Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

“The database gave me the units of the others, and serial numbers and all. I still didn’t have the signature of the requesting officer, but it had to be Irwin’s colonel—”

  She could see the name in the box: Victor Prelutsky. She’d pull his file out of the database when she and Mata were finished. “I’m going to call someone,” she said to Mata. “Sit tight. Have you had supper?”

  “No…” The uncertainty in his voice, the fear that he would bolt, stopped her for a moment.

  “I have bar food,” she said. “If you eat fried stuff with cheese on it, and watch the game on my big set, then you’ll be able to talk game with the others later, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes lighting.

  “Good. Turn it on. I’ll bring the food in and then call.”

  Shortly he was settled on the deep soft couch in the suite’s living room, watching the game—not as much fun as in a bar for him, she suspected, though these days she preferred being alone to having her shoulders pounded and her ears assaulted by the noise in a sports bar. The microwave made short work of heating up sausage and chicken chunks and melting the cheese. She put it all in a large bowl, on a large tray, added two kitchen towels, and set that on the table in front of the couch.

  “I should warn you, I borrowed this apartment for a few days from a civilian, so we need to be careful about spillage. You would be anyway, but add another fifty percent.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  “But don’t go hungry. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Mata turned the volume up on the vid, not too loud but loud enough to cover whatever she said; she leaned against the doorframe in the bedroom and called MacRobert’s number.

  “Sergeant Major.”

  “Yes. I have just had a most interesting conversation with someone who works on base. It may be connected.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is Sera Vatta available?”

  “I see. I will inquire.”

  “Sergeant Major.” That was the Rector. “You have important news?”

  “Yes. Not all that we need, but more names than we had before.”

  “Can you come now?”

  “No. I’m concerned about the informant. He’ll be missed if not on duty tomorrow.”

  “Suspected?”

  “Possibly.”

  “We really can’t stash another at Helen’s.” Grim amusement colored the Rector’s voice. “Assessment of this individual’s acting ability?”

  “Moderate. He’s watching the ball game and eating bar snacks.”

  “Well, that’s normal enough. Drunk or sober?”

  “Only one beer, not here. Sober enough.”

  “We’ll call you back with a plan.”

  Morrison joined Mata in the living room. “Who’s winning?”

  “Port Major, but Grinock Bay’s not far behind.”

  —

  Grace had not yet been asleep—strange place, strange bed, strangeness all around—but lying eyes closed, thinking. Now, wrapped in a new robe, she sat at the kitchenette table watching Mac make coffee. “I wonder what fell out of the tree into the sergeant major’s lap to make her so tense?”

  “She’s experienced, and she knows the problem. It won’t be trivial.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that. And now I’m hungry. She’s got a person she wants to protect—not another of the survivors, or she’d have said, which means it’s someone in the military, someone who found out something that bothered him or her and she needs…”

  “Command,” Mac said, setting a cup of coffee down beside her and handing her one of the rolls he’d bought. “She can probably think up a plan, but she wants someone to tell her so.”

  “It never bothered you to act independently,” Grace said, eyeing him over the rim of her cup.

  “It did at first. A long time, in fact. I got over it.”

  “Well, then, what’s the best approach to help her and her informant?”

  “Get the informant back to the base and duty as soon as possible, with instructions to keep his or her mouth shut and act like nothing happened. Informant should take mild precautions. No alcohol at all, no drugs other than regular prescriptions. No comments about the sergeant major and no contact with her; she will contact the informant when it’s safe on her end, whenever that may be.”

  “I’ll call her…”

  “Eat, then call.”

  “How secure are her communications over there?”

  “As much as here; it was set up for you, remember.”

  —

  Sergeant Major Morrison listened to Grace’s suggestions silently, then said, “How can I get the hardcopy to you?”

  “Via MacRobert. How many copies are there?”

  “Three complete—that is, with the multiples intact. They’d all fit in a 25 x 33 centimeter folder. The relevant officer’s name is in the right box, but not his signature; these copies were made by the clerk because he was upset by the officer’s insistence that he use the wrong form. I’m thinking they should be dispersed and that I probably should not have one. The essential data’s now in my implant.”

  “Bless finicky and honest clerks,” Grace said. “I trust you. Work out your own contact protocol with him.”

  “Do you want his name?”

  “Not at this time. Make sure you have it noted in more than one place—and perhaps that Security officer you mentioned—Major Hong?”

  “Yes, Rector; I’ll see to it.”

  “Send your informant on his way, then, and MacRobert will pick them up within the hour. Thank you, Sergeant Major; you’re being extremely helpful.”

  “I’m also more worried about the other survivors. If they’re cutting orders to transport—”

  “So am I,” Grace said. “Once I see the hardcopies, and dig through the other databases available to me, we should be able to get things rolling on a response.”

  “Thank you, Rector.”

  “That’s it for now, then,” Grace said. “MacRobert will be on his way when you’ve assured us your informant is gone.”

  “Ten minutes,” Morrison said. “Not more than fifteen.” She sounded, to Grace’s ear, slightly less anxious but still grim.

  “Marching orders,” Grace said to Mac, when that call ended. “You’ll be picking up copies of three complete forms, all the colored bits, and we’ll want one to Ky, one to Stella for Vatta files, and one for us to pore over.”

  “You should get some sleep—you’re still not completely recovered.”

  “I could not possibly sleep until I see what the forms say. Fifteen minutes, be at her door.”

  “Twenty. I don’t want to see the individual or have the individual see me. Plausible deniability.” His mouth quirked.

  “Your mission; your choice.” Grace looked around the kitchenette. “This place is too small to make fruitcakes and I really do feel the need to make them.”

  “When did you start making fruitcakes?”

  “In the psychiatric prison. We made them and the prison sold them to raise money for the prisoners’ canteen, little treats we could then earn good behavior points for.”

  Mac stared at her, appalled. The grin she sent back was pure mischief. “They let you—you of all people—make—”

  “Fruitcakes. Yes. The last four years I was there. I was being very good and kitchen work was a reward. And of course they were just fruitcakes, not any of my special fruitcakes. And though I never did it, others in the same facility working in the kitchen did, from time to time, try to drop things into the batter and make a special design on top so some family member would buy it and they could pass things in and out. Usually got caught, but it’s how I found out what you could bake at 175°C degrees and not ruin it. Including, once, poison that one of the women got hold of, to poison her family because they hadn’t gotten her released. I wasn’t suspected; my crimes were all violent, not sneaky. They caught her; I never saw her again.”

  Mac said nothing for a moment, then said, “What of
yours can I stick in my briefcase, something plausible to claim was left there when we cleared it to switch with the sergeant major? My excuse for going?”

  “Spare lenses. You know I have multiple pairs, and after I got up from a nap, I discovered that the blue-tinted ones with the special prescription for reading at night in dimmer light weren’t with the rest.” She got up and fetched them. “Here you are.”

  Mac made the trip to the sergeant major and back without incident. “She told him to keep quiet, and he said he would. She said he’s smart and he had already figured out he had hold of dangerous information.”

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Grace looked at the first form. “Transport, Personnel, Routine Duty Station Transfer…”

  “The sergeant major also gave me her sitrep and her assessment of the personnel she’s been in contact with. She thinks several in the assessment committee—though not the chair—were part of whatever group is behind the secrecy. She’s not sure about the commander who chose the committee; there could have been manipulation to make those members seem best suited.”

  “Does she think it all goes back to the Unification War?”

  “Not exactly—it’s older than that, but that may be when its focus changed from keeping Miksland’s economic potential secret to involving the military. She hasn’t been able to dig into the history—both lack of time and compromise of security in her office and quarters.”

  “But we can do that.” Grace nodded. “We were on the right track, but we, too, ran out of time. Two parts to this. Immediately, we need to find those survivors before they’re permanently silenced, either by the drug effects or death. We can do that, thanks to this Corporal Mata. We don’t have to know the whole history until those people are safe. But then—”

  “We need to know enough history so we can anticipate the source of interference with the rescue,” Mac said.

  “Agreed. But not the whole story until afterward.” Grace tapped the form in front of her. “And we need more copies, then really secure storage options.”

  “You said one to Stella, one to Ky: both those should be safe enough. And we need one. Though all three copies with Vattas is risky.” Mac picked up one of the copies and headed for the living room. “I’ll make some.”

  Grace read on. The names were familiar, the same Ky had shared with her. The authorizing officer…she’d never heard of. In her office at the Defense Department, or in her own home before the gas attack, she had access to hardened lines to the complete military databases, direct access to all personnel records. Here, despite Mac’s attempt to secure her connections, she did not completely trust them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DAY 8

  Stella Vatta had never enjoyed playing courier. Now that she was officially Vatta’s CEO and once more officially a Slotter Key citizen, she found it annoying that both Ky and Aunt Grace expected her to keep shuttling their correspondence back and forth just because neither could leave their respective residences. Adding the sergeant major of Slotter Key’s military to the list of stops made her furious. Grace Vatta, as Rector of Defense, had plenty of personnel at her command; surely she didn’t need to pick on Stella, who had, after all, an interstellar enterprise to run.

  She had worked herself into a sizable fury by the time she reached her office, where a man she had not met since they were both teenagers waited in the reception area.

  “Benny—Benny Quindlan?”

  “Yes, Stella—Sera Vatta, I should say, as this is a business visit, not a social one.” He looked very grown-up, in his business suit with his expensive briefcase and perfectly polished shoes. “I’m sure you didn’t expect a visit from me—”

  “No. No, I didn’t.” Why was he here? Was this about the blast that had brought down Vatta’s headquarters six—seven?—years ago? About the trade rivalry that had preceded that? Or…what?

  “I would prefer to speak privately,” he said, with a frosty glance at her receptionist.

  “Sera Stella, your schedule—” her receptionist said.

  “Clear me fifteen minutes,” Stella said. “Benny, come on. Fifteen minutes is literally all I can spare until this evening.”

  “Thank you,” he said, without any hint of meekness, and followed her into her office. She was glad in that moment that she had sent the delicate little desk her mother had used back to storage, and found a plain, moderate-sized one instead. She had also changed out the spindly-legged chairs for solid ones that could take a man’s weight without wobbling.

  “Have a seat,” she said, going behind her desk. “What is it?”

  He sat but did not lean back, hands crossed on top of the briefcase balanced on his thighs. “I am in a difficult position,” he began.

  “We all are,” Stella said. The vid-plate on her desk writhed as her receptionist wangled minutes out of a schedule already crowded. He flushed; he’d always had a pink face that reddened easily.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know our families have been competitors and sometimes enemies for a long time. When I learned—when I heard—about the explosives—”

  “You were appalled, of course. Get on with it.”

  “It’s this.” Without further verbal delay he opened the briefcase and removed a file, which he laid on Stella’s desk. “I now know why our families were enemies. It’s in there. That’s a photographic copy of the file, and if my uncle finds out I’ve given it to you, he will kill me—literally—me and my wife and our twins. If he knew I had entered this building without his explicit order he would terminate my employment and all contact with the family. Luckily, he did order me to enter this building and give you a message from him, which I will in a moment. This”—he laid his hand on the file—“is not his message. This is my—I suppose you could say my atonement for the death of your father. I didn’t know about the explosives until afterward, but I still feel…anyway. This is my uncle’s message, to be delivered word for word.”

  He took a deep breath, pulled a sheet from the briefcase, and read from it in an expressionless voice. “If you think this is over, you are wrong. It will never be over until Grace Lane Vatta, that murdering traitorous bitch, is dead, and also every offspring of Stavros Vatta and Gerard Vatta. I have no quarrel with other Vattas, and intend nothing but a measured, appropriate response to what wrongs were done the Quindlan family. I had nothing to do with the offplanet attacks on Vatta; that was their own family. I may hope that Vatta Enterprises collapses, but if some distant cousin can take over, I don’t care. Signed, Michael Quindlan.” Benny Quindlan’s hand shook slightly as he shoved the paper back in his briefcase. “I tried to talk him out of it. I couldn’t. That’s all. I have to go.” He snapped the briefcase closed, stood up, and was almost to the door before Stella could find her voice.

  “Benny—”

  He stopped and turned. Face professionally blank, but she saw pain in his eyes.

  “I don’t hate you, Benny.”

  “You may after you read that.”

  “No. I won’t. I will fight to live and save my family, but I won’t hate you.”

  He nodded without saying anything, opened the door, and let himself out.

  Every offspring of Gerard and Stavros. Quindlan had come close before, and killed more than that both at Vatta headquarters and on Corleigh. She and Ky and Jo’s young twins had been the only survivors, and now Quindlan was still determined to kill them all. But maybe not Toby, if she could trust that—and why should she? Except that the note had sounded desperate, like someone at the end of his strength, determined to finish something he’d promised to accomplish long ago. And her job, her one job now, was to see that she and Ky and the twins stayed alive until…could any truce last, even if one could be negotiated? And then it dawned on her: she was not an offspring of Stavros Vatta. Would the Quindlans believe her? Not Michael, she was sure. He gave the orders others followed; his sending Benny was an unsubtle signal that the boy who’d once had a crush on her was now his uncle’s obedient ser
vant.

  Her assistant pinged her. Whatever was in the file Benny had delivered would have to wait; she had a long day’s work ahead of her already. She put the file into her private safe and put a serene smile on her face for her first scheduled appointment.

  Midmorning she did manage to call the house and let Ky know that the Quindlans were still dangerous and after blood.

  “So am I,” Ky said. “If I knew whether they were involved in the military thing—”

  “Never mind that. Is Sera Lane there?”

  “Yes. She’s frustrated that she can’t get downloads from the others’ implants.”

  “If she’s not busy, ask her to come here—and bring Rodney—because I have something I want her to see that I can’t talk about even over a secured line.”

  “Don’t shut me out—”

  “I’m not. She can take it back with her. Less obviously than I can send a courier.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Ky switched off.

  Stella rolled her eyes and made a face at her desk before heading to the conference room for her next appointment.

  —

  Ky had spent the morning working on her own rescue plan—much of it on the organization she knew they needed. It had all been casual up to now, but the mission itself would be anything but. She used what she had learned talking to all the others—especially Teague, Rafe, and Rodney—and had just finished some organizational charts when Stella called. Ky gave Sera Lane and Rodney their orders, then went into the kitchen, where the two women were busy helping Barash with the prep for the rest of the day’s cooking.

  Despite their continuing peril, they looked relaxed and cheerful as they worked and chatted, each with a cutting board and knife and stack of vegetables. Chairs scraped as Ky appeared; she waved them down. “The lawyer’s gone off to Vatta headquarters; she may be there all day, but she’ll still be working on our problems.” She pulled out a chair for herself and sat down. “Rodney’s gone with her. Something’s going on with the Rector and the sergeant major; I expect Rodney to come back with some useful information.”

  “How much longer do we have?” Kamat asked. The swelling in her face had gone down, and with a scarf wrapped around her head, her exotic beauty showed again.