The Serrano Succession (84 page)

"Thank you, Corporal Baluchi."

Inside was a double-bunked compartment with clothes lockers. One of the bunks had a set of pajamas in her size laid out on it. Cecelia pulled off the uniform, put on the pajamas, and then realized that she'd better act the part and hang the uniform up. She found little labels pasted in the locker, making it clear which part went where.

The bed was narrower than she liked, but after the cell she found it easy to sleep . . . and when she woke she knew she'd slept too long—she felt logy and uncomfortable.

And she had no idea if military personnel ran across the hall to the head—at least she knew what that meant now—in their pajamas or dressed first. She had to have help. Heris was far too busy to tutor her, but she knew where to go.

Chief Jones gave her a careful smile. "Lady Cecelia—"

Cecelia sighed. "I suppose now we're not in jail we have to be formal? And here I was hoping you'd finally gift me with your full name."

"Gwenllian Gwalch-aeaf Jones—my parents had a passion for genealogy and kept telling me to remember my Welsh heritage—which I don't, because I don't even know what planet they were talking about. They died when I was eight."

"There was a Wales on Old Earth," Cecelia said. "It's in some of the books I've read. Then there's New Wales on Caratea. I don't know anything about it, though, except a lot of the names have double
d
and double
l
."

"Hills and castles is all I remember, and something about music. Anyway, I changed my name legally when I entered Fleet, because the recruiter had such a time with my original names, just as all my teachers and the orphanage staff had done. Parents should think of things like that when they name children. I picked my new name out of a book I'd read, with a girl hero who wasn't always fainting or cooking things for the others. Katrina; they called her Kat."

"Ah. And my parents gifted me with not only Cecelia but a string of other fancy names—I think you're right, parents should pick something nice and boring and ordinary."

"Anyway, the captain said it'd be better to call you Lady Cecelia, not just Cecelia, so—"

"That would be fine," Cecelia said, "except for one little complication."

"And what's that?"

"Heris Serrano and I have known each other for years; we've been through some difficult times." This was harder than she'd thought it would be. "At times, it's been handy to pretend that I was actually in the military." Jones just looked at her. Cecelia went on. "In covert ops, you see."

"And you're not?"

"It's . . . hard to explain."

"You don't have to explain; the captain gave me a hint."

"I need to explain this much. Heris is having a little problem with someone and needs me to be an admiral."

Jones' mouth twitched. "Naturally . . ."

"It wasn't my idea," Cecelia said. "The thing is, I don't know how to be an admiral. I mean, I know Vida—Admiral Serrano—"

"You're on first-name terms with an admiral, but you're not an admiral and you don't know how to pretend to be one?" There was a definite twinkle in Kat Jones' eyes.

"Yes. Exactly. I need a coach. For the . . . er . . . shipboard sorts of things. That I would have learned if—"

"If you hadn't been busy doing other things. Of course, sir, I'll be glad to help."

* * *

Cecelia caught Seabolt just outside Heris's office. Did he live there? No matter . . ."Ah, Commander Seabolt. Just the officer I wanted to see—"

"Sir!" Seabolt came to attention. "Admiral . . . er . . . de Marktos, I was wondering—"

"Commander, please. I'd like to see your JS-135s."

"The . . . er . . . JS-135s? For the whole ship?" His voice almost squeaked.

Cecelia gave him her best admiral look. Chief Jones had explained that the JS-135 was the history of each item assigned a ship: its date of service, its maintenance record, and so on. A cruiser had tens of thousands of JS-135s in the computer file, and invariably some of them were not complete.

"You are the executive officer of this vessel, are you not?"

"Yes, Admiral, of course, but—"

"Then I want to see the JS-135s. It should not have escaped you that this would be an ideal time for pilferage and misappropriation of materiel."

"Er . . . of course, Admiral. Er . . . now?"

"Commander, did someone put a sedative in your cereal? Of course, now."

Cecelia's approach to checking JS-135s was to drag Seabolt from one end of the ship to the other, pointing out items and demanding to see the file on each one. He made a couple of abortive attempts to escape her clutches, but Cecelia imagined the cruiser as a badly run training stable, and was having fun finding the mice in the feed room—or the Fleet equivalent. Thanks to Chief Jones, she had enough of the administrative vocabulary down to convince Seabolt that she was, after all, a real admiral, though a capricious and difficult one.

When she felt hungry again, she insisted that he eat with her. "I can see," she said, "that I have a lot of work to do here, Commander, and I will require your personal assistance."

"But, Admiral, I have other—"

"I'm sure Commodore Serrano can cope without you for a while," Cecelia said, invoking an admiral's right to interrupt. "And you are, as you know, responsible for the disposition of all furnishings and munitions . . ."

"Yes, Admiral." Seabolt looked harried, as well he might, but still knife-creased. Cecelia eyed him as she ate, and wondered if she could make him crawl through some grimy tunnel—if she could find anything grimy on Heris's ship. She had not missed the glances some of the crew sent their way, wicked delight in seeing Seabolt being harrassed by someone else.

After the meal, she kept him busy again—he was, despite his trim appearance, not as fit as she, and he was puffing long before she felt tired. She paused, between decks, and gave him a minatory look. "Commander, it's important for officers to maintain physical fitness. You shouldn't be out of breath just from running up a few ladders—"

"Sorry, sir—"

"I'll try to moderate my pace—" Cecelia set off sedately, scolding herself inwardly for taking such delight in making him miserable. Was she as bad as the mutineer guards? She hoped not. In the spirit of reform, she inquired seriously into his diet and most recent health checkups. "I'm sure it's hard," she said, "with all the work you do, but you won't be much use in combat if you're sick or unfit. You must learn to take care of yourself."

"It's my bad ankle, sir," Seabolt said. "I broke it a few years ago—"

"Oh, ankles," said Cecelia, who had broken both at one time or another. "The best thing's exercise, and lots of it." She explained, at length, everything her physical therapists had told her. "Now if you ever blow a shoulder—"

Seabolt looked green; she took pity on him.

"Never mind; you can worry about that if it happens. Now tomorrow, we'll finish up the JS-135s and make a start on correlating those to the ship's table of organization—"

"Yes, Admiral. What time?"

"I should be ready to start by 0700," Cecelia said. "We have a lot of work to do."

She slept well that night, and woke full of more ideas for things Seabolt could do for her.

Heris had plenty to do without worrying about Seabolt, and noticed his absence only occasionally, with mild relief. She had actually been able to organize a search for useful debris from the
Bonar Tighe
without his interference. She had prepared a packet for the ansible, and had the patrol craft out mining the jump point; the next mutineers to pop in had a nasty surprise coming. Major O'Connor, the third officer, had taken over the executive officer's functions so seamlessly that Heris didn't notice.

Ten days later, Seabolt was in her office again. Heris noticed that he looked pale and uncomfortable.

"What is it, Commander?" she asked.

"I'd like to request a transfer, sir."

"A transfer? In the middle of a war?"

"I know, sir—it's most inappropriate, but—I think I'm losing my mind."

"Seabolt, if this is some kind of joke—"

"No, sir; I swear it's not. It's—I just can't keep up—she always has something else, every second—"

A glimmer crossed Heris's mind. "She?"

"The admiral—Admiral de Marktos."

"She's bothering you?"

"Not bothering—not exactly. But she's on me every second, question after question, and you know, Captain, when we got this ship we didn't have time to check it out completely. My stomach's burning, my eyes—"

"Go down to sickbay and get some antacid, Commander. You have your stresses in this war and I have mine."

"But sir—"

"Tell you what, Commander; if you want off the ship at the next station, I'll find a way to reassign you. But all I can do now is ask the admiral to let up on you a little. And if I do that, she'll be down on
me
. I have a flotilla to command and mutineers to find. I'm afraid you'll just have to stick it out."

"Yes, sir." Seabolt, Heris noticed, wasn't nearly as knife-edged as he had been.

"You might ask the admiral if she has time to see me," Heris added as he went out the door.

"You are a wicked woman," Heris said to Cecelia, handing her a cup of tea.

"Yes," Cecelia said. "I believe I am. But it's keeping him out of your hair, isn't it?"

"Just don't drive him into a heart attack," Heris said. "That would be another set of forms to fill out."

"I'll give him time to work out in the gym," Cecelia said. "But I'll want real stars at the end of this."

"If we all survive, I'll come to your promotion party," Heris said.

Barin had never seen anything like the bleak dark rock that jutted from an angry green sea. It was almost enough—almost—to make him want to be back in space. The craft settled onto the landing space with a soft bump.

The wind was icy; Barin pulled the hood of his PPU up and sealed it around his face. The prison buildings looked as grim as the rock itself. Had people really lived here? Been confined here?

"I thought it was bad before," Corporal Meharry said. "But this is ridiculous. I want back in space."

"How'd you get assigned here, anyway?" Barin asked.

"I asked for it, fool that I am. You know my sister was here once. Lepescu put her in. I wanted to know what it was like, what she'd been through." He shivered, and Barin suspected it was from more than the cold wind. "Better get set up, sir, if you'll excuse me."

As the one person who had served here, Meharry knew where everything was, and went with forensics to find them quarters that wouldn't interfere with the investigation. Barin had the others unload their supplies off the transport; the scientists would fly on to the weapons research station in the same craft. Margiu, he'd noticed, was with them, and a bearded fat man talked to her the whole trip. When the transport had left, he looked around the courtyard. It looked like a nightmare setting: the cold, dark, stone walls, the barred gates to the prisoner block.

He'd heard about the massacre of the prisoners who didn't mutiny, and wondered which dark streaks on the rocks might be blood.

Meharry came back out and spoke to the other troops, who started carrying the supplies inside. Barin followed. Inside the staff block, dark stone walls gave way to ordinary paint and plaster. "They're keeping us out of the officers' quarters, sir," Meharry said. "But we can use the kitchen over here; it's a better size for this small a group." Barin avoided the warning tape the forensic team were already stretching.

Organizing the outpost and making sure support ran smoothly occupied him for the first few days. The forensic team went about their business, whatever it was—Barin saw them collecting scrapings from various parts of the courtyard, and assumed that they were doing the same in cells and other buildings. Meharry disappeared for hours at a time, coming back white-faced and tense. Barin didn't want to add to his discomfort by asking more questions, and tried to find solvable problems for Meharry to work on. He ventured into the prisoners' block once himself, and came out more shaken than he wanted to admit. He'd imagined things like that in the Benignity, not here in the Familias. Not in
his
Fleet. He couldn't imagine anyone in his family putting people in those holes, no matter what they'd done.

Then Corporal Meharry asked if he'd come along while Meharry pointed out details of his escape for the forensic team.

"They threw me off from up there—" Meharry pointed. "It's a guardpost, with a good view of the inner exercise yard, and also out to sea."