Harlantown. Morrison knew where that was. She was only a kilometer away. But the hospital was closer, in a different direction—should she go there? She looked for a place to stop and spotted an upscale shopping area, its large lot busy with vehicles and shoppers. She pulled in and found a parking spot. Right in the center was a supermarket.
Should she try the Vatta house, to see if she could speak to Ky Vatta, or the hospital, where the Rector was? She didn’t know Ky Vatta. She had no reason to go to a civilian Vatta home, and Ky Vatta had no reason to talk to her. But she had met Master Sergeant MacRobert, back in the day. And she had met the Rector at the annual Defense Department reception for NCOs the previous winter. As sergeant major, it could be appropriate for her to hand-carry a get-well card and gift, and perhaps—maybe—run into MacRobert there. She regretted having changed out of uniform, but her visit could be—would have to be—more personal than official.
With that in mind, she decided to do her shopping. “You stay, Ginger,” she said to the dog. “I just remembered we’re out of dog food at home.”
She came out with dog food and groceries, including a tray of vegetable snacks for the party and a small pot of flowers and a card for the Rector, then drove to the military hospital. It served senior government officials as well as the military personnel who lived off-base in Port Major.
Once inside the hospital with the flowers and card, she located the intake desk and asked for the Rector’s room.
Even her identification wasn’t enough to pry that information out of the clerk. “Sorry, Sergeant Major, but the Rector’s location is not available. I can have someone sniffer those and one of her staff will come and take them up.”
“I understand,” Morrison said. “I was away for a few days, and heard about the attack only while driving into the city. Just wanted to pay my respects and wish the Rector a quick recovery.”
“The Rector is lucky to be alive,” the clerk said. “Just a sec while I call this in—” He turned away for a moment, murmured into a microphone, then turned back. “Someone’ll be right down, if you’d like to wait.”
“I can’t stay long,” Morrison said. “My dog’s in the car; I just didn’t want to let another day pass without—”
“Sergeant Major!” A colonel, in uniform of course, strode toward her. He paused, looking her up and down. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in civvies.” His name tag read DIHANN.
“Colonel Dihann.” She’d never met him before. Morrison nodded, in lieu of a salute. “I’m just back from TDY, picked up my dog at the kennel, and heard the news about the Rector on the car com. Wanted to pay my respects.”
“The gift shop’s closed,” he said, eyeing the flowers she’d brought.
“Grocery store,” Morrison said. “I went along the floral display, sniffing to see which ones didn’t smell like dead decaying leaves or that horrible grape drink.”
He laughed. “I know what you mean.” He leaned over and sniffed the purple and yellow flowers. “Hardly any scent at all. Excellent choice.”
“Do you know what happened, sir?”
“Um. Come over here.” He led the way to the entry’s seating area, now deserted. “Gas,” he said. “Quatenary toxin, four levels of attack, as it morphs in the body. She’s been very ill; they’re now sure she’ll live, but she’ll be weak for another tenday at least. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your concern, Sergeant Major, but I don’t think they’ll let her have visitors for another day or so. It’s not like she’s young.” He gave Morrison a sharp look. “Meaning no disrespect, of course, but organ system damage is worse in the elderly.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for the information; I’m relieved she’s on the road to recovery.” Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen someone run a sniffer over the flowers and the card, and then someone else pick them up and turn to go. MacRobert. She stepped back abruptly, a sharp move that might catch his eye, and saw the hesitation before he went on down the passage.
“You said you had your dog with you—what kind of dog? I have dogs myself—love ’em—but it’s always a problem if I’m sent somewhere and can’t take them.” The colonel’s continued interest struck Morrison as off in some way, as had his easy recognition of her, even in civvies. After her disturbing surmises earlier in the day, this set bells ringing.
“I used to use the kennels on base,” Morrison said, keeping her voice easy, one dog owner to another. “But they were full one time when I had to travel. So I tried out another boarding kennel, only about two klicks from base, toward town, run by a retired senior tech sergeant. They’re pricier than the base, but really good, and it’s no problem if I’m away longer than expected. Petsational. Tell them I sent you, if you want.” She paused. “Excuse me, sir, but Ginger’s been in the car long enough. I should be on my way.”
“I’ll just walk out with you,” he said. “Say hello to your dog, if that’s all right.”
“She’ll enjoy it,” Morrison said. “She’s very friendly.” An entire carillon of bells rang now.
Ginger let out a moderate woof! at the sound of strange footsteps, but quieted when Morrison unlocked the door. “Hey, Ginger, someone wants to meet you. A moment, sir, while I get her out of the crate.” He was looking through the windows at her grocery bags, both his hands on the car. Ginger came out of the crate politely, hopped down to the pavement, and wagged her tail as the colonel turned toward her. “Shake, Ginger.” Up came the paw, and the colonel grinned, reaching down to shake it. As he stood he put down a hand as if to brace himself on the doorframe.
Morrison glanced back toward the hospital entrance. Someone came out, moved along the walk beside the building, into the cluster of shrubs that decorated one corner. “Now she’s out, I should give her a little walk,” Morrison said. “Some of that shrubbery looks like it needs watering.”
He gave a conspiratorial dog-owners-all grin and said, “Then good night, Sergeant Major. I’ll let you and Ginger get on with your evening.” With a nod, he turned away, walked back across the parking area, and Morrison led Ginger toward the nearest shrubbery, connected to that at the front of the building.
“You are one silly bitch,” Morrison said. “That goofy act you put on, all grin and tail-wags, someone would think you’re nothing but a couch-cuddle.” She looked for movement in the shrubbery. There?
Ginger stiffened and gave a barely audible growl.
“What, something in the shrubbery? Probably a cat. Or a bunny.”
“Interesting note you wrote, Sergeant Major,” came a voice from the shrubbery.
“All I did was sign my name,” Morrison said. She laid her hand on Ginger’s head, signaling. Ginger squatted.
“On the one hand, yes. On the other, that salutation. Do you have something the Rector needs to know tonight?”
“Something the Rector needs to know as soon as she is able to do something about it,” Morrison said. “Someone is mistreating some of my people, and I can’t stop it without jumping the chain of command all the way to her.”
“Do you recognize my voice? We’ve met several times over the years.”
“Master Sergeant Mac—”
“MacRobert, yes. If this concerns enlisted personnel evacuated from Miksland and claimed to be in quarantine, yes, she needs to know whatever you know. She’s aware something’s crooked. But she can’t have visitors right now, and anyway you’re conspicuous. You need to go talk to Admiral Ky Vatta, tonight. She’s at the Vatta city residence.” His voice sharpened. “Take this, pet your dog, turn and go to your car. Now.”
Morrison palmed the paper he handed her, bent down, patted Ginger, and did as he had said, Ginger trotting along happily, tail waving. Inside the glass doors of the hospital entrance, a figure stood, dark against the light. Colonel Dihann? Or another watcher? She opened the car door, leaned in to open the crate, and as Ginger swarmed into the car, raking her claws on the doorframe as usual, then settled in the crate, Morrison saw a glint, as of metallic paint, ju
st below the opening. Without standing up, she touched it. Small, almost flat, and definitely something she didn’t want on her car. She slid a fingernail under it and pulled it off. The colonel, no doubt, standing up from petting Ginger. Microphone or locator or both?
“Ginger, how many times do I have to tell you, do not claw the doorframe as you get in? You’ve scraped the paint again. Good thing I carry touch-up.” She rummaged, making noise, under the back of the driver’s seat. “Ah. There we are. Still enough to fix this one. Let me see. Sandpaper—” She stuck the tag back down, hard-scrubbing both it and the surrounding paint. That should glitch the signal, at least partly. “That’s smooth enough. And now the paint. You know, dog, sometimes you’re a serious nuisance. We’re going to be late to Kris’s party if we don’t get a move on.”
The Vatta house was not quite in the middle of a long block of expensive-looking houses. A driveway, closed off with decorative metal gates, led around one end. To Morrison’s surprise, the gates opened silently as she came near, and her skullphone pinged. “Yes?”
“Take the drive, park beside the garage, facing out.” She’d never heard that voice before. And how would a stranger know her skullphone code? Did MacRobert have the same access to service records she did?
She turned into the drive and reversed the car into a space beside the garage, as she’d been directed. “Ginger, stay.”
A man in dark slacks and pullover emerged from the shadows. “Sergeant Major, I’m Ky Vatta’s fiancé, Rafe Dunbarger. Would you like to bring your dog in the house, or will she be quiet out here?”
That was not what she’d expected to hear. “She will bark only if someone approaches the car. I’d as soon leave her crated.”
“Fine. Come with me, please.”
Inside, she followed Ser Dunbarger through a dark kitchen into a lighted room where seven people waited around a dining table. Morrison recognized both Admiral and Stella Vatta from newsvids, but not the three other women or the man Ser Dunbarger introduced as “my assistant, Teague.”
“Master Sergeant MacRobert told us you were coming.” Admiral Vatta’s voice and manner convinced Morrison instantly that everything she’d heard about the admiral was true. “Please have a seat. We don’t want to keep you long; this house is under surveillance, and your visit here may cause you trouble. You have information about the people with me on Miksland?”
Morrison sat down. The three women across from her had not been introduced. Who were they? Why?—and then it dawned on her. That flash message she’d read while in transit, fugitives escaped from a high-security facility…“The information I have,” Morrison said, “comes from my participation in a committee whose brief was to make a final disposition of those cases, persons we were told had been exposed to some pathogen or toxin on Miksland, and were now permanently disabled, in need of custodial care for the rest of their lives.”
“Do you know where these persons are?”
“Where they are, and where they will be after transport to a single facility, assuming our report is accepted by higher command. I also suspected, but was unable to confirm, that their apparent disability was the intentional result of treatment they received in custody. Since voicing an objection, and a request to meet with the personnel alone, I have been aware of excessive interest directed at me. Veiled threats were made. A tracking device was placed on my car.”
“Is it—”
“I dealt with it. With that one, at least.” She looked across the table at the three women. “And you are—”
“The three fugitives you’ve no doubt heard of,” Vatta said. “Corporal Inyatta, Corporal Barash, and Specialist Four Kamat. Now, Sergeant Major, we need to know where the others are now, and where they will be moved. And the best way to stay in contact with you.”
—
Fifteen minutes after she’d arrived, Sergeant Major Morrison left the Vatta house in a swirl of emotions. Rage, still, at what was being done to her people. Pride in the courage and determination of the three who had escaped. Astonishment at the technical skills of Rafe Dunbarger, whom she’d thought of as a fat-cat civilian CEO, probably never done a lick of real work in his life. And wholehearted admiration and gratitude for Ky Vatta. Vatta’s concern for her people, her determination to rescue the others—Morrison could not imagine how it could be done, but she was sure the admiral would succeed. Morrison had handed over all the information she had: locations, names of prisoners and the staff at Clemmander Rehabilitation.
She arrived at Kris and Irene’s place to find the party at full swing. Irene met her at the door. “Hi—you picked a good time.” She took the party tray from Morrison’s hand. “Oscar and his pack of hounds just left, so there’s plenty of room for Ginger out back and less noise. Come on through. I’ll drop the party tray in the kitchen.” They threaded their way through the crowd in the big living room, mostly people Morrison didn’t know, then the crowd in the study, and finally the kitchen. Irene set the tray on the table and led the way to the back of the house. The back porch was occupied by two men hunched over a chess table with three more watching, perched on stools. Irene opened the gate and Morrison turned Ginger loose in the run with three other dogs.
“She’s played with all those while boarding; shouldn’t be any problems,” Irene said. “Come on in and get something to eat. And drink.”
Beer and a bowl of Kris’s cream of squash soup in hand, Morrison followed Irene into the middle room where there was an open chair. Irene introduced her as “Sunny, owned by Ginger,” and then named those already seated: Walter, Arnulf, Bettina, Dot, and Kyuni. Morrison smiled at them and nodded a go-ahead while she set her beer down and applied herself to the soup. She let the conversation go on as she ate, easing herself into the mood to deal with younger civilians. Morrison judged the age range to be thirty to forty-five. Were any of them military? No, she decided after listening to them. Would they have information she might find useful? Maybe. She put down the soup, picked up her beer, and eased back in the chair.
“Are you military?” Walter asked.
“Yes,” Morrison said. “Kris and I served together years back.”
“Our son’s in Spaceforce,” Arnulf said. “On a cruiser. He’s an environmental tech.”
She was used to handling parents. “Congratulations—that’s an important job.” She glanced around; the others introduced themselves again, with added information. Restaurant owner, farmer, teacher, electrician. All with a love of dogs. Nobody likely to be in the conspiracy or know anything she could take back to Ky Vatta.
CHAPTER NINE
DAY 6
Ky kept an eye on the security videos while Rafe and Teague ate breakfast. Very little traffic on this street in the mornings. When a dark-green van slowed down, and then stopped in front of the house, she used the zoom lens function Rafe had installed to read the lettering on the side. SLOTTER KEY CUSTOMS & IMMIGRATION DEPARTMENT. ENFORCEMENT DIVISION. What now? Four men in uniform got out of the van. She touched the house com. “Rafe! Teague! Would Immigration have any reason to come after you?”
“I don’t think so,” Rafe said. “Well—I was using an alias, but it passed.”
“And later they knew you were here as Rafe Dunbarger—did you have a visa in that name?”
“Yes, and Grace arranged a visa extension for both of us. It might be getting close to running out. But nobody’s said anything.”
Ky remembered her own summons, with the notation that she was considered a foreigner. She still hadn’t called Vatta’s legal office again. The men from the van were coming up the walk now.
“Get in Stella’s office; get the women into the closet.”
“You—”
“I’ll be fine; I’m a Slotter Key citizen, even if they don’t think so. Send Rodney to the front, with a jacket.”
The door buzzed. All four men wore uniforms like those she’d seen at the Customs & Immigration booths. Name tags displayed: COSSEY, MIRBAN, HALAK, and TALLIN. Rodney came out
of the lift, up from the basement, wearing a respectable gray jacket.
“Customs & Immigration,” Ky said. “My guess is they’re going to claim Rafe’s and Teague’s visas are out of date.”
Rodney nodded. “I’m the new butler?”
“Acting, for the moment. You’re a Vatta employee, doing electronics installation here.”
“Got it.” The door buzzed again, longer. Rodney tapped the inside speaker.
“Vatta residence. May I help you?”
“Slotter Key Customs & Immigration; we have information that illegal aliens are residing at this house.”
“Please show your identification to the reader,” Rodney said.
“You need to open this door. Are you the one called Teague?”
“Teague? No. I am Rodney Vatta-Stevens, a Vatta employee temporarily assigned to this house.”
The IDs came through, showing on Ky’s tab. She put in a call to Customs & Immigration and linked it to a second call to Vatta Enterprises’ legal department. She had just heard one of the Vatta legal staff introduce herself as Deirdre Monteith, legal assistant, when the Customs & Immigration call came through. She spoke first to Immigration, knowing that Monteith would hear the conversation. “This is Ky Vatta; I am sending you imaged IDs claiming to be from Customs & Immigration. Are these valid IDs, and if so, why are they here?” She was aware of Rodney talking to the men outside, but as long as they didn’t try to break the door down, she would let him handle it.
“Those are indeed valid IDs, Sera, and the team has come to collect persons who are illegally within Slotter Key jurisdiction,” the Customs clerk said.
“What persons?”
Into the Fire Page 12
