Elizabeth Moon - Serrano 3 - Winning Colors
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Winning Colors
Elizabeth Moon
Dedication
This one's for Mary Morell, who introduced me to science fiction in the ninth grade, and then insisted the
wonderful (!) stories I wrote in high school were lousy. (She was right.) And for Ellen McLean, who refused to
be my friend in the first grade, only to be a better friend later than anyone could ask. And for all the horses,
from the horse next door to the little bay mare who presently has her nose in my feed bucket, who enriched
my life with everything from (a few) broken bones to the feel of going at speed across country.
Chapter One
Twoville, Sublevel 3, on the planet Patchcock,
in the Familias Regnant
Conspirators come in two basic flavors, Ottala thought. The bland vanillas, usually wealthy, who meet in
comfortably appointed boardrooms or dining rooms, scenting the air with expensive perfumes, liqueurs, and
good food. The more complex chocolates, usually impoverished, who meet in dingy back rooms of failing
businesses or scruffy warehouses, where the musty air stinks of dangerous chemicals and unwashed bodies.
The vanillas, when they cursed, did so with a sense of risk taken, as if the expletives might pop in their
mouths like flimsy balloons and sting their tongues. The chocolates cursed without noticing, the familiar
phrases embedded in their speech like nuts in candy, lending texture. The vanillas claimed to loathe violence,
resorting to it with reluctance, under the lash of stern morality. The chocolates embraced violence and its
tools as familiar and comforting rituals. No wonder, since when the vanillas chose violence, they employed
chocolates for it.
Ottala much preferred luxury herself; she considered that a long leisurely soak in perfumed water was the
only civilized way to begin the day. She too felt the little shock of surprise when she heard the expletives
come out of her own mouth with no immediate punishment. Her skin preferred the sensuous touch of silk; her
taste buds rejoiced during elaborate dinners created by talented cooks. But she could not confine her
sensuality to the bland end of the spectrum. Vanilla was not enough. In her own mind, she considered her
taste for chocolate an expression of unusual sensitivity.
What she tasted at the moment was the sour underbite of processed protein extruded into pseudo-sausages
nested in pickled neo-cabbage. She sat on a hard bench, elbow-to-elbow with the rest of Cell 571, munching
the supper that preceded the evening's entertainment. Or so she called it; she was aware that her fellow
conspirators considered it more important than anything else they did with their lives.
Her friends would not have recognized her. Her normally bronze skin had the pallor associated with the
underbellies of cave-dwelling amphibians; her dark eyes were masked with blue contact lenses, which also
gave her red-rimmed lids, the better to fit in with the locals. She wore the same dark, ill-cut coveralls and had
the same fingertip calluses as the others; she had held a real job on the assembly line—with faked papers,
which wasn't that unusual—for the past two months.
It was all a great adventure. She knew things about her family's company that she had never imagined; she
would have incomparable tales to tell when she went back topside. Meanwhile, she could eat sour
pseudo-sausage, drink cheap wine, use words her parents didn't even know, and find out for herself if the
reputation of Finnvardian men was deserved. So far she wasn't sure. . . . Enar had ranked only average on her
personal scale, but if Sikar would only look at her . . .
She finished her supper, as the others finished theirs. Odd, how the same custom held at tables high and
low—everyone tried to finish at the same time. Across the room, Sikar stood, and silence spread around him.
He was the contact from higher up, the man whose respect they all wanted. Even in the baggy dark clothing,
he had presence. Ottala couldn't analyze it; she only knew that she felt his intensity as a pressure under her
rib cage. She wanted that pressure elsewhere.
As usual, Sikar began speaking without preamble. "We, the young, serve the old," he said. "And the old can
live forever now, and they expect us to serve forever. We will grow old and die, but they will not. Is this right?"
"NO!" the room vibrated to that angry response.
"No. It was bad before, when the old rich first set their hands against the gate of death, but a hundred fifty
years is not forever. That is why our fathers and grandfathers submitted; they hoped to afford that process for
themselves, and it was limited. But now—"
"They live forever," a woman's voice interrupted from behind Sikar. "And we work forever, and our children—"
"Forever." Sikar made the word obscene. "Their children will live forever too; our children will DIE forever." An
angry rumble, indistinct, shook the room again. "But there is a chance. Now, while the government is shaken
by the king's departure." They had discussed this, night after night, what it meant that the king had resigned.
Would it help the cause, or hurt it? Rejuvenants littered both sides of the political scene; almost everyone rich
and powerful enough to be a force in the government had been rejuvenated at least once. Apparently the
hierarchy had decided: it was a good thing, and now they could act. Ottala pulled her mind back from its
contemplation of the aesthetics of Sikar's striking coloring—those fire-blue eyes, the pale skin, the black hair
with the silver streak—to listen to his speech.
"But before we act," Sikar said, "we must purify ourselves. We must not allow any taint of the Rejuvenant to
corrupt our purpose. Are you sure—sure—that none among you harbors a sneaking sympathy with those old
leeches?"
"No!" growled the crowd, Ottala among them. Her parents weren't old leeches; they were merely idiot fools.
When she had to say these things, she always thought of people she didn't like.
"Are you sure?" Sikar asked again. "Because I am not. In other cells, we've found those pretending to be with
us, and secretly spying on us for the Rejuvenants—"
"Secretly spying" was exactly the kind of rhetoric that Ottala enjoyed. She curled her tongue around it in her
mouth, not realizing until Sikar stood in front of her table what he was leading up to. The tool in his hands,
though, clenched the breath in her chest. She recognized it; everyone did, who had ever changed fertility
implants. It would locate even unexpired implants, and could be used to remove them. But—no one here had
implants. She did.
"Put out your arms, brothers and sisters," Sikar said. "For this is how we found the traitors before—they had
implants."
She couldn't move. She wanted to jump and run; she wanted to scream, "You don't understand," and she
knew that wouldn't work. Sikar smiled directly into her eyes, just as she'd wanted since she'd first seen him,
and the people on either side of her forced her arms out flat on the table. The tool hummed; even though she
knew she could not really feel anything, she was sure her implant itched. The skin above it fluoresced, a
brilliant blue.
"Perhaps she was a manager's favorite—" said Irena, down the table. She had liked Irena.
"Perhaps she's an owner's daughter," said Sikar. "We'll see." He pressed the tool to her arm; she had no
doubt of the next sensation. No anesthetic spray, no numbing at all—the tool's logic ignored her pain and
sliced into her arm, retrieving the implant, and pressed the incision closed with biological glue. Her arm
throbbed; she was surprised that she hadn't screamed, but she was still too scared. Those holding her
tightened their grips. Sikar held up the implant. "You see? And this tool will tell us whose it is."
She had forgotten that, if she'd ever known. Implants carried the original prescription codes; that had
something to do with proving malpractice. Sikar touched the implant to a flat plate on the tool's side, and
laughed harshly.
"As we suspected. This is no Finnvardian assembly worker. This is a Rejuvenant, child of Rejuvenants, our
mortal enemies. This is one who would enslave our children to her pleasure, for all time."
"No—" She got that out in a miserable squeak before Sikar slapped her. It hurt more than she had imagined.
"I hate you!" That was Irena, who had come up behind her and now clouted her head. "You lied to me—you
were never my friend—"
"I was—" But no one was listening. Shouts, growls, curses, those hands tight on her arms, and Sikar staring
at her with utter contempt.
"Rich girl," he said. "This is not a game."
Before she died, she wanted to revise her earlier opinion, and say that some conspirators tasted of neither
vanilla nor chocolate, but of blood. But she could not speak, and no one would have listened if she had.
Castle Rock: the former king's offices
Midafternoon already, and they'd hardly made a dent in the day's work. Lord Thornbuckle leaned back in his
chair and stretched. "I could be angry with Kemtre about this, too: because he was an idiot, I have to sit here
doing his work."
"You wanted the job." Kevil Mahoney, formerly an independent and successful attorney, had agreed to help
his friend in the political crisis left by the king's resignation. "Am I supposed to sympathize? I could be in
court, showing off—"
"As if you'd miss it. No, we're doing the right thing, if we can pull it off."
"If? The eminent Lord Thornbuckle has doubts?"
"Your old friend Bunny has doubts. Nothing makes a rabbit nervous like the predator who pretends not to see
him. We haven't heard anything from the Benignity; by now, I expected at least one raid."
"Don't stare at that fox too long, my friend: there are wolves in the world too."
"As if I didn't—" He paused, as his deskcomp chimed, and flicked the controls. "Yes?"
"Sorry, milord. An urgent signal from Patchcock. Shall I transfer, or bring it in?"
"Bring it," Bunny said. "And the coffee, if it's ready." He would have that, at least, no matter what the trouble
was.
One of the senior clerks—Poisson, he thought the name was—came in with a cube, followed by two juniors
with a trolley. Poisson waited until they had left before handing over the cube.
"It's partly encrypted, milord, but I read the part that wasn't. It's the same region on Patchcock where the
troubles were before, and apparently a Family heir has gone missing."
Family. Bunny could hear the capital letter that elevated mere genetic relationship to political power—not just
a family, but a Family, one of the Chairholding Families.
"Ottala Morreline, the second oldest but designated heir of—"
"Oscar and Vitille Morreline, Vorey sept of the Consellines. Right." One of his own daughter's schoolmates.
He remembered Bubbles—no, she was calling herself Brun now—talking about her. Brun hadn't liked her; he
remembered that much, though he didn't remember why. The Consellines . . . that extended family had over a
dozen Chairs in Council; the Vorey sept, though the minor branch, had five. The Morrelines held four of them.
"Kidnapped?" he asked.
"Ah . . . no. It seems she had disguised herself as a Finnvardian and infiltrated a workers' group—"
"A Morreline?" The Morrelines had, for the past two centuries at least, chosen to emphasize their darker
ancestry. And the video of Ottala that came up when he inserted the cube showed a dark-skinned,
dark-haired young woman. A beauty, Bunny noted, remembering now that he had seen her at some social
function a year or so before. She had matured, as Brun had, showing more bone structure. But how had this
girl imitated a pale, blue-eyed Finnvardian?
"The family located the skinsculptor. She bought a four hundred day depigmentation package, bleached her
hair, wore blue contact lenses—"
"Why didn't she get an eye job while she was at it? What if she'd dropped a lens?" That was Kevil Mahoney,
cross-examining as usual.
Poisson shrugged. "I couldn't say, sir. When she didn't turn up for her younger brother's seegrin, the family
popped her emergency cache, and found her last report. She included a vid of herself after she adopted the
disguise, and said she planned to involve herself in a workers' organization to see what it felt like."
"Ummm." Bunny watched the cube readout. Ottala's disguised self looked very different, he had to admit—if
not quite Finnvardian, at least nothing like the Morreline heir. He wondered if she'd had a temporary bone job
too—her face seemed to have changed shape as well as color. According to the readout, she had had no
trouble buying false IDs, and getting a job in an assembly factory on Patchcock. But she'd dropped out of
sight, without notice to her work supervisor or anyone else, some forty days before her family came looking.
"The problem is, milord, that it's Patchcock. . . ." Bunny looked up.
"Yes?"
"I don't know if you knew . . . all about Patchcock."
"Not really. It was a nasty situation, is all I know, and someone in the Regular Space Service messed up in a
major way."
"I think perhaps you need to read the background briefs." That was far more assertive than Poisson's usual
approach, and Bunny stared.
"Very well. If you'll—"
"Here they are." A stack of cubes it would take him hours to wade through, all marked with the security code
that meant they were encrypted and could be read only with all the room's security systems engaged. Bunny
glanced at Kevil, and sighed.
"Don't remind me that I volunteered for this job. I could cheerfully strangle his late majesty." Poisson, he
noticed, had the look he had always imagined concealed satisfaction at landing responsibility on someone
else.
The Patchcock affair, when they finally got it straight late that night, explained a lot of things . . . many more
than were explicated in the cubes, revealing as those were.
"That had to be the stupidest thing Ottala could have done," Kevil said, summing up the latest chapter in the
story. "Going undercover in a workers' organization would be risky enough right here in Castle Rock—but on
Patchcock! Didn't she know any history?"
"We didn't," Bunny pointed out. "If she thought it was just a military blunder, if she didn't know how her family
came to gain control of the investments there—"
"She must be dead, you know," Kevil said. "If she were alive, she'd have refreshed her emergency cache."
"Captive? Held for ransom?"
"No. My criminal experience tells me she's dead. They found her out somehow, stripped her of any
information they could pry out, and killed her. Eventually the Morrelines will figure that out too, and
then—then we'll have real trouble."
"Yes." Bunny thought about the Morrelines: he knew them in the casual way that all the Chairholders knew
each other, but they were not really in his set. They didn't hunt, for one thing. But he had dealt with them
more than once in business, and in the Council—they were tough, aggressive, and very sore losers. That this
could be a self-description he recognized, but that didn't make the prospect of angry Morrelines any more
appealing.
"If we send Fleet back in there, it will only make things worse—"
"If she's dead already—" If she was dead already, why bother? But he had to know what Ottala Morreline had
found, even if he couldn't bring her back. He sighed, and stretched his back out. The whole situation he'd
inherited—jumped into, he reminded himself—felt dangerously mushy. Too many things he didn't know, past
and present. Too many ways to make mistakes even if he did know everything. And the image of his daughter
Brun intruded—Brun had already involved herself in wild adventures, working her way across Familias space
as an ordinary spacer. If Brun heard about this, she would insist on going herself to find out about Ottala.
Where could he park her safely?
"At least," Kevil said, stretching in turn, "it'll be a change from this stupid bickering about rejuvenation. Those
poor bastards in the mines and factories on Patchcock have more substantial concerns."
Bunny nodded, but his thoughts kept running to Brun. Finally he thought of the one thing he might be able to
do; in the morning he would place a call to Heris Serrano.
"I must thank you again, for whatever you said to my daughter," Lord Thornbuckle said. He didn't look much
like Bunny in his dark formal suit, in the paneled office. He didn't intend to. "She was, I'm sure, about to do
something rash. What she told me afterwards was that she'd planned to run away and join the Regular Space
Service anonymously—but I expect it was worse than that."
"No—or at least, that's what she told me." Heris Serrano had been aboard the yacht, supervising the last of
its refitting. Her office aboard looked nothing like his; on the wall behind her were only a military-grade
chronometer and the framed certificates of her rating. She had a new uniform, not the loud purple Lady
Cecelia had once used, but the same competent expression, the same intelligent dark eyes. She paused a
moment, but he said nothing. "She outgrew herself in a hurry, on the island."
"I know. And she seems to have inherited ancestral temptations to adventure. You know how she got to
Rockhouse Major from Rotterdam ?" Heris nodded. "Even the unpleasantness she got into didn't dissuade
her. And now she wants to use some of her inheritance to finance a small expedition—a small ship, rather,
on which she intends to wander around looking for excitement. Responsibly, she assures me. Nothing wild of
the sort she did in her youth." Lord Thornbuckle snorted. "Youth. The girl's barely old enough to consider a
Seat in Council, and you'd think she was fifty."
"She did come through safely, sir," Heris ventured. He could tell she was being tactful, wondering if he would
understand how important that was. Some people, following every rule of prudence, could hardly travel to the
corner and back without breaking an ankle. Brun's luck had to be more than luck, perhaps that unconscious
intuitive grasp of situation and character which was more valuable than all the education in the world. But not
only the military recognized and used that quality.
"Yes, I know, and I know it means she's inherited—no doubt from the same ancestors—the ability to survive
adventure. But I'm not sure I can survive her acquisition of the necessary experience. Not without knowing
there's someone with more expertise and more . . . er . . . maturity to help her out of the tight spots she's so
determined to get into. Even Thornbuckles have limits to their luck; get Cece to tell you about my great-uncle
Virgil."
Heris focussed on the comment that might refer to her. "You were thinking that I might know someone with
the right skills to accompany her?"
"I thought you might be that person. Not that alone—" He waved off the protest she opened her mouth to
make. "I know, you'll be traveling with Cece. But she said she wanted to do more than make the various
horse events, and I wondered if you'd let Brun come along. As an employee, or passenger, or whatever you
like. I would of course pay her passage. . . ."
"No, sir," Heris said quickly. "Don't pay her passage; if she's set on adventuring, she might as well earn her
own way. She's already proved she could. I assume she has an allowance; let her use that, if she wants."
"Right. Fine. Then you'll take her?"
"I . . . don't know." She had liked Brun well enough, he knew, but clearly she was thinking about the
difficulties inherent in mixing a girl like Brun into a crew already facing difficult adjustments. She wouldn't
want trouble; she had had enough already. "I'm not sure I'm the right person," she said finally.
Lord Thornbuckle leaned over and touched his desk; he gestured to the row of red lights that came on, and
waited for her look of recognition. "Heris, let me tell you something that must remain a secret. A young
woman Brun knows—knew—a schoolmate, went off on an adventure, joined a workers' organization over on
Patchcock, and got herself killed when she was discovered. Brun doesn't know; we've managed to suppress
it. But the girl's family is furious with me. They want me to send the R.S.S. to Patchcock again—"
Heris stared. "That's—not wise, sir." She could easily imagine the carnage; it had been bad enough the first
time.
"No, I understand that. I've seen the classified briefings now. The thing is, Brun's the ideal hostage to use
against me. Either side might try it. She's too old to send home—she wouldn't stay, and I can't tell her about
Ottala. . . . I know she won't be safe, really safe, anywhere, but you might be able to keep her safer than
anyone else."
Heris nodded. "All right. I'm willing to have her aboard, if she's willing to come. I'm not about to shanghai
her."
"Oh, she's willing. Apparently she made some friends in your crew, didn't she?"
Heris looked puzzled, then her face cleared. "Sirkin, I suppose. At least they went around together for a
while, but that was our plan, a way that Brun could pass information about Lady Cecelia to me indirectly. I
wouldn't have called it a friendship—Sirkin's lover had just died—but it's something. All right . . . I suppose
Brun could have considered it friendship," she said. "I'll list her as unskilled crew, and let them teach her
some things, if that's acceptable."
"Good." Lord Thornbuckle smiled at her. "On top of everything else, I'll be glad to have her out of pocket while
the political situation is so uncertain."
The country house of Kemtre Lord Altmann,
formerly king of the Familias Regnant
"I don't see why you can't understand," Kemtre said, trying not to breathe heavily. "They're your sons as
much as mine."
"They're no one's sons," his wife said. Although she seemed to lean on the end of the table, elbows on either
side of a tray of fancifully carved fruits, that was illusion, a matter of expensive communications equipment
synchronizing her image from past breakfasts with her voice from very far away. "Certainly not mine, and not
yours either, if you only knew it. They're clones, constructs, human only in genome. You were never a father
to them; I was never a mother."
He pressed his fingers to his temples, a gesture that had been effective in Council meetings. It had not
worked with her for years, and it did not work now, not least because she did not have the visual display on
her console turned on . . . he kept hoping to see the telltale red light turn green. He wanted to meet her
eyes—her real eyes, not those of the construct, and convince her with his sincerity. "They're all we've got,"
he said. "They could be our sons, if you'd only—"
"They're grown," she said. "They're not little boys. They're bad copies of Gerel . . . was he the only one you
cared about?"
Of course not, he wanted to say. He had said it before, just as they had had this argument before in the
weeks since his resignation. At first face-to-face, then down the length of that long dining table, then by the
various communications devices required by the increasingly great physical distances between them as she
removed herself from his demands.
"Please," he said.
"No." The faint hollow noise of a live connection ended; the construct sat immobile, waiting for his finger to
extinguish its imitation of life. He put his thumb down and cursed. She wanted him to give it up, deal with the
loss of his sons, get on with whatever life was left him. He couldn't do that, not until he had at least tried to
get the clones to cooperate. They were the only sons he had now; he couldn't just give them up.
The Boardroom of the Benignity
of the Compassionate Hand
"I don't see any reason to butcher the cash cow," said the Senior Accountant. "Breed her, and we'll have
more calves to send to market."
"She's a shy breeder," muttered one of the diplomatic subordinates, who should have kept quiet. It was his
last mistake.
When the meeting resumed, several people walked across the damp patch on the carpet as if nothing had
happened. It wasn't unusual, and it didn't really reflect on Sasimo, whose protégé had been unwise. Every
senior man present had discovered that a first appearance in the Boardroom could unsettle a youngster
previously considered promising.
"Still, he had a point," the Chairman said. No one asked who, or what point; those who couldn't figure it out
didn't belong there. "The Familias walks like a tart, and talks like a tart, but carries a hatpin in her purse." The
hatpin being, as they all knew, the Regular Space Service's unbought fraction, which they knew down to the
level of cook's assistants.
After a respectful silence, the Senior Accountant coughed politely and began again. "It is a short hatpin, not
long enough to reach the heart of a strong man. A little risk, a prick perhaps, and—better a marriage than a
disgrace, eh?"
"Quite so," said the Chairman. "If it is only a flesh wound. Perhaps our admiral would review the situation?"
But indeed, the situation looked good. Not only were so many Fleet personnel on the Compassionate Hand
payroll, as it were, but they had been placed into critical positions. Given a good start, with new forward
bases increasing the number of jump points they could reach undetected, the Regular Space Service should
be immobilized by uncertainty as well as internal problems.
"We start here," the admiral said, pointing out the system on the display. "They're used to neglect from the
R.S.S.; Aethar's World raiders took out their stationary defenses last year, and they've been issued nothing
to replace them. It's an agricultural world, thinly populated; we'll lose no essential industries if we scorch it
lightly."
"Resistance?"
"Negligible. Farmers with hand weapons, even if they scatter and survive the scorch—we can ignore them."
"Principal crop?"
The admiral chuckled, a daring act in that room. "Horses, if you can believe it."
"Horses?"
"And not workhorses. They export sperm and embryos of fancy horses."
The Chairman leaned back, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "Show horses . . . I like horses. If they survive
the scorch, I'd like a souvenir, Peri." Which meant they had better survive the scorch . . . it was punishment,
mild enough, for laughing in the Boardroom.
"Of course," the admiral said, making the best of it.
"My granddaughter, you know," the Chairman said to the others, as if he needed to explain. "She likes pretty
horses." He turned back to the admiral. "Be sure to bring one 'Lotta would like. White feet, a long tail, that
kind of thing."
"Of course," the admiral said again, tallying in his mind the extra time it would take to scorch selectively, so
that the Chairman's granddaughter could have a pretty horse for a souvenir. It shouldn't be too bad, even if
their agent betrayed them. He would add another couple of ships to the advance strike force, which would
give them the margin for a careful scorch.
"Why not this system?" asked one of the others, pointing. "It has the same advantages."
"Nearly," the admiral admitted. One did not directly contradict one of the Board, not if one wanted to leave the
room with breath intact. "But it connects directly to only one jump point, with only three mapped vectors. As
well, it's near enough to Guerni space that the Guernesi might take notice. Our chosen target connects
directly to two jump points, offering a total of eight mapped vectors, most of them into high-vector points. And
of course, its other border is the unstable one with Aethar's World, from which the raiders have come."
"Quite so," said the Chairman. "We have already approved your target, Admiral." That was dismissal, and the
admiral saluted, bowed, and left.
When he reached his office, he found that he had been given a final command . . . interesting that the
Chairman had not wanted to say that in front of the others. The Chairman would be honored if the admiral
would allow the Chairman's great-nephew, now in command of a heavy cruiser, to be part of this expedition.
Unmentioned was the young man's record; neither needed to mention it. The young man had risen more by
influence than ability, everyone was sure . . . and yet he wasn't stupid or cowardly. Dangerous to both friends
and enemies, the admiral thought. Convinced of his ability; convinced he had not been given a chance
because of the relationship . . . that his real successes had been overlooked, along with his mistakes.
Perhaps it was true.
The admiral considered. Was this the Chairman's way of letting the younger man hang himself, or his way of
sabotaging the admiral, whose own grandson might otherwise have been chosen? He couldn't take both—he
could afford only one less experienced captain. Of course he must take the Chairman's choice, but he need
not make it easy. He would assume—he would document that assumption—that the Chairman wished to test
his kinsman, wished him to prove himself.
He grinned suddenly. Let him be the one to find and bring home a pretty horse for Carlotta.
Chapter Two
Uncertain, Heris thought as she closed her end of the secured comlink, was a mild term for the swiftly
unraveling tangle of political yarn that had so recently seemed to be a stable web of interlocking interests. All
her life—for many hundreds of Standard years—the Familias Regnant had had its Grand Council, and
commerce had passed between its worlds and stations as if no other way existed. She knew of course that
other ways did—that Familias space was surrounded by other ways of doing things, from the cold efficiency
of the Compassionate Hand to the berserker brigandry of Aethar's World. But aside from those whose
business it was to keep the borders safe and enforce the laws, most of the Familias worlds and the people on
them had behaved as if nothing but fashion would ever change.
And now it had. With the king's resignation, with Lorenza's flight, the founding families looked at each other
with far more suspicion than trust. If the king had poisoned his own sons—or if Lorenza had done it for him—if
she had attacked the powerful de Marktos family through Cecelia—then who else might have been her target?
Her allies? Those who had used her services through the decades tried to cover their tracks, and others
worked to uncover them.
What bothered Heris the most, in all this, was the civilians' innocent assumption that "the Fleet" would never
let anything bad happen. She had heard it from one and then another—no need to worry about Centrum
Rose; the Fleet will see that they stay in the alliance. No need to worry about the Benignity attacking; the
Fleet will protect us. Yet she knew—and Bunny should have known—that the Fleet itself was suspect.
Lorenza hadn't been the only rat in the woodpile. Admiral Lepescu and whoever cooperated with him . . .
But she could not solve everything, not all at once. She had other work to do before Cecelia came aboard the
yacht.
Her personal stack had a message from Arash Livadhi. Now what, she thought. It had been a long enough
day already, and she had hoped Petris would get back in time for some extended dalliance. She called
Arash.
"How are things going?" he asked brightly, as if she had initiated the contact.
"Fine with me . . . and you?"
"Oh, very well, very well. It's been an interesting few weeks, of course."
So it had, with rumors of entire squadrons of Fleet in mutiny. With one cryptic message from her
grandmother, and a very uncryptic message from the cousin who had always hated her.
"Yes," said Heris, drumming her fingers on her desk. "I had a message that you called," she said finally,
when the silence had gone on too long.
"Oh. Yes. That. I just . . . I just wondered if you'd like to have dinner sometime. Tonight maybe? There's a
new band at Salieri's."
"Sorry," Heris said, not really sorry at all. "There's ship's business to deal with." Certainly the captain's
relationship with the First Engineer was ship's business.
"Oh . . . ah . . . another time? Maybe tomorrow?"
Tone and expression both suggested urgency. What was he up to? Heris opened her mouth to tell him to
come clean, then remembered the doubtful security of their link. "I . . . should be free then. Why not? What
time?"
"Whatever's best for you . . . maybe mid-second shift?" An odd way of giving a time, for either a civilian or a
Fleet officer. Heris nodded at the screen, and hoped she could figure out later what kind of signal he was
giving her.
"Mid-second indeed. Meet you there?"
"Why not at the shuttle bay concourse? You shouldn't have to dash halfway across the Station by yourself."
Odder and odder. Arash had never minded having his dates use up their own resources. Heris entered the
time and place in her desktop calendar and grinned at him.
"It's in my beeper. See you tomorrow."
"Yes . . ." He seemed poised to say more, then sighed and said "Tomorrow, then" instead.
"There's a little problem," Arash Livadhi said. He had been waiting when Heris reached the shuttle docks
concourse; he wore his uniform with his old dash and attracted more than one admiring glance. Heris wanted
to tell the oglers how futile their efforts were, but knew better. Now he walked beside her as courteously as a
knight of legend escorting his lady. It made Heris nervous. "Nothing major, just a bit . . . awkward."
"And awkward problem solving is a civilian specialty? Come on, Arash, you have some of the best finaglers in
Fleet on your ship."
"It's not that kind of thing, exactly."
"Well what, exactly?"
"It's something you'd be much better at . . . you know you have a talent—"
She knew when she was being conned. "Arash, I'm hungry, and you've promised me a good meal . . . at least
wait until I'm softened up before you start trying to put your hooks in."
"Me?" But that wide-eyed look was meant to be seen through. He grinned at her; it no longer put shivers
down her spine, but she had to admit the charm. "Greedy lady . . . and yes, I did agree to feed you. Salieri's
is still acceptable?"
"Entirely." Expensive and good food, a combination rarer than one might suppose. And whatever Arash
thought he was getting from her, it would not include anything more than a dinner companion . . . she
wondered if he had any idea of her present situation with Petris. Probably not, and better that he live in
blissful ignorance.
Salieri's midway through the second shift had a line out to the concourse, but Arash led her past it. "We have
reservations," he said. Sure enough, at his murmur the gold-robed flunky at the door let them pass. Heris felt
her spirits lift in the scarlet and gold flamboyance of the main foyer, with the sweet strains of the lilting waltz
played by a live orchestra in the main dining room. Whatever Arash wanted, this would be fun.
Two hours later, after a lavish meal, he got down to it. "You do owe me a favor, you know," he said.
"True. That and a fat bank account will get you a dinner at Salieri's."
"Hardhearted woman. I suppose even civilian life couldn't soften your head." He didn't sound surprised.
"I'll take that as a compliment, Captain Livadhi. What's your problem?"
"You mentioned my illustrious crew. My . . . er . . . talented finaglers."
Heris felt her eyebrows going up. "So I did. So they are. What else?"
Livadhi leaned closer. "There's someone I need to get off my ship. Quickly. I was hoping—"
"What's he done?" Heris asked.
"It's not so much that," Livadhi said. "More like something he didn't do, and he needs to spend some time out
of contact with Fleet Command."
"Or he'll drag you down with him?" Heris suggested, from a long knowledge of Livadhi. She was not surprised
to see the sudden sheen of perspiration on his brow, even in the dim light of their alcove.
"Something like that," he admitted. "It's related to the matter you and I were involved in, but I really don't want
to discuss it in detail."
"But you want me to spirit him away for a while, without knowing diddly about him?"
"Not . . . in detail." He gave her a look that had melted several generations of female officers; she simply
smiled and shook her head.
"Not without enough detail to keep my head off the block. How do I know that you aren't being pressured to
slip an assassin aboard to get rid of Lady Cecelia? Or me?"
"It's nothing like that," he said. In the pause that followed, she could almost see him trying on various stories
to see which she might accept. As he opened his mouth, she spoke first.
"The truth, Livadhi." To her satisfaction, he flushed and looked away.
"The truth is . . . it's not like that; it's not an assassin. It's my best communications tech, who's heard what
he shouldn't have, and needs a new berth. He's a danger to himself, and to the ship, where he is."
"On my ship," said Heris. "With my friends . . . are you sure no one's put you up to this to land trouble on
me?" This time his flush was anger.
"On my honor," he said stiffly. Which meant that much was true; the Livadhis, crooked as corkscrews in
some ways, had never directly given the lie while on their honor. She knew that; he knew she knew that.
"All right," she said. "But if he gives me the wrong kind of trouble, he's dead."
"Agreed. Thank you." From the real gratitude in his voice she knew the size of the trouble his man was in.
Then what he'd said earlier caught up with her. Communications tech . . . best? That had to be . . .
"Koutsoudas?" she asked, trying to keep her face still. He just grinned at her, and nodded. "Good heavens,
Arash, what is the problem?"
"I can't say. Please. He may tell you, if he wants—I don't think it's a good idea, but the situation may change,
and I trust his judgment. Just take care of him. If you can."
"Oh, I think we're capable of that. When do you want him back?"
"Not until things settle down. I'll get word to you, shall I?" Then, before she could say anything, he added,
"Well, that's all taken care of . . . would you like to dance?" The orchestra had just launched into another
waltz. Heris thought about it. Arash had been a good dancing partner in the old days, but in the meantime
she'd danced with Petris at the Hunt Ball.
"No, thank you," she said, smiling at the memory. "I had better get back to work. When shall I expect . . . er
. . . your package?"
Arash winced. "Efficient as ever. Or have I lost the touch?"
"I don't think so," Heris said. "You just put the touch on me, if you think about it that way, and I do. But my
owner isn't thrilled with the number of ex-military crew we have now, and she's going to have kittens—or, in
her case, colts—when she finds out about this. I have some preliminary groundwork to do."
"Ah. Well, then, allow me to escort you at least to the concourse."
"Better not." Heris had been thinking. "This was a very public meeting, and I can understand your reasoning.
But why let whomever is interested think you might have convinced me of whatever it is you were after?"
"I thought an open quarrel would be too obvious," Livadhi said. "If we were simply courteous—"
Heris grinned at him. "I am always courteous, Commander, as you well know. Even in a quarrel."
"Ouch. Well, then, since I can't persuade you—" He rose politely, with a certain stiffness, and she nodded.
An observant waiter came to her chair, and although they walked out together, they were clearly not a
couple.
In the anteroom, she said, "I'm sorry, Commander, but things have changed. It's not just being a civilian . . . I
have other . . . commitments. I'm sure you'll understand. It's not wise, at times like these . . ."
"But—"
"I can find my way, Commander. Best wishes, of course." Watching eyes could not have missed that cool,
formal, and very unfriendly parting.
The newly refurbished yacht Sweet Delight lay one final shift cycle in the Spacenhance docks, as Heris
Serrano inspected every millimeter of its interior. Forest green carpet soft underfoot . . . she tried not to think
of its origin, nor that of the crisp green/blue/white paisley-patterned wall covering in the dining salon. At least
the ship didn't smell like cockroaches anymore. The galley and pantries, left in gleaming white and steel by
Lady Cecelia's command, had no odd odors. In the recreation section, everything looked perfect: the
swimming pool with its new screen programs . . . Heris flicked through them to be sure the night sky had
been removed. Lady Cecelia didn't want any sudden darkness to remind her of the months of blindness she'd
endured. The massage lounger had its new upholstery; the riding simulator had a new saddle and a whole set
of new training cubes, including the two most recent Wherrin Trials recordings.
The crew quarters, while not quite as luxurious as the owner's section, had more amenities than crews could
expect anywhere else. Heris's own suite reflected a new comfort with her civilian status; she had installed a
larger bed, a comfortable upholstered chair, and chosen more colorful appointments. Down in the holds, she
checked for any leftover debris from the renovation. She had already found a narrow triangle of wall covering
and two odd-shaped bits of carpet.
"Heris!" That had to be Lady Cecelia herself. Heris grinned and backed out of the number three hold. Cecelia
would want to see for herself that every single cockroach cage had been removed.
"Coming," she called. But the quick footsteps didn't wait for her to get back to the owner's territory. Cecelia's
rejuvenation had left her with more energy than she could contain; here she was, striding down the corridor at
top speed.
"Did you know about this?" Cecelia waved a hardcopy at her; she had bright patches of color on her cheeks
and her short red hair seemed to be standing on end.
"What?" Heris couldn't tell what it was, although the blue cover suggested a legal document. Whatever it was
had made the owner furious, and Lady Cecelia furious made most people move quickly out of her way. Heris,
secure in her status as captain and friend, stood her ground.
"This court decision." The blue-gray eyes bored into hers.
"Court decision? On your competency?" Of course the court would restore full competency to Cecelia; it
would be crazy to pretend that this individual was anything but competent.
"No—on the yacht."
For a moment Heris was completely confused. "No—what about it?"
Cecelia bit off each word as if it tasted foul. "The court has decided against the petition of my family to set
aside that portion of my will which left you the yacht. Therefore, the yacht belongs to you." Heris stared at
her.
"That's . . . ridiculous. You're not comatose; you're competent. That reverses all the bequests—you told me
that—"
"Yes . . . it does. It would have, that is, if that idiot Berenice and her fatheaded husband hadn't quarreled with
my will and involved the court directly in that instance. Because the matter came under separate
adjudication—don't you love this verbiage?—the court's decision is final, and not reversed by my regaining
competence. And the court decided in your favor, thank goodness, or otherwise it would've been Berenice's.
It's your yacht."
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard of." Heris raked a hand through her dark hair. She had not even
thought about the bequest or the court's decision since Cecelia had been declared competent. "I can't—what
am I supposed to do with a yacht—or you, without one?" She came to the obvious decision. "I won't take it.
I'll give it back to you."
"You can't give it back. Not unless you're willing to pay the penalty tax—it's within the legal limit for a
bequest, but not a gift."
"Oh . . . dear." She had no idea what that tax would be, but her own affairs were somewhat confused at the
moment, thanks to the abrupt changes in the government. She didn't know if she had enough to pay the tax
or not.
"It's not so bad," Cecelia said. Now that she'd blown her stack, she had calmed back down, and leaned
comfortably against the bulkhead. "I suppose you'll run it as a charter, and I suppose you'll let me charter it."
"Of course, if that's what it takes, but—what a mess." Still, she felt a little jolt of delight at the base of her
brain. Her own ship. Not even a Fleet captain owned a ship outright. She fought back unseemly glee with little
struggle when she realized the other implications of ownership. Docking fees. Repairs. Crew salaries. All her
responsibility now.
Cecelia's expression suggested she had already thought of these things and was enjoying Heris's realization.
"Don't worry," she said, after a moment in which Heris was trying to remember the last time the crew had
been paid, and how much was due. "I'll pay generously. I'll supply my own staff, cook, gardener. . . ."
"Er . . . just so." And there were bound to be legalities associated with running a charter, too. Heris had no
idea what kind of contractual agreement owners needed with those who hired them. What permits she might
need from whatever government bureaus were still grinding out the daily quota of paperwork.
"Kevil Mahoney," Cecelia said, with a wicked grin, as if she really could read minds. "He can tell you where
to go for legal advice, if you don't want the same person who argued your case for the bequest."
"Thanks," Heris said. "It would have been so much easier—"
"I know. And I don't blame you for fighting back when my family acted like such idiots. It's not your fault,
though I was mad enough to grind you into powder too. Just when I'd gotten her back to a decent look,
instead of that lavender and teal abomination. Berenice will pay for this." She glowered. "I've filed suit against
them, and I intend to make up every fee they cost me."
"I'm sorry," Heris said again, this time for the trouble between Cecelia and her family. "It's just that I thought if
I had the ship, I could help you."
"And you did. And don't lie to me, Heris Serrano. I may be rejuvenated, but I didn't lose eighty years of
experience. One second after you were appalled, you were delighted. You've always wanted your own ship."
Heris felt herself flushing. "Yes. I did. And I tried to fight it down."
"Don't." Her employer—still her employer, even though the terms would be different now—gave her a wicked
grin. She had found Lady Cecelia de Marktos to be formidable enough as an unrejuvenant . . . clearly, that
had been the mellow form. "Nobody knows what the government's going to do, now; Bunny seems to be
running things with the same bureaucrats—except for poor Piercy. I don't myself think it was Piercy's fault,
but everyone's afraid he was in it with Lorenza."
Surprising tolerance from someone who had been Lorenza's helpless victim, for someone planning to sue her
family . . . family that had, however ineptly, tried to protect her interests. This was no time to argue, though.
Heris looked away, and spotted another bit of scrap from the renovation.
"I don't hate Piercy," Cecelia said. "I don't even hate Lorenza, although if she stood in front of me I would kill
her without a second thought, as I would kill anyone that vile. I do hate to think of her running around loose
somewhere."
"I don't think she is," Heris said, glad to change the subject from the yacht. "A few of my crew—" Oblo,
Meharry, Petris, and Sirkin, though she didn't intend to mention names where anyone might have left a
sensor. "—had a bone to pick with the individual who gave the orders that led to Yrilan's death. The . . . er . .
. remaining biological contaminants were salted into her quarters. In the ensuing investigation, it was
discovered that she had a very efficient lethal chamber built into her counseling booths—"
"I didn't hear about this—"
"Station Security didn't allow it to be newsed. They thought it would cause panic, and they were probably
right. Just the discovery of that many illicit biologicals could panic Station dwellers. Anyway, they also found
items the lady could not account for, which apparently match with jewels known to the insurance databases
as Lorenza's."
"And you found out because—?"
"I found out because I have the best damn datatech in or out of Fleet, milady, and that's all I'll say here and
now."
"Ah. Then suppose you come to my suite—if you still consider it my suite—and we'll decide where your ship
is headed, and whether I want to tag along."
Cecelia's furniture had been reinstalled, and they settled into her study. Cecelia looked around nodding. "I do
like the effect of that striped brocade with the green carpet," she said finally. "Although I'm not sure about the
solarium yet."
"I thought you were going to restock it with miniatures," Heris said.
"I was—but I keep thinking that I could go back to riding—" She meant competition, Heris understood, just as
she herself would have meant "the Fleet" if she'd said "return to space."
"I like the ferns," Heris said, watching the miniature waterfall in the solarium; she preferred falling water to any
sort of fake wildlife.
"One thing I will insist on, if you're to have me for a passenger, is a crew no more than half ex-military."
Cecelia leaned back in her chair, with an expression that made it clear she meant what she'd said.
Heris bit back the first thing she could have said, took a deep breath, and asked, "Why?" Skoterin, probably,
but surely Cecelia ought to realize that Skoterin had been more than balanced by that crew of civilian
layabouts and incompetents she'd had before. This didn't surprise her, but she'd hoped Cecelia would be less
blunt about it.
"Not just Skoterin," Cecelia said, as if she'd read Heris's mind. "I know you can argue that my original civilian
crew was just as full of lethal mistakes. Of course not all ex-military are crooks or traitors, nor are all civilians
honest and hardworking. But what bothered me was your inability to see past the distinction yourself. You
had had superb performance from that girl Sirkin all through the earlier trouble; you had been so happy with
her. And you were willing to believe that she went bad when even I, isolated as I then was, could spot
sabotage."
Heris nodded slowly. "You're right; I did make a mistake—"
"Not a mistake, my dear: a whole series of them. You misjudged her not once but repeatedly. That's my
point. You have a pattern, understandable but indefensible, of believing that the military is more loyal, more
honorable, than most civilians. You even told me that Sirkin was 'as good as Fleet' more than once. And your
inability to see past that pattern nearly got us all killed." She grinned, as if to take the sting out of it. It didn't
work. "I'm doing this for your own good, Heris—as one of my early riding instructors used to say when
making us post without stirrups by the hour. You have chosen to live in a civilian world; you must learn how to
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