Change of Command - Heris Serrano 06

by Elizabeth Moon

  “But temporary, you said. Was he thinking of enforcing a limit on reproduction, or on rejuv?”

  “I’m not sure. He talked about both, from time to time. But the Familias is so complicated . . . you know, we have planets populated mostly by free-birthers, and others with mostly zero-growthers, and probably eight dozen religions, not even counting the fringes. Any policy one group approves will offend someone else. And meanwhile, the percentage of the population that had been rejuved was going up every year. Every survey taken showed that Rejuvenants wanted and expected to rejuv again.”

  “I wonder how the Guernesi have handled it,” Brun said. “They’ve had the process as long as we have, and they aren’t falling apart.”

  “I don’t know . . . it’s a good question. Do they have our diversity of beliefs?”

  “And I don’t know that one.” Brun shook her head. “This is seriously complicated stuff, Buttons.”

  “It’s a seriously complicated universe, and we’re right in the middle of a whirlpool if we don’t figure it out.” He gave her a long, steady look. “You’re a grownup now, and you’ve volunteered for the job of being Council watchdog for our family. This is what it takes.”

  “Being a dizzy blonde was such fun,” Brun said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  Jessamyn Essence, Essential Transport Ltd.

  In the working passengers’ mess, the men had played the newsvid cube of the assassination and aftermath three times already without more than a few muttered cusswords. Then one of them, the oldest, shut off the player.

  “So we’re too late and somebody got ’im first, so what do we do?” His glance challenged them.

  “Git the rest of ’em. If he’s dead maybe they won’t be watchin’ so close. I could take that yellow-haired slut.”

  “I keep thinkin’ about the chillen, Dan . . . by rights, they should be our’n.”

  “Ben’s right,” another said. “Somebody stomps the rattler’s head, no matter how it thrashes around it’s not gonna attack nobody. We don’t need to be goin’ around killin’ people like criminals. But gettin’ our chillen back, that’s a good thing to do.”

  “But how’re we gonna find ’em? Sposin’ they’ve already been sent to new homes?”

  Dan held up his hand. “We don’t know that yet. First thing is, we’ll look for ’em in a group. Prob’ly we’ll hear, if we keep our ears open. Every port we come to. Now mind-nobody gets drunk, like that idiot on Zenebra-” They all knew about that; a whole shipload had been captured. “No fights, no arguments. We have a mission-a new mission-and that’s the rules. Got it?”

  “Yessir.”

  The next day, the Jessy came into Goldwyn Station, and the working passengers debarked after checking off their assignments with the captain. For once, the captain thought, working passengers had actually worked-without complaint-and he added the optional minimal pay chit to their goodbye handshake. Whatever anyone said about fanatics, he always liked to hire the pious brotherhoods, because he could count on them to work hard and keep their fingers off the cargo.

  The Goldwyn spacers services section, or S-3, offered a ­variety of cheap lodging, food, and drink. This was an all-civilian station, rarely visited by R.S.S. ships, and the diversity of Familias spacefaring cultures showed up in decor and cuisine both. The men followed their noses to something with a familiar smoky-meat odor, and settled at one long table. On one wall, a newsvid showed scenes from some business meeting, but they didn’t recognize any of the faces or references. Then a face they did recognize, a blonde woman with short curly hair.

  “-Any comments on the outcome of the meeting, Sera Meager-Thornbuckle?” The announcer’s accent was hard to follow.

  “No . . . you realize our family is still in mourning . . .” The blonde woman’s accent was, if possible, worse.

  “Yes, Sera, but what do you think of a Conselline as Speaker?”

  “Excuse me-” She turned away, and the camera followed, showing her getting into a long dark-maroon car.

  “Damn,” one of the men said. “It’s her!”

  “You men are all the same.” That was a waitress in red checks and blue denim, slapping menus down in front of them. “Just because she’s young and rich and pretty-”

  “We’ll have chili,” Dan said. “All of us-a bowl of chili each, and some crackers.” His glance silenced the others, who looked ready to say things they must not say.

  “An’ some beer?” the waitress asked.

  “No . . . not yet, anyway.” Not until they’d found out what they wanted, where the women and children were. If they could find them and bring them home-even some of them-they’d be honored among men, maybe even more than if they’d managed to kill the Speaker themselves. That would stop the Rangers of Texas True from saying they were nothing but a bunch of wifeless drifters causing trouble.

  “Look-” Ben touched Dan’s arm and nodded at the newsvid. There it was again, the picture that had infuriated them all-women and children in the traditional clothes walking down a corridor from a ship’s hatch, guarded by battle-armored troops of the Familias Fleet.

  Dan had trouble following the accent of the newsvid ­announcer, but he did understand Baskar Station. Was that where the women were in the picture, or where they were now? He didn’t know, but they could always go and find out. Somewhere there’d be a bar, and men talking, and someone would know, if he asked the right questions.

  Chapter Nine

  Castle Rock, Old Palace

  Hobart Conselline ran his hand over the wide gleaming surface of the desk-his desk now, as it had been Bunny Thornbuckle’s, and before that Kemtre Altmann’s-and felt a glow of satisfaction. His Delphine now had the suite Miranda had occupied, and to him had come every perquisite he had once envied, from the skilled silent staff to the deference of those who had been his peers, and were now his subordinates.

  He had worried, when he saw Brun and Buttons both at the Thornbuckle tables, but neither of them had offered to speak. And however they had voted, the count had gone his way. Their own uncle supported him-for a specific reason, but that didn’t matter. He would have appointed new ministers for legal affairs and internal affairs anyway; he would have appointed new judges. There were certain legal actions in progress within his own sept which made that prudent. If Harlis benefitted, and assumed it was all for his own benefit, well-that was a cheap profit, and he had never scorned a cheap profit in his life.

  He leaned back in the chair and gave himself up to reverie for a few minutes. He was relatively young, and with the aid of repeated rejuvenations he would remain young . . . and powerful. They had seen what happened with a succession of Speakers, generations back, and then what happened when they made leadership hereditary, with the Altmanns. Prosperity had followed prosperity, an upward trend with only minor adjustments. But no one had yet seen what he would show them: the stability and wealth that would come with one leader who would never fade into senility. Year after year, decade after decade, he would be there to serve and protect . . . to guide and lead. . . .

  His desk chimed at him, and he sat up, scowling. That was the future, but now he had to deal with the problems his predecessors had left him.

  “Milord, Colonel Bai-Darlin, head of the Special Security Unit, would like a meeting.”

  “Send him in.” He would show them how hard a real leader worked. He would be tireless for the good of the realm, as he had always been tireless for the good of his Family, and his sept. And realistically speaking, given the importance of his sept in the economy of the realm, what was good for the Consellines could not help but be good for the rest-at least most of them.

  Bai-Darlin came in with a crisp salute and heel-click that convinced Hobart the man was efficient. But was he smart? Was he tireless?

  “Milord, I thought you might like to be brought up to date on the investigation into the death of Lord Thornbuckle-”

  “It was those NewTex terrorists,” Hobart said. “I can’t imagine why you
haven’t caught them yet.”

  “Milord, the preliminary investigations have found no trace of anyone from any of the worlds on which they operate being on Castle Rock since the Rangers were brought to this system for trial.”

  “Then the investigators are incompetent! What does it take, a bright red stripe painted on someone’s head? They threatened to kill the Speaker, and the Speaker was shot. What more do you want?”

  Bai-Darlin looked at him in a way that made Hobart feel uncomfortable. “Evidence, for a start.”

  “You have evidence; Lord Thornbuckle’s dead body. The damage done to Ser Mahoney, to the vehicle.”

  “Yes, milord, but none of that points to the New Texas Godfearing Militia. We have no indication, on travel manifests, on hotel registers, that they were here.”

  “If they weren’t here, they must have hired someone.”

  “According to our best sources, they do not hire criminals to work for them, and what we know about the types of weapons used does not fit with them either. They like direct confrontation; they would be far more likely to walk up to an intended victim on the street.”

  “Excuses,” Hobart said firmly. “Although, if it wasn’t the Militia, I can think of another disruptive element it might be.”

  “Yes, milord? Anything you could suggest-”

  “Ageists,” Hobart said. “Lord Thornbuckle was a Rejuvenant, and so was his wife, a multiple.” Bai-Darlin’s gaze shifted to Hobart’s ear. Hobart shook his head. “These are jewelry, Colonel. I support rejuvenation, of course; any sensible man does. And a man in my position must wear his colors, so to speak. I will rejuvenate when I need to, in another ten years or so; I’m quite a bit younger than Lord Thornbuckle was. In the meantime, these rings-” He touched his ear-“These rings reassure the older rejuvenants that I am serious when I support their interests.”

  “I see, sir. And you think it possible that Ageists assassinated Lord Thornbuckle because he was rejuvenated? Does this mean that you think they will attack you?”

  “I don’t think it was Ageists-I think it was the NewTex Militia, as I told you. But if I’m wrong about that, I’d look at the Ageists next.”

  Bai-Darlin did not look convinced. “I was hoping, milord, that you might share some insights into possible elements among the Seated Families . . . perhaps Lord Thornbuckle had aroused a particular animosity there? He seemed a popular Speaker, but there’s always someone . . .”

  Hobart waved his hand. “Minor resentments perhaps. Certainly there were those who felt he misused Familias resources in going after his daughter the way he did. A number of us thought so, and expressed ourselves at the time. But I’m not aware-and I wouldn’t be, necessarily, since I’ve little to do with the internal workings of Barraclough Sept-of anything serious enough to cause someone to kill him.”

  “Very good, sir. Thank you, milord, for your time.”

  “Catch those killers, Colonel, and I’ll see you get a medal.” Instead of the eager grin Hobart expected, Bai-Darlin gave him a dark, brooding look before turning away. Strange fellow. Perhaps not as efficient as he had seemed.

  Several days later, Hobart found himself glaring at the same desk he had coveted so much. That was the natural result of having to deal with obstructive fools, he told himself. A man had a right to have Ministers he could work with. Why should any of Bunny Thornbuckle’s appointees expect to stay in office, if they were going to cause him trouble? They should have learned from his first dismissals and replacements, but they still obstructed him. They would have to go, root and branch; he was not going to deal with any more of this insubordination.

  Hobart considered his options. Who should be replaced first? Defense had been making noises lately about rejuvenation in the enlisted ranks, something about aged NCOs going crazy or something. Their idiot medical branch had put a hold on all rejuvenations, and seemed to be determined to investigate thoroughly. He’d pointed out to Irion Solinari that it would be expensive and inefficient to hold a prolonged investigation into something like that, and that it would be better to cut their losses and simply discharge the affected personnel as medically unfit. But Solinari argued-Solinari did nothing but argue, Hobart thought, remembering that Solinari had also argued with Bunny, who had appointed him. Just a difficult personality, and not one suited to a responsible position like Minister of Defense.

  If Solinari went-if he had his own choice in as Defense, then . . . he could also ease out the more difficult of the admirals. Perhaps their rejuvenations would fail? Those had all been done with the original Guernesi drugs, so if they failed it would take the burden of public opinion off the Patchcock connection. They didn’t actually have to fail, if only Fleet could be persuaded to take them off active duty out of concern about the rejuvenations. Right now the medical branch and senior officers were being completely unreasonable, and Solinari was backing them up-or stirring them up, he wasn’t sure which. Solinari definitely had to go.

  He opened his private pad and began drafting a letter to Solinari, explaining his reasoning. He didn’t want to be harsh, but the man had to realize that he just was not qualified. And even if he had been, his negative attitude, his contentious nature, made him unfit. More in sorrow than anger, Hobart told himself, was the tone he wanted to take. Not that Solinari had any friends worth worrying about. A bunch of backbiting, acid-tongued nonentities in the minor families, that was all. They’d soon find out what they were dealing with.

  Admiral Vida Serrano rarely concerned herself with civilian matters, unless they seemed likely to precipitate a war. The change from one head of state to another should have been-usually was-a matter of ceremony and speeches, which affected the Regular Space Service no more than the change from one Grand Admiral to another.

  Certainly Lord Thornbuckle’s assassination had been shocking, but she expected that it wouldn’t make much difference in the long run. Someone else would be elected, a few Ministers might change, and the inertia of the very large ­organization would keep everything going very much as usual. What could be frustrating when she wanted to make a change reassured her when she wanted stability. Her business, as she saw it, was to make sure her command was ready to deal with any exterior threat, which might see the momentary confusion as an opportunity to cause trouble.

  To that end, she had put herself on the list for updates on the rejuvenation problem, and had come to the same conclusion as the first blue-ribbon panel charged with investigating it. A bad batch of rejuvenation drugs, purchased because they were slightly less expensive, and almost certainly manufactured at the Patchcock plant she had seen. The solution was also clear: repeat rejuvenations with clean drugs for those who had not yet suffered significant damage, and supportive care for those who had, for whom another rejuvenation would mean prolongation of senile misery. She had cosigned the report, when it was forwarded upstairs, and had also cosigned a letter suggesting that the manufacturer bear the expense of the repeat rejuvenations and the supportive care.

  And nothing had been done. The update list had disappeared; she’d asked Headquarters, and been told it was “discontinued pending investigation of security problems.” She’d heard rumors that one of the big independent research labs was itself under investigation for possible falsification of evidence and misuse of public funds. Headquarters had suddenly cut off funding for repeat rejuvenations, without explaining why. Surely they understood how important it was-Fleet needed those people back at work, not to mention the individuals’ own need to be saved from senility and death. Vida approved as many rejuvenations as she could out of her discretionary fund, but she didn’t have the money for all of them. She thought of contacting Marta Katerina Saenz, whose pharmaceuticals she trusted. But Headquarters had put a gag order on rejuvenation; she wasn’t even supposed to discuss it internally. Going outside would be grounds for court-martial, if she were found out.

  She wished she knew where all this nonsense was coming from. Was it someone in Fleet? Someone in the governme
nt? The Grand Council meeting the day after the funeral had elected Hobart Merethal Conselline as the new head of government, and he had appointed some new people to various defense-related committees. But Irion Solinari was still Minister of Defense, and he’d always been solid. She toyed with the idea of contacting him directly, but admirals who got involved with Ministers went up like a rocket and down like the stick, in her experience. It was almost as bad for a ­career as marrying into a Seated Family.

  Most of these new appointees were only names to Vida Serrano. The Consellines and Morrellines had been involved in the Patchcock mess-everyone knew that much-but she had searched the databases a long time to find Hobart Merethal Conselline, and then the only information she could get was a short official biography on the occasion of his taking his Seat in Council. Nothing in it indicated why the other Families would choose him, unless it were a general desire to repudiate Thornbuckle and all his friends.

  She had reached this point in what had become an all-too-familiar reverie when her clerk called.

  “Admiral-there’s a courier here from Headquarters with a hand-carry.”

  Hand-carries were an outdated pain, in Vida’s opinion, but some of the mossybacks at Headquarters believed in them. Especially the Chief of Personnel. Maybe it was the information she’d requested on the progress of other sectors in return­ing their rejuvenated senior NCOs to active duty.