“No, probably not,” Alexander admitted after a moment, but the admission left a sour taste in his mouth. The majority of Manticore’s aristocrats honored a tradition of public service fueled by a strong sense of noblesse oblige; those who did not were among the most self-centered and intolerant in the known universe, and Baron of High Ridge’s Conservative Association was their home. The Association was openly committed to “restoring the historical balance of power intended by our Founders” between the nobility and the uppity commoners—a “balance,” Alexander knew perfectly well, which had never existed except in their own wishful thinking.

He chewed on his thoughts for a moment, then frowned. “What’s Young like?”

“He’s an arrogant, over-sexed, incompetent, bigoted snot,” Webster replied so promptly his visitor’s lips twitched involuntarily. “A real chip off the North Hollow block.”

“That I can believe, if he shuffled his responsibilities off on a junior and hightailed it back to civilization.”

“It’s uglier than that, Hamish. Much uglier.” Alexander crooked a fresh eyebrow, and Webster waved his hands in frustration. “Unless I miss my guess, he deliberately set Harrington up for a fall by leaving her behind.”

“Why do you think that?”

“There was bad blood between them when they were both at the Academy. I don’t know all the details—Hartley was commandant then, and you know how hard it is to worm things out of him—but Young caught an official reprimand for conduct unbecoming. He goes through women like a kodiak max through Beowulf buffalo, just like his father and both brothers, and apparently he didn’t want to take no for an answer. I gather it got physical.”

“You mean he—?!” Alexander half-rose from the desk, his expression thunderous, but Webster interrupted him with a grin.

“I’d guess he tried, but Harrington’s from Sphinx.” Alexander’s eyes began to gleam, and Webster nodded. “And she was number two on the unarmed combat demonstration team in her senior form. From what I can gather, he may have started it, but she most definitely finished it.” His grin faded. “Which is why he stuck her with Basilisk Station, and I’m damned worried that he may finally have gotten her.”

“How so? What’re all the protests about?”

“It seems that no one told Commander Harrington that Basilisk Station is where we send our fuck-ups and deadbeats. She may only have one ship, but she’s actually enforcing the commerce regs against Junction traffic. Not only that, but in the last three weeks she’s deployed a few hundred million dollars worth of recon probes to cover the entire inner system, established a Navy-run space traffic control around Medusa, and taken over the customs function from the NPA. In fact, she’s raised enough general hell that Admiral Warner tells me Young has actually stopped enjoying his self-assigned leave and started trying to expedite his repairs so he can get back there and stop her. I think he’s afraid he’s created a monster that may drag him down, too, patronage or no. Unfortunately, Warner’s boys and girls on Hephaestus have Young’s ship opened up like a used ration can at the moment. I’m not sure, but I have the distinct impression Warner is actually dragging his heels on the refit just to enjoy watching Young squirm, and he can’t leave his ship behind without effectively admitting what he tried to pull, so there’s not much he can do.”