DAY 21

“I have to get back to Cascadia,” Stella said as soon as the door to Grace’s inner office closed behind her. She had come to the government offices early, by cab, avoiding the media avid for her reaction to Ky’s presumed death. “I can’t wait until Ky is found or is officially declared dead—I have work to do there that cannot be done by ansible connection. I’ve already stayed longer than I planned. And the Cascadian government is probing my office about what happened, because of Ky’s aide.”

Grace nodded. “I don’t like it, but I do understand. What does your mother say?”

“What does my mother always say but Family comes first? But Ky’s not my only family; the entire Vatta family is my family. I can’t shut down everything because she’s missing. If I’d done that when she went off to fight, where would we be?”

“I know,” Grace said. “And my sources suggest that the Commandant was the real target in this, though I haven’t yet gathered proof enough for a court.”

“Any idea who?”

“Oh, the Quindlans. The former President’s family, especially his uncle Byron. They’ve made tries at me, too, but so far unsuccessfully, as you can tell.”

“The construction Quindlans? The ones who built our old headquarters?”

“Exactly. Who claim to know nothing, absolutely nothing, about how terrorists got hold of the plans and knew where to plant the bombs for maximum effect. Thing is, it was mostly Alexander, the former President, who arranged it, and with operatives from outside. It’s possible, though unlikely, that Byron didn’t know. His son Egbert certainly did, but again—the proof isn’t admissible in court.”

“Any connection with Gammis Turek?”

“No, but a good one with Osman Vatta, with that branch of the family. I wish we had Turek’s genome; I suspect he was one of Osman’s by-blows.” Grace leaned back, stretched. “So, when are you leaving, Stella? How will you travel?”

“Vatta ships only. We have three in dock right now, with three departures in the next four days. I might be on any one of them.”

“You’re not telling me?”

“No, Aunt Grace.”

“Indeed. You’re right. I’ll have Olwen and Mac arrange your return to your mother’s; we have enough visitors on official business that another anonymous black car won’t be noticed.”

“Thank you, Aunt Grace.”

“Safe travels. Keep hope; she still might be alive.”

DAY 23

Grace looked out the window, blinking back tears. Twenty-three days here had brought brighter weather, flowers, green leaves to the trees. Twenty-three days on the other side of the planet could bring only shorter days, deeper cold, more storms. Sea ice would have formed all the way to Miksland’s south coast now.

Twenty-three days—she had told Stella to keep up hope, but she herself had none. No one survived twenty days in that ocean at this time of year.

A tap at her door brought her back to her desk. “Yes?”

MacRobert eased into her office and shut the door behind him. “I found this in the archives.” He handed over a roll of paper. “Really old map, with markings not on any of the newer ones. Apparently it’s never been included in the digital map collection.”

“Miksland?”

“Yes.” He unrolled the map as he talked, weighting the corners with files. “It was stuffed in with ‘unreliable, archaic, possibly fantasized’ material in the old university library annex. They have an enthusiastic research librarian over there who’s found odd things for me before. I said I wanted everything, no matter how ridiculous, on Miksland.” He pointed at a mark near the eastern edge of the continent. “See that?”

Grace peered at it. “What is it?”

“Nobody knows, but it’s not a natural feature. Natural features don’t come with neat straight lines and ninety-degree corners. It’s almost five kilometers long, this skinny bit—and down at this end there’s what may be a shaft leading underground.”

“But nothing’s seen on flyovers?”

“Haven’t been any sightings reported,” MacRobert said, with a little emphasis on the last word. “The map’s hand-drawn, you can see that. There’s no proper legend, no real provenance. My source said she first saw it years ago, when she was an undergraduate volunteer and they were sorting very old materials into the newly built annex. She remembered a few handwritten pages as well, but those were separated from the map and she’s looking for them in a different archive.”

“But we know the age?”

“Not precisely, not without testing the paper and ink. Personally, I think it was one of the early explorers, three or four hundred years ago, someone unofficial. In a boat of some kind. I can’t imagine an aviator marking the shoals and reefs—here, you see, and there. And these faint lines could be courses charted.”

Grace sighed. “I don’t see how whatever it is could be of use to Ky now, when nothing’s shown up since, not even from space.”

“Ah. Well. That’s the other thing. I suspect whatever’s there is from the first surveys five-hundred-something years ago … or earlier, from whoever terraformed the place. We had only one minimal space station, one weathersat, and one comsat at first—standard for a new colony—and only one shuttle. Colony was dropped off with a load of equipment, and the transport company’s big ship went off somewhere else.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grace said.

“First couple of hundred years were spent growing a population big enough to support technological development. We did have visits from traders but limited ability to get into space, even up to the station. Your family came later. By the time we put our own first satellites up, everyone knew Miksland was a barren waste, good for nothing, and satellite scans didn’t bother with it.”

Grace frowned. “But, Mac—that doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t do that; I wouldn’t. For one thing, it’s a security risk—a platform someone could use—”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “And I think someone did use it, and reinforced the belief that Miksland wasn’t worth looking at. It’s got nasty rough seas all around it, frozen—at least the poleward half—more than half the year.”

“Is that where the attack on us came from?”

“I don’t know. The evidence I’ve seen—and you’ve seen—is that the attack on Corleigh came from that island off to the east, the one with the dead volcano. Miksland—” He shrugged. “I think if Ky made it there in a raft with some others—and it’s possible that she could have—then it’s possible she could find and shelter in that thing that looks like it could be a mine shaft. If it’s been used recently, there might even be supplies in it.”

“If it’s been used recently, whoever’s been using it might come back and kill her,” Grace said.

“Yes, but she’s not easy to kill.”

“I can order satellite surveys now, though, can’t I?”

“You can, but if someone’s still using it and wants their secret kept, they’ll be watching for new surveillance. They’ll interpret your interest as the possibility that she’s there.”

“What we need is a really good sneak,” Grace said.

“With no connection to either of us—we’re too well known—and no connection to the whole planet if possible.”

“I can think of someone, but it would take too long to get him here. Rafe.”

“Unless he’s on the way,” MacRobert said. “From what I saw of him on Cascadia, he will be.” He gave Grace a sly look. “He’s bound to know she’s missing. News media have been all over the story.”

Grace snorted. “He knows. Stella told him to stay away, from the first day.”

“That won’t stop him if he wants to come. It’s not Stella he’s interested in. If he goes commercial, it’ll take him forty days or more; if he takes an ISC courier direct, half that.”

“He’s security-conscious—if he does come, he won’t take an ISC ship. And he’ll probably be in disguise.”

“If he has the sense he should have, he’ll get word to you,” MacRobert said. “Maybe through Stella.”

“She’s left—or soon will. She didn’t tell me which ship she was taking. She’ll contact me when she’s back on Cascadia. Depends on which ship, how long that will be.”

“Then we wait and hope,” MacRobert said. “Ky’s near Miksland; she could be on it. She’s smart, tough, and she won’t give up. Neither should we.”