Winning Colors

Chapter Nineteen

“Patchcock? What are they doing on Patchcock?” Kevil Mahoney dropped the faceted paperweight and stared at Lord Thornbuckle.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Bunny stared out the window at a day that suddenly seemed less sunny. “It probably has something to do with the technical data on the rejuvenation drugs that they sent us . . . but it’ll take me hours to wade through that. And in the meantime—Patchcock! Of all places in the universe.”

“It’s not a good sign,” Kevil said. “Things have gone wrong with this from the beginning. D’you suppose Kemtre had this sort of feeling—that everything was suddenly coated with grease and slipping away in all directions?”

“I don’t know, but I do. First the financial ansibles in the distant sectors go offline for a few days, and then some crazy admiral demands authorization to take a whole wave on a live-fire maneuver out to the frontier, ‘just in case there’s trouble. . . .’ ”

“And you gave it,” Kevil reminded him.

“Well . . . they were already gone by the time it actually crossed my desk. And they claimed it involved Heris Serrano, that she was in some kind of trouble—”

“It’s probably George’s fault,” Kevil said. When Bunny looked confused, he said, “Not that, the Patchcock thing. Whatever you don’t want George to see, he sees. Whatever you hope he doesn’t know, he knows. Some evil instinct told him that there was one place we didn’t want our children to go, and he headed for it like a bee to its hive.”

“From the Guerni Republic?”

“I know, it’s unlikely. But so is George. I wish he’d realize what his talents are, and use them profitably. He—” Kevil broke off as Bunny’s desk chimed at them.

“Yes?” Bunny glared at the desk; he’d told Poisson that he didn’t want to be interrupted.

“A Marta Katerina Saenz, milord. Says she’s going to talk to you.”

“I’m—” But the door was opening already.

Raffa’s Aunt Marta had the dark, leathery face of someone who spent most of her days outside. On her, the coloring and features that made Raffa look like a Gypsy princess had matured into those of a wisewoman. She wore clothes that layered improbable color combinations to give an overall effect of archaic flamboyance. Bunny had never met her before, since she preferred to live in the mountains of her own planet, but he had no doubt who she was.

“Where is my niece?” she asked.

“You are naturally concerned,” Kevil began.

She gave him a look that stopped the words in his mouth. Bunny felt his own mouth going dry. “Don’t try your honey tongue on me, Kevil Mahoney,” she said. “You’ve the charm of a horse dealer, but I’m not buying. You sent Raffaele off somewhere, and now you’ve lost her. Isn’t that so?”

“She’s not exactly lost,” Bunny said, wondering why his collar suddenly felt so tight. He had aunts of his own, formidable aunts, whom he had learned to work with or around, as needs must. But this—“They’re on Patchcock,” he blurted, surprising himself. He had not meant to tell her.

“They . . .” she said, meditatively. “I presume Ronald Carruthers is one of ‘them.’ ”

“And my son George is the other. She should be safe enough—”

Her dark eyebrows rose alarmingly to the iron-gray hair above. “Did you not hear me before? Your son George, indeed. I’ve heard about your George.” Then, before Kevil could answer, she waved a hand. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Your son’s not a bad young man, and what I heard is years old by now. Just that he had a clever tongue in his head, inherited no doubt from you.”

“Quite,” Kevil said. Bunny glanced at him, glad to see the flush receding from his neck. Kevil’s profession required him to keep his temper, but no man was at his calmest with his son under fire.

“So—you sent Raffaele somewhere with Ronald and George—”

“Not precisely,” Bunny said. When cornered by an aunt of this caliber, the best plan was complete disclosure. “We sent Ronnie and George to—on a—to do something for us. And they didn’t report in—”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, this time with no softening. “And you sent Raffaele to rescue them? I suppose it made sense from your viewpoint.”

“Not exactly rescue. We wouldn’t—I mean, we assumed they’d just gotten . . . er . . . sidetracked, as it were.”

“And because Raffaele loved Ronald, she would seek him out as the stag seeks the doe—though it’s backwards in this case—and put them back on track?”

It sounded ridiculous, put like that, and he had realized how ridiculous weeks before. “Something like that,” he said, in a tone of voice that admitted the foolishness. She didn’t pursue that, but came back to the current problem.

“So now she’s on Patchcock, with Ronald and George, and—what’s wrong now?”

Kevil spoke up, his famous voice completely under control, its power blunted. “They didn’t know that Ottala Morreline disappeared there months ago, after disguising herself as a worker and infiltrating a workers’ organization. We are fairly sure she was found out, and killed. We hadn’t told them, because we didn’t have any idea they would suddenly hare off to Patchcock from the Guerni Republic—it’s hardly on the direct route.”

“Raffaele,” her aunt said, “always had a nose like a bloodhound. Give her a sniff of intrigue, and she would follow it through any amount of boring coverup.”

“Really?” Bunny asked. “I hadn’t known that.”

“She’s not your niece. And I’m not sure she knows it herself. But it’s one reason I asked her to start going through my files, to test my hypothesis. And sure enough, she discovered one little fiddle after another—spooked the accountants concerned, and delighted me. So if she headed for Patchcock from the Guerni Republic, then whatever you sent them there for is connected to Patchcock.”

“But it couldn’t be—unless—”

“You might as well explain,” Aunt Marta said, “because I’m not leaving until you do.” She looked about as moveable as a block of granite, and while technically they could call Security to haul her away, neither of them was willing to get in that much trouble.

“Let’s see,” Kevil said. “We have now involved five or six major families—”

“At least,” said Aunt Marta. “Don’t stop now.” She sounded dangerously cheerful.

Bunny shrugged. “All right. It’s the rejuvenation drugs. And others. Lorenza—” He paused to be sure she knew which Lorenza; she nodded. “—Lorenza had been dealing illegal neuroactive drugs through the upper crust, and we suspect she might have been involved in tampering with rejuvenation drugs. When we looked into it, our supplies are supposed to be manufactured in the Guerni Republic. But they’re shipped on a route that could allow the Compassionate Hand—whom we know Lorenza was working for—to get access to some or all of them.”

“Not healthy,” Aunt Marta commented. “I’m glad I manufacture my own.”

“You what?”

“Well, not personally. But if you think I’m going to put things into my body that have been manufactured by people who might be my enemies, think again. You know I have pharmaceuticals—”

“Yes, but you can’t—but no one in the Familias is licensed—”

“By the Familias. Don’t be stuffy, Bunny. We’re over near the border; I have a valid license from Guerni, and we manufacture a small supply. Enough for me and my people, and a small . . . er . . . export.”

“You smuggle,” Kevil said flatly. Her eyes went wide.

“Me? Smuggle? Surely you jest. I do international trade with the Guernesi, who the last time I heard weren’t enemies.”

Kevil opened his mouth and shut it again. Bunny would have been amused if he hadn’t been worried—he had never seen Kevil at a loss for words. Perhaps he didn’t have an aunt of his own, and wasn’t familiar with their unique abilities.

“I wish we’d known that,” Bunny said, hoping to regain control of the situation. It wouldn’t work, but he could try it. “We needed reference samples—that’s why we sent Ronnie and George. We could have simply asked you.”

“Assuming that my starting materials haven’t been adulterated. If I remember correctly, the starting materials come from several sources. Come to think of it, quite a bit used to come from Patchcock, before that unfortunate incident.”

“The Patchcock Incursion,” Bunny said, just to make sure they were talking about the same thing.

“Yes. Once the Morrelines took over, exports dropped; I assume the damage to the infrastructure limited production. And perhaps they found other markets; I don’t think I’ve seen quotes on their production when we’ve been in the market for materials.”

“That’s odd,” Bunny and Kevil said at the same time, and looked at each other. Raffa’s aunt looked thoughtful.

“You’re right. It’s been years—they should have everything back up to speed. The Morrelines have been gaining in the Index.” She blinked, and a slow grin spread across her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Raffa found out—where the materials are going.”

“If they were going to the Guerni Republic, why would she care?” Kevil drummed his fingers on the desk. “And besides, raw materials are raw materials. They may have found something else to make with the same starting material, something more profitable.”

“Than rejuvenating drugs? You jest.” Marta pursed her lips. “I hate to tell you this, if you don’t already know, but the profit margin is . . . ample. Quality control is a bitch—you have to have really good chemists keeping an eye on it, because the lazy ones keep thinking they’ve found a shortcut. The Guernesi warned me about that—there’s an alternate synthesis that looks good but is much more sensitive to minor variations in processing. I’ve had a research team on it for twenty years now, and we haven’t found a way to improve the Guernesi process.”

“So . . . you can’t think of anything more profitable to do with the substrate?”

“Not unless they’ve discovered an alchemical stone that lets them transmute it to whatever’s highest at market. No—if it’s being produced in the quantities it was, the only thing more profitable than selling to me and to the Guernesi would be vertical integration. Produce it themselves.”

“And Raffa could have figured that out.” It was not quite a question; Marta nodded.

“If not in detail, enough to follow the lead. Especially if the samples you provided gave the Guernesi any clue—isotopic analysis or something like that.”

“Are you a chemist?” Bunny asked bluntly. One did not usually inquire into the formal training of Family Chairholders, who were presumed to be broadly educated. But Marta seemed more comfortable with this than he had ever been with the food chemistry that underlay part of his family’s fortune.

She grinned. “As a matter of fact, yes. It was a way of avoiding something my parents wanted me to do, so I completed a doctorate. Then I did post-doc work at Sherwood Labs—not that it would interest you, the details. In the long run, it was more fun to be a rich dabbler with time for other interests than a full-bore researcher, though I may spend a rejuv or so going back to it someday.”

“It’s all very interesting,” Kevil said, “but we’ve got three young people headed into far more trouble than they anticipate, and I don’t see any way to warn them—or help them.”

“I shall go, of course,” Marta said. “It is, after all, my niece. And I understand the chemical side. But I shall need assistance.”

“Yes. Of course.” Bunny looked at Kevil, who looked back. Neither of them could leave.

“You won’t want to involve Fleet directly,” Marta said. “Not after what happened last time. But don’t you have a tame Fleet veteran—that woman Cecelia de Marktos hired? Raffa told me about her, how she helped with that mess on your planet—”

Bunny choked at the thought of anyone considering Heris Serrano “tame.” Still, it was a better idea than the nothing he’d had. If only Brun weren’t with her . . . he really didn’t want Brun on Patchcock, along with her old cronies. Rejuvenation would fix the gray hairs, but not the fatal heart attack he felt coming on.

“I suppose—yes. Possible. She’s a long way off, but we can signal—” If something else hadn’t happened to the ansibles, which had only been back up for a day; messages were backed up and only emergency traffic could get through with its usual speed.

“I will make my own way to Patchcock,” Marta said. “Rather than wait—it may take me longer anyway. You will contact this person?”

“Yes,” Bunny said, not letting himself think of the difficulties. “Yes, I will. And I’m—” He couldn’t think of the right word. Sorry to have dragged her niece into this? Sorry she found out before he got it fixed? Sorry that Kemtre had let this whole mess get started? “I’m glad you came,” he found himself saying, and meaning, to his own surprise.

“Secrecy,” Marta said, “is usually a bad idea.” Then she swept out, with a flourish of her cape.

“That,” said Kevil after a pause, “is a very dangerous woman. But did you ever see such bones?”

“Not my type,” Bunny said, with more caution than honesty. He opened his mouth to say more, but Poisson came in with an expression that meant trouble.

“It’s Fleet,” he said. Bunny froze inside, thinking mutiny, but the next words relieved him. “They’ve successfully fought a Benignity incursion—”

“Where?”

“Xavier. It’s a fairly isolated system out—”

“I know where it is,” Bunny said. “What happened?”

Poisson gave a crisp precis of the action as reported through Fleet channels. “All enemy ships destroyed, and a substantial reinforcement of Regular Space Service in place. And apparently there’s a personal message to you—from the admiral.”

Bunny took the cube with its encrypted recording, fitted it into the desk, and inserted the earplug. “Lord Thornbuckle,” a woman’s voice said. “This is Admiral Vida Serrano. I’m glad to be able to tell you that your daughter Brun is alive and well. So is Lady Cecelia de Marktos, whom I understand is a friend of yours. We need to confer at your earliest convenience. The Rockhouse Major Base Commandant can arrange a secure ansible link. Thank you.” Bunny pulled the plug from his ear and stared at Poisson.

“Had you heard this?”

“No, milord. It’s encrypted.”

“It’s—I need to speak to the Rockhouse Major base commander; please set up a tightlink for me.”

“At once,” Poisson said, and went out. Kevil raised his brows.

“Well?”

“Apparently Brun was in the middle of a battle for Xavier—which means that Cecelia and Heris Serrano were, too. And the admiral wants to speak to me . . . says we must talk. Brun’s on her ship, I gather. I don’t like that at all.”

“You have to do something,” Cecelia said. Heris had run out of things to say in answer; she just looked at Cecelia and waited. “You have to,” Cecelia went on. “Surely you care!”

“Of course I care,” Heris said. “But surely you see my problem. I can’t just leave—”

“Why not? You’re not in the military anymore. You’re a civilian; you assured me all that talk about a secret mission was just something you made up in an emergency. You can just walk away, take my—your—yacht, and go find out what’s wrong.”

“Lady Cecelia, it’s not that simple. I am . . . not free to go.”

“You mean you don’t want to. It’s more fun to play soldier—”

Heris’s temper snapped. “I was not playing, Lady Cecelia; people died, in battle and as a direct result of my actions. Whatever you think about the military, you personally and everyone you know on Xavier would be dead without us. If you want to talk playing, how about a grown woman so fixated on horses that she can’t tell a game from war?” The moment the words were out she would have snatched them back, but entropy prevailed. Cecelia glared, speechless . . . but only, Heris was sure, for a moment.

“If I could interrupt.” That was a voice more used to command than either of theirs. Heris glanced up and saw her aunt, Admiral Serrano, in the doorway. She started to stand, but the admiral waved her down. “At ease, Captain. I have things to say to both of you.” Cecelia had whirled, still angry and ready to attack, but Vida Serrano seemed not to notice as she came in and took the other chair across Heris’s desk. “Lady Cecelia,” she began, “I am glad to finally meet the person my niece so respected.”

Cecelia’s expression stiffened even more. “Not much respect, if you ask me.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not asking. I’m commenting on an observation anyone might make. Now—I understand you’ve had an upsetting communication from a relative on Patchcock. I was unaware that your family had interests there.”

“We don’t,” Cecelia said. Her face flushed unbecomingly as her anger shifted focus. “I have no idea what Ronnie is doing there, or why Raffa is with him—they had both agreed to her parents’ request that they avoid each other for a while. But I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

Admiral Serrano ran one hand over her short silver hair. “As the commander of this battle group, I have a natural interest in anyone trying to suborn one of my commanders—”

“Suborn!” said Cecelia.

“Commanders!” said Heris. Admiral Serrano’s lips twitched.

“The two of you are a well-matched pair. Lady Cecelia: by whatever means she obtained it, Captain Serrano now commands an R.S.S. cruiser. She commanded it in battle, against an enemy of the Familias trying to invade. Now that I’m here, and since I outrank her, I am in command—and she is one of my subordinates.”

“I see that,” Cecelia said irritably, “but she’s not really military anymore. She’s a civilian. She assured me—”

Admiral Serrano tilted her head slightly. Heris felt a pang of sympathy for Cecelia . . . everyone in the Fleet knew what that head tilt meant, the final pause before the prey was impaled. “Lady Cecelia, you tell me: if you put a cow’s horns on a horse and hung a placard with COW on it, would that make the horse into a cow?”

“Of course not!”

“Very good.” Admiral Serrano might have been praising a slow student in some class. “Captain Serrano was bred and trained as a military commander. She functioned as a military commander for twenty-odd years. Do you really think a couple of years running your yacht could change what she is?”

“But I like her,” Cecelia said. “And I don’t—”

“Like the military. Sorry about that. It’s always happening, you know—people who think they know what we’re like, and then actually meet one of us and discover we’re human.”

“You’re patronizing me,” Cecelia said. “I’m not as young as I look.”

Admiral Serrano laughed. “I know that. Regulations forbid us to wear them, but . . . I was one of the first multiple Rejuvenants in the Familias. I would have three rings. A volunteer to study the effects, in fact. I would bet our birthdays aren’t that far apart.”

“You look older,” Cecelia said.

“Admirals must have a certain maturity of presence,” Admiral Serrano said. “I chose to combine other therapies with my rejuvenations, so that I look old enough to scare young cadets, and can still outrun most field-grade officers.” Admiral Serrano waited to see if Cecelia would comment, but she didn’t. The admiral went on. “You should know that I, too, have had communications about Patchcock. Lord Thornbuckle is concerned about the situation there. He wanted Captain Serrano to take the yacht and find out what’s happening to the young people.”

“That’s what I said—she should go, and—”

“Lady Cecelia, I can’t leave without—”

The admiral raised her hand, a teacher to unruly children, and they both fell silent.

“You want her to go to Patchcock and she won’t; she correctly considers herself under orders . . . there’s a solution, you know.”

Heris realized what her aunt meant a long moment before Cecelia did. Cecelia looked up, startled. “You mean . . . you?”

Admiral Serrano shrugged. “I can order her—” She turned to Heris, “And you had better go, if I do.”

“If? Why if? Why not just do it?” Cecelia looked ready to leap out of her seat. Admiral Serrano turned to Heris.

“Captain—what would your orders be, if you were the admiral?”

“I wouldn’t send R.S.S. warships to Patchcock,” Heris said promptly. “It’s likely to make things worse.”

“So?”

“So . . . if I could insert a small, nonthreatening civilian ship, with some specialists to . . . find out what’s happened, rescue personnel if necessary—” If they weren’t already dead.

“Good choices. I was going to relieve you as captain of the Vigilance anyway—you don’t need to waste your time shepherding her to a repair dock. Despite is too big for this job, and too small for anything else. You’re not officially on the List, even if you are . . . mmm . . . tucked away in a corner of the database. I don’t have to notify anyone at Personnel about your transfer. Whom do you want on that yacht?”

“You want me to go on Sweet Delight?”

“It’s the right ship—small, fast, civilian, and full of specialists—or it will be when you select the right crew for this. Covert, remember.”

“Yes . . . sir.” Was this really an order? Would she really have the authority to pull out the crew she wanted?

“Actually this will simplify things for me,” the admiral went on. “I have some loose ends to tidy before you come back in the Regs—assuming that’s what you want—?” She looked at Heris, and nodded before Heris could get the words out. “Yes—I thought so. It’s almost time—this little chore will fit in nicely.”

“I’m coming,” Cecelia said, with a touch of defiance, as if she expected to be refused.

“Of course,” the admiral said. “It’s your ship and your nephew. Now about that girl—”

“She stays,” Lady Cecelia and Heris said together. The admiral raised her brows.

“That’s what her father said. What’s your reason?”

“She’s stretched her luck well past its elastic limit,” Heris said. “And she’s too valuable as a hostage. She’ll be happy enough here if you let her soak up practical matters from your specialists.”

“She already is,” Admiral Serrano said. “When her father wanted to speak to her, she was down in Environmental, learning to tear down a scrubber and fascinating the Chief at the same time. This afternoon, she was deep in the hull specifications for minesweepers. I hope I’ll still be in command of this wave when you’ve finished on Patchcock.” She didn’t sound worried. Heris suspected that she’d enjoy Brun as much as the young woman would enjoy a few weeks aboard the flagship.

“Well, then,” Cecelia said. “If that’s decided, I’ll go back to Sweet Delight. . . . I expect you two have a lot to talk about.” She nodded to Admiral Serrano; Heris called someone to escort her back to the other ship.

“We do need to talk,” Admiral Serrano said. “But this isn’t the best time. I’ll see you after Patchcock.”

“There’ll have to be a Board,” Heris murmured. The thought—the word—sent shivers down her spine.

“Of course.” Her aunt looked at her. “It worries you? It shouldn’t. There’s ample evidence—just in what you’ve sent me so far, and in what Suiza sent from Despite—to support your actions. Not even counting the battle itself. You’re in no danger, Heris, not this time. You’ve done well.” She paused, then went on. “You’re coming home, Heris. Back where you belong, back with those who love you.”

But did they? She could not doubt her aunt, not faced with the warmth in those eyes. But others . . . she would have to know why they had ignored her before. She kept herself busy the rest of that day, visiting the sickbay, arranging the change of command, choosing the crew to go with her in the yacht.

She was choosing the crew for Patchcock—the same familiar faces: Oblo, Meharry, Ginese, Koutsoudas, Petris. Petris. She looked at him with no less affection than before, yet it was different. How many days had it been . . . and she hadn’t missed that part, not really.

When all the transfers had been done, when she was back on the familiar (but tiny!) bridge of Sweet Delight, with the familiar crew around her and Lady Cecelia simmering in her suite like a kettle on the hearth, she realized that the trip to Patchcock would not be peaceful for one person at least.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, slipping into bed beside her. He was warm and smooth, the shape her hands had wanted without knowing it. And yet—even before Xavier, neither of them had taken up the many opportunities. She thought she knew what it meant for her; what did it mean for him?

“I’m just not comfortable aboard ship,” Heris said. She rolled her head sideways, facing what must be faced, but Petris merely looked thoughtful.

“I’m not either, if you want the truth of it. I love you; I loved you for years, and getting to be with you was wonderful. But—it doesn’t feel right aboard ship, and it’s not just the memory of those damnable cockroaches.” Heris began to chuckle helplessly, and in a moment his mouth quirked. “Really. I swear.”

“I know.” Her chuckles subsided. “But we do have a dilemma, especially if you feel the same way. I love you; I want to be around you. And I love being in space—”

“Me, too,” Petris said.

“But not in bed in space.” She frowned, hardly realizing it until his finger began smoothing her forehead.

“We are grown-ups,” Petris said. “We can take our pleasures serially instead of binging. It’s fine with me if we put this part of our life aside when we’re aboard. For one thing, we won’t be waiting for some crisis to interrupt.”

“Thank you,” Heris said. She sighed.

“I almost wish—” Petris stopped that with a sudden lurch. “Sorry. Nothing.”

“Wish what?” Heris pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him. The sight of his brows, pulled together in a knot of concentration, almost undid the previous agreement.

“Nothing we can change. Not about you, is what I mean.”

“Petris!”

“It’s just—we don’t have anything to do. This little ship is a beauty, and it was fun fitting her out with some decent equipment and weaponry, but—we don’t get to do anything with it. Vigilance, now—while I was scared out of my skull shift—and-shift, I felt needed. Competent.”

“I know.” Heris rolled all the way over and buried her chin in the mat of black hair on his chest. “And that’s why I’m going back in, Petris. And I want you to come back too.”

“I thought so.” He took a deep breath that lifted her head to an uncomfortable angle. “Then we can’t—”

“Yes. We can. We’re not going to waste what we do have. Either you’ll end up with a commission from all this, or we’ll simply use common sense—confine it to times we aren’t aboard.”

“Is that an order, ma’am?” he asked.

“Sir,” she corrected, and set about undoing the pact they had just made.

Later, before they were quite asleep, Petris said, “Lady Cecelia would have made a good admiral.”

“Mmm. I’m not sure. She might have been booted out down the line; she’s got a difficult streak.”

“And you don’t?” He tickled her extensively, but nothing came of it then but giggles. Finally Heris batted his hand away.

“I admit it; I’m difficult too. But my difficultness is the kind Fleet recognizes and knows how to deal with. And so’s yours. And we will work it out—for all of us—and that’s a promise.”

“Fine with me,” Petris said. “I trust you.” She lay awake longer than he, stricken again by the weight of all those who trusted her.