rejuvenation alike. And right now, if you'll work with me, we have the votes. There are still more unrejuvenated than rejuvenated members."
The young Consellines, eager to profit from rejuvenation, were willing to consider how a long-lived society might work. Some religious groups opposed rejuvenation entirely; Brun listened to their objections and took them back to the pro-rejuvenation faction. "It has to work for everyone," she said again, over and over.
Brun also talked to those Rejuvenants who would meet with her, emphasizing her conviction that multiple rejuvenations gave them special skills and responsibilities as well as privileges. "You can afford to take the very long view," she said. "You can figure out for yourselves how to use that extra time productively, to contribute and not just hoard resources." She began to wonder, after a few of these meetings, if they'd all had bad rejuv drugs somewhere down the line, because most seemed unable to grasp the need to change. They liked the life they had; they could not believe that change might come by force.
"Believe it," Brun said. "When you're outnumbered enough, it doesn't matter what talents and skills you have. I learned that on Our Texas."
It was the first "youth" vote in Council which convi
nced many of them. Months of hard work lay ahead, but if Fleet could buy them the time, Brun was now sure that they would cooperate in the end.
Chapter Twenty-Four
R.S.S. Vigilance
Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi. Arash grimaced at his face in the mirror. He looked well enough—the same tall, trim figure, the same lean face . . . handsome, actually. The same red hair, only lightly silvered at the temples. Decades of service in the Regular Space Service . . . combat experience . . . decorations . . . a fine upstanding officer.
A fine upstanding fool. A fool whose folly was now on his heels, like a hound on the trail of a fox . . . like a hunter after his prey. He shook his head abruptly and glared at himself. Time to quit dithering, to quit making faces in the mirror and do something.
But to lose it all . . . it hurt. The years, the friendships, the trust.
The certainty of his fate if he didn't do something.
It had gone already, gone before he'd realized it. It had gone the moment he went to Jules with his worries about Lepescu, gone irretrievably the first time he'd done Jules a favor that went over the line by so much as a hair.
He contemplated, as he had contemplated before, simply going off on his own. But with Fleet on a war footing, it was even less possible. Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi, so well known, so distinctive in appearance, could not book a flight off this station without someone reporting it . . . he had to take that convoy out, knowing all the time that the hounds were on his trail, were closing in.
He had kept the contact code all these years, though he had never made contact himself. After the fiasco with the Crown Prince, he had never meant to . . . he had tried to forget. But now, in his need, his memory threw it up on his mind's screen, as clear as the day he first saw it. Perhaps he was in truth what Jules had made him in law.
Or perhaps half his luck would be with him, and there would be no corresponding code on this station. Then he would have to be honorable, have to be the naive prey who does not hear the hounds until too late. He would have to endure the discovery, the disgrace, the ruin of a lifetime's honest service for the sake of a youthful error. In a way, he wanted to be that innocent.
He called up the station's database, looking for the number that he hoped would not be there.
But it was. And as it would have to be, the number's owner was an unexceptionable business anyone might call or visit: Remembrances Gifts and Flowers. He placed the call, and spoke the words that would mean nothing without the knowledge in his head.
Then he had to wait for an answer, his nerves drawn tighter with every passing hour.
"I was afraid she'd faint," Oblo said, holding out his mug for a refill. "Turned white as a sheet, she did."
"You idiot, Oblo," Meharry said. "She maybe hadn't heard before—"
"She hadn't, but I didn't think of that. How's I to know?" His tone of injured innocence sounded real, for once.
"You have a brain," Meharry said shortly. "Wish I'd had time to talk to her."
"What about?"
"Copper Mountain . . . I was wondering if she'd heard more than I have. I wish I could transfer over there. My brother—"
"Your brother is fine, Methlin. You heard that—"
"Mornin' Oblo, Methlin," Petris said. "What's new about your brother?"
"Nothin'," Oblo said. "Methlin just wants to go play big sister."
"Transfer? I doubt they'd let you, right now."
"I know." Methlin bit into a sweet roll as if it were an enemy's neck. "I did sort of ask. Got told no."
"You're not the only one," Petris said. "I heard from the admiral's clerk—Admiral Serrano's, that is—that Commodore Livadhi asked if perhaps Heris's old crew wouldn't like to transfer, seeing as she's so close. Relatively close." He sipped his own mug of coffee.
"Wants to get rid of us, does he?" Oblo asked, scowling.
"I think it was courtesy," Petris said. "He's—sometimes he's almost scrupulously polite. Working at it. The admiral said no, by the way."
"She would," Oblo said.
"Mind yourself," Petris said, grinning. "She's our Heris's aunt, not just a mere admiral—"
"Mustang," Meharry said, grinning back.
"So I am. With everything that implies. So, how are your sections shaping up for this next mission?"
"Better," Meharry said. "It's still not our—not what I'd've liked, all our own people. But the new ones aren't bad, and that first cruise settled 'em."
"Good. We may well see some trouble this time out, from what I hear."
"Me, too," said Oblo, who had sources known only to himself. "I heard some of the mutineers are trying to set up deals with free trader companies, and even the big consortia. Anyone who doesn't sign up gets whacked on their next trip."
"The commodore's not bad," Meharry said thoughtfully, stirring her coffee. "I hear he's got good combat sense. Not up to Heris, of course, but—"
"We don't know that, Methlin," Petris said. "His record's good. And Heris liked him, even when she didn't completely trust him."
"Came to our rescue that one time . . ." Oblo commented.
"Yeah . . . kind of odd he was there, but I don't argue with good luck. Anyway, if it goes as smoothly as last time, we'll be fine, as long as the crew does its job and nothing blindsides us."
"Nothing's going to blindside us with Koutsoudas up in scan," Meharry said.
The convoy proceeded on its way, a string of transport and cargo vessels guarded by Vigilance and her gaggle of patrol and escort ships. The original plan, to have each convoy include two cruisers, had foundered on the shortage of cruisers. This made Rascal's weapons upgrade particularly valuable, and Livadhi placed her at the tail of the line, where another cruiser would have been. They were held to the speed of the slowest ship, in this case two of the spherical hulls used by the Boros Consortium, loaded with ordnance for the border stations. Esmay's relatively young crew had plenty of practice in adjusting jump point insertions and exits, in interpreting longscan. After the first two jump transitions, she began to feel less like a character playing a part and more like a real captain. Her crew was settling well; she could feel their confidence in her.
Koutsoudas found Methlin Meharry in the enlisted mess and sat down beside her. "Meharry—can I talk to you?"
She gave him one of her looks. "You have a voice, 'Steban. What's up?"
"I don't know, but I'm going to go nuts if I don't tell someone about it."
"Mmm. Is this the best place?"
"Maybe not. Where?"
"You offshift or on?"
"Off."
"Two hours, break room for weapons three. See you." Meharry slapped the table and left without another word. She made her rounds, bumped into Oblo as usual, and suggested that he might want to meet her.
"We need Petris?" he asked.
"Doubt it," Meharry said. "Likely someone's just leaning on the kid about something and he'd like to blow off a bit. You're insurance."
"Got you." They went their separate ways.
Twenty minutes before the two hours, Meharry ambled into the weapons three break room and leaned over the shoulders of the two corporals who were studying a wire model of the main beam supports. "Something needs polishing," she said.
"Sir? What, sir?"
"Find it," Meharry advised. "And polish it very well."
The brighter of the two blinked again and said, "Sir, any idea how long we need to polish it?"
"An hour and a half should do it," Meharry said. They left, and she went to work. In five minutes she had disabled the scan pickup that should have reported everything in the room. Oblo appeared eight minutes later, and checked her clearance before settling into one of the chairs. It creaked under him. A pivot with a mug of something started into the room, saw them, and backed out without a word.
The two of them chatted about inconsequential things until Koutsoudas appeared. He had his own gear bag with him, and produced one of his cylinders.
"You don't trus
t us?" Oblo said, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't talk to me about trust," Koutsoudas said. Meharry couldn't tell if he was angry or scared or both. Before she could say anything, he rushed on. "This is all slippery stuff, nothing solid. I don't want there to be anything solid. But you need to know."
"Can we have a noun?" Meharry asked in a low drawl. "A subject?"
Koutsoudas glanced at the open hatch as if he expected a killer to step through it. Then back at Meharry. "The bridge crew—is about to lose it."
The Serrano Succession Page 82
