Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE}

Ky, taking her turn in the bed compartment of a long-haul truck, tried to relax and sink into the sleep she needed before the next phase. Her mind was too busy; she ran simulations over and over, trying to make sure she had every possibility covered, and knowing that was impossible.

She slept, finally, but not even the full two and a half hours that was her share of the time before they were at the first transfer point. Inside the big warehouse, Vatta employees moved about with loaders, transferring boxes from one cargo hold to another. The rig she’d ridden in drove off, hooked to a different trailer; Rafe and Inyatta and Teague were still in it. She and Barash climbed into a trailer loaded with twenty-kilo sacks of grain from a famous livestock feed manufacturer.

She caught another two hours of uneasy sleep during the next segment, and then, in another warehouse, climbed into the truck fitted out for the project at hand, modified hastily from the kind Vatta rented out as mobile offices. Instead of desks and cabinets, couches and reclining chairs were bolted to its floor. A complete shower/toilet fitted into the back corner, with effluent tank mounted below, and next to it a medical station.

“Med’s not here yet,” the warehouse supervisor told her. “On the way. We’ll pick ’em up when we swing by the airport to catch the latest shipments.” He winked. Ky didn’t wink back. Her stomach was tight. Unlike fleet command, where she knew her entire crew and most of the ship captains, this operation was a mix of civilians and military who had never worked on something like this before. Nor had she. It felt about as stable as a stack of ball bearings.

Another truck backed up to the docks. Rafe, Inyatta, and Teague walked in with the driver. “All we need is the big guns,” Rafe said.

“On the way,” Ky said. He knew already; he was just tense, as she was. A military team, handpicked by Sergeant Major Morrison, should be arriving within the hour. She looked out the window in the service door; the roll-up door to the loading dock was down. This truck belonged to a Vatta affiliate, Stevens-Vatta, and had backed up to this dock many times, as had identical trucks. No one who lived in the area would think twice about it being on that road or the other places they planned to intercept the prisoner transports.

Rodney, ensconced with all the equipment he and Rafe and Teague agreed he needed in Vatta’s shipping office at the Weekes City airport, pinged Rafe to signal that he had a lock on all those transports. “Given the distances,” Rafe said, “we expect they’ll start moving the Clemmander group any minute now. Rod’s got an alarm on the system, so he can let us know when they start and where they are.”

Staff Sergeant Gossin had hoped the sergeant major would recognize that the inmates had been drugged, but another day and another passed with nothing happening. She went through them in the same dull misery as the previous days, losing more hope every hour. A few days—she wasn’t sure how many—after the committee’s visit, the morning dose of medication was smaller; perhaps it was a shower day. Gossin took it obediently, but the mental fog lifted enough for her to realize that it would take time for the sergeant major to mount a rescue. And maybe, just maybe, she could do something herself to help.

The thought itself was energizing. “Shower day,” said a voice from the grille in the ceiling. The cell door opened; an attendant strapped her into a float chair. Once in the tiled shower room, Gossin fumbled at her clothes and an attendant, impatient, fumbled even more because of the protective gloves. Gossin finally got herself undressed and was able to walk the meter from the float chair to the shower and stand there while the attendant turned on the water. Gossin had to admit it was easier when bald. Not that she liked it. When the water ceased, she dried as best she could with the single towel provided. The attendant left the shower room, taking Gossin’s clothes. Gossin stood there naked, shivering a little, wondering what horror was coming now.

By the time the door opened again, she had rediscovered an old trick her granny had taught her, how to warm herself up without shivering. How could she have forgotten that? She’d used it in Miksland a few times. Their family had practiced some… training… she couldn’t remember the name. Her implant had stored it for her but now it was gone. Something about circulation. Doing it, whatever it was, felt good. Gave her confidence.

But the trio who walked in when the door opened drove it away. All in the same protective gear, their faces blurred by the face-shields. One rolled in a cart with a tray of instruments and medications laid out on the top, and a stack of folded clothes on the lower shelf. Gossin stared at the instruments. She already had an IV port installed… what were they going to do to her? She wanted to ask, but she was afraid of what they’d do if she did. One of them put down a square printed with foot outlines.

“Stand here.”

Gossin put her feet on the outlines. The surface was colder than the floor, and slightly rough.

“She’s lost weight,” one of the figures said. A female voice, Gossin thought. “Have you done a nutrient panel lately?”

“They did that at Pingats,” another said. “They were fine then, and they’ve all been on a standard ration here.”

“Draw blood for a standard panel plus nutrient history. It’s got to look normal.”

“Hold her.” Two of them approached her and without looking at her face or speaking to her each took an arm and forced her forward so the third could uncap the IV port on her chest. She could see the hands, the syringe, her blood rising in the barrel. With swift efficiency, the one who had drawn the blood recapped her port and prepared the sample for the lab. The one who had given the orders looked at a hand unit and said, “Get her ready for transport.”

Transport? Transport where? Away from the others? Her stomach clenched. One of the three turned away, left the shower room. One of the others said, “Use the toilet,” and pointed to the steel toilet beside the shower. They didn’t leave. They stood watching her. She knew there were scans in the cells, but she’d never had people standing in the same room watching her on the toilet.

“Come on, hurry up,” said one of them.

She sat down, finished. One held out an adult-sized diaper. No. She did not want that. She remembered from the trip here, the hours strapped to a gurney, unable to move, needing to pee, and finally having to pee into the thing they’d put on her. “She doesn’t understand,” the other one said. “Too much drug. Get her into it.”

Gossin didn’t want those gloved hands touching her again. Slowly, as if unable to move faster, she reached out, took the thing and stepped into it, one foot at a time.

“That’s better. Now pull it up.”

She did that, too; it was better than being handled. Now the second one left the room, and the third pulled a garment off the rack. Orange, one-piece as usual, but this time with long legs ending in overlarge fabric feet. She stepped into it, couldn’t get her arms into it, and the attendant grabbed her arm and yanked on the garment, shoving her arm in. Gossin took a step, and another grab on her arm stopped her even as she felt the thinness of the footed pants and realized they would be useless for walking anywhere outside.

When the attendant had secured her to the chair and opened the door, Gossin saw Cosper in a chair with an attendant behind him. The attendant pushed her back to her cell and left her there, still strapped in. Gossin used the time to explore what she could do with that trick her gran had taught her. If she could raise her temperature—or at least feel warmer—could she do anything else? Speed up blood flow, slow it down? Change anything that would clear the drugs faster? She felt more clearheaded, but then she usually did after a shower.

Gossin was the last in line as they came out the door into the open for the first time. She had expected daylight, because of the breakfast and morning meds, but it was dark, middle-of-the-night dark. Both Slotter Key’s moons were up, giving just enough light to see flat lawn on either side of the wide paved walk, a wall to either side beyond it, and straight ahead a parking lot and a road leading away into the distance. She thought she could see hills there. The attendants wore headlamps on their protective suits, flicking them on only briefly as the walk changed grade down two shallow ramps.

With her head strapped firmly to the headrest, she could not see much to either side or behind; she still had no idea what the building she had been in for all that time looked like. The breeze felt cold; she hunched her shoulders, pushing her head against the strap, but there was no give to it. From behind she heard a deep sigh, and the attendant with her chair dropped a thin blanket onto her and jerked it into place. It cut the breeze a little. She reminded herself of the way she’d controlled her temperature before, and once again felt gentle warmth flow out to her feet and hands. She drew in a long breath. The cold fresh air smelled wonderful, free of the chemical smells in the clinic. With every breath, she felt a little more clearheaded.

Tires grated on the gravel parking lot. Ahead of her, the line of chairs stopped. She saw a dark shape pull up, a vehicle without headlights. Moonlight glinted from its roof; she made out the shape of a medium-sized utility truck. A light flashed at the head of the line, painting the side of the truck for a moment: green, with yellow lettering. Gossin strained to read it, but the light was gone too fast. With a clatter, someone opened the back door of the truck. Light poured out, and a lift whined. Then the light went off.

Gossin blinked, trying to regain her night vision. Another light—an attendant’s headlamp—came on at the head of the line. It wavered in height and direction, but as the lift rose, she could tell an attendant and float chair were on the lift. The attendant’s headlamp vanished as the float chair slid into the truck. A second lamp came on as the truck’s lift whined down, and a second chair lifted into the truck. This time its attendant stayed on the ground.

The line moved forward a few meters. The third chair rode the lift up, was pulled inside. Someone called from the front of the truck, and the line stopped. The attendant at the back went forward, light still on. Now Gossin could read the lettering on the truck’s side—WEST HILLS WHOLESALE SUPPLY—and also tell that it was fresh paint. Under it, in the headlamp’s angled light, was another shadowy shape she could not read. But she knew it. It was a military logo. The truck had once been a military truck. The attendant came back; she got a second glimpse of the side of the truck. The chair just in front of her went up.

Her chair moved forward. Now she was too close to the truck to see anything but what was in front of her: the parking lot, the road leading away. Then it was her turn. In the light of one attendant’s headlamp she could see the legs of the others. She closed her eyes. She saw a red glow as the light washed her face; someone chuckled and said, “She’s finally out, then. Last little piggy goes to market.” Her chair lurched as the lift rose; she didn’t react. Someone inside the truck moved her chair in; clamps snicked onto its base. The doors slammed behind her; she heard the whine of the lift folding into place. Fingers touched her neck, felt her pulse. “This one’s ready.” A low tone came from under her chair; the seat moved under her, shifting fluid from one chamber to another. It was supposed to prevent pressure sores.

She felt the vibration as the truck moved. The attendant at her side went forward, talking softly on the way. “They’re all back down; we can take turns sleeping—shall we toss for it?”

“Sure.”

Gossin concentrated on her breathing. So there were only two of the attendants on the truck. Light came through her eyelids, but dimly; they must have turned on the lights inside or be using headlamps.

“We have to check them every hour,” the first voice said.

“Deliver them alive and in good order. I know.” That was the second. “Wings or fish?”

“Wings.” The truck lurched a moment later, turning sharply, gears grinding. “Snakes! I dropped it. Again?”

“No, I see it. Look. Fish. You bunk first.”

“Hey—don’t you go to sleep, too!”

“I’ve got a vid to watch. Wake you in four.”

Silence after that. Below, tires hummed on pavement. The inside of the truck smelled like a military clinic. Gossin dared to open her eyes just a little. Dim light-strips ran along the ceiling of the cargo space. In front of her were the backs of other float chairs, two on either side of a narrow aisle. Up front, she could see a narrow bunk built into the side of the truck, and on it a shadowy form under a blanket. She couldn’t see past the float chairs directly in front of her to the bunk that must be on her side, but little flashes of color on the truck wall and ceiling suggested that the attendant there was indeed watching a vid. She had no way to tell time, no way to know how long it lasted, but she did feel the increasing discomfort of a position she could not change.

She felt her body react to the truck driving around a curve, and then another, pressing on the straps harder than before. Then the truck slowed, came to a shuddering stop, and was still. Gossin closed her eyes; they might check to be sure everyone was asleep. The truck turned again and accelerated sharply; Gossin heard another vehicle passing, a short tap of the other’s horn. More traffic noises outside. It had been night—but what hour of night? Had they started just after dark, at midnight, closer to dawn? They passed vehicles; vehicles passed them. She tried to interpret the sounds, figure out which were which size, anything that might help her understand where she had been and where she was being taken.

Working it out, bit by bit, with her eyes closed: they had been someplace far from a city… that first curvy road, the second smoother one, and now a large road with lots of traffic… so they were going to a city, or leaving the area entirely.

A thin beeping, a thump. Gossin peeked, saw a shape heave up in the front of the truck, then reach over to poke the one still lying on the other bunk. “Your turn.”

So it had been four hours.

“Did you check them? Pulse, respiration—”

“Yup. In the log.”

But Gossin knew she hadn’t slept, and no one had taken her pulse. There were remote sensing methods, but—someone had checked her pulse manually after she was loaded.

“We’ll do this check together.”

“Oh, come on—you been sleeping; I did the other—”

“Every hour. You take that side; I’ll take this.”

Gossin tried to even out her heart rate, slightly cool her skin. She thought about her grandmother, lounging in the swing-chair on the porch, about what her grandmother had said. She didn’t react when fingers touched her neck.

“Told you they’re all okay. I’m going down.”

“Can I see your vid?”

“Should have brought your own.”

This attendant made the hourly checks, and even loosened the straps on Gossin’s head and arms, massaged them. Shortly after the second check, Gossin felt the truck turn, slow, turn again, and come to a stop. A door slammed—from the cab? A triple knock on the door behind her. The attendant came past; with the truck not moving, Gossin could feel the footsteps, then heard the clank of the door unlocking and opening a little. Daylight—a streak of sun on the floor Gossin could see. Colder air flowed in with the light. It carried scents she thought of as city smells.

Ky Vatta leaned forward to peek through the window into the cab. They were parked at Bailey’s Trucker Heaven, where two roads crossed, and most of the trucks in the parking area were clearly farm vehicles pulling utility trailers. The driver—another Stevens-Vatta, familiar with the area—had had breakfast in the café and alerted by Ky had strolled out only minutes before. She and the team in the truck had made do with self-heating packets of sausage rolls.

“I see it,” the driver said. “Blue farm truck, one cow in the back, followed by a green-and-yellow utility truck. There’s a white van with a brown fender behind it.” Their truck was running and in gear; he rolled out toward the road. There were two cars behind the white van, but as it slowed to turn into the truck stop, it created a gap. Ky’s driver pulled out, directly behind their green-and-yellow target.

Ky stepped back from the window and went back to one of the couches bolted to the floor. “Everything clear, Admiral?” the special ops team leader asked. He’d said to call him Philo.

“We’re right behind it,” she said. “Clear road, weather’s holding here, though Rodney says there’s a front moving in and it’ll be colder tonight. We should be gone by then.” If everything worked. Supposedly everyone was in place and knew what they were doing. The lead truck, with the cow, would take them all the way to the ambush site, and would yield to farm traffic coming onto the road ahead. The land would rise, and get rougher, with taller hills, as they neared the fork to Weekes City. Her stomach churned. So many things had to go right. She looked around. The medical trio sat in the float chairs they might need; Rafe and Teague were beside her, and across from here were the three survivors, now in uniform.

“We’ll be fine.” Philo smiled. The team wore civilian clothes, farm-style—bulky jackets over stained work pants. The weaponry was obviously military-issue, but from a distance, from an aerial scan, they’d pass as farmers just like everyone else.

An hour and a half later, the driver banged on the window to the back. Ky went forward again.

“Just passed the last road,” he said. “That up there might be the place. We’ve got the green car and the dark-blue truck behind us, like we’re ’sposed to.”

They were coming down a slope; ahead the road curved sharply left, just like the terrain map. Fences on both sides ran close to the road. And as brake lights flared in the vehicle ahead of them, Ky saw the cattle—a heaving mass of brown moving around restlessly, with men apparently trying to get them out of the road without much success. The first two vehicles beyond the cattle had their doors open, as if the drivers were augmenting the cattle handlers.

“Almost there,” Ky said, turning around. “I can see the layout. We’re still behind the target.”

With a gesture, the team leader brought the team up and to the side door, ready to move out when their truck stopped. Ahead of them, someone honked a horn. Someone yelled. And with a final lurch, they stopped.

The ops team was out the door in a blur of speed, Ky and Rafe right behind them. They had the back door of the target unlocked before Ky reached it, and both attendants were down before they had time to return fire. Philo boosted Ky into the truck body. And there they were, five float chairs facing forward, five bald heads showing. Pockets on the back of each held a folder. Ky looked into the face of the rearmost, pulling out the folder. Gossin. Eyes opened, widened. “Admiral?”

When the truck finally started up, the two attendants sitting side by side eating something, it moved into heavier traffic for a while and then turned onto another, quieter road. Gossin dozed off and woke to voices both inside the truck and outside.

“Why are we stopped?”

“A traffic jam.”

“Here? I thought all this was farm country.”

“Driver says there’s a bunch of cattle in the road—no way around it; there’s a dozen vehicles ahead of us, at least one behind us.”

Gossin heard a faint metallic sound from behind—perhaps a cooling grille on the truck behind them—then a hiss and a pop.

“What—?” from one of the attendants.

The door swung open; light and fresh air poured into the cargo space. Both attendants were up now, grabbing for something—and the soft phup-phup of a silenced weapon took them both down. Gossin felt the strap holding her to the headrest loosen; hands unfastened the straps on her arms, and someone knelt beside her, freeing her legs. She looked down into the familiar face of Admiral Vatta.

“Can you walk?” Vatta asked.

“M-maybe.” Gossin felt light-headed, almost faint, with relief.

“Here—” Vatta signaled someone behind her and moved to the next float chair. “First one, quick.”

Men she didn’t know lifted her out of the chair and down off the back of the truck. She felt pavement through the thin fabric slippers but managed to hobble to the much larger truck behind them. She felt a steadying hand on her arm, and then a lift through the side door of that truck. This time she recognized the face—Corporal Inyatta, her hair now dark fuzz instead of the neat braid she remembered. “Staff Sergeant,” Inyatta said. “Let me help you.” Full-sized couches had been fastened to the bed of the cargo space here. Inyatta eased her down onto the soft cushions, then brought a stack of clothes. “You can start changing if you want. They may not fit exactly.”

Uniforms. A uniform that was almost her size, just a little big, with the proper patches for her grade, her former unit. She looked around; in the back corner of this truck were two enclosed spaces like tiny closets. Even as she picked up the clothes and stood, Chok was hoisted through the door, and with two helpers walked back to another couch.

The closet contained a toilet, a sink, a stack of washcloths and towels. Gossin felt tears on her face; she stripped, took off the hated diaper, cleaned up, used the toilet, and dressed. Proper underwear. Real shoes. A uniform jacket. She was breathless by the time she’d walked back to the couch, where someone in a medic’s tunic was giving one of the two other people on it—McLenard and Kurin, Gossin saw—an injection. On a different couch, Chok sat blinking, brow furrowed. Then he shook his head.

The medic looked up at Gossin. “Antidote for the sedative load. You’re looking pretty good; try this pill instead.” He handed her a pill and a paper cup of water.

Gossin wanted to ask questions, but he was busy. Inyatta, at the front of the truck, was helping another—Cosper, she saw, the last of the five—to the third couch.

“You’re probably hungry,” the medic said. “There’s food in the cooler behind that couch.”

Gossin’s stomach rumbled. She remembered her grandmother telling her that those exercises might make her hungry. But now others were entering the truck—none of them in military uniform. Finally Admiral Vatta, who closed the side door and looked around, her expression as grim as when she had killed Master Sergeant Marek. Then she saw Gossin looking at her, and her expression softened. She moved to the center of the truck and spoke to the medic. “How is everyone?”

“One alert; haven’t done the mental status exam yet. The others in various states of sedation. What’s our status overall?”

“Page nine, line seventeen.”

The medic laughed. Horns started honking. “Clear?”

“Just about.” Vatta turned away from the medic and came to Gossin. “You might want to sit down; we’re going to move.”

“Yes, sir,” Gossin said, automatically, though Vatta wasn’t in uniform. She sat at the end of the nearest couch; Vatta sat down as well. “What—how did you do it?”

“We haven’t done it yet, Staff Sergeant,” Vatta said. “Not until you’re all free and able to testify in court. But in the meantime, have you eaten yet? The antidote lowers your blood sugar.”

“No, sir—”

“Well, I’m hungry and you will be. Hang on.”

The truck lurched forward and to the left; Gossin grabbed the couch arm, and Vatta put a hand on Gossin’s shoulder, then moved quickly around the couch. “Hot or cold?” Vatta asked.

“Anything, sir.”

A wrapped sandwich sailed over the back of the couch and landed beside her. Gossin unwrapped it and bit down. More flavors than she’d had since Miksland flooded her mouth; she ate rapidly until it was gone. Vatta handed her a hot-mug. “The medic said no caffeine after the antidote; that’s cocoa. I told him chocolate’s also got a stimulant and he said it’s not the same. Hope he’s right.”

The truck was picking up speed now and then swerved—but less jerkily—to the right.

“Where are we going?” Gossin asked.

“To the nearest town, a warehouse where you’ll transfer to another truck that’ll take you to the airport. Then you’ll fly directly to Port Major and then to the Joint Services Headquarters.”

“All of us?”

“All of you. Not me. I’ll be circling around trying to pull a similar trick on the next transport.”

“What about the truck we were in?”

“Well… it’s going to be towed to the next nearest town, where law enforcement will discover the driver is dead drunk, there are two dead people with no ID in the back, and the logo on the truck is a fake. That will keep them busy for a while. Especially since the tow truck will take the long way around Swallowtail Lake to get to Fordham.”

Gossin nodded. “How long has it been?”

“Since we left Miksland? Four tendays. Longer than it should have been,” Ky said. “I didn’t know about this—that you’d all been drugged and confined—until Barash, Inyatta, and Kamat showed up at the Vatta city house. Neither did the Rector. I was mired in legal matters when I got back to Port Major, first with stuff related to a family business matter, and then with citizenship challenges.”

Gossin felt her jaw drop. “You got caught in the new citizen and immigration law?”

“Yup. Never heard of it, family never thought to mention it. We all thought since I was born here, I was good for life. My cousin and I both had to reapply.”

“But you—”

Vatta shook her head. “Even so. Immigration came knocking on my aunt’s door, ready to cart me off to prison. I’d been on the planet for over a half year and never turned myself in.”

Gossin couldn’t help laughing. “You were stuck in a lifeboat and then on Miksland—like the rest of us.”

“Yes. And finally that was accepted and I now have a court date for a final determination and the Citizens’ Oath.” Vatta stood up. “I need to check on the others. Another sandwich?”

The truck was moving smoothly; Gossin levered herself up, glad that she could. “I can get it—and if there’s anything I can do—”

“Eat first.”

Gossin retrieved a sandwich. Vatta was up in the front of the truck, talking to a man in an unmarked jumpsuit. She looked around. Kurin was awake now, sipping something from a mug and looking around. Chok came out of the makeshift bathroom, and Corporal Barash was there to offer support to a couch. Then Barash moved to McLenard, his eyes now open, but bleary, and spoke to him. With her help, he stood up and she guided him toward the bathroom. A well-run operation, as she’d have expected from Vatta.