Captain Serrano 3 - Winning Colors

by Moon, Elizabeth

  "Just in case," he said, in the same calm voice he'd used all along. "Now—what's your fuel situation?"

  "Down to ten percent." And she didn't know what ten percent was, in terms of use. She didn't even know how long she'd been using it.

  "Then give me one-half second, thrusters seven and four." She could see the fuel display sag at that, and she said so.

  "Not much longer," Koutsoudas said.

  When the blow came, it took her by surprise, and slammed her against the adjacent lockers. The suit's padding protected her, but the boots came unstuck from the deck, and she tumbled. Another blow to the pod sent her tumbling in another direction. The pod rang with noise: clangs, scrapes, piercing squeals. Finally it was still. Brun put out a cautious foot and it stuck. She could hear nothing; the end of the communication cable waved around, making it clear that she'd come unplugged. She moved slowly back to the control panel, and plugged it in. A patient voice was calling her, not Koutsoudas but someone else.

  "Brun—Brun—Brun—"

  "I'm here," she said. "Just shaken up."

  "Good," the voice said. "You're now locked onto the R.S.S. minesweeper Bulldog, en route to the Harrier. Remain in your spacesuit; do not attempt to leave your vessel until docking is complete and you have received notification." And that was the end of that; her comlink cut off and would not reopen.

  It seemed like a long time later that a gentler series of bumps woke her from a nap. The comlink hissed gently, live again, then another voice spoke to her.

  "Brun?"

  "Yes," she said, feeling grumpy. "I'm here." Where else would she be?

  "Your pod is aboard our ship—it's the R.S.S. Julian Child—"

  "I thought I was going to something called Harrier," Brun said.

  A chuckle. "Oh, you are. But Harrier has no facilities for docking like this, and the admiral thought it would be safer to transport you by shuttle, not make you swim tubes."

  "Oh. Thanks." Admiral. What admiral? Where was Heris? Where, for that matter, was Lady Cecelia?

  "We understand you're in a vacuum-capable suit . . . if you'll open your hatch—it's the left-hand flat button—"

  "That says exterior hatch, caution. Yes, I know."

  "That will put you in our number six docking bay. It's not aired up—if you have any concerns about your suit air, please tell me now. There's an airlock to ship-normal air about six meters to your left, as you exit, and suited personnel will be there to help you."

  Outside the pod, Brun saw a vast cargo bay open to space; craft she had no name for were parked along the sides, and her pod filled the open middle. Beyond the lip of the bay, she could see the hull of another ship, a shape so odd she wasn't at first sure it was a ship. She stared until someone touched her suited arm, took the dangling cable of her comunit, and plugged it into his own suit.

  "It's a minesweeper," she heard. "Odd beast, isn't it? Nothing else could go in after you."

  Then they guided her to the airlock, and on into the ship, where she had a chance to change into a gray Fleet shipsuit before her shuttle flight left for the Harrier.

  * * *

  "Some party," the admiral said, without preamble, when Brun had arrived in her office.

  "I—don't remember most of it," Brun said. The admiral looked familiar, though she didn't think she'd met admirals before. Not this one, anyway.

  "My niece tells me you once wanted to run away and join the service," the admiral said. Niece. Aunt. Brun looked at the admiral again. Graying hair, but the same evenly chiseled dark features, the same compact body, the same confidence.

  "You're Heris's aunt," she blurted.

  "Yes. And you're Lord Thornbuckle's daughter. Tell me—are you cured of your desire for adventure?"

  Brun thought a moment, even though she didn't need to think. "Not really," she said. "I mean, I'm still alive."

  The admiral nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. "Do you now understand why my niece and her crew insisted that you learn all those boring bits you complained about?"

  Brun laughed, which startled the admiral, then she smiled too. "I always understood," Brun said. "I didn't realize the complaining bothered them. Doesn't everyone gripe?"

  Admiral Serrano—she supposed they had the same surname as well as the same genes—tipped her head as if to inspect Brun more closely. "You are a remarkable young woman," she said. "My niece thought so, and you just proved it again. Will you eat with me?"

  Brun had no idea what meal might show up, but her stomach was ready for any of them. Any two or three of them. "Thank you," she said, hoping that the admiral would ignore the far less mannerly answer her stomach gave at the thought of food. "I'd be honored."

  "She's safe aboard the Harrier," Koutsoudas said. "If that's safe . . . they won't let me talk to her."

  "I don't think my aunt eats girls for breakfast," Heris said. "Not even that one. Who, I'm sure, is cheerful and bright-eyed and ready to tell an admiral everything she thinks she knows about everything she's heard."

  Heris put in a call to Sweet Delight, to reassure Cecelia that Brun had survived. Cecelia, relieved of that anxiety, had a long string of other topics to discuss. Heris really didn't care, at that moment, about the fate of the breeding farms she'd visited, the status of the financial ansible, or what might happen to the miners who had thrown the party. She would have been far more annoyed with Cecelia, if the conversation had not included an inquiry about each of the former Sweet Delight crew. Cecelia might have her batty side, but she did care about people. She even cared about the present crew, especially Jig Faroe, whom she praised until Heris finally cut her off. She could almost feel his embarrassment through the intervening thousands of kilometers of vacuum.

  "You know," Ginese said, without looking around, "it's going to be very interesting when your aunt and Lady Cecelia get together."

  Heris had not thought of that. "Oh . . . my," she said. Those of the bridge crew who had been on Sweet Delight had the same expression she felt on her own face.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Castle Rock, Rockhouse System

  "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, l
eathery 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?"