"Perhaps because Baressa is smart enough to recognize a superior leader when it counts," Baressa answered for herself, seeming to appear out of the very air behind the three disgruntled pack leaders. She walked around them to stand beside Velmeran, obviously casting her support with him. "All this talk about junior and senior pack leaders is foolish. A few extra years of sitting in a fighter or wearing a rank does not make you better than anyone else. A good leader comes that way, ready-made, and you know it because you listen when he or she gives an order. And from now on I listen to him."
Shayrn was so moved by that endorsement that she abandoned her previous group, edging around to stand close to Baressa. Even Train looked doubtful. Only Barthan remained unconvinced.
"You could be Commander-designate if we pushed it," he reminded her.
"I know that," she agreed. "But if Valthyrra says that he is the one, then I believe her. You will see. Or else you will find yourself another ship."
"I will not take orders from him," Barthan insisted.
"Yes, you will," she said with icy firmness. "If Valthyrra or the Commander indicates that he can, then you are going to listen. Refusing his orders under those circumstances is the same as refusing their own. You know that. You would lose your rank, and you might find yourself without a ship, if Valthyrra turns you out, because no one else will take you in. If you do not like the way things are, then get out while it is your idea."
"But things do not have to be that way," Barthan argued with equal force. "If we stand together on this…"
"You still do not understand," Baressa interrupted him, her tone cold enough to be intimidating. "Management wants it this way, and I agree. Too many of the senior pack leaders — which you are not — stand with him in this matter. You cannot gather enough support to have your own way, so you had better shut up before you get yourself in trouble."
"I believe that I have had enough of your game," Shayrn agreed.
"Train, you need to take your young friend aside and make a few matters clear to him," Baressa continued. "I thought that you, at least, were old enough to know better."
With that she took Velmeran by the arm and led him down the broad corridor toward the pilots' apartments. The younger pilot was too stunned to know what to think. He could only recall that Baressa had been his stern teacher only a few years before. For her to champion him so firmly left him speechless.
"Barthan is a fool and he always will be," she complained aloud, more to herself. "Rank and seniority are all-important to him, now that he has a measure of his own, and he would like to forget that the only pack leader he is senior to is you. I guess that means a lot to him, since he does not have a fourth of your talent or quick wits. You threaten him, you might say, not that I am offering that as an excuse. And I certainly do not want you worrying about trouble from him. Train is our other resident fool, but he just needed to have things spelled out for him. He will keep Barthan under control now."
She paused, noticing that Velmeran was staring at her, and smiled. "I would not have you intimidated by me, either. It was one thing for me to be a little strict with you when I was teaching you how to run a pack. The time for teaching is past, but there are still some things that I can do to help you. And if I am standing firmly behind you, the other pack leaders will too. Seven of them, at least. That seems like a good percentage to me, certainly at this point."
"Help me what?" Velmeran asked.
Baressa paused and regarded him closely. "You are no fool, Meran. And you are certainly no coward. Now you tell me what I am talking about."
"I think that you mean to make me Commander-designate," he answered cautiously, afraid that she would scorn him if he guessed wrong. Up until Consherra's very blatant bints, he had always thought of Baressa as filling that role, officially or not.
She nodded firmly. "So you do understand. I know that it was understood that I was the only candidate for that position. And I would have taken it for the same reason that your mother did, because I was needed. But I do not want it."
"And you think I do?" Velmeran asked.
"No, but you will take it. You are better than I am," she replied as she turned to leave.
"But I am not ready to command this ship!" he protested.
Baressa paused to glance back at him. "You will be."
5
In Donalt Trace's experience there was nothing so boring and pointless as a formal dinner party. These were the battles that young Richart Lake had been brought up to fight; in his opinion, he could do more good for trade and commerce by fighting Starwolves, subduing unaffiliated fringe worlds and chastising the colonies. He had to admit that the old Councilor and his grandson did fight and win major battles armed with only hors d'oeuvres and wineglasses, hammering out sweet deals for Farstell Trade or alliances between the allegedly unified sectors. The only thing he failed to understand was why he was expected to have any part of it.
Tonight he had retreated into a dark corner. Councilor Lake's suite was spacious, occupying two-thirds of an entire level of the Sector Residence. He preferred the cavernous halls and chambers of the Lake Mansion, some distance down the coast from Vannkarn, where it was easy to lose one's self without committing the social felony of simply disappearing. Quarters were too close in this apartment, but for the moment he was left alone, a glass of warm, flat wine in his hand, as he watched young Richart, seemingly a boyish figure surrounded by the old fools he was deftly maneuvering into trade agreements that were not to their best advantage.
Just then he saw the Councilor's personal servant approaching in a very purposeful manner and used that as an excuse to remove himself, suspecting that there must be some message. Only an attack of Starwolves would get him out of this entirely, and he knew that he would never be so lucky, but any respite would be welcome.
"A courier is in," Javarns explained. "There is a messenger who wishes to speak with you, sir."
"Here?"
The older man nodded. "He is waiting in the hall, sir."
"Thank you, Javarns," Trace said, handing him the half-empty glass. "I will speak with him outside."
The messenger was indeed waiting for him in the hallway just outside the suite's double doors, shifting nervously as he eyed the armed guard who had escorted him up. He was a young officer, no doubt captain and crew of the courier that had brought him (couriers were really stingships, their sophisticated attack systems removed to make room for a pocket-sized cabin and a tiny hold). One of Trace's greatest regrets was that the Union lacked an effective long-range achronic transceiver such as the Starwolves possessed, their own being barely good enough for in-system use.
"So?" he asked impatiently. "Are you out of Tallin?"
"Yes, sir!" The young officer snapped to attention and presented him the locked metal folder bearing the report. The Sector Commander only stared at it and shrugged.
"I have no time right now. You were there?" he asked, and the messenger nodded. "So you tell me, quick and simple, what happened. Did it work?"
"No, sir," the officer explained. "Apparently there was some malfunction in the decoy ship. It evaded but did not respond to contact from the station. It certainly did not explode."
Trace shrugged again. "Doesn't sound like my ship, if it evaded. The one we sent out wasn't that smart. I suppose we got whipped in the process?"
"Yes, sir. We lost all the system fleet," the messenger reported in a quiet voice, then brightened. "We did take a prisoner."