Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

  “You’re sure?” he asked, frowning slightly. “You were unhappy with the clinic staff, it seemed to me. I don’t want you to feel that your concerns were not heard, or that you can’t share them.”

  She thought he probably meant that; he had been—barring that one outbreak of annoyance today, which might have been his own discomfort with the entire situation or fatigue from the long journey out here and the early start—what her experience told her was a good officer. Still, she dared not trust too much. She shook her head.

  “Colonel, I had not realized how disabled they were; it shocked me, I’ll admit. You know my background: my cousin’s in care, from a head injury. But what is, is. They’re not fit for duty; the service has to do something. We can’t keep them on the rolls as active when they can’t be. I wish they could be allowed contact with their families, but—” She shrugged. “I agree, we can’t risk this thing, whatever it is, getting loose in the population.” He would assume she meant the pathogen.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I appreciate that. Word in your ear: I happen to know some of the officers here pushed their way onto the list for this flight, and none of them would be happy to be displaced. You’re saving me an awkward conversation; I won’t forget it. I’d wanted a dedicated flight back, just the five of us and crew, but—” He spread his hands. “Budget.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s fine, sir; I don’t mind at all. The important thing is to see that our veterans get the care they need for the rest of their lives, and hope nobody else gets whatever it is.”

  —

  The senior NCO compartment on this aircraft included eighteen seats, three abreast either side of the aisle, closed off from the officers in front by a door just past the midship loo, and from lower enlisted behind by a sound-baffling curtain. It was half full, and a long flight to come. Morrison chose a seat and put her duffel on the seat beside her. With luck others would respect her seniority and let her have both seats; then she could stretch out a bit and ease her legs.

  At first she thought her ploy had worked. But once they were airborne, the master sergeant across the aisle greeted her by name, and began probing to find out why the sergeant major had been “out here in the sticks.” His name tag read UNGOLIT.

  “I am like the Ghost of Bailorn,” Morrison said, quoting from the intro to a well-known vid-thriller series. “I wander here and there, day and night, on hill and in hollow, all folk to affright.” The Ghost, according to the script, was a descendant of Count Dracula who had inherited a vast fortune and a taste for adventure.

  Master Sergeant Ungolit laughed, perhaps a little louder than necessary. “But had you ever been to our remote corner before?”

  “Oh, yes. Last year I spent half a day at your base, in fact, speaking to the master sergeants—that was just before you were promoted, I think.”

  “And four tendays before my transfer. I remember wishing I’d been there. So—if you don’t mind my asking—does being sergeant major involve a lot of travel?”

  “Thinking ahead, are you?” she asked with a smile that had razor wire on its edge. Before he could answer, she relaxed the razor wire just a little. “As a matter of fact, yes. At headquarters probably only half the time; the rest of it is out in the field, visiting as many installations as I can. Certainly I’m on every continent every year, and usually get to all the main bases, and as many smaller ones as we can fit in.”

  “I’ll bet that’s tiring.”

  “That’s what fitness work is for,” Morrison said, ratcheting the razor wire back into view. Ungolit looked, to her, like someone on the slide. Not flabby yet, but not as fit as he had been. “Sergeant majors must be examples, you know. In case you’re thinking in that direction. Hours a day, even during travel.”

  “How do you—?”

  “Creativity,” she said. She did not want to talk all the way back to Port Major; she needed to think. “Besides, every base has gyms, and many have terrain that fills the need, just by walking instead of riding.”

  “That’s what I always say.” Staff Sergeant Gomes, in the row ahead, had turned around to join the conversation. He was lean and looked well muscled. “If you have the desire, there’s always an opportunity.”

  Ungolit looked unconvinced. He opened his mouth to answer Gomes, then glanced at Morrison and shut it again. Gomes said, “Nice to see you, Sergeant Major; I really enjoyed that talk you gave at the NCO conference on security upgrades.”

  Morrison nodded at him, not saying what she was thinking—her implant had provided his record, too, and she knew his specialty. “Glad you enjoyed it. I do have some work to do on the flight, though, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Gomes said. Ungolit looked as if he wanted to say more, but Morrison turned slightly away and dug into her duffel for her tablet, where paperwork always waited.

  After that the trip went as she’d hoped. Two hours before arrival at Port Major, a steward from the officers’ cabin came and said she was wanted forward. She checked her shoes—no scuffs—and went forward to the table the chairman shared with the rest of the committee, where the report was laid out. She signed on the designated line, initialing each page below the others.

  “Anything else, sir?” she asked.

  “No, Sergeant Major, thank you,” he said.

  And that was it. She returned to her seat, and once more opened her tablet. Her thoughts were far away from the pages she scrolled past. Who might help? Where could she go?

  MARVIN J. PEAKE MILITARY HOSPITAL

  Grace Vatta woke slowly, confused in the aftermath of the procedures that had saved her life. She heard the voices around her but not yet the sense of their words. She could not remember why she was wherever she was, slipping easily back into sleep and rousing again. When she did finally wake completely, to find MacRobert asleep in a chair beside her bed, she recognized the room as a hospital room, and remembered why she might be in one. Her implant had been reinstalled; it informed her what the date was, the time, and how many calls were waiting to be answered. She had slept through until the next day, as she’d been told she would.

  “Mac?” she said. Her voice was weak and scratchy.

  “Mmph?” He stirred, opened one eye, and pushed himself up in the chair. “You’re awake again. They said you might wake fully in a few hours.”

  “The implant’s in. Or an implant’s in.”

  “Yes. It’s yours. I had custody of it the whole time and it was definitely yours. I watched.” He stood up slowly, listing to one side, and fetched water from the bedside table. “Here. You’re supposed to drink some, and I’m supposed to call the nurse now you’re awake.”

  “Wait.” Grace sipped the water, which tasted like water only, and sipped again. “How are other things?”

  “Complicated. So was your recovery. Let me call the nurse.”

  Dr. Maillard arrived on the heels of the nurse. “Well, that’s a good deal better,” she said to Grace. “You’ll have noticed your implant’s already in. Your arm’s fine. And the poison has cleared, though the damage it did hasn’t all been healed yet. Now for your mental status exam…”

  Grace stared at the ceiling while reciting the date, the time, counting backward by sevens, and then naming her physicians. “Not the President?”

  “No. I don’t like her.” Dr. Maillard’s face bunched into a scowl. “It’s more important that you know his name”—she pointed at MacRobert—“and your own name and my name and those of your nearest relatives than the President’s. Now: you are feeling much better, and you want out, right?”

  “Certainly,” Grace said. She didn’t feel that much better but she definitely wanted out.

  “Can’t happen now. Two more days at best, more likely longer. But you can get out of bed, and you can take a shower if you want. I want you up and walking the length of the hall five minutes an hour the first three hours, then a two-hour break, then ten minutes an hour the next four. Report any asymmetrical weakness or pain.
Got that?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Grace said as meekly as she could.

  Maillard reached out and laid a hand on hers. “You’re going to be all right, now. Don’t worry. But don’t hide any symptoms.”

  She was gone with a swirl of her coat, and was talking to someone else on the way out of the room. “Yes, I’m on the way. Three minutes. Czardany can open for me.”

  “You want me to fetch food, or do you trust the hospital?” Mac asked.

  “I like having you here,” Grace said. “Can we send out?”

  “I can,” he said. “And I have things to tell you. Your concern for those personnel Ky told you about was well founded, but we are going to have a hell of a time mounting a rescue.”

  “Why?”

  “Among other things, because you pissed off Basil Orniakos, remember? Who would ordinarily be on our side. Grace, this is going to be a delicate operation, and you must not lose your temper or go rogue.”

  “You’re serious.” Her implant reminded her that Orniakos commanded Region VII AirDefense, and she had jumped the command chain to chew him out the day the shuttle had crashed.

  “Very. They could all—well, all but the three who escaped, as you know—be eliminated very easily, and their deaths explained as due to some mysterious disease. We must work quickly and quietly. Ky’s begun.”

  “What about that captain—?”

  “He died. Suicided in custody, I’m convinced. The rest of that squad knew only that they were being told to pick up dangerous fugitives. Now, about that family you were having dinner with…tell me exactly how you ended up there.”

  Grace told him, starting with her first glimpse of a woman in a red coat, walking a white dog.

  “Conspicuous,” Mac said. “Had you ever seen her walking that dog there before?”

  Grace shrugged. “Usually I didn’t pay much attention to anyone on the street—just went straight into the house.”

  “It’s the coincidence I don’t like. And the fact that you weren’t suspicious. She shows up right at the critical moment, whisks you off to her house, and invites you to dinner—and you went. And her husband just happens to be from Esterance, where you were during the war.”

  “Yes. I thought of that when I smelled the casserole. Not before.” Now she could recognize how foggy-headed she’d been, trusting the friendly stranger. “But he was too young.”

  “You know perfectly well that family quarrels last through generations.”

  “Yes.” Grace lay back. “And I did worry about that, but—” But she hadn’t been thinking clearly, thanks to the poison already working inside her.

  “I ran background on them both. Sera Vance checks out clean. But her husband—he uses the name Vance now—his mother’s maiden name—his father’s name was Ernesto Arriaga.”

  Grace nodded. “I know the Arriaga name. But the man I knew would have been Ernesto’s father or uncle or something—a generation older at least.”

  “Felipe Arriaga, by any chance? Active in the Separatist movement? Jaime Vance’s great-uncle.” His brows went up and he said nothing, waiting. Testing her, she realized.

  “Yes.” Memories rushed over her: smells, sounds, touch…the feel of his hands clamped on her wrists, his weight holding her down. The perfume of citrus flowers following the breeze through the window. The sound of gunfire nearby, which took his attention off her just long enough…the sight of his face, anger changing to fear, with the blade of his own knife in his throat. The memories went on: the gush of blood, hot on her face, the noise of a firefight outside, her friends breaking the house door, their voices. “I killed him,” she said.

  “Well,” Mac said. “I thought it might be something like that. Jaime Vance seems clean so far; I’ll want to dig deeper, but his father Ernesto was pro-Unionist.”

  He didn’t sound shocked, but then he wouldn’t. Grace debated trying to justify what she’d done. Felipe Arriaga had been a monster, delighting in causing pain. That morning he’d come in to beat her again, and threatened to kill the boy Grace had saved, the boy who had, in adulthood, become Commandant of the Academy. But she had explained it all, over and over, during the trial and the endless sessions in prison.

  “Was that your first kill?” Mac asked. “You were what—eighteen?”

  “I don’t know. I’d been in a firefight twice—no, three times, I think—but whether it was my bullet or someone else’s, when someone fell…I don’t know.” Hadn’t wanted to know, until later. Until after that night when she’d snatched the frightened boy, argued and threatened to keep him alive, had even endured Arriaga’s abuse to save the boy worse. Until her kills, starting with Arriaga himself, were for a purpose that made sense to her, keeping her and the boy alive, rather than for a cause she’d never cared about. The group that rescued her, nominally pro-Unification, had cared as little for her or the boy as the Separatists. She had had to fight for their side, again to save the boy, to earn food. Eventually she had fled with him into the scrub, her fragile link to sanity being the trust in his face.

  He said nothing more for a moment, then sighed. “All right. I’ll send for some food from a trusted source, and then be here if you need help to shower.”

  She watched him call in an order, wondering if he would be another casualty, if he would leave her now, or in a few days, with a good excuse. She had finally trusted him, but he might not trust her. And perhaps, if he didn’t, he was right. He was a soldier, with a soldier’s sense of duty and honor. She had had neither, back then. And as she had told Helen shortly before that last firefight, when she had killed and then been wounded to keep Jo’s twins alive, she believed she had no morals.

  —

  MacRobert wondered when Grace would be fully alert again; he could still see a trace of medication-fog in her eyes. He would not tell her yet about the nurse with a lethal dose of heart stimulant in a syringe who had been intercepted inside Grace’s room, about to inject it into the IV bag. Grace would be leaving the hospital for a more secure location sooner than Maillard had wanted, but he could not tell Grace until he was sure she was alert enough to keep that secret.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JOINT SERVICES COMMAND HQ, PORT MAJOR

  DAY 5

  After landing, Morrison took her duffel from the stack, aware that the officers on the committee were standing nearby.

  “Give you a lift, Sergeant Major?” Colonel Nedari asked. “We’re all going over to HQ to turn in the report, if you’d like to pick up your file copy.”

  “No thank you, Colonel,” she said. “My vehicle’s in the lot here, and I need to pick up my dog from the boarding kennel.”

  “You don’t use the one on base?” Nedari asked.

  “No, sir. I have a friend, retired, who runs this one. Petsational, on West Canal Road. Big runs, shade in the summer. Ginger likes it, and Jo-Jo, their kennelman, likes Ginger. By your leave, sir.” He nodded, they exchanged salutes, and she went out the gate toward enlisted parking.

  She stopped by her quarters on base, locked her briefcase in the safe, and changed to civvies and a leather jacket before driving over to pick up Ginger. It was definitely colder now than when she’d left two days before.

  Kris, at the kennel, gave her a hug. “Ginger’s fine. She had a good run today, so she won’t keep you up all night.” After a longer look at Morrison, Kris added, “You look upset about something—and you’re already in civvies. Why don’t you come along to a party we’re having tonight. Nothing fancy—”

  “I’ve got something to do,” Morrison said. She heard the tension in her voice, and forced a chuckle. “I know, I always say that.”

  “You do. And you’re just back from a trip, and tomorrow’s your day off, so no one will expect you to be in the office at 0700. Don’t worry about Ginger; you know I’ve got a large yard and she and Tigger and Abby get along fine. You can spend the night in our spare room if you get a buzz on. And it would be good for you. Party a little, relax, sleep in…and show up
at noon looking like everything’s fine.”

  It was tempting. And a party would cover her absence very well…

  “I still have a couple of chores I can’t put off,” Morrison said. “But it does sound like fun. Later?”

  “Later, but be sure you do show up!” Kris wagged a finger.

  “Don’t bully her.” Irene, Kris’s partner in business and life, came out of the back with Ginger on a lead. Ginger let out one delighted woof and lunged at Morrison. Irene tossed her the lead.

  “Sit, Ginger.” The dog plopped her backside onto the floor. “Were you a good dog?” A whine answered her. “Yes, they say you were. I don’t suppose you’d want to go to a party…” A yip, this time, and a wiggle from nose to tail. “I guess I’ll have to come to your party, Kris; Ginger seems determined.” Morrison rumpled Ginger’s ears.

  “Great. It’ll probably run late, so come whenever you’re done with your errands. Potluck, but you’re exempt.”

  “I can probably manage something,” Morrison said, on the way out of the door.

  —

  Once in the city, with Ginger in the car-crate behind her, Morrison reviewed what she knew about the Rector. Close friends with Master Sergeant not-really-retired MacRobert. Had a house in the city, though Morrison didn’t know the address. Another Vatta, Helen, also had a house in the city, in a wealthier neighborhood. What was the best, most discreet, way to contact the Rector? Certainly not by showing up at the department asking to see her, not to mention it was after regular hours. Probably not by going to her house even if the address was listed in a finder. Maybe the other Vatta house? She flicked on the local news to find out about traffic.

  “Rector of Defense Grace Vatta remains incommunicado in the Marvin J. Peake Military Hospital, following a mysterious injury. Our reporters have confirmed that a hazmat team showed up at the Rector’s residence shortly before the Rector arrived at the hospital yesterday evening, but we have been unable to determine why. Persistent rumors about former admiral Ky Vatta, the Rector’s great-niece, who has not been seen in public for more than a tenday, suggest some pathogen was encountered during her long stay on Miksland, but the former admiral is now out of quarantine and resident in one of the family homes in the Harlantown neighborhood. She declined to comment on her own or her great-aunt’s condition.”