The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Tie a line around her and we'll haul from here," suggested the professor, who had reappeared in the aircraft's hatch.

  "Don't be ridiculous!" snapped the major. "All she has to do is lift and slide the body across—"

  "No—she'll need the basket. Hang on, Ensign. Be right back." The crew chief, who had come forward, now disappeared back into the plane.

  "I don't think much of your initiative," the major said to Margiu; behind him, the professor winked at her. The crew chief reappeared, with a bright-orange object that looked like a long skinny basket. "Here you go, Ensign—" He slid it over the rim of the life raft to her. "Ever used one of these? No? Well, just roll the body into it, then hook those lashings over." He turned his head to look back into the plane and yelled, "Just a second, sir—"

  Margiu positioned one edge of the basket thing next to the corpse.

  "Now go to the other side and give it a push," said the major.

  "Stay where you are," the professor said. "Your weight will make it roll toward you."

  "Keep out of this," the major said, turning to glare at the professor.

  "It's simple physics," the professor said. "A child could see—" He gestured. "Her weight depresses the life raft floor, and the corpse rolls—"

  A gentle swell lifted her up, then dropped her, and the corpse rolled into the basket. Margiu hooked the lashings quickly, then glanced back at the plane. A line of cold green water widened between her and the plane; the two men argued in the doorway, hands waving, and the rope ran smoothly out beside them. She felt an instant of panic so strong that she couldn't even yell.

  "Idiots!" The crew chief lunged past them and grabbed the trailing line. "Don't pull!" he yelled to Margiu. "We won't lose you." Even as he said it, an end of rope slipped out and splashed into the water. Panic gripped her again, until she remembered the line attached to the Berry.

  Another voice yelled from forward in the plane. "What's going on, Ker? We need to get back in the air sometime this century. Swell's picking up, if you hadn't noticed."

  "Loose line, sir." The crew chief did not turn his head this time, Margiu noticed. "Now, major, if you'll take hold behind me, and then you, professor. Let's bring her in . . ."

  Margiu made herself look away from the plane, and recheck the lashings on the basket. Then she began hauling in the rope attached to the basket. Something yanked on it, hard, and she fetched up against the life raft's inflated rim.

  "Hurry up, Ensign," the major said. "The pilot wants us to leave."

  "Yes, sir . . ." Whatever it was yanked again, putting a sharp crease in the inflated rim. Then it let go, and she fell back into the smelly slime of the lifeboat floor. She reeled the line in, hand over hand, and was able to toss the dripping end into the hatch when the raft bumped the plane again.

  "All right, Major—if you'll let go this line, sir, and take hold of that one—"

  Margiu did her best to lift the ends of the Berry unit over the inflated rim as the major pulled, and after some minutes of breathless struggle, the corpse was aboard the plane. Margiu crawled out after it, her knees shaking. The plane might be tiny compared to the sea, but it was more solid than that life raft. She pulled herself upright, and hoped no one had noticed her fear, as the copilot came forward and slid into his seat.

  The pilot peered back over his shoulder.

  "Hurry it up, back there. I don't like the look of the horizon, and I'm still not getting current feed from MetSat."

  "We simply must take the raft aboard," the major said.

  "We're going to take off before that squall line gets here," the pilot said. "And the chief says it would take at least an hour to deflate and pack the raft, which will put us marginal on weight, since it'll be wet. Forget the raft."

  "Dammit, it's evidence." The major visibly fumed for a few moments, then said, "Fine, then. We'll leave Ensign Pardalt in the raft to secure the evidence; another flight can pick her up later. Ensign, get back in the raft."

  Margiu's heart sank. Leave her alone on the ocean with a storm coming?

  "I don't think—" the professor began; the major rounded on him.

  "You have no place in this discussion; you are only a civilian. You have caused enough trouble already. Go sit down and be quiet!"

  The professor's eyebrows went up, and his head tipped back. "I see, sir, that you are a bigot."

  "Ensign, get into that raft and prepare to cast off," the major said without looking at the professor. "We will inform Search and Rescue where you are, and they will come find you."

  The pilot burst out of the cockpit. "Ensign, take your seat. You too, prof." Margiu followed the professor quickly into the cabin. "Major, if you do not shut up, I will put you in the raft. I'm in command of this craft—"

  "What's your date of rank?" the major asked. Cold anger rolled off him in waves.

  "You're a paper-pushing remf," the pilot said. "Not a line officer, and not my CO. You have a choice—you can either go sit down and be quiet, or you go out the hatch, right this instant, and I don't much care if you land in the raft or the water."

  Margiu watched the little group by the hatch—did the major know that behind his back the crew chief's broad hand was poised to push him out? She doubted it; he was too angry with the pilot.

  "I'll complain to your commander," the major said, turning away; Margiu could see how red he'd turned, and looked down. This was not something she wanted to witness.

  "So will I," the pilot said. Already the crew chief was coiling the wet line that had held the raft to the plane. He pulled the hatch shut, dogged the latch, and secured the dripping coil of rope to the cleat on the forward bulkhead. Margiu could not see the raft from her side, but she saw the propeller of the inboard engine begin to turn, and the duct flanges move. Gouts of blue smoke, then spray, as the propeller blast whipped the surface of the sea. The plane swung in a tight circle; now she could see, through the wavering streams of water on the window, the bright yellow of the life raft rocking on the swell. The engines roared, and the plane moved jerkily at first through the water; then, with a series of shuddering slams, reached takeoff velocity and lifted away from the water. As the window cleared, Margiu looked back. A tiny yellow dot, already hard to see, and behind it, a darkening line of the oncoming storm.

  She could have been down there. She could have been huddling in that miserable foul-smelling life raft, struggling to learn how to survive in a storm.

  "I don't think I quite like that major," the professor said. Margiu glanced at him. His amiable face had set into an expression of cold distaste. "Not someone with the right grasp of priorities."

  Safer to say nothing, especially since her stomach was leaping around with the turbulence.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, then answered his own question. "No, I see that you are not. Here—" He put something chilly and wet on her cheek, the only exposed skin. "Antinausea patch. I put one on while they were still arguing. Close your eyes, and lean back—takes about thirty seconds."

  Margiu counted to herself, and by twenty-seven felt that her stomach had settled. She opened her eyes. Behind, over the noise of the engines, she heard the major retching, but even the sour smell of vomit didn't make her stomach lurch. The professor leaned away from her. "Here, Major—an antinausea patch—"

  The man said nothing, but the professor's hand came back empty, and he turned to wink at her. Margiu smiled uncertainly.

  "Always come prepared," the professor said. "Nausea adds to no one's ability to think and act effectively. You're better now?"

  "Yes," Margiu said.

  Once the plane was in level flight, the pilot spoke over the intercom.

  "I realize all of you have urgent orders to the various Stack Islands bases, but we have some problems to deal with. MetSatIV is offline, and has been for several hours. We do not know what our weather will be, and there's an additional concern about security at Stack Three. They can say what they like, but with the commander dead—we're heading ba
ck to Dark Harbor."

  "I'm going to see what I can do for that poor lad," the professor said, unstrapping himself.

  "But the major—"

  "Has no authority over me—as he so rudely pointed out, I'm a civilian. And he's not any of the military officers to whom I report—he can bluster, but that's all. Besides—" He pointed, and Margiu craned her head to look. The major was sleeping, ungracefully slumped in the seat with one hand dangling to the deck. The professor winked at her again.

  "There are antinausea patches and antinausea patches," he said. "He'll be out for several hours."

  The rescued corporal, though swathed in blankets at the rear of the cabin, looked miserable enough. He had not thrown up, but his face had a greenish cast. Across from him, the corpse had been wrapped in another and lashed to the deck.

  "How about giving him a patch?" the professor asked the crew chief.

  "Fine with me—I notice our major is sleeping peacefully—"

  "Nausea is so exhausting," the professor said. "Here, now—" He put a patch on the corporal's cheek. "That should help."

  "He really needs fluids and calories," the crew chief said. "If he can hold 'em down."

  "In a minute or two," the professor said. "What do you make of this?"

  "A mess, sir. This lad's a Meharry—may not mean much to you, but it's a family with a proud history in Fleet. Meharrys are known to be a tough bunch to tangle with, but they've always been loyal."

  "So—what do you think happened?"

  "I don't know, sir. The major, he said no one was to talk to him—"

  "And the major's authority—"

  The crew chief sucked his cheeks in. "Well, sir—he outranks me. The pilot's in command here, but he's busy with the craft and I don't like to bother him. It's always a pain when one of the MetSats is out."

  "How often does that happen?"

  "MetSatIV's been buggy for the past two years or more. There's a new youngster at Blue Islands who's been keeping it up more often, but even he slips sometimes."

  "Mmm . . . and how long has he been there?"

  "Oh—eighteen months, perhaps."

  "Is MetSatIV our communications link?"

  "No, it's a general surveillance satellite. Outplanet, it's part of the passive sensor array for the whole planet; inplanet, it's a broad-band visual and EM scanner. If it had been up, for instance, we'd have found that life raft with less trouble."

  "But the life raft's beacon—"

  "Oh, it has a direct signal to GPS satellites. But they're not set up for visual scans. And the beacon has to be turned on by the occupant, after which it puts up a signal every two hours minimum. You can drift a long way in two hours."

  "Tell me, Chief: if there hadn't been a life raft or a flight out here, and MetSatIV was down, would anyone have spotted a landing out here?"

  "Landing, sir?"

  "Landing . . . like . . . oh . . . drop shuttles from a warship?"

  "On Copper Mountain? Well, Big Ocean is a training area for wet drops, but a ship couldn't get that close without the other units spotting it, even if MetSat IV were offline."

  "What about the drop shuttles?"

  "Once they were down below the horizon—I suppose—there aren't any ground scanners out here, of course. But—what made you think of that? And what difference would it make?"

  "With all due respect for the honor of the Fleet, Chief, I've never known a society of saints. If there is a way to smuggle contraband and make a profit off it, people will do it. I can't think of a better way to smuggle than to be able to turn off the lights when you wish."

  The chief flushed, but finally grinned. "Well, sir, you're right about that. I've never been on a ship that didn't have at least one unauthorized animal, person, or substance, be it what you will."

  "So my question is, what might be smuggled that would involve the commander of the prison?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "Nor I. But since I was headed for Stack Islands myself, I am naturally interested. Smuggling goes both ways—persons or materials can be introduced, or removed. The Weapons Research Facility naturally comes to mind—"

  "Sir—" That was the corporal, his face now pale but no longer waxy greenish. His voice was weak, but clear enough.

  "You need water and food," said the crew chief. "And I'll need to tell the pilot you're able to talk."

  "I can give him something," Margiu said. The crew chief handed her one of the self-heating soup packets, already squeezed and warming, and went forward. When its heat stripe matched the dot at the end, Margiu put the tube to the corporal's mouth.

  The professor waited until he'd finished, then said, "You had something to tell us?"

  "Yes, sir. Commander Bacarion was one of Lepescu's followers," the corporal said. Margiu felt a sudden chill.

  "Means nothing to me," the professor said. "You?" The crew chief shook his head. Margiu nodded.

  "Admiral Lepescu was using prisoners as prey . . . he was part of a secret society that held manhunts. They used human ears as recognition symbols."

  "How'd you know that?"

  "I was reading up on Commander Heris Serrano—because of Xavier, it's my home planet, and she saved us—and found that after she resigned her commission, her crew had been condemned and used as prey. So I read what I could find on Lepescu. But—you're sure Bacarion's one of his followers? They were all arrested, I thought."

  "Yes. She admitted it to me, when she tried to kill me the second time."

  "The second time?"

  "Yes. The first time she had someone push me off the cliff." Corporal Meharry coughed, then went on. "You mentioned Commander Serrano, sir—my sister Methlin Meharry was one of Serrano's crew. She was imprisoned here, and then hunted later. She survived; she's back in Fleet now. So when I found out Bacarion had been on Lepescu's staff, I knew she'd do something. That's why I made preparations, and even so she almost got me. But that's not all—not just private vengeance, I mean. I'm sure she was up to something, but I couldn't figure out what."

  "But now that we've thought of something—vague enough, still."

  "The prisoners!" Meharry said. "Lepescu used prisoners before, as prey. What if she were using them a different way—as troops?"

  "To do what?" the chief asked.

  "Nothing good," the professor said. "Maybe she was going to sell them off to someone who wanted to hunt them, or maybe she was going to use them to hunt something . . . but whatever it was, it's bound to be bad."

  "We must tell someone—" The same thought must have occurred to them all at once, from the startled glances.

  "Yes, but who?" The chief shook his head. "Now our pilot, I'd trust—but you don't know him. For that matter, you don't know me."

  "A bit late to worry about that now," the professor said. "And the pilot must know, you're right. And must inform as many others as possible. You do not run a major conspiracy from such a small base as Stack Three. You run a small one which you hope will become big. There must be plenty of people not involved within radio range."

  "Big enough if they're behind turning off MetSatIV," the chief said. "And if it involves bringing a ship in. Using LACs means conspirators on that ship, a lot of them. The LAC flight crews, for instance, as well as a majority of bridge officers."

  "What if they did embark convicts? Just the ones they'd picked? Then attacked the orbital station? They'd control access to the whole planet . . ."

  "And the system defenses," the professor said. "And the weapons research labs. A fine start to a mutiny, if anyone wanted to start a mutiny."

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time Margiu and the others landed at Dark Harbor, their worst guesses had been confirmed.

  "They've got the orbital station," an angry major told them, the cold wind whipping his uniform around his legs as he stood on the end of the quay. "We bounced your call up, but it was already happening. Bonar Tighe picked up convicts from Stack Three with its LACs, and armed them—used them as
shock troops. We think—we hope—that somebody on the station got a tightbeam out and tripped the ansible alarm, but we aren't sure. The mutineers have cut off all communications from topside, and they can control the system defenses from there too. We know of six other ships insystem—anyone care to lay odds on how many of them are mutineers?" No one did.

  "So what can we do?" asked the pilot.

  "Damn little. Polacek over at Main has declared a state of emergency, of course, but there aren't any jump-capable ships onplanet, not even little ones. We don't have any missiles capable of taking out the station or any of the ships in space—why would we? We're stuck down a gravity well. I hate planets!"