DAY 219

Master Sergeant Pitt, once more serving as liaison between the Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation and what she kept thinking of as “Ky Vatta’s Fleet,” had been much less concerned than Ky’s flag captain when they first contacted Slotter Key’s Rector of Defense and learned that Master Sergeant MacRobert had been abducted. She’d met the man and had no doubt he could take care of himself, never mind he was one or more decades older than she was. Her concern was more for Ky Vatta, alive on a remote frozen continent with local enemies ready to pounce as soon as they got a weather window that allowed it. She’d seen Ky survive bad situations before, but eventually luck always ran out. It was only a question of which time.

“I can’t believe they don’t have some well-trained ground troops,” Captain Pordre said. Pitt had him pegged as smart, a good ship-handler, loyal to his admiral, and tenacious in pursuit of any goal. All to the good. But also of limited foreign experience, which wasn’t.

“No war for a long time, is what I heard, Captain,” she said when he looked at her as if expecting more. “No immediate need, people get sloppy.”

That was what kept mercenary companies solvent: planets, corporations, anyone who needed troops for some reason and hadn’t bothered to fund proper training for their own. Pitt, as a senior NCO and trusted liaison in many a situation, had learned to conceal contempt for the unpreparedness of their clients and display a tough sympathy she didn’t actually feel. Or not very often. In a universe full of cantankerous humans—some of them lazy or ignorant and others vicious and strong—Mackensee found ample opportunity for work that did not impinge on their founder’s notions of right and wrong. Few mercs lacked employment, even the worst. Mackensee, Pitt knew for certain, was the best she’d ever seen.

“Why didn’t they hire you?” Pordre asked.

“No data, Captain. Could have been cost—Mackensee doesn’t come cheap. Or knowing we’d been part of Admiral Vatta’s forces at the Battle of Nexus. It was fairly clear in the celebrations afterward that the admiral and I were acquainted, and that she’d been involved with Mackensee more than once. An employer might have had doubts about us in that instance. Or maybe they asked and our senior staff refused, for the same reason.”

“But you know this outfit they did hire? The … uh … Black Torch?”

“Suspected of being pirate-connected, Captain. Bad rep in terms of discipline and higher military science, but tough dirty fighters. Hard to control, for their employers.” They’d had almost this conversation when she first came aboard, but if he chose to fill the necessary hours on insystem drive with things he’d already asked and she’d already answered, it was not her problem. Lavin and Cotter, over on the Mackensee troopship, were taking care of the mission planning. She would transfer back when they went into Slotter Key Local, and Ofulo, whose leg was still not 100 percent, would come here in her place. There’d been some commentary about the irregularity of changing liaisons right before action, but her history with Ky Vatta had prevailed. She knew she’d never get Ky into Mackensee, as she’d once hoped, but she felt a connection to the young woman and hoped to meet her again. As well, her own daughter was in the hero-worshipping phase and had begged for an autograph.

“Ah—” Captain Pordre tapped his earbug. “Good news. Master Sergeant MacRobert, the Rector’s personal assistant, has been extricated.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised, sir,” Pitt said. “But pleased, of course. In good health, I hope?”

“Apparently, yes. You met him, I believe?”

“Yes, on Cascadia, after the destruction of the pirate fleet. Very capable person.”

He looked away again for a moment, then turned to her. “Master Sergeant, your CO wants to speak with you. I will inform Communications that you have permission to use a unit in the shack.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Pitt saluted and left the bridge, wondering what the colonel wanted this time. She wasn’t due to transfer for another day and a half, and she already knew MacRobert had been found alive and well. She had transmitted her post-downjump report the day before; perhaps he had some comments on it.

“It’s encrypted,” the com chief said. “You have the key?”

“Yes, Chief.” She always had the key. It would have been a breach of security to have the key anywhere but on her person at all times when away from Mackensee. She slid it into the holder, and the holder into the port, wondering once again why, when every ordinary computer she’d ever seen used the same two dataports, every shipboard communicator manufacturer had its own proprietary encryption slot. She nodded to the com chief, closed the privacy screen, and in a few seconds the document appeared.

She entered the correct code. The message went on its way and she started reading, then stopped, blanked the viewer, and opened the privacy curtain.

“Chief?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant?”

“This message is big and I need to be here awhile, and then I’ll need a wipe. And I have an equally big encrypted reply I have to send by 2200 this evening. How inconvenient is that going to be?”

“Not bad. Better now than tomorrow morning. I can have someone bring you a sandwich later—”

“I’ll need to lock this terminal if I leave.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Lieutenant Garth when she returns.”

Pitt sealed the curtain again and started reading. Admiral Vatta’s sitrep was concise, clear, laying out the conditions of the survivors, the resources they had found, and her plan to keep them alive under attack.

Pitt ran a hand through her hair. Given the small number of survivors, what they expected to face, and the resources they’d been told the opposition had, it was probably the only possible thing to do, but it was risky. She pulled up the enclosed satellite scans of the continent. She’d been imagining “barren terraforming failure” as a simple chunk of rock, pretty much the same from end to end, but it wasn’t. The poleward side was bleak—probably a glacier had scraped over it at some point—with cliffs to the ocean below, but the other side had actual mountains with forests on them.

She read through the rest as fast as she could.

*  *  *

The passenger compartment of Vatta Transport’s night flight to Portmentor was a roomy area with seating for fourteen that converted into bunks, a conference area with a table, a good-sized galley, and even a shower as well as two toilets. The only difference from luxury passenger travel was the lack of windows. Forward, the door to the flight deck was open; a crew compartment offered two bunks for the crew, with one already curtained off. The reserve pilot had gone straight to bed. Pilots were already aboard, running through checklists and rechecking the flight plan.

MacRobert, who had been invited forward, saw a squat little tractor approaching. “Our tug?”

“Yeah. Though we’re waiting for a last arrival. It’s almost to the gate.”

The tug moved into the hangar; its driver hopped down and hooked the towbar to the nose wheel of the small plane below them. “That still seems like a risky flight to me.”

“Shouldn’t be. There’s additional cover, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Never mind,” Mac said. He saw a big dark car come around the curve of the drive, stop at the checkpoint, and approach. It certainly looked official—long, black, mirrored windows. It eased in between their plane and the small one. The view darkened as a screen unrolled from the hangar opening.

“Doors take too long,” the pilot said. “And we can still see out.”

Mac looked out the side window. Two men got out, one shorter and plumper than the other, then two women—one of them Grace, in one of the dresses she wore to work, and the other in a very similar dress, who looked to be about the same height, same skin color, and white hair cut short and tousled, like Grace’s. All but Grace got into the smaller plane; the door closed; within thirty seconds the tug’s warning lights came on, the curtain at the hangar opening lifted, and the tug pulled the smaller plane out onto the apron in front of the hangar. Mac watched the little gust of exhaust out the back of each engine as it started, as the first prop began to turn, sped up, then the second. The hangar attendant, now with signal cones in hand, ran to unhook the tug, backed up, and waved signals at the plane’s pilot.

“Vatta EX-1’s signaled Tower,” the pilot said. “Tower’s asking for passenger manifest; Lunnell said ‘As forwarded.’ ”

The small plane taxied away, moving toward the secondary runway. The tug, already moving, came toward them.

“Best be seated,” the pilot said. “We’re next; she’s aboard.”

Mac walked back to the passenger compartment just as Grace came through the door from the back. She carried two cases he suspected contained special equipment, and she had a pistol holstered on her hip. She gave him a brisk nod. “Good to have you back.”

“I agree,” he said. He looked around. Rafe was visibly tense; Teague expressed a determined lack of tension. “Is this all of us?”

“For now. This flight has scheduled deliveries to make; we’re picking up Stella at Portmentor; I didn’t want her coming into Port Major this trip.” Grace sat down in one of the empty seats. “Rafe, Teague, good to see you. My thanks for your work. Let’s get busy.”

“What else has happened?” Rafe asked.

“Your suggestion that we might want the data our opposition had before we blew their data center was good. I know a few more things of long-term importance—some names and commercial connections going back several hundred years—and some more immediately affecting our situation.”

She paused, head cocked. Mac had noticed the regular bump-bump of the plane’s gear rolling over seams in the taxiway; that had stopped. They were all silent for a time. Mac looked through the open cockpit door and saw the copilot reach out to touch some control. He could hear the Tower communications now, even as the engines’ whine ramped up and the plane shuddered.

“Vatta Transport Flight W-5A, cleared for takeoff. You’re four minutes behind, Duncan … family vacation takes precedence?”

“They own the whole damn line,” the copilot said. “If they want off first, they get the slot. We’ll make it up—good winds aloft, Weather said. Oh—Keith and I have a three-day layover out west—anything we should pick up for you?”

“You’re going salmon fishing again, aren’t you? You can bring me back some smoked salmon from that place you got it three years ago. Julie was crazy about it.”

“Don’t tell the boss,” the copilot said.

“Have I ever?” The sound cut off.

The plane was moving, faster and faster. Mac leaned back in his seat, let the acceleration press him firmly into soft cushions.

“He did, you know,” Grace said. Mac looked at her. “Tell the boss. It’s helpful to have friends in high places—like air traffic control towers.”

He was not surprised by that at all. He was surprised to find himself here, safe, with Grace and the others, on this airplane. And to be so very tired.

When he woke, he was lying almost flat under a warm blanket. For a moment he was frightened and almost dumped his implant again, but he’d already looked around. Grace, Teague, and Rafe were all asleep on their own beds. Teague snored lightly. In one corner of the space, the cabin attendant slept as well, curled in a seat that wasn’t flattened out. Mac pulled off the blanket, levered himself up—someone had removed his shoes—and padded sock-footed to the toilet. He’d slept hours—four or five. When he was through, he glanced back into the passenger area; the attendant was awake, pushing back rumpled hair, and pulling the blanket from her legs.

“Ser—can I get you anything? The others ate dinner; I could heat something up.”

“Nothing fancy,” Mac said. “I don’t want to wake them. Tea? A roll or cookies?”

She nodded and moved forward past him, into the little galley. A light came on over the cockpit door. “The pilots want a hot drink … here’s tea for you.” Mac stepped back, taking a sip of hot tea, as she poured two more mugs, setting them on a tray and then pulling wrapped sandwiches from a warming oven. She took the tray and went forward. Mac opened the warming oven and found a warm roll. “If you want sugar for that, or jam for the roll—”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll bring a tray.” Go back to your seat, that meant. He took the hint but chose to sit at the table. There was plenty of light to eat by; the attendant brought him a full pot of tea, cream, sugar, another roll, two flaky pastries, a small pot each of jam and honey, and silverware—it felt like actual silverware—wrapped in a warm napkin.

“Thank you,” he said. “This will be ample.” He finished the first mug of tea, and the roll with a generous spoonful of berry jam, feeling better, more solid to himself, with every bite. He poured another mug and had just taken a large bite of a flaky pastry filled with nuts, honey, and cinnamon when his skullphone buzzed. His hand jerked; he hit the teapot, dropped the pastry, and nearly choked trying to get the pastry safely out of his way. “Ughnh?”

“Master Sergeant MacRobert, this is Master Sergeant Pitt.”

His mind came fully awake. It was her voice. “What can I do for you, Master Sergeant?”

“I need to get a message directly to Admiral Vatta; can you alert her that I’m insystem and that I need to speak with her? I’ve read the sitrep she sent Rector Vatta.”

“I’m not sure,” MacRobert said. “I am not current on her situation right now; I was—detained, drugged, and was sleeping off the drug until a few minutes ago.”

“I see. Is there someone at your location who can? It’s fairly urgent.”

“I’m not certain how secure this line is,” MacRobert said. “I’m not behind the same firewalls. I’ll call you back.”

“I’m on Vanguard,” Pitt said. “Transferring to one of my unit’s ships in three hours. I’ll be out of contact for several hours then.”

“Sooner than that,” Mac said.

Grace was stirring; soft as he’d spoken, she’d roused. “Mac?”

“A call from Ky’s old friend in the merc fleet,” he said. “They got here fast, or I was out longer than I thought.”

“What’s she want?”

“To contact Ky directly. Now, if possible.”

Grace flung back her blanket and sat up. “Rafe: we need you.”

Rafe and Teague both jerked awake, rolled off their beds, and reached for weapons.

“Not that way,” Grace said. “Rafe, a mercenary rep—someone Ky knows—needs to contact Ky directly, now. Can she use a skullphone, since that thing you two have doesn’t interface with anything else?”

“Another skullphone?”

“The person’s on a ship, somewhere in the system—it’d have to be ansible-boosted. And Ky needs to know a call’s coming.”

“I’ll call her. It’s—oh, it’s probably after noon where she is—or something dayside, anyway. Grace, tell whoever it is to wait a half hour, in case it takes me that long to get Ky to hook in.”

Grace raised an eyebrow at Mac; he called Pitt and told her that Ky could take a skullphone call but not for a half hour, because it would take that long to locate her and set it up.

“Good,” Pitt said. “That’s still in the safety margin.” A pause then, “How are the other guys?”

“Mostly dead,” Mac said.

She chuckled, then her voice firmed. “It’s not clear from the data we have whether a cruiser could land on that strip—do you know?”

He felt his brows rising. “You’re thinking of taking your ship down—the whole thing?”

“It can do a planet landing. It’s apt to make a bit of a mess.”

“I don’t know anything about the strip except what we’ve been able to see the last fifty days—under a blanket of snow, mostly. No data on construction, no data on foundations. Nobody knew it was there—well, nobody but those who were keeping the secret.”

A longer silence. “I’ll tell my captain. It’s shuttle-length, though?”

“It’s used to supply a base there. Heavy aircraft use it twice a year; I’d land a shuttle on it if I had one. I don’t know what defenses might be in place.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Pitt said. MacRobert could hear the grin in her tone.

“You have the admiral’s skullphone code?”

“Oh, yes. She gave it to me back on Cascadia. We’ve chatted a few times.” Another pause. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in that young fellow who transferred to us …”

“Ky’s classmate at the Academy? Hal?”

“That one, yes.”

“Frankly,” Mac said, “I don’t. Nor, I expect, does the Admiral.”

“I wouldn’t mention him to her,” Pitt said. “But as a point of information, he is not involved in this operation you hired us for, and will never be part of any contract we hold with Slotter Key or the Vatta family.”

That had not even occurred to him. Now he felt a chill satisfaction. Hal would never see home or family again. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “I had not made any connection yet.”

“Not surprising.”

“And while we’re waiting … the mercs your enemy’s hired are on the low end of tactical skill, but very definitely dangerous. They picked up a lot of Turek’s bunch who survived the war, as well as some of Turek’s supplies. Street says this contract was prime and they spent a lot at one of the dealers. No data on what they bought; it would take us longer than we had to find out. We don’t know for certain the ones sent were all Turek’s, but the word is they’re a meaner bunch now than before.”

Grace, now fully awake, was gesturing. “Just a moment,” Mac said. “The Rector’s signaling.”

“Rafe’s told her a call’s coming,” Grace said. “And your call’s gone on long enough. Just in case.”

“Contact’s made,” Mac said. “You’re free to call. I have to go.”

“Thanks,” Pitt said.