Change of Command

by Elizabeth Moon

  Cecelia's rumpled red head rose from the other couch. "That's all very well, but what did he do?"

  "He extorted stock by roughing up some of your weaker relatives . . . you remember tellin' me how surprised you were that your dad's aunt Trema left her stock to Harlis? That was no accident. I've got the paper trail where Harlis got some local toughs to come in and stomp on some of her favorite china, and tell her they'd break her bones just as easy. And he had the police around there in his pocket, told 'em she was a crazy old lady who dropped things and had hallucinations."

  "And they believed it?"

  "Money makes a strong argument. Anyway, that's not all I've got, and the evidence ought to stand up even in a crooked court. Which is what you've got, I gather—Harlis contributed quite a bit to the education of certain judges' children. If you've got any kind of an opposition journal, this'll be meat and gravy for 'em."

  "I can . . . help write . . . the appeal . . ." Kevil Mahoney said. He was standing, leaning crookedly against the doorframe.

  "You're up," Cecelia said. "You're supposed to be resting."

  "I've done nothing . . . but rest for . . . weeks. Enough. My memory's still as spotty as a Dalmatian dog, but if you feed me the facts, I can write. I think." His speech had already improved, but now it smoothed even more the longer he talked.

  "Good," Kate said, with another of those blinding grins. "Then I think it's time for this Texas gal to go have a rest and a shower. I must look like something the barn cat dragged in."

  Kevil Mahoney's name on the bottom of the petition for summary judgement upholding the late Lord Thornbuckle's will might have had little effect, but the thick stack of supporting evidence did. One of the court clerks called Brun that very afternoon.

  "The judge hasn't heard of any of this before—" The clerk's voice was sharp with disapproval.

  "Of course not," Brun said. "Ser Mahoney was critically injured, as you know; some of the family files were under his personal lock." She said nothing about Kevil's other problems; a clerk wouldn't have reason to know anything about them.

  "Is this all the data you have, or can we expect more?" That was sarcasm, but the clerk sounded uneasy.

  "No, this isn't all; this is merely the preliminary filing. My mother, Lady Thornbuckle, is on Sirialis, getting additional data from the main family archives there."

  "I see. Well . . . you'll hear from us."

  Two hours later, Harlis came storming up the drive, only to be stopped by Brun's new security force. After they disarmed him, and checked with Brun, they escorted him to the door. Brun met him there, backed by Kate, Cecelia, and an upright Kevil, who was leaning on George. Kate had reappeared in full Texan persona, but this time she wore her Ranger badge.

  "Before you say anything," Brun said, "let me make it clear: we have all the evidence we need that you engaged in criminal activity to get control of family companies, and we are gathering more."

  Her uncle glared. "I don't believe it! You can't do this to me! I didn't do anything . . . it was all perfectly legal. Hobart will take care of you—" Then he blenched.

  "How very interesting," Cecelia said. "Hobart . . . Could you possibly mean Hobart Conselline . . . now why would someone in our sept be working with a Conselline . . ."

  "I didn't say Conselline," Harlis said. But he had changed color, and his voice shook. "But it's my right—"

  "You had no right to terrify poor old Aunt Trema," Brun said. She was startled to realize that she sounded very much like her father, and wondered if the others noticed. "And yes, we will press charges."

  "I'll—I'll see you in hell!" Harlis wheeled and strode down the front walk, shadowed by the guards.

  "It's not over," Brun said, as much to herself as to the others. Harlis wasn't ready to give up, and she didn't know what he might do next.

  "No, but it's a good beginning," Kate said. "C'mon, hon, wait until you hear Cecelia's next good idea."

  "What?"

  "She's found a place for all those inconvenient women and children that Lieutenant Serrano is stuck with. She's going to take them off to a pioneer planet she knows about, where they'll be happier and their skills are needed."

  "That's nice for Barin and Esmay," Brun said. "But I wanted her to go tell my mother what we've accomplished. She needs to know that we have evidence against Harlis. We can't trust that to ordinary communications—"

  "You're right, but now that Harlis is on the run there's no hurry, is there? Your mother's not going to do anything rash."

  EXCET-24

  Ruth Ann took a long look out the windows. It looked cool and green, and she didn't know if this was spring, summer, or winter. Puddles reflected the sky, patches of blue and rolls of gray cloud like unspun wool.

  No towering cities, no noisy crowds. When the hatch opened, the air that swept in was cool, moist. She could smell green growing things on that air. The red-haired woman led the way; Ruth Ann followed close behind. The ground felt good to her feet, even through shoes. It held still; it didn't vibrate.

  The red-haired woman with the fancy name—Cecelia whatsis, a Rejuvenant—led the way into a little square building, where they each had to show their ID. Ruth Ann felt the oddness of it, that each person handled their own cards. And hers had her own name on it, Ruth Ann Pardue.

  Once they were all finished with "Customs," whatever that was, and had new purple stamps on the cards, the red-haired woman led them down the street. This was scary. The little town looked like the backwater village where she'd grown up, where she'd have been whipped till her legs bled for walking around wearing shoes and looking at people . . . but here were men and women, dressed almost decently, except that they all wore shoes, and the women didn't keep their eyes down. People looked at her, but with hope, not distaste. She recognized the admiring glances at the children.

  They turned into the open doorway of a two-story building, and the red-headed woman yelled, "Ronnie! Raffaele!" Immediately, a woman yelled back. "Lady Cecelia! Just a second—I'm coming!" Then a clatter on the stairs, and a slender young woman with dark hair and eyes came running down, and gave the red-headed woman a hug. Then she looked at Ruth Ann. "I've got dinner on—we're so glad you came; I hope you'll like it here. Ronnie's out trying to see why a machine won't work or something . . . he'll be back soon."

  Ruth Ann recognized, in the woman who introduced herself as Raffaele, the same signs of abomination she had seen in Brun. This woman had never lowered her eyes in respect; she had never stood back keeping silence; she had never been denied access to anything she wanted to learn.

  But—from the smells coming from the kitchen—she had also never learned to do more than push buttons when she wanted something to eat.

  "And we hope—" Raffaele was still talking, when Ruth Ann interrupted.

  "What were you trying to cook?"

  "Just some . . . some meat . . ."

  "Let me take a look." Ruth Ann sailed into the kitchen on a wave of unexpected delight. Sure enough, the place was a mess, sticky implements cluttering the counter—and not a big enough counter, either, that would have to change—and a stove leaking smoke from a badly-hung oven door.

  "Secunda—Shelly Marie, you get that counter cleared. Tertia—Terry, get this floor clean. Benji—" Her oldest son stared at her, wide eyed. "Benji, we need that stove fixed."

  "Pri—Mama?"

  "Now, Benji." She could feel her confidence coming back. "Simplicity, honey, you take the littles out into the garden—you do have a garden, don't you?" she asked Raffaele.

  "Y-yes, but it's not—it's kind of a mess."

  "Not for long." Messes she understood, and what to do about them. "Simplicity, just you start the littles weeding, and make sure nothing bothers them."

  The dark-haired young woman was fluttering now, like a gaudy butterfly in a net. "But—but Sera—Ruth Ann—I didn't mean for you to go to work—I was making dinner for you—"

  "Never you mind—why don't you go set the table or someth
ing?"

  "Come on, Raffa; I'll explain about Ruth Ann." The tall lanky redhead led the younger woman away.

  In a kitchen again at last, a real kitchen. Too small by far for all of them, but bigger than any of the cubbyholes called kitchens in the spaceships and space stations. Shelley had found a kettle and had water heating on the stovetop; Benji had already taken off the oven door. Inside was a lump of meat, charring on one side.

  Shelley handed Ruth Ann a couple of folded towels, and she pulled out the cooking pan, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Raw inside, burnt outside; the girl had built up the fire too much too fast, trying to compensate for the ill-hung door. Probably she'd never cooked without the electric, and the electric was off.

  Ruth Ann looked around for a worktable—none. It would have to be the counter, where Shelley swept aside the clutter to make room for her, then began rummaging in drawers for the knife she knew Ruth Ann would want. "We're going to need a worktable," she told Benji. "They said they had plenty of wood, so that's something to start planning."

  "Cecelia, I feel terrible—but the twins kept me up last night—"

  "You haven't found anyone to take them—?"

  "No." Raffa blushed, a becoming color, Cecelia noted. "I—we—we sort of—decided to keep them ourselves. And one of the nursemaids ran off with a farmer, and the one with children wanted to start a school, and besides she has her own children to care for . . ."

  "You?" This was an unexpected complication. "Er . . . do you think that's wise?"

  "You mean, will Brun mind when she finds out?" Raffa had always been too sharp. "I don't think she will, but if she does, too bad. I quite understand her not wanting to keep them. It must have been horrible, and I wish it had never happened. But I like—no, I love the boys, and I even love it that they're part of her. The way things are, Ronnie and I may never get off this planet again—and that's all right, but I do miss some things—"

  "My dear—you don't have to stay here—"

  "Yes, we do, and don't argue. We wanted a life of our own, and we're getting it. It's not anything I imagined, but—whether you believe it or not—we're happy. But the thing is, children . . . it'll be years, because . . . well . . . I don't fancy having babies without modern medical support. This way, we're helping Brun. And ourselves."

  Clearly it would do no good to argue. "What did you name them?" Cecelia asked.

  "The redhead's Peter, for Ronnie's great-uncle, and the brown-haired one's Salomar, for my mother's brother."

  Cecelia felt her eyes stinging unexpectedly. Family names—and names she must know were in Brun's family line as well. "So—when do I see the little demons?"

  "They're napping. They've had some illness—I know it's only a childhood thing, and all children do this . . . out here, I mean."

  "Well, we'd better set the table then. One thing I've found out about Ruth Ann, when she makes up her mind, things get done."

  "Was she one of the—one of the ones who hurt Brun?"

  "No. Her husband was, but she knew nothing about it until long afterwards. Where's your table linen?"

  "Used it for crib sheets," Raffa said. "All we can do is dust this off." This had been an elegant dining table when Raffa and Ronnie brought it downside, but it had spent several years as a work surface, and looked it. Cecelia forbore to comment on the state of the floor—with no glass in the windows, let alone any household machinery, how could Raffa keep dust off the floor?—and helped wipe down the scarred tabletop.

  "I still have most of the china," Raffa said. She unlocked the big cupboard in the corner, and took down stacks of plates. "Even if they look a bit silly on this bare wood."

  Incongruous was the right word, but Cecelia said nothing, laying out Pierce & Samuelson's famous "Coronation" pattern, with the gold wavy rim. Partway through, she noticed that the smell from the kitchen had changed from singed meat and something sour to a delicious blend of roast and something that almost smelled like bread.

  Suddenly Ruth Ann appeared in the doorway. "Oh—you don't use tablecloths?"

  "We don't have any left," Raffa said. "We had to use them for the beds—"

  "Deary me! And us with all more than enough in the luggage. Cecelia, where are the boxes, do you know?"

  "No, but I'll find out. Which box?"

  "The one with the table and chair on the side."

  Cecelia headed for the shuttle and, from the piles of boxes being unloaded, located the one with the table and chair on the side. One of the crew carried it back for her; she set it on the table and opened it carefully. Inside, it was stacked full of folded linens, brilliant with hand embroidery.

  Cecelia lifted out the folded cloth. "However did you have time to weave this?"

  "Oh, that's not our weave," Terry said. "We had no space for looms. But Prima—Ruth—says we mustn't be idle. She got that Miss Waltraude to get us some cloth, and we embroidered it. Do you think it's good enough?"

  Cecelia shook out the folds. On plain white cloth, the women had embroidered a broad band of flowers, trees, birds, stars, and what she supposed were religious symbols. "It's . . . more than good enough." It was splendid, and the Coronation pattern looked even better that in had before.

  By this time the kitchen smells had attracted the twins from upstairs. The twins were much more mobile than before, and although they might have been sick the day before, they were full of life now. They made straight for the table, and Raffaele tried to intercept them. Terry grabbed Salomar just as Raffa caught Peter.

  "What big boys!" Terry cooed. "Yours, ma'am?"

  "Yes," Raffa said. "But I'm not ma'am—just call me Raffa. If you could help keep them out of the dinner table—"

  "I'll take them out in the garden, and help Simplicity keep an eye on them."

  When she'd gone, Cecelia cocked an eye at Raffa. "They'll never believe you bore those children, you know. They'll realize they're adopted."

  "Yes, but not from whom," Raffa said firmly.

  Cecelia dared a peek into the kitchen. The floor could not gleam, being what it was, but it had the look of a floor that would gleam if only it were smooth enough. Ruth Ann worked a great lump of dough on the counter, which did gleam except where she worked. One of the women was washing dishes; another was chopping something that smelled good. Older children were moving in and out, bringing bits of fresh greenery from the garden, carrying out trash, and—as soon as Raffa agreed—mopping the dining room floor.

  The lights came back on just before Ronnie came home.

  "My God," Ronnie said as he came through the door. The women bowed their heads and waited. "I mean—er—it's a surprise."

  Ruth Ann looked up. "We don't take the name of the Lord in vain," she said. "I thought you were going to pray."

  "I know—I just . . . what did you do? Where did all this come from?"

  "It's just food," Ruth Ann said.

  "It's not just food," Ronnie said. "It's a feast."

  "Then you can say thanks to God for it," Ruth Ann said. She looked hard at Ronnie, who reddened and stumbled through a child's grace Cecelia was sure he had not uttered in over a decade. The NewTex women added a hearty "Amen."

  The roast fell into even slices, perfectly cooked. Puffy rolls as light as clouds. Potatoes, crisp outside and mealy inside. Fresh greens that weren't bitter or too sour.

  "Truly a feast," Raffa said. "I can't imagine how you got that horrid old stove to work. Ever since the electric went bad, we've all been stuck. The bread machines don't work—"

  "You don't need machines to make bread," Ruth Ann said.

  "I do," Raffa said, with a smile that took the sting out of the contradiction. "I don't know how to make it otherwise. I tried to put the ingredients in a bowl that the directions say to put in a bread machine, but it came out the most horrible sour lump—"

  "Did you knead it enough?"

  "Knead? What's that? I mixed it up, isn't that what the machine does?"

  Terry snorted, and Ruth Ann shot her a lo
ok. "I don't mean to make fun," she began.

  "You can make all the fun you want, if you'll teach me how to cook the way you do," Raffaele said. "If I could make an edible loaf of bread, just once—"

  "You don't make good bread by making it once," Ruth Ann said, feeling more secure every moment. Cecelia had been right. Clearly this household needed her, needed the knowledge she had. "You make good bread by making a lot of bread."

  "Well, here I am," Raffa said. "Ready to learn."

  Ruth Ann remembered Hazel, and had her doubts. This woman was much older than Hazel, and unless she had a natural knack, she might never be very good. Still . . . she could certainly learn not to stuff too much fuel in a leaky oven, and burn a roast on one side.

  After dinner, the junior wives organized cleanup without even being told, and Ruth Ann discussed with Raffaele why they'd come, and what they wanted to do.

  "We can use all the instruction you give us," Raffa said. "I told Lady Cecelia last time she was here . . . we have good, hard-working people, but none of us have ever done without electricity, or running water, or all the other things that we have on developed worlds. It's not just me—it's all of us, just about. We can't learn all this out of books or teaching cubes."

  "Let's start with you, then. There's room in this house; we can experiment—" She was proud of using that new word, of being able to think of it. "When we know what you need, we'll know what the others need."

  The next day, work began in earnest. Ruth Ann had a clear picture in her mind of what the kitchen needed to be, so she and the others could work there without falling all over each other. She couldn't believe it . . . she was directing men. "Make the counter this long," she'd said, and they were making it that long. They didn't seem to mind, and she was enjoying it. So were the others. All those months of being told how backward they were, all those months of being confused by the humming machines, feeling awkward and uncertain. And now—