Change of Command

Chapter Five

Hobart glared at Oskar Morrelline, former head of the Morrelline branch of his sept. “You were outmaneuvered by Venezia,” he said. “That fuzzbrained sister of yours cost us market share and dropped profits twenty-eight percent—”

“It’s not my fault,” Oskar said. “If—”

“Oh yes, it is.” Hobart interrupted smoothly. “Your daughter Ottala—what is it with the women in your family, anyway?—goes haring off to Patchcock and gets herself killed. That’s what started it—a daughter you didn’t control any better than Bunny controlled Brun—”

Oskar had flushed an ugly color; Hobart enjoyed that as he always enjoyed exercising power. “No, Oskar. I can’t trust you to do it right, whatever it is. I cannot give you a Ministry. In a few years, I expect the public climate will change, and then, perhaps, we can find something for you.”

“You expect my vote but you aren’t giving me anything?”

“I expect your vote because you know where your advantage lies. Even if they had it to give, you would get nothing out of that clique Bunny ran. And they do not have it to give, not anymore.”

Oskar glared, but subsided, as Hobart had known he would. Oskar was a blusterer, but if that didn’t work he had no second weapon. Hobart always had a second weapon—and a third and a fourth, he thought to himself. He changed his tone, and went on; if Oskar could get it through his head what the problem really was, he might be useful.

“Whoever controls the rejuvenation process controls everything—as long as the public doesn’t rebel against rejuvs. We must take steps against the Ageist conspiracies; the shortlifes, if they realize the danger they’re in, outnumber us at this point and could be dangerous.”

“But Venezia says—”

“Venezia is a fool. Yes, something had gone wrong there, something serious. A Benignity spy, if I understand the little that’s been declassified. But it’s not as bad as all that. Women are so excitable, not to mention sentimental, and Venezia in particular—”

Oskar nodded eagerly; Hobart smiled to himself. How the Morrelline brothers hated having Venezia in charge! “All she ever did was play with pottery—” Oskar said.

“Quite so. How could she know anything about the real world? She could not be expected to realize how many lives would be disrupted—prematurely ended, with the shortage of rejuvenation drugs—because of her finicky insistence on exact procedures.”

“But Hobart—how do we get it back? How do we get her out of there?”

Exactly the opening he’d hoped for. “By doing precisely what I tell you,” Hobart said. “I need your support at all the Grand Council sessions; I will let you know what I need you to say, and how to vote. With more sympathetic, more cooperative Ministers, we should be able to ease dear Venezia back into her supportive role.”

“She won’t like it,” Oskar said, puffing out his plump cheeks.

“I don’t care whether she does or not,” Hobart said. “I am not going to let one woman stand in the way of progress for the Conselline Sept.” He looked forward to that moment, probably more than Oskar did. Venezia had been a constant nuisance at sept board meetings, poking her nose into all sorts of inconvenient corners. He’d had to roust her out of his own offices more than once, where she chatted up the clerical staff and wheedled who knows what out of them. She seemed to think she had a moral mission to clean up the whole sept.

“Our responsibility to the whole Familias . . .” she would say, while Hobart ground his teeth. They had no responsibility to the whole Familias; they had a responsibility to Family shareholders. Period. He wasn’t going to urge her to go on making faulty drugs. Bad for business, and people would be watching carefully. Beyond that, though, it wasn’t their business to be saints, if that’s what she had in mind.

“If Kemtre had not been a weak man, none of these disasters would have happened. He drugged his son into stupidity, and then created those damned clones.”

“I don’t see that cloning is such a bad thing.”

“No, nor do I, except that we have a rapidly growing population anyway. We don’t need clones; we need sensible strong men who know how to handle the hysterics. No offense.” He eyed Oskar, but Oskar didn’t mind if Hobart called his sister hysterical. “Now, Oskar, I want you to have a word with the Broderick Institute, and tell them to do their homework a little better—”

“The Broderick Institute? What have they done?”

Sometimes he wondered if Oskar had a brain. Venezia, for all her impracticality, had wit enough. “Oskar, the Broderick Institute is where Dr. Margulis works.” Oskar still looked blank. “The same Dr. Margulis whose report on the so-called bad drugs coming out of Patchcock started a near panic in the market—”

“Oh—that Dr. Margulis. But I thought—”

“He’s come up with more—the man is a closet Ageist, I’m sure, just looking for any excuse to scare people away from rejuvenation. Broderick has given him free rein for the past fifteen years, and look what that so-called independent research has led to. It’s cost you, and me, and the whole Familias. He needs to be controlled; at the very least, someone needs to do impartial research showing how beneficial rejuv is. And since the Conselline Sept provides over two-thirds of the money to support the Broderick Institute, they need to be reminded of the importance of truly even-handed science.”

“Won’t they complain about academic freedom?”

“They’re not a university; they’re a privately funded research facility. If you’re tactful, they’ll get the point without blowing up. That’s your job.”

Oskar left, finally, and Hobart puffed air out explosively. Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots and incompetents, and they all wanted something from him. He glanced at his desk and told his secretary to send in Pedar Orregiemos. Another idiot. Minor family, major nuisance, but also a born bootlicker, and those could be useful.

Pedar came in looking smug about something. Hobart had no time for Pedar’s self-congratulation. Besides, he would be even smugger, with more reason, very shortly.

“We have a problem coming up,” he said. Pedar’s expression shifted quickly from smugness to concern. “As you know, I was elected temporary Speaker at the emergency Council meeting immediately after Lord Thornbuckle’s assassination.” Pedar nodded. “The next meeting will be crucial. If we are not to lapse back into the ineffective vacillation of the previous administration, if we’re to meet the challenges that threaten us, we need to take action quickly. Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Pedar said. “What can I do?”

“In the long run, you can be my Minister of Foreign Affairs.” Hobart paused, and enjoyed the sight of Pedar completely silenced, for once. He had not expected that high an honor . . . good, then he would be the more willing to earn it. “But not immediately: first there are changes in the bylaws which need to be approved. I’ll give you the texts; I want your analysis of the probable response.”

“Of course; right away.”

“I’m calling the next meeting almost immediately; it would be unethical not to have a general meeting as quickly as possible.” Pedar nodded like a child’s toy. Did he even grasp the importance of that? Did he realize how critical the timing was, how this haste would work to Conselline advantage? For an instant, Hobart thought of explaining it to him, sharing some of his data on Family movements, his basis for knowing who could attend, and thus how the votes would go. No. Better not let even Pedar know how much he knew.

Hobart went on. “After that meeting, I’ll be making some ministerial changes; Foreign Affairs will be high on that list, but I can’t give you an exact date. What you must understand is where the real threat is.” Hobart leaned closer. “It’s not war, no matter what anyone says. We’re large, strong, healthy, with a vigorous military—well, mostly vigorous. Anton Lepescu was more than a little crazy, but that doesn’t mean all his ideas were bad. He had the right idea about the military and war, for instance. If he’d been assigned to the rescue mission, do you suppose we’d have had any problem with leftover terrorists?”

Pedar shook his head; Hobart allowed himself a smile.

“Of course not,” he went on. “He’d have made sure there weren’t any. None of this idiocy of bringing back hundreds of women and children—born troublemakers, every one of them. And to whom do we owe that diplomatic and political problem? Bunny Thornbuckle’s friends, the Serranos. Who, as we all know, have no direct loyalty to any of the Chairholding Families.”

“Well, but, Hobart, none of the Fleet families do now—”

“Not directly, not now, but they did in the past. That’s my point. I’ve read history; I know what’s supposed to have happened. But how do we know that the Serranos weren’t involved in the massacre of their patron Family? What proof do we have?”

Pedar looked surprised, then thoughtful. “I hadn’t ever considered that. But they’re powerful . . .”

“Yes. Thoroughly entrenched. And I’m sure there are decent, loyal soldiers among them. But overall, their influence is questionable. We need a Fleet we can count on to crush any opponent, protect our shipping, protect the new worlds we need to open for our colonists.”

After Pedar left, Hobart stared out the window, musing. His brother Guilliam had always been the pet of the family. Everyone loved Guilliam; Hobart had suspected his parents of having that easy charm built into Guilliam’s genes, while he—he had been given the steel-hard core Guilliam lacked. He had been designed as the unloved workhorse, who was to stand back, walk behind, and do all the difficult tasks that were too much for Guilliam.

People still talked about Guilliam. Too bad about poor Guilliam, they said. Hobart knew what they really meant—too bad that they had to deal with him instead of his softer brother. Guilliam took no part in Family business—hadn’t since their parents died, when an escalation in his addiction to starplex-tree resin resulted in permanent brain damage which even rejuv could not repair.

Guilliam would not be at the next Council meeting, any more than he’d been at the others. And on Hobart’s side . . . he ran through the list again, ticking names off his mental list. The minor Families—Derringer, Hochlit, Tassi-Lioti, all that crowd, were yammering now for leadership, and would probably follow anyone strong enough. Harlis Thornbuckle, Bunny’s own brother, wanted control of Bunny’s estate bad enough to deal . . . though he probably wasn’t trustworthy in the long run. If Kevil Mahoney had been capable, he might have talked some of the waverers into the other camp, but he was still in the medical center, and the opposition was no more than a confusion of Barracloughs, more intent on fighting over leadership within their sept than on threats from without. Since Mahoney wasn’t on his side, just as well not to have him active at all. In the future, he expected to talk Mahoney over; the man needed a power base. It was purely an accident that he had been Bunny’s friend; he could just as easily be Hobart’s friend.

With any luck, no one from Bunny’s family would attend this Grand Council meeting anyway. They would expect this one to be unimportant, with a weak Speaker elected to finish out Bunny’s term. This was his window of opportunity. He could take hold of the weak, flaccid, rudderless ship of state—catch the winds of time, and take them all to a better future than anyone else saw.

And he would be taken seriously this time. Not as a substitute for Guilliam, but as the leader he knew himself to be. Young and vigorous, even without rejuv—and when it came time to rejuv, he would know exactly what source to use.

His scheduler chimed; Hobart silenced it with a snap of the fingers. He toyed with the idea of skipping his exercises for once, but habit had already brought him to his feet. Iagin, the Swordmaster who supervised his own fencing coach, was there for his twice-annual analysis of Hobart’s progress.

The pine—and-sandalwood-scented changing room shifted his mood, as it was meant to, and focussed his attention on his body. Hobart stripped off his business clothes and dropped them into the hamper. His exercise clothes hung on racks . . . today, for his fencing lesson, he chose a skinsuit and the leather armor. His coach didn’t approve of leather, but he was in no mood to pamper his coach.

He glanced at himself in the mirror with satisfaction. Barrel chest, flat belly, well-muscled legs, erect posture, firm mouth. Not a slack, flabby fiber in him, mind or body. A man fit to lead.

In the exercise room itself, he warmed up with the standard sets, then stretched. As he was twisting himself into a pretzel, trying not to look at himself—he hated these stretches, which were at best undignified—the door opened and the Swordmaster came in. His own coach would not have dared; Hobart had made it clear that he needed no supervision in warm-up. But the Swordmasters were an old, proud breed, and he put up with their arrogance for the sake of their skill. Bunny had never taken up fencing, and had resolutely refused to have a Swordmaster at his estate even when most Families did. Well, and who had just died?

“Lord Conselline,” the Swordmaster said. “Your form needs improvement.”

“Instruct me,” Hobart said, proud of conquering a flash of anger.

The Swordmaster bent and twisted his own body into the stretch, and held it. “You are not keeping the knee straight,” he said, from under his arm. “And you are bending the spine too much in the thoracic span, and not enough in the lumbar.” He unwound, not red in the face or breathless. “Try again.”

Hobart twisted and tangled himself into the required knot. He knew what it was for, but he disliked it and knew he had been skimping on it for months. The Swordmaster’s hands steadied him, and then pushed and pulled . . . Hobart felt a pop in his spine, and the sudden ease of a cramp he had not realized he had.

“Like that,” the Swordmaster said. “You really should let Orris spot you in this for several months.”

“I’ll consider it,” Hobart said, untwisting carefully.

“Good. If you are ready . . .” The Swordmaster nodded toward the salle.

“Is it true,” Hobart asked, as they passed through the archway, “that all Swordmasters must have killed with the blade?”

“It is a tradition,” the Swordmaster said.

Hobart wanted to know what it felt like but could think of no polite way to ask. And which blade? The Swordmasters taught the use of all blades, had mastered all styles.

Orris held out practice masks, transparent reinforced ceram with touch-signalling circuitry embedded, and the warm-up blades. Hobart glanced at Orris, wondering what he’d told Master Iagin; he suspected Orris of reporting on more than his fencing skill. He did, after all, have to take the occasional call during a lesson, and Orris might have overheard scraps of conversation. But nothing important, he thought. Nothing that would interest a Swordmaster anyway.

Masked and gloved, with blade in hand, he faced Master Iagin on the strip. The salute—old-fashioned, formal, an utter waste of time, and yet it set the emotional tone for what followed. The initial touches . . . boring, when all Hobart wanted was to get this session out of the way so he could return to his plotting.

Master Iagin’s tip smacked into his faceshield, which flared red. For an instant he could not speak for anger, and then he grunted. “Touch.”

“Your mind wandered, Lord Conselline,” Master Iagin said. Behind the arc of gleaming protection, his expression was unreadable—quiet, a little stern, but neither anger nor apprehension.

“My apologies,” Hobart said. This was, after all, one of the reasons he had stayed with fencing, the need to concentrate utterly on what he was doing. But Orris usually gave him a few minutes to settle in. The man had never struck him so early in a session. Still . . . the Swordmaster was who he was, and probably thought fencing was the most important thing in the universe. In his, it may have been. Hobart collected these scattered thoughts, locked them away, and focussed on Master Iagin’s blade.

Just in time, for it flicked toward him again, and his parry was only just enough. He missed the riposte, but by the next parry was able to riposte . . . only to meet Master Iagin’s parry and a riposte so powerful it blew through his own and punched him lightly in the chest.

“Touch,” he said, this time more cheerfully. He was not expected to defeat a Swordmaster, only to show that he had been working.

He had indeed, and his next attack actually achieved a touch. His spirits soared. He had never made a touch on the Swordmaster from seven before. All that work with weights must have done it. Twenty touches—sixteen to the Swordmaster and four to him—then a break to stretch out again before taking up the heavier blades.

“Your right forearm is definitely stronger, Lord Conselline,” the Swordmaster said.

“Orris has me doing weight work.”

“Good. But I notice that your left arm is still substantially weaker—there should be no more than five percent difference in strength, unless someone has suffered an injury. Have you?”

Hobart scowled. “It’s stronger than last year.”

“Indeed it is. But the imbalance affects more than your off-hand fencing, milord. It also affects the set of your spine and your gait. You need to balance them, just as you balance work and play.”

Hobart’s scowl deepened; he could feel the tension in his neck. “I have no time for play, Swordmaster. Surely you have heard of the terrible crisis that faces us? Lord Thornbuckle was killed by terrorists—”

“Yes, of course,” Master Iagin said. “But that makes my point. You must be balanced to withstand such blows. It is the failure of balance in your society which makes it vulnerable—the undisciplined who stagger and fall when the blow falls.”

“I do not intend to stagger and fall,” Hobart said. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors that lined the salle—flushed and truculent. Dangerous.

“Nor will you, milord, I’m sure. Your work here—the discipline needed to achieve the level you’ve achieved—sustains you, along with your native talents. But as each movement balances contraction of one muscle group with extension of another, so the steadfast must balance strain and relaxation.”

“I find relaxation in this,” Hobart said with a wave to include the entire exercise suite.

“That is good,” Master Iagin said. “You have a warrior’s heart, which finds ease in growing stronger.”

Praise, of a sort. He would take it. A warrior’s heart he knew he had, and he could feel himself growing stronger.

When the lesson ended, Hobart invited Master Iagin to dinner at the family table, but the Swordmaster declined. “With your permission, milord, I will walk in your gardens; I must take ship tomorrow, and I am not often able to stretch my legs in such beauty.”

“Of course.” He still did not understand Master Iagin’s fascination with the garden, but he anticipated that request. Discreet surveillance had revealed that the man did not tumble a maid behind the hedges or use any sort of communications device to contact a confederate. He always did what he asked permission to do—strolled along the pebbled garden paths, stopping now and then to sniff a flower. He pretended to fence with the topiary knight, and if one of the gardener’s cats appeared, he would pick it up and stroke it. At the far end of the garden, he always paused to watch the black-finned fish in the lily pond. Not what Hobart had expected of a Swordmaster, but they were known to have strange habits. Most of them, for some reason or other, liked gardens.

At dinner, Delphine asked if the Swordmaster were still there. Hobart gave her a look that shut her up instantly, but then he answered her. “He’s here, but he’s leaving tomorrow. Why?”

“I just wanted to meet him . . .”

“You have no reason to meet him; you do not take fencing seriously.” Delphine could strike a pretty pose with foil in hand, and in fencing whites, and in the garden in front of the rose hedge, looked quite exciting that way. But her footwork was execrable, and she had never shown any determination in learning better. He would not have been too pleased if she had, but her failure to oppose him even on this was another proof of her weakness. Luckily, he had been able to choose other gene lines for his sons.

Delphine picked at her shellfish and changed the subject. “I called Miranda today, but her private secretary wouldn’t put me through. I was able to make an appointment for tomorrow, when she’s taking condolence calls.”

“That’s good,” Hobart said. A quick flash of anger that a secretary prevented his wife—his wife, Lady Conselline—from contacting Miranda Thornbuckle flared and died. It wasn’t important, after all. Miranda would find out soon enough that what power she had had through Bunny was gone, water into sand.

“Hobart—are you in danger?”

“Me?!” He smiled at her, surprised and pleased by her solicitude. “No, my dear. Bunny made enemies I have not made.” He had others, but none that would dare have him killed. “And besides, I am more careful. We have excellent security. Do not worry about me, or about yourself and the children.”

“It’s all so terrible,” Delphine said, putting down her fork. “Pirates capturing Brun, and then the terrorists—”

“It won’t happen again,” Hobart said firmly. “I’ll see to that.”

Her eyes widened, the periwinkle-blue eyes that he loved. “But Hobart—how? You aren’t—”

If she said he wasn’t important, he would kill her right there; he felt himself stiffening, and saw in her face the reaction to his expression. Her mouth snapped shut; tears filled her eyes and she looked down at her plate.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe,” he said quietly, through his teeth. “But I am not a nonentity—”

“Oh, Hobart, I didn’t say—I didn’t mean—”

“And I can and will keep you safe. And others. It’s my duty, and I have never shirked my duty.”

“Of course not,” she said. Up came her napkin, to dab at the tears.

“We have had laxity in high places,” Hobart said firmly, feeling the phrases in his mouth. “With all due respect for Lord Thornbuckle—and I have known Bunny all my life—he simply did not have the . . . the moral fiber to do what was necessary. I will not make that mistake. When I am First Speaker—and I shall be, Delphine, in a matter of days—things will be handled very differently. None of his weak deference to the entrenched bureaucracy which is always afraid to make changes lest it mean the loss of influence. I will make the decisions, and I will save the realm.” He looked up, to find her staring at him, eyes still wide. He pointed his knife at her. “And you, my dear, will say nothing of this to anyone. I have no doubt that the Grand Council will be glad to elect someone who has a clear vision of what should be done, but I don’t want them confused by your version of events first, is that clear?”

“Yes, Hobart.”

“You will say nothing to Miranda tomorrow.”

“No, Hobart.”

“And you will quit messing about with that crab, and eat properly.”

“Yes, Hobart.”

That was better. If she would just confine herself to doing what he told her, and not argue, she would be an exemplary wife. He could imagine her in the Palace, greeting those he invited to the necessary social events. Delphine was good at social events. Decorative, tactful, soft-voiced. Like Miranda, Bunny’s widow, in that respect. But his wife. His tool.

Barin Serrano checked his appearance in the mirror yet again. Like all his class who had not actually disgraced themselves, he had his promotion to jig, and in an hour the ensigns were to appear for the promotion ceremony in the captain’s office. His parents, in accordance with tradition, had sent him their old insignia—a pair from each—and a credit chip for his contribution to the celebration in the junior officers’ mess. That was handy, given that his pay was now zeroed out. They’d said nothing about that, in their accompanying note. He wondered if it had been written before they found out. He wondered if they simply couldn’t think of anything to say.

Luckily, these lower-level promotions didn’t require dress uniforms, and he had a natural knack for looking trim. His mind strayed, as it often did, to Esmay Suiza, whose fluffy brown hair sometimes appalled her as much as it delighted him. She would never understand, he was sure, how those stray wisps made him feel.

He hadn’t heard from Esmay in weeks, but they’d both been shipbound. They’d expected it. He hadn’t expected to be quite so susceptible to everything that reminded him of her, but he assumed that would pass.

“C’mon, Barin!” came a call from the hatch of the ensigns’ bay. With a last glance (no, hairs had not suddenly sprouted from his ears) he turned and followed the rest to the ceremony.

The ceremony itself was brief, but the aftermath wasn’t. Each newly promoted jig had, by tradition, donated a dozen drink chits into the pool, and the first twelve enlisted personnel who recognized the new rank each got one. Barin, one of the last in alphabetical order on this ship, found that he was being ambushed at every crossing until his last chit was gone.

Four hours later, the first of the new ensign assignees came aboard, a ship-to-ship transfer from the Cape Hay which had ferried them from Sector HQ. Two were already partway through their progress from newly commissioned to jig, but three were this year’s graduates, so wet they squeaked. Barin, still most junior in ship duty of the jigs, found himself assigned to escort them to the junior wardroom. He’d known the more senior ones at the Academy; Cordas Stettin was, in fact, a kind of cousin through his mother’s family, and Indi Khas had been in his cadet unit. They looked incredibly young; he couldn’t believe he had ever been that green. He kept almost looking behind himself when one of them called him sir.

The Gyrfalcon was on what would have been a routine patrol, if it weren’t for the persistent fear that the New Texas colonies were up to something. Normally, Sector Seven was quiet; the transit points into it from Benignity space made invasion from their main enemy unlikely. Now, however, they were expecting trouble. Within the ship itself, all routines were performed under the restrictions of Level 2 alert. A few days of this, Barin thought, and people would start slacking off: not quite dogging down the blast barriers, not remembering to close off the shower-room drains after use, forgetting one or more of the niggling little details that might—if they came under surprise attack—save lives, or waste them.

Junior officers and senior NCOs were the only defense against this natural relaxation of precautions, and they had lost eight senior NCOs to the medical restrictions on rejuv recipients. Barin took his turn at inspection with a keen understanding of its importance. He had, after all, lost an uncle to someone’s failure to dog a blast barrier, and had grown up with the story.

But Cape Hay had brought new orders, and Captain Escovar called Barin in to discuss them.

“You remember that professor who’s been staying with your wives—er, dependents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’re going to stop by to pick her up, and take her with us to Sector One HQ, where we’re to meet a diplomat of some sort from the Lone Star Confederation and transport her back to Castle Rock. And it might be a good idea for you to try to convince those women to do something other than sit there eating up Fleet resources. They may not listen, but they’ve been telling Professor Meyerson they can’t do anything without your permission. Oh, and you have mail.”

Barin read the message cube as soon as he had a free moment, which was hours later. His parents had recorded it, but the full weight of the Serrano dynasty lay behind it.

He was young to marry anyway, and with Fleet having already assigned him responsibility for the maximum number of dependents, how could he even think of marrying? Of course they were sure that Lieutenant Suiza would understand, and if she truly cared for him, she would see to it that she made things easier, not harder, for him. There need be no unseemly haste, assuming—

Barin argued with the message cube in resentful silence. How could he think of marrying? How could he not? Unseemly haste? They had known each other for years now; they had been through a Bloodhorde attack, the machinations of envious troublemakers, a very tricky hostage extrication, and he was not—NOT—going to be told he was too young, too inexperienced, too anything else to get married. He was a jig, not some wet-ears ensign fresh out of the Academy.

He loved her. She loved him. It was so simple, if only other people would leave them alone. Perhaps she could get leave and they could meet somewhere . . . privately . . . he toyed briefly with the idea of running away and getting married secretly, in spite of his family. That wouldn’t be fair to Esmay, though. The Landbride Suiza would expect—would require—more than a hasty ceremony before some local magistrate. Still, with the ship detached for diplomatic duty, maybe—just maybe—they could manage to meet.