Seabolt lingered when the others left. “I’m worried about security,” he said.
“In what way, Commander?” Heris had learned not to assume she knew what his concerns were.
“Well, as you know—” Heris repressed a sigh. Seabolt insisted on starting off by telling her what she knew—what anyone with a brain knew—before finally coming to his point, and nothing she’d done had cured him of it so far. “As you know, there’s a mutiny.”
“I had gathered that,” Heris said. “And your point is?”
“This crew is full of people with no shipboard experience—” Something else she already knew, and he himself was an example. “We don’t know if they’re qualified,” Seabolt said, and hurried on, perhaps warned by her expression. “We don’t know if they’re part of the conspiracy. Since everything’s going smoothly now, I want to start working on their dossiers. Did you know we have five people aboard who belong to the Church of Unified Brethren, and they have been holding meetings in a squad bay?”
Heris said, “No.”
“It’s true. And there was an advisory out only six months ago about all religious groups, that they might harbor extremists—”
“I mean, no, you may not start witch-hunting. I did know about Corporals Sennis and Solis, and Pivots Mercator, Januwitz, and Bedar . . . they’re not extremists, and the Unified Brethren have never been any problem.”
“But Captain—”
“Commander, everything is going as smoothly as it is—not nearly as smoothly as it should—because I am working very hard to find and nurture those who have competence. Among those people with competence is, for instance, Petty Major Tanira, who is also one of the Unified Brethren—there are at least fifty, not five, aboard. Tanira is the reason we didn’t have a level three incident when some idiot clerk out of your former office didn’t see why a valve had to be shut to three point two exactly. I will not have you upsetting him, or any of the others, on the basis of some crackpot report generated a long way from real ships or real combat.”
“But Captain—”
“Is that clear, Commander?”
“Yes, but—but I must respectfully disagree.”
“You can disagree all you want, but you will not—repeat not—go digging around making people feel that they’re not trusted. We may have a would-be mutineer aboard; if we do, the best way to make that person try something is to create distrust and disaffection among everyone else. We may have a Benignity spy, or a serial killer, or a person whose idea of fun is being thrashed with dead snakes by someone wearing green paint—any of those—but in all those cases, until something definite happens, our best strategy is to build up this crew. And building up the crew starts with building their competence—which is why we’re holding double shifts of training—and their confidence in their commanders.”
“You’re . . . you’re just like they said,” Seabolt blurted.
“And how was that?” Heris asked.
“Serranos,” he said. “All of you. You won’t listen to anybody else, you always think you know best . . .”
Heris felt the satisfaction of a cat which had the mouse firmly between its paws. “Commander, aboard a ship the captain does know best. By definition. Check your regulations: it’s in my job description. If you act against my express orders, that—” she let her voice grow louder “—is mutiny, Commander. You are walking a very thin edge.”
He turned pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. “I didn’t mean—of course I wasn’t—I just—”
“You are dismissed,” Heris said.
“I . . . ah . . . yes, sir.” Seabolt left.
If only she had someone, anyone, to put in his place . . . but she didn’t. She knew she wasn’t at her best with his personality type—they annoyed her even when they were right—but she would have to find some way of dealing with him.
Goonar Terakian had continued his occasional chats with Simon the priest, whenever he had time and didn’t want to let himself brood about Betharnya and the impossibility of asking her to marry him. They had gone from Simon’s history (which seemed unbearably dull to Goonar: a celibate life among books and scholars?) to Goonar’s. Simon seemed to find the life of a merchanter captain as unattractive as Goonar found Simon’s, commenting that poor Goonar never had time to think a thought all the way through. Goonar forbore to mention that thinking thoughts all the way through had led Simon to a death sentence, and turned the conversations back to religion and politics. Simon seemed convinced that the Familias Regnant’s policy of religious toleration would lead straight to anarchy and immorality.
Goonar felt his neck getting hot, as it often did around Simon. “That’s a nasty thing to say. Do you think I’m immoral?”
“No, Captain, not that I’ve seen . . .” Simon never got upset, that Goonar could tell. “But I don’t see how it can work in practice.”
“It’s a matter of respect,” Goonar said. “We respect the other beliefs—”
“How can you respect something when you know it’s wrong?”
Goonar scowled. “I don’t know it’s wrong. I may think it’s wrong—and in fact, I do think a lot of the religions I’ve heard about don’t make sense—but that doesn’t mean I can’t act in a civilized way about them. If you want to believe—oh, let’s say, you believe that a two-headed turtle created your planet—why should I argue with you? I think it’s silly, but then most people believe some silly things. My cousin would tell you that my not wanting to marry again is silly.”
“But peoples’ behavior depends on their beliefs; you can’t trust someone’s behavior if they think it’s all right to do wrong things.”
“I think you’re wrong—at least in part,” Goonar said. “Look, a trader sees a lot—I know that some people use their beliefs, whatever they are, to make themselves better—kinder, more honest, more faithful, more responsible. Others use their beliefs as an excuse to lie, cheat, steal, and murder—all they have to do is tell themselves the other fellow isn’t of their faith, and that makes it all right. So they say. Same beliefs, different people. And the good people can be found everywhere, believing all sorts of different things, and so can the bad. What I think is, religion makes a good person better and a bad person worse.”
Simon sat in silence, then finally shook his head. “I can’t agree, but you’ve posed a difficult thesis . . . it will take me awhile to work it out. I would have to say, to start with, that some beliefs would make anyone worse—”
“True. Now you take the Bloodhorde—you know about the Bloodhorde? All this thinking that only strength matters, that’s going to lead to trouble. But the people who emigrate to Aethar’s World are already that sort of person—people who are bullies and want to hang out with other bullies and feel good about themselves. I suppose it could be different with their children, who never know any difference. But the religions I do know about, they all hold up many of the same things as good: kindness, honesty, and so on.”
“Yes. I see that. And I have to admit that even followers of the true faith have done terrible things in its name. But you’re coming dangerously close to a famous old heresy, that of special election.”
“Never heard of it,” Goonar said. Someone tapped on his door; he said, “Come on in.” Esmay Suiza stood there, looking uncertain. “Yes, Sera—do come in and join the argument. We’re talking about religion.”
“I don’t know much about religion,” Esmay said.
“That’s fine—but you’ve met Simon, haven’t you? He’s a priest, from the Benignity—Simon, Sera Suiza is from Altiplano. He’s just talking about special election, Sera—have you ever heard of anything like that?”