DAY 93

Ky couldn’t relax. In subsequent contacts, Rafe had kept her up to date with what he’d learned, including the unusual supply requisitions for Pingats—surely meant for here. Somewhere somebody was planning how to kill them all, and she could think of dozens of ways they might do it. Explosives, bioweapons, chemical weapons … delivered from a distance on the planet, or sent in from space, or landed on the continent with troops. And here they were, with TARGET painted on top for anyone who knew of their existence. We will get you out, Rafe had said, but that meant waiting where they were. Where the enemy knew they were. Where the enemy or the enemy’s weapons might arrive first.

She should be moving them somewhere, but she was supposed to stay here. She leaned into the exercise machine, pushing, driving for more speed, more kilometers, more … and finally, completely out of breath, shaky, she stopped. The machine stopped. She’d redlined again, and the automatics cut the power.

She had to find something they could do to get out of the trap they were in. She had done the right things so far: gotten the crew to a shore, away from that deadly beach, out of the inadequate little huts, and into warm shelter with plenty of food and water. Her people were healthy and fit now, but without weapons, mobility, and a better grasp of what their enemies planned, they were still doomed. They had no mobility other than their own feet—too slow, too risky, and very much too traceable.

She looked around the gym. Gossin, Kurin, and Chok were on machines like hers. Sergeant Cosper flapped a pair of heavy cables as if they were ribbons; he stopped when she climbed off the machine and watched her walk toward the door. He had that look again; he was going to say something—

“You really should do some stretches, Admiral—”

The whooshing sound of the other machines stopped. Ky didn’t look at them, but at Cosper. “When did you start thinking I don’t do stretches, Sergeant?”

“I never see you—”

“You never see me shower, either. If you doubt my fitness, would you like a round of hand-to-hand?” She hoped he’d agree; she wanted someone to throw at a wall, big enough, like Cosper, that he wouldn’t break, but would make a satisfying noise. And learn humility.

“But you’re—but officers and enlisted—”

“It’s an unusual situation here, Sergeant.”

“I’m a lot bigger than you are,” he said. “And probably fitter.”

That did it. He thought she was too small? Maybe she’d throw him extra hard. “There’s one way to find out,” Ky said. She tipped her head a little. “Mats over there. Spotters handy.” She waved a hand behind her to indicate the others. “I’m not in your formal chain of command, so no dings on your record if you break something.” As if he could. She’d killed Osman Vatta one-on-one, and he’d been bigger than Cosper. She looked him up and down. “I don’t suppose you’re worried about being hurt—?” Her tone made it a question, just one shade shy of insult.

“Of course not,” he said. His jaw muscle twitched. “As you wish, Admiral.”

“Excellent. I need a swallow of water, then I’m ready.” She had been ready for a long time. The anger she had not let herself face, anger for many things, rose to awareness. Shooting Marek had not eased it, but increased it, for she still thought Marek had been fundamentally decent, a man corrupted by forces he did not understand or control. In a different service, he would have remained the prototypical good senior NCO, loyal to his service and mentor to the troops he led. Someone had taken advantage of him, of his not having an implant, of his being Miznarii, of his having a family, just as they had of the cadet who had caused her trouble and then committed suicide. Just as they had of the rigger on Moray who’d helped an enemy get command of new-built ships.

Cosper was different. Cosper was just another arrogant bully who needed a solid taking down, and she was going to enjoy giving him one. And she would work off some of anger’s dangerous energy as she did it. Without killing him. She didn’t want to kill him; she needed every survivor if they were all to survive. But if she could tarnish Cosper’s shiny impervious ego just enough to protect others from his bullying, all the better.

The bout began slowly, because Cosper was merely arrogant, not stupid, and she saw in his gaze that he was realizing this was a very bad idea. Ky tired of that by the second time circling the mat. She moved in, her awareness as always both crystalline and a little distant, and he grabbed her arm in a move she remembered from her Academy training. He would do this, and then that, and supposedly she would fly up in the air and come down flat on her back. But she’d been many places and in deadlier danger, so the flying part was her idea, and her other arm found its target, as did her knees, and when they both hit the ground he was facedown and she was on top of him. She stood up. He lay there a moment, then pushed himself up.

“How did you—?”

“Leverage. Physics. The advantage of being shorter. If I’d been your height it wouldn’t have worked as well. Let’s go again.”

She decided, on the third throw, not to launch him into the wall, satisfying as that might be, because the bruises on his back were already coming up and she didn’t want to risk damage that would slow him down if she needed him for something useful. So she dumped him back on the mat, headlocked him before he could move, and said in his ear “I expect you will quit bullying the others, Sergeant. Is that clear?”

“Yes … sir. Admiral.”

“Good. If you want to learn any of the throws I used, I’ll be glad to teach you. Later.”

She released him and got up. She felt much better, and definitely ready for her shower.

Cosper, when he clambered up, looked at her with something more than admiration. “I didn’t know—”

“Well, now you do. We’ve both done enough now. We have a busy day ahead.” Ky walked off, daring him to mention stretches, and signaled the other three with a flick of her fingers.

Still, as the shower beating down revealed that she, too, had incipient bruises, she had not figured out what to do next, how to anticipate what the enemy was up to. She was going to have to contact Rafe again and make clear what she needed to know and that she needed data now, not five minutes ahead of the attack.

When she assembled her little troop, she was struck once more with how amazing it was they were all still alive. Not only alive, but fitter than they had been right after the crash. She had to admit that much as she disliked Cosper’s methods, he had hassled and bullied the others into better condition. “Where are we with communications?” she asked.

“We can pick up satellite broadcasts, which suggests they can pick up anything we send that way,” Gossin said. “We don’t have a way to test tight-beam security, not that I’m familiar with. Lakhani found a crosslink between our transmissions and a landline.”

“A landline to where?” Ky looked from Gossin to Lakhani.

“I don’t know and don’t know how to tell,” Lakhani said. “It could be a buried cable to somewhere else on Miksland, or it could connect to one of the marine cables.”

“To … what’s the likeliest?”

“I’m not sure, sir. Finding which way a buried cable goes means getting up on the surface and trying to work through the snow and ice. It might go any direction. There might be a marine cable between Partin Reefs and the Pingat Islands Base, but it would run well north of Miksland. But those cables are all old, you know. The marine cables were put in early, when the planet was first declared open for colonization. After the first wave, when trade picked up, then more satellites went in and ISC installed an ansible.”

“But cables are supposed to be more secure than satellite, right?”

“Yes, sir, even with encryption. You have to have a ship and a way to find and then actually touch the cable to pick up anything. But the codes used back then aren’t the ones we use now. I don’t know them.”

“Someone will,” Ky said. “And as long as we don’t know that code, and don’t know who’s on the other end, we can’t use our main com because someone might be listening.”

Nods around the table.

“Are you picking up anything at all on the broadcasts?”

“Nothing about the shuttle, if that’s what you mean. Sports scores from the Southern Association srithanball tournament. Market reports on commodity prices and investment tips. Provinces are about to inaugurate new legislators: we can watch that tomorrow, if anyone’s interested. Impossible Dreams is in its sixteenth season—”

Ky laughed. “I watched that when I was in secondary. Not at the Academy, of course. Has Bryony married Zaldur yet?”

“Oh, yes,” Droshinksi said. She ran her fingers through her hair and tossed it. “It was magnificent, that wedding, and they had twins, but then Max DeLonga kidnapped the twins and Bryony, and drugged her and—”

“And now she’s hiding out because she escaped with one of the twins and thinks she’s being hunted, the other twin was kidnapped again by Max’s accomplice who was going to blackmail Max, Zaldur killed the accomplice and didn’t know the baby in the house was his own child so he left a note for social services—”

Ky had not suspected Gossin of being an Impossible Dreams fan; she seemed entirely too practical for that.

“Now,” Ky said with emphasis, “we have other concerns. It’s still just an hour program, right? Put it on a stick and anyone who wants can watch it in their off time.”

They settled again, with a chorus of “Yes, Admiral.”

“I’ve finished reading Colonel Greyhaus’ diary,” Ky said. “And I’m now sure of the date this base usually opens for the summer season. I expect someone will be coming before that, with intent to kill us. They’ll be looking for the earliest break in the weather, the very first time they can get transports in. But we don’t know which way they’ll be coming from or how many they’ll have. I’m going to try another skullphone call to the Rector today and see what she’s managed to find out.”

“Do you want us to continue looking for more hidden spaces?” Staff Sergeant Gossin asked.

“Yes. Given the complexity of what we’ve seen, I’m certain there is more to this facility. We don’t have the right keys yet, is all. Staff Sergeant Kurin, any progress on decoding the weapons in the armory?”

“Not yet, Admiral. But we can dismantle them completely, bypassing the palm locks. It will take an estimated hour per weapon to take them apart and put them back together, and each one will have to be recalibrated.”

“Will that damage them?”

“Yes—they lose autolock-on-target and auto-zoom on the ’scope. Anything electronic goes when you tinker with the palm-ID lock. They’ll still fire, though, and the autoloader is mechanical, not electronic.”

“Go ahead. As many as you can. We’ll start training with them on the range as soon as you have enough for six.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll need Hazarika and Drosh.”

“Fine. Off you go.”

She made the rest of the day’s assignments, then went to her quarters to call Rafe, with Kamat standing guard outside the door.

In seconds after she sent the contact code, Rafe answered. “Well?”

“All’s well so far. What’s your situation?”

“Extreme frustration.” His report was organized, compact, dense with data. She let her implant take it, knowing she could replay later, and listened to the nuances of tone. He wasn’t just frustrated, he was seriously worried. So was she.

When he finished talking, Ky reported what she’d read in Greyhaus’ diary. “What about those marine cables? And how can I cut them off the satellite hookup? We need a broadband connection.”

“I know that. Cables—that’s hard connection, right? Optical or metal?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t tampered in case they can detect it.”

“Leave it alone. Too risky. Here’s a code you can use on handhelds, probably better from the surface. It’s direct to a satellite we’ve moved to hold position in range of your location. It’ll shunt any signal with this code to a new segment.”

“Got it,” Ky said, as the code came up on her implant data screen.

“Clear.” The signal vanished, with a last whiff of stink. Ky unplugged her power cable and replaced it around her neck. Dumping Cosper had eased some of her tension, and Kurin’s success in circumventing the palm locks on the weapons did even more, but that and general fitness was all they’d accomplished in the last forty-five days or so. Judging by the average day Greyhaus had recorded for return—and she knew that might be long or short this year—they had 135 to 140 days left to prepare. Weapons would help; she could start figuring out how to defend the place; but what they really needed was a way to leave that didn’t depend on walking and dragging ammunition boxes through the snow.

There had to be more to this place. They had to find it.

PORT MAJOR, RECTOR OF DEFENSE OFFICE
DAY 95

“Rector?”

Grace looked up. Olwen looked unsettled, not like her usual cheerful, competent self. “What is it, Olwen? Is everything all right with the family?”

“Yes, Rector, but—I’m so sorry, but I need to resign. Next week. You know I mentioned my husband was looking for a new job, and of course we thought in Port Major, but he’s been offered a wonderful opportunity somewhere else. It’s too far for me to commute, with the children in school and all.”

It was more than inconvenient; Olwen had proven herself far beyond any background checks. But there was no way she could stop the woman leaving. “I’m sorry to lose you, Olwen,” Grace said, folding her hands in front of her. “Remember that you will have to sign out properly—it usually takes two days to do all the paperwork, so let Arnold down in Personnel know right away—or have you?”

“I—I wouldn’t until I’d spoken to you, Rector. I hope you aren’t angry—”

“No, I’m not angry.” Or not at Olwen. At her husband, maybe, for not wanting his wife to work and figuring out a way to make it impossible. But not at Olwen. “Go on and call Personnel and Security—get the process started.” And she’d have to find a new assistant right in the middle of this mess with Ky. She forced a smile, and Olwen made a little sort of dip and withdrew. And now she’d have to break in a new one. She sighed and considered whom to contact first. Too bad she couldn’t have Rafe or Teague. She called Mac.

“I don’t like it. Her replacement should be checked out for more than a week.”

“I know, Mac, but what’s the best way to go? I can try to snag someone out of Vatta Enterprises—”

“They won’t have the security clearance required. I’ll get you a short list today and start in on them.”

“Thanks.”

“You do realize this could be a move by the other side—”

“Yes, of course. But I need someone in that position. I can shift some of the calls I make to my skullphone.”

“Good. Later.”

Two days before Olwen left, Grace and Mac had finally chosen her replacement from the short list and he appeared in her office for the first time. Grace resented having to change assistants, and knew that colored her view of the presentable young man—young to her, though he was thirty-six—who came in the following morning. She did her best to be cordial when Olwen showed him in and announced him.

“Rector, this is Derek Connabi, my replacement.” Olwen sounded sad.

“Ser Connabi, welcome to my staff. I’m glad you were able to change your position at such short notice.” Automatically Grace assessed his physique—neither weedy nor muscular—in terms of conflict. He stood well, upright but not stiff. He was a shade less handsome than his résumé image, of medium build, dark with gray eyes. “Olwen has scheduled the morning to show you where everything is and get you started. Tomorrow is her last day.”

“Thank you, Rector. I’m honored to have been chosen for this, and hope you find my work satisfactory.”

“So do I,” Grace said, to find out how he would react.

“Then, Rector, I had best let Olwen start bringing me up to speed.”

Grace nodded and watched him give a slight bow, then depart. She really did not want Olwen to leave, but Olwen was leaving, and this was the best replacement they’d found.

*  *  *

“What do you think of your new assistant?” Mac asked the next evening, after Olwen’s farewell party had ended.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong yet,” Grace said. “But then he’s hardly had time.”

“Any feelings about him?”

Grace shrugged. “I’m a cranky old woman who hates change and I liked Olwen. That’s my feelings. Rationally, he passed your security check—”

“Shorter than I like—”

“And you’ll have time to dig deeper now that he’s here. We agreed on the algorithm—not choosing the most obvious candidate. We didn’t have time to make a deep list. He’s the best guess, and we’ll just have to see.” She looked at him. “Do you have reservations now?”

“No … it’s just having to make the change so quickly.” He shook his head, as if warding off a fly. “Never mind. I’ll keep looking, you keep being careful.”

Over the next ten days, Grace decided that Derek would do; he was quiet, professionally correct without being stiff, organized and efficient, and showed no inclination to pry into her own affairs. She had set the usual number of subtle traps, things that had caught others up to mischief, but he didn’t trip any of them. MacRobert hadn’t found anything suspicious, not so much as a single late bill payment—in itself suspicious, but not that suspicious. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with him, but she knew she was slow to adjust to new personnel. And she had a great deal to do. She could not spend all her time hovering over his every move.