On that first run to the more distant pickets, they met no mutineers. Arash’s force stood by while supplies were moved from the cargo ships to those keeping station. They repeated the actions in one system after another, and Arash felt a growing confidence in both Vigilance and the others under his command. He overheard—and knew he was meant to overhear—favorable comments on his leadership. More importantly, his staff heard even more.
Still, he worried. The mutineers’ leader, supposedly, was one Solomon Drizh, and Arash had reason to wish it had been someone else. They had both served under Admiral Lepescu, as young men, and they had both fallen under the spell of his dubious charms. Arash had survived one witch-hunt for old Lepescu connections because Lepescu had made it clear that he despised the young Livadhi. The scornful phrases still rang in his ears . . . I had thought better of a man of your family . . . there’s backbone in your breeding, boy; what happened to you?
Others had heard that scorn; it had been a permanent blot on his service record—the only one—ever since. Yet, in the long run, a good turn, for being known as an object of Lepescu’s contempt was, after Lepescu’s death, far better than being known as his protégé. Now, however, Drizh and the other mutineers had brought Lepescu’s Loyal Order of Game Hunters to Fleet’s attention. If Fleet mounted a search for potential mutineers among Lepescu’s old associates, what else might they turn up?
He could tell, from the reactions of his staff and crew, that none of this turmoil showed on his face. It shouldn’t, he thought wryly, for he had had years to perfect his calm. It was so unfair . . . he had never intended to do anything but the duty he was sworn to. He had not meant to jump from one very hot frying pan into an even hotter fire, and the displeasure of Lepescu and his supporters should have been fire enough.
But it wasn’t. A scalding worm of that fire crawled through his belly as he tried not to think about it. Warned by Lepescu that members of his own family were members of the Loyal Order of Game Hunters, Arash Livadhi dared not go to them. He had turned, in the hell Lepescu made of his life, to the only friend he could count on. An outsider, from a colony world, but undaunted by the difficulties that placed in the way of a Fleet career. Jules made friends with everyone, mended quarrels, and—to Arash’s relief—had never been acceptable to Lepescu because of his total disinterest in blood sports. Tubby, cheerful Jules, who always had time to listen, whose advice was so often just what one wanted to hear.
When, Arash wondered, filling in the reports he would have to file on his return, had Jules first asked him to do something he should not? And how could he have known? Young officers helped each other out—friends helped each other out. Everyone expected that, and always had. A little here, a little there. And only because Jules was his good friend, who had stood by him when (it seemed) the whole ship turned against him with Lepescu’s disfavor. Jules had done him more than one good turn, too.
If he had known . . . but hard as he poked and prodded his reluctant memory, he could not find any unequivocable clue to Jules’ real nature. Not until many years later, when it was far too late. Not until it would have meant his career, if not his life, to let the truth be known.
“So,” the mutineers’ commander said. He wore what looked like an ordinary Regular Space Service uniform, though Cecelia wasn’t sure about the rank insignia. His nametag read Adm-m Drizh. “You’re the one who killed Admiral Lepescu.”
Cecelia had forgotten her close involvement with Admiral Lepescu’s death. She managed not to say “Oh . . . him . . .” as if she blew away dozens of people a year. “Actually I didn’t shoot him myself,” she said. From the expression on the man’s face, that didn’t improve her situation.
“Useless old woman,” the mutineers’ commander said. “If it weren’t for people like you, we would have our rightful place.”
Six feet under and well tamped down, Cecelia thought. And it was indeed our fault that we didn’t recognize you and put you where you belong.
“But you’ll learn,” he said. “You’ll learn what we’re capable of.”
Wasting time making pompous speeches, Cecelia thought. The mark of a second-rate—no, make that third-rate—mind, was this tendency to pontificate.
“Take them to the brig,” the commander said, with a wave of his hand. The menacing NEMs closed in.
The brig was much as she’d imagined military prisons: cramped, bare, ugly, and uncomfortable. And secure. What she hadn’t expected, on a mutineers’ ship, was the number of prisoners crammed into the cells. Why didn’t they just kill the loyalists? Or were their own personnel so troublesome?
The guards shoved her and Miranda into a six-bunk cell with eight other women, who stared at them with sullen suspicion. One was curled up, arms clasped around her knees; she had given them only a brief glance before putting her bruised face down again.
“This is not what I had in mind,” Cecelia said to Miranda, “when I suggested a trip for your health. Sorry.”
Miranda looked around the cell, then at Cecelia as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. “I scarcely think—”
“I know it’s not my fault. But I feel the need to apologize. There we were, supposedly safe from all alarms until we arrived, and then—WHAM.”
“What—who are you?” asked one of the women, whose pepper—and-salt hair was clipped close to her head. “Where are we?”
Cecelia gave her a direct smile. “I’m Cecelia de Marktos and this is my friend Miranda Meager. We were on our way to the Guerni Republic, and two hours into what should have been a safe jump, we were knocked loose and back into realspace.”
The woman leaned closer, speaking softly. “But where—do you know where we—where the ship is?”
Could she trust this woman? Not yet, anyway.
“No,” Cecelia said. “I got the course from a standard navigation package, and whatever knocked us out fouled up the drives and the navigation. When your captain picked us up, I thought we were being rescued . . .”
The other woman grimaced. “No such luck . . .”
“No. And I feel it’s entirely unjustified. We’re private citizens—”
“Wait—” the other woman said. “Miranda . . . Meager? Any relation to Brun Meager?”
Damn. She hadn’t wanted to use the Thornbuckle name, but of course Brun had made the other just as notorious.
“I’m her mother,” Miranda said softly. “Why?”
“And you’re Cecelia de Marktos . . . aren’t you that friend of Heris Serrano’s, the one who shot Lepescu?”
“I didn’t shoot Lepescu,” Cecelia said. “Heris did. But I would have.” If she hadn’t fainted, something that still annoyed her. So she’d been in an old body at the time, that was no excuse.
“But I thought you were old,” the woman said.
“I am,” Cecelia said. “But I rejuved a few years ago. Someone poisoned me, and it was the only way to full recovery.”
“I saw something about that,” said another woman. “And it was after that you were with Commander Serrano at Xavier?”
“Yes.” From the looks on their faces, they all knew about Heris Serrano. They would, of course, especially if they were loyalists. “I gather you’re all loyalists?”
“Yeah,” said the first woman who had spoken.
“Why didn’t they just kill you?” asked Cecelia, who hadn’t been able to get that off her mind.
“Cecelia!” Miranda looked as shocked as she sounded.
“It is the operative question,” the first woman said. “She has to wonder if we’re decoys or something, to sneak information out of you.” She grinned complicitly at Cecelia and stuck out her hand. “I’m Chief Jones, by the way, milady.”