Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER NINETEEN}

Sera Lane had a smile on her face when she entered the house an hour later than usual. “Progress,” she said.

“How much?” Rafe asked, brows raised.

“The arrest warrant for Sera Ky—the one relating to her citizenship—has been canceled. There was considerable pressure to arrest her from someone higher up, but I kept pushing until I found out the undersecretary had been told some rather inventive lies about her and her fiancé. The petition from the Tik Growers’ Association in her favor didn’t hurt, either.”

“Tik Growers’ Association?” Ky scowled. Her father had been a member, well liked because he sponsored apprenticeships, but she’d worked only one day in the packing sheds, herself.

“They had made a plaque to present to you for saving everyone from the pirate horde—that’s what they called it—and brought it to the spaceport the day you were due to arrive, last spring. Apparently they were not willing to accept that you’d died, and when you returned they were planning a reception and dinner for you. When they found out you were considered an undesirable alien and a murderer, they protested to the President’s Council and to Immigration.” Her grin widened. “It doesn’t hurt that the Tik Growers’ Association is a major contributor to the majority party.”

“So I can go out?”

“I’m still negotiating with the police to remove their surveillance of this house. With your citizenship in the process of being restored—you have a court date in fifteen days; I will accompany you—they’re less likely to haul you in, especially as I pointed out that their prosecutor needed to have actual evidence of murder, which meant getting it from the military and interviewing witnesses. I said we had a witness of good character, competent and believable, who would testify to self-defense, and in the meantime they had no reason to arrest you or hinder your movements. They weren’t ready to agree to that right away, so I’ve called someone else. I expect we’ll hear more good news by suppertime or shortly after. You are not to talk to anyone about that until I say so, is that clear?”

“Yes, Sera,” Ky said.

“On the topic of your fiancé and his associate, things are still in a knot. My understanding, from talking to both the young men and the Rector, is that she thought she had sent in a visa extension form citing a special need for their presence. That form was not received, and her poisoning meant she was not at her address—the official address of the young men—when they sent someone to look. She may or may not have sent it; what matters is it was not received. Personally, I suspect that the same person who pushed Immigration to move on your citizenship status also pushed to have them deported immediately, but since I don’t know who that is, I have no proof. Right now, they are still on the list for detention and deportation.”

“But—” Ky began and then stopped. Sera Lane raised her eyebrows. “Never mind,” Ky said. “Thank you for all your hard work. I hope I’ll be able to leave the house soon.”

“Leave the house, I’m sure of. Leave the city—I would not advise that. And definitely, if you leave the planet before regularizing your citizenship status, you will lose it.”

Ky looked at Rafe—he was blank-faced, and Teague the same. Sera Lane nodded and went into the dining room, where she had her temporary office set up. Ky went downstairs with Rafe and Teague, and continued working on prepping for the mission. The lists lengthened even as more items were checked off.

A few hours later, the call Sera Lane had been waiting for came through, and a Vatta courier arrived with temporary citizenship identification for Ky. “That’s the most I can do for you today,” Lane said. “You will not be arrested if you leave the house. You should be able to visit family members outside the city—your aunt in Corleigh, for instance—without hindrance. Your great-aunt Grace would like to see you, if you feel up to it.”

“Could you give me a ride partway?”

“The whole way if you like.”

They were halfway to the kitchen door when Rodney erupted from the lift with one of the maps they’d been using. “Ky, we have the time—” He stopped, seeing Sera Lane.

“I’m leaving now,” she said. “Whatever it is you want to say, young man, wait until I’m out the door. Coming, Sera Ky?”

“In a moment; I want to hear what Rodney has to say.”

Sera Lane nodded and went out, closing the door firmly behind her.

“It’s now,” Rodney said. “Morrison called. They’re planning to move the group in Clemmander starting at 0340 tomorrow. We’ll need to leave in an hour or two at the most, to have everyone in place. She’s got the military teams moving.”

“Call it,” Ky said. “I’m going to see Aunt Grace. Courtesy call. I should be back in an hour.”

“Tell Sera Stella?”

Ky shook her head. “Too risky, even by skullphone. She and I are the ones most likely to be monitored.” She looked at Rafe. “I’ll take my duffel with me, pick up more ammunition on the way. One of Rodney’s friends should pick me up from Grace’s.”

“Meet you later.”

She left the house, visualizing what would happen in the next half hour: the furniture van driving up, parking to block the view of their nosy neighbor across the street, apparently to deliver new mattresses and take away the old, while everyone now in the house slipped into the truck by the side door for the first leg of their cross-country trip. On the drive to Grace’s apartment, she ran down her implant’s checklist again.

“It would be unwise of your fiancé or his associate to take this opportunity to call attention to themselves,” Sera Lane said.

“I’m sure that he does not intend to call attention to himself,” Ky said. A few flakes of snow danced in the air; the forecast said more was coming.

“I hope not. He seems a reasonable young man, but what I’ve found recorded about him is troubling. It is not my place, but still: do you think your father would approve?”

“Sera Lane, I think my father’s opinion would be that Rafe will be a fine addition to the family.”

“But somewhat of an adventurer—”

“And so am I, Sera Lane. As have been many Vattas, including my father, when he was young.”

“True.” She said nothing more before they reached the apartment building. “Shall I call a ride for you to… the house?”

“I don’t know how long Aunt Grace and I will be,” Ky said.

Grace looked healthy, but moved with less energy than usual. “There you are,” she said. “I have something for you. It arrived early.” She pointed to a large flat box. Ky opened it to find three uniforms, complete from cap to shoes, with the correct insignia for each of the three women staying at the Vatta house.

“Sergeant Major Morrison,” Ky said.

Grace nodded. “According to Sergeant Major Morrison, they should fit perfectly. She said you’d know where to send them and said the buns were in the oven.”

“I just heard that from one of our research group,” Ky said.

“Who’s taking you to the warehouse from here?”

“One of Rodney’s pals. I’ve met him.”

“You may not save them all,” Grace said, her voice somber now. “It’s a complicated and dangerous operation—don’t blame yourself if—”

Ky shook her head. “I can’t think that way, not beforehand.”

“Right. Go now. Get it done.”

“Yes, Great-Aunt Grace,” Ky said. Grace laughed.

Down the passage, down the lift, and there in the circular entrance drive was Kemel, one of Rodney’s friends, wearing a dark jacket and a cap close enough to a chauffer’s. He took the box from her. “We ready?” he asked when Ky had settled herself in the backseat.

“Better be,” Ky said. “I’d hate to have wasted all those hours trying to make this plan as shaky and unworkable as possible.”

Sergeant Major Morrison arrived at Grace Vatta’s borrowed apartment as usual about 1900, crisply correct in uniform, a few flakes of the snow outside leaving damp patches on her cap.

“Coffee or tea?” Grace asked. “And the pastries on that tray are delicious.”

Morrison smiled. “Tea, please. Snow’s tailing off, but it’s still a night for a hot drink.” She took a security cylinder from the briefcase she carried and turned it on. Grace looked at her more closely, then poured the tea and handed over the cup.

“Something at the base?”

“Yes. I might miss tomorrow’s report.”

Bland and uninformative to any surveillance they hadn’t found. That could be ominous—or not. Grace tried to see which, in Morrison’s face, but the sergeant major had no particular expression. Grace made walking motions with her left hand across the pastry tray and raised an eyebrow. A short nod was the answer. Going somewhere. And the only likely “where” was the rescue of the other Miksland survivors.

Questions and advice roiled in Grace’s mind. She hadn’t been in on most of the planning; she was not used to being planned around instead of with. Not used to having someone else at the top of the decision tree. Compartmentalization, Ky and Morrison had both said. She was safer knowing less. Maybe, but safety wasn’t everything. Did they have a large enough force? What about alternative plans, alternative routes, in case something went wrong? She forced herself not to ask any of the questions.

Morrison picked up a pastry and bit into it. “It’s another TDY,” she said. “Shouldn’t be more than twenty-four hours, but you never know with these things, especially in the winter weather. Anyway, since I’ve been coming over here regularly, I thought I’d let you know.” For Morrison, a very informal speech. “With your permission, Rector, these are especially good and I’d like to take a few with me.”

“All you want,” Grace said, noting that formality had returned for the moment. “They want me to gain weight but I can’t eat all that without a stomachache. And there’s another tray in the kitchen. Also one of those padded grocery totes to carry them in. Assuming you have something in your briefcase you’d rather not get cream cheese or fruit filling on.”

Morrison laughed. Actually laughed. For a moment Grace saw excitement, eagerness, in her face, and then it vanished again behind the pleasant professional mask. “Thank you, Rector. If you’ll excuse me a moment—”

“I’ll come with you,” Grace said. “The delivery service is excessively meticulous about putting everything away, so the location of the tote is my secret.” She led the way to the kitchen. Morrison followed, without her briefcase but with her security cylinder. Grace pointed to it, and Morrison shrugged, her gaze roaming the room. So she didn’t trust the security that MacRobert had cleared. Interesting. And all the lights on the cylinder were green.

“There are the pastries; I’ll get the tote.” Grace turned to the cabinets, opened one of the lower doors, and reached for the padded tote folded up inside. “Ooh…” She stumbled, grabbed for the counter for balance.

“Rector!” Morrison sounded genuinely concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Grace said. “It’s leaning over, that’s all. Bit dizzy. I think I’ll sit down.”

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Grace huffed. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. “I’m just—so tired of not being as fit as I was—”

Morrison took the tote, set it on the table. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course.” It sounded as grumpy as she intended. “I’m not going to faint or anything; I just need to rest here a minute or two.”

“I’ll sit with you, Rector,” Morrison said. Seated, she leaned over the pastries, putting them in the tote with care. “I can’t tell you everything,” she murmured, still looking at the pastries. “It should work. They should all fit.”

Grace realized what she was talking about. Not pastries in a tote bag. “I hope this is your last TDY for a while, Sergeant Major. And that it goes smoothly with no delays.” That should be clear enough to Morrison. She saw by the glint in Morrison’s eyes that it was. “Do you get winter leave like everyone else, I hope?”

“Not usually,” Morrison said. “I’ve usually got a round of bases to visit—this year I’m scheduled for Dorland and Fulland. It’ll be all day giving holiday greetings to troops at one base after another, with short-haul flights between. I take leave the week after. It is a bit of a nuisance having this TDY so close to that, but—” She shrugged and grinned. “It’s my job. My career. And I like it.”

“And you’re good at it,” Grace said. “I’m fine now; I’ll see you to the door.” Morrison put the cylinder in the tote with the pastries, picked up her briefcase from the living room, and they shook hands at the door. Grace felt a small datastick in her palm and used that hand on the door handle when she opened it.

“Thank you, Rector, for the pastries,” Morrison said; the guard outside stared at the opposite wall, but he had ears. “They’ll be a good snack on the trip, and a treat for whoever picks me up when I arrive.”

“Safe travels,” Grace said, then closed and locked the door.

The datastick, inserted into a machine that wasn’t connected to anything else, gave her the whole plan, answered the questions she had wanted to ask. She thought of calling the Vatta house—but she hadn’t yet, and that call might alert someone who should not be alerted. Stella? She could call Stella, but if Stella didn’t have the same information, it would make her resent being left out. Besides, though she called Stella, and Stella visited regularly, she didn’t call Stella at this time of day. That might tip someone off, especially if someone reported on Morrison’s visit.

Mac arrived late, as usual; she’d half expected he would not arrive at all, would be gone on the same mission—no names had been given, just the plan’s outline. “Anything interesting today?” Grace asked.

“Some. Hungry?”

“You know I eat early. The sergeant major stopped by, as usual. Didn’t stay long.”

“Ah. I’m hungry. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

In the passage he leaned to murmur in her ear. “They’re off. The last of them moved out earlier tonight. So far no tickles from the other side.”

“Good,” Grace said, turning into the kitchen. “Then you can have the last cattlelope steak for dinner.”

“With pleasure,” Mac said.

Stella Vatta unlocked the front door of the house and checked the security indicators—though with people in the house, it wasn’t really necessary. The right lights blinked in the right order. She turned around and waved at her driver before stepping inside and closing the door. She was glad to be home and out of the snow. No one was visible in the living room, but it was possible, now that her citizenship was at least nominally restored, that Ky had gone out on some errand in preparation for the coming rescue attempt. She glanced around and saw a piece of paper on the floor in front of the staircase. Ky’s handwriting, firm and clear as always.

“Stay home. Find a reason to take a day off.”

Take a day off? She couldn’t take a day off; she had a business to run. She had left work at the office; she had put some on the transfer tray to work on here at home after supper, but not everything could be done remotely. She needed to be seen at Vatta headquarters. And no explanation. Typical of Ky, she thought, more and more annoyed.

She listened. No sound from the kitchen. No sounds upstairs. Surely someone was home; Ky had said the three fugitives would likely stay behind. She hurried up the stairs, calling for one after another. No one answered. The guest rooms were all empty, bathrooms clean, beds made, freshly vacuumed and dusted. Closets empty, drawers… no sign of recent occupation. Where had they put the clothes bought for them? Where was Ky’s box sent down from her ship?

She checked the rest of the upstairs. Only her suite and her father’s office showed signs of use. Downstairs again, past the first floor, to the basement level. Doors that had been open since the others arrived were now locked; she opened them. Everything as clean and empty as above.

The whole house was empty but for her. Empty. Not even a guard on duty—anything could have happened before she arrived from work. She felt the first stirring of anger. When had Ky left? How long had the house been empty, unguarded? And they had secure links from this house to her office at headquarters; Ky could have told her. Then she remembered what Ky had told her—no communication, no warning. But that wasn’t supposed to be now—tomorrow, maybe. If she’d known, she’d have sent someone to—her thoughts tangled a moment. If she had sent a Vatta security detachment to the house, someone might have noticed. Probably would have noticed. Quindlans, or the government… but surely they’d also noticed the others leaving. She went into the kitchen. Another note lay on the table, this one from Allie. “Dinner in the warming oven, covered.”

She left it there and went back upstairs to change into something more comfortable. The house was so quiet, too quiet. She had become used to the bustle of the others, even while telling herself she resented it. She stripped off her business suit and hung it in the ’fresher. She was about to take a knit top from her dresser drawer when she remembered she was alone in the house.

Ky had said she should wear body armor; Rafe had agreed. They had looked up the best weapons shop in the city, before they left for Corleigh, and nagged until Stella ordered a set that combined both impact protection and a chameleon function. But she hadn’t worn it yet. Wearing it was an admission that she was not safe, that all her security measures might not be enough. She’d experienced a personal attack on Cascadia but… this was home. This was her childhood home, where she had always been—always felt—safe. She knew every centimeter of it, including those secret places even Ky didn’t know. Even the attack in the driveway hadn’t persuaded her.

She looked at the nondescript gray undershirt with its discreet buttons on the cuffs to control the chameleon function, its hood that folded down into a low turtleneck. It had cost an incredible amount for something so plain, so… ugly. She hadn’t even been able to buy it in a color that suited her. She touched it, then shook her head.

Nothing was going to happen tonight. Whatever happened would happen where they were. And yet—if she didn’t wear it and something did happen here, she would never hear the end of it. If she lived. Her thoughts veered back and forth.

Finally, with a sigh, she pulled out the shirt and put it on. Lightweight, surprisingly soft, neither warm nor chill. She left the rest of the outfit in the drawer: the long pants, the gloves, the booties that could fit over her footwear. Sensible caution was one thing, but giving in to paranoia was another.

She pulled on a pair of green wool slacks, tucking the shirt in, then one of her favorite sweaters over it. She looked in the mirror—no sign of the armor, of course. Her shoulder holster lay on the bed, another unwelcome reminder of danger. She put the harness on again, though it ruined the look of the sweater, and a short house wrap over it. Checked the pistol automatically, though she had checked it before leaving for home. Fully loaded. Spare magazine in the drawer of the bedside table, two boxes of ammunition in the cabinet below, along with her night-vision goggles and a wicked-looking knife she refused to consider, no matter what Rafe said.

Downstairs, the usual lights were on in the usual rooms, all the shielding still on as it should have been. She selected her favorite music, a string quartet playing a concerto from two centuries before that Ky had always called boring. If she had to be in the house alone, she’d play what she pleased. She took her dinner out of the warming oven and decided to take it up to the upstairs office.

She wondered, as she ate, if Ky had told Aunt Grace she was leaving and why. Surely Grace would know. Maybe she knew when it would be over. She called Grace most evenings between 2000 and 2030; a call couldn’t possibly be suspect, and besides Rafe and Teague had increased the security of all the Vatta communications. When she finished the excellent little lemon tart Allie’d made, she called Grace’s number.

“Stella? Where are you?”

“At home, Aunt Grace. Everything’s fine. Quiet, with all of them gone—”

“Stella.” Aunt Grace’s tone stopped her. “Let’s talk about the business.”

“The business? But what about—?”

“Are you planning to open a new plant to manufacture the latest revisions of the shipboard ansible design, or can you retool?”

Clearly Grace knew the others had left—had known before she did. Probably she knew the whole plan in detail. And clearly Grace did not want to talk about it. Stella struggled to keep her voice level over the anger that rose higher. Left out again, alone again in possible danger—“Is it the link or me you don’t trust, Auntie?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Never mind,” she said quickly, before Grace could say anything. “No, modification in ansible design won’t require a complete retooling but we’ll need to move one end of the line—since I anticipated there would be future changes, the facility was built with that in mind.”

“Excellent,” Grace said. “Is Helen still on the Board?”

“No; she asked to be removed, so she could concentrate on the children.” She did not want to talk about Helen, or the family, or the business. Before Grace could ask another deflecting question, Stella asked, “Do you have any time frame for returning to your house?”

“I’m quite safe here, Stella, for the time being. Do you find it inconvenient to visit here?”

“No—I’m just—” Thinking of you and Mac would not go over well. “Concerned,” she chose instead.

“I’ll move back to the house when I’m discharged from physiotherapy. They come by every day to make me sweat.”

“That’s good,” Stella said. Grace wasn’t going to give up a thing, that was obvious. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, Aunt Grace.”

“Good night, Stella.” And Grace broke the connection.

Stella stared at the handset before setting it down with unnecessary care. She was not fooled. She was not happy. Ky hadn’t had the elementary courtesy to warn her the house would be empty. Grace still treated her as an inexperienced child. She picked up the tray with care not to let the silverware rattle, and took it downstairs again. She put the dishes in the autowasher; she, unlike her cousin, never left dirty dishes lying around for someone else to clean. Ky could have left her Allie, at least.

She put that thought aside with an effort. At least she had the rest of the evening to herself, and the music Ky found boring she found pleasant. In the security office, she checked all the outdoor video feeds. The street was empty now, the tracks of earlier traffic almost covered by snow. There might be light traffic later, when theaters closed and dinner parties were over. She imagined for a moment being young again, spending an evening out, dining, attending a concert or play, laughing and chatting with friends. She had enjoyed that. But that time was over, as long as this crisis lasted.

The automatic timer turned lights off and on using its randomizing scheduler. Stella closed down the files on the office computer and opted for an early bedtime.

“Anything?” The night supervisor, Vogel, looked up from his report form when Archer took the headphones off and turned toward the desk.

“Pressure tape on the Rector’s windows. Stella Vatta called, said the house was ‘quiet, with all of them gone.’ The Rector shut her down; Stella objected, and the conversation went elsewhere. Nothing new about the plant modifications that we didn’t already know. But it sounds like the Vatta house may be empty but for Stella.”

“Ah. She is usually armed, and a good shot.”

“Yes, sir, but at night? The house shielding is still full on, and as reported earlier—”

“The weak bands are now fully functional, yes, Archer. I haven’t forgotten. What about the garage?”

“Her car’s not there, but we know it’s still being repaired.”

“Her ankle injury?”

“It wasn’t broken, but one of the Vatta employees was overheard saying she was still limping.”

“Well. Thank you. I’ll pass this on.” Vogel copied the recording and attached it to a report that went directly to Michael Quindlan. Aside from that it was a boring shift—no more communications in or out of Grace Vatta’s borrowed apartment, nothing from Stella Vatta’s house—until a half hour later he had a call from Michael Quindlan himself.

“Patch into the team leader,” Quindlan said. “Call me on this link when something happens.”

“Yes, ser. What—” But the link was already dead. He gave the assignment to Vogel; the other operators were monitoring other sites.

“Do you want me to run a double on the house itself?” Vogel asked.

“I wasn’t told,” he said. “But yes, you should if you can.”