“Even for Arash, that’s strong,” Heris said. More importantly, while Arash had colorful opinions of many officers, he didn’t usually—to her knowledge—share them with his enlisted crew.
“It wasn’t just that once, either; Captain Livadhi didn’t say much about the details of that cruise, but Garrivay was in the same battle group we were during that mess on Patchcock. Sonovabitch blew the second reactor station after the cease-fire, and it was only because the rebels came back with heavy stuff that he got away with it. Nobody noticed because they knocked out the command ship, and they had the scores—”
“But you had your own pet scans?” This was something that hadn’t made it into the briefings.
“Yes—I did, and Captain Livadhi wanted to make something of it, but the scan data were tricky . . . I’d just figured out how to—to boost the definition, and it was nonstandard. And he wasn’t commanding then, of course; he wasn’t sure how his captain would take it.”
“I don’t suppose you know where Garrivay has been stationed lately?” Heris watched the incoming scan data, but let her mind roll fantasy dice . . . the probability of a bad captain being in command of a strike group here, at such a time, the probability that she, and Koutsoudas, would be here to notice. . . . “Livadhi suspected this, didn’t he?” she asked, before Koutsoudas had answered the first question. She didn’t look at him, but made a private bet on whether he would answer, and if so in what order.
“He thought something would blow, yes.” Koutsoudas wasn’t looking at her, either; out of her peripheral vision she saw his profile, intent on the displays in front of him. “It’s true that I was in some danger; my modifications of scan technology had become a bit too famous. But he said you were the lightning rod, and you’d need some help—unobtrusive help. I don’t think he thought Garrivay, in particular. Garrivay was attached to Third Ward, Inner Systems.” Third Ward, Inner, where Lepescu had been for eight years before taking over the combat position that had cost Heris her commission.
Heris had the prickling feeling all down her back that usually preceded battle. “I am a lightning rod?”
“Serranos in general, he said, and you in particular. Your aunt the admiral told him—”
“My aunt!” Now the prickling sensation shifted to anger, pure and white-hot. “What was she talking to Arash for—DAMMIT!” Her vision blurred a moment, then she felt the long habit of control settling back into her mind like a rider on a fractious horse. She glanced around the bridge; none of her crew were staring. They knew better. Koutsoudas met her eye for a moment, as if checking to see if she was about to hit him, then looked away. “Never mind,” Heris said, to no one in particular. “I never have been able to predict Aunt Vida. Sorry, ’Steban. If you have any aunts, you’ll understand.”
“My Aunt Estrellita,” Koutsoudas said promptly. “Actually a great-aunt, on my mother’s side. She’s not in Fleet, or she’d drive me crazy . . . every time I’m home on leave, she’s promoting an alliance with yet another second or third cousin twice removed. She runs the whole family, except for my cousin Juil, who’s just as pigheaded as she is.”
Heris wondered if he really had an aunt like that, or if he just made her up on the spot. It didn’t really matter. What did matter was that someone—Livadhi, or her aunt, or both—had expected her to be in trouble, and had provided Koutsoudas, presumably to help her out—or get rid of her, a dark thought intruded. She shoved it back; no time to worry about that. Instead, she could worry about the choice of Garrivay for such duty as this.
Her worry translated into a discreet request to be included in the invitation to senior administrative personnel to meet the new military commander of Xavier’s defense. That amounted to a reception and meeting to follow, on the orbital station. Heris, who had met all but Garrivay before, mingled easily and worked her way to the back of the group as she heard the unmistakable click of approaching boots.
A large man introduced himself to the General Secretary as Commodore Garrivay, commanding a battle group. Heris did not let her eyebrows rise at that but wondered why he was trying to impress. True, commodore was the correct term for someone commanding a battle group, but a battle group was defined as a formation comprising at least two heavy cruisers. Commonly, battle groups had two heavy cruisers, a light cruiser, and three to five patrol ships. One cruiser and a couple of patrol ships could be a battle group only if you’d just lost the others in combat.
Garrivay had a strong-boned face well padded with flesh; if he had been a horse (she grinned to herself for picking up Cecelia’s habits of thought) he would have been considered to show a coarse, coldblood influence. She noticed that his gaze locked on the person to whom he spoke, a fervent intensity that, in other people, she had found to accompany both the ability and willingness to lie convincingly.
Still, his first questions to the General Secretary were reasonable, as he asked for clarification of the message that had brought him, and the raider’s attack. He listened to the somewhat rambling report the General Secretary’s aide gave—Heris winced at some of the inaccuracies which Garrivay patiently dissected—and then commended the Xavierans on their successful response.
“Captain Serrano helped us out when the raider attacked,” the General Secretary said. Heris wished he’d left her out of it.
“Serrano . . .” Garrivay seemed to consider, then his eyes narrowed. “Heris Serrano?”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“You were lucky.” The emphasis could be taken either way; Heris waited to see how he would shade it. He still did not look at her, as if he had not noticed her among the others. “I never had the honor of serving in the same organization with Captain Serrano, but I believe she had a . . . er . . . distinguished record.” Again, an emphasis that might be taken more than one way; the pause suggested that another adjective had come to mind before “distinguished.” His gaze raked the assembly and snagged only briefly on hers before passing on. So he did recognize her. And had no intention of acknowledging her at this meeting.
“She blew that raider neatly enough.” A challenging tone from someone who recognized the ambiguity of Garrivay’s . . . Heris didn’t recognize the voice and dared not peer down the room.
“I daresay,” Garrivay said carelessly. “From what you’ve said, a cobbled-up mismatch of weaponry and hull . . . not much threat, really, though I understand your being anxious for the station. Even a gap-toothed wolf can bite.”
Heris blinked. They weren’t going to like that, neither the words nor the tone, not after the previous raids they’d suffered. And where had he heard about the raider’s design flaws? She didn’t think her crew had gossiped about that among the stationers—though she’d ask, before making the obvious connection. Sure enough, the General Secretary had puffed up like a rooster.
“I hardly think a raider capable of blowing our main station out of the sky could be called a gap-toothed wolf, Commodore.” He glanced around for support, and got it in the expressions of the others. “Those raiders have been at us for a decade, during which no one from the R.S.S. has seen fit—”
“But it didn’t blow your station, did it? Not this time, nor any other. So why do you think it could? Because Captain . . . er . . . Serrano told you so?”
She could feel the stubbornness as if it were a visible pall hanging smoglike over their heads. Surely Garrivay knew how they’d react. Why would he want them to react like this, stiffening into dislike of him? With a war looming, he should be doing what he could to rally the civilians behind him. Perhaps he was one of those officers who thought civilians were all fools, good only for providing the money to keep the Fleet going. Perhaps he assumed that if he dismissed their fear of the raider, they would then believe him when he told them something else was a threat. Whatever his intent, she knew it was a mistake.