At this there was a flurry of movement and excited talk among the members. Solinari waited until the room quieted. "We certainly do need to look further into these things, but at the moment, what Fleet needs is your support in putting down the mutiny. This means not only money, but your commitment to the Familias. We know that the mutineers have approached some of you, offering protection or making threats. We know they may try to use your private worlds to hide out or resupply. We need to know that the Grand Council supports the loyal elements in Fleet, that you won't make any special deals—"
"Well, if you're not protecting us, we have to get help where we can—" said someone from the very top row.
"Traitor!" yelled a young Barraclough; Brun saw Viktor lean toward him, scowling.
"It's just an excuse to ask for more money," said Oskar Morrelline. "The whole thing's a fabrication—"
In moments, the simmering tension of the chamber had boiled over into chaos, members standing and yelling at each other, shaking their fists. The Speaker clearly lacked the presence to bring them to order, and finally abandoned the attempt. Brun, sensing that yelling might soon come to blows, rose and went down the steps to the front. They had hoped no such action would be necessary, but just in case . . .
She noticed that people quieted as she passed their Tables; a few even spoke her name. She ignored them, walking as Miranda would have walked, cool and serene. She knew movement would draw attention, and movement like this—nonthreatening, calm—would compel by its contrast. The noise had lessened considerably by the time she got to the lowest level.
Pearsall was wringing his hands, his face pale. Brun smiled at him, and held out her hand. "May I try, Ser Pearsall?"
"It's—it's hopeless," he said. "You'll have to call in the security to clear the chamber."
"Possibly," Brun said, "but it's worth a try, isn't it? We haven't had to clear the chamber in ninety odd years."
He handed her the gavel and stepped back. Brun flicked on the Speaker's mic and glanced around. Most of the arguers were at least glancing her way now and then to see what was happening, but they weren't ready to pay attention. She reached into the recess under the podium where—as Kevil had told her—a loud-hailer was stowed for emergencies, should the power go out. She picked it up.
"Stop this nonsense." The roar of the loud-hailer silenced them all for a critical moment, as they tried to figure out who held it and what was happening. Brun blinked the lights, and spoke more calmly, but still in the loud-hailer. "We have serious issues to discuss—and I mean discuss, not have screaming tantrums over."
"Who told you—!" began Oskar Morrelline.
"Sit down, Ser Morrelline, and be quiet. If you wish to be recognized, you will request it with your button."
"You—" he glared at her as if he would leap down three tiers and knock her to the ground, but men on either side of him pulled him back to his seat, whispering urgently in his ears.
"Thank you," Brun said. She put down the loud-hailer and set the Speaker's mic to a medium volume. "I see many lights are lit. Please wait your turn; please limit what you have to say to factual information or a brief expression of support or opposition to the topic." She took the lights in order, according to the computer's log.
The first to speak, having pressed their buttons before the uproar, now had trouble remembering what they had wanted to say. Brun waited for them, not rushing them. By the time ten had spoken, the others were all settling down, like a team of restive horses that now felt an experienced hand at the reins. She was careful not to grin, not to let them see the triumph she felt. She went on being calm and cool and perfectly fair until even the Consellines were able to leave off sarcasm and discuss the issues. She had seen her father do this often enough. Boring them into good behavior, he'd called it.
When the debate on Ageists and Rejuvenants heated up again, Brun stepped in.
"This is an important issue. We must come to some new understanding of how to constitute our government. But right now, at this time, we need to make sure we have a government, and a polity to govern. We have heavily armed warships roaming around inside our borders, any one of which could hold a planet hostage. Suppose one or a group of them decided to take over a colony world? Some colonies do not even have efficient communications access out of their own system. You know more and more of your children have been going to the colonies—do you want to deliver them to slavery?"
"No . . ." came a murmur.
"Most of us here own stock in, if we don't completely own, the trading consortia that move our goods from place to place. What will piracy do to our profits?"
A thoughtful silence.
"What we must do is secure our borders, and rid ourselves of the menace of these mutineer ships. We don't want them defecting to the Benignity or the Bloodhorde—"
"No one would go there—"
"No? Why not? If they are, as Minister Solinari says, part of a cult of strength-through-killing, isn't this just a sophisticated version of the Bloodhorde's beliefs? I can see a mutineer or so running to the Bloodhorde—and then teaching them how to maintain and use the advanced technology of the ships they stole. I can also see the Benignity being extremely upset with us for being so careless."
Another thoughtful silence.
"So—you think we ought to do what?" That was Ronnie's father.
"First give Fleet our support, as Minister Solinari said, to put down the mutiny and secure our borders. When we've done that—which should not take long—then we need to deal with these other issues. We need to reassure our neighbors that we are not planning to encroach on them. We need to find a way to open opportunities to more of our citizens—to the young, now kept from advancement by their elders who have rejuved repeatedly, and to those not in the Great Families—to the many people now shut out from all decision making."
"What? You'd let outsiders into the Grand Council?"
"Not
outsiders.
People who have been in our polity for generations . . . just ignored. But this is for later discussion. Right now, I'm calling a vote on Minister Solinari's request that investigation be deferred, and support be given to the Regular Space Service."
"You can't do that."
"I just did." Brun smiled at Cerion Conselline. "Ser Conselline, we all know that the chamber dissolved into disorder, into name-calling and useless arguments. It was necessary to restore order, and I did that. In doing so, I took over the authority to decide what issues would come up—and right now, I'm calling for a vote. You can criticize me later, but at this moment you will vote or abstain."
Brun stood there, unmoving and silent, as the votes began to trickle in. A flurry of "no" from the main Conselline Seats, a scattering of "yes" from minor houses, then a block of "yes" from the Barracloughs. Another cluster of "no" from several minor families among the Consellines. She'd hoped for a bigger margin; this would be down to the wire. Suddenly she noticed a scurry of movement among the younger Consellines. Votes began to change. She held up her hand. Everyone sat back and watched.
"Excuse me," she said, her eyes on the display, not on the Conselline tables. "I notice votes changing—this is legal, but I want to be sure that the individuals changing their votes do so willingly and not under any duress."
"They're changing your way," Oskar said.
"That's not the point," Brun said. "I'm not here to win; I'm here to see that you all have the opportunity to vote your true convictions. May I have affirmation?"
One of the young Conselline men stood up; Brun nodded. "I'm changing my vote on my own, 'cause I think it's about time we had some young leadership."
Two others rose and without waiting said, "What Jamar said." Brun nodded again, and waited until all the changers had spoken. Cerion and Oskar were white around the mouth but said nothing more.
When all the votes were in, Fleet had its support, with over two thirds of the votes. Brun turned to Solinari. "Ser Minister, we trust you will convey to Fleet our full support."
"Yes, sera." He did not grin, but his eyes twinkled at her.
In the next hours, days, weeks, Brun struggled to convince the Seats of the Great Families of the need to expand the franchise and find a way to organize a society that would be, in the long run, comprised of near-immortal individuals. Fleet's success against the mutineers helped her; as the news came in about the destruction of the mutineer flagship and the other mutineer ships, her prestige grew. When Fleet reported on the fate of Harlis Thornbuckle, other Families who had considered treating separately with the mutineers changed their minds and this also increased her influence.
The young people, those who had not rejuved yet, understood the problems of rejuvenation clearly, though they were less receptive to bringing in non-Family representatives.
"They're rejuvenating too," Brun pointed out, over and over. "They'll live just as long as your parents and grandparents—and they're going to want power. We can't stuff the rejuvenation tiger back into the box. It's out, and it's going to stay out. What we have to do is design a system people can live with, Rejuvenants and those who oppose rejuvenation alike. And right now, if you'll work with me, we have the votes. There are still more unrejuvenated than rejuvenated members."
The young Consellines, eager to profit from rejuvenation, were willing to consider how a long-lived society might work. Some religious groups opposed rejuvenation entirely; Brun listened to their objections and took them back to the pro-rejuvenation faction. "It has to work for everyone," she said again, over and over.
Brun also talked to those Rejuvenants who would meet with her, emphasizing her conviction that multiple rejuvenations gave them special skills and responsibilities as well as privileges. "You can afford to take the very long view," she said. "You can figure out for yourselves how to use that extra time productively, to contribute and not just hoard resources." She began to wonder, after a few of these meetings, if they'd all had bad rejuv drugs somewhere down the line, because most seemed unable to grasp the need to change. They liked the life they had; they could not believe that change might come by force.
"Believe it," Brun said. "When you're outnumbered enough, it doesn't matter what talents and skills you have. I learned that on Our Texas."
It was the first "youth" vote in Council which convinced many of them. Months of hard work lay ahead, but if Fleet could buy them the time, Brun was now sure that they would cooperate in the end.
R.S.S.
Vigilance
Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi. Arash grimaced at his face in the mirror. He looked well enough—the same tall, trim figure, the same lean face . . . handsome, actually. The same red hair, only lightly silvered at the temples. Decades of service in the Regular Space Service . . . combat experience . . . decorations . . . a fine upstanding officer.
A fine upstanding fool. A fool whose folly was now on his heels, like a hound on the trail of a fox . . . like a hunter after his prey. He shook his head abruptly and glared at himself. Time to quit dithering, to quit making faces in the mirror and do something.
But to lose it all . . . it hurt. The years, the friendships, the trust.
The certainty of his fate if he didn't do something.
It had gone already, gone before he'd realized it. It had gone the moment he went to Jules with his worries about Lepescu, gone irretrievably the first time he'd done Jules a favor that went over the line by so much as a hair.
He contemplated, as he had contemplated before, simply going off on his own. But with Fleet on a war footing, it was even less possible. Commodore Admiral Minor Livadhi, so well known, so distinctive in appearance, could not book a flight off this station without someone reporting it . . . he had to take that convoy out, knowing all the time that the hounds were on his trail, were closing in.
He had kept the contact code all these years, though he had never made contact himself. After the fiasco with the Crown Prince, he had never meant to . . . he had tried to forget. But now, in his need, his memory threw it up on his mind's screen, as clear as the day he first saw it. Perhaps he was in truth what Jules had made him in law.
Or perhaps half his luck would be with him, and there would be no corresponding code on this station. Then he would have to be honorable, have to be the naive prey who does not hear the hounds until too late. He would have to endure the discovery, the disgrace, the ruin of a lifetime's honest service for the sake of a youthful error. In a way, he wanted to be that innocent.
He called up the station's database, looking for the number that he hoped would not be there.
But it was. And as it would have to be, the number's owner was an unexceptionable business anyone might call or visit: Remembrances Gifts and Flowers. He placed the call, and spoke the words that would mean nothing without the knowledge in his head.