Into the Fire

  “You were, however, in contact with your great-aunt before you were rescued. She did not mention the change in law to you at any point?”

  “I did not speak to her, but to Rafe; he arranged the special shielding for the skullphone link. He never said anything, but if she’d mentioned it to him, I’m sure he would have said something. I imagine she thought—”

  “Please, Sera Ky, what you imagined is not useful in this context. What I need to know is exactly who said what to whom, and when. The law is very…practical.”

  The law did not seem practical to Ky. It seemed—here and in every system where she’d had to deal with it—to be formed of the whims of the lawmakers who just wanted their own notions made into walls and bars. Best not to say that to an attorney.

  Sera Lane tipped her head to one side. “You think it’s not practical, don’t you? Young people often do. But like my supposition about what you’re thinking right now, people are imperfect mind readers. What someone believes another person thinks is often wrong. That’s why the law—our system of law—relies on the closest thing we can get to a fact: observed behavior, acts, and words.”

  COMMANDANT’S OFFICE

  DAY 7

  Iskin Kvannis looked at the latest iteration of the plan to move the survivors into one facility—a facility cleared of all other prisoners—and then terminate them. Finally. It should have been over by now, the sealed coffins or urns distributed to the families with due ceremony and deepest apologies for the tragic deaths of their loved ones. With a careful hint that, though of course no charges could be filed, the fault if any lay with Ky Vatta for allowing their family members to come into contact with the dread infectious agent that had killed them.

  Everything had taken too long. The debate over whether to call it a plague or a toxin. The debate over where to house the survivors in the first place. Calming the panicky shock of their civilian allies, for whom the notion of planning to kill innocent soldiers, victims of happenstance, rang oddly with the same civilians’ eagerness to start a civil war that would certainly kill even more innocents, civilian as well as soldiers. Trying to explain the realities of the situation, trying to persuade the media that there was no story there, just a sad aftermath. Trying to keep legislators pestered by families convinced that there was nothing else to be done but hold the personnel in quarantine. Three of the survivors had escaped before the plan was complete. True, nothing at all had been seen or heard of them since, and they might, as Stornaki kept insisting, have died of exposure. But what if they hadn’t?

  And now this plan, once more, had holes in it that Kvannis could see easily. Granted, the chosen rehab facility was the easiest to clear out because it had the smallest inmate population. It was remote. The locals—not very local, in fact—had shown almost no interest in it since it was built. What happened there would stay there, as the saying went, and being so remote it had its own facilities for disposing of bodies. All that was good. What was not good was how long it would take, again because of the remote area, and the specific containment needs for its present occupants. The plan proposed a 120-day period for converting the existing cells into the milder captivity suitable to the survivors, who after all did not deserve the smaller, harsher cells. He scrawled UNNECESSARY across that. They wouldn’t be there long, and they’d be drugged. What difference did it make?

  He marked changes on the rest of the plan, and called Stornaki in. “We need to go with this as marked,” he said. “If the Rector recovers enough, if Immigration doesn’t hold Ky Vatta, it will become much more difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Yes, Commandant,” Stornaki said.

  Later, on his regular afternoon drive, Kvannis stopped to buy a couple of stuffed pastries and a bottle of lemonade; the message to his co-conspirators and the receipt for the purchase both missed the trash can, but a helpful customer put the receipt in, pocketing the scrap of paper.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TRANSPORT OFFICE, JOINT SERVICES HQ

  DAY 7

  Corporal Hector Mata looked at the information his buddy Irwin handed him and shook his head. “That’s not enough. A form 431-B needs more—”

  “That’s all I’ve got. That’s what the colonel gave me, that and ‘Make it happen; your pal in requisitions can do it.’ ”

  “Yes, but I need something for every one of these boxes, or my colonel will be on me about it. You can’t just have transport for six people without their names, their units, and the name of the authorizing officer.”

  “All I know is what my colonel said—”

  “I can’t do it, Irwin. Give me something to put in these blanks.”

  “It’s a classified transport, see? Nobody’s supposed to know about it. So the colonel didn’t tell me, and—”

  “Classified? That’s not a form 431-B. Classified transports are 433-R. For Restricted.”

  “My colonel said, get your friend in Requisitions to do the form 431-B. He didn’t say 433-R. 431-B. C’mon, Hector, just do it. Keep us both out of trouble.”

  The last thing Hector Mata wanted was trouble, with his name up for the next promotion board. But one thing that would get him past sergeant—he hoped—was his meticulous and prompt handling of his administrative duties. Fast, accurate, honest: using the wrong form for a category wasn’t. And yet it was never good to put yourself in the middle of a struggle between bosses. His own colonel was out on leave, the major had left on a TDY the day before and wouldn’t be back for a week, and the lieutenant in the office was green and not likely to stand up to a colonel’s request.

  “He’s good for it?” Mata asked.

  “Of course.”

  “All right. At least give me some names. It’ll take me a few minutes. Don’t hang over my shoulder; I hate that.”

  Irwin handed over a list of names, minus units. Then, when Mata waved a hand at him, Irwin shrugged and went out. Mata went to work. One of the names sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t make a connection. Not his problem. He filled in the form as best he could, using the main database to find unit designations. Irwin would probably think he made them up. He did make one of them up, not finding it fast enough. There were a lot of Gossins in the database, several with the same initial. As it was not the correct form for classified transport, he felt smugly certain it was fine to make copies—several—to cover his butt in case something went screwy. He put the copies under his blotter, and when Irwin came back—just long enough away for a visit to the head and the coffee machine—he had the single form with its own triplicate copies attached—blue, pink, yellow—and handed it over.

  “There you go. I did kind of get creative with the other boxes; hope your colonel won’t mind.”

  “He won’t. Thanks, Hector. Owe you one.”

  When Irwin was gone, Mata thought about it, and then dug into the database again. What was tickling his memory? It was later that day, when—after working on a half dozen other things—he remembered. Several of those names had been mentioned in the media coverage of the shuttle crash that killed the Commandant of the Academy.

  It did not take long to find out that the names he’d been given were listed, just once, as survivors of that situation. Survivors, he realized, who had never been seen on the vid. Never been interviewed. Nothing had been heard of them since their return. Why would someone want the wrong form for the classified transport of those particular individuals? The same instinct that had kept him from investing in his second cousin’s pyramid investment scheme, from buying a vehicle from a salesman later prosecuted for selling stolen ones as legitimate secondhand, from marrying a handsome and charming man who (it turned out) had murdered two previous spouses…told him this stank like week-old dead fish.

  Without letting himself think further about it that afternoon, Mata quietly put the copies he’d made into an unmarked folder, went to the head where he slid the papers under his shirt and taped them flat so they wouldn’t rustle, and spent the last twenty minutes of his shift d
oing his usual end-of-the-day filing and straightening, to leave the desk clean and ready for the next shift. On the way out of the building, he greeted the guard the same as always, indicating his plan for a beer at Shelby’s before an evening watching the Port Major/Grinock Bay match in the semifinals, and then drove off-base to consider what to do next.

  Shelby’s was no place to sit and think clearly—the pregame crowd was there and already getting loud, but he drank his beer as usual, then went out looking for ideas. Who should he contact? Not his boss, who was away. By no means the green lieutenant, of whom he had formed no very flattering opinion. This could be serious, something bad going on that someone—someone senior to himself—should know about. He worked his way up the grade levels he knew. He wanted at least a staff sergeant, maybe a master sergeant—but none of those he thought of were exactly right. Then it hit him. Sergeant Major Morrison. Anyone could contact her, ask her advice. Known as a straight arrow, absolutely honest and as picky about doing things right as he was himself. Maybe more so. He’d been to some programs she did for junior enlisted.

  And scuttlebutt had it she wasn’t staying on base right now, but at her city quarters, because some idiot had broken in and messed with her quarters and her office, and her dog had been hurt. What he was worried about couldn’t be the same thing—but she might be more willing to listen since she’d had trouble herself. And his skullphone had her number in it, since it had been available to anyone and he was, as well as meticulous about his work, careful to put possibly useful phone numbers in his implant.

  It wasn’t too late to call.

  —

  Sergeant Major Morrison packed everything in her closet in a case for delivery to her alternative housing—the apartment first rented for the Rector. When she arrived, she showed the key to the doorman, who gave her directions to the correct elevator.

  She felt a certain grim amusement at the change: this building was only a few blocks away from her own, but decidedly more upscale, from the plantings out front to the stylish lobby, the carpeting in the halls, and the size of the rooms. The view from the windows here looked east and north—a corner suite—and she could see between other buildings the beginning of Government Place, where the Rector’s office, the House of Laws, Government House, and the Presidential Palace sat in their wide lawns around the vast public plaza and gardens.

  She had been in hotel suites of this size, years back when she’d splurged on a vacation in Makkavo with several friends. The kitchen—much larger than the kitchenette in her own apartment—would hold at least three people busily at work—staff, of course. She looked over the supplies and decided that since she couldn’t put her clothes away until the case arrived, she would find a grocery and purchase a few of her favorites.

  When she came back, her case had been delivered to the suite, just as it might have in a hotel. She put her clothes away in the bedroom next to the larger bath, set out the necessary toiletries on the counter in the bathroom in the same order as in her own quarters. She put the water on for tea, and anticipated a quiet evening in which no one but Kris at the vet clinic knew where she was. And the Rector, but she had looked tired and was probably headed for an early bed.

  It was after duty hours now; she might as well change into civvies and relax. But even as she headed to the bedroom to change, her skullphone pinged. It was always something, she thought, as she answered.

  “Sergeant Major, this is Corporal Mata, transport division. I have a—a kind of a problem and I don’t quite know where to go…”

  A young voice, so the problem was likely to be related to sex, money, or needing leave for family reasons.

  “I know it’s after hours, Sergeant Major, and I’m sorry, but my colonel’s on leave, the major’s on TDY, and the lieutenant…”

  His voice trailed off again. Morrison recognized every tone. A competent corporal, who would have trusted his commander, but didn’t trust the lieutenant, so the problem likely involved another command chain, where the lieutenant didn’t have the rank to stand up to someone. It would be one of those tedious situations, where the two officers at the top of their respective commands had had a difference, and the corporal felt trapped.

  “Go ahead, Corporal Mata. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain, Sergeant Major, like this. I’m, uh, in a bar.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “Because it’s noisy and no one can hear if I murmur, but if it’s at all possible, I need to see you. Tonight, if—”

  Whatever it was had to be urgent. And if he really did have a problem that required a personal visit with the sergeant major, then she’d have to stay in uniform. Well. Duty called in many ways; she gave him the address.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major,” he said, relief clear in his voice. “I’ll be taking the tram in from here.”

  That was a bit odd, if he had his own vehicle. But she agreed, then looked up the schedule and realized she had twenty minutes she could spend making notes in her implant from her meeting with the Rector.

  Mata, when he arrived, proved to be a short, square-built young man with the slight furrow in his brow she’d often noted with clerks in every division. His uniform was immaculate, his eyes clear with no clouding from drink or drugs, and his hand, when she shook it was firm and dry. All good signs.

  “Come in,” Morrison said. She led him into the dining area, where she’d laid the files she’d brought on the polished table. Grace Vatta’s file was already locked in the suite’s safe. She noticed the slight relaxation when he saw a table with files and a teacup, familiar territory. “Have a seat. Do you want water or anything?”

  “No, Sergeant Major. I’m fine.” He sat down after she did, across the table from her.

  “You realize I need to record whatever you tell me that bears on official business?” He nodded. “Good. So—what’s the story?” She flicked on the recorder built into the table.

  The story, as he told it, brought up the gooseflesh on her arms, even before he mentioned the names.

  “Do you have a copy?” she asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major. Since it’s supposed to be a classified transport I really shouldn’t have, but Irwin—Corporal Irwin, that is—said his colonel insisted on a form 431-B. Classified transports are 433-R. So it’s not a classified form I made copies of, only that the transport’s supposed to be classified.” His look now was pleading.

  “Don’t worry,” Morrison said, even as her own worries multiplied. “Do you have a copy with you?”

  “Yes—all of them. I made three: one for the file, and one for my colonel. And one for, um, if it was needed.” His face flushed. “I, um, taped them together. Under my shirt.”

  “You’re really worried,” Morrison said.

  “Yes—it’s not right, Sergeant Major. It’s not just the wrong form, though we have two forms for a reason. If Colonel Higgs had been there, I know he wouldn’t have approved.”

  Morrison knew Higgs; she agreed with that assessment. Higgs was the terror of the base when it came to shady transport requests from those who thought the system should be more flexible. And was this why transport of the survivors to a single location had not been immediate: waiting for Higgs to be away on leave? Had someone sent his second, Major Vargas, on TDY to clear the way?

  “How long has the lieutenant been in your office?” she asked. “Fairly new or there for…say, the past year?”

  “Twenty-six days,” Mata said, in the tone that conveyed too long. “He’s—I shouldn’t criticize an officer—”

  Morrison shook her head. “We both work for a living, Mata: spit it out. With his name.”

  “Lieutenant Andres Marban. He graduated three years ago and missed his promotion board for O-3. He looks good enough, but he’s always wandering off somewhere. I heard…” A pause in which it was clear Mata realized he might be accused of eavesdropping; she was pleased to note that he didn’t mention it or make up some excuse. “The major ripp
ed into him four days ago—that’s Major Vargas and she’s, um, easily heard—about something.”

  “How is he with the office staff?”

  A frown. This was not someone eager to criticize officers, another good point. “He’s all right. A bit fussy, but then it’s important to do things the right way. Only he doesn’t, himself. I had something to take to his office and there were red-tabbed files on his desk. He wasn’t there.”

  “Mata, you were right to come to me,” Morrison said. “I cannot tell you everything right now—”

  “Of course not, Sergeant Major.”

  “But there have been concerns, at a high level, about the survivors of the shuttle crash. There’s been difficulty in finding out more, obstructions. This is a very serious matter, and your information is vital. So is your silence. We may even need to protect you from any suspicion.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Very. Down the passage to the left, there’s a bathroom—get the copies out from under your shirt and bring them to me.”

  He returned in a few minutes, uniform correctly put back together, and handed her the copies.

  They were warm from his body; she noticed that first. She was familiar with both of the forms he’d mentioned, and ran her eye down the white page of the first copy. Names, ranks, serial numbers—

  “Did the other corporal—Irwin—provide you this information?” If so, the opposition was stupid—and she didn’t think they were.

  “Not at first, Sergeant Major, not even the names. I told him I had to have names. That’s all he’d give me; he said to make up the rest, but hurry. I told him to get out for a little while, let me work. And he did. Then I looked up the names in the all-branch database. The only one I had to make things up for was Gossin—there are a lot of Gossins.”

  “Staff Sergeant Gossin,” Morrison said.