Элизабет Мун - Into the Fire

“And do you trust them?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep it there. It won’t be long, I think, before you or I will be asked where it is. We should know that.”

Rafe woke finally and listened to the house. Silence. Was he alone here? It took him several minutes to remember that Teague and the others were out at the base, that the Vatta house had been damaged and he was at Grace’s. His implant told him it was 1600 local time, afternoon of the same day he’d flown in from Stone Crossing. He showered, raising his eyebrows at the bruises the cattlelopes had left on him, but glad the headache had gone. Dressed in slacks and a sweater, he tucked his usual weapons into their places and padded downstairs to investigate.

He found MacRobert in the kitchen giving instructions to a pair of men in uniform. MacRobert looked up sharply, then nodded at Rafe. “I was thinking we should call a physician, Ser Dunbarger.” Formality in front of the guard; MacRobert had been calling him Rafe. “You slept a long time.”

“Being run over by large animals with hooves and horns will do that to you,” Rafe said. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Can you cook?” MacRobert asked. “I’ve got to go back to Grace, and these gentlemen are here as guards, not servants.”

“Well enough for a quick meal. Eggs still in the cooler?”

“Fairly well stocked. Enjoy yourself. The Commandant will be glad to know you’re awake.”

The Commandant—that was Ky, now. “What else has been happening while we were gone?”

“Too many attacks on Vatta,” MacRobert said. “There’s a little brushfire out in the Southwest and a frank attempt at a revolution got started about twelve hours ago in Makkavo—that’s on Dorland. Last we heard something probably related was also popping in Fulland.”

“Heard that yesterday—if it was yesterday. That knock on the head messed up my time sense. Ky and Stella both all right, though?”

“Yes. Ky’s supposed to be interviewed on the news later.”

Rafe rummaged in the cooler, coming out with eggs and a chunk of ham. He put Grace’s smaller frying pan on the stove, added a knob of butter, and took a slice off the ham and diced it. The two guards hitched up their weapons harnesses and left the kitchen, one to the front of the house and one to the back.

“The Vatta legal staff and Grace are both working on your visa status,” MacRobert said, relaxing now that the guards were gone. “It’s too bad you lost your ID jumping a fence. Teague’s safe at the base. Immigration can’t get at him there, and the guards here have been told to say nothing.”

Rafe found the drawer with the whisks in it, and beat up three eggs and poured them into the frying pan. He reached for the diced ham.

“If you added an egg to that, I wouldn’t say no to some,” MacRobert said.

Rafe cracked three more eggs, gave them a brief mix with the whisk, and poured them in, along with the diced ham. “Easier to divide in half,” he said. “And if you don’t want that much, I can manage to get around it.”

MacRobert chuckled. “Always did appreciate a partner who could cook.”

“So we’re partners now?”

“Only in that we’re both working for Ky at the moment. And Grace, of course, though she’s gone odd since the gas attack.”

“Odd how?”

“Blaming herself for not knowing about the deal her father made to get her out of prison, and accepting a political post. She thinks that’s what set the Quindlans off. Which it isn’t; the attack on all the Vattas came before that.”

Rafe dumped a heap of stirred eggs and ham onto one plate and the rest on another, turned off the stove, and carried the plates to the table. “I thought that attack was mostly Osman.”

“Osman wanted Vatta taken down, but so did Quindlan.” MacRobert shoveled in a mouthful of eggs and after a moment went on. “After all, why put in a secret access to your customer’s basement if you’re not planning to harm them? We don’t know when the charges were actually placed, but my guess is that they’d been there a long time.”

Rafe nodded. “And Vatta had refused to carry Quindlan’s cargo that they couldn’t give provenance for—that was long before, wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“That time in the psych prison Ky told me about—did Grace ever get any treatment for combat trauma?”

“Apparently not.”

“She should,” Rafe said. “It helped Ky a lot.”

MacRobert looked at him and shook his head. “Rafe… you’re too young to understand some things, never mind what you’ve been through.”

Rafe bowed slightly. “My apologies.”

“Accepted. That Vatta lawyer’s stopping by later to talk to you about the progress on your own legal problems.”

Midmorning, Ky gave a brief press interview, at Joint Services Headquarters, along with General Molosay, Sergeant Major Morrison, and a representative from the Assembly. She let the others explain how the rescue plan had developed.

“But then you were rewarded by being named Commandant of the Academy,” said one journalist. “Isn’t that so? And is that not unusual, that someone not actually a graduate should be offered such a post? Or did you ask for it?”

“I will answer that,” General Molosay said, “since I made the decision.”

“I asked Commandant Vatta,” the journalist said.

“It was not a reward,” Ky said, “nor did I ask, or imagine it, until the general asked me to accept the post. When the former Commandant left secretly, it was understandable that the higher command would be concerned someone else at the Academy—the next in line for promotion, for instance—might be part of the same conspiracy, the one that kept the survivors isolated and in captivity.”

“But you—”

“But she had no connection with any of them,” Molosay said. “And she had combat experience, which most of our officers do not have. Plus familiarity with the Academy and its procedures. So for an interim appointment—and I stressed that it was an interim appointment—my staff and the government all agreed that she was both qualified in terms of military knowledge and stature, and completely unconnected with the current group of senior officers.”

“I see,” the journalist said.

“Next question,” Molosay said before the man could ask more.

Afterward, Molosay complimented her on her responses.

“The Public Affairs officer at the Academy coached me,” Ky said. “I could have used such coaching in the past—I know I ruffled feathers best undisturbed.”

“On another matter,” Molosay said, nodding toward the corridor that led to his office. “You have been busy over there, ferreting out bent officers and discovering most of the missing evidence. But have you had time to go over the items I sent with you that first day?”

“Frankly no, sir, I have not. Is there something that you want to brief me on?”

“Yes. Come on in—” He opened the door, then spoke to his aide. “Jerry, we’ll want something to drink and sandwiches; this may take awhile. Be sure the screening’s on max.” He waved Ky to a seat. “Do you have any information on the size of the conspiracy? Who else is behind it besides the former Commandant and this Colonel Stornaki you sent us?”

“I would bet on the Quindlan family, or some part of it,” Ky said. “While I was on Miksland, the Rector discovered some evidence that they had known about Miksland very early and had originated—or cooperated with—the plan to keep it secret. I’d always known our families were rivals in trade; what I didn’t know was that one of my ancestors refused to help one of theirs transport raw materials from Miksland and sell them—illegally—offplanet.”