Into the Fire

Ky could imagine what it must have looked like. On full. “Do you still have a lock on the other two groups?” she asked, pushing aside the thought of any satellites in the way when the beam came on.

  “Yes. One is two hours east, still coming. They stopped for a half hour several hours ago; we didn’t have anyone in the area, though, for a visual ID or a communications tap. The other is closer, but it’s been driving in circles for the past hour. Which backup vehicle do you want to use?”

  Ky ran through the options she’d set up again. “They may be planning to convoy, or they may be just hoping we’ll do something stupid. Let me talk to Blind Dog Two.”

  “Need to grab ’em as soon as possible, separately,” that team commander told her. Both’ll likely be a hard stop. Could be injuries—”

  “If those crews panic, there’ll be dead prisoners,” Ky said.

  “Right. So we’ll need that backup aircraft—” Not a Vatta scheduled flight, but Inyatta’s father’s friend’s small plane. “—and Weekes City’s emergency services will lend us one of their ambulances.” That was new. Who had been talking to them? But too late to worry.

  “Take whatever you need,” Ky said. “I’ll be jumping to another truck in about twenty minutes, heading back your way for the stragglers.”

  COMMANDANT’S OFFICE

  Iskin Kvannis knew from the first frantic call about the missing personnel that he had been right and his associates wrong: they should have killed the survivors sooner. Just do it, he’d told them; that would be the quickest, surest way. But they had refused. He’d called Ordnay and Molwarp; they’d scrambled the interceptors. Surely that would take care of some of the survivors. As he went through his daily duties, immaculate in his white Commandant’s uniform and to outward appearance untroubled and confident, his mind rehearsed all the careful plans he’d made.

  But the style of the rescue bothered him. Quick—and no one was supposed to have known of the date or hour of that truck’s travel except those loyal to the cause. Could the Vattas possibly have hacked his communications? He’d warned the other sites of the first interception; he trusted they would be careful. But then the second shipment had been snatched, this time not on an isolated road but in a busy town, by daylight, leaving two bodies behind and—most telling—Rafe Dunbarger’s ID and money hanging over a rail-yard fence. That proved it was Ky Vatta’s doing.

  About the same time, he learned that the interceptor flight had vanished, and a satellite scan showed the heat signature of a beam weapon from a previously unmarked site shortly before. The Vatta flight landed safely in early afternoon, met by General Molosay’s car and several others in convoy, and the nine passengers—which must include the three who’d escaped on their own and an escort—were transported to the Joint Services Headquarters without incident.

  Molosay had not called him. That in itself was worrying. If the interceptor pilots had revealed the authorization, which was of course fake, then Molosay might know he was a traitor. Time to enact his own survival plan, the one he had made at the very beginning of this mess.

  Safely back in the Commandant’s office, all the doors closed, he unlocked his safe, took out his secured documents case, set it on the desk, and then relocked the safe. The documents case already contained the papers he wanted from the safe. To that he added all the ready cash from the cashbox in his desk drawer and a selection of papers from those filed in another drawer. He didn’t care which, just that it was a big enough wad to hide the other from casual inspection.

  A skullphone call pinged him: Quindlan. “Someone’s identified Ky Vatta as being on one of the enemy trucks.”

  “Of course she is,” Kvannis said, just managing not to snarl. “Where did you think she was, reading in bed?”

  “You can’t talk to me—”

  “Yes, I can. Get to the rendezvous—”

  “But this isn’t what was supposed to happen! You said it would be—”

  “I said we would be damned lucky if it worked. It didn’t work. Now we have to deal with it.” Quindlan made a loud noise and cut the connection. Kvannis took a deep breath. Quindlan had talked tough for years, pushing for action, but like too many civilians he fell apart when the time came. Well, he’d either make it to the rendezvous or not.

  He himself had, he thought, at least six hours to finish up, and then two to do the final packing. He left his office on time, went to the Commandant’s Residence, smiled and nodded as usual to staff, and went upstairs, claiming a headache and little appetite. In the next two hours he cleared his residence office, packed the few clothes he would take from his closet. He lingered over the presents he’d bought for his daughters, but left them. Then he went back to his main office to finish up there.

  It was later than that, after all, when he left, past midnight. Too many things had needed to be burned, and burned without detection—something possible only after the Academy’s document shredder and incinerator weren’t likely to be heard. He’d long made a habit of wandering about in the evening when no event was scheduled, and that did make it easier.

  And then…that last quiet descent of the stairs with his two small cases, disarming the alarm, going out to meet the waiting car, the polite pause at the gate, the excuse—a family matter at his city home—and they were off in the quiet dark for the small airfield mostly limited to private aircraft. From there, crammed into the backseat, he stared at the darkness below, the pattern of the lights that pierced it. By local dawn in Port Major, he was over a thousand kilometers away, in a roomful of fellow conspirators. He looked them over. Nervous, perspiration gleaming on their faces, all but the military ones. He put aside thoughts of his family back in Port Major, and the life he had known, and prepared to do what he could to salvage the revolution.

  —

  The rest of the day, for Ky, was a mad scramble to reposition her assets, avoid those of the opposition, and maintain contact with the rescue teams. The second group, she heard, had also made it safely to Port Major after she left them. The third, shepherded by half the team the sergeant major had put together, was somewhere in the northeast now, making ground in that direction. There’d been a brief firefight; one of the survivors had been hit, but not fatally. No names were mentioned in these updates. She had made her interception of the fourth group, successfully retrieving Lundin, Gurton, and Droshinski. Most of the third special ops team had stayed back to delay pursuit, but Philo had come with her in case of trouble. They were now far behind the original schedule, traveling for the moment in a farm truck headed home from a cattle auction. The truck smelled strongly of cattle and bounced as if it had never had springs.

  A sharp turn, lurching and bouncing on gravel that crunched beneath them, and then the screech of brakes. “We’re home,” the driver announced. He pulled open the side door. Ky got up, jumped down, and helped the others out. “Mama!” she heard the driver call. “Got folks to feed!”

  Unlike farmhouses Ky had seen farther west, mostly built of stone, this one was brick. Ky shed her muddy boots on the porch and the others followed suit. Inside, the wood floor was polished, the walls plastered a pale cream. The farmer, Jacob Arender, introduced them to his wife, Anna, and the children, Barry and Luisa. “First we have supper,” Arender said. “Then you can take the car and go into the city. You won’t have a problem.”

  Ky didn’t believe that last. But they were less than 150 kilometers from the city, with good communications. She took herself off to the bathroom and called Rafe on her skullphone. Still no answer. Well—he could be somewhere without coverage. She reached Rodney. “Where are you?” he asked. “I’m tracking several military search parties. And there are roadblocks on every highway into Port Major. It’s been on the news—attempt to prevent dangerous contagious disease getting into the city. You’d better get a disguise.”

  Ky’s mind went blank for a moment. They’d gone to such trouble to bring ID and uniforms for the survivors—and how could they find disguises out here, at night? Businesses wou
ld have closed in the nearest town.

  “What’s the word?” Arender said when she returned to the kitchen.

  “Roadblocks,” Ky said. “And a few chase parties trying to find where we are.”

  Arender frowned. “Don’t want to lose my car because they spot you in those uniforms.”

  “They don’t have to stay in those uniforms,” Anna said. She grinned. “I’ll go with you. Drive the car and then I can drive it back. It’s almost the holidays; we can go as a group for the dance festival.” She looked at Ky. “I used to go every year with my friends. I have all my old costumes.”

  “Anna! You can’t leave the children—”

  “You’ll be here.” Her eyes sparkled as she turned to Ky. “It will be fun, like old times. You’ll see.”

  Arender threw up his hands. “No use arguing, I can see. When Anna makes up her mind, what’s said is done.”

  While they ate, Anna rummaged in the storage room for costumes. Ky stared at the armloads of stripes in garish colors, ruffles, lace, ribbons that she piled on the bed. “It’s a district thing, stripes,” Anna said. “In those days, we all matched, but what I saw the last time I went is that some didn’t. So it’s all right if you don’t. Here—try this one.” It fit, even over her other clothes. Ky looked down at herself, trying to keep a polite smile on her face, but the green, purple, and orange combinations were almost too much for her.

  Anna looked them over as they headed out the door, uniforms hidden under voluminous skirts, ruffled blouses, and shawls. She stopped Ky. “That hair—you can’t have it like that.” She reached up and unfastened Ky’s braid, pulling her hair loose until it was a dark cloud around her face. “That’s better. Means you’re not married; the rest of you, with scarves and earrings, are betrothed.”

  The ride to Port Major, Ky crammed in the backseat with the survivors, the special ops team member now wearing the farmer’s best dress shirt as well as a felt hat with a feather, and carrying a drum and three tambourines on his lap in the front beside Anna, was, as Anna had predicted, fun. They had to stop at two roadblocks—one to get on the highway, and one nearer Port Major. Both times Anna had them singing a country song she’d taught them.

  The second roadblock took much longer, because a long line was ahead of them, including freight trucks. Uniformed men opened every truck and trailer; some were waved over for more complete searches. When it was finally their turn, the men in uniform asked Anna where they were going, and her confident “To Port Major, of course, for the winter dance festival. Can’t you see?” Lights flashed in their faces, and one of the men said, “Can you believe it? How far back in the hills did they come from?” Then he gestured. “Go on, go on, don’t hold us up.”

  —

  Rafe hoped Ky was away safely with the three new rescues. He also wished he knew anyone on the planet but Ky’s family and immediate associates. The transport center had been a near disaster. He’d parked on the wrong side, in the lot for those with season passes. The out-gate had a guard checking those passes. He realized just in time, and walked off to the train station, where he’d hoped to mingle awhile and come out by another door. But the truck itself must have interested the guard—perhaps because it had no sticker in the window—because when he looked back from just inside, he saw the man walking around the truck, and then pulling at the back door.

  He knew what would happen when the man looked inside and didn’t wait to watch. He left the station by a side door, then went around the corner toward the tracks. A train waited; passengers crowded the platform. Could he just get on a train, pay for a ticket once aboard? But he saw a crowd of passengers, a conductor checking tickets. Ky would be furious—worried—when he wasn’t waiting to be picked up, but he could call from the train. He eeled through the crowd, most of them taller than he was, aiming for the locomotive. Surely one car wouldn’t have a guard—but they all did. Between cars he could see a second track, then a tall fence and then rising ground. He reached the locomotive and ducked around it. Another train was approaching—would hide him once he was across that track. A warning blast from the moving train—he was already bolting for the fence. He felt the wave of air pressure that meant he’d cut it dangerously close. But the train now blocked him from any pursuers. He leapt for the fence, pulled himself up, sacrificed his heavy outer jacket to the barbed wire at the top and rolled over, landing neatly, then bounded up the slope beyond, where coarse bushes gave some cover. And remembered that all his ID—the ID that would get him arrested and deported as an illegal alien—was still in that jacket’s pocket. He couldn’t go back. It took him hours to climb the hill—it felt like a mountain—as the clouds thickened, the light dimmed, and the temperature dropped. Initially he was sweating from the effort, feet slipping on the steep slope, and didn’t notice the cold.

  It had been full dark awhile when the slope finally eased; he stood panting there, unable to see anything but a dim glow back the way he had come. He checked his skullphone—a signal, but weak—and called Rodney. “Tell her I had a problem and not to worry. Keep right on. I don’t know when I’ll get back, but I will.” He wondered if the opposition already knew he was on this mountain.

  Surely if he just kept going down, he would come to a road or a house or something. It wasn’t long before a cold drizzle chilled him and then the drizzle turned to sleet.

  Any sane person would be inside a warm room eating supper. He was hungry, cold, and completely lost. He’d made it over that hill, but he didn’t know where “that hill” was in relation to any road, let alone one that would lead him to shelter and reliable communications. He couldn’t see any lights anywhere. He had to move slowly, careful of each step; the ground sloped mostly down but had unexpected humps and holes in it.

  “This sort of thing was a lot easier on a space station,” he said aloud when he’d arrived on softer ground that squished under his shoes. He was answered by a loud breathy sneeze and the sound of hooves squelching away. What made that kind of noise? He had no idea. It sounded big. Did it bite? Kick? Stick you with sharp horns? But he couldn’t stand there all night, not in this weather and with his shoes leaking. He wished he’d kept his jacket. He had to keep moving. He remembered that from the books he’d read as a boy.

  Eight steps later, he ran into something large and wet and hairy. Even as he reached out to feel it, understand it, something hard took him in the ribs and knocked him flat. The mystery attacker let out what sounded like a vast groan and squelched away, still groaning. He clambered up as fast as he could. Other groaning animals joined it; the noise of hooves rose around him; the ground trembled. Someone yelled in the distance, below him, and dogs barked in two different tones. He had no idea what to do, and stood there until one of the creatures knocked him down and he hit his head on a rock.

  An hour later he was sitting in a warm kitchen, steam rising from his wet clothes spread on wooden chairs, and an entire family of farmers, all taller then he was, arrayed on the other side of a large table, staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

  “You were lucky I sent the dogs out and didn’t just shoot into the dark,” the taller man said. “I could’ve, ya know. Nobody ’round here’d blame me for shootin’ a stranger out there messin’ with the stock in the middle o’ the night.”

  “I wasn’t—” he started, and then shrugged. “I don’t know this area. I came up that hill on the other side; I didn’t know what was on this side; I didn’t know about the livestock. I ran into one in the dark.”

  “You got no light?” That was the shorter man, two shades lighter than the taller one, gray eyes instead of brown.

  “He’s got one,” the gray-haired woman said. “I found it in his pocket, put it there on the chimney ledge.”

  “So you got a light and didn’t use it…skulking along like a thief, eh?”

  “A fugitive, anyway,” Rafe said. He was naked under the blanket the farmer had wrapped him in, and had bruises all over his torso from the monsters?
??cattle—that had knocked him down and—at least two legs of them—stepped on him. His feet were still cold, resting on a thin rug over a stone floor. His wet clothes were hanging on a string; his weapons had been collected and tucked into a drawer in the sideboard. His head ached savagely.

  “What you done?”

  “Made some people very angry,” Rafe said. Killed some, but that wouldn’t help his cause. He sifted through the facts to see if he could come up with a viable narrative.

  “Just tell the truth,” the gray-haired woman advised. “It’s always best.”

  Rafe knew better than that, but the way his head felt he had no alternative, if he said anything. “What do you know about the Spaceforce shuttle crash last spring and Admiral Vatta’s survival on Miksland?”

  “This got a connection?” The taller man took a swig from his mug and set it down hard.

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  “Well, then: we know the shuttle crashed in the ocean and everybody thought they were all dead until a few weeks ago. But they all caught something and are terribly sick, in quarantine; they think Admiral Vatta might die. Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” Rafe said. “But she’s not sick, or in danger of dying from anything caught in Miksland.” Except information someone wanted no one to have.

  “That’s not what it said on the news,” the gray-haired woman said. The other woman, younger and darker with a thick head of unruly curls, was leaning against a counter and watching him over her mug. She had startling green eyes. He’d seen another pair of eyes like that, recently…who had it been?

  He dragged his mind back to the present: what to say? In for a credit, in for a hundred. “Admiral Vatta is my…we’re going to be married,” he said.

  The teenage boy burst out laughing; the tall man flicked him on the head and said, “Quit. Or go to bed now.” The boy stifled the laugh with his hand, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. Rafe wanted to smack him.

  “We met years ago,” he said. “Then there was the war, and I was on Nexus and she was in space—”