Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE}

Benny Quindlan fingered the weapon he carried, checking again that it was loaded, charged, ready to use. He had returned to Port Major only the day before, tracking his uncle Michael from a distance. He had paid for a temporary DNA assist the day after his wife died in the hospital—a blend that came under the heading “cosmetic enhancement” rather than “identity replacement”—and so far had been able to travel unrecognized just by changing his clothes and putting a small lift in one shoe.

He had never believed himself capable of this sort of thing, until the evening he came home to find his wife mutilated, barely conscious, posed in the foyer of his home with their two children dead beside her. He knew at once who had done it, and knew that Michael believed “soft Benny” wouldn’t dare retaliate. Now that Michael had returned to Port Major, he must, Benny knew, be planning the vengeance he’d sworn on the Vatta family. He would be looking for an opportunity to kill Grace, Stella, and Ky, and if he succeeded in those, he would then seek out the last two survivors of the line he’d chosen, Stavros Vatta’s grandchildren.

Today’s meeting of the Grand Council, at which all three of Michael’s targets would be recognized for their service to the planet, was a perfect opportunity, Benny knew. And he himself would have to stop Michael, because no one else could, or would believe what he told them. He’d tried to tell the police when he found his family that his uncle had done it, but Michael had explained that Benny was the family dullard, harmless but clueless. Benny had tried again when he heard about this ceremony, calling the anonymous tip line, but could tell from the bored tone of the woman he spoke to that she didn’t believe him. He tried calling Stella Vatta, but her com lines were all under a security wrap, requiring a code he didn’t know for access. So coming here was his only hope.

It was colder than it had been, but the clouds were high and thin, the air under them clear. Benny, along with others, picked his way along what had been broad walks on either side of gardens in the plaza south of the Presidential Palace. Now, though clear of snow, they were pitted by the tracks of heavy machinery and bomb damage. Scaffolding covered the worst of the damage to the Palace and Government House.

Visitors, Benny among them, went up the steps of the Palace, weaving around the gaps. Inside, the rotunda under the former dome had been cleared of debris, and the mosaic maps of Slotter Key were whole again, forming a ring around a new globe in the center. The ceremony would be held here, and around the margin tables were covered with refreshments. Some of the visitors were already accepting tidbits from the trays. Benny couldn’t see the Vattas yet, but he spotted his uncle, staring across at a corridor entrance on the other side of the rotunda. He turned away casually, picking up a pastry from a tray, and moved on.

Michael would be carrying multiple weapons. And he would probably have several of his goons with him—or would he? Benny moved closer, along the wall with the others grazing at the tables, keeping people between himself and Michael, and pausing and moving as the others did. He heard the clatter of feet on stone coming along the corridor Michael had been watching, and—looking that way as well—moved even closer.

Four ceremonial guards, in their bright uniforms. Four others, less obvious, in business suits. The President led the way, today in formal dress, her height emphasized by the lines of her dress and cape. Behind her were the Grand Council members, with their ceremonial capes and chains of office, and behind them, those being honored: not just the Vattas, but several others Benny didn’t know. Ky wore the white uniform of the Commandant; Stella wore a green suit; Grace wore plain black, her white hair bright against it. The others in that group included both military and civilian, dressed accordingly. Benny dared a glance at his uncle. Michael was staring at the Vattas. Which one would he attack first?

President Saranife began her introductions; Council members nodded when their names were called, and the small crowd automatically formed into an arc in front of them. Michael Quindlan stayed on one end of the arc; Benny had maneuvered toward the other end, but found himself stuck only partway to the ideal spot. He was, however, closer to the cluster of Vattas and he had an excuse to look back toward the President, and beyond.

One by one, President Saranife announced and handed out awards: to Port Major’s mayor, heads of city emergency agencies, the commanders of both small air bases near Port Major, the harbormaster, several private citizens who—it turned out—had given shelter to senior government officials during the attack. The Vattas, apparently, were to be last. Benny glanced again to the right; Michael was moving, as if heading for the nearest refreshments, apparently. Benny knew that was a ruse. A person just in front of him, who had applauded someone who had sheltered a functionary Benny’d never heard of, turned to go, obviously having come just for that one award. Benny moved into the gap, now just across from Stella Vatta. She wasn’t looking at him.

“And now it is time to thank Sera Graciela Vatta for her service as Rector of Defense, on her last day in that position. Sera Vatta has resigned and issued a statement to the press, which will be available after this ceremony. Sera Vatta took this post in a time of emergency, at a risk to her own safety, and stayed on at my request when I was elected to the presidency. But she says the more recent attacks on her, the poisoning she suffered, have weakened her enough that she is not able to continue—and as well, she feels she should not have accepted the position in the first place. I for one am grateful for her service, and hereby award her the Presidential Service Medal.” Saranife lifted the medal, on its ribbon, from the box an assistant held for her, and moved behind Grace as another assistant stepped in front, to steady the medal until Saranife had closed the clasp.

The little crowd clapped and cheered; Grace looked down, then turned to thank Saranife. Benny glanced around again for his uncle. Who was standing immediately behind him.

“Well, you made it,” Michael said. “Isn’t that nice, Benny?”

Shock held him for an instant, long enough for Michael to lean close and murmur: “This is perfect. I’ll get the Vattas, one–two–three, and then you… your girlfriend first, I think.”

Shock and panic vanished in a burst of fury; Benny felt no fear, not even anxiety as he whirled, crouching, and slammed into Michael, snarling, “Not again!” Michael staggered back, one arm flailing for balance, the other reaching into his coat. Someone else yelled “Gun! Gun!” Benny charged on, trying to grab Michael’s arm even as Michael squeezed off a shot that went wild, up into the scaffolding and tarps. Two more shots were fired, close by—someone else. Michael stumbled, started to fall, as other hands and arms grabbed him. Benny ignored the hands that now grabbed at him, trying to pull him back as he landed on Michael, beating on his face, unaware of what he was saying, the tears running down his face. “Not her too! Not her too! Never again! No more of this!”

Finally he was hauled off, roughly, and handcuffed by the honor guard. His uncle lay motionless, blood spreading from beneath him. Michael’s face was a bloody mess; his own hands were bloodstained, raw, hurting now. “Ser—Ser—you must calm down, ser. The man is dead. He was shot.” He tried to breathe; his throat was raw. Hands patted him down, found his holstered weapon, found his ID packet.

“He tried to kill them,” he managed at last. “Michael Quindlan. My uncle. He killed my wife… my children… and I couldn’t let him kill anyone else.”

Others crowded around him, curious; he looked over and saw President Saranife still on the dais with the honorees, surrounded by more guards. All of them alive, unhurt. Whatever happened now, it was worth it.

“You’re Benjamin Arnold Quindlan?” asked the guard in front of him, looking at his open ID packet.

“Yes,” Benny said. “Who—who shot him?”

“I did.” Benny looked at the speaker. A shortish man, black haired, dark-eyed, well-dressed.

“I’m Rafael Dunbarger. He’s dead, and you didn’t kill him. I did. Thank you for that lunge you made, by the way. I couldn’t get a clear shot at him, when I first saw what he was up to. Your shoving him opened a gap.”

“Ser, you’re injured—” one of the guards said.

Benny’s hands fell apart, released. His left arm hurt suddenly; he could feel the tickle of something hot moving down his arm. When he looked, blood had soaked his jacket sleeve and his hand was bloody. He felt sick.

“Let me see,” the short man—Dunbarger—said. “Ah—you need to sit down. Yes, right down on the floor.” To the others “An aid kit, a medic. Quickly.” He took a handkerchief from his impeccable jacket and pushed it into the wound. “You’ll be all right. I’ve seen worse.”

“Benny—” Stella was there, kneeling beside him, looking at him—and in her face he saw no anger, no contempt. “You saved our lives.”

“He did,” Benny said, nodding toward Rafe.

“You,” she said, and laid her hand on his bloody one. “I won’t forget.”

President Saranife shook her head at her guests. “I was going to talk about how individuals and families—including the Vattas—had through their recent efforts brought us peace again,” she said. “I was going to use your family as an example: Vatta’s peace. And then, right here in the Palace, this brawl. Almost an assassination.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” the Chair of the Grand Council said. “We could have had another all-out civil war.” The other guests nodded.

Ky, watching Rafe care for a Quindlan who apparently wasn’t an enemy, felt a rush of warmth and mischief together. “Well, let that be our motto then,” she said. “Vatta’s peace may not be perfect, but it could have been worse.”