Элизабет Мун - Into the Fire

“Aunt Grace?” Ky stared at him. “She’s at least ten years older than he was, maybe twenty, and she never had any interest in men after her husband died. That’s what my father told me.”

“Stella said the same—that it was ridiculous, but a rumor nonetheless. And Vatta did use her as a corporate spy of some kind. Stella’s afraid some enemy—corporate or political or a mix—may be targeting Vatta again, rather than this having anything to do with these three.” Rafe smiled at them; they smiled back, a little stiffly. “I’m less sure. If she were just Vatta’s master spy, sure, but she’s administrative head of the Defense Department—surely an attack on her is more related to that. After all, we know they’re interested in this house because of our friends here.”

“That man, that officer who was here today—Aunt Grace ordered him to come to her office with his team. Could that have triggered an attack?”

“Possibly. Ky, from what you’ve told me about Miksland, the evidence you’ve found—both a civilian and a military component were involved. Maybe they were intentionally involved—maybe there’s one enemy with two faces.”

“Or three,” Teague said, turning around from the map he’d been looking at since he’d arrived downstairs. “Mac wasn’t kidnapped by the military or the Quindlans… that was a criminal organization, not a legitimate corporation.”

“Malines,” Rafe said, nodding. “But maybe they’re all allies. Ky, were there any military personnel named Quindlan or Malines when you were here before?”

“There was a Cadet Quindlan in the senior class when I entered—I didn’t have any problems with him. I don’t remember his first name. Dad said the Quindlans weren’t friends but weren’t all bad—and back then the President was a Quindlan. Dad had voted for him. I think the cadet was his son, or maybe nephew.”

Kamat said, “A Lieutenant Varian Quindlan supervised the shop I worked in on my first cruise. Seemed like a good officer. That would have been… maybe nine years ago.”

“I knew a Malines—Dexter—in Basic, but he washed out, straight into the brig. He stole from our platoon sergeant.” Inyatta shook her head. “Really stupid.”

“So there is some infiltration of two suspect organizations into the third,” Rafe said. “Over time, could have been a lot more.”

“I take your point,” Ky said. “Not one enemy, but several working together. Still, we need to figure out where the other survivors are being held, and then how to get them out. And quickly.”

Stella was pleasant at breakfast before leaving for her office. Rafe gave her a list of equipment they would need to upgrade the house security and include the kitchen in it.

“And we’re going to need more people,” Teague added. “There’re more than a dozen people to locate and rescue, and we don’t have Gary’s—” He stopped and shook his head.

“If you have someone in Vatta’s security section,” Rafe said, “someone you trust, with experience in… locating missing persons or shipments, a really good hand with electronics—”

“I’ll do what I can,” Stella said. “I’d usually ask Grace, but—” She picked up her case and edged toward the door.

“But surely there’s someone you can ask. Grace ran your security for years; there must be—”

“Most died in the explosion, but I will look.” She had her hand on the door.

“Stella, may I continue to use Vatta’s legal department about this summons thing?” Ky half stood to get Stella’s attention.

“Yes, of course, Ky. I saw that notation on the bottom of the memo and sent word down to give you whatever you needed. Just call them.” Stella went out, and Teague followed, turning down the driveway to open the gate and spot for her.

By the next morning, Grace wished she could forget the preceding hours, a string of unpleasant, painful, humiliating moments without any respite between them. The dinner, she was assured, was not the problem at all, though everything she threw up was collected and later analyzed. Her head ached, then the first injection site turned into a row of red lumps before the staff figured out an allergen had been added to the toxic gas. It itched, then burned. She finally fell asleep around 0500, only to be woken at 0530 by a nurse demanding that she take an immediate vision test.

“I can see you perfectly well,” Grace said. “Let me sleep.”

“First the test.”

After the test, it was only fifteen minutes until 0600, when the day staff arrived and the hall lights brightened. Brisk footsteps went up and down; voices in the hall were not muted. A different attendant came in to take vital signs. Grace wondered, not for the first time, if anyone could sleep while having their blood pressure taken. Only in a coma, she was sure. At 0700, the first doctor of the day arrived, closely followed by Commandant Kvannis and his aide, for whom Grace presented an intentionally groggy old-lady persona. She didn’t really suspect him of anything, but giving away information went against her principles.

“I don’t know,” she said in answer to every question about Ky. “I can’t remember… I hope it’s the gas…” She hoped she looked as bad as she felt, and apparently she did, or close enough, because Kvannis left, still unsatisfied but convinced the Rector had narrowly escaped death.

At 0915, Dr. Hermann, who had supervised her arm’s growth from bud to full functionality, came by. “I’m not lead on this,” he said. “But you’ve got a very good specialist in poisonings; she’s a friend of mine, and she flew in overnight from Makkavo. I told her how easy you are to work with, how compliant—” He grinned at her; her noncompliance in the matter of regular checkups once her arm was growing well had been, he once told her, unprecedented. “—so you can expect the same level of gentle pressure from her.”

“I’m touched,” Grace said. “I feel much better, and I have a lot of work to do. Important work.” She lifted her head to glare at him and wished she hadn’t. Neck muscles spasmed; she saw his gaze sharpen.

“Yes, of course you have important work. But you also have the residue of a quaternary toxin in your body—the stuff’s damned hard to root out. You will not be leaving the hospital today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. So get your tantrum about that over with before Sylvie arrives, because as I said she’s a friend of mine and doesn’t deserve the worst side of your tongue.”

“I need sleep,” Grace said, head back on the inadequate pillow. Her right foot cramped; she ignored it. “They kept me up all night.”

“Sometimes it takes that,” he said.

“A vision test at 0530?”

“The stuff attacks nerves, including the optic nerve. Once you’re blind, it’s too late.”

“They didn’t tell me that.”

“Standard procedure. Some people go skewy worrying about it. Ah—here’s Sylvie. Doctor Maillard.”

Sylvie Maillard was a short, dark woman whose intensity reminded Grace of an older Ky. “Good news or bad news?” she said.

“Bad first,” Grace said.

“That hiss you reported wasn’t a gas canister starting to spread it in your house; it had been open for at least a half hour. It was supposed to be a knockdown dose as you came in the door. So you got more than you would otherwise, even with only a single breath.”

“I held my breath—”

“When you heard it, yes. But like most people, you undoubtedly took a relaxing breath as you walked in. Everyone does that when they get home. The Ahhh Reflex, we call it. What that means—in terms Doctor Hermann says are meaningful to you—is that you won’t be getting out of this hospital room for at least six days—and quite possibly longer. Given the intake, you have done well so far, but there are possible late complications. Later today, after another battery of tests and if I deem it appropriate, you can have communications equipment moved in here, so you can work from bed for a limited time each day. And I do mean limited. If not, we’ll take an alternative tack and you won’t be working at all.”