The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Esmay has character . . ."

  "That's what attracted you, probably, besides your hormones. You come from a heritage of character. And you know she has courage."

  "Yes . . . but I'm not sure I'm a match for her."

  "Ah. So we're back to matching again. It's not a race; it's not a contest. All you have to do is be honest, brave, and true—something you were bred for, if I'm any judge. If that's too much, you can always change your mind, decide that the marriage was a mistake. You can walk away. You can walk away from those NewTex women and never give them another thought, too. But if you walk away from too many of your responsibilities, you aren't a man anymore; you're a parasite. It's addictive, walking out on things."

  "I don't want to walk out on her," Barin said. "But I don't know how to be what I need to be."

  "You already are," the professor said. "You're just barely old enough to grasp this point, but I'll try anyway. You're comparing yourself to Esmay and your Serrano relatives. You don't need to be anyone else, Barin. You need to be you, because you are enough. Anyone—anyone at all—can be enough. Smart enough, brave enough, good enough."

  "You sound so sure."

  "I'm not exactly a spring chicken; I've seen a lot of military men. I've seen Meharry around you. He's not a fool; he's not going to give his loyalty to an idiot, a coward, a dolt." That bright eye speared him again. "The fact is, you're revealed by your creation, and a military commander's creation is the way his people act. You determine their bond, their morale. If your people get better, then you're a good commander; if your people get worse . . . look to yourself. Meharry was nearly a wreck when we picked him up; I don't know what hurt him so badly, but I do know what got him back: you did."

  "Oh." Barin digested as they ate dessert. "So . . . if I'm not competing with Esmay, then . . . we sort of grow in parallel?"

  "Exactly." The professor beamed at him. "It'll be easier if you'll broaden your base. Something that will help you—in your career, and as your wife's husband—is getting comfortable with more kinds of people. How many civilian friends do you have?"

  "Civilian friends?"

  "Yes. We're not all dolts, you know. There are a lot of us. The more you know about civilians—all kinds of civilians—the more perspective you'll have. The higher you go, the more you'll have to interact politically as well as militarily."

  "I never thought of that." Barin thought now. Civilians as something other than more or less docile sheep in serious need of shepherding had never crossed his mind. He was startled to realize that he didn't know any . . . that his closest approach to civilians had been those depressed and frightened women and children from Our Texas. They had needed his help, his guidance, his support . . . that's what he expected from them.

  "Militaries always rest on the foundation of a civilian population," the professor said. "They don't feed themselves, or supply themselves . . . someone grows the food you eat, makes the cloth for your clothes, builds the ships, manufactures the weapons . . . and that's not counting trade, entertainment and the arts. Start now building your networks in all these areas."

  "I guess I can use you for the sciences," Barin said.

  "You could indeed."

  "But . . ." Barin drew lines on the table with his dessert fork. "I still don't know if I want to go back into space."

  "After being blown up, I don't wonder. And you don't have to. Not a race, remember. Not a contest. You can be an honorable, decent man and a good husband to Esmay if you never go out on a ship again."

  "Mmm." That was a new thought, and a hard one. Unaccountably, just thinking it made him less afraid. Did he really want to stay on a planet the rest of his life? Not really. He had one reason to be scared and many reasons to go back to ships.

  "Not that I think that's your path; personally I think you'll go out there and command a cruiser yourself someday. But what I think doesn't matter. It's your life."

  "It is." Barin saw it then, a wavering vision that split and recombined like reflections on water . . . but lives—more than one life—in which he was someone he could respect. Someone Esmay could respect.

  "If I were you, I'd check up on those women," the professor said, pushing back his chair. "You'll feel better for it."

  Barin nodded, but his thoughts were on Esmay. Now he could feel for her the joy he should feel—she had a ship, her own ship. She would be magnificent.

  They would be magnificent.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Castle Rock

  With Kevil and Stepan's help, Brun studied the structure of the Grand Council, Seat by Seat. Unsurprisingly, Stepan had a file on every member old enough to be Seated, similar to the dossier they'd had on her. Brun began to see the Council as a vast overgrown sprawling tree of complicated relationships. Out at the ends were the individuals—some shiny green leaves, others spotted with mold or half eaten away by insects . . . some healthy green, others yellowing or even brown, about to fall. Behind them were histories—their own, those of parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She felt a constant bubbling amazement at the number of mysteries cleared up: why this uncle and that great-aunt refused to sit at the same table, why this minor family had bolted to the Conselline Sept seventy years before.

  "We've made a lot of mistakes," Stepan told her. "We're a sept, not a collection of mythical saints. Individuals, families, all restless and twitchy about our place in the whole, just as individuals and families have always been." He pushed over another data cube. "Be sure you don't misplace this one. It's our analysis of Conselline Sept."

  It was, though not quite as detailed, fascinating. Brun hadn't even known Hobart Conselline had an older brother, let alone that he was an addict incapable of acting on his own, whose proxy Hobart had held since reaching his own majority. She hadn't known about Oskar Morrelline's personal proclivities and wondered if that had anything to do with Ottala's behavior in school.

  It was far too much to absorb completely in only a few days; her brain felt stuffed. But when Stepan began talking strategy with her, she found she had retained more than she'd thought possible.

  "I will make my own analysis available to you, via the deskcom, but necessarily in brief. However, you'll be using your own judgment; where the younger members are concerned, you may have insights that are better than mine."

  "I see," Brun said.

  "Do you think you also need Kevil Mahoney there? He certainly has valuable experience, though he isn't Seated himself. If he sits with you, that makes a statement. . . ."

  Kevil was a link to her comfortable past, but she was leaping into an unknown future. Still . . . even on a journey into the unknown, wise people took with them supplies and tools from their past.

  "Could he sit with you? Would that be too conspicuous?"

  "No, but it would place a limit on the communication, you understand."

  "Yes. But I don't need him for every little detail—I'd like to be able to ask for clarification on points of law and order."

  "That's reasonable. I can certainly ask him as a guest for my own purposes. But, Brun, that leaves you alone—your brothers and sister aren't coming, are they?"

  "No. Cousins might."

  "Harlis's son, yes. I'm going to move to have him unSeated, on the grounds that his father is a fugitive who's taken up with mutineers. And you will be guarded, Brun."

  Brun shook her head. "Don't keep him out, Stepan. It'll look vindictive and weak. Let him come; he has a right to a vote, and we have no proof he was involved in his father's activities. Do we?"

  "No, but—you've read his dossier, Brun. He's explosive, like his father, and he's shaped by his father as well. We know he acted as messenger from his father to Hobart Conselline on more than one occasion."

  "Even so. I'd rather have him sitting right there glaring at me than sitting at home brooding about how he was treated unfairly."

  Stepan thought a long moment. "Hmm. I shouldn't ask for an opinion and ignor
e it. I said your insight might be different from mine and yet valuable," he said. "I chose you for your abilities; it's only fair to let you demonstrate them. All right, I'll withdraw my motion. But be careful; I consider him dangerous."

  She started to say she wasn't afraid of Kell and then realized that was stupid. In present circumstances, she should be at least concerned. "I don't think he'll do anything violent in the Council chamber," she said instead.

  "Probably not, but we don't take chances on his mood." He paused, sipped from his glass, then said, "Have you heard anything about Sirialis? How are you dealing with that?"

  "There's nothing I can do from here, and here is where I need to be," Brun said. "I hope—I hope they didn't go there, or if they do, that they don't hurt anyone. That's naive, I know, but—I told the people there to get everyone out, dispersed, as best they can, and not worry about the property. Maybe, if the mutineers don't have time to settle in, the damage will be minimal."

  "I know you love the place," Stepan said. "It was a paradise for you children."

  "It was beautiful," Brun said, and hated herself for using past tense as soon as she heard it. "Is beautiful," she corrected. "But it's too much for one person, or one family."

  At the surprise on his face, she went on. "Look at the situation now, ser. Our people, those who looked to us for protection and care, are in danger—and we can't do anything. Not all our money, not all our political influence. Should we claim control of something we can't protect? I don't think so."

  "Hm. And to whom would you give it? Or would you sell it?"

  "Those who live there, who will have to survive our failure."

  "That's an option, certainly. But we don't even know yet that Sirialis will be under attack. When—if the mutineers did go there—would they arrive?"

  Brun said, "I'm not sure. Fleet might know. It depends where they picked up the mutineers' warships, for one thing. My guess is, in another five to ten days by our time, but that's very uncertain."

  "Hmm. And Fleet could do nothing."

  "I wouldn't say nothing, but in the present crisis, they can't afford to keep a force in the Sirialis system for any length of time. They're quite reasonably concerned about mutineers attacking more populated worlds, a major shipping nexus—even here, at Castle Rock—or hopping the border to the Benignity, or the Bloodhorde."

  "You did remind them Sirialis is only one jump away from the Bloodhorde, I hope?"

  "They knew that already. I think they're watching the jump point."

  "Makes sense, I suppose." Stepan sighed. "I didn't get there as often as I liked, but it was a beautiful place, and your mother's hand made it better. Speaking of your mother, do you know where she and Lady Cecelia were going?"

  "I have no idea," Brun said. "By the time I found out, they were already gone, and I haven't heard anything."

  "Brun, my dear—I know you loved both your parents dearly, and you've already lost one to violence. Have you considered that they might be lost in this turmoil, Miranda and Cecelia?"

  "Of course . . . but it doesn't do any good to think about it."

  "Perhaps not, but to be prepared for bad news, if it comes, that can be important." Stepan watched her steadily.

  "What—have you heard something?" Brun felt her heart contract.

  "Not directly, no. But I do know something's caused a flurry in Defense. I don't know if it's just a space battle somewhere—and that's a terrible thing to say, I'm sorry—or if it could involve your mother. The Consellines have been badgering Fleet to take time to look for her; that's why I thought I should prepare you."

  "Thank you," Brun said. She had thought she was prepared, but now that she let herself really think about it, her face felt stiff, her mouth dry. Her mother dead? Lady Cecelia? On top of everything else—it was like a vast weight of sand landing on her, squeezing her . . .

  "It may not be anything," Stepan said.

  Brun forced her mind back to the practical. "I presume we'll find out," she said. "Thanks for the warning."

  "If there is bad news, and if it is too much for you, let me know at once; we can do something else this Council meeting—"

  "Not really," Brun said. "You've already explained the problems, and why my speaking will give us the best leverage we have. I'll do it."

  Stepan's warning could not entirely prepare her for the news, she found, when the message came from Grand Admiral Savanche the afternoon before the next Grand Council session. She and her mother had never been close until after her father's death; she had always felt reproved by her mother's cool composure. And now—there was no more time. Her mother was dead. Had been dead days, or weeks . . . she couldn't concentrate on the time adjustments.

  She took a long breath, as she folded a scarf into the neckline of her suit. She could not cry now. She could not afford to be red-eyed and puffy-faced for this. She took more slow deep breaths, watching herself in the mirror, watching the outward signs of inward turmoil fade, until it was almost her mother's serenity that looked back at her.

  Another pang: had this been how Miranda did it? Had she hidden, beneath that serenity, such anguish? Probably. Brun probed that reaction, testing her own composure. Could she trust herself to stay this calm under the certain pressures of the Council meeting? She let her mind throw up images of her mother, her father, Sirialis. The face in the mirror did not change.

  The great starry-roofed chamber might have imposed its own serenity on the anthill of scurrying humans below its dome, but familiarity had dulled their responses. Intent on their own concerns, their own worries and ambitions, most of them didn't even glance at the painted stars, or the Family mottoes blazoned around the rim of the dome. Brun, arriving early, had the time, and the inclination, to look around. Now, watching the other Seated Members coming in, she ran over the points she must make. How would her words affect these people, most of them so wealthy they had no idea how much they owned—how many worlds, how many people, how many things? Would they shrug and say it had nothing to do with them, what happened ten or twenty light-years away?

  The Consellines, bereft of Hobart Conselline, were in as much disarray as the Barracloughs had been when Bunny died. Hobart had systematically destroyed a dozen able Conselline politicians on his own climb to power. Would this consolidate their vote, making them cling harder to any perceived Conselline interest, or would it open them up, make them more receptive to the interest of the Familias as a whole?

  She couldn't know that for sure, she could only know what Stepan told her of the Barraclough Sept's situation. She watched as her cousin Kell came down the steps and hesitated at the Family Table. She hoped she was right that mercy here would not be misplaced and gave him a steady look as she nodded towards his Seat. He looked grumpy, but then he usually did.

  "I don't know where my father is," he said. "So don't ask."

  "I do," Brun said.

  His expression changed to alarm. "Where? Did you have him thrown in prison, or what?"

  "He hired a mutineer to take him to Sirialis," Brun said.

  "What?! You're lying!"

  "No," Brun said, amazed at her own calm. She felt almost as Miranda had always looked, and from the look on Kell's face that's what he was seeing in her. "I'm not lying, and that's what he did. It was really quite foolish. It makes us look bad—"

  "Huh?"

  "To the other septs," Brun went on. "To have a Thornbuckle, a Barraclough, making deals with mutineers for private business. Very bad."

  "Then why'd Uncle Stepan let me take my Seat?"

  "He didn't want to," Brun said. She gave him another long look. "I insisted. I'm not feuding with you. This is no time for intrafamily feuds."

  "You're . . . different," Kell said.

  "Yes. Being a captive, having children, and losing your parents does that to you," Brun said. "Danger, they say, has a wonderful ability to concentrate attention."

  "Dad never had a chance, did he?" Kell asked suddenly.

  "Not really,
not in the long run," Brun said. "Why?"

  "He always said your father was soft underneath—that he got the prestige just because of his smooth manner and his connections." He hesitated then plunged on. "He said that's why he sent Fleet after you . . . that anyone stupid enough to get picked up like that deserved what she got."

  "Then I trust he won't be upset to realize that we're not going to rescue him from the mutineers," Brun said crisply. Kell stared. "Kell, your father's hired some of the most dangerous men in our universe—he's gone off with them alone. Do you think they'll respect his noble birth and take his orders if they don't like them?"