Against the Odds

Chapter Twenty-Three

With Kevil and Stepan’s help, Brun studied the structure of the Grand Council, Seat by Seat. Unsurprisingly, Stepan had a file on every member old enough to be Seated, similar to the dossier they’d had on her. Brun began to see the Council as a vast overgrown sprawling tree of complicated relationships. Out at the ends were the individuals—some shiny green leaves, others spotted with mold or half eaten away by insects . . . some healthy green, others yellowing or even brown, about to fall. Behind them were histories—their own, those of parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She felt a constant bubbling amazement at the number of mysteries cleared up: why this uncle and that great-aunt refused to sit at the same table, why this minor family had bolted to the Conselline Sept seventy years before.

“We’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Stepan told her. “We’re a sept, not a collection of mythical saints. Individuals, families, all restless and twitchy about our place in the whole, just as individuals and families have always been.” He pushed over another data cube. “Be sure you don’t misplace this one. It’s our analysis of Conselline Sept.”

It was, though not quite as detailed, fascinating. Brun hadn’t even known Hobart Conselline had an older brother, let alone that he was an addict incapable of acting on his own, whose proxy Hobart had held since reaching his own majority. She hadn’t known about Oskar Morrelline’s personal proclivities and wondered if that had anything to do with Ottala’s behavior in school.

It was far too much to absorb completely in only a few days; her brain felt stuffed. But when Stepan began talking strategy with her, she found she had retained more than she’d thought possible.

“I will make my own analysis available to you, via the deskcom, but necessarily in brief. However, you’ll be using your own judgment; where the younger members are concerned, you may have insights that are better than mine.”

“I see,” Brun said.

“Do you think you also need Kevil Mahoney there? He certainly has valuable experience, though he isn’t Seated himself. If he sits with you, that makes a statement. . . .”

Kevil was a link to her comfortable past, but she was leaping into an unknown future. Still . . . even on a journey into the unknown, wise people took with them supplies and tools from their past.

“Could he sit with you? Would that be too conspicuous?”

“No, but it would place a limit on the communication, you understand.”

“Yes. But I don’t need him for every little detail—I’d like to be able to ask for clarification on points of law and order.”

“That’s reasonable. I can certainly ask him as a guest for my own purposes. But, Brun, that leaves you alone—your brothers and sister aren’t coming, are they?”

“No. Cousins might.”

“Harlis’s son, yes. I’m going to move to have him unSeated, on the grounds that his father is a fugitive who’s taken up with mutineers. And you will be guarded, Brun.”

Brun shook her head. “Don’t keep him out, Stepan. It’ll look vindictive and weak. Let him come; he has a right to a vote, and we have no proof he was involved in his father’s activities. Do we?”

“No, but—you’ve read his dossier, Brun. He’s explosive, like his father, and he’s shaped by his father as well. We know he acted as messenger from his father to Hobart Conselline on more than one occasion.”

“Even so. I’d rather have him sitting right there glaring at me than sitting at home brooding about how he was treated unfairly.”

Stepan thought a long moment. “Hmm. I shouldn’t ask for an opinion and ignore it. I said your insight might be different from mine and yet valuable,” he said. “I chose you for your abilities; it’s only fair to let you demonstrate them. All right, I’ll withdraw my motion. But be careful; I consider him dangerous.”

She started to say she wasn’t afraid of Kell and then realized that was stupid. In present circumstances, she should be at least concerned. “I don’t think he’ll do anything violent in the Council chamber,” she said instead.

“Probably not, but we don’t take chances on his mood.” He paused, sipped from his glass, then said, “Have you heard anything about Sirialis? How are you dealing with that?”

“There’s nothing I can do from here, and here is where I need to be,” Brun said. “I hope—I hope they didn’t go there, or if they do, that they don’t hurt anyone. That’s naive, I know, but—I told the people there to get everyone out, dispersed, as best they can, and not worry about the property. Maybe, if the mutineers don’t have time to settle in, the damage will be minimal.”

“I know you love the place,” Stepan said. “It was a paradise for you children.”

“It was beautiful,” Brun said, and hated herself for using past tense as soon as she heard it. “Is beautiful,” she corrected. “But it’s too much for one person, or one family.”

At the surprise on his face, she went on. “Look at the situation now, ser. Our people, those who looked to us for protection and care, are in danger—and we can’t do anything. Not all our money, not all our political influence. Should we claim control of something we can’t protect? I don’t think so.”

“Hm. And to whom would you give it? Or would you sell it?”

“Those who live there, who will have to survive our failure.”

“That’s an option, certainly. But we don’t even know yet that Sirialis will be under attack. When—if the mutineers did go there—would they arrive?”

Brun said, “I’m not sure. Fleet might know. It depends where they picked up the mutineers’ warships, for one thing. My guess is, in another five to ten days by our time, but that’s very uncertain.”

“Hmm. And Fleet could do nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing, but in the present crisis, they can’t afford to keep a force in the Sirialis system for any length of time. They’re quite reasonably concerned about mutineers attacking more populated worlds, a major shipping nexus—even here, at Castle Rock—or hopping the border to the Benignity, or the Bloodhorde.”

“You did remind them Sirialis is only one jump away from the Bloodhorde, I hope?”

“They knew that already. I think they’re watching the jump point.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.” Stepan sighed. “I didn’t get there as often as I liked, but it was a beautiful place, and your mother’s hand made it better. Speaking of your mother, do you know where she and Lady Cecelia were going?”

“I have no idea,” Brun said. “By the time I found out, they were already gone, and I haven’t heard anything.”

“Brun, my dear—I know you loved both your parents dearly, and you’ve already lost one to violence. Have you considered that they might be lost in this turmoil, Miranda and Cecelia?”

“Of course . . . but it doesn’t do any good to think about it.”

“Perhaps not, but to be prepared for bad news, if it comes, that can be important.” Stepan watched her steadily.

“What—have you heard something?” Brun felt her heart contract.

“Not directly, no. But I do know something’s caused a flurry in Defense. I don’t know if it’s just a space battle somewhere—and that’s a terrible thing to say, I’m sorry—or if it could involve your mother. The Consellines have been badgering Fleet to take time to look for her; that’s why I thought I should prepare you.”

“Thank you,” Brun said. She had thought she was prepared, but now that she let herself really think about it, her face felt stiff, her mouth dry. Her mother dead? Lady Cecelia? On top of everything else—it was like a vast weight of sand landing on her, squeezing her . . .

“It may not be anything,” Stepan said.

Brun forced her mind back to the practical. “I presume we’ll find out,” she said. “Thanks for the warning.”

“If there is bad news, and if it is too much for you, let me know at once; we can do something else this Council meeting—”

“Not really,” Brun said. “You’ve already explained the problems, and why my speaking will give us the best leverage we have. I’ll do it.”

Stepan’s warning could not entirely prepare her for the news, she found, when the message came from Grand Admiral Savanche the afternoon before the next Grand Council session. She and her mother had never been close until after her father’s death; she had always felt reproved by her mother’s cool composure. And now—there was no more time. Her mother was dead. Had been dead days, or weeks . . . she couldn’t concentrate on the time adjustments.

She took a long breath, as she folded a scarf into the neckline of her suit. She could not cry now. She could not afford to be red-eyed and puffy-faced for this. She took more slow deep breaths, watching herself in the mirror, watching the outward signs of inward turmoil fade, until it was almost her mother’s serenity that looked back at her.

Another pang: had this been how Miranda did it? Had she hidden, beneath that serenity, such anguish? Probably. Brun probed that reaction, testing her own composure. Could she trust herself to stay this calm under the certain pressures of the Council meeting? She let her mind throw up images of her mother, her father, Sirialis. The face in the mirror did not change.

The great starry-roofed chamber might have imposed its own serenity on the anthill of scurrying humans below its dome, but familiarity had dulled their responses. Intent on their own concerns, their own worries and ambitions, most of them didn’t even glance at the painted stars, or the Family mottoes blazoned around the rim of the dome. Brun, arriving early, had the time, and the inclination, to look around. Now, watching the other Seated Members coming in, she ran over the points she must make. How would her words affect these people, most of them so wealthy they had no idea how much they owned—how many worlds, how many people, how many things? Would they shrug and say it had nothing to do with them, what happened ten or twenty light-years away?

The Consellines, bereft of Hobart Conselline, were in as much disarray as the Barracloughs had been when Bunny died. Hobart had systematically destroyed a dozen able Conselline politicians on his own climb to power. Would this consolidate their vote, making them cling harder to any perceived Conselline interest, or would it open them up, make them more receptive to the interest of the Familias as a whole?

She couldn’t know that for sure, she could only know what Stepan told her of the Barraclough Sept’s situation. She watched as her cousin Kell came down the steps and hesitated at the Family Table. She hoped she was right that mercy here would not be misplaced and gave him a steady look as she nodded towards his Seat. He looked grumpy, but then he usually did.

“I don’t know where my father is,” he said. “So don’t ask.”

“I do,” Brun said.

His expression changed to alarm. “Where? Did you have him thrown in prison, or what?”

“He hired a mutineer to take him to Sirialis,” Brun said.

“What?! You’re lying!”

“No,” Brun said, amazed at her own calm. She felt almost as Miranda had always looked, and from the look on Kell’s face that’s what he was seeing in her. “I’m not lying, and that’s what he did. It was really quite foolish. It makes us look bad—”

“Huh?”

“To the other septs,” Brun went on. “To have a Thornbuckle, a Barraclough, making deals with mutineers for private business. Very bad.”

“Then why’d Uncle Stepan let me take my Seat?”

“He didn’t want to,” Brun said. She gave him another long look. “I insisted. I’m not feuding with you. This is no time for intrafamily feuds.”

“You’re . . . different,” Kell said.

“Yes. Being a captive, having children, and losing your parents does that to you,” Brun said. “Danger, they say, has a wonderful ability to concentrate attention.”

“Dad never had a chance, did he?” Kell asked suddenly.

“Not really, not in the long run,” Brun said. “Why?”

“He always said your father was soft underneath—that he got the prestige just because of his smooth manner and his connections.” He hesitated then plunged on. “He said that’s why he sent Fleet after you . . . that anyone stupid enough to get picked up like that deserved what she got.”

“Then I trust he won’t be upset to realize that we’re not going to rescue him from the mutineers,” Brun said crisply. Kell stared. “Kell, your father’s hired some of the most dangerous men in our universe—he’s gone off with them alone. Do you think they’ll respect his noble birth and take his orders if they don’t like them?”

“But—but he’s rich—”

“And wealth buys things, Kell. Things. People’s loyalty has a higher price, which your father has never learned to pay. He’s chosen men who have no respect for riches—oh, they want riches, but that’s different. They respect strength, personal courage, personal fitness. They will take his riches and—if he’s lucky—kill him quickly.”

Kell paled. “Are you serious? You really think—”

“I’ve seen the dossier on the man he hired, and some of his crew.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“Like what? Beg Fleet to go after him? Listen to my speech, Kell, and you’ll understand why not.”

Kell looked around. “Are any of the others coming? Buttons? Dot?”

“No. They’ve registered their proxies.”

The great chamber was less than two-thirds full; many members had been unable to return for another session and had registered proxies with their Family representative. Brun compared the Seats taken with her display. Stepan, to her left and two levels higher, smiled and nodded when she glanced his way; she nodded in return. Viktor, beside him, pretended to glower. To the right, Ronnie’s father among the other Carrutherses and Ronnie, far older than when she’d seen him last. She pressed her comm control and beeped him. He looked up.

“Ronnie—I thought you were stuck on a colony—”

“I am, but I had to make this session. Did my aunt tell you about the problems in colonial administration?”

“Some—I’m glad you made it out.” He got out of his seat and came over to crouch beside her.

“Listen, Brun, we didn’t even know about your being captured until after you were back. Raffa sends her love. She’s my vice-governor, so she had to stay. But I’m hearing rumors that you’re leading an Ageist revolt—is that so?”

“Not exactly,” Brun said. “Let me explain between sittings, why don’t you? Have you heard what Stepan did?”

“No, not yet.” Ronnie gave Kell a suspicious glance. “Tell me later?”

“Sure. Lunch?”

“I’m lunching with George and Veronica. You could join us.”

“I’ll try,” Brun said.

Now the Ministers filed in to take their places at the Table of Ministers . . . Brun knew that in the wake of Hobart’s assassination and the mutiny, his appointee at the Ministry of Defense had resigned in favor of Irion Solinari who had now returned to the capitol. The head of Colonial Affairs, another Conselline appointee, looked worried and glanced several times towards the Carruthers’ table.

Stepan buzzed her and his quiet old voice purred into her ear. “Brun . . . there are more young people here today—and proxies registered for even more. Be sure you speak to their concerns.”

“I’ve just talked to Ronnie Carruthers,” she said. “He’s here in person.”

“Excellent,” Stepan said. “I urged his father to ask him back for a Council meeting even before Hobart died.”

So that was how Ronnie had made it.

The interim Speaker, Jon-Irene Pearsall, tapped the ceremonial gavel as if he were afraid the head would come off. Several weeks of power had given him no confidence.

“We have several questions before the Council,” he said. “A motion to censure the late Lord Thornbuckle’s widow for the death of Minister of Foreign Affairs Pedar Orregiemos. A motion to appoint a special investigator to examine the relationship between Pedar Orregiemos’ death and the assassination of Hobart Conselline. A motion to appoint a special investigator to determine the cause of the mutiny in the Regular Space Service. A motion to appoint a special investigator to determine the relationship of the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand with the Barraclough Sept. A motion of support for the loyal service of the Regular Space Service . . .” He droned on down a list, most of it motions to investigate, censure, or support.

Brun had already registered her request to speak to certain items on the list. A Conselline representative, one of Hobart’s nephews, was up first on item one. He was, she noted, in his mid-thirties, and unrejuved. He read a prepared text in a rapid monotone, with occasional nervous glances at his hearers.

“It is clear that Pedar Orregiemos was killed by Miranda Thornbuckle as part of a widespread plot to bring down the Conselline Sept. This fiction that he was killed in a fencing accident is just that—fiction—and if the crime had not been committed on private property far away from any nonpartisan law enforcement, the murderer would have been quickly brought to book. Indeed, she has admitted her guilt by fleeing—which suggests that even the tame militia of Sirialis weren’t satisfied . . .” He went on in this vein for some minutes, painting a picture of Barraclough scheming to murder Hobart and Pedar, hinting at other assassination attempts, at a Barraclough Ageist conspiracy. Finally he ran down.

Brun stood up and waited until the murmurs had died down. She knew she was about to drop a bombshell and didn’t want to waste any of its concussive power. When the silence had reached a point of tension she felt in every nerve, she spoke.

“I realize Cerion Conselline would like to believe everything that goes wrong is our fault,” she said. “It would be handy if the Thornbuckles were really just thorns, and you could be rid of trouble by plucking us out and tossing us in the fire.” Her tone invited a chuckle from the unaligned, and she got it. “But such easy solutions have never worked, in the whole history of humankind. However, I’m not here to discuss human history and psychology . . .” Another chuckle; this time she spoke over the tail end of it. “Nor am I here to defend my mother. It’s too late for that—” A startled murmur, this time. Brun went steadily on. “My mother is dead.”

“You’re lying!” burst out Oskar Morrelline. “She’s just run off.”

“She and Cecelia de Marktos were traveling to the Guerni Republic,” Brun said. “Alone, in Lady Cecelia’s yacht Pounce. They were captured by mutineers on the cruiser Bonar Tighe—yes, the one identified at the beginning of the mutiny—when their yacht came out of FTL unexpectedly.” Now she had their attention again and a silence heavy with dread. “She and Lady Cecelia were put in the brig with other loyalist prisoners. Knowing they were doomed anyway, they all attempted an escape; my mother was with a party that made their way to the communications equipment and sent off a message giving the ship’s location. Lady Cecelia was with a party engaged in disabling the ship as much as possible.”

“You expect us to believe two rich old ladies could disable a ship?” Oskar yelled. Pearsall tapped for order, and Oskar glowered at him and threw himself back in his seat, folding his arms dramatically.

“The loyalist prisoners had the expertise,” Brun said. “But my mother and Lady Cecelia made the escape possible. Because they were civilians, and rich ladies, the guards were less careful with them. They managed to disable the guards and unlock the cells.”

“How do you know all this?” called another Conselline supporter.

“I was informed yesterday by Grand Admiral Savanche, who gave me permission to inform this assembly. The Regular Space Service will release the story to the news media today. A loyal task force seeking out mutineers found the mutineer ship and destroyed it. Unfortunately, while Lady Cecelia and some of the loyalist prisoners managed to escape in a troop shuttle, my mother died helping others get away. She drew fire from the mutineers to let others escape.” Brun drew a long breath. “Fleet,” she said, “considers her a hero. I don’t ask you all to agree . . . but if you insist on thinking her a murderer, at least she has paid her debt by giving her own life for others.”

“Were all the mutineer ships destroyed?” asked a young man from the upper tiers. Brun didn’t have to look at her list to know that this was a Kimberly-Dwight, her own age.

“No,” Brun said. “We know for a fact that others exist. But the Bonar Tighe is thought to have been the flagship of the mutineer fleet.”

“How did they disable it?” asked someone else.

“I don’t know all the details,” Brun said. “But Admiral Savanche said it was one of the most imaginative schemes he’d heard of.”

“What commander destroyed it?” asked another.

“I think that will be in today’s report,” Brun said. “I was most concerned with my mother’s fate, as you can imagine. It’s—I don’t want to be maudlin, but it’s been less than a year since my father died.” This time she heard murmurs of sympathy as well as the buzz of curiosity. “However, I stand in opposition to a motion to investigate my mother, since she is dead, apparently with credit to herself.”

Cerion Conselline huddled with the more senior Consellines, including Oskar, and finally turned back to the Chair. “I withdraw the motion,” he said. “In consideration of Sera Meager-Thornbuckle’s recent loss. But I will have another motion of investigation later, since all the persons suspected of collusion aren’t dead yet. There’s still the matter of an Ageist conspiracy.” This clumsy threat brought scattered laughter.

“I still think it’s a lie,” Oskar Morrelline said. “You managed to kill my daughter, plant spies in our facility—”

“Point of order,” Brun said. Oskar glowered, but shut up.

“The first motion has been withdrawn by the maker,” the Speaker said. “We will proceed to item two. The Minister of Defense will speak to this topic.”

Irion Solinari, normally tubby, cheerful and energetic, now looked grim, his full lower lip tucked in. “Ser Conselline and Ser Morrelline have alleged an Ageist conspiracy, my lords and ladies. Unfortunately, what I have to report about the possible contributing factors to this mutiny will sound like a counterconspiracy, and for that reason you might be tempted to dismiss it. I pray you will not.” Silence; he sipped from a glass of water, and began with a history of rejuvenation failure in the Regular Space Service.

“We had no trouble with the first ones, the voluntary rejuvenation of senior flag officers. Later, we offered voluntary rejuvenation to the rest of the flag ranks, until we had what we thought were sufficient data to show safety and efficacy. Then we began offering rejuvenation to senior NCOs, our most valuable personnel in actual combat. A few years ago, we began to notice that a few—then more—senior NCOs were suddenly experiencing neurological and cognitive symptoms. As the numbers grew, so did concern about the cause, and after it was discovered that some commercial supplies of rejuvenation drugs were flawed in some way, rejuvenation failure became a live target. Some alert officers noted a correlation between the drug batches and the personnel suffering mental deterioration. Unfortunately, the bulk of Fleet supplies of rejuvenation drugs had come from a single source for the past sixteen years, which meant that if that source was contaminated, all our rejuvenated enlisted personnel were at risk.”

“That’s a lie!” Oskar burst out.

“Unfortunately, it’s true,” Solinari said. “A Benignity plot to make all our senior personnel senile would be an effective way of damaging Fleet without firing a shot. We could not, however, be sure that it wasn’t just an error of judgment, a cost-cutting decision by someone unqualified to predict the result of that change in technique. Fleet instituted an immediate program of research into rejuvenation failure—naturally we wanted to find a treatment that would prevent the loss of personnel and their own suffering. Ser Thornbuckle approved this plan, and fully understood the risks of losing up to a quarter of Fleet manpower—the most experienced quarter—to rejuv failure.”

“Aren’t the younger personnel just as qualified?” That was a young voice, from behind her; Brun wasn’t sure whose.

“They’re qualified, yes. But in war nothing beats combat experience. One reason we embarked on wholesale rejuvenation for our older NCOs is that we’ve had a period of relative peace—a few outbreaks here and there, but mostly peace—for long enough that most young personnel have never been in combat. We wanted to preserve that experience, to have it when we next needed it.”

“Well, I heard that one reason for the mutiny was the lack of opportunity for young people to advance,” said someone else.

“I’m coming to that,” Solinari said. “They’re actually related.” He waited, but no one else interrupted. “People in Fleet are like people everywhere,” he said. “They don’t all agree. There are younger officers and NCOs who believed that rejuvenation froze the promotion scale, and kept them from having a normal career. To some extent this is true. No effective force can be all admirals and master chiefs. So rejuvenation at the top meant fewer slots open for promotion, and longer time in grade at the bottom. If you look at the structure over the past hundred years, promotion slowed markedly in the past ten. Ser Thornbuckle suggested adding a longevity component to pay scales to help make up for this, but the Council has never been eager to spend more money on the military.”

“I’ve always voted for it!” someone yelled.

“When it’s for ships,” someone else said. “I’ve heard you talk about military pay, Jas.”

“At any rate,” Solinari said, ignoring the interruption, “there certainly was a sizeable fraction of younger personnel who were feeling frustrated. Whether a mutiny would have occurred just because of this, we can’t know. However, when word began to spread about the failure of enlisted rejuvenations, this led to near panic among the middle and upper enlisted grades who had been rejuved. When Hobart Conselline shut down the research and funding for treatment, this fed the fear that Fleet was deliberately causing rejuv failure to open up the career structure again.”

“What was the treatment?” someone asked.

“Immediate rejuvenation with good drugs,” Solinari said. “That froze the condition where it was. If caught early enough, the symptoms never developed. But it was expensive, and to ensure good drugs, we went to another source than that from which we’d bought the bad drugs.”

“Alleged bad drugs,” Oskar said. This time there was a derisive chuckle from most of the chamber; everyone there knew about the problems at Patchcock, at least the recent one: the courts were stuffed with lawsuits.

“Besides concerns about opportunity and failed rejuvenations,” Solinari said, “there’s a third source of unrest. Any military organization tends to attract some people who seek power in unhealthy ways. We had Admiral Lepescu, who became the focus for those who believed that only the harshest military values mattered. When his policy of using prisoners as human prey in hunts was discovered, we realized that he had followers throughout Fleet. We eliminated those we could identify, but we could not simply condemn everyone who had ever known him.”

“Why didn’t you find out about him sooner?” asked Ser Carruthers.

“I’d like to say, because he was careful, but probably his superiors were also careless, willing to accept his efficient performance without looking too closely at his methods. I do know that throughout history, his type of personality is one of those which military organizations both harbor and promote to higher rank. At any rate, we think the mutiny began among those who fit several of these critera: frustration at lack of opportunity, concern about the misuse of rejuvenation, and membership in the secret society that Lepescu started. We now have evidence, following the rescue of loyalists from the Bonar Tighe, that its captain, Solomon Drizh, was in fact a Lepescu protege.”

At this there was a flurry of movement and excited talk among the members. Solinari waited until the room quieted. “We certainly do need to look further into these things, but at the moment, what Fleet needs is your support in putting down the mutiny. This means not only money, but your commitment to the Familias. We know that the mutineers have approached some of you, offering protection or making threats. We know they may try to use your private worlds to hide out or resupply. We need to know that the Grand Council supports the loyal elements in Fleet, that you won’t make any special deals—”

“Well, if you’re not protecting us, we have to get help where we can—” said someone from the very top row.

“Traitor!” yelled a young Barraclough; Brun saw Viktor lean toward him, scowling.

“It’s just an excuse to ask for more money,” said Oskar Morrelline. “The whole thing’s a fabrication—”

In moments, the simmering tension of the chamber had boiled over into chaos, members standing and yelling at each other, shaking their fists. The Speaker clearly lacked the presence to bring them to order, and finally abandoned the attempt. Brun, sensing that yelling might soon come to blows, rose and went down the steps to the front. They had hoped no such action would be necessary, but just in case . . .

She noticed that people quieted as she passed their Tables; a few even spoke her name. She ignored them, walking as Miranda would have walked, cool and serene. She knew movement would draw attention, and movement like this—nonthreatening, calm—would compel by its contrast. The noise had lessened considerably by the time she got to the lowest level.

Pearsall was wringing his hands, his face pale. Brun smiled at him, and held out her hand. “May I try, Ser Pearsall?”

“It’s—it’s hopeless,” he said. “You’ll have to call in the security to clear the chamber.”

“Possibly,” Brun said, “but it’s worth a try, isn’t it? We haven’t had to clear the chamber in ninety odd years.”

He handed her the gavel and stepped back. Brun flicked on the Speaker’s mic and glanced around. Most of the arguers were at least glancing her way now and then to see what was happening, but they weren’t ready to pay attention. She reached into the recess under the podium where—as Kevil had told her—a loud-hailer was stowed for emergencies, should the power go out. She picked it up.

“Stop this nonsense.” The roar of the loud-hailer silenced them all for a critical moment, as they tried to figure out who held it and what was happening. Brun blinked the lights, and spoke more calmly, but still in the loud-hailer. “We have serious issues to discuss—and I mean discuss, not have screaming tantrums over.”

“Who told you—!” began Oskar Morrelline.

“Sit down, Ser Morrelline, and be quiet. If you wish to be recognized, you will request it with your button.”

“You—” he glared at her as if he would leap down three tiers and knock her to the ground, but men on either side of him pulled him back to his seat, whispering urgently in his ears.

“Thank you,” Brun said. She put down the loud-hailer and set the Speaker’s mic to a medium volume. “I see many lights are lit. Please wait your turn; please limit what you have to say to factual information or a brief expression of support or opposition to the topic.” She took the lights in order, according to the computer’s log.

The first to speak, having pressed their buttons before the uproar, now had trouble remembering what they had wanted to say. Brun waited for them, not rushing them. By the time ten had spoken, the others were all settling down, like a team of restive horses that now felt an experienced hand at the reins. She was careful not to grin, not to let them see the triumph she felt. She went on being calm and cool and perfectly fair until even the Consellines were able to leave off sarcasm and discuss the issues. She had seen her father do this often enough. Boring them into good behavior, he’d called it.

When the debate on Ageists and Rejuvenants heated up again, Brun stepped in.

“This is an important issue. We must come to some new understanding of how to constitute our government. But right now, at this time, we need to make sure we have a government, and a polity to govern. We have heavily armed warships roaming around inside our borders, any one of which could hold a planet hostage. Suppose one or a group of them decided to take over a colony world? Some colonies do not even have efficient communications access out of their own system. You know more and more of your children have been going to the colonies—do you want to deliver them to slavery?”

“No . . .” came a murmur.

“Most of us here own stock in, if we don’t completely own, the trading consortia that move our goods from place to place. What will piracy do to our profits?”

A thoughtful silence.

“What we must do is secure our borders, and rid ourselves of the menace of these mutineer ships. We don’t want them defecting to the Benignity or the Bloodhorde—”

“No one would go there—”

“No? Why not? If they are, as Minister Solinari says, part of a cult of strength-through-killing, isn’t this just a sophisticated version of the Bloodhorde’s beliefs? I can see a mutineer or so running to the Bloodhorde—and then teaching them how to maintain and use the advanced technology of the ships they stole. I can also see the Benignity being extremely upset with us for being so careless.”

Another thoughtful silence.

“So—you think we ought to do what?” That was Ronnie’s father.

“First give Fleet our support, as Minister Solinari said, to put down the mutiny and secure our borders. When we’ve done that—which should not take long—then we need to deal with these other issues. We need to reassure our neighbors that we are not planning to encroach on them. We need to find a way to open opportunities to more of our citizens—to the young, now kept from advancement by their elders who have rejuved repeatedly, and to those not in the Great Families—to the many people now shut out from all decision making.”

“What? You’d let outsiders into the Grand Council?”

“Not outsiders. People who have been in our polity for generations . . . just ignored. But this is for later discussion. Right now, I’m calling a vote on Minister Solinari’s request that investigation be deferred, and support be given to the Regular Space Service.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I just did.” Brun smiled at Cerion Conselline. “Ser Conselline, we all know that the chamber dissolved into disorder, into name-calling and useless arguments. It was necessary to restore order, and I did that. In doing so, I took over the authority to decide what issues would come up—and right now, I’m calling for a vote. You can criticize me later, but at this moment you will vote or abstain.”

Brun stood there, unmoving and silent, as the votes began to trickle in. A flurry of “no” from the main Conselline Seats, a scattering of “yes” from minor houses, then a block of “yes” from the Barracloughs. Another cluster of “no” from several minor families among the Consellines. She’d hoped for a bigger margin; this would be down to the wire. Suddenly she noticed a scurry of movement among the younger Consellines. Votes began to change. She held up her hand. Everyone sat back and watched.

“Excuse me,” she said, her eyes on the display, not on the Conselline tables. “I notice votes changing—this is legal, but I want to be sure that the individuals changing their votes do so willingly and not under any duress.”

“They’re changing your way,” Oskar said.

“That’s not the point,” Brun said. “I’m not here to win; I’m here to see that you all have the opportunity to vote your true convictions. May I have affirmation?”

One of the young Conselline men stood up; Brun nodded. “I’m changing my vote on my own, ’cause I think it’s about time we had some young leadership.”

Two others rose and without waiting said, “What Jamar said.” Brun nodded again, and waited until all the changers had spoken. Cerion and Oskar were white around the mouth but said nothing more.

When all the votes were in, Fleet had its support, with over two thirds of the votes. Brun turned to Solinari. “Ser Minister, we trust you will convey to Fleet our full support.”

“Yes, sera.” He did not grin, but his eyes twinkled at her.

In the next hours, days, weeks, Brun struggled to convince the Seats of the Great Families of the need to expand the franchise and find a way to organize a society that would be, in the long run, comprised of near-immortal individuals. Fleet’s success against the mutineers helped her; as the news came in about the destruction of the mutineer flagship and the other mutineer ships, her prestige grew. When Fleet reported on the fate of Harlis Thornbuckle, other Families who had considered treating separately with the mutineers changed their minds and this also increased her influence.

The young people, those who had not rejuved yet, understood the problems of rejuvenation clearly, though they were less receptive to bringing in non-Family representatives.

“They’re rejuvenating too,” Brun pointed out, over and over. “They’ll live just as long as your parents and grandparents—and they’re going to want power. We can’t stuff the rejuvenation tiger back into the box. It’s out, and it’s going to stay out. What we have to do is design a system people can live with, Rejuvenants and those who oppose rejuvenation alike. And right now, if you’ll work with me, we have the votes. There are still more unrejuvenated than rejuvenated members.”

The young Consellines, eager to profit from rejuvenation, were willing to consider how a long-lived society might work. Some religious groups opposed rejuvenation entirely; Brun listened to their objections and took them back to the pro-rejuvenation faction. “It has to work for everyone,” she said again, over and over.

Brun also talked to those Rejuvenants who would meet with her, emphasizing her conviction that multiple rejuvenations gave them special skills and responsibilities as well as privileges. “You can afford to take the very long view,” she said. “You can figure out for yourselves how to use that extra time productively, to contribute and not just hoard resources.” She began to wonder, after a few of these meetings, if they’d all had bad rejuv drugs somewhere down the line, because most seemed unable to grasp the need to change. They liked the life they had; they could not believe that change might come by force.

“Believe it,” Brun said. “When you’re outnumbered enough, it doesn’t matter what talents and skills you have. I learned that on Our Texas.”

It was the first “youth” vote in Council which convinced many of them. Months of hard work lay ahead, but if Fleet could buy them the time, Brun was now sure that they would cooperate in the end.