Change of Command

  A trim young man with a face like carved bronze. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Serrano," he said. "Ranger Briarly, your luggage will be transferred—"

  "Oh, call me Kate," she said, smiling. He didn't smile back.

  "You're to come aboard Gyrfalcon," he said. "It's the fastest route to Rockhouse Major, where the task force has reassembled—"

  "Are you arresting me?" Kate asked. She glanced around the docking lobby, decorated in what struck her as bland and chilly colors, muted blues and greens, and noted two men and one woman in R.S.S. uniform lurking by the entrance.

  "No, ma'am," the young man said. "Just transporting you, ma'am."

  Kate cocked her head and considered him. In her experience, young men his age melted with only one smile, and he hadn't. Well, his preferences might lie elsewhere, but still . . . "Fine," she said. "Let's go." He turned as quickly as she moved, and walked beside her through the entrance, where the others lined up after them, and then guided her across the wide passage to what the sign said was a dropchute. Kate stopped short.

  "I'm not going in there," she said. "I've heard about those."

  "You don't have them?"

  "No—we like floors in our elevators. No one's looking up my skirt—"

  "Fine—then we'll take the cross-station tram." He led her to the station, plugged some kind of datawand into a port, and the next tram stopped, doors opening exactly opposite them. Kate was impressed, and said so. He still wasn't melting. She looked him over again. He couldn't be a mango; she had known lots of mangos and they had a certain . . . feel. So either he really hated Texans, or . . . he was resisting her because he had a girl.

  Her first meal in the officers' mess gave her a chance to do more than mutter polite greetings.

  "Have you ever visited Familias space before, Ranger Briarly?" asked the executive officer, on one side of her. She was not sure what an executive officer did, but she had memorized the insignia, and knew he was a lieutenant commander.

  "No—and I hope I'm going to see more of it than the inside of a transfer station and this ship."

  "What would you like to see?"

  "Oh—all those sights the tourist brochures have. Langsdon's ice falls. Chuzillera's cloud forests. The Grand Council Chamber on Castle Rock. I'd like to have seen your king while you still had one."

  "Why?"

  "It's so romantic," Kate said. "All those dramacubes, set in misty Vaalonia or—what's that place where they go running around on horses chasing after a fox? We just have ordinary people doing ordinary things—" She didn't really believe that, but wanted to see their reaction.

  "The storycubes you people export are extraordinary enough. Those lawnhorns . . ."

  "Longhorns," Kate said. "And the stories are old—last century's revival of Wild West—"

  "Annie—that women in fringes with all those guns—?"

  "Stories," Kate said firmly. "Not real history. And that's what I'm here for, to talk about real history."

  "But you're a . . . Ranger . . ." No doubt about it, they were twitchy about that word. With reason, though the reason was a lie.

  "I'm a Ranger," Kate said firmly. "They weren't. They were a bunch of maniacs with no legitimate connection whatsoever to real Rangers."

  "So you say," said one voice down the table. Kate leaned forward.

  "So I say. Are you calling me a liar?"

  The air seemed to congeal around her. She smiled; the silence lengthened. The officer at the far end of the table cleared his throat.

  "Mr. Chesub, that was rude; apologize."

  "I'm sorry, Ranger Briarly," a young man said. "I'm not accusing you of lying." But by his tone he still wasn't convinced.

  Kate let her smile soften. "We have had just as many freaks and nutcases as any other culture," she said. "But the people who stole your Chair's daughter are not ours. The Lone Star Confederation wouldn't tolerate that kind of behavior. We Lone Star women wouldn't tolerate that kind of behavior." Nervous chuckles. "Not that we're . . . however you say it . . . hostile to men or anything . . ."

  "Well, you don't look like the pictures of their women—but you're all from Texas originally, right?"

  "Not really." Kate settled into lecture mode. "The Lone Star Confederation was organized for space exploration back on Earth, and most of its members then were North Americans—many of them from the exact region then known as Texas. But most of the people in Texas came from somewhere else, all over North America. Sure, there were some hard-shell Texans among them—people whose families had been in Texas just about forever—but a lot of them weren't. And Lone Star has always welcomed immigrants who share our philosophy—"

  "Which is?"

  "Fear God and nobody else, ride tall, shoot straight, never tell a lie, dance with who brung you, and never renege on a handshake."

  Another silence, this one slightly shocked, but responsive.

  " `Dance with who brung you?' "

  "Another way of saying honor your earlier obligations—don't just look at current profit."

  "Interesting."

  "And your philosophy?" Kate asked.

  For a long moment no one answered, then young Lt. Serrano spoke up. "If I understand yours, it's much the same. Tell the truth, keep promises, stand by friends, don't turn your back on an enemy."

  "I notice you didn't mention God," Kate said. "Is that because those NewTex nutcases have you scared, or what? Any of you folks got religion?"

  This time the captain spoke up. "The Familias legal codes—and those of the Regular Space Service—allow freedom of belief, and freedom of religious practices which are not directly harmful to others. Because of the wide variety of beliefs, many held strongly, we do not generally discuss religion with those we do not know."

  Kate cocked her head and gave him her best mischievous kid grin. "In other words, it's bad manners to talk about God?"

  "Something like that," he said.

  "You people must have been descended from Anglicans," Kate said. "Well, I'm not here to make you nervous, though I don't see why a good argument about God should do anything but keep your digestion going. It's one of our favorite forms of entertainment."

  "You . . . uh . . . are religious yourself?"

  Kate looked him in the eye. "You bet. So far as I know, every member of my family back to Old Earth has been, and I'm not about to break tradition."

  "And what, since you don't mind our asking, is your religion?"

  "Baptist," Kate said. "But my mother's family was about half Anglican, and my dad's grandmother was Methodist. There's even the odd Presbyterian in there somewhere."

  Glances passed back and forth.

  "Y'all don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

  "Not . . . exactly." That was a female officer.

  "You do have Christians, right?"

  "Certainly . . . many kinds, though I don't know all the names."

  "Then just call me a Christian, and don't worry about it. God'll sort it out."

  "Do you have any . . . uh . . . dietary or special needs we should know about?"

  "No, that's somebody else. I'll eat anything I like the flavor of, any day of the week. We don't drink alcohol on the Baptist side of our family, 'cept when we're being young and sowing wild oats. Every once in awhile I sow an oat myself."

  She sensed the mood warming even more.

  "What do your kind of rangers do?"

  "Anything that needs doin'. We're a lot like a police force, but we tend to work alone. Keep order, track down the bad guys, help the people who need it."

  "How do you know who the bad guys are?" came a call from down the table.

  "Same way you do, I expect," Kate said. "Liars, cheats, killers, the kind of people who'd pour gasoline on a dog—" She felt the total noncomprehension of that one, and stopped. "You have dogs, don't you?"

  "Oh . . . like . . . dogs? Hounds or something?"

  "Dogs, like hounds, sheepdogs, cowdogs, even those awful nippy-yippy poodley things. And
do you have mean people who hurt animals?"

  "Yeah . . ." That more cautiously, as if the speaker weren't entirely sure.

  "Well, we don't much like people who mistreat animals, kids, or old ladies. Or old men, for that matter. They're on my list of bad guys."

  By the end of that meal she sensed that most of the officers were at least neutral, if not actually friendly.

  The next day, Kate met the antique historian, Professor Meyerson, and sighed to herself. So predictable, that type. The lady academic, tweedy and warty . . . not that Meyerson actually had warts, but she looked as if they should be there to complete the official look. Even on Bluebonnet, known for its beautiful women, a certain kind of academic woman looked like this, only with better tweeds.

  At least Meyerson knew more about the Lone Star Confederation than the rest of the people she met. And she was finally able to clear up a question that bedeviled Kate for days.

  "That young fellow, Barin Serrano?"

  "Yes . . ." Meyerson, head down in a scanner as usual, didn't seem to be paying close attention.

  "What do you know about him?"

  "He's giving you trouble?" Meyerson's head came up, and her expression was mingled mischief and surprise.

  "No, just the opposite. He's ignoring me as if I had bark like a mesquite tree, but I just can't believe he's a mango."

  Meyerson laughed, a surprisingly full-throated laugh for a frowsty old professor. "He's not. He's engaged to another officer, in the first place, and in the second place he's burdened with all those NewTex women and children."

  "Why him in particular?"

  "They consider him their protector, and for them this means he's the only one who can make decisions about them. The Regular Space Service has taken his pay to help support them, so he can't marry until he figures out what to do with them."

  "I suppose shipping them back isn't an option?"

  "No, they'd kill them, at least mute them. He's stuck with them."

  "That's too bad." Kate thought about it. "He's a nice boy, and if he's minded to marry, he should have the chance. You suppose those women would listen to me?"

  Meyerson looked her up and down. "As a messenger of the devil, maybe. They're very serious about their religion."

  "And I'm very serious about mine, Wally." They had come to first names several days before, and Kate refused to struggle with Waltraude after the first few tries. "You don't have to go barefoot and wear rags to be a believer." She cocked her head. "You ought to send those women to us—we'll make real Texans out of 'em. They had to have some gumption to get up and leave in the first place."

  Day by day, the officers relaxed around her, and if she hadn't had the appetite of a healthy horse, she'd have starved, for all the talking at the table.

  She talked more than she asked questions, and the information flowed her way without her having to ask. By the time they reached Rockhouse Major, she had most of them eating out of her hand, men and women, and had invited most of them to come visit sometime. She thought a few of them actually would.

  All but the young lieutenant junior grade who had remained coolly distant no matter what. Well, if he wanted to sulk, let him. She had many, many other fish to fry, and others had told their own tales of Barin Serrano and Esmay Suiza. So he was in love with a hero—if the stories were true, Suiza would have made a good Ranger—and perhaps worried about whether she'd stick it out.

  Security concerns kept her from touring Rockhouse Major, though she could tell it was much bigger than any of the orbital stations in the Lone Star Confederation. A Fleet shuttle took her downside, and she got her first look at Castle Rock.

  Boring, she thought, but did not of course say. The government buildings, mostly gray stone, looked substantial and dull. Insides matched the outsides; the Foreign Office was all dark paneling and dark tiles and thick dark green or blue carpeting in the offices she was led to. Everyone wore dark suits—men and women both—and had a dark, muffled, hurried way of speaking.

  "Sera Briarly—so pleased—" That was the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the first person she'd seen in this dismal building who looked completely awake. He wore a different style of shirt, with a tiny ruffle at the collar, and he had several blue-and-silver rings in his ear. She knew what that would mean in San Antone, but not here. "You are so . . . so decorative, my dear."

  This she had met before, twinkling of the eyes and all. "Mister Minister," she said, putting out her hand. "I'm Ranger Briarly, but you can call me Kate."

  "But I thought your . . . er . . . Rangers . . . were sort of . . . er . . . policemen?"

  "That's right," Kate said cheerfully; she saw some of the man's staff wincing, and grinned at them, too. The way they acted, you'd think this solid stone building would fall over if anyone spoke louder than a murmur.

  "But surely you—you're not—I mean, you're more of a . . . er . . . honorary title . . ."

  That was going too far. "Mister Minister, I am a Ranger, same as any other Ranger; I qualified on the same course, and I can and will demonstrate my skills any time you or anyone else questions them." She had no weapon, of course, but she could break this fellow's neck—or any other bone—without one.

  "Oh . . . certainly, certainly. Now, uh . . . we are having a reception in your honor this afternoon, in the Palace. I hope you aren't too tired . . ."

  "Not at all." She was never too tired to party.

  The Palace was another pile of gray stone, with outcrops on one side of a curious buff color. Inside, the formal rooms had the same sort of dull, dark look as those in the Minister's offices.

  Kate was on her best behavior, smiling like a car dealer. She had been through her share of fancy events, and knew that her role, as honored guest, was to smile and tell everyone how beautiful things were. She told the new Speaker what an honor it was to meet him, and thought what piggy eyes he had. She told his wife what a lovely dress she had on, even though she longed to tell the woman that she should never in this world wear that shade of green, it made her look sick. She told the Foreign Minister, whose name was Pedar Orregiemos, that she liked his ruffled shirt, though she contemplated mentioning that a ruffled shirt plus those pretty rings in the ears would have branded him an obvious mango in the Lone Star Confederation. Then she overheard part of a conversation and learned that the local slang for the same thing was "pet."

  It was all intensely boring, since she didn't know enough yet to make sense of most that she heard. Her feet hurt, and her head was beginning to throb. Then Pedar bustled up to her leading a tall blonde woman whose face Kate recognized from her briefings.

  "And this is Ranger Briarly," Pedar said. "Brun Meager Thornbuckle . . ."

  Kate looked at the blonde woman who had been a prisoner so long, whose father was dead, whose predicament had led directly to her own presence here—and saw a familiar shadow in those blue eyes. Automatically, she softened her approach. "Hi there—I hope you can forgive my havin' that kind of a title."

  "Well—" the woman's voice was slightly husky. "You don't look much like their Rangers."

  "Hon, they aren't Rangers; they're trash. Lower'n a groundhog's burrow. A brick can call itself a diamond—doesn't make it one."

  The woman grinned, her face suddenly relaxing. "And you're the genuine diamond?"

  "Pure carbon crystal, that's me," Kate said. "Cubic, but not zirconium."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Sorry—slang's hard to translate. Listen, my feet hurt—can we go sit down somewhere?" If she could make friends with this woman—and she liked her already—maybe she could get the embargo lifted faster than anyone had thought. Even Kate at her most optimistic hadn't thought she'd get to meet the cause of it all, or that the woman would want to meet her. But that was obvious from the satisfaction on her face: she'd come here with a purpose, and Kate was part of it.

  "The reception's nearly over, Sera—Ranger—" Pedar said. "The car will soon be here to take you back to your hotel."

  "Why don't
you come with me?" Kate asked Brun, as much to annoy Pedar as anything else. "We could have dinner—"

  Brun smiled. "Thanks—I'd like that." Pedar scowled, and Kate grinned to herself. Had he thought he was going to move in on her himself? Fat chance.

  They ate in Kate's suite, which was as dull as everything else she'd seen so far. What was the good of silk on the walls if it was gray? And muted green and blue upholstery . . . cold, unwelcoming, dull.

  "You people don't like bright colors much, do you?" Kate asked, halfway through a main course of some nondescript meat with a lot of fancy vegetables heaped over it. They hadn't even had steak on the menu.

  Brun looked around. "This isn't very bright, is it? I'm used to it, I guess. Castle Rock is pretty conservative."

  "That's what you call it? That Foreign Office is like a funeral home; the only color in it is your Minister, and he's—"

  "Awful," Brun said, wrinkling her nose. "Such a little climber—"

  "Climber?"

  "Oh, yes. Minor family, so he pushes and climbs, trying to make himself bigger. Well, he got a Ministry, though who knows what he did for Hobart to get it."

  "Hobart's your Speaker?"

  "Right. But Pedar wants more . . . you wouldn't believe, he's after my mother."

  "Your mother?" Kate reminded herself that this was Lord Thornbuckle's widow.

  "Yes. He had the nerve to tell me, when Mother'd left for Sirialis, that he could now offer so much to a lonely widow—I nearly threw him out the window."

  Kate shook her head. "I wondered if maybe he was a . . . what is it, pet? . . . with those rings and that shirt."

  "No—the rings are Rejuvenant rings. They're actually the medical codes: they can be implanted or worn, but a lot of people like to wear them."

  "How many times has he been pickled?"

  "I don't know. I didn't count. Several. Why do you call it pickled?"

  "Preserved, you know." Kate held up one of the wrinkled green things she hoped was a pickled cucumber. "Lasts nearly forever."

  "Mmm." Brun ate silently a few minutes, then asked, "What do you make of our Speaker?"