“I never thought of that.” Barin thought now. Civilians as something other than more or less docile sheep in serious need of shepherding had never crossed his mind. He was startled to realize that he didn’t know any . . . that his closest approach to civilians had been those depressed and frightened women and children from Our Texas. They had needed his help, his guidance, his support . . . that’s what he expected from them.
“Militaries always rest on the foundation of a civilian population,” the professor said. “They don’t feed themselves, or supply themselves . . . someone grows the food you eat, makes the cloth for your clothes, builds the ships, manufactures the weapons . . . and that’s not counting trade, entertainment and the arts. Start now building your networks in all these areas.”
“I guess I can use you for the sciences,” Barin said.
“You could indeed.”
“But . . .” Barin drew lines on the table with his dessert fork. “I still don’t know if I want to go back into space.”
“After being blown up, I don’t wonder. And you don’t have to. Not a race, remember. Not a contest. You can be an honorable, decent man and a good husband to Esmay if you never go out on a ship again.”
“Mmm.” That was a new thought, and a hard one. Unaccountably, just thinking it made him less afraid. Did he really want to stay on a planet the rest of his life? Not really. He had one reason to be scared and many reasons to go back to ships.
“Not that I think that’s your path; personally I think you’ll go out there and command a cruiser yourself someday. But what I think doesn’t matter. It’s your life.”
“It is.” Barin saw it then, a wavering vision that split and recombined like reflections on water . . . but lives—more than one life—in which he was someone he could respect. Someone Esmay could respect.
“If I were you, I’d check up on those women,” the professor said, pushing back his chair. “You’ll feel better for it.”
Barin nodded, but his thoughts were on Esmay. Now he could feel for her the joy he should feel—she had a ship, her own ship. She would be magnificent.
They would be magnificent.
Chapter Twenty-Three
With Kevil and Stepan’s help, Brun studied the structure of the Grand Council, Seat by Seat. Unsurprisingly, Stepan had a file on every member old enough to be Seated, similar to the dossier they’d had on her. Brun began to see the Council as a vast overgrown sprawling tree of complicated relationships. Out at the ends were the individuals—some shiny green leaves, others spotted with mold or half eaten away by insects . . . some healthy green, others yellowing or even brown, about to fall. Behind them were histories—their own, those of parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. She felt a constant bubbling amazement at the number of mysteries cleared up: why this uncle and that great-aunt refused to sit at the same table, why this minor family had bolted to the Conselline Sept seventy years before.
“We’ve made a lot of mistakes,” Stepan told her. “We’re a sept, not a collection of mythical saints. Individuals, families, all restless and twitchy about our place in the whole, just as individuals and families have always been.” He pushed over another data cube. “Be sure you don’t misplace this one. It’s our analysis of Conselline Sept.”
It was, though not quite as detailed, fascinating. Brun hadn’t even known Hobart Conselline had an older brother, let alone that he was an addict incapable of acting on his own, whose proxy Hobart had held since reaching his own majority. She hadn’t known about Oskar Morrelline’s personal proclivities and wondered if that had anything to do with Ottala’s behavior in school.
It was far too much to absorb completely in only a few days; her brain felt stuffed. But when Stepan began talking strategy with her, she found she had retained more than she’d thought possible.
“I will make my own analysis available to you, via the deskcom, but necessarily in brief. However, you’ll be using your own judgment; where the younger members are concerned, you may have insights that are better than mine.”
“I see,” Brun said.
“Do you think you also need Kevil Mahoney there? He certainly has valuable experience, though he isn’t Seated himself. If he sits with you, that makes a statement. . . .”
Kevil was a link to her comfortable past, but she was leaping into an unknown future. Still . . . even on a journey into the unknown, wise people took with them supplies and tools from their past.
“Could he sit with you? Would that be too conspicuous?”
“No, but it would place a limit on the communication, you understand.”
“Yes. But I don’t need him for every little detail—I’d like to be able to ask for clarification on points of law and order.”
“That’s reasonable. I can certainly ask him as a guest for my own purposes. But, Brun, that leaves you alone—your brothers and sister aren’t coming, are they?”
“No. Cousins might.”
“Harlis’s son, yes. I’m going to move to have him unSeated, on the grounds that his father is a fugitive who’s taken up with mutineers. And you will be guarded, Brun.”
Brun shook her head. “Don’t keep him out, Stepan. It’ll look vindictive and weak. Let him come; he has a right to a vote, and we have no proof he was involved in his father’s activities. Do we?”
“No, but—you’ve read his dossier, Brun. He’s explosive, like his father, and he’s shaped by his father as well. We know he acted as messenger from his father to Hobart Conselline on more than one occasion.”
“Even so. I’d rather have him sitting right there glaring at me than sitting at home brooding about how he was treated unfairly.”
Stepan thought a long moment. “Hmm. I shouldn’t ask for an opinion and ignore it. I said your insight might be different from mine and yet valuable,” he said. “I chose you for your abilities; it’s only fair to let you demonstrate them. All right, I’ll withdraw my motion. But be careful; I consider him dangerous.”
She started to say she wasn’t afraid of Kell and then realized that was stupid. In present circumstances, she should be at least concerned. “I don’t think he’ll do anything violent in the Council chamber,” she said instead.
“Probably not, but we don’t take chances on his mood.” He paused, sipped from his glass, then said, “Have you heard anything about Sirialis? How are you dealing with that?”
“There’s nothing I can do from here, and here is where I need to be,” Brun said. “I hope—I hope they didn’t go there, or if they do, that they don’t hurt anyone. That’s naive, I know, but—I told the people there to get everyone out, dispersed, as best they can, and not worry about the property. Maybe, if the mutineers don’t have time to settle in, the damage will be minimal.”
“I know you love the place,” Stepan said. “It was a paradise for you children.”
“It was beautiful,” Brun said, and hated herself for using past tense as soon as she heard it. “Is beautiful,” she corrected. “But it’s too much for one person, or one family.”
At the surprise on his face, she went on. “Look at the situation now, ser. Our people, those who looked to us for protection and care, are in danger—and we can’t do anything. Not all our money, not all our political influence. Should we claim control of something we can’t protect? I don’t think so.”
“Hm. And to whom would you give it? Or would you sell it?”
“Those who live there, who will have to survive our failure.”
“That’s an option, certainly. But we don’t even know yet that Sirialis will be under attack. When—if the mutineers did go there—would they arrive?”
Brun said, “I’m not sure. Fleet might know. It depends where they picked up the mutineers’ warships, for one thing. My guess is, in another five to ten days by our time, but that’s very uncertain.”