"Ummm. You remember that Ronnie is my nephew," Cecelia said, carefully erecting bombproof partitions in her mind against a loose tongue.
"Yes, of course."
"His parents are concerned about the situation on the world he's moved to. I hear that some supplies in the contract weren't actually delivered, that there's the possibility of interference with communications. What if the Consellines are counting on a certain percentage of colonies to fail, because they get their profit from selling colony shares?"
"I could believe that. But how can we prove it?"
"I don't know. We need Kevil," Cecelia said. "I'd better go visit him."
"It's—pretty bad. You know he lost an arm, too."
"No, I didn't. When I saw him in the hospital, before I took off with the babies, he was just a shape in the bed. And I didn't have much time."
"They're trying to grow a replacement, but so far it hasn't worked—they've lost three buds. And George says his memory's still damaged, and he can't concentrate."
"Is he still in the hospital?"
"No; they moved him to a rehab center, and then George took him home. Our wonderful new Speaker decided he was a security risk at the rehab center."
"Well, then. I'll go over tomorrow. Maybe I can be of some help."
"You know," Brun said more slowly, "Uncle Harlis runs the planetary development corporations for the Barraclough Sept." She took a long swallow of tea.
"What colony are Ronnie and Raffa in?"
"Excet-24."
"Rats. I was hoping it was one of ours—that way I could pump them. Excet Environmental Group is a Conselline corporation. I wonder why they chose that one, instead of family? Not that it matters."
"I don't know," Cecelia said. "Possibly the shares cost less?"
"Could be. Anyway, I'd bet something's going on in all these new colonies . . . I wish I had Kevil's background files, because I rather suspect the data in the main computers has been fiddled as well." Brun stretched. "And now that I've talked your ears off, both of them, how about a visit to the stable? We don't have much here, as you probably remember, but there are a couple of niceish mares we can take a ride through the orchards on, if you'd like."
Cecelia shook her head. "No, thank you, my dear. Everyone thinks of me as a thoroughly horse-besotted old woman, but one prerogative of old women is to surprise young ones occasionally. I shall go stroll in your gardens, if I may."
"Well, then, I'm for the pool. See you at dinner."
* * *
At the Mahoney house, a uniformed nurse met Cecelia at the door. "Ser Mahoney is in the study, madam, but he is . . . not really himself."
Cecelia thought of asking who he was instead—she had a lingering distaste for medical euphemisms—but resisted the temptation. She followed the nurse down the familiar wide passage to the double doors that led into Kevil's home office, steeling herself for what she would see. At the same time, she wondered where the security was. If Kevil was a security risk, shouldn't there be more protection around him? She had seen no guards at all.
"Ser George Mahoney is at the university," the nurse said, over his shoulder. "He won't be back until this evening."
Cecelia frowned. No security, one nurse all day . . . something wrong here.
In the study, Kevil lay awkwardly in one of the big leather chairs. His face looked strange, twisted; she realized that regen had not been able to repair all the physical damage, that part of his jaw was missing, and the skin over it rumpled oddly. In his eyes, Cecelia saw no recognition, just anxiety. Then, slowly, a spark . . . as if he were walking through a dark corridor with a candle, closer and closer.
"Cecelia . . ."
"Yes. "
"You look . . . younger. Dye your hair?"
Cecelia's heart sank. Of course she looked younger; she had rejuved several years before, to a nominal forty. He had known that. They had slept together after that. "Rejuv, Kevil," she said briskly. It was hard to look at him, but she knew she must. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you were hurt," she said.
"Me . . . too. I can't . . . remember . . . all."
Was the slurred voice from the injury, or from drugs? Cecelia glanced around, but saw no litter of pillboxes.
"I've been to visit Ronnie and Raffaele," she said. To her delight, the spark in his eyes brightened.
"How are . . . they?"
"They're fine, except that the developer's done something foul with the colony they're on." She told him about it, gauging his attention span by his expression. For a few minutes at a time, he seemed the old Kevil—his eyes bright, his face intent. Then he would blink, and the expression slacken. She stopped, and waited, and when he seemed focussed again she went on.
"You're . . . really . . . talking to me." He smiled, a genuine smile this time.
"Yes, of course."
"You . . . understand . . ."
"Not completely, Kevil. But I know you need something to chew on."
"Yes. They keep asking me . . . questions . . . tests . . . can't remember. . . ."
"I hated those," Cecelia said, remembering her own convalescence, the idiocy of the questions in the standard tests.
"Name three vegetables, name five fruits . . ."
"Name the CEO of Excet Environmental Group," Cecelia said, as if it were another on the list.
"Silvester Conselline," Kevil said instantly, then looked blank. "What was that?"
"A reasonable question," Cecelia said. "And one I wanted the answer to. Ronnie and Raffa are, as I said, practically marooned on Excet-24, and Brun says that's an Excet Group colony planet. I want to know who's responsible for shorting the colony of its startup supplies and staff."
"Probably not Silvester," Kevil said, sounding even more awake now. "He's been spending most of his time trying to convince the universe he's a great composer. But he does tend to sign anything anyone puts in front of him."
A tap at the door. The nurse looked in, his expression exactly the one Cecelia least liked to see. "Ser Mahoney needs his rest, madam. Perhaps another time?"
"Go on—take a break," Cecelia said to the nurse. "I'm experienced with this—I've been a convalescent myself."
"But his lunch . . . his diet—"
"And I can cook. Go on now."
Finally he left, protesting and warning and muttering. Cecelia watched through the scan pickup until she had seen him go all the way down the street and board a tram.
"Officious," she said to Kevil, when she came back to him.
"You think . . . he's up to something," Kevil said.
"Nurses are always up to something," Cecelia said. "But in addition to that, yes. Now." She pulled the scrambler she carried out of her bag and turned it on. Kevil gave her a puzzled look. "Remnant of my times with Heris Serrano and those Fleet refugees she foisted on me as crew. Oblo whatever-his-name-was. Good advice, I realized after awhile. Always carry a means of tapping someone else's data, and always protect your own conversations."
Kevil grinned. "You always were smarter . . . than people thought."
"Yes, and so were you. Kevil—what's happened? Why only one nurse? Why haven't you had a proper limb replacement?"
"No money."
Cecelia stared at him, shocked. "But Kevil—you've always had money, pots of it."
"No more. It . . . isn't there."
"But—what happened?"
"I don't know. One day there, then—it wasn't. George tried—couldn't find out—"
"Someone fiddled the databases? But—people would notice—"
"Not unless it was their account. The people who normally handled my accounts would notice, unless they'd been transferred."
"And that's not hard at all . . ." Cecelia mused. "And there are new Ministers in the relevant Ministries, and a huge muddle all over . . ."
"Yes. I think . . . it happened . . . when Bunny died."
If that were true, it would mean—no,
could
mean—that it was related. That the same person or persons planned the attack on Bunny's life, and Kevil's fortunes.
"I know . . . something . . . I know it's because I know something . . . but Cece, I can't remember what it is I'm supposed to know. I can't remember. I can't think—" A muscle in his face twitched; his hand shook.
"Kevil . . . relax. Please. Let me fix you lunch—yes, you come with me into the kitchen—and we'll talk some more. I know I can help."
It took a struggle to get Kevil up, and Cecelia fought down her fury when she saw his unbalanced, lurching gait. But in the kitchen, he seemed more comfortable in the chair, his good arm propped on the wide wooden table, than he had in the study.
"I'm assuming you don't have a cook because of the money—"
"Yes."
She fixed him fruit, bread, cheese. There were custards in the refrigerator, but she didn't trust them—custards could conceal drugs. He ate, clumsily, with his left hand.
"Kevil, do you remember giving me your access codes?"
A blank look. "Access codes?"
"The second night. After we decided it wouldn't work. You said, 'If I'm ever in the state you were in, I want to know you're on my side.' And you gave them to me. You've forgotten, but I haven't."
"Cecelia—"
"When George gets home, we'll get to work. Tonight. There's no time to waste."
"I can't . . . help much."
"You did that, years ago. We'll take care of it." Somehow. Cecelia scolded herself internally—she was turning into everyone's helpful old aunt again. Well, if she was going to take her turn being civic-minded, helpful, and useful, she might as well make a thorough job of it. She'd had another brilliant idea.
Waltraude Meyerson, tenured professor of antique studies on loan to the Regular Space Service as a consultant on Texan history and culture, sat quietly in the corner of the room with her recorder on, watching the NewTex women argue about religion and education without getting involved. She hoped. This was the first conflict she'd seen among the women who had fled Our Texas, and she was fascinated.
It had been months, and only now was the rigid rank structure breaking down. The first wives of the Rangers had each run her own household without interference from the other first wives—Primas, they were all called. Prima Bowie, the one Waltraude felt she knew best, actually ranked second in the hierarchy; the Ranger Captain's first wife outranked her. That was Prima Travis, but she was older and had less vitality than Prima Bowie. Usually she let Prima Bowie make decisions, but not today.
They were arguing about schools again. Under Familias law, the children—all of them—were supposed to be in school. Parents could choose from a wide variety of schools, or school their children at home, and the requirements were—to an academic like Waltraude—minimal. All children must become literate in at least two languages, study some very basic science and mathematics, and the Code of Citizens. But these women had steadfastly resisted sending the children to school from the beginning. No one had been able to figure out why, because the women would not explain what they considered self-explanatory. Now, in the argument, Waltraude began to grasp the problem.
"Boys and girls together! I think not!" Prima Travis was holding firm on that. "They'd become Abominations!"
"There are single-sex schools," Prima Bowie said. "Most are religious—"
"Not
our
religion!" Prima Travis sniffed again. "They're heathens, or worse."
"But—"
"We should never have come," Prima Travis said. "I—I was wrong to come. We should go back." Behind her, Waltraude saw several of the junior Travis wives nodding, but one pinched her mouth up and looked stubborn. Waltraude counted—third back, that was Tertia.
"The men lied to us," Prima Bowie said. "They killed mothers—"
"
You
said," replied Prima Travis. "I never saw that picture you said you saw."
"You heard Patience—Hazel," Prima Bowie said. "She's a good girl . . ."
"She is
not
a good girl; she is one of them. Prima Bowie, has your brains run out your ears, or what? She is one of them, an Abomination. She runs around wearing men's pants, messing about with machines—"
"I'll bet she has an implant," sneered Secunda Travis. Prima Travis whirled and slapped her on the mouth.
"Don't you be saying those bad words, girl!"
"I just—"
"And don't you be arguin' with me! You see what it comes to, Prima Bowie? We left our rightful place, and now we have this—this arguin' and usin' bad language."
"We can't go back," Prima Bowie said. "They'd kill us—"
"And so they should," Prima Travis said. "Our children to grow up no proper way—"