Cold Welcome

^{CHAPTER SIX}

Rafael Dunbarger, CEO of InterStellar Communications, ignored the first ping of his implant, the header ADMIRAL VATTA LATEST. That would be confirmation of Ky’s safe arrival at Slotter Key, no doubt, and he had to finish his analysis for the next day’s Board meeting. A second ping followed the first, the same sound, and then a third, plus a ping to pick up a private message.

What could Ky be up to now? Rafe flicked on the first news bulletin in the stack.

GRAND ADMIRAL VATTA PRESUMED DEAD IN SHUTTLE CRASH.

What? Rafe flicked the next, from Slotter Key’s Central News Bureau.

SLOTTER KEY TRAGEDY: COMMANDANT SPACEFORCE ACADEMY PRESUMED LOST IN SHUTTLE CRASH; GRAND ADMIRAL VATTA ALSO ABOARD.

Rafe felt light-headed. This had to be a mistake, some kind of joke. He called up the private message. Stella Vatta, from Slotter Key.

Rafe. The shuttle Ky was on went down in the ocean. We think it was sabotaged. We don’t know if she survived. There’s nothing you can do; don’t come—there’s nothing you could do here, either. I’ll send word as soon as I know anything. It will be on the news soon; I wanted you to know first.

He forced a deep breath, then another. It was real then. Stella would not lie to him, not about this. It felt… strange. He felt strange. He’d convinced himself before that Ky was dead, but—no. Not this time. He got up, feeling shaky, and went to his office door to speak to his assistant. “Emil. No interruptions until I say.”

“Ser, I just saw a news bulletin—”

“I know. I will be extremely busy for a little while. Hold all calls and visitors, even Penny.”

“Yes, Ser.”

Rafe locked the door, unplugged his desk communications, and set the room security as high as it would go. Then he took off the wristband he carried all the time, pulled out the cable to his implanted ansible, plugged it into the desk power supply, and checked the voltage. Exactly what it should be. He plugged the other end into his implant’s recharge socket.

The unpleasant smell that accompanied the implant ansible connection made him wrinkle his nose, even though the smell’s source wasn’t outside, but inside. Relief flooded him; she was alive. She had to be alive, because her implant ansible was there, functional. The reports had been wrong. But why?

The connection existed, but could not be used unless she plugged into an external power source. She might be aware of the smell and do so, though she might be where that was not possible. Or she might not smell anything, especially not if some other strong smell existed in her environment. He had no idea what Slotter Key smelled like. He tried to send the contact code they’d established, informing her that he was powered up, but in fifteen minutes nothing about the signal changed.

She was alive. A shuttle crash into the ocean—that would have killed her, so the reports must be wrong. With some reluctance, he unplugged from his implant, removed the cable from the desk power, and wrapped it back into the wristband, sealing it in. He opened the most recent of the news reports (there were nine in the queue now) and read it all. Shuttle loss of power and control. Shuttle observed descending, off course, by a Space Defense Force shuttle from the Space Defense Force cruiser—Admiral Vatta’s flagship. Presumed impact location in the southern ocean, poleward of an uninhabited continent. Weather conditions foul. Chance of survival minimal. Twenty-four passengers and four crew, names withheld pending notification of families on Slotter Key. Brief bios of the Commandant and Ky, both more public figures, with the comment that Ky was visiting her home planet for the first time since leaving the Academy. No details on the reasons for that, or even that she wasn’t a graduate. His attention went back to the critical detail: chance of survival minimal.

But not zero. And Ky had survived one disaster after another; she would, he knew, fight hard to survive in this, given that she was alive. And she was; he knew it.

But for how long? He shook that away. He had work to do here; he could not be there—not today anyway—and Stella was right that he could not do anything to help from here. He unlocked his door and went out to speak to Emil. “I’m working on the report to the Board for tomorrow. Screen calls as usual, please.”

“Do you know any more?”

“No. Just that she was in a shuttle that went down. Was observed going down by her flagship. Bad weather, no chance of quick rescue. Her family messaged me; they don’t think I can be of any assistance.”

“I’m sorry, Ser.”

“She’s a very resourceful person, Emil. If anyone can survive it, she will.” Unless. Unless any or all of the many things he could think of all too easily. He shoved that aside. “I’d best get back to work,” he said, and went into his office again, closing the door. He left the desk communications unplugged—no one was going to get in without Emil’s filtering—and forced himself back to the job he didn’t like anyway.

He was down to the last page when Emil knocked on the door. “Ser, it’s the government.”

In that tone of voice it could be only the Premier. Rafe allowed himself a gusty sigh before fixing his face and voice into an acceptable neutrality. “Here, or on the com?”

“He wants you to come to his office. Soonest possible. And Ambassador Veniers has called, wants to speak to you. I have him on right now.”

“I’ll speak to him; if the Premier calls, tell him I’m talking with the ambassador and will call him when I can.”

Abram Veniers, Moscoe Confederation, knew both Ky and Stella Vatta, and might have heard something more. Rafe picked up his own earpiece. “Yes, Ser Ambassador?”

“You have heard about the tragedy, of course,” Veniers said.

“Yes, but few details yet. May I ask if you have any more than the newsvids?”

“No, Ser Dunbarger, I do not, alas, know more than the newsvids at this time. Since Sera Vatta is on Slotter Key and I do not have her private code, I was hoping, perhaps you—you have known the Vattas longer than I—it is a very great setback for the Space Defense Force, of course, and also I think to Vatta interests.”

“All I know is what I’ve heard, that the shuttle went down in an ocean, near an uninhabited continent in bad weather.”

“Ah, yes. Well. If you permit, Ser, I make a formal request that ISC supply my office with the latest information you may receive, whatever that may be, concerning this matter. I have received questions from my government, which as you know presently has about half of Space Defense Force’s ships in its territory. I presume those questions, or some of them, came from SDF, because if an issue should come up and the Grand Admiral be delayed past the time she specified, someone must—there must be a clear order of command, you see.” A pause, then, “Not that anyone is blaming the Grand Admiral, of course. It was not, if I understand correctly, an SDF shuttle that went down.”

“No, it was a Slotter Key Spaceforce shuttle,” Rafe said. “I assure you, Ser, that I do not know any more than I have told you. The ansibles at Slotter Key are functional; I would think you—or any captain in SDF’s fleet, at least—could contact the Admiral’s flagship for more information.”

“You have not done so?”

“No, Ser, I have not. I do not want to interrupt whatever emergency procedures they’re using, distract them.”

“But you—and the admiral—”

“Ser, with all due respect, in an emergency these personal matters are inappropriate. I quite understand why your government—and mine: the Premier will be my next call—have an interest in this—” He would not call it a tragedy. Not yet, while she lived. “This event,” he said. “And Space Defense Force, of course, which has done so much for all of us. If there is assistance that ISC can give, be assured that we will give it.”

Veniers bowed and the screen blanked. Rafe looked at the time display on his desk, the numbers moving tenth of a second by a tenth of a second, and in every one of those… Ky and the others were in the water. Cold water. He could not escape the memory of his father’s captivity, the blurred image on the infrared, the false color showing by its changes his deepening hypothermia. His right hand moved to his left wrist, to unfasten the power cable for the cranial ansible yet again, but he made himself stop. He could do nothing now. He had other calls to make, demands only he could meet. He signaled Emil. “Get me the Premier,” he said. “I’m ready to talk to him.”

Two hours later, Rafe was back in his office, fuming. He had kept his temper, with great difficulty, but really—why did every older man with power on Nexus continue to go on about Vatta influence and distrust the woman who had saved the planet from destruction? Yes, Ky’s great-aunt was Rector of Defense on Slotter Key, and yes, Stella Vatta ran both Vatta Transport and the new Vatta Industries from Cascadia, and yes, her mother ran Vatta affairs on Slotter Key, but that did not mean they—or any of the Vattas—wanted to conquer the Moscoe Confederation or Nexus, let alone the whole universe. The man who had spread those rumors first had been a sociopath, a clever criminal—why, now that everyone knew about him, did they still believe his lies?

The Board meeting an hour later ruffled him all over again. Like the Premier, the Board members as a whole still thought of Vattas as dangerous. It was unreasonable how fast Stella had managed to get Vatta Transport on its feet. Toby’s technical brilliance was uncanny, unbelievable: no boy could really have done what he did without some other adult geniuses guiding him. “At least now,” Vaclav Box said, tapping Rafe’s shoulder on his way out of the room after the meeting closed, “we shan’t have to worry about you marrying into that family.”

“Because you’re sure she’s dead,” Rafe said. He could feel his face stiffening in a rush of anger, and tried to force a smile. What right had they to worry about, let alone consider governing, his choice of a wife—if he and Ky ever got that far, which they had not.

“You’re not? Be reasonable, Rafael. A shuttle crash into an icy ocean? Nobody survives that. Only if they’d had rescue immediately, maybe then—” He shook his head. “Accept it, grieve, and get over it. You need a wife, and heirs. Your lovely sister needs to marry again, have some babies. Admiral Vatta saved us all in the war, but she’s not the sort of woman to settle down and make anyone a good wife.” Box turned away. “You’ll get over this, Rafael. You’re a good son.”

He was not a good son. He had been labeled a bad son, a renegade, and he had lived into that label with gusto for years. He watched Box and the others chat on their way down the hall to the elevators, the weight of ISC heavy on his shoulders. It was one thing to come in at a crisis and take over. Crises were, in some way, fun. But this… he foresaw year after year of nursing ISC back to health, always less powerful than it had been, always condescended to by men who had worked with his father.

He should be on his way to Slotter Key now, despite what Stella said. He should be spending his time and his wits finding Ky, rescuing Ky, and then… that vacation they’d both wanted? He wondered if that would ever happen, and if it did… what would it mean?