Change of Command

  "Brun wants to . . ." Miranda said. "She said . . . she doesn't want to hate them, but she can't live with them around. But neither of us can face the thought of an orphanage."

  "She's right," Cecelia said. "You said we were alike—we may be, that much. If I had borne them, in her circumstances, I'd have to give them up. It's a big universe; they need never know."

  She left Miranda in the doorway and went on into the room, nodding to the nurses, and sitting on the floor. Red, his hair an orange flame, put a fat thumb in his mouth, but Brownie grinned at her. Cecelia pulled out the ring of keys from the stable and jingled it. His grin widened, and he came to her, grabbing for the keys. Though he looked little like Brun, his boldness and the sparkle in his blue eyes suggested Brun's attitudes.

  Cecelia did not think of herself as a religious person, but she found herself praying to something, somewhere, to give these boys a better life than their beginning.

  "Lady Cecelia!" That was Brun; Cecelia turned.

  "You look well," she said. Brun looked well physically—her tall body trim and fit, her tumbled gold curls in a riot around her head. But the clear gaze was shadowed, darkening when she looked at the boys.

  "I'm fine," Brun said. "Considering everything."

  "I agree with you and your mother," Cecelia said. "These boys need a proper home, not to mention names."

  Brun's face stiffened, then she grinned. "Still tactful, I see."

  "As ever," Cecelia agreed. "My dear, I'm almost ninety, and rejuvenation did nothing to soften my personality. Why don't we do it today?"

  "Today?" Both Miranda and Brun looked shocked; so did the nurses.

  "They're starting to talk; they understand even more. Every day you wait makes it harder on them."

  "I . . . want to be sure they have good homes . . . that they lack for nothing . . ." Brun said.

  "A good home is a loving home," Cecelia said, with all the confidence of the childless. "And right now they're lacking the most basic needs of all—a name, a parent—"

  "But what will you do with them?"

  "Take them to a safe and loving home. Brun, you've known me all your life. Have I ever lied to you?" Brun shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. Miranda started to speak, but Cecelia waved her down. "I have told you the truth, even when it wasn't what you wanted to hear. I tell you the truth now—if you let me have these boys I will see to it that they find a good home. I will do it myself. . . ."

  "But your schedule—"

  "Is my own. Miranda, you were twitting me with my self-indulgence. This is what self-indulgence is good for. I can help you, right now, because I have no other obligations in the way." She softened her voice. "Please let me."

  Brun looked down, then nodded. Cecelia could see the gleam of tears in her eyes.

  Miranda stared at Cecelia a long moment, then said, "All right. And I still have money for them—a start in a new life—"

  "Good." Cecelia tried to think what next. She had said today without really thinking what that would mean, but now the two nursemaids were watching her, waiting for orders. She had no idea how long it took to pack up two children, or where to take them, but she knew she must not hesitate. She spoke to the nursemaids.

  "Are you full-time employees, and would you be able to travel for a month or so?"

  "Yes, ma'am," said one of them. "We're from Sirialis, originally, but we thought we'd be staying for years . . ."

  "Then will you please start packing—or have someone help you pack—the boys' things? I need to talk to Miranda and make some arrangements—" She would need a bigger ship—a momentary pang, when she thought of how easy it would have been with Sweet Delight, and Heris Serrano, to take the twins and their nursemaids anywhere. Reservations on a commercial liner? No, too much chance of publicity. She'd have to lease a ship and crew. No, to start with she'd need another room—set of rooms—in her hotel. She'd made reservations for one. Or perhaps another hotel. Ideas whirled through her head like leaves before a wind. "Miranda, let's go to your suite—we have business."

  "Yes, Cecelia." Miranda nodded at the nursemaids, already beginning to gather toys. "I'll send a maid in to do the packing; just be sure the boys are clean and dressed. And I'll take care of your salaries and references."

  Then she led the way to her suite. Brun came along with them, her face once more stiff with misery.

  "Do you have any notion where you're going with them?" Miranda asked, when they were again in her sitting room.

  "Yes." The thought had come as she walked down the passage. "I know the perfect planet, and probably the perfect couple. Do you want to know?"

  "Not . . . now. Later, maybe." Brun sat hunched, her eyes on the carpet.

  "Fine, then. Miranda, I'll need the use of your comset—"

  "I'll just call Poisson—"

  "No. I'll make the reservations myself." Only as far as the first hotel, she told herself. From there, she would arrange transportation. And she wanted no records in the Palace computers, where reporters might already have a tap.

  "I have resources—"

  "You said you were feuding with Bunny's brother—"

  "In my own right. At least let me help."

  "Of course." Cecelia turned politely to Brun as Miranda opened a line to her bank. "Brun—have you heard from that girl—Hazel, wasn't it?—lately?"

  Brun looked up. "I worry about her. She seems to be doing fine, for someone who's been through so much, but she never has admitted how bad it was. She keeps wanting to get me to meet with that Ranger's wife—Prima Bowie."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know." Brun shifted restlessly. "Hazel liked her, I think. Says she was kind. Hazel feels sorry for her, being a stranger in our society. But she chose it; she wasn't abducted."

  "Are they all still together, all those women?" asked Cecelia.

  "As far as I know. I don't . . . really care."

  Miranda broke in. "I've deposited a lump sum in your account, Cecelia; I can send more later if—"

  "Don't worry about it," Cecelia said. "Tell me—do the maids take the boys out to play? In a park or anything?"

  "Not off the grounds. The news media are bad enough as it is."

  "Then—how about palace employees with children? Are there any?"

  "I'm sure there are, but I don't know who. . . ."

  "Perhaps the maids will. We don't want publicity when we take the children out."

  The little crocodile of children from Briary Meadows Primary School being herded through the public rooms as part of their field trip acquired a short tail. They didn't pay much attention; they were tired of glass-fronted cases full of trophies, letters, gifts to this or that famous person by another famous person, the rooms of interesting furniture which they could not touch, the silken ropes on which they were not supposed to swing, the constant admonitions to pay attention, be quiet, quit straggling or crowding.

  The children had been promised a stop at Ziffra's, the famous ice-cream parlor, if they were good, and only a steady murmur of commands kept them from trampling one another on the way out the door. The nursemaids, now wearing the green smocks of adult helpers in the school, complete with dangling nametags, brought up the rear, each with a toddler on her hip.

  Outside, the remaining media scavengers waited for any sign of Brun or her children, but ignored the confusion of piping voices and busy adults. They had seen bright green buses with the school name arrive, and crowds of obvious schoolchildren arrive, teachers hustling them into neat lines and adult volunteers scampering to catch the inevitable escapees. At least one such field trip arrived every day; the Palace had always been a favorite tourist site, and busloads of children, retirees, and convention attendees showed up so often that no one in the press corps paid them any mind.

  Now, as the chattering youngsters piled into the buses, and the harried adults counted, compared notes, and shut the doors, they ignored the confusion, keeping an eye out instead for the return of Lady Cecelia, whose limousine
waited at the other end of the car park.

  A half hour later, Cecelia left, smiling into the holo lens and accepting congratulations on her win in the Senior Trials. She fielded a couple of questions about her breeding program, expressed sympathy for Bunny's family, and stepped into the waiting limousine, which took her to the medical center where Kevil Mahoney was still listed in critical condition.

  And later that afternoon, the two school volunteers whose green smocks and nametags had been borrowed for a time walked out the service entrance with other Palace staff who lived offsite. No one paid attention to them, either.

  Miranda listened to the silence and felt something shift inside her mind. She had not really been able to hear the twins, but knowing they were not there, that she could not hear them even if she walked down the hall, tipped her toward some distant horizon. She glanced at the clock. Was it still so early? Surely Cecelia had not been able to get them offplanet yet. She could check . . . she stopped, her hand outstretched to the comunit.

  No. As if it were a robotic arm she were operating, she concentrated on her hand, and brought it back to her lap.

  They were gone. They were gone forever.

  Lightness filled her, as if she were a transparent husk of herself. She might blow away . . . but of course that was nonsense. She was tired, very tired, and—

  "Mother?"

  Weight and darkness returned so suddenly she could hardly breathe. "Yes, Brun?"

  "You do think they'll be all right."

  "Of course." Miranda took a deep breath. "Cecelia is reliable, in her own way, and she will make sure of it."

  "Good." Brun came into the room tentatively, as if she were unsure of her welcome. "I feel . . . strange."

  Of course she felt strange. No one could survive what she had survived, and not feel strange, the moment life gave time to stop and notice.

  "Sit down," Miranda said. "Have some tea." Cecelia had not even finished hers. Brun sat as gingerly as she had come in. They nibbled pastries in silence for awhile, then Brun set down her plate.

  "What's going to happen with the family holdings?"

  Not the question Miranda had expected, but one she was glad to deal with at the moment. "It's going to be very difficult," Miranda said. "When your father mobilized the Fleet to go after you, he antagonized a lot of people, his own family included."

  "Too much for one person," Brun murmured.

  "It wasn't their daughter," Miranda said. "And it wasn't your decision; it was his. But Harlis gained ground with the rest of the family then—he'd already been working on it, claiming that Bunny was spending too much time and energy on Council business, and neglecting the family interests. He said Buttons was too young and inexperienced; he started demanding silly, time-wasting reports, and nitpicking everything. Buttons has had a lot to learn in only a few years, but he's doing very well. It's just that Harlis promises he could do better. And now—well, he's determined to get Sirialis."

  "That's stupid," Brun said, with some of her old arrogance. "That's not profit; the place has never made a profit—"

  "That's partly Harlis's point. He claims it could, if it were managed properly. Which does not, of course, include foxhunting . . . or only as a commercial enterprise. He's strong on commercial enterprises. I don't know if you've kept track of the branches he manages—"

  "No," Brun said.

  "You can look it up later, then. He thinks Sirialis would pay as a mature colony prospect—"

  "Bring in colonists!?"

  "Yes. In his view, the planet is full of wasted space that ought to be put to profitable use. Buttons pointed out the agricultural areas, but he insists that this is not enough, and he's claiming that Bunny's title was only a life one. Kevil had been working on this, before the attack, but—but now he can't help either."

  Brun scowled. "I wonder if dear Uncle Harlis had anything to do with the assassination."

  "No, dear. It was not Harlis." That came out with more emphasis than she intended, and Brun looked at her with dawning comprehension.

  "Mother—you know something? You know who did it?"

  "I know it wasn't Harlis." Damn, she'd have to figure out something, or Brun would go charging off, straight into danger again.

  "You don't believe it was the NewTex—?"

  "No. Although that's still the official line, I do not."

  "Then who?"

  "Brun, I am not having this conversation with you. Not now, at least. We need to talk about your father's family, and their probable actions, and some of the other economic matters. These things must be dealt with now. Your father's murderers . . . can wait."

  "The trail—"

  "Will never be too cold. Brun, please. For once in your life listen to me—we must be careful."

  Brun had blanched at that; the muscles along her jaw bunched. "I want to go to the Guernesi Republic."

  "No. I need you here."

  "For what, an exhibition?"

  "No, for an ally. If we are to defend our position, we must all help. Your sisters are already busy—up to their eyeballs in their family responsibilities, but trying to line up support. Buttons and Sarah are both working flat out. I need help, someone whose loyalty is undoubted—I need you."

  "Oh . . ." Brun looked past her, into some distance Miranda could not imagine.

  "You were willing enough to help Cecelia," she said, and hated the sharpness in her voice.

  "You really need me?" Brun asked.

  Miranda gave her a sharp look. "Of course—no, let me say that more precisely. Yes, I need you. No one else can do what you can; no one else in the family has the training and experience."

  "You're serious . . . but you've never needed me. I'm just the troublemaker . . ." Still, an uncertain note had come into her voice.

  "No. You're the one who can survive trouble. Brun, please—help me."

  Brun's face twisted. "I don't know if I can . . ."

  "You can if you will," Miranda said firmly. "I want to find who murdered your father, and who is trying to dismantle the Familias Regnant, and for what purpose. I am not sure they are the same person or organization, but they might well be."

  Brun watched her perfect, serene, immaculate mother with amazement. For her whole life, she had seen her mother as the icon everyone thought her. Her father was the active one, the doer and maker and shaper of events. Her mother smoothed his way by smiling and standing by.

  Now she saw the real person behind the label of "mother" and "Bunny Thornbuckle's wife" . . . a woman as intelligent, tough and knowledgeable as her father had ever been. As dangerous, perhaps, as Lorenza had been. From the gleam in Miranda's eye, her mother had just noticed that recognition, and was enjoying the surprise.

  "I made no mistake, picking Brun Meager for my nom de guerre," Brun said, testing her hypothesis.

  Her mother smiled. "Quite so. I'm glad you recognize it. Now—are you with me?"

  "Yes. If I can . . ."

  "You can. Not all at once, but—let me go on here. I warned your father, after that disgraceful affair on Patchcock, to beware of his relatives doing what that Morrelline woman did. Granted, her brothers deserved it, but others could do the same with less reason. He was sure he had it taken care of, in part because old Viktor Barraclough had always been his friend and mentor. But about the time of the Xavier invasion, he and Kevil found irregularities . . . purchases of company shares they couldn't put a name to, changes in some of the boards of directors which didn't make sense. The military crisis had to come first, of course; and after that, with proof of traitors in Fleet, they were far more concerned with that, and with Grand Council business. But what it's come down to is that Harlis has enough shares, and enough votes in various boards, that he can make a plausible case that much of your father's estate was actually not his personally. I think he'd fiddled the files, but I haven't had time to work on it. And I can't do it here."

  "Could you do it at Appledale?"

  "Not really . . . I need to go
to Sirialis; that's where we stored the backup data. Your father thought I was paranoid, sometimes, but I insisted that we take a complete readoff every half-year, and just archive it. I think that's why Harlis is so determined to get Sirialis; he suspects that the data are there somewhere."

  "Then you should go to Sirialis," Brun said. "He can't keep you away, can he?"

  "Not yet. But I couldn't leave you alone here—"

  Brun interrupted. "You wanted my help; let me give it. Nothing's likely to happen at the next Grand Council meeting anyway; they're probably still in shock, and they'll waffle for days."

  "I'm not so sure; that Conselline fellow got himself elected interim Speaker—"

  "Whatever happens can't matter as much as stopping Harlis. Go on. I'll attend the Council meeting, and let you know what happens. Promise." Brun reached over and patted her mother's arm. "We aren't going to let Harlis take everything, and we aren't going to let some idiot Conselline ruin the Familias. If that's what's happening."

  Her mother gave her an appraising look. "Sometimes, Brun, you are remarkably like your father."

  "Sorry . . ."

  "No. Don't be. All right—first we'll clear out of this—" With a wave of her arm, she indicated the entire Palace. "Then I'll go to Sirialis."

  Cecelia stopped on the way to the hospital to contact her hotel, and reassure the front staff that the two young women and two children were the individuals she had authorized to register in her name. Another two bedrooms? No problem. Cecelia grinned to herself; she had been so wise to invest in a hotel here on Castle Rock, rather than depending on the hospitality of friends.

  When she got to the hospital, she was told that she had just missed George. She went upstairs, and stood in the corridor outside Special Care, looking at the motionless form in the bed.

  He looked wretched, she thought; she wondered if she had looked as bad. He wasn't conscious, they told her; they were still struggling to control the pressure on his brain, and he was deeply sedated except for weekly checks of neurological function. Cecelia blinked back tears, remembering herself in that drug-induced coma . . . wondering if Kevil were more conscious than they realized . . . and silently promised him she would return and get him out of there, no matter what. She found it hard to leave, but she had something even more urgent to do.