Winning Colors

Chapter Two

Uncertain, Heris thought as she closed her end of the secured comlink, was a mild term for the swiftly unraveling tangle of political yarn that had so recently seemed to be a stable web of interlocking interests. All her life—for many hundreds of Standard years—the Familias Regnant had had its Grand Council, and commerce had passed between its worlds and stations as if no other way existed. She knew of course that other ways did—that Familias space was surrounded by other ways of doing things, from the cold efficiency of the Compassionate Hand to the berserker brigandry of Aethar’s World. But aside from those whose business it was to keep the borders safe and enforce the laws, most of the Familias worlds and the people on them had behaved as if nothing but fashion would ever change.

And now it had. With the king’s resignation, with Lorenza’s flight, the founding families looked at each other with far more suspicion than trust. If the king had poisoned his own sons—or if Lorenza had done it for him—if she had attacked the powerful de Marktos family through Cecelia—then who else might have been her target? Her allies? Those who had used her services through the decades tried to cover their tracks, and others worked to uncover them.

What bothered Heris the most, in all this, was the civilians’ innocent assumption that “the Fleet” would never let anything bad happen. She had heard it from one and then another—no need to worry about Centrum Rose; the Fleet will see that they stay in the alliance. No need to worry about the Benignity attacking; the Fleet will protect us. Yet she knew—and Bunny should have known—that the Fleet itself was suspect. Lorenza hadn’t been the only rat in the woodpile. Admiral Lepescu and whoever cooperated with him . . .

But she could not solve everything, not all at once. She had other work to do before Cecelia came aboard the yacht.

Her personal stack had a message from Arash Livadhi. Now what, she thought. It had been a long enough day already, and she had hoped Petris would get back in time for some extended dalliance. She called Arash.

“How are things going?” he asked brightly, as if she had initiated the contact.

“Fine with me . . . and you?”

“Oh, very well, very well. It’s been an interesting few weeks, of course.”

So it had, with rumors of entire squadrons of Fleet in mutiny. With one cryptic message from her grandmother, and a very uncryptic message from the cousin who had always hated her.

“Yes,” said Heris, drumming her fingers on her desk. “I had a message that you called,” she said finally, when the silence had gone on too long.

“Oh. Yes. That. I just . . . I just wondered if you’d like to have dinner sometime. Tonight maybe? There’s a new band at Salieri’s.”

“Sorry,” Heris said, not really sorry at all. “There’s ship’s business to deal with.” Certainly the captain’s relationship with the First Engineer was ship’s business.

“Oh . . . ah . . . another time? Maybe tomorrow?”

Tone and expression both suggested urgency. What was he up to? Heris opened her mouth to tell him to come clean, then remembered the doubtful security of their link. “I . . . should be free then. Why not? What time?”

“Whatever’s best for you . . . maybe mid-second shift?” An odd way of giving a time, for either a civilian or a Fleet officer. Heris nodded at the screen, and hoped she could figure out later what kind of signal he was giving her.

“Mid-second indeed. Meet you there?”

“Why not at the shuttle bay concourse? You shouldn’t have to dash halfway across the Station by yourself.” Odder and odder. Arash had never minded having his dates use up their own resources. Heris entered the time and place in her desktop calendar and grinned at him.

“It’s in my beeper. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes . . .” He seemed poised to say more, then sighed and said “Tomorrow, then” instead.

“There’s a little problem,” Arash Livadhi said. He had been waiting when Heris reached the shuttle docks concourse; he wore his uniform with his old dash and attracted more than one admiring glance. Heris wanted to tell the oglers how futile their efforts were, but knew better. Now he walked beside her as courteously as a knight of legend escorting his lady. It made Heris nervous. “Nothing major, just a bit . . . awkward.”

“And awkward problem solving is a civilian specialty? Come on, Arash, you have some of the best finaglers in Fleet on your ship.”

“It’s not that kind of thing, exactly.”

“Well what, exactly?”

“It’s something you’d be much better at . . . you know you have a talent—”

She knew when she was being conned. “Arash, I’m hungry, and you’ve promised me a good meal . . . at least wait until I’m softened up before you start trying to put your hooks in.”

“Me?” But that wide-eyed look was meant to be seen through. He grinned at her; it no longer put shivers down her spine, but she had to admit the charm. “Greedy lady . . . and yes, I did agree to feed you. Salieri’s is still acceptable?”

“Entirely.” Expensive and good food, a combination rarer than one might suppose. And whatever Arash thought he was getting from her, it would not include anything more than a dinner companion . . . she wondered if he had any idea of her present situation with Petris. Probably not, and better that he live in blissful ignorance.

Salieri’s midway through the second shift had a line out to the concourse, but Arash led her past it. “We have reservations,” he said. Sure enough, at his murmur the gold-robed flunky at the door let them pass. Heris felt her spirits lift in the scarlet and gold flamboyance of the main foyer, with the sweet strains of the lilting waltz played by a live orchestra in the main dining room. Whatever Arash wanted, this would be fun.

Two hours later, after a lavish meal, he got down to it. “You do owe me a favor, you know,” he said.

“True. That and a fat bank account will get you a dinner at Salieri’s.”

“Hardhearted woman. I suppose even civilian life couldn’t soften your head.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Captain Livadhi. What’s your problem?”

“You mentioned my illustrious crew. My . . . er . . . talented finaglers.”

Heris felt her eyebrows going up. “So I did. So they are. What else?”

Livadhi leaned closer. “There’s someone I need to get off my ship. Quickly. I was hoping—”

“What’s he done?” Heris asked.

“It’s not so much that,” Livadhi said. “More like something he didn’t do, and he needs to spend some time out of contact with Fleet Command.”

“Or he’ll drag you down with him?” Heris suggested, from a long knowledge of Livadhi. She was not surprised to see the sudden sheen of perspiration on his brow, even in the dim light of their alcove.

“Something like that,” he admitted. “It’s related to the matter you and I were involved in, but I really don’t want to discuss it in detail.”

“But you want me to spirit him away for a while, without knowing diddly about him?”

“Not . . . in detail.” He gave her a look that had melted several generations of female officers; she simply smiled and shook her head.

“Not without enough detail to keep my head off the block. How do I know that you aren’t being pressured to slip an assassin aboard to get rid of Lady Cecelia? Or me?”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said. In the pause that followed, she could almost see him trying on various stories to see which she might accept. As he opened his mouth, she spoke first.

“The truth, Livadhi.” To her satisfaction, he flushed and looked away.

“The truth is . . . it’s not like that; it’s not an assassin. It’s my best communications tech, who’s heard what he shouldn’t have, and needs a new berth. He’s a danger to himself, and to the ship, where he is.”

“On my ship,” said Heris. “With my friends . . . are you sure no one’s put you up to this to land trouble on me?” This time his flush was anger.

“On my honor,” he said stiffly. Which meant that much was true; the Livadhis, crooked as corkscrews in some ways, had never directly given the lie while on their honor. She knew that; he knew she knew that.

“All right,” she said. “But if he gives me the wrong kind of trouble, he’s dead.”

“Agreed. Thank you.” From the real gratitude in his voice she knew the size of the trouble his man was in. Then what he’d said earlier caught up with her. Communications tech . . . best? That had to be . . .

“Koutsoudas?” she asked, trying to keep her face still. He just grinned at her, and nodded. “Good heavens, Arash, what is the problem?”

“I can’t say. Please. He may tell you, if he wants—I don’t think it’s a good idea, but the situation may change, and I trust his judgment. Just take care of him. If you can.”

“Oh, I think we’re capable of that. When do you want him back?”

“Not until things settle down. I’ll get word to you, shall I?” Then, before she could say anything, he added, “Well, that’s all taken care of . . . would you like to dance?” The orchestra had just launched into another waltz. Heris thought about it. Arash had been a good dancing partner in the old days, but in the meantime she’d danced with Petris at the Hunt Ball.

“No, thank you,” she said, smiling at the memory. “I had better get back to work. When shall I expect . . . er . . . your package?”

Arash winced. “Efficient as ever. Or have I lost the touch?”

“I don’t think so,” Heris said. “You just put the touch on me, if you think about it that way, and I do. But my owner isn’t thrilled with the number of ex-military crew we have now, and she’s going to have kittens—or, in her case, colts—when she finds out about this. I have some preliminary groundwork to do.”

“Ah. Well, then, allow me to escort you at least to the concourse.”

“Better not.” Heris had been thinking. “This was a very public meeting, and I can understand your reasoning. But why let whomever is interested think you might have convinced me of whatever it is you were after?”

“I thought an open quarrel would be too obvious,” Livadhi said. “If we were simply courteous—”

Heris grinned at him. “I am always courteous, Commander, as you well know. Even in a quarrel.”

“Ouch. Well, then, since I can’t persuade you—” He rose politely, with a certain stiffness, and she nodded. An observant waiter came to her chair, and although they walked out together, they were clearly not a couple.

In the anteroom, she said, “I’m sorry, Commander, but things have changed. It’s not just being a civilian . . . I have other . . . commitments. I’m sure you’ll understand. It’s not wise, at times like these . . .”

“But—”

“I can find my way, Commander. Best wishes, of course.” Watching eyes could not have missed that cool, formal, and very unfriendly parting.

The newly refurbished yacht Sweet Delight lay one final shift cycle in the Spacenhance docks, as Heris Serrano inspected every millimeter of its interior. Forest green carpet soft underfoot . . . she tried not to think of its origin, nor that of the crisp green/blue/white paisley-patterned wall covering in the dining salon. At least the ship didn’t smell like cockroaches anymore. The galley and pantries, left in gleaming white and steel by Lady Cecelia’s command, had no odd odors. In the recreation section, everything looked perfect: the swimming pool with its new screen programs . . . Heris flicked through them to be sure the night sky had been removed. Lady Cecelia didn’t want any sudden darkness to remind her of the months of blindness she’d endured. The massage lounger had its new upholstery; the riding simulator had a new saddle and a whole set of new training cubes, including the two most recent Wherrin Trials recordings.

The crew quarters, while not quite as luxurious as the owner’s section, had more amenities than crews could expect anywhere else. Heris’s own suite reflected a new comfort with her civilian status; she had installed a larger bed, a comfortable upholstered chair, and chosen more colorful appointments. Down in the holds, she checked for any leftover debris from the renovation. She had already found a narrow triangle of wall covering and two odd-shaped bits of carpet.

“Heris!” That had to be Lady Cecelia herself. Heris grinned and backed out of the number three hold. Cecelia would want to see for herself that every single cockroach cage had been removed.

“Coming,” she called. But the quick footsteps didn’t wait for her to get back to the owner’s territory. Cecelia’s rejuvenation had left her with more energy than she could contain; here she was, striding down the corridor at top speed.

“Did you know about this?” Cecelia waved a hardcopy at her; she had bright patches of color on her cheeks and her short red hair seemed to be standing on end.

“What?” Heris couldn’t tell what it was, although the blue cover suggested a legal document. Whatever it was had made the owner furious, and Lady Cecelia furious made most people move quickly out of her way. Heris, secure in her status as captain and friend, stood her ground.

“This court decision.” The blue-gray eyes bored into hers.

“Court decision? On your competency?” Of course the court would restore full competency to Cecelia; it would be crazy to pretend that this individual was anything but competent.

“No—on the yacht.”

For a moment Heris was completely confused. “No—what about it?”

Cecelia bit off each word as if it tasted foul. “The court has decided against the petition of my family to set aside that portion of my will which left you the yacht. Therefore, the yacht belongs to you.” Heris stared at her.

“That’s . . . ridiculous. You’re not comatose; you’re competent. That reverses all the bequests—you told me that—”

“Yes . . . it does. It would have, that is, if that idiot Berenice and her fatheaded husband hadn’t quarreled with my will and involved the court directly in that instance. Because the matter came under separate adjudication—don’t you love this verbiage?—the court’s decision is final, and not reversed by my regaining competence. And the court decided in your favor, thank goodness, or otherwise it would’ve been Berenice’s. It’s your yacht.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.” Heris raked a hand through her dark hair. She had not even thought about the bequest or the court’s decision since Cecelia had been declared competent. “I can’t—what am I supposed to do with a yacht—or you, without one?” She came to the obvious decision. “I won’t take it. I’ll give it back to you.”

“You can’t give it back. Not unless you’re willing to pay the penalty tax—it’s within the legal limit for a bequest, but not a gift.”

“Oh . . . dear.” She had no idea what that tax would be, but her own affairs were somewhat confused at the moment, thanks to the abrupt changes in the government. She didn’t know if she had enough to pay the tax or not.

“It’s not so bad,” Cecelia said. Now that she’d blown her stack, she had calmed back down, and leaned comfortably against the bulkhead. “I suppose you’ll run it as a charter, and I suppose you’ll let me charter it.”

“Of course, if that’s what it takes, but—what a mess.” Still, she felt a little jolt of delight at the base of her brain. Her own ship. Not even a Fleet captain owned a ship outright. She fought back unseemly glee with little struggle when she realized the other implications of ownership. Docking fees. Repairs. Crew salaries. All her responsibility now.

Cecelia’s expression suggested she had already thought of these things and was enjoying Heris’s realization. “Don’t worry,” she said, after a moment in which Heris was trying to remember the last time the crew had been paid, and how much was due. “I’ll pay generously. I’ll supply my own staff, cook, gardener. . . .”

“Er . . . just so.” And there were bound to be legalities associated with running a charter, too. Heris had no idea what kind of contractual agreement owners needed with those who hired them. What permits she might need from whatever government bureaus were still grinding out the daily quota of paperwork.

“Kevil Mahoney,” Cecelia said, with a wicked grin, as if she really could read minds. “He can tell you where to go for legal advice, if you don’t want the same person who argued your case for the bequest.”

“Thanks,” Heris said. “It would have been so much easier—”

“I know. And I don’t blame you for fighting back when my family acted like such idiots. It’s not your fault, though I was mad enough to grind you into powder too. Just when I’d gotten her back to a decent look, instead of that lavender and teal abomination. Berenice will pay for this.” She glowered. “I’ve filed suit against them, and I intend to make up every fee they cost me.”

“I’m sorry,” Heris said again, this time for the trouble between Cecelia and her family. “It’s just that I thought if I had the ship, I could help you.”

“And you did. And don’t lie to me, Heris Serrano. I may be rejuvenated, but I didn’t lose eighty years of experience. One second after you were appalled, you were delighted. You’ve always wanted your own ship.”

Heris felt herself flushing. “Yes. I did. And I tried to fight it down.”

“Don’t.” Her employer—still her employer, even though the terms would be different now—gave her a wicked grin. She had found Lady Cecelia de Marktos to be formidable enough as an unrejuvenant . . . clearly, that had been the mellow form. “Nobody knows what the government’s going to do, now; Bunny seems to be running things with the same bureaucrats—except for poor Piercy. I don’t myself think it was Piercy’s fault, but everyone’s afraid he was in it with Lorenza.”

Surprising tolerance from someone who had been Lorenza’s helpless victim, for someone planning to sue her family . . . family that had, however ineptly, tried to protect her interests. This was no time to argue, though. Heris looked away, and spotted another bit of scrap from the renovation.

“I don’t hate Piercy,” Cecelia said. “I don’t even hate Lorenza, although if she stood in front of me I would kill her without a second thought, as I would kill anyone that vile. I do hate to think of her running around loose somewhere.”

“I don’t think she is,” Heris said, glad to change the subject from the yacht. “A few of my crew—” Oblo, Meharry, Petris, and Sirkin, though she didn’t intend to mention names where anyone might have left a sensor. “—had a bone to pick with the individual who gave the orders that led to Yrilan’s death. The . . . er . . . remaining biological contaminants were salted into her quarters. In the ensuing investigation, it was discovered that she had a very efficient lethal chamber built into her counseling booths—”

“I didn’t hear about this—”

“Station Security didn’t allow it to be newsed. They thought it would cause panic, and they were probably right. Just the discovery of that many illicit biologicals could panic Station dwellers. Anyway, they also found items the lady could not account for, which apparently match with jewels known to the insurance databases as Lorenza’s.”

“And you found out because—?”

“I found out because I have the best damn datatech in or out of Fleet, milady, and that’s all I’ll say here and now.”

“Ah. Then suppose you come to my suite—if you still consider it my suite—and we’ll decide where your ship is headed, and whether I want to tag along.”

Cecelia’s furniture had been reinstalled, and they settled into her study. Cecelia looked around nodding. “I do like the effect of that striped brocade with the green carpet,” she said finally. “Although I’m not sure about the solarium yet.”

“I thought you were going to restock it with miniatures,” Heris said.

“I was—but I keep thinking that I could go back to riding—” She meant competition, Heris understood, just as she herself would have meant “the Fleet” if she’d said “return to space.”

“I like the ferns,” Heris said, watching the miniature waterfall in the solarium; she preferred falling water to any sort of fake wildlife.

“One thing I will insist on, if you’re to have me for a passenger, is a crew no more than half ex-military.” Cecelia leaned back in her chair, with an expression that made it clear she meant what she’d said.

Heris bit back the first thing she could have said, took a deep breath, and asked, “Why?” Skoterin, probably, but surely Cecelia ought to realize that Skoterin had been more than balanced by that crew of civilian layabouts and incompetents she’d had before. This didn’t surprise her, but she’d hoped Cecelia would be less blunt about it.

“Not just Skoterin,” Cecelia said, as if she’d read Heris’s mind. “I know you can argue that my original civilian crew was just as full of lethal mistakes. Of course not all ex-military are crooks or traitors, nor are all civilians honest and hardworking. But what bothered me was your inability to see past the distinction yourself. You had had superb performance from that girl Sirkin all through the earlier trouble; you had been so happy with her. And you were willing to believe that she went bad when even I, isolated as I then was, could spot sabotage.”

Heris nodded slowly. “You’re right; I did make a mistake—”

“Not a mistake, my dear: a whole series of them. You misjudged her not once but repeatedly. That’s my point. You have a pattern, understandable but indefensible, of believing that the military is more loyal, more honorable, than most civilians. You even told me that Sirkin was ‘as good as Fleet’ more than once. And your inability to see past that pattern nearly got us all killed.” She grinned, as if to take the sting out of it. It didn’t work. “I’m doing this for your own good, Heris—as one of my early riding instructors used to say when making us post without stirrups by the hour. You have chosen to live in a civilian world; you must learn how to trust those of us who can be trusted, and recognize deceit even in former shipmates.”

“And you think the way to do this is to hire civilians.” That came out flat, with an edge of sarcasm. She didn’t like that “chose to live in a civilian world.” If there’d been any other way . . .

“I think the way to do it is to admit what went wrong and work on correcting it. Isn’t that what you would do if an admiral pointed out a characteristic error?”

Heris wanted to say that Cecelia was no admiral, but she had to admit the logic of Cecelia’s argument. She had mistaken the cause of Sirkin’s problem; she had not even looked for sabotage, not seriously. “I don’t want to fire any of our present crew,” she began, crossing mental fingers as she told herself that Koutsoudas, not yet aboard, still counted as “present crew.”

“No need. Just hire civilians for a while. Like Brun.” Heris almost glared. Had she set this up with Bunny, as much to force a civilian crew on Heris as to help Brun? Cecelia smiled at her. “I’m sure you can find others, perhaps not as good as Sirkin, but good enough. Think of recruits, if you must, rather than the trained people you had. Surely there were good and bad recruits.”

“Oh yes.” Heris chuckled in spite of herself, remembering a miserable tour as an officer in charge of basic training. She had hated it, and she hadn’t been very good at it. Of course there had been bad recruits—Zitler, for instance, who had come into the Fleet convinced that he could make a fortune manufacturing illicit drugs aboard ship. Or the skinny girl from some mining colony who had gotten all the way through medical screening without anyone noticing she had parasites.

“There you are, then,” Cecelia said. “It’s just a matter of overcoming your biases.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Heris, with enough emphasis that Cecelia should know when to quit. She hoped. It was unnerving to see all those years of experience in the bright eyes across from her. She began to understand why Cecelia had been reluctant to have rejuv treatments before.

“I don’t see why it makes the least difference,” Ronnie said, into Raffaele’s dark hair. “I didn’t go along with my family; you know that. I’m the one who got Aunt Cecelia out of that nursing home. Why should your parents take it out on me?”

“They’re not taking it out on you,” Raffaele said. “They’re pulling their investments out of your parents’ operations, and they don’t think that’s a good time to discuss marriage settlements.”

“But will they come around later?” He didn’t want later; he wanted right this minute. But with Raffaele, pressure wouldn’t work.

“I don’t know, Ron. They’re seriously annoyed with your parents, and they don’t see your prospects improving any time soon. They think you’ll be under a cloud politically—”

“Hang politics!” Ronnie said. “I have enough; you have enough; we could go off somewhere and just live—”

“But you have a Seat in Council now—”

“As long as that lasts,” Ronnie said under his breath. While daily life seemed to be unchanged, the political structure had shifted back and forth dramatically in the past few weeks.

“They don’t want trouble between us because you’re voting your family stock, and your Seat, and they’re voting against you. And don’t say it wouldn’t cause trouble, because look how angry you are now.”

Unfair. He wasn’t angry because they’d voted against him in Council; he was angry because they didn’t want Raffa to marry him because he might be upset later if they voted against him. That was too complicated; he fell back on the obvious. “I love you, Raffa,” Ronnie said.

“I know. And I love you. But we are both wound up in our families and their rivalries, and I can’t see either of us pulling something dramatic and stagey.” With her hair in a neat braid behind, and a tailored soft tunic over the blouse and slacks, she looked entirely too rational.

“Brun did,” Ronnie said. He could imagine himself running off with Raffa . . . he thought . . . but then again he wanted to have his usual credit line, his usual communications links. . . .

“Brun is a law unto herself,” Raffa said. “Even as a fluffhead, she was, and now—we aren’t like Brun, either of us. We were born to be respectable.”

“We did have one adventure,” Ronnie said, almost wistfully. He didn’t like thinking of most of their time on the island, but finding Raffa and being comforted . . . that he could live with.

“And we’ll have each other later, or we won’t, and we’ll survive either way. Be reasonable, Ronnie: you got your aunt out of the building, but it was Brun who thought up the hot air balloon. Neither of us could have been that crazy.”

True, but he wanted to be crazy enough to live with Raffa the rest of his life, starting this moment. He started to say he’d wait for her forever, but he knew she might not. And he might not either, really. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Nor I.” For a moment she clung to him with all the passion he desired, then she pushed herself away and was gone, her light footsteps barely audible on the carpeted hall.

“Damn!” Ronnie wanted to kick the wall, as he would have before the island. He really hated it when she was right. Then he thought who might be able to help. If only he could make her understand how important it was.

Cecelia looked up from her desk to see her nephew standing in the doorway. “Ronnie—I’m delighted to see you. I’d hoped you’d come before we left.”

He didn’t answer, just gave her a sickly smile.

“What? I already thanked you for getting me out of that place—and if you don’t think I mean it, just take a look at your stock accounts.”

“It’s not that, Aunt Cecelia—and I wish you hadn’t done that, really.”

The boy didn’t want money? That was new; that was unbelievable. She looked more closely. The wavy chestnut hair looked dull; he had lavender smudges under his hazel eyes, and a skin tone that would have made her think “hangover” if he hadn’t been so obviously sober and miserable.

“What, then?” she asked, without much sympathy. She’d fixed him once; he was supposed to stay fixed; she couldn’t provide deadly danger every time he needed pepping up.

He slouched into her room as if his backbone were overcooked asparagus, and slumped into one of her favorite leather chairs. “It’s Raffaele,” he said.

Of course. Young love. She’d been glad he wasn’t still involved with Brun, since that young lady was in no mood for romance, but she’d approved of Raffa. Moreover, she’d thought the girl had more sense than to jilt Ronnie. He wasn’t bad, and Raffa was just the sort of girl to keep him in line.

“What did you do?” she asked. It must have been something he did; perhaps he’d had another fling with theatrical personalities.

“Nothing,” Ronnie said. His tone held all the bitterness of disillusioned youth. “But my parents did plenty, and her parents told her to break it off.”

“Because of—”

“Because of you.” He shook his head to stop the protest already halfway out her mouth. “I know—you’ve got every right to be angry with them—” She had more than a right, she had very viable suits in progress. “But the thing is, Raffa’s parents don’t want the families involved right now.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Cecelia said. “They shouldn’t blame you if I don’t.”

“She says they do.”

“And you’re sure it’s not that she’s found someone else?”

“Yes. I’m sure. She said . . . she said she loves me. But—she won’t cross them.”

“Idiot.” Cecelia opened her mouth to say more, and then realized the other implications, the ones Ronnie hadn’t yet seen. Her suits imperiled the holdings of Ronnie’s parents—his guarantees of future income—and might imperil any financial settlements made in the course of betrothal, exchange of assets being the normal complement to marriage. And Raffa, the levelheaded Raffa that she considered strong-minded enough to keep Ronnie in check, would not tangle her family in any such trouble either. It all made perfectly good sense, and Cecelia found herself doubly angry that the good sense could not be denied.

“She’s not, really,” Ronnie said. “She’s just loyal, that’s all.” Greedy, thought Cecelia. Carrying prudence to a ridiculous degree—the girl had money enough of her own; she was of age, she could make her own decisions. As Ronnie went on making Raffa’s arguments, as a true lover would, Cecelia found herself countering them, in the courtroom behind her eyes. Ronnie’s final declaration caught her off-balance; she’d been imagining herself as the judge, looming over Raffa as incompetent counsel. “So,” he was saying, “I thought if I could do something to prove myself . . . and maybe you would let me come along. . . .”

“No!” Cecelia said, even before her mind caught up with what he had actually said. Then more mildly: “No, Ronnie, though you are my favorite nephew and I owe you my life. This is not the place for you.”

“But I thought if Raffa’s parents knew I was with you, it would change their minds—”

“No, dear.” The dear slipped out and shocked her. She never called any of her relatives dear; had the Guernesi done something to her mind during rejuvenation? The memory of those lawsuits reassured her: she hadn’t softened. Not really. “It won’t work because you’d still be seen as a boy with a patron. You need them to see you as a man, an independent man with his own property, his own assets.” He looked at her as if he had never thought of that. Perhaps he hadn’t. He was, after all, some sixty years younger.

“Then what can I do?” he asked. Cecelia wished for a moment she had been a more conventional aunt. He would not have consulted a more conventional aunt; he would have found someone outrageous, someone who had never been married, or wanted to be, and she could have clucked from the sidelines. She felt like clucking now. Grow up, she wanted to say. Just do something, she wanted to say. But there he was, born charming and even more so with this new and genuine worry upon him. She wanted to smack him, and she wanted to cuddle him, and neither would do any good.

When in doubt, call in the experts. “You might go talk to Captain Serrano,” she said. She didn’t expect him to agree, but his face lit up.

“Great idea,” he said. “Thanks—I will.” And he bounced up, suddenly vibrant and eager again. She watched him stride out, with the spring in his step and the sparkle in his eye, and wondered at herself. Rejuvenation was supposed to rejuvenate everything; she had herself made the usual jokes about those of her friends who suddenly acquired young companions. But Ronnie did nothing for her, and she knew it wasn’t because he was her nephew. She just didn’t feel like it.

“Not that I was ever ridden by that torment much,” she muttered, as she ran over the shopping lists on her deskcomp again. She had been too busy, and too aware of the power such a passion would have over her schedule, if nothing else.

Heris saw not the spoiled brat she’d once despised but the handsome, bright young man who had become what she thought of as officer material. “Aunt Cecelia said you might be able to help me,” he said.

“If I can, of course,” she said, wondering if this was Cecelia’s obscure vengeance for Arash’s favor.

“It’s about Raffaele,” he began, and outlined his problem.

Heris recognized the implications as Cecelia had, but unlike her saw no reason not to tell Ronnie about them. She still thought of him as “young officer material,” which put her in the teaching role. She led him through the relevant financial bits, and watched his dismay growing.

“But—but Raffa isn’t that greedy,” Ronnie said at the end.

“I don’t know that I’d call it greedy.” Heris steepled her hands. “But you’re both Registered Embryos, remember? Smart, educated, trained from birth to consider the welfare of the family as a whole. I don’t think it has anything to do with wanting more things than you could give her; I think it has to do with conflicting loyalties.”

“But if she loves—”

Hormones, thought Heris. “Ronnie, think: would you have married that opera singer?”

She could see “What opera singer?” forming on his forehead, until his memory caught up. “Oh—her. No, of course not. She was nothing like Raffa.”

“Why not? You were besotted with her at the time, I gather. Loved her, didn’t you?”

“Oh, but that was—it was different. She’d never have done for a wife.”

“And why? Was she personally disgusting in some way? Lacking manners? Stupid?”

“No . . . no, it wasn’t anything like that. But—she wouldn’t have been a good match . . . for the family. . . .” Finally, he was catching on.

“Whether you really loved her or not—you can imagine someone you did really love, that wouldn’t be right because it would hurt the family. Right?”

“Right.” Now he sounded glum and sulky.

“Ronnie, this isn’t an age in which anyone gives much for romantic love. If it happens that you fall for someone of the right class, at the right time, then fine. But most people don’t. Petris and I served on the same ships and never allowed ourselves to notice that we loved each other: it would have been bad for the ship. Grown-ups have values outside their own skins.”

“And you’re saying I’m not a grown-up yet?”

“No. You are—you’ve grown a lot in the time I’ve known you, and frankly you’ve surprised me. But this last lingering bit of adolescence is hanging on, right where it usually does.”

He gave a rueful laugh. “I suppose you think I’m silly.”

“Not at all. Nor do I think your situation with Raffa will last forever, especially not if you set out to change it.”

“How?”

Heris was tempted to say, You’re a grown-up; you figure it out, but she had never seen Ronnie as a master of strategy. Brave, yes. Bright enough in limited circumstances, yes. But not a strategist. “Two things. You either need to change the overall situation so that your parents’ quarrel with your aunt no longer imperils your inheritance and your parents’ political and economic allies, or you need to change your situation in relation to your parents. Ideally, both.”

“Both! That’s impossible.” Ronnie began to stride around the small office, exactly like a nervous colt in a small box stall. Heris expected him to bump his nose into a wall and rear at any moment. “I can’t make Aunt Cecelia change her mind; nobody’s ever made Aunt Cecelia change her mind. And I can’t make my parents be someone else. Not unless I repudiate them and change my name or something. How will disinheriting myself help convince Raffa?”

Just as she’d thought, no strategic sense at all. “Ronnie, look at what you’ve told me you want. You want to marry Raffa, but I assume this means you also want a long, happy, profitable life and you don’t want to harm either her family or yours.”

“Well . . . yes.”

“You also want the best for your Aunt Cecelia, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I can’t do all that at once.”

“Not if you don’t look at it. You know my background; well, a consistent mistake I’ve seen commanders make is defining the mission too narrowly. Did you ever study the Patchcock Incursion in the Royals?”

“Uh . . . yes. It got kind of complicated. . . .”

“It was complicated from the beginning, and an oversimplified mission statement made it worse. Military commanders like to see neat, tidy problems . . . well, I suppose everyone does. The dog is howling: shoot the dog. The contract colonists are rioting: shoot the colonists. The contract corporation reneged on its contract to provide medical services: shoot the corporation CEO. The Council told Fleet Command they wanted no more rioting on Patchcock. They didn’t tell Fleet Command that a two-month interruption in shipments of ore would bankrupt Gleisco Metals, with cascading effects through its parent corporation into half a dozen Chairholders. They didn’t tell Fleet that a two-month interruption in ore shipments would mean cutting off the food supply not only to Patchcock but also to Derrien and Slidell. They didn’t tell Fleet that Gleisco Metals had refused to provide services agreed on, and then altered the contracts to reflect that. So Fleet went in to sit on some malcontents, and ended up responsible for the deaths by starvation of several thousand people, the deaths by direct action of thousands more, and—if you care to look at it that way, which the then king did, the suicides of eighteen members of high-ranking families, including five of the six Chairholders most closely connected to Gleisco. The other one was murdered by his own sister.”

“I didn’t know all that,” Ronnie said. He looked very uncomfortable. “They told us about it as an example of a commander losing control of troops in a battlefield situation.”

“Hushed it up,” Heris said. “I thought they might have done it, even after the trials at the time.” She grinned, without humor. Her family had been involved in that one, too. “My point is that if you want something to happen, you must specify that something with great care and as much completeness as possible. Then, and only then, can you devise a strategy to accomplish what you really want—all of it—and not some little bit that turns out to be meaningless when everything else falls apart.”

He didn’t answer at once, a good sign. When the silence had become uncomfortably long (for Heris had chores to do) she tried to divert him to another topic.

“What are they going to do with the Royal Aerospace Service, now that the king has abdicated?” she asked.

“Hmm? Oh . . . I don’t know. I’m not—I was told I was not required to report, which really meant they didn’t want me. That’s one reason I thought I’d do better with Aunt Cecelia, staying out of trouble.”

That didn’t sound good. The rich young men who made up the officer corps of the Royal Aerospace Service might cause trouble in a lump while on duty, but would surely cause trouble if suddenly turned out, idle and feckless, into the streets of the capital. Someone wasn’t thinking clearly, not for the first time.

“That’s good for you,” she said crisply. “You are free to do something else, something that will convince Raffaele’s parents that you are a mature, responsible, independent young man. Ideal husband material.”

“But what?” he asked. What indeed? Then it came to her.

“Go talk to Lord Thornbuckle,” she said. “I’m sure he can find a mission for you. Don’t tell him about Raffa—just ask what you can do to help.”

When he’d left, she put her head in her hands for a moment. She wanted to get away before someone else had a crisis for her to deal with. If only Cecelia would quit fuming about her family, they could leave for somewhere—anywhere—and be out of reach of everyone’s family problems.