“I don’t think Fleet will,” Esmay said.
“You never know. And your sort of talent isn’t limited to combat operations anyway. Tactical sense is useful in many places.”
“But—” But I loved it was the wrong thing to say, Esmay knew.
“However,” Goonar went on, “If there are unclassified things you could tell us—what we might expect, as traders, from Fleet in this mutiny situation—or what the mutineers might do—”
“I haven’t been briefed,” Esmay said. “I was on my way to a new duty station. I know what’s on the news, that’s about all. But if I had to guess, I’d say this is a serious attempt to seize power—a military coup. There are people in Fleet who think the civilian government is weak, and doesn’t support the military enough.”
“That sounds like our cousin Kaim,” Basil said, leaning forward and giving her a look clearly meant to convey unusual trust. “Kaim’s in Fleet himself, a senior NCO, but he’s always been a bit odd, and on his last visit home he was extremely odd. We don’t know if he’s finally lost it—his father did—or what to think.”
“Do you think he’s part of the mutiny?”
“I don’t know—I hope not—”
“He’s always going on about plots and things,” Basil said. “Mostly we don’t pay attention to him, not that we see him that often, unless we can see how it affects trade. Last time he was talking about rejuvenation problems and how he thought Fleet was using NCOs as lab animals, he said. That’s why they shut down inquiry into the rejuv failures.”
Esmay shook her head. “Everybody’s had some bad drug batches come out of the Patchcock plants, and from what I heard, it was Hobart Conselline who shut off research on it.” It occurred to her then that if the mutiny had anything to do with rejuvenation, that probably meant it wasn’t supported by the Consellines.
“Ah. That makes sense. This whole rejuvenation thing—it’s going to make trouble, one way or another. Take me—the way our company’s set up, the old yield place to the young as the young mature. What’s to happen if the old don’t—if they stay young? It wouldn’t matter if it were only a few rich people, but what if my uncle and father were still ship captains? Where would I be?”
“I don’t know,” Esmay said.
“But do you think the mutineers will attack civilian ships, traders? Other civilian targets?”
“They might,” Esmay said. “To put pressure on the government, they have to either defeat the loyal military, or show that it can’t protect you. Or both. I’m afraid you can expect trouble, and soon.”
Goonar shook his head and said nothing for a long moment. Then he said, “I should tell you, Sera, that we’re carrying a fugitive to Castle Rock. A priest from the Benignity.”
“A priest?”
“Yes. He says they think he’s a heretic with some kind of secret. Fleet knows about him; they’ll take charge of him at Castle Rock.”
“What would Fleet want with a priest?” Esmay asked.
“I don’t know,” Goonar said. “I want him off our hands, anyway.” He glanced at the chronometer. “I’d better be off.”
He hadn’t expected to wake up; he’d said sorry and goodbye and all that.
The lights scared him; he heard someone saying “Turn those off!” over and over, and didn’t recognize his own voice. Then a dark shape came between him and the light, and spoke to him. For an instant he saw it flying away, silhouetted against the light, then it resolved into a person beside the bed.
“Take it easy, Serrano,” the voice said.
Serrano. He blinked, and his vision cleared. He was a Serrano, though he wasn’t sure which one. Serrano meant duty, meant expectations, meant . . . someone had died, and it was his fault.
“How many?” he said, around a tongue that felt like a dirty sock.
“Do you know your name?” the person said.
“Serrano,” he said, repeating what he’d heard.
“Full name?”
He blinked again. He was fairly sure he wasn’t one of the female Serranos, but which one of the men . . . ? “Sabado,” he said.
“Still confused,” the voice said. “Back to sleep, son.”
Son? Was that his father? He was fairly sure it wasn’t his father. Darkness closed over him while he was still puzzling about it.
The next time he woke with brutal clarity, perfectly aware of who he was—Lieutenant junior grade Barin Serrano—and what had happened: because he had screwed up, men were dead. He was no more use than he had been on Koskiusko, when he’d been a captive. His head felt as if someone were hitting it with a hammer, and he knew that was right and just.
“Do you know your name?” someone asked. He glanced over at the person in the green scrubs, recognized him as belonging in sickbay.
“Yes. Barin Serrano, Lieutenant junior grade . . .”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Sickbay,” Barin said. “Rosa Maior.”
“Right. Do you know what day it is?”
“No . . . was I knocked out?”
“You could put it like that. You could also say you were damn near killed—do you remember any of it?”
“No,” Barin said. He didn’t, really, though he had a few burning images: a dark shape flying through flame, a great black gap with stars beyond . . .” Somebody died,” he said.
“Yeah, but a damn sight fewer than there’d have been without you.”
“How many?”
“Two. The idiot who panicked, and somebody blown out the hole in the bulkhead, only he hit the edge. Three of you with injuries: burns, broken bones. You’re the worst—you were right in the middle of it, from what I gather. But you’re alive. Now answer me some more questions, son, so I can get on with my work.”
“Sure,” Barin said.
“Who’s Chair of the Grand Council?”
“Uh . . . Hobart Conselline.”
“Grand Admiral?”
“Savanche.”
“Who’s captain of this ship?”
“I . . . can’t remember.”
“That’s all right. What’s two plus two?”
“Four,” Barin said, mildly annoyed.
“Good. Now, what hurts?”
“My head,” Barin said. He tried to ask himself if anything else hurt, but his head dominated.
“Well, we can’t put you in a regen tank until the concussion resolves. The pressure’s down . . . we’ve done some surgical fixation—that’s why you’re mostly immobilized.”
He hadn’t noticed, but now he realized he wasn’t able to move.
The next day his seniors descended on him in a group. He braced himself for condemnation, but instead they told him he was a credit to the service.
He couldn’t understand it. Why were they praising him, when it was his fault to start with? If he’d paid more attention during his ensign rotation in Environmental, he’d have known they used a specialized chemscan. He wouldn’t have ignored Wahn’s complaint that his unit didn’t have all those fancy names. If he’d paid more attention in chemistry, he’d have known that methane had a molecular weight of sixteen. He’d have known that even at low pressure and low temperature, oxygen and methane formed an explosive mix across a wide range of concentrations. If he’d known Ghormley better, if he’d had more persuasive ability, more command presence, the kid wouldn’t have panicked and bolted like that. If he’d known what he should have known, if he’d made sure they had the right equipment, the explosion would never have happened.
Ghormley would still be alive. Betenkin would still be alive. O’Neil and Averre and Telleen wouldn’t have been hurt. There wouldn’t be a hole in that bulkhead, and the ship wouldn’t be missing almost half its life support.
The headache subsided, but the ache in his heart did not. When O’Neil came and thanked him a few days later, that made it worse.