“I . . . hadn’t thought of it as war, Gracie,” Gerard said. “I mean . . . of course it was an attack—is an attack—but wars are for . . . for governments.”
“War is war,” Gracie said. “And our government is doing damn-all about it. Just as well young Ky had those years in the Academy, and just as well she didn’t graduate. She couldn’t help us then.”
“She can’t help us now,” Gerard said. “If she’s even still alive.” He wanted to pray that she was, but he had no prayers to speak, not after losing Myris, San, Stavros, the others . . .
“We’ll see,” Gracie said. “I will say, she’s not an idiot.”
That was a concession, considering how she’d spoken of Ky before. Gerard cleared his throat with difficulty, and went on with what he thought the agenda should be.
“The point is, what we have left of Vatta Enterprises is now in serious trouble. Vatta Transport in space is out of communication, except for Perry Adair. Insurance reimbursements on our Slotter Key planetary assets—land, improvements, movable property—will have to be used to cover contractual obligations. If we’re lucky, if they actually pay out in a reasonable amount of time, it won’t exceed contractual obligations. Out of system—as of our last incoming data burst—we have lost insurance coverage on our ships, and as a result we have lost contracts. And as you know, we had purchased fifteen new hulls in the last four years . . . well, now those loans are being called in. Ordinarily, we would be able to cover that. Now . . . we can’t.”
“So . . . you’re talking bankruptcy?” Gracie asked.
“I’m talking ruin,” Gerard said. “You talk about war, and winning . . . Gracie, we have nothing to fight with. We have no money. We have no credit. We have no capital assets with which to make money.”
“Nonsense! We have Vatta ingenuity, Vatta drive—”
“We don’t even know if we have Vattas, other than ourselves,” Gerard said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “My best estimate, prior to this, is that we’ve lost eighteen percent of our interstellar tonnage—but if we can’t get insurance, and no one trusts us with cargo, that’s eighty-two percent useless and expensive junk. Can we sell the ships? Certainly, at a loss, to our competitors . . . but only if we regain communications with their captains. We don’t have any procedures whereby captains can sell Vatta-owned ships on their own responsibility. And more—the Slotter Key government is distancing itself from our problems, just when we need it. There have been mutters in the Circle that we brought trouble here by being so obvious a target. We have been informed that protecting Vatta interests is a drain on taxpayer resources.”
“We aren’t nearly as conspicuous as some I could name,” Gracie said. “President Varthos—”
“Yes, I agree,” Gerard said, cutting off what he was sure was her usual rant about the President and his family. He himself thought the pink shellstone presidential palace was a bit overdone, but quite attractive in detail. “But the point is that we were attacked and they weren’t, and they don’t want to give us the kind of protection we want—and need—for fear of becoming targets themselves. I’ve tried pointing out that we are also taxpayers, but right now we aren’t likely to be major contributors to anyone’s campaign budget.”
“He’s been got at,” Gracie said.
“Possibly, but it will do no good to say so.” Gerard pinched his nose again. Gracie was so talented at giving headaches—he wished he could sic her on whoever their enemy was. “Here’s what we have to decide. Our private funds are still intact, so far as I know. Banks on Slotter Key haven’t failed, and though there may be problems related to the failure of the financial ansibles, I’m assured that my own accounts, for instance, are available. We here can choose to put our own money back into the company and try to keep Vatta afloat, at least here, or we can take our money and . . . and run, not to put too fine a point on it.”
“How much would we need?” Helen asked.
“I-I’m not entirely sure,” Gerard said. He hated saying that; as CFO, he should be able to give precise figures. But his office, like his home, was a smoking hole in the ground, and he was finding it increasingly hard to think clearly. “More than I have myself, I know that. But I wanted to determine if you were willing, first—”
“I am,” came a voice from the corner. Gerard had almost forgotten Stella Vatta Constantin, Helen and Stavros’ younger daughter. The others turned toward her. “Don’t stare like that,” she said. “I screwed up once . . . just once . . . and you all thought of me as that idiot Stella from then on, right?”
“It’s not that—” Gerard began. Stella interrupted.
“Yes, Uncle Ger, it is. Just as you all thought of Ky as the gullible one. The thing is, I care about this family as much as anyone else. More than some. And I think Ky has more sense than you realize. I’m willing to bet my last credit on Vatta. How about the rest of you?”
“Some of us have families . . .” That was Vasil Turolev, whose Vatta wife and children had survived.
“Some of you are lucky,” Stella said, before Gerard could get his jaw unlocked. “So are you going to kick your luck in the teeth and run away?”
“I have to think about them,” Vasil said. “What will they live on if I do, and it fails?” Vasil’s wife shook his arm and muttered in his ear. When he looked away, she spoke up.
“I’ll put in mine,” she said. “Celia Vatta.”
“Mine, of course,” said Gracie. “Vatta will survive.”
“I certainly hope so,” Gerard said. He did not feel confident at all, and the pain clouded his vision; the stimulant dose he’d talked the doctor into was wearing off. “And we need to decide how to distribute the database we have . . .” His head rolled sideways; he couldn’t point to his implant without moving an arm, which took too much effort. “Stav’s was destroyed; I think mine should be duplicated . . . find Ky . . . tell her . . .” He could not keep his eyes open; the post-stim crash rolled over him, sucked him into darkness.
“Stella, dear, I need to talk to you . . .” Gracie’s voice stabbed his ears even as he drifted off. By the time she lifted his cranial flap and removed his implant, slipping it into the protective case with its nutrient bath, he was unconscious. He did not hear the family disperse, the low-voiced decision to bring a medical team here rather than move him. He did not regain consciousness before the emergency surgery, before his death.
Gracie Lane Vatta moved about the kitchen, mixing dried and candied fruits, nuts, flour, sugar in a large bowl, while the kitchen’s owner greased and floured deep pans.
“I can’t believe you’re making fruitcake now!” Stella Vatta Constantin said. The other woman, who had been introduced to her as Louise, glanced up and then continued her work. “People have died, others are dying, and—”
“Stella, I appreciate your sentiments, but if you make me forget the recipe these will be even viler than usual. Put that”—she nodded at the sealed implant case that held Gerard Vatta’s implant—“in one of those insulated bags.”
“You are not going to put it in a fruitcake and bake it! It’ll destroy it!”
“No, it won’t. I’ve done this before. There’s dual protection; the implant case itself is insulated, and the bag will give it another thirty minutes at baking temperatures.” Gracie looked blank, then began dumping spices into the batter. “The thing about fruitcake, Stella, is that no one thinks it’s anything but fruitcake. An aunt’s fruitcake is one of the most innocuous substances in the universe. It fairly reeks of family duty, stuffy traditions. You know about cover. How else could someone carry a highly valuable implant—”
“You’re taking it somewhere?”
“No, my dear. You are.” She glanced at the other woman. “Louise, could I trouble you to fetch the bottle of rum that’s in the guest room, the one I sent Pauli out for earlier?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Louise left the kitchen. Gracie moved closer to Stella.
“Stella, we can’t have just one copy of
the command database. I’ve got one now; I’m not giving you one in case . . . in case someone tries to pry into yours. This is for Ky. I’m sure you can find her. She was going to Lastway as a final destination after Belinta. She’ll end up there sometime. But you won’t go directly there. I’ve got a courier drop for you to get to ISC headquarters. You’ll leave tomorrow morning, and you’ll travel as you have before. Legal representative, not family.”
“Right,” Stella said. “With a fruitcake.”
“With several fruitcakes. All reeking of rum.” Gracie finished stirring the batter. “I know I forgot something . . .”
“Vanilla?” Stella asked.
“Vanilla . . . no . . . not in the recipe. Something Gerry said, back at the house. Too much too fast . . . I should’ve been recording . . .” She shook her head. “I hate age. Wisdom—assuming you gain any—is not enough to trade for the youthful ability to stay up two days running and still remember things. Here, put the implant case into this pan; balance it on these little pins. And this little packet in the other. And for goodness’ sake, remember which is which.” The batter slumped into the circular pan, then the rectangular one, filling them, hiding the contents as Gracie nudged it around with a spatula. “Now—into the oven with them.”
Stella put the cake pans into the oven just as Louise returned with the bottle of rum. The three of them sat around the table until the cakes were done and cooling on racks.
“Better get to bed, Stella,” Gracie said. She fought off her own exhaustion. She had things to say to Louise, things to do, secrets still to keep, even from Stella. The girl—woman now—had come a long way. She had proved herself before now. And she was the only one who might—might—be able to do what Gracie considered essential.
In the predawn dark, Stella came back into the kitchen, dressed in the sober business suit that fit her cover story, her golden hair dulled with a rinse and slicked back into an unbecoming knot. Nothing could obscure her cheekbones, but makeup subtly denied the obvious beauty, masking the flawless skin with vague blotchiness. Gracie looked her over carefully. “Good job, my dear,” she said at last.
“Will you be all right, Aunt Grace?” Stella asked.
“Me?” Grace said. She allowed her smile to convey her intent. “Oh, yes, Stella, I will be all right. Very much so.”
Stella’s expression shifted, but she had been well trained; she did not even look at Louise as she said, “Do take care, Aunt Grace; I’ll miss you.”
“And here are your fruitcakes, Stella.”
“Aunt Grace, I don’t really need—”
“Of course you do.” Grace handed her the sack. “And there’s a little something in there for you, too, Stella.” A packet of diamonds, that most useful portable currency. Stella already carried some, in the pocketed camisole under her blouse, but it was impossible to have too many diamonds. “Lunch for your journey.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Stella said, and hugged her lightly. Then she was gone, and Grace, already packed, left the house by another entrance, to meet another driver. En route to her next destination, she stopped briefly to make a call from a shielded site. Just before dawn was a fine time to wake a traitor, to whisper into his ear, “You will regret this . . .”
Gammis Turek read the reports with satisfaction. They had calculated correctly: they had beheaded Vatta Enterprises, and chopped off more than enough limbs. The Slotter Key government had been cooperative in rendering no more aid. What was left of Vatta would be harmless, the disconnected twitching limbs of what had been a formidable creature. They had missed the daughter, but she was a minor target anyway, and she was on a small, slow, unarmed ship. If he wanted her later, he could take her.
He placed the call to the Slotter Key presidential palace, aware that the very existence of the call would puzzle and alarm them.
“You were wise to take my advice,” he said without preamble. “You see how fortunately it turned out.”
“What I see is a big mess,” the voice replied. It did not sound nearly so cowed and compliant as he expected. Gammis scowled.
“It is not your mess,” he said. “It is Vatta’s mess, and they are now helpless to cause us—me or you—any problems.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” the voice said.
Cowards. Timid sheep. Gammis chuckled indulgently. “Their senior officers are all dead. Their headquarters is destroyed. Some of their largest and most profitable ships. They cannot get insurance; their accounts are frozen. What is the problem, then?”
“You missed one.”
“Missed one? I don’t think so. My intelligence reports that their CEO and CFO are both dead, and the entire second level of vice presidents—”
“You missed the old lady. She knows someone got to the government—”
Gammis laughed aloud this time. “Everyone knows someone got to the government. What of it? And what old lady? We have no profiles on old ladies—they can complain all they like.”
“She called me.”
“Oh, for—grow a spine, man. An old lady, some old dowager Vatta, without strength of arms or resources . . . she can whine all she wants. She is toothless.” Gammis closed the connection, shaking his head at the timidity of grounder politicians.
CHAPTER
FIVE
During the passage to Lastway, the crew seemed to adjust to the new situation and crewmembers, though not without some friction.
“He’s so . . . so military,” Quincy said to Ky some three days into the passage. “Everything spit and polish, all the time.” Ky didn’t have to ask for a name: Gordon Martin, of course. “I think he’s too hard on that boy,” Quincy continued. That boy being Jim Hakusar, who claimed to be twenty-three. “Yesterday he had him down on his hands and knees for hours, scrubbing, just because he had forgotten to shower.”
“It won’t hurt him,” Ky said. “Are you getting soft on Jim?”
“Not soft, no. I agree he needs training. But Martin—”
“He is military, Quincy, just out. It’s been his career. You can’t expect him to change overnight, and frankly I’m more comfortable having him in charge of Jim than if I had to supervise him.” Ky stretched. “Is he bothering you any other way? Martin, I mean?”
Quincy shook her head. “Not really. He doesn’t want us to use his given name—that’s kind of odd, we’re all used to first names—but he’s not ordering the rest of us around or anything.”
“Do you think Jim will ever make a spacer? Is he doing well in his studies?”
“Maybe, and not really. Martin thinks he’s not applying himself; I’m beginning to wonder if he has one of those learning things. I was asking him about his schooling and it didn’t sound like the Belinta primaries had any of the corrective software we use.”
“Do we have any of that kind of thing aboard?” The crew had a library for continuing education.
“I’ll look,” Quincy said. “Sorry—I hadn’t thought to check that out.”
“If we do, see if it’ll help him,” Ky said. “I saw those original test scores—he’s about as far down the scale as you can go. If he’s going to be with us, he needs to be more than a drudge.”
Alene had accepted Martin as the new cargomaster—she’d already told Ky she didn’t really want the job herself—but she, too, found him rigid at times. “He wants a full inspection every day,” she said. “Gary never did that, and he had years of experience.”
“He might do it now, under these circumstances,” Ky said. “Martin’s got the background in security as well as supply; he wants to keep us safe.”
“I’m all for safe,” Alene said. “And I don’t mind the extra work, really. With Jim doing most of the scut work, there’s little enough for a cargo second to do en route. It’s just . . . his manner, I guess.”
“Is he rude?”
“No. But I can see him stopping himself from ordering me around the way he does Jim.”
“Give him time,” Ky said. “At least he’s tryi
ng to stop himself.”
As for the stowaway, Ky had little to do with him. She noticed that his shaggy hair had changed to a short bristle, and his face was always smooth, his slouching posture more upright, his expression less foolish and more alert. He always seemed to be busy; the galley and toilets gleamed, the decks were always swept. Every five days, she asked Martin for a progress report, and learned that “the recruit” was making progress, albeit slowly.
“It’d go faster in a real basic training course,” Martin said. He sat upright, as always, and Ky found herself resisting the urge to sit at attention herself. “Here on the ship, with no other recruits to measure himself against, he can fool himself, think he’s working as hard as he can. You remember that yourself, I expect, from your Academy days.”
“Indeed yes,” Ky said. Competition, as well as the staff, had fueled much of her hard work.
“And I do realize we’re civilians, not military. It’s just that boys like this need the discipline, or they’ll never give up their evasions. They always have excuses; they always have tricks to avoid the work. They’re not bad, exactly, but they’re thick-skinned as well as thickheaded. That learning software your chief engineer found is helping, though.”
“If you can make a decent, competent spacer out of him, that will satisfy me,” Ky said. “Just don’t break anything we need later.”
Martin laughed. “I’ll take care of him. Without breakage, I promise you. Another thing, though.” No laughter now; his expression hardened again. “We need to consider security issues for when we dock somewhere. I’ve been through the procedures manual you’ve got, and it’s totally inadequate. We’re lucky we didn’t have an entire crew of stowaways and a kiloton of weaponry aboard. This thing of trusting local police—”
“I’m sure you already have ideas on that,” Ky said. “Do you have them ready to present?”
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