Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

  By that time Ky was in the kitchen. “You never had breakfast,” Barash said. “Omelet?”

  “Thanks,” Ky said. She sat down at the table and eyed a platter that was almost empty of toast and sausages. “Just so you know, we’re all fugitives now, except Rodney. Rafe and Teague overstayed their visas, and my citizenship’s been rescinded because I was away too long.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Barash said. “You were fighting a war—”

  “Tell that to Immigration. Not that they’ll listen.” Ky picked up a piece of cold toast and wrapped it around one of the sausages. It tasted delicious.

  “It’s your amazing talent,” Rafe said. He had perched on the counter nearest the door. “You’ve become persona non grata in two systems light-years apart without actually doing anything wrong.”

  “I know,” Ky reached for another sausage just as Barash took the platter away. “Hey!”

  “The sausages will go in the omelet,” Barash said. “Only a couple of minutes now.”

  The omelet was delicious. Ky said nothing while eating it, uneasily aware that both Rafe and Barash were watching her. Probably expecting her to have ideas about what to do next. She had none. She felt almost as hollow as when her family was killed and she knew there was nothing left, no home to go back to, no last words of praise or blame. Now: not even a Slotter Key citizen, not an admiral, not…anything? She swallowed the last bit—it felt much larger than it should have—and attempted a bright smile. From Rafe’s expression it wasn’t a success.

  “Where are the others?”

  “Downstairs, in the war room,” Rafe said. “Are all those people you talked to going to call back?”

  “Someone will.” Ky shoved her hands in her pockets. “Stella, or the lawyer, or possibly Immigration threatening to blow the place up.” She glanced at Barash. “Sorry. I know we need to get the others out, but I can’t figure out how. It’s my fault—”

  “It is not,” Rafe said firmly. He slid off the counter, bracing against it. “You did not drug anyone. You did not hijack anyone. You are not holding these people…”

  “But I said I’d get them home safely,” Ky said. “Home. To their families. Think of poor Betange—and his brothers and sisters—”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I should have. I should have kept track; I did ask, but—but I believed what I was told. And there was so much to do—”

  The misery was too deep, too big. All those she had lost, killed in the war, killed on space stations, on planets, in deep space. She gulped it down, pushing hard against the lump that wanted to eject the delicious omelet. “All right. It’s not my fault yet, but it will be my fault if I don’t see every one of my crew free and reunited with their families. And I can’t do that sitting here like a…like a bird in a cage.”

  “You’re not going out.” Rafe’s voice had turned steely, the edge tipped toward her.

  “Not right this minute. I’m not stupid. But we have to know where they are—”

  “Sergeant Major Morrison—”

  “Is probably in danger herself. We’ll hear from her when she can, but she has to stay out of trouble, stay free. We can’t wait for her.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DAY 6

  Ser Ventoven called Ky again an hour later. “Now then. You’re familiar with the contents of the summons you received, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Ky said.

  He went on to read it to her again anyway. “You can see how this will interact with the much simpler citizenship issue. As you are not now considered a Slotter Key citizen, but responsible for the deaths of Slotter Key military personnel and a foreign citizen, you are classified as both a foreigner and a potential criminal. Since foreign criminals are not eligible to apply for citizenship, Immigration is insisting that your application for reinstatement of citizenship should be deferred until your responsibility for the deaths is adjudicated. And since you admitted to having killed Master Sergeant Marek, and the witnesses to that event are all now classified as permanently mentally incompetent due to some toxin or disease acquired while in your presence on Miksland…I’m sorry, but your situation is very serious indeed.”

  Ky could think of nothing to say, and Ventoven went on. “Unless you can find a witness who will testify that your shooting Marek was not murder but self-defense—and that the other deaths were accidental, beyond your power to prevent—I’m afraid we have no options. Legally, I must advise you to surrender to law enforcement—”

  “I can’t,” Ky said. “Those people they claim are mentally incompetent have been drugged, kept imprisoned, away from their families…”

  “How do you know that?”

  She hesitated, trying to remember who had been told about that. Stella knew, of course; she had been there when the fugitives appeared. Aunt Grace—she had told Aunt Grace. MacRobert, Morrison, Teague, and Rodney. But could she tell this man? She had the fugitives themselves, and among them was the best possible witness for Marek’s death, Inyatta. Inyatta had been in the room—pushed into the room by Marek before he turned and shot at Ky. Inyatta had been wounded by a bullet from Marek’s gun, after he dropped it. But revealing these witnesses risked their freedom, if not their lives. “I need you to come here,” she said. “I do not trust the security of any communications device anymore.”

  “What is it you know? Do you know where those fugitives are? I must know, if I’m to defend you.”

  “Come here,” Ky said again.

  “I can’t just leave now—I have a court appearance in twenty minutes. I could send a clerk—”

  Ky’s patience snapped. “Come here yourself, or assign another attorney from the legal department to me. I won’t say anything to a clerk I wouldn’t shout into the open air.”

  “I’ll come. Not until later today; I have other urgent work, you must understand.”

  “Call ahead,” Ky said. “The house will be sealed unless we are expecting a visitor.” When she ended that call, she called the hospital and asked for Grace’s room.

  “I’m sorry, Sera, that room is not available at present from this number. Communications must go through Security.”

  “Please give me that number.”

  “I’m sorry, Sera; that number is not available to the general public—”

  “I’m not the general public. I’m Rector Vatta’s niece. I need to speak to either her or Master Sergeant MacRobert.”

  “Oh—just a moment; I’ll see if you’re on the approved list. If you are not, you will need to apply in person through the hospital security desk, hours 0900 to 1700, bringing proof of identity.”

  Ky waited out the half minute of silence, then the voice came back. “Is this Sera Stella Vatta or Sera Ky Vatta?”

  Ky thought about the likelihood of herself being on someone’s “good” list and the possible consequences of being caught out in a lie. “This is Sera Ky Vatta calling on behalf of Stella Vatta—it’s family concern for a family member.”

  “I see. Um…it’s actually Stella Vatta who’s approved, Sera, but if you’re calling on her behalf—and why would that be?”

  “She’s very busy herself and I’m taking over some of the family duties for her. She’s CEO of Vatta Transport, you know.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see that notation. Well…I’m sure it’s all right, but you probably should come in for a screening—”

  So the entire rolling doughnut had not yet reached the hospital’s communications personnel. Ky yanked at her braid as if that would accomplish something.

  “Wait just a moment—I see—” And muffled, Ky heard “Master Sergeant MacRobert—please—I have a question for you.” He must have come closer, because she also heard, “Would it be all right to allow Sera Ky Vatta the security code for Rector Vatta’s room? She says she’s calling on behalf of Sera Stella Vatta.”

  “Certainly. But let me see if her message is something I can handle without interrupting the Rector’s therapy session.”

&nbs
p; A moment later, Ky heard his voice on the handset. “Admiral—sorry, Sera. The Rector is doing very well now. We expect her to be released in a few more days. Her physicians want her to be steady on her feet and capable of walking at least 300 meters and climbing five steps without any evidence of cardiac strain. Is that what Sera Stella wanted to know?”

  He sounded perfectly matter-of-fact, no hint of strain in his voice.

  “Part of it,” Ky said. “She also wanted to know what to do about her house—she said it wasn’t clear to her whether it was safe for occupancy again, and if she should do anything particular with the clothes Aunt Grace might want while still in the hospital. Do they need decontamination, or something?”

  “I’m sure the toxins have dissipated by now. Running them through a standard ’fresher unit should be enough,” MacRobert said. “But airing them outside for several hours would be better, ridding them of any chemical residue from the counter-treatment. However, her residence does not have any facility for that, and no staff to supervise it.”

  The open door she’d been hoping for. “Then could you possibly bring some over here? There’s a walled back garden where they could be aired, quite private. You could ask what she wants, and bring it here. I’ll take care of the airing.”

  “An excellent idea,” he said. “I’ll go up and ask her, then bring the items over to—that is the registered address for Helen and Stella Vatta?”

  “Yes,” Ky said.

  “I…mmm…” His tone was suddenly different, subdued and apologetic. “As it is the Rector’s private residence…I’m not entirely comfortable rummaging through her…through some of her…I’m wondering if you might come along and advise me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ky said. “But I’ve been strongly advised to stay here. But Stella does have a cook here who would be perfect.”

  “Um…a woman?”

  “Oh, yes.” And this was even better. Allie could pass on the critical new information to MacRobert, in private. “She’ll be fine in Aunt Grace’s underwear drawer. When can you pick her up? I need to be sure she’s not in the middle of making pastry or something.”

  “Half hour, about.”

  “See you then,” Ky said. The day looked better already. She had witnesses to what had happened in Miksland, and MacRobert might know how to protect them from being incarcerated and mistreated again. So might Vatta’s legal staff. She explained this to Rafe on the way downstairs. Allie was indeed making pastry, but said she’d be done in a few minutes.

  Ky intercepted MacRobert when he arrived, before introducing her guests, and gave him a fast précis of her legal situation.

  “None of this is the Rector’s fault,” he said. “She would never do that, any of it.”

  “I know. But the fact is I do have the fugitives under my protection here. They’ve told me how they were treated once they were back with our military, and we’ve located the place Sergeant Major Morrison visited, where she saw the supposedly incompetent NCOs. She gave us the other addresses, too. But I’m worried that whoever’s behind this will harm the others if too many people know about them. We need to rescue them soon.”

  “I’ve got to find a way to communicate with Morrison safely,” MacRobert said. “There’s that very suspicious Colonel Dihann at the hospital; I know the phones are tapped, but I’m not sure even skullphones are safe.”

  “Nor am I,” Ky said. “We need a code. But you shouldn’t stay here too long. Come meet Allie—Corporal Barash, with a new ID Stella fixed for her.”

  “You’ve been busy,” he said. Allie, in the kitchen, had taken off her apron and now wore a gray tunic with the Vatta insignia and her name embroidered on the collar over blue slacks.

  “Allie, this is Master Sergeant MacRobert; he will take you to the Rector’s house and bring you back here to air the clothes before he takes them to the Rector.”

  “Yes, Sera,” Allie said. “There’s a pie in the oven; it will be done in just over a half hour—if it takes us longer, can you—”

  “I won’t let it burn, Allie,” Ky said.

  When they’d left, Ky called Stella. “MacRobert and our cook have gone to pick up some clothes for Aunt Grace,” she said. “MacRobert says she’s feeling well enough to get dressed now.”

  “Oh, good,” Stella said. “Is Legal staying in touch with you?”

  “Yes. I’m to stay inside. One of them’s coming over sometime today.”

  “I’ll be home at the usual time for supper. I’ll bring along a couple of presents.”

  Ky could think of nothing to say to that. “See you tonight, then,” she said.

  MacRobert dropped Allie and two cases of Grace’s clothes off before heading back to the hospital. Allie and Rodney—clearly bemused at being asked to help air clothes—set up the folding drying racks and spread clothes on them. Ky watched out the French doors, wishing she could go out in the garden. It was one thing to spend weeks on a ship going somewhere, with only remote camera views of the exterior, and quite another to be inside when outside was a planet. Her planet. The last time she’d experienced autumn days and nights here, she’d been a cadet, and at this time of day she’d have been in afternoon PT, in the scratchy shorts and jersey, finishing up with ten laps around the playing field.

  She sighed and turned away. Plenty of work to do here, now, including deciding how much to tell Ventoven when he came.

  “Admiral?” Inyatta came out of the dining room.

  “Yes—” Ky said, heading toward her. She’d not broken any of the fugitives of calling her Admiral. She’d quit trying; it seemed to reassure them.

  “I think we—all three of us—should write down our statements about what happened in Miksland. In case—in case something bad happens. So it’s recorded somewhere. Maybe at Vatta?”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Ky said. She should have thought of that herself. Or Rafe should have, or Stella. “Or we could record it, downstairs—video and sound—and you could also write something. Or—” The thought hit her suddenly. “A lawyer’s coming from Vatta’s legal department later today. If he saw the recording being made, he could be a witness.”

  “Yes, Admiral. It would be better to have both a recording and our written statements, I think.”

  “Probably. Yes. All right, Allie’s working on supper, but you and Kamat can write statements—you shouldn’t be working on them together, I know that much. Is she downstairs?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Then you come upstairs with me; you can use Stella’s office, and then I’ll go down and tell Kamat. Don’t answer the phone, though.”

  “I won’t, Admiral.”

  Downstairs, Ky found Rodney—back inside from laundry-airing—and Kamat working on aerial scans of the area around the compound where Morrison had told them all the remaining survivors would eventually be held.

  “It’s remote and rugged,” Rodney said when she came in. “Going to be difficult to get a team into.”

  “It’s forested, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. That makes it hard to detect all the surveillance they’ve got. I’m sure it’s more than what I’m seeing.”

  “Get Rafe on it, too, Rodney. And start looking at places transport could be stopped on the way in.” His expression changed. “Yes, a different approach. If the compound is remote, but has no airfield, that means ground transportation. Roads to remote places usually have remote stretches.” He nodded. Ky turned to Kamat. “Meanwhile, Kamat—I want you to write out your version of what happened in Miksland. At least get started on it. Eventually you’ll be called to testify, and we need current proof that you’re of sound mind. They may have messed up your records—lost them or falsified them—from when you were drugged.”

  “Yes, Admiral. Should I start now?”

  “Yes. Here’s paper and pen.”

  Barash, in her role as Allie the cook, was busily chopping things—a delivery of fresh produce—on the kitchen table. Ky explained the need for a written report,
then realized that the records she herself had turned in to the authorities might also have been compromised. She settled in to write her version of events.

  The afternoon passed quietly. Shortly before Ky expected Stella home, a woman from Vatta’s legal department called to say she was coming: “Sera Lane, another attorney at Vatta, and familiar with your case, Sera. Ser Ventoven cannot leave court at present; the justice has extended the hours. But he said it was vital to see you today.”

  “Yes. We can open the gates for you and you can park near the garage.”

  “Excellent. I’m in a small green two-seater.”

  Sera Lane clambered out of her small car and unfolded into a tall, lanky, slightly stooped woman with steel-gray hair braided around her head. She came in the kitchen door and sniffed appreciatively. “Who’s the baker?”

  “Our cook, Allie,” Ky said. “Let’s go through to the dining room—we can spread things out there.”

  “Howard left me all his notes,” Lane said. She set her briefcase on the table, opened it, then sat down. “I’ve perused them, and the other information we have on you. As he did, I fear this is a very difficult situation, if—as you say—those personnel who might be witnesses on your behalf are in some kind of illicit custody and not free to help your case.”

  “In Slotter Key law, are attorney–client communications privileged?”

  “Yes, with a few exceptions: threats of harm to another person are not privileged and will be communicated. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I have scant experience with Slotter Key’s legal system—I left here young and very naïve. Within that privilege I can tell you that the best possible witness to my shooting Master Sergeant Marek in self-defense has escaped from custody intended to silence her, and will be available to testify if we can protect her from recapture and the kind of treatment she endured before.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “She is here,” Ky said.

  “Here? Where?” Lane looked around as if someone might pop out of the dining room paneling.

  “In this house, presently writing up her account of what happened. So is another witness, not quite as well placed to testify to everything that happened. We have recording equipment downstairs; I wondered if you would be willing to witness a recording of their accounts.”