Against the Odds

Chapter Twenty-One

Esmay Suiza found herself in a crowd of officers heading out to take command of their ships: a couple of lieutenants, like Esmay, the rest majors and one lieutenant commander. Like her, most of them spent hours studying the specs of their new commands.

Her ship, Rascal, had been upgraded from an ordinary patrol craft—she had been on picket duty in a sector where nothing was expected to happen for years—with the new weapons suites which made her almost a mini-cruiser. To power this weaponry, she’d been given new drives, and despite all the additions and changes, she was still not overly cramped in her personnel compartments, so she had a full complement of crew. Esmay had studied the specs all the way out from Castle Rock, until she was sure she could recognize and name everything. Those months she’d spent on Koskiusko learning about hulls and drives made it much easier; she actually understood exactly which modification supported which of the new additions.

Now she was about to see her ship—her ship—for the first time. She had checked in when she arrived, so if her crew were alert, they’d know she was on the way, and she had taken a few moments in one of the lounges to make sure that her fringe of hair was as neat as it could be. The several weeks of accelerated growth had produced a surprising amount of hair, but it wasn’t what she was used to. Up ahead she saw the docking number and the name Rascal.

She squared her shoulders, felt in her pocket one more time for the command wand that would make the ship’s electronics accept her as the commander, and approached the smart-looking corporal standing guard at the docking tube hatch. He saw her, recognized the captain’s patch on cap and sleeve, and came to attention.

“Captain Suiza! Welcome, sir!” He sounded as if he meant it, and his salute was crisp. She returned it. “Is the captain coming aboard now?”

“Yes,” Esmay said. Why else would she have come along, just to see if they knew who she was?

“Very well, Captain; I’ve just notified the bridge. We have no officers aboard at present; Master Chief Humberly is in charge. The captain’s luggage?”

“They’re sending it when they’ve unloaded the transport,” Esmay said.

“Captain Suiza—welcome!” That was Master Chief Humberly, a lean older man whose hair was cropped so short Esmay couldn’t be sure if he was also balding or not. He had the same brisk, competent, cheerful look as the corporal. Esmay liked him at once, and noted that he had none of the blurry look that had signalled the older NCOs whose rejuvenation was failing. “I’m sorry Jig Turner isn’t aboard—he’d wanted to meet you, but he was called to the admiral’s office.”

“That’s all right,” Esmay said. She already knew that the formalities of coming aboard were minimal for captains below the rank of commander. But Humberly surprised her; he’d turned out the crew in Rascal’s rather narrow main corridor, and Esmay walked to the bridge to read herself in, feeling very honored indeed.

When that was over, and the status board lit with “Captain: Esmay Suiza” and “Captain Aboard,” she felt simultaneously fully happy and fully anxious. As on Despite—once she was captain, it was all her responsibility, every bit of it. But she’d wanted it. She would make good of it. She started at once, turning to Humberly.

“What’s our readiness, Chief?”

“Did they tell you about the refit and upgrades?”

“Yes—new drives, new weapons suites. I looked them over—we have thirty-four percent more firepower, half of it in beam weapons, and the drives to power that without dropping shields. But they didn’t say what that did to our microjump ability, if anything.”

“Ah. We haven’t tried it—haven’t had the chance. My best guess is that it may knock a few percents off our response time. Not good but—”

“Worth the trade, if that’s all there is,” Esmay said. “What about crew? I know that a lot of ships are being crewed with people just thrown together—”

“We were lucky,” Humberly said. “Because of the need for training with the upgrades, most of Drives and Weapons have been here throughout. We were between captains anyway, and about half of Environmental is new, but being as we have such a small complement, we were able to do a bit of weeding.” He looked smug; Esmay grinned at him.

“You went scavenging, didn’t you?” she said. “Good for you.”

“Patrols don’t have much in the way of clerical—mostly it’s the captain’s own staff,” he said, eyeing her to see if she knew that already. Esmay nodded. “We’ve got a couple of bean counters from supply that haven’t been out in a fighting ship before, but they should be all right.”

“Provisions?”

He frowned. “There we’ve had some problems—small ship, busy Station, and no captain aboard. Jig Turner . . . he’s a fine young officer, you understand, but a jig just doesn’t have the clout of someone more senior, and he’s not the type to presume on his position as officer in charge.”

“How bad is it?” Esmay said.

“Nothing we can’t fix in a few shifts with the captain aboard, I’m sure, sir. Nobody’s going to give you that much trouble.”

Esmay doubted that, but she knew she’d fight back if they did. Her ship wasn’t going into action on outdated rations or medical supplies. “What’ve we got in spareables?” she asked, using the polite term for items used in illicit trade.

“Not much—just a few bits and pieces from the refitting. I was saving some of those back for last-minute problems.”

“Good idea.”

Esmay found, to her surprise, that her name and image on the screen worked wonders with Supply, which promptly disgorged containers of fresh ration packs whose contents actually matched the lists on the containers. She had a little more trouble with Munitions, who tried to insist that patrol craft had no need to stuff themselves with missiles, multiple fusing options, and alternative warheads. Esmay finally had to go in person, with copies of the refit details, and argue her way up the chain of command to the admiral minor in charge.

“If they didn’t think we’d see serious fighting,” she pointed out, “they wouldn’t have upgraded the weapons suite. There’s no reason to have weapons and no ammunition—”

“Do you have any idea how much a 347-Xa warhead costs?” he asked.

“Yes—” Esmay quoted the figure. “And I know how much a patrol ship costs, and how much the cargo of the next convoy is worth to the mutineers. Do you want them to get that shipload of weapons going out to Sector VIII, just because I don’t have the weapons to protect them?”

He glared at her and she glared back. In the back of her mind was the rebellious thought that this was actually fun, in its own way. He had to resist, she had to demand . . . it was like a dance of sorts.

“All right,” he said finally. “But don’t tell the other patrol captains—I’m not giving out everything we have or there won’t be anything to ship to Sector VIII.”

“They don’t have our upgrades,” Esmay said. “Why would I arouse their greed?”

He chuckled, and shook his head. “Lieutenant, I’m glad you’re not any more senior than you are . . . that was worthy of a Serrano. Which I guess you are, now, eh?”

“I’m not sure they’d agree,” Esmay said. She didn’t want to get into that.

She had presented her name to the admiral’s staff, only to be told that for the duration the normal protocol of paying calls had been suspended. At first she wondered if this was aimed at her, but the few brief conversations she had with other captains made it clear it wasn’t.

“We’ve got—what, four admirals?—serving as convoy commanders, and who knows how many ships and captains coming and going. Way too many to hold formal calls. What she’s doing is holding a get-together before each convoy leaves, counts as calls from everyone.”

Rascal eased away from the Station with permission to proceed to the system’s practice sector for four days of maneuver practice. Esmay, on the bridge, watched as her crew ran through the sequences . . . no mistakes so far. Behind them, she knew one of the ships which had just finished its practice was nosing in for a last bit of supply.

Rascal’s insystem drives, upgraded to the power of a small cruiser, nudged her out of Station space efficiently, and made short work of the run out to the first maneuver site. Most patrol class took 18 hours . . . Rascal made it in fifteen and a half, on the same power setting.

“Makes me wonder if some of those supply crates are empty.” Esmay’s executive officer, Jig Turner, had a dry sense of humor she already enjoyed.

“Hope not,” she said now. “I was planning on feeding everyone regularly for the next several months.”

Commander Kessler, on the supply ship Plexus, ran the maneuver region with an iron hand, not hampered at all by being in a fat, slow, cargo vessel. Esmay reported in promptly: “R.S.S. Rascal, Suiza commanding, permission to engage in maneuver . . .”

“Rascal, note traffic in Sector Yellow: patrol craft Sitra, Scamp, and Salute. Confirm ID match, return signal.” Esmay’s senior scan highlighted the blips on his screen; the beacon IDs came up correctly, and he transmitted his match to Plexus for confirmation. “Traffic IDs confirmed. No microjumping in Sector Yellow. You will proceed as follows . . .” Up on the main screen came the course they were to match. The first part of maneuver practice was simply designed to ensure that the ships could follow a designated course solo. Then they’d begin to practice in formation.

The first day’s work went well; Esmay’s crew knew their business, and Rascal answered the helm neatly, once they’d figured out the corrective function for their velocity under the new engines. Esmay forced herself to go to bed, but woke up at least once an hour.

The next day, they were assigned to microjump practice, in the far reaches of the system, light hours from anyone else. Esmay found it less nerve-wracking than she expected, with a navigational computer that wasn’t shot full of holes, as Despite’s had been. She could feel the rising morale of the bridge crew, as Rascal hit one designated set of coordinates after another. When they had finished the set of sixteen jumps, and recalibrated all the instruments, she grinned at them. “Well done, people! I don’t have to wait for our scores to know we aced that test.”

That ship’s night, with Rascal on insystem drive working its way back to the area for the next day’s formation maneuvers, she slept well. Formation maneuvers tested the bridge crew almost as much as microjumping practice. Fleet had not used formal convoys in decades, with the result that no one was familiar with the formations needed. Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi, who would command their convoy, wanted to try out first one, then another, formation. Should the escorts be farther away? Closer in? Should the patrols be alternated with escorts, or bunched together?

When they finally finished (and the commodore still hadn’t made up his mind, apparently), and headed back for the Station for a final resupply, Esmay felt that only one thing was certain: She had a good crew which was rapidly getting better.

Admiral Livadhi invited the captains of all the ships that would be in his convoy to dinner aboard his flagship. Esmay, who had last seen Vigilance under Heris Serrano’s command, wondered how many of Heris’s crew were aboard. Livadhi himself impressed her as a competent officer much like her own father; he had a pleasant comment for each officer as he shook hands.

“You’re the most recent arrival from Castle Rock,” Livadhi said, after they were seated. “Tell us, Lt. Suiza, about the latest gossip.”

“I’m sure you know all the Fleet news, sir, but had you heard about the fugitive from the Benignity?”

“A fugitive? No, tell us.”

“He was on the ship I took from Trinidad to Castle Rock,” Esmay said. “A merchanter. He told the strangest story—” She paused. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with telling you—not now that he’s reached Castle Rock.”

“Don’t torture us, Lieutenant,” Livadhi said. He sipped his wine.

“Yes, sir—well, I don’t know the whole story, but he claimed to be a priest in the Benignity, who had to flee. He said they claimed he was a heretic, and he wasn’t—”

“Do they kill heretics in the Benignity?” someone else asked.

“I’d believe it,” said another.

“It wasn’t just being a heretic. I’m not sure I understand it—it’s his religion anyway—but he claimed he was the last confessor for someone important, and his government was afraid—because he was a heretic—that he’d reveal what he heard.”

“Did you believe him?” Livadhi asked.

Esmay considered, remembering her conversations with the colorless but nonetheless passionate little man. “I think he believed what he said. He wanted to talk to me because I’m from Altiplano, and he thought maybe we had useful religious archives.”

“But do you think he had any state secrets to reveal?” Livadhi said it lightly, and several people chuckled.

“I don’t know,” Esmay said. “He said he wouldn’t tell what he knew anyway, because—heretic or not—he still considered himself bound by his oath not to.”

“But he’s at Castle Rock, you said. Surely Fleet Intelligence will get it out of him?”

Esmay shrugged. “He’s a civilian, a priest with a monomania about some cult or something they have in the Benignity, something to do with swords or something. Why would they be that interested in him? And anyway, they were shipping him out to the Guernesi on a diplomatic ship; he may be gone by now.”

“They did assassinate our Speaker . . .” someone else said thoughtfully. “Maybe that was his big secret.”

“When did you meet up with him, Lieutenant?” Livadhi asked. Esmay tried to calculate and failed.

“Sir, I’ve been hopping around so, I really don’t know. I didn’t really notice him aboard the merchant ship for some time after I came aboard . . . and then we stopped at Zenebra . . . I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t remember whether it was before or after that.”

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Livadhi said. “But just supposing he were the confessor for their head of state, and bolted immediately for our borders, he might have reached Familias Space before the assassination took place.”

“But they’ve said they did it,” Esmay said. “It’s not a secret now.”

“Not now . . . but it could have been then. And who knows what other bombshells he has to drop?”

“Well . . . I had to have my security clearances reinstated, so I was stuck at HQ for a couple of hours, and I did hear somebody speculating about whether he might have a complete list of Benignity agents or something, but I can’t imagine that. Having planted spies might be a sin, but a list of names wouldn’t be.”

“Are they concerned about Benignity penetration, do you think?”

Esmay nodded. “Under the circumstances, with the mutiny and the assassination coming so close, I’d say they have reason to worry. The combination certainly made things easier for the Benignity. They deny having anything to do with the mutiny, but someone’s come forward to say that Bacarion and Drizh had said favorable things about discipline in the Benignity Space Forces.” She chuckled. “Of course, there were people saying that I had expressed treasonous ideas when it was to their benefit.”

“So you don’t believe it?”

“Sir, I haven’t the data on which to form an opinion. I know that, unfortunately, gossip and rumor can be taken as truth—with dire consequences for the subjects of it. On the other hand, what I learned about the Benignity while talking to Simon—to the priest—certainly makes a connection sound more possible. The mutineers say the rest of us are undisciplined, soft, self-indulgent: that’s what the Benignity says about the Familias, too. I haven’t heard of the mutineers being religious, particularly, and Simon says the Benignity would not sanction anything like that hunting business, but—the mutineers might think it did.”

“You’re fair-minded, for someone who’s been burnt twice now on the basis of rumor, Lieutenant. It does you credit. What do the rest of you think?”

Esmay listened to the rest, trying to discern from their conversation what kind of commanders they would be if the convoy saw trouble. Collingwood, with a sidelong glance at Esmay, said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire, sir. I mean, I know rumor isn’t always true, but on something this important, it probably is. If the Benignity’s behind the mutiny, they don’t even have to like the mutineers; they could just be supporting it from a distance.”

“But we don’t want to be conspiracy theorists,” said Bondi. “I mean, what if they started looking for everyone who’d ever served under Lepescu or any of the people now leading the mutiny, and then for everyone who ever had a friend or relative from the Benignity, for two generations back or so? My grandfather stowed away and came to Familias Space as a boy: how do you know he wasn’t some deep agent or something, instead of just a scared teenager who wanted a better life somewhere else?”

“So that’s where you got your weird ideas, Pete?” asked Collingwood, putting on a thick accent.

“It’s not funny—!” Bondi said; his face flushed.

“Gentlemen.” Livadhi intervened smoothly. “I hardly think Fleet’s going to start another witch hunt. Reasonable caution, yes, but Lieutenant Bondi has a fine record, which I’m sure will overwhelm any trifling concern about his grandfather—it certainly does with me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bondi said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s a reasonable question. And it’s not something to joke about, especially not now.”

“No, sir. My apologies, sir, and Pete—I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to torque you at a time like this. Misplaced sense of humor.”

“It’s all right.” But to Esmay the apology seemed a bit glib, and Bondi’s color was still higher than usual.

“Let me show you the ship,” Livadhi said. “You can meet the personnel you’ll be communicating with—and for those of you who haven’t had cruiser duty, here’s a chance to familiarize yourselves—”

Livadhi started at the bottom, perhaps to give tempers and tensions time to dissipate as they clattered down the many ladders. Esmay admired this way of handling a difficult interaction; riding down in the officers’ lift they would have been immobile and staring at one another’s backs or the grill. Environmental first, then up to Engineering, where almost the first person they saw was Petris Kenvinnard, who recognized Esmay.

“Lieutenant Suiza—good to see you again.”

“You know Suiza?” Livadhi asked.

“Yes, sir; we’ve met before. She’s one of my—Heris’s—favorite young officers.”

“With reason, no doubt,” Livadhi murmured. “Lieutenant, you’ve had cruiser duty; if you’d like to stop and chat with Mr. Kenvinnard—”

“Don’t let me slow you down, Lieutenant. But I heard you’d gotten Rascal—congratulations. Tell Rudy—Master Chief Humberly—I said hello.”

“Thanks,” Esmay said. “And I will.” She went on, cheered more than she would have liked to admit to know Heris Serrano’s good opinion of her from someone else. Heris had stood up for her at the family gathering, but this was proof of a longer-standing opinion.

When they came to the great generators that powered the beam weapons, and Livadhi rattled off the specs, Esmay realized again just how big an upgrade Rascal had. Vigilance still had more firepower, but the gap had narrowed appreciably. She trailed behind, trying to calculate exactly the size of the remaining gap.

“Lieutenant Suiza!” That was Methlin Meharry, another of Heris Serrano’s “old” crew. “I hear you shook ’em up, the Serranos.”

“Rumor flies,” Esmay said. “I hope it’s settled now.”

“Nothing’s ever settled for good,” Meharry said, falling in step beside her. “Did you hear about my baby brother?”

“I didn’t know you had a baby brother.” Esmay would have expected Meharry to have been hatched from some piece of ordnance, except for the impossibility. She could imagine a string of identical Meharrys, but not one that could be called “baby” in any form.

“He was stationed at the high security brig, on Copper Mountain. Same one where Lepescu stuck me an’ the others.” She shook her head. “Idiot fool. I s’pose he wanted to see if he could understand his big sister better. Anyway, he figured out that bitch Bacarion was up to no good, and he killed her, and escaped—and nobody escapes that place, I still don’t know how he did it, he’s gonna have to tell me all the details—an’ then he told them about the mutiny. Too late; it was starting, but he tried. Little scamp.”

“He’s your brother,” was all Esmay could think to say.

“Yah. He is. Meharry all the way through.” She grinned. “I am really, really proud of that kid, but I better not let him find out, or he’ll get sassy with me.” She nodded, then, to the end of the passage, where the others had disappeared around a corner. “Better catch up, Lieutenant. Don’t forget to say hello to Koutsoudas if he’s on the bridge.”

Esmay lengthened her stride, but was delayed again by Oblo Vissisuan, coming down the ladder.

“Hoped I’d catch you, Lieutenant, just to say congratulations on your new command and your marriage.”

“Thanks,” Esmay said.

“That’s a really tidy weapons upgrade you’ve got on Rascal,” he went on. “I went over and took a look when she got in. And by the stats, she handles well, too.”

“She does,” Esmay said.

“Though nothing like Vigilance,” Oblo added. “I hear you got your supply problems straightened out—you know, Lieutenant, if you ever have a problem, maybe I could give you a hand. Nothin’ against your supply officer, but Heris—Commander Serrano—she says I have a real talent—”

Esmay had heard Oblo’s talent for obtaining the unobtainable described as something else, but she knew it was valuable. “Thank you—I think we’re fine now, but if I run into trouble—”

“You just give me a call. Any friend of our—of Commander Serrano’s—is a friend of ours. And a member of the family, I guess I should say.”

“I don’t suppose you know why Barin’s on Copper Mountain, do you? I found him on the database.”

“They didn’t tell you about that? Hell, Lieutenant, he damn near died in the explosion—no! It’s all right, he’s out of the hospital; he’ll be fine when he gets his strength back. I got that from a friend on the admiral’s staff. I’d’ve thought they’d tell you, you bein’ his wife and all.”

Esmay could have clobbered him for scaring her like that—her heart had seemed to stop for an instant—but clobbering Oblo would be like clobbering a draft horse. It wouldn’t hurt him, and he might hit back.

“I’d better catch up,” she said instead, and fled up the ladder, working off her fear and anger with every step.

She caught up with the others; no one commented on her absence, and she hoped it hadn’t been noticed. They moved on in stately procession through section after section, and finally came to the bridge. Here, docked at the Station, only a skeleton crew manned the bridge. Esmay looked around, but did not see Koutsoudas.

When she got back to Rascal, she called up whatever she could find about Barin’s ship and its combat. Nothing useful, except that it was listed as out of action. Not destroyed, just out of action.

The next day, Admiral Serrano hosted the farewell gathering. Esmay wore one of her new dress uniforms, astonished all over again by the difference in fit. It looked as if she’d been sewn into it and yet it was comfortable and didn’t hinder her movement. She joined the line of officers that snaked in to shake hands with Vida Serrano. For a moment, her stomach churned as she saw the admiral’s glance pass over her, but the thought of her ship steadied her. She was here; she was a captain; Rascal was a ship to be proud of.

When her turn came, Vida greeted her with a smile. “Lieutenant—I see you found a really good tailor. Congratulations on your return, and on your scores from the exercise. I’m expecting you to live up to your reputation.”

“Thank you, sir.” Esmay moved on, bemused and wondering which part of her reputation the admiral expected her to live up to.

Later, as she contemplated a towering display of canapes, and considered whether the little brown things with a green fringe or the green paste on crackers would sit best, she realized Admiral Serrano had come up beside her.

“I’m sure you realize by now that I’m not the one who cashiered you—” The admiral took two of the brown things, and one of the crackers.

“Yes, sir; they told me.”

“This is not something we want to discuss now, but let me just say that I am genuinely glad to have you back on active duty and a member of the family.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Those things on the second tier are deep-fried gengineered locusts with frillik; if I understood your father correctly, it’s something you’re not supposed to eat.”

“No, sir. What about the green paste?”

“Puree of Caskadar neosquid liver with dill. Something else you’re not supposed to eat.”

“Yes, sir.” There was something bizarre about an admiral advising her on the food laws she’d grown up with as applied to alien cuisine.

“The devilled quails’ eggs, on the other hand, should be all right.”

“Is that what they are?” Esmay had not recognized the elaborate little sculptures as originating with eggs.

“Yes . . . it’s this strange little man in food service. I’ve had him for years, but have never convinced him to let anything look like what it is.” She gave Esmay a mischievous sidelong look. “In my wicked moments, I enjoy watching ensigns trying to figure it out, and then choking when they find out what they’ve just consumed. A low pleasure, I admit.”

Esmay said nothing, since her mouth was full of devilled quails’ eggs.

“What do you think of Commodore Livadhi?” Admiral Serrano asked, having waited politely for the swallow.

Esmay felt like a quail beneath a stooping falcon. “Well, Admiral, he’s . . . he’s—” An admiral, and lieutenants who wanted to avoid causing trouble didn’t gossip to one admiral about another.

“I know, it’s unfair. What I really want to know, if you have a clue, is how my great-niece’s crew is getting along with him. They can be a handful, and there’s no way I can talk to them without stepping on his toes.”

“He had us to dinner,” Esmay said. “I happened to see a few of them that I recognized. Petris, Meharry, Oblo—”

“Just the trio that concerned me,” Admiral Serrano said. “I doubt it was happenstance you saw them. How did they seem?”

“Fine, sir. They congratulated me on getting a ship—” And on her marriage, but this didn’t seem like a good moment to mention that. “Meharry told me about her younger brother—” The term baby brother was not one to be used with admirals. “And Oblo told me Barin had been wounded.” She couldn’t keep a sharp note out of her voice at that.

Admiral Serrano closed her eyes a moment. “Damn! I should have thought—it was while you were out of touch and we didn’t know where you were, and then I just assumed you’d hear about it at Headquarters. I’m sorry—I should have made sure you knew. His ship sustained a hull breach; he was working damage control, and there was an explosion—it’s a long story; I’ll flash it over to your console later tonight. Anyway, he was badly injured; we were all worried until they got him to Copper Mountain. The latest report is that he’s come through treatment well and is in rehab now. Expected to make a full recovery. He’s been written up for an award. If you want to send him a message, flash it to my office before you leave tomorrow; I’ll forward it priority.”

“Thank you, sir,” Esmay said.

“I’m just sorry I didn’t think to tell you myself before now. But I’d better go circulate, or Arash will wonder why I’m chatting you up. He did a good job while he was running this place, but he’s just a wee bit sensitive. Old family rivalry, probably.” Admiral Serrano moved away, to startle another young officer, Esmay noticed, when she eased up beside him.

Esmay ate two more devilled quails’ eggs, allowing herself to feel relief that Barin was no longer in danger.

“Ah, Lieutenant Suiza,” That was Commodore Livadhi. “This is certainly more elaborate than my dinner.” Was there an edge to that? She couldn’t be sure.

“But not so . . .” She paused, trying to think of the best word.

“Comfortable, perhaps?” Comfortable was not the word she’d been thinking of, but one did not argue with admirals. He smiled down at her, and she was aware once more of his charm. “I saw that Admiral Serrano had buttonholed you, and came to the rescue—but I see you need no rescue.”

“No, sir. The admiral—Admiral Serrano was just telling me that my—that Barin—her grandson—was safe and recovering well.”

“Ah . . . of course. You’ve been in transit, and the full details aren’t being made available.” Livadhi took three of the gengineered locusts onto his plate and popped one into his mouth. Now that Esmay knew what they were, the little crunch as he bit into it struck her as obscene. She knew that was ridiculous. “I was just going to ask if you remembered more about that fellow—priest, I think you said?—from the Benignity.”

Esmay dragged her mind away from the recitation of Barin is safe, Barin is safe to Livadhi’s question. “The priest, sir? Mostly we talked about religion. He was curious about me, because he thought Altiplanans had a branch of his religion, and might have some old texts he could study.”

“And do you?”

“Sir, I don’t know. I left home as a youngster, really, and the history of our beliefs wasn’t ever my interest. I told him he should contact the Docent for Altiplano, there on Castle Rock, who could tell him more.”

“Mmm. Well, I’ll see you at the final briefing.” Livadhi walked off. Esmay looked after him with the feeling that she had missed something, perhaps disappointed him in some way.