Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER SEVEN}

Staff Sergeant Gossin, senior surviving NCO from the shuttle crash, said nothing when the morning meal packet slid through the slot. She did not move for another five minutes, as near as she could determine, having no timekeeping device. Her well-stocked implant was gone, replaced by a very basic one that seemed to have, as its main function, dispensing drugs she very much did not want to have in her system.

As she lay there, silent and not quite motionless, she thought over the same miserable string of events. Their escape from the mercs sent to kill them. Their airlift out to what they’d all thought was safety. But had they all thought it was safety? Or had Admiral Vatta—who had been determined to get them out safely—betrayed them at the last? Or had she been betrayed by her great-aunt, the Rector? Or was it someone else?

Because betrayed, they certainly had been. It had been reasonable for them to be debriefed separately, that first day, and it had seemed reasonable for them to be in separate compartments on the flight from Pingat Islands Base back to Voruksland, on the way to Port Major. Except she had woken up, more or less, strapped down in a ground transport vehicle carrying not only her, but also Staff Sergeant Kurin and Sergeants Cosper, Chok, and McLenard. She’d scarcely had time to notice that before someone in a green decontamination suit had reached over and tweaked a tube, ending that brief period of consciousness.

There have been two more debriefings—somewhere—somewhen—with never a sense of being clearheaded until she woke up here, in a five-cell pod in some kind of jail, with her head shaved, guarded by people in decontamination suits, whose faces she could not see. They answered no questions, gave only brief orders.

Periodically, she was taken out of the cell and allowed to shower, provided with a clean orange short-legged jumper, clean cloth slippers, and a clean striped robe. Then for an hour she was interrogated by someone behind a window. Every third interrogation was followed by a brief visit with the others confined here, and then by a physical exam and a return to her cell.

She was the senior. She was responsible for the others—all the others, from Staff Sergeant Kurin, next junior, to Ennisay, the most junior—and she did not know where most of them were, or what had happened to them, or even why she and the other senior NCOs were confined here.

Asking had brought little information, and only in the first interrogation. Supposedly they had been exposed to a deadly contaminant, and were in quarantine. Supposedly Admiral Vatta had the same thing and had died. No one would tell her—if they even knew—what the contaminant was, toxin or disease. She didn’t feel sick—when she wasn’t drugged—but she did feel uneasy, annoyed, and bored.

She sat up when she had counted down what she hoped was about five minutes, and fetched the tray from the door slot. Cereal, hot. A drink that was neither coffee nor tea, but a weak attempt at a brown liquid to drink at breakfast. A packet of sweetener for the cereal, a little container of white liquid for the brown liquid, another little container with a pill she was supposed to take.

And the cell was monitored. Leaving the pill in its container meant she would be given an injection within the hour. That was not a result she wanted, but she knew the pill—blue with a white stripe—was a sedative. It must be the day for moving them from cell to cell. She would be barely conscious for several hours, and then be returned to a cell that smelled strongly of cleansing solutions and also felt “different” from the one she had just left.

Why were they doing this? She ate the cereal with sweetener, because she had to eat something, stirred the white liquid into the brown one, and drank down the pill. The drowsiness came soon after; she was barely aware when she was bundled into a float chair and taken out of the cell.

This time she woke in a larger room, with her companions in their own float chairs to either side. She turned her head. Staff Sergeant Kurin blinked. I’m aware, that meant. Sergeant Cosper didn’t look at her; he still seemed dazed. Sergeant Chok blinked. Sergeant McLenard stared at the floor. Gossin looked around the room. A transparent screen separated them from a table beyond, with five chairs behind it. A door centered that wall. This was completely new. She tried to turn and look behind her, only then realizing she was strapped into the float chair, unable to turn her body or move her arms.

The door behind the table opened, and three women and two men came in, all in military uniform. Four officers each represented a branch of Slotter Key’s military: Spaceforce, AirDefense, Air-Sea Rescue, and Surface Warfare. The fifth represented enlisted personnel, the sergeant major of the entire military, Sonja Tonaya Morrison. They pulled out the chairs and sat down facing the screen, picking up earbuds and putting them in. Gossin could hear the scrape of their chairs, the rustle of their clothing, throats clearing. Someone in a plain gray smock entered with a tray: two water pitchers. Behind him came another, with a tray of glasses, and these were set down on the table, a glass for each of those seated, a pitcher at each end. The two in smocks left. Another man came in, this one in uniform, bearing a stack of folders, which he set down beside the man in the center.

“We’ll begin,” said the man in the middle. “Is the recording on? Testing?”

Gossin could not hear any response, but he nodded.

“Present at this meeting of the committee tasked with determining the status and prognosis of those individuals who survived the shuttle crash and were recovered from Miksland are myself, Colonel Asimin Nedari, chair, representing Land Forces; Commander Palo Gohran, Spaceforce; Lieutenant Colonel Djuliana Dikar, AirDefense; Lieutenant Commander Howard Buckram, Air-Sea Rescue; and Sergeant Major Sonja Morrison.

“This meeting is being held at the Clemmander Rehabilitation Center, under contract to treat disabled service members, where Staff Sergeant Gossin, Staff Sergeant Kurin, Sergeant Cosper, Sergeant Chok, and Sergeant McLenard have been treated. Circumstances and investigation so far indicate that all such individuals were exposed to dangerous pathogens, and that all exhibit recurrent symptoms of physical and mental degeneration, including loss of physical conditioning, coordination both fine- and gross-motor, memory deficits, and cognitive deficits.”

Gossin twitched, all she could do, restrained in the float chair as she was. They weren’t sick and they weren’t disabled—except for the drugs and the confinement.

“We have been presented with the medical records that document this damage, and the committee as a whole—” Colonel Nedari looked along the table both ways; the others nodded. “—felt it was necessary to see for ourselves the conditions of these cases, before rendering a final decision on their future management. This is our last clinic visit; we have observed all the clinics in which these personnel are being treated. Because of the severity of the condition caused by this unknown pathogen, we have acceded to the medical staff’s recommendation to observe from behind a protective barrier, but we will make every effort to communicate with each individual and ascertain their present condition.”

A hand went up from the woman on Colonel Nedari’s right, the sergeant major. “I’d like it on the record that this restriction of direct contact with the individuals was opposed by the Senior NCO Association on the grounds that no further cases have been detected.”

“So noted,” Colonel Nedari said. “But of course, the cases have been in complete quarantine so it is highly unlikely that any more cases would have been found—”

“Excuse me,” the sergeant major said. “But these individuals had direct contact with Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation personnel immediately after their retrieval, and with our military personnel prior to their arrival at Pingat Base and the Haron Drake Military Hospital, where they were first quarantined. Both Mackensee and Black Torch mercs were in the same underground areas. No cases have been reported by either organization, nor have any shown up from the pre-quarantine contact with Slotter Key troops. The Senior NCO Association considers this reason to question the need for, not the efficacy of, quarantine.”

“Noted,” the man said again. “Thank you, Sergeant Major Morrison. Nonetheless, this examination will take place under the conditions specified prior to our visit, maintaining quarantine and not endangering unprotected personnel.”

A pause, during which no one spoke, and three of the panel sipped water from their glasses. Gossin had a brief time to think about what they’d said about her, about them all, and what it might mean. She felt cold. Their captors could have dosed them differentially; that might be why McLenard’s head drooped. She glanced at him again. A line of saliva ran out of his mouth, down his chin, and made a visible wet spot on the bib tied under it. His face had been shaved unevenly, though his head was as hairless as her own. If this was all the committee saw, they would think… they would think what they’d been told, that she and the others were impaired.

She wriggled, trying to loosen the straps that held her, but they had no give to them.

“Well, now,” the man in the center said. “We will start with… um… Sergeant McLenard.” He opened the folder on top of the stack. “If the rest of you will consult your chips: I will pass this along as we go, so you can see the originals of the clinical notations.” He raised his voice a little. “Doctor Hastile, if you will indicate Sergeant McLenard, please, and prepare him for examination.”

“Yes, of course. Corpsman—”

Though she could turn her head only partway, Gossin saw two people approach McLenard’s chair, one on either side. Both were garbed in full protective gear, bright yellow this time. She could just make out a human face inside the transparent mask—a face partly covered by a second mask over nose and mouth. One touched the chair controls so it lowered to the floor. The other touched a control to the restraints on McLenard’s arms and legs; they retracted into the float chair frame. One arm fell into his lap, the hand clenched oddly; the other slid over the side of the float chair and jerked in an uneven rhythm.

“Sergeant McLenard. Can you state your name, rank, and number for this committee?”

McLenard’s mouth gaped; his tongue protruded, licked at his lips, but he said nothing. One of the yellow-garbed figures leaned over him. “McLenard! Pay attention! Name!”

“Mmmm. Muh… eh… luh… nuh.”

“Rank! Say your rank!”

“Ssss… uh… ahh… juh…”

“What day is it?” No answer. Of course, Gossin thought, he could not answer. None of them could. They had been kept isolated, away from sunlight or dark, calendars or clocks. She had no idea how long she’d been here, what day it was, what time of day it was. It wasn’t McLenard’s fault—and besides, he was drugged. Couldn’t the committee tell that?

“Doctor, let’s see him walk.”

“He doesn’t walk without support.”

“Let’s see, anyway.”

The two men levered McLenard up to a standing position; he was clearly unsteady. One took each arm, and the voice Gossin identified as “the doctor” urged him to walk forward. His gait was weak, unsteady; he needed the support of both men to keep him from falling, and after seven or eight steps they half carried him back to the float chair.

“Doctor.” That was the sergeant major. “Has he had any medications that would produce this effect?”

“No. He is on a mild sedative to prevent self-injury—” The doctor lifted McLenard’s arm, pushed up the sleeve of his robe, and showed a linear scab. “He picks at his arms if we don’t either sedate or restrain him. But nothing that would cause ataxia or the kind of mental deficit he shows.”

Gossin wanted to scream Liar at him, but she was afraid of what they would do to her. She had had drugs that morning; she could feel them fogging her brain, though not as much. She knew the implant they’d put in her head could administer drugs as well.

“And your prognosis, Doctor?”

“Sergeant McLenard will not improve. He will require permanent custodial care for the rest of his life.”

“Thank you. When you are ready, we will continue with… uh… Sergeant Chok.”

Chok was able to give his name, rank, and serial number, though in a monotone mumble.

“What is the date, Sergeant Chok?”

“Dun… dunno, sir. Don’t have calendar. Clock.”

“They do,” the doctor’s voice interrupted. “There’s a calendar in the day room. Clocks in their quarters. They don’t seem to understand them, though staff try.”

“Yes, we’ve seen the images of their quarters, Doctor. I understand. Not oriented to time, then. Sergeant Chok, do you know where you are?”

“Where? Can’t see out.”

“Do you know what kind of facility this is?”

“Issa jail,” Chok said.

The committee members looked at one another for a moment. The sergeant major said, “A jail? No, Sergeant, it’s a hospital. Because you’re sick.”

“No windows. No vids—”

“Of course there are vids,” the doctor said. “You’ve just forgotten them.” He turned to the other man. “Help me, here. Time to show them how he moves.”

Chok, released from the straps, made an attempt to stand but needed help. He took a few tottering steps, tried to shake his arm free of the doctor’s firm grip, but then his foot slipped on the floor. Gossin saw a shiny place, as if a smear of grease was left behind.

“He’s getting agitated,” the doctor said. “Come on, now, Sergeant, let’s get you back in your chair before you fall and hurt yourself.”

Gossin rubbed her slippers on the footrest of her chair. They were slick, and the floor was polished, gleaming.

“I’d like to talk to him alone,” the sergeant major said.

“Now, you know what we were told,” the chairman said.

“I know what we were told but that man could as easily be drugged as actually demented. I want to see his actual room.”

“Are you prepared to go through both the entrance and exit decontamination, gown up in one of these suits, and spend at least nine days in quarantine?” asked the doctor. “Because that’s what it will take to allow you closer contact with any of these cases. We’re not going to have you spreading this pathogen—”

“If it is a pathogen.” The sergeant major was clearly angry.

Gossin tried to catch her eye, but the sergeant major was focused on Chok, now swaying in his seat as they refastened his restraints. She saw the doctor slip something into the pocket of his yellow suit. Had he already dosed Chok again? And would they dose her again, before it was her turn to be shown off to the committee as a hopeless case? Her stomach roiled, fear and drugs combining.

The chairman turned to the sergeant major, also clearly angry. Both had their hands over the mike pickups, so Gossin heard only muffled phrases that seemed to be an argument about whether the staff might be lying about the “cases” and whether the sergeant major was risking something—probably being ruled out of order.

When that was over, the sergeant major was silent, lips compressed, expression grim then fading to blank. Gossin knew that expression well: the defense of the outranked when the senior was wrong but, for the moment, unstoppable. She had used it herself to escape worse trouble. As the chairman picked up another of the folders, and the others shifted in their chairs, the sergeant major looked at Gossin, a long considering look. Gossin looked back, hoping her face conveyed her fear, her concern. She blinked twice, deliberately.

The sergeant major blinked back, twice. Gossin blinked three times quickly, three times slowly—and twitched as the attendant’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “Are you feeling bad, honey?” came the voice she hated. “Need a little pain med, do you?” And a sharp sting in the back of her neck.

Her head was already dipping forward but she was almost sure she had managed the last three quick blinks.

Sergeant Major Sonja Morrison said nothing more during the rest of the presentation. Staff Sergeant Elena Maria Gossin had tried to send her a message. She’d known Gossin before Gossin made staff sergeant, before she herself became sergeant major. Gossin had chosen Spaceforce; Morrison had chosen Surface Warfare, because she’d had her eye on the position she now held, and everyone knew that nobody made sergeant major unless their duties were firmly tied to the planet’s surface.

And she, Sonja Morrison of Esterance on Fulland, knew that the current Rector of Defense had been equally tied to the planet’s surface, and had actual combat experience in surface warfare. Long ago, and not that far away from Morrison’s own background, in the misnamed war that the schoolbooks had whitewashed. The loose strings left behind still acted as fuses to buried political ordnance. Time to look for a string, and yank it as hard as possible, because sure as stingfish were stingfish, her people—enlisted people were all her people—were being mistreated by someone, and it had better not be the Rector of Defense for some stupid political reason.

She had seen desperation on Gossin’s face, seen the quick blinking of her eyes, seen the attendant reach out, grab her shoulder, and put a hand to the back of her neck. They were drugged. They were all drugged, and the demonstration was a sham, the whole thing playacting to excuse this—this hideous injustice perpetuated on innocent personnel. She had thought so on the other clinic visits, but now she was sure.

Her gramma had always said the Vattas were dangerous, but wouldn’t say why. Well, a certain Vatta, or several, would find out that a Morrison could be just as dangerous.

If she made it back to Port Major without being drugged herself. She had pulled on the bland face, so often practiced, that gave nothing away, pinged her implant to regulate heart rate, respirations, the levels of stress hormones in her blood so that her sweat wouldn’t give her away. When the time came for final comments, she acceded to the suggested verdict with a pleasant little smile, allowing her voice to express only sadness that such a tragedy had occurred.

And after, in the reception prepared for the committee, she ate and drank nothing, while seeming to do so, and entered the same vehicle as the others, who were not in the same danger, she was sure. She hoped.

Nonetheless, she wished she could have been more active—could have walked past that barrier, talked to her people, found out what had really happened and how bad it was for them now. Her imagination insisted on suggesting how bad it could be for her if she didn’t convince the right people that she was no threat, just a person who cared about her people, which was both true and normal.

Like the others, she was to co-sign a report to be delivered to the department back in Port Major. She was on the same flight with the rest of the committee. Colonel Nedari invited her to come up to officers’ country, where they could work on the report together and sign it. But—fortunately, she thought—six other officers boarded, and if she accepted, one of them would have to be bumped back to NCO seating. She smiled and shook her head. “Sir, I don’t think that’s appropriate when officers are waiting. Just take it that I’ll sign whatever you have ready for me—send someone back for me, and I’ll come up but not disturb the others.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, frowning slightly. “You were unhappy with the clinic staff, it seemed to me. I don’t want you to feel that your concerns were not heard, or that you can’t share them.”

She thought he probably meant that; he had been—barring that one outbreak of annoyance today, which might have been his own discomfort with the entire situation or fatigue from the long journey out here and the early start—what her experience told her was a good officer. Still, she dared not trust too much. She shook her head.

“Colonel, I had not realized how disabled they were; it shocked me, I’ll admit. You know my background: my cousin’s in care, from a head injury. But what is, is. They’re not fit for duty; the service has to do something. We can’t keep them on the rolls as active when they can’t be. I wish they could be allowed contact with their families, but—” She shrugged. “I agree, we can’t risk this thing, whatever it is, getting loose in the population.” He would assume she meant the pathogen.

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I appreciate that. Word in your ear: I happen to know some of the officers here pushed their way onto the list for this flight, and none of them would be happy to be displaced. You’re saving me an awkward conversation; I won’t forget it. I’d wanted a dedicated flight back, just the five of us and crew, but—” He spread his hands. “Budget.”

“Yes, sir. That’s fine, sir; I don’t mind at all. The important thing is to see that our veterans get the care they need for the rest of their lives, and hope nobody else gets whatever it is.”

The senior NCO compartment on this aircraft included eighteen seats, three abreast either side of the aisle, closed off from the officers in front by a door just past the midship loo, and from lower enlisted behind by a sound-baffling curtain. It was half full, and a long flight to come. Morrison chose a seat and put her duffel on the seat beside her. With luck others would respect her seniority and let her have both seats; then she could stretch out a bit and ease her legs.

At first she thought her ploy had worked. But once they were airborne, the master sergeant across the aisle greeted her by name, and began probing to find out why the sergeant major had been “out here in the sticks.” His name tag read UNGOLIT.

“I am like the Ghost of Bailorn,” Morrison said, quoting from the intro to a well-known vid-thriller series. “I wander here and there, day and night, on hill and in hollow, all folk to affright.” The Ghost, according to the script, was a descendant of Count Dracula who had inherited a vast fortune and a taste for adventure.

Master Sergeant Ungolit laughed, perhaps a little louder than necessary. “But had you ever been to our remote corner before?”

“Oh, yes. Last year I spent half a day at your base, in fact, speaking to the master sergeants—that was just before you were promoted, I think.”

“And four tendays before my transfer. I remember wishing I’d been there. So—if you don’t mind my asking—does being sergeant major involve a lot of travel?”

“Thinking ahead, are you?” she asked with a smile that had razor wire on its edge. Before he could answer, she relaxed the razor wire just a little. “As a matter of fact, yes. At headquarters probably only half the time; the rest of it is out in the field, visiting as many installations as I can. Certainly I’m on every continent every year, and usually get to all the main bases, and as many smaller ones as we can fit in.”

“I’ll bet that’s tiring.”

“That’s what fitness work is for,” Morrison said, ratcheting the razor wire back into view. Ungolit looked, to her, like someone on the slide. Not flabby yet, but not as fit as he had been. “Sergeant majors must be examples, you know. In case you’re thinking in that direction. Hours a day, even during travel.”

“How do you—?”

“Creativity,” she said. She did not want to talk all the way back to Port Major; she needed to think. “Besides, every base has gyms, and many have terrain that fills the need, just by walking instead of riding.”

“That’s what I always say.” Staff Sergeant Gomes, in the row ahead, had turned around to join the conversation. He was lean and looked well muscled. “If you have the desire, there’s always an opportunity.”

Ungolit looked unconvinced. He opened his mouth to answer Gomes, then glanced at Morrison and shut it again. Gomes said, “Nice to see you, Sergeant Major; I really enjoyed that talk you gave at the NCO conference on security upgrades.”

Morrison nodded at him, not saying what she was thinking—her implant had provided his record, too, and she knew his specialty. “Glad you enjoyed it. I do have some work to do on the flight, though, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” Gomes said. Ungolit looked as if he wanted to say more, but Morrison turned slightly away and dug into her duffel for her tablet, where paperwork always waited.

After that the trip went as she’d hoped. Two hours before arrival at Port Major, a steward from the officers’ cabin came and said she was wanted forward. She checked her shoes—no scuffs—and went forward to the table the chairman shared with the rest of the committee, where the report was laid out. She signed on the designated line, initialing each page below the others.

“Anything else, sir?” she asked.

“No, Sergeant Major, thank you,” he said.

And that was it. She returned to her seat, and once more opened her tablet. Her thoughts were far away from the pages she scrolled past. Who might help? Where could she go?

Grace Vatta woke slowly, confused in the aftermath of the procedures that had saved her life. She heard the voices around her but not yet the sense of their words. She could not remember why she was wherever she was, slipping easily back into sleep and rousing again. When she did finally wake completely, to find MacRobert asleep in a chair beside her bed, she recognized the room as a hospital room, and remembered why she might be in one. Her implant had been reinstalled; it informed her what the date was, the time, and how many calls were waiting to be answered. She had slept through until the next day, as she’d been told she would.

“Mac?” she said. Her voice was weak and scratchy.

“Mmph?” He stirred, opened one eye, and pushed himself up in the chair. “You’re awake again. They said you might wake fully in a few hours.”

“The implant’s in. Or an implant’s in.”

“Yes. It’s yours. I had custody of it the whole time and it was definitely yours. I watched.” He stood up slowly, listing to one side, and fetched water from the bedside table. “Here. You’re supposed to drink some, and I’m supposed to call the nurse now you’re awake.”

“Wait.” Grace sipped the water, which tasted like water only, and sipped again. “How are other things?”

“Complicated. So was your recovery. Let me call the nurse.”

Dr. Maillard arrived on the heels of the nurse. “Well, that’s a good deal better,” she said to Grace. “You’ll have noticed your implant’s already in. Your arm’s fine. And the poison has cleared, though the damage it did hasn’t all been healed yet. Now for your mental status exam…”

Grace stared at the ceiling while reciting the date, the time, counting backward by sevens, and then naming her physicians. “Not the President?”

“No. I don’t like her.” Dr. Maillard’s face bunched into a scowl. “It’s more important that you know his name”—she pointed at MacRobert—“and your own name and my name and those of your nearest relatives than the President’s. Now: you are feeling much better, and you want out, right?”

“Certainly,” Grace said. She didn’t feel that much better but she definitely wanted out.

“Can’t happen now. Two more days at best, more likely longer. But you can get out of bed, and you can take a shower if you want. I want you up and walking the length of the hall five minutes an hour the first three hours, then a two-hour break, then ten minutes an hour the next four. Report any asymmetrical weakness or pain. Got that?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Grace said as meekly as she could.

Maillard reached out and laid a hand on hers. “You’re going to be all right, now. Don’t worry. But don’t hide any symptoms.”

She was gone with a swirl of her coat, and was talking to someone else on the way out of the room. “Yes, I’m on the way. Three minutes. Czardany can open for me.”

“You want me to fetch food, or do you trust the hospital?” Mac asked.

“I like having you here,” Grace said. “Can we send out?”

“I can,” he said. “And I have things to tell you. Your concern for those personnel Ky told you about was well founded, but we are going to have a hell of a time mounting a rescue.”

“Why?”

“Among other things, because you pissed off Basil Orniakos, remember? Who would ordinarily be on our side. Grace, this is going to be a delicate operation, and you must not lose your temper or go rogue.”

“You’re serious.” Her implant reminded her that Orniakos commanded Region VII AirDefense, and she had jumped the command chain to chew him out the day the shuttle had crashed.

“Very. They could all—well, all but the three who escaped, as you know—be eliminated very easily, and their deaths explained as due to some mysterious disease. We must work quickly and quietly. Ky’s begun.”

“What about that captain—?”

“He died. Suicided in custody, I’m convinced. The rest of that squad knew only that they were being told to pick up dangerous fugitives. Now, about that family you were having dinner with… tell me exactly how you ended up there.”

Grace told him, starting with her first glimpse of a woman in a red coat, walking a white dog.

“Conspicuous,” Mac said. “Had you ever seen her walking that dog there before?”

Grace shrugged. “Usually I didn’t pay much attention to anyone on the street—just went straight into the house.”

“It’s the coincidence I don’t like. And the fact that you weren’t suspicious. She shows up right at the critical moment, whisks you off to her house, and invites you to dinner—and you went. And her husband just happens to be from Esterance, where you were during the war.”

“Yes. I thought of that when I smelled the casserole. Not before.” Now she could recognize how foggy-headed she’d been, trusting the friendly stranger. “But he was too young.”

“You know perfectly well that family quarrels last through generations.”

“Yes.” Grace lay back. “And I did worry about that, but—” But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, thanks to the poison already working inside her.

“I ran background on them both. Sera Vance checks out clean. But her husband—he uses the name Vance now—his mother’s maiden name—his father’s name was Ernesto Arriaga.”

Grace nodded. “I know the Arriaga name. But the man I knew would have been Ernesto’s father or uncle or something—a generation older at least.”

“Felipe Arriaga, by any chance? Active in the Separatist movement? Jaime Vance’s great-uncle.” His brows went up and he said nothing, waiting. Testing her, she realized.

“Yes.” Memories rushed over her: smells, sounds, touch… the feel of his hands clamped on her wrists, his weight holding her down. The perfume of citrus flowers following the breeze through the window. The sound of gunfire nearby, which took his attention off her just long enough… the sight of his face, anger changing to fear, with the blade of his own knife in his throat. The memories went on: the gush of blood, hot on her face, the noise of a firefight outside, her friends breaking the house door, their voices. “I killed him,” she said.

“Well,” Mac said. “I thought it might be something like that. Jaime Vance seems clean so far; I’ll want to dig deeper, but his father Ernesto was pro-Unionist.”

He didn’t sound shocked, but then he wouldn’t. Grace debated trying to justify what she’d done. Felipe Arriaga had been a monster, delighting in causing pain. That morning he’d come in to beat her again, and threatened to kill the boy Grace had saved, the boy who had, in adulthood, become Commandant of the Academy. But she had explained it all, over and over, during the trial and the endless sessions in prison.

“Was that your first kill?” Mac asked. “You were what—eighteen?”

“I don’t know. I’d been in a firefight twice—no, three times, I think—but whether it was my bullet or someone else’s, when someone fell… I don’t know.” Hadn’t wanted to know, until later. Until after that night when she’d snatched the frightened boy, argued and threatened to keep him alive, had even endured Arriaga’s abuse to save the boy worse. Until her kills, starting with Arriaga himself, were for a purpose that made sense to her, keeping her and the boy alive, rather than for a cause she’d never cared about. The group that rescued her, nominally pro-Unification, had cared as little for her or the boy as the Separatists. She had had to fight for their side, again to save the boy, to earn food. Eventually she had fled with him into the scrub, her fragile link to sanity being the trust in his face.

He said nothing more for a moment, then sighed. “All right. I’ll send for some food from a trusted source, and then be here if you need help to shower.”

She watched him call in an order, wondering if he would be another casualty, if he would leave her now, or in a few days, with a good excuse. She had finally trusted him, but he might not trust her. And perhaps, if he didn’t, he was right. He was a soldier, with a soldier’s sense of duty and honor. She had had neither, back then. And as she had told Helen shortly before that last firefight, when she had killed and then been wounded to keep Jo’s twins alive, she believed she had no morals.

MacRobert wondered when Grace would be fully alert again; he could still see a trace of medication-fog in her eyes. He would not tell her yet about the nurse with a lethal dose of heart stimulant in a syringe who had been intercepted inside Grace’s room, about to inject it into the IV bag. Grace would be leaving the hospital for a more secure location sooner than Maillard had wanted, but he could not tell Grace until he was sure she was alert enough to keep that secret.