Change of Command - Heris Serrano 06

by Elizabeth Moon

  He would have to pray for Hobart Conselline. He would have to pray a very special prayer for the soul of Hobart Con­selline . . . and for the soul of Hostite Fieddi, it might be.

  In the Boardroom, the Chairman faced his Board, and explained what he had learned.

  “So the Familias will be in even more turmoil?”

  “And even more acquisitive. I have the Master of Swords looking into the possibilities of a coup d’etat, but we will need a suitable successor.”

  “With due respect, Chairman, I thought our policy was to promote addiction-”

  “You misunderstood.” A breathless silence, while everyone waited for the Chairman’s next comment. “We promote no vices; we do profit from them where faulty human nature allows them to flourish. But in this case, it was my most earnest hope that they would withdraw the drugs, either voluntarily, from shame, or involuntarily, as the evidence of the danger spread. We did not object to the damage done to their military, of course, but that damage was intended to shift their policy away from that process to a safer, more limited drug which merely prolonged life a decade or so.”

  “Our resources-”

  “Are unequal to full-scale war with the Familias. Yes. We lost an entire assault group at Xavier, and another such loss would be unprofitable. We need a way to protect ourselves, without risking ourselves.”

  “To eliminate Hobart Conselline?”

  “That’s one possibility, certainly. Especially if the right man can be found to take his place, someone who understands that unlimited expansion brings explosive decompression in the end.”

  His Board looked back at him. He knew what they were thinking, and knew that they knew he knew. A hundred, a thousand stalks of wheat fall before the reapers, and no one knows one from another but the Almighty . . . but the fall of a great tree brings down those around it and shakes the very ground. Perhaps God cared as much for a blade of grass as for a tall cypress . . . but mere humans noticed one more than another. It was his decision, but on them would fall the consequences.

  Sirialis

  Miranda walked down the hill to the stables in a chill evening drizzle that did nothing to cool her anger at the dapper little man who had been so sure of his welcome.

  She had tried to be fair. She had tried to be reasonable. She had told herself that Cecelia often got things wrong, in her hot-headed enthusiasms.

  But Pedar Orregiemos seemed determined to push her past her limits. He had written, expressing his delight in his Ministry. He had written again, complaining of her daughter’s “interference” in foreign affairs, when Brun had invited that Texas woman to be her guest at Appledale. He had called by ansible to insist that she be “fair” to Harlis. Because, he explained, she didn’t really need all that property. He could provide for her, and advance her interests himself, as Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  And today, he had arrived at Sirialis, smugly certain that he was telling her what she did not already know, when he brought the results of the judgement for Bunny’s will and against Harlis. Smugly certain of his welcome. Smugly certain that he could comfort a widow he was sure needed comforting.

  If only he had let her alone. She glanced around, and saw only the grooms busy with the last evening chores. They nodded to her, and she to them, as she ducked into the passage between the stable offices and the vet supply storage. No one would be surprised to see her here; she often came down for evening rounds, or after, with a few sugar cubes for Bunny’s favorite mounts.

  If only he had left her alone, she would have done nothing. If only he had not flaunted his power, his connections, and hinted so broadly at his involvement that she could not ignore it. What did he think? That she had always loved him secretly, that she had been hoping to slough off an unwanted husband and take a lover?

  Was he really such a fool?

  She opened the door of the old smithy where bits and stirrups and buckles waited for repair. Above the long counter with its burners and torch tips, bottles of chemicals in neat racks. A small forge filled the end of the room, which had been built around it when the new smithy-much larger, and suited to a stable with more horses-had been built in the other courtyard.

  Brun’s information had been more complete than Cecelia’s. Pedar was linked to the Rejuvenants and to Hobart Con­sel­line . . . but while Hobart had refused to intervene to protect Harlis’s interests, he would not cooperate in his own downfall. Neither Brun nor that Texan Ranger thought that the evidence they had would stand up, since the Speaker could dismiss and appoint Ministers and higher-court justices at will.

  “I’m sure Pedar planned it,” Brun had written. “I’m sure he hired the killers, though Cecelia says he could not have done it himself; he was in Zenebra. Kate thinks she’s found a money trail-a tenuous one-but in a hostile court it probably would not hold. But whether he did it on his own, as a way of currying favor with Conselline, or on Hobart’s orders, we can’t determine. The reward seems to indicate a payment for services rendered-why else would anyone appoint Pedar to Foreign Affairs?-but we can’t prove it. Unless you’ve uncovered something in the archives, we’re at a standstill.”

  The archives had thoroughly implicated Harlis Thornbuckle and his son Kell in financial chicanery, extortion, and intra-Family power plays-but not in the death of his brother, and not in connection with the Rejuvenants. At least, not that she’d found yet.

  She moved about the room, then picked up a broken snaffle and sat down at the workbench. Was she sure, in her own mind, that Pedar had had Bunny killed?

  Yes.

  Was she sure, in her own mind, that he could not be brought to justice?

  As long as Hobart Conselline was Speaker, and Pedar his Minister of Foreign Affairs, yes. Who would believe the hysterical accusations of a grieving widow?

  Was she really willing to put herself at such risk, when nothing she did could bring Bunny back to life?

  She thought about that, turning the bit over and over. If he would go away and leave her alone . . . no. No. He would not; it was not in his nature. He would wheedle and whine, year after year; he would act against her one way and another, to force her into his bed, as he had maneuvered when she was a young girl in love with someone else. But then she had had Bunny. Now she was alone, with no protection but her own wits.

  She could do nothing about Hobart Conselline, the ultimate enemy, the one who, she was sure, had inspired Pedar to his actions, whether or not he had ordered them. But here, in her own house, she could deal with his minion.

  She turned on the smaller torch, and played it over the bit in the clamps. She had first learned to work metal as a hobby, when she’d wanted a particular style of guard on her foil. Over the years, she’d learned how to make metal stronger, or weaken it; how to make it look old, how to make it look like something else entirely.

  You may not approve, my love, but you will understand.

  She hoped her children would.

  Finally, she turned the torch off, and left the bit to cool. She had not mended it properly, but she had made a start. That was sometimes the best a person could do.

  Neil waited by the outer gate.

  “Goodnight, Neil,” she said. “I made rather a mess in the old forge-that broken Simms bit. You were quite right; the little torch isn’t hot enough.”

  “It’ll come right in the end,” he said.

  She hoped it would. She would do her best to see that it did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Baskar Station, Baskar System

  Beatta Sorin, head teacher for the Little Lambs class of Shepherd’s Glen Primary School of Baskar Station, led the way to the transit station. Every few steps, a quick glance behind showed her the neat crocodile of uniformed students, assistant teachers, and volunteer parent helpers. The adults wore an official tabard with “Shepherd’s Glen Primary School” on the left and a picture of a gamboling lamb on the right; in the pockets were their official IDs, their locator chips, their emergency kits. Around each adul
t neck, a lanyard and whistle to supplement the earpiece and mic, and the assistant teachers wore-as she did-an adult version of the school uniform, white shirt and plaid slacks. She herself held the braided end of the organizing ribbon, to which each child was supposed to cling. So far, they all had their little hands on it . . . but they were still almost in sight of the school. They could still be sent back, to spend a boring day in the nursery class.

  At the station, she handed in the school’s credit cube, and the file of seventeen children and ten adults moved into the loading area. This early in the trip, the children were still behaving well, though her experienced eye recognized that Poro Orinios already needed to use the toilet, and Mercy Lavenham had something sticky in her pocket and on the fingers of her left hand. She detailed her first assistant, Uri, to deal with Poro’s needs, and herself excavated the pocket, wiping Mercy’s fingers carefully as she did so. Mercy’s mother, it seemed, could never resist sending her youngest out without a personal treat, even when it was strictly forbidden.

  Uri came back just in time, and the crocodile edged its way on board the transgrav tram that would take them on a tour all around the station. Beatta, always organized and efficient, had made prior arrangements with station transit authorities, and this tram had enough slack in its schedule to allow extra time here. They had a reserved car, and each child was properly buckled into the seat, a motion-sickness patch in place, ­before the tram slid away from the station, one car entirely full of Little Lambs and their keepers.

  Beatta had run this same field trip eleven times before. She knew from experience how to plan the route to provide the most in thrills, education, and efficiency. First, the slow part, through the densely populated shopping and residential district. Shrill voices piped up, pointing out home blocks, or the store where Mam bought bread. The tram stopped frequently. Then, as it swung away on the first of the transgrav segments, Beatta tapped her classroom bell for quiet.

  “We’re going to go oopsie,” she said. “Everyone remember to breathe and hold on.” Safety bars swung down in front of each seat; Beatta took this opportunity to insert her earplugs. No amount of discipline would keep the children from squealing when the tram made gravity transitions, and the ear-piercing quality of Little Lambs would have rendered her deaf years ago if she hadn’t taken precautions.

  The tram gathered speed, rumbling a bit, and the lights blinked three times, a final warning of transition. Then the tram plunged into the dark, and Beatta’s body tried to insist it had just fallen off a cliff. Even through her earplugs, the children’s shrieks of mingled fright and excitement were painfully loud.

  Gravity returned gradually, but not to normal. Heavy Cargo, their first stop, maintained only 0.25 G. Beatta, who had watched closely, noticed that none of her class had thrown up; this year, at least, the mothers had believed her about the need for a light breakfast. The tram emerged from a dark tunnel into a vast lighted cavern. Beatta flicked out her earplugs with a practiced twitch, and picked up her microphone.

  “Attention, children! This is the cargo servicing area for most incoming shipments. Bri, your father works in Heavy Cargo, doesn’t he?”

  Bri, halfway down the car on the right, nodded.

  “Well, this is where he works.”

  “I been here before-he tooked me!”

  “Yes, Bri, but the others haven’t. Please pay attention. When we come to the station, you’ll be able to see-out Bri’s side-the exit hatches of the container transport system, and the tracks of the transport system itself. If we’re very lucky, you’ll get to see a line of cargo containers coming through.” She knew they would be lucky; she had scheduled the field trip for a time when one of the big container haulers was in, and she had checked on the transport schedule with its cargo chief. She also knew the color-coding and shape-coding for different types of containers, and was prepared to explain which carried food products and which industrial raw materials, or manufactured merchandise.

  Bix and Xia were bouncing in their seats, testing the light gra­vity and their restraints . . . Beatta looked at them with that imme­morial teacher expression, and they settled back, a little sul­kily. Twins were always a problem, in her opinion, and the cur­rent fashion for twins annoyed her. Thanks to Lord Thorn­buc­kle’s daughter Brun’s well-publicized pair, hundreds of thousands of parents were opting for twins on their next pregnancy, and Beatta foresaw a great deal of work for teachers in a few years.

  The tram slowed for the cargo handlers’ station, and Beatta reminded the children to look out the righthand windows to see the cargo containers. Sure enough, huge colored bins butted through the heavy curtains at the hatches, and bumped and rumbled along their assigned tracks. Some shunted off this way, and others that, and Beatta answered the predictable questions without really thinking about it.

  “The optical sensors read the coding on the labels, and there’s a cross-check by color-coding from another set of sensors . . . this allows the AI system to route each individual bin where it should go.”

  “Where’s my daddy?” asked Bri, now looking as if he were going to cry.

  “Working somewhere,” Beatta said. “I really don’t know for sure.” She should have known; she should have made sure that Bri’s father was in sight for this brief stop.

  “There he is!” Bri said excitedly, patting the window in his glee. Beatta wasn’t at all sure the orange-suited figure running a scanner along the markings on a cargo bin was Bri’s father, but if it made him happy-her breath caught as someone in a tan shipsuit stepped out and hit the orange-suited one over the head. The top of the bin lifted, and four . . . eight . . . twelve . . . more tan-suited men crawled out. The orange-suited one lay motionless on the floor.

  “Somebody hit him,” Bri said. His voice rose even higher. “He’s hurt, my daddy’s hurt!”

  “I’m sure he’s not, dear,” Beatta said. Experience kept her voice even, and experience made her look quickly out the other side of the car for something to distract the children. “Look!” she said, before her brain had finished processing what she saw. “Look at all the funny little cars they run around on!”

  It was too late to wish she hadn’t done that, because all the children except Bri had turned obediently, and had clear view of the firefight as the passengers on the funny little cars attacked first the workers on the floor, and then drove right up to the tram.

  The tram gave a convulsive jerk, as if the driver had started to pull away, then stopped again. Three of the children started to cry; the other adults stared at Beatta with white faces.

  “Now, children,” she said, in her best teacher’s voice. “There’s nothing to cry about, just a little bump. Stay seated, please. Mag, would you help Bri calm down, and Sivi, you see to Crowder-” The adults responded, and by the time the man with the obvious weapon opened the car door, the children were all sitting quietly, listening to Beatta tell the story of the Brown Bunny and the Spotted Snake.

  “Oh, shit!” the man said. “There’s chillen on this tram!” He had a strong accent made all too familiar by newscasts of the previous two years.

  “We don’t use that sort of language,” Beatta said firmly. The muzzle opening on his weapon looked big enough to swallow the tram, but she made herself look at his face. “Please do not upset the children.”

  “Just stay there,” the man said, backing out. Beatta had no intention of doing anything else.

  On the transportation board, a light blinked twice and then went red.

  “Babytrain’s got a problem,” Kyle said. The yearly field trip had its own code name which the school knew nothing about.

  “What?” His supervisor, Della Part, was trying to listen in to a conversation between an R.S.S. security advisor and her own supervisor.

  “Don’t know yet.” Kyle hit the com button. “Transgrav 4, what’s your problem?” No answer. Any problem that could pull a transgrav tram driver off his seat might really call for help. If one of the kids had been hurt-<
br />
  “What compartment’s Babytrain in?” Sash called across the control room.

  “Heavy Cargo Two.”

  “I’ve got a slight but significant rise in pCO2, and ambient temp’s up slightly.”

  “Kids got loose? Running around?”

  “Where’s our video?

  “Blank-it’s been blinky the last few days.”

  “Ask station security.”

  Kyle called down to the stationmaster. “We’ve got a problem in Heavy Cargo Two. What’ve you got on scan?”

  “Lemme see.” Pause. “CO2’s up a bit, O2 consumption’s up, also ambient temp . . . visual . . . the transgrav’s stopped at the station. Wasn’t Babytrain on for today?”

  “Yeah. They’ve popped a red and I can’t raise ’em.”

  “Looks normal. Cargo containers coming in from Freedawn 24. Cargo handlers-wait-what color’s Heavy Cargo this year?”

  “Orange. Changed from tan-”

  “Would anyone be in the old-oh, hell!”

  “What?”

  “None of the Heavy Cargo crews would be carrying firearms. We have an intrusion.”

  “In there? What about the kids?”

  In the appalled silence that followed, Kyle could almost hear his heart thudding. He gulped, hit the supervisor’s code, and said it. “We have a Level Five emergency. Hostile intruders in Heavy Cargo Two, and a trainload of kids-that preschool field trip.”

  The R.S.S. officer opened his mouth and shut it again, but looked sideways at the supervisor.

  “Cut out the alarms to that sector, put us on Level Five Alert. Patch to the stationmaster and the emergency response teams. Call in the second shift as backup . . .”

  Then to the R.S.S. advisor. “What else?”

  “How many certified emergency personnel do you have?”

  “Counting security, medical, damage control-maybe five hundred.”