R.S.S. Turbot, en route from
Castle Rockto Sector VII
Esmay Suiza found herself in a crowd of officers heading out to take command of their ships: a couple of lieutenants, like Esmay, the rest majors and one lieutenant commander. Like her, most of them spent hours studying the specs of their new commands.
Her ship, Rascal, had been upgraded from an ordinary patrol craft—she had been on picket duty in a sector where nothing was expected to happen for years—with the new weapons suites which made her almost a mini-cruiser. To power this weaponry, she'd been given new drives, and despite all the additions and changes, she was still not overly cramped in her personnel compartments, so she had a full complement of crew. Esmay had studied the specs all the way out from Castle Rock, until she was sure she could recognize and name everything. Those months she'd spent on Koskiusko learning about hulls and drives made it much easier; she actually understood exactly which modification supported which of the new additions.
Now she was about to see her ship—her ship—for the first time. She had checked in when she arrived, so if her crew were alert, they'd know she was on the way, and she had taken a few moments in one of the lounges to make sure that her fringe of hair was as neat as it could be. The several weeks of accelerated growth had produced a surprising amount of hair, but it wasn't what she was used to. Up ahead she saw the docking number and the name Rascal.
She squared her shoulders, felt in her pocket one more time for the command wand that would make the ship's electronics accept her as the commander, and approached the smart-looking corporal standing guard at the docking tube hatch. He saw her, recognized the captain's patch on cap and sleeve, and came to attention.
"Captain Suiza! Welcome, sir!" He sounded as if he meant it, and his salute was crisp. She returned it. "Is the captain coming aboard now?"
"Yes," Esmay said. Why else would she have come along, just to see if they knew who she was?
"Very well, Captain; I've just notified the bridge. We have no officers aboard at present; Master Chief Humberly is in charge. The captain's luggage?"
"They're sending it when they've unloaded the transport," Esmay said.
"Captain Suiza—welcome!" That was Master Chief Humberly, a lean older man whose hair was cropped so short Esmay couldn't be sure if he was also balding or not. He had the same brisk, competent, cheerful look as the corporal. Esmay liked him at once, and noted that he had none of the blurry look that had signalled the older NCOs whose rejuvenation was failing. "I'm sorry Jig Turner isn't aboard—he'd wanted to meet you, but he was called to the admiral's office."
"That's all right," Esmay said. She already knew that the formalities of coming aboard were minimal for captains below the rank of commander. But Humberly surprised her; he'd turned out the crew in Rascal's rather narrow main corridor, and Esmay walked to the bridge to read herself in, feeling very honored indeed.
When that was over, and the status board lit with "Captain: Esmay Suiza" and "Captain Aboard," she felt simultaneously fully happy and fully anxious. As on Despite—once she was captain, it was all her responsibility, every bit of it. But she'd wanted it. She would make good of it. She started at once, turning to Humberly.
"What's our readiness, Chief?"
"Did they tell you about the refit and upgrades?"
"Yes—new drives, new weapons suites. I looked them over—we have thirty-four percent more firepower, half of it in beam weapons, and the drives to power that without dropping shields. But they didn't say what that did to our microjump ability, if anything."
"Ah. We haven't tried it—haven't had the chance. My best guess is that it may knock a few percents off our response time. Not good but—"
"Worth the trade, if that's all there is," Esmay said. "What about crew? I know that a lot of ships are being crewed with people just thrown together—"
"We were lucky," Humberly said. "Because of the need for training with the upgrades, most of Drives and Weapons have been here throughout. We were between captains anyway, and about half of Environmental is new, but being as we have such a small complement, we were able to do a bit of weeding." He looked smug; Esmay grinned at him.
"You went scavenging, didn't you?" she said. "Good for you."
"Patrols don't have much in the way of clerical—mostly it's the captain's own staff," he said, eyeing her to see if she knew that already. Esmay nodded. "We've got a couple of bean counters from supply that haven't been out in a fighting ship before, but they should be all right."
"Provisions?"
He frowned. "There we've had some problems—small ship, busy Station, and no captain aboard. Jig Turner . . . he's a fine young officer, you understand, but a jig just doesn't have the clout of someone more senior, and he's not the type to presume on his position as officer in charge."
"How bad is it?" Esmay said.
"Nothing we can't fix in a few shifts with the captain aboard, I'm sure, sir. Nobody's going to give you that much trouble."
Esmay doubted that, but she knew she'd fight back if they did. Her ship wasn't going into action on outdated rations or medical supplies. "What've we got in spareables?" she asked, using the polite term for items used in illicit trade.
"Not much—just a few bits and pieces from the refitting. I was saving some of those back for last-minute problems."
"Good idea."
Esmay found, to her surprise, that her name and image on the screen worked wonders with Supply, which promptly disgorged containers of fresh ration packs whose contents actually matched the lists on the containers. She had a little more trouble with Munitions, who tried to insist that patrol craft had no need to stuff themselves with missiles, multiple fusing options, and alternative warheads. Esmay finally had to go in person, with copies of the refit details, and argue her way up the chain of command to the admiral minor in charge.
"If they didn't think we'd see serious fighting," she pointed out, "they wouldn't have upgraded the weapons suite. There's no reason to have weapons and no ammunition—"
"Do you have any idea how much a 347-Xa warhead costs?" he asked.
"Yes—" Esmay quoted the figure. "And I know how much a patrol ship costs, and how much the cargo of the next convoy is worth to the mutineers. Do you want them to get that shipload of weapons going out to Sector VIII, just because I don't have the weapons to protect them?"
He glared at her and she glared back. In the back of her mind was the rebellious thought that this was actually fun, in its own way. He had to resist, she had to demand . . . it was like a dance of sorts.
"All right," he said finally. "But don't tell the other patrol captains—I'm not giving out everything we have or there won't be anything to ship to Sector VIII."
"They don't have our upgrades," Esmay said. "Why would I arouse their greed?"
He chuckled, and shook his head. "Lieutenant, I'm glad you're not any more senior than you are . . . that was worthy of a Serrano. Which I guess you are, now, eh?"
"I'm not sure they'd agree," Esmay said. She didn't want to get into that.
She had presented her name to the admiral's staff, only to be told that for the duration the normal protocol of paying calls had been suspended. At first she wondered if this was aimed at her, but the few brief conversations she had with other captains made it clear it wasn't.
"We've got—what, four admirals?—serving as convoy commanders, and who knows how many ships and captains coming and going. Way too many to hold formal calls. What she's doing is holding a get-together before each convoy leaves, counts as calls from everyone."
* * *
Rascal eased away from the Station with permission to proceed to the system's practice sector for four days of maneuver practice. Esmay, on the bridge, watched as her crew ran through the sequences . . . no mistakes so far. Behind them, she knew one of the ships which had just finished its practice was nosing in for a last bit of supply.
Rascal's insystem drives, upgraded to the power of a small cruise
r, nudged her out of Station space efficiently, and made short work of the run out to the first maneuver site. Most patrol class took 18 hours . . . Rascal made it in fifteen and a half, on the same power setting.
"Makes me wonder if some of those supply crates are empty." Esmay's executive officer, Jig Turner, had a dry sense of humor she already enjoyed.
"Hope not," she said now. "I was planning on feeding everyone regularly for the next several months."
Commander Kessler, on the supply ship Plexus, ran the maneuver region with an iron hand, not hampered at all by being in a fat, slow, cargo vessel. Esmay reported in promptly: "R.S.S. Rascal, Suiza commanding, permission to engage in maneuver . . ."
"Rascal, note traffic in Sector Yellow: patrol craft Sitra, Scamp, and Salute. Confirm ID match, return signal." Esmay's senior scan highlighted the blips on his screen; the beacon IDs came up correctly, and he transmitted his match to Plexus for confirmation. "Traffic IDs confirmed. No microjumping in Sector Yellow. You will proceed as follows . . ." Up on the main screen came the course they were to match. The first part of maneuver practice was simply designed to ensure that the ships could follow a designated course solo. Then they'd begin to practice in formation.
The first day's work went well; Esmay's crew knew their business, and Rascal answered the helm neatly, once they'd figured out the corrective function for their velocity under the new engines. Esmay forced herself to go to bed, but woke up at least once an hour.
The next day, they were assigned to microjump practice, in the far reaches of the system, light hours from anyone else. Esmay found it less nerve-wracking than she expected, with a navigational computer that wasn't shot full of holes, as Despite's had been. She could feel the rising morale of the bridge crew, as Rascal hit one designated set of coordinates after another. When they had finished the set of sixteen jumps, and recalibrated all the instruments, she grinned at them. "Well done, people! I don't have to wait for our scores to know we aced that test."
That ship's night, with Rascal on insystem drive working its way back to the area for the next day's formation maneuvers, she slept well. Formation maneuvers tested the bridge crew almost as much as microjumping practice. Fleet had not used formal convoys in decades, with the result that no one was familiar with the formations needed. Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi, who would command their convoy, wanted to try out first one, then another, formation. Should the escorts be farther away? Closer in? Should the patrols be alternated with escorts, or bunched together?
When they finally finished (and the commodore still hadn't made up his mind, apparently), and headed back for the Station for a final resupply, Esmay felt that only one thing was certain: She had a good crew which was rapidly getting better.
Admiral Livadhi invited the captains of all the ships that would be in his convoy to dinner aboard his flagship. Esmay, who had last seen Vigilance under Heris Serrano's command, wondered how many of Heris's crew were aboard. Livadhi himself impressed her as a competent officer much like her own father; he had a pleasant comment for each officer as he shook hands.
"You're the most recent arrival from Castle Rock," Livadhi said, after they were seated. "Tell us, Lt. Suiza, about the latest gossip."
"I'm sure you know all the Fleet news, sir, but had you heard about the fugitive from the Benignity?"
"A fugitive? No, tell us."
"He was on the ship I took from Trinidad to Castle Rock," Esmay said. "A merchanter. He told the strangest story—" She paused. "I don't think there's anything wrong with telling you—not now that he's reached Castle Rock."
"Don't torture us, Lieutenant," Livadhi said. He sipped his wine.
"Yes, sir—well, I don't know the whole story, but he claimed to be a priest in the Benignity, who had to flee. He said they claimed he was a heretic, and he wasn't—"
"Do they kill heretics in the Benignity?" someone else asked.
"I'd believe it," said another.
"It wasn't just being a heretic. I'm not sure I understand it—it's his religion anyway—but he claimed he was the last confessor for someone important, and his government was afraid—because he was a heretic—that he'd reveal what he heard."
"Did you believe him?" Livadhi asked.
Esmay considered, remembering her conversations with the colorless but nonetheless passionate little man. "I think he believed what he said. He wanted to talk to me because I'm from Altiplano, and he thought maybe we had useful religious archives."
"But do you think he had any state secrets to reveal?" Livadhi said it lightly, and several people chuckled.
"I don't know," Esmay said. "He said he wouldn't tell what he knew anyway, because—heretic or not—he still considered himself bound by his oath not to."
"But he's at Castle Rock, you said. Surely Fleet Intelligence will get it out of him?"
Esmay shrugged. "He's a civilian, a priest with a monomania about some cult or something they have in the Benignity, something to do with swords or something. Why would they be that interested in him? And anyway, they were shipping him out to the Guernesi on a diplomatic ship; he may be gone by now."
"They did assassinate our Speaker . . ." someone else said thoughtfully. "Maybe that was his big secret."
"When did you meet up with him, Lieutenant?" Livadhi asked. Esmay tried to calculate and failed.
"Sir, I've been hopping around so, I really don't know. I didn't really notice him aboard the merchant ship for some time after I came aboard . . . and then we stopped at Zenebra . . . I'm sorry, sir, but I can't remember whether it was before or after that."
"It doesn't matter, I suppose," Livadhi said. "But just supposing he were the confessor for their head of state, and bolted immediately for our borders, he might have reached Familias Space before the assassination took place."
"But they've said they did it," Esmay said. "It's not a secret now."
"Not now . . . but it could have been then. And who knows what other bombshells he has to drop?"
"Well . . . I had to have my security clearances reinstated, so I was stuck at HQ for a couple of hours, and I did hear somebody speculating about whether he might have a complete list of Benignity agents or something, but I can't imagine that. Having planted spies might be a sin, but a list of names wouldn't be."
"Are they concerned about Benignity penetration, do you think?"
Esmay nodded. "Under the circumstances, with the mutiny and the assassination coming so close, I'd say they have reason to worry. The combination certainly made things easier for the Benignity. They deny having anything to do with the mutiny, but someone's come forward to say that Bacarion and Drizh had said favorable things about discipline in the Benignity Space Forces." She chuckled. "Of course, there were people saying that I had expressed treasonous ideas when it was to their benefit."
"So you don't believe it?"
"Sir, I haven't the data on which to form an opinion. I know that, unfortunately, gossip and rumor can be taken as truth—with dire consequences for the subjects of it. On the other hand, what I learned about the Benignity while talking to Simon—to the priest—certainly makes a connection sound more possible. The mutineers say the rest of us are undisciplined, soft, self-indulgent: that's what the Benignity says about the Familias, too. I haven't heard of the mutineers being religious, particularly, and Simon says the Benignity would not sanction anything like that hunting business, but—the mutineers might think it did."
"You're fair-minded, for someone who's been burnt twice now on the basis of rumor, Lieutenant. It does you credit. What do the rest of you think?"
Esmay listened to the rest, trying to discern from their conversation what kind of commanders they would be if the convoy saw trouble. Collingwood, with a sidelong glance at Esmay, said, "Where there's smoke, there's usually fire, sir. I mean, I know rumor isn't always true, but on something this important, it probably is. If the Benignity's behind the mutiny, they don't even have to like the mutineers; they could just be supporting it from a di
stance."
"But we don't want to be conspiracy theorists," said Bondi. "I mean, what if they started looking for everyone who'd ever served under Lepescu or any of the people now leading the mutiny, and then for everyone who ever had a friend or relative from the Benignity, for two generations back or so? My grandfather stowed away and came to Familias Space as a boy: how do you know he wasn't some deep agent or something, instead of just a scared teenager who wanted a better life somewhere else?"
"So that's where you got your weird ideas, Pete?" asked Collingwood, putting on a thick accent.
"It's not funny—!" Bondi said; his face flushed.
"Gentlemen." Livadhi intervened smoothly. "I hardly think Fleet's going to start another witch hunt. Reasonable caution, yes, but Lieutenant Bondi has a fine record, which I'm sure will overwhelm any trifling concern about his grandfather—it certainly does with me."
The Serrano Succession Page 77