Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

“Rafe Dunbarger and Edvard Teague have overstayed their visas and made no effort to renew them. They were given an extension at the request of Rector Vatta, on the grounds of essential work for the Defense Department, but as she was told when she applied, such visas cannot be extended again without the persons appearing at the local Immigration Control office.”

  “You do know that Rector Vatta was hospitalized three days ago, don’t you? She may not have turned in the papers before—”

  “According to regulations, the responsibility for applying for a visa extension rests on the individuals themselves; they are in violation of Section Eleven, paragraph 3f of the Code. And there is another issue, Admiral.”

  “Yes?”

  “There is no record of your having a visa at all.”

  Ky sighed. “I’m a Slotter Key citizen; I don’t need a visa, and no visa was requested at entry.”

  “Actually, Sera, we know you received a summons explaining that your citizenship has lapsed. Unless you reapply for a half-year visa, and then, in that time, apply and qualify for rehoming, your presence here without a visa is also illegal—you are not a citizen. You left Slotter Key eight local years ago, never returned, never filed any financials, never voted, have not paid any taxes, and appear more recently to have become a citizen of the Moscoe Confederation as commander of…uh…Space Defense Force.” The tone was accusatory. “Your cousin, Sera Stella Vatta, when informed that her extended absence and apparent principal residence in the Moscoe Confederation put her citizenship at risk, despite her holding shares in a local business—”

  “I hold—held—shares in the same business until recently.” Ky was finding it hard to breathe. She had been so sure the summons resulted from a clerical error, something easy to fix. But a new law—when had that come about, and why hadn’t she heard about it?

  “Yes, but now you don’t. And the purpose of your visit here, on our records, was to divest yourself of any claim to the Vatta Transport / Vatta Enterprises stock in order for Stella Vatta to become CEO, with joint headquarters here and in the Moscoe Confederation.”

  “Yes—” Ky’s mouth had gone dry.

  “Whereas you yourself showed no further link whatsoever to Slotter Key indicating that you would be a participating citizen. Now, Stella Vatta, as I said, applied for renewal of her citizenship and showed cause why she should be accepted. She is due in court this morning—in fact, she is overdue for check-in, I see here, and if she misses this appointment may also be subject to arrest and fines for failing to appear—”

  A gasp from someone on the Vatta line.

  “Excuse me?” from the Immigration office line.

  “Someone listening in,” Ky said. “Not Stella; she left for the court an hour ago.” A lie to cover her cousin’s forgetfulness was not a lie at all. She was sure Stella was at Vatta headquarters and someone from Legal would be telling her to get herself down to court. Which left the fix she herself was in, and which the Immigration officer continued to tell her about.

  “You were supposed to appear at the Immigration office within three days of landing—”

  “Nobody told me that when I went through Customs up on the station,” Ky said. “And then the shuttle crashed in the Southern Ocean off Miksland; I couldn’t appear anywhere but in a life raft.”

  “That is not the point. You could have contacted this office—”

  “Surely you know about this from the newsvids,” Ky said. “None of the communications devices worked. We could not contact anyone.”

  Silence. “Then you should have reported in as soon as you were once again in contact. As it is, I have no option but to inform you that you also are in violation of Immigration law. In fact, since you have not responded to the summons—”

  “But the court date hasn’t come yet—”

  “You had three business days to respond in writing that you intended to appear; we have received no such notice. If you intend to respond, the written response must be in this office by 1700 today. Otherwise you are subject to seizure and detention.”

  You’ll have to catch me first was Ky’s thought. “Thank you for your very helpful advice,” she said instead, and closed the contact. “Don’t open the door,” she said to Rodney. “Not for any reason.” And then, “Sera Monteith? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Sera,” said Monteith. “You will need to file that intention to appear—and you need to speak with someone senior to me. If you’ll come to this office immediately, we can make that deadline—”

  “I can’t leave the house. Those Immigration agents on the front porch will arrest me,” Ky said, trying for a calm tone. “The order’s already gone out.”

  “Well…if you’ll hold, I’ll try to find someone. Or we can call you back.”

  She bolted up the stairs and down the passage to Stella’s office. Rafe sat behind the desk; Teague stood beside it.

  “I gather we have a problem?” Rafe said.

  “We do. We’re all illegals.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You and Teague for overstaying your visas. They needed renewal; you didn’t. I thought that summons thing was based on a clerical error, but apparently I lost my citizenship because I stayed away too long.”

  “So they’ll deport you, too? That gets past the ‘no exit visa,’ doesn’t it?” Rafe leered at her. “Now we can go off and be naughty together.”

  “No again. I’m to be detained for up to thirty days until an Immigration judge hears the case. You two at least have valid papers.”

  “So do you,” Rafe said. Then his expression changed. “Don’t you?”

  “Not…exactly. I mean, I can prove I was born here, and am who I say I am, if I can get access to the vital records department and also to the Academy database: they stored my DNA, of course. But the papers I had when I left here were lost when Vanguard blew up. Nobody worried about it when I was commanding the fleet, but in this mess—I’m sure it will make things worse.”

  Her skullphone pinged: Vatta’s legal department again. “Sorry, Sera Ky,” Monteith said. “We have two who handle immigration or customs issues for personnel, Ser Ventoven or Sera Lane. I understood Immigration was explaining why your citizenship lapsed?”

  “Yes. When did that start?”

  “I believe the first legislation was proposed shortly after the Battle of Nexus, Sera. Finally passed last year. Now there’s a stiff residency requirement—maintain a local legal residence, be here one year out of five, and file all paperwork required of constantly resident citizens. Failure to comply creates an assumption of renunciation of citizenship. And it is retroactive.”

  “And nobody thought to inform citizens who had left before this took effect to let them know?”

  “No. There is an automatic grace period for those not resident when it passed; they would be informed when they returned, and if they filed the requisite paperwork they would be automatically reinstated and given new certifications. The grace period varied for those who had maintained a residence through the period and those who had not.”

  “I wasn’t informed when I returned,” Ky said. “Customs & Immigration just waved me through; they said nothing about it.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  Of course she couldn’t. The Commandant and his aide who had been with her were now dead; unless whoever was on duty remembered…Ky tried to think of what to say, but too many conflicting thoughts kept her quiet.

  “I believe, Sera, that our legal team should be able to eliminate, or at least shorten, the detention period in your case, because your circumstances are unique: it is not by any act of yours that your residence of record no longer exists. But as you are a citizen of the Moscoe Confederation—”

  “I’m not,” Ky said, more loudly than necessary.

  “Sera, in their complaint against you and their lien on your funds there, they claim you are.”

  “I made it clear I was from Slotter Key, and commanding a multisystem military force, which—yes—t
hey ended up joining, and helping to support. But I have never claimed to be a Moscoe Confederation citizen, and they never told me they considered me so. My bank accounts always listed Slotter Key citizenship.”

  “Do you have any ID from them?”

  “Yes, with my name and Space Defense Force on it.”

  “And your original Slotter Key papers?”

  “Destroyed in the war,” Ky said. She fought the urge to get up from the desk and stride around.

  “I see.” The silence stretched. Ky said nothing, feeling her teeth grating on one another. Then, “Well. I will have a senior partner contact you very shortly. Do you prefer Ser Ventoven or Sera Lane?”

  “I have no preference,” Ky said. “But I would like the Customs & Immigration team off our front steps as soon as possible.” She ended the call.

  “From the look on your face,” Rafe said, “that was not good news.”

  “No.” Ky pulled out the desk drawer and slammed it in. That did little to relieve her feelings. “It was not. Let’s get our guests out here so we can discuss it. Rodney’s guarding the door.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  DAY 6

  Sergeant Major Morrison woke early and clearheaded in Kris’s guest room and went out to check on Ginger. The day had dawned cloudless and chill; she was glad she had her boots on. Three dogs rushed up to the yard gate. “I’m not here to feed you,” Morrison said. “Be patient.” She turned back toward the house and saw Kris coming onto the porch with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “I’ll feed them,” Kris said. She opened a bin and filled a large scoop with kibble. The fence had a feeder section, with access ports that opened to the outside. She poured in kibble, then called the dogs in one at a time to their respective bowls. “What was it you didn’t say last night?”

  Morrison explained the situation, leaving out the three women she’d met at the Vatta house. What she knew from her committee work was bad enough. “And the Rector is in the hospital—”

  “You were going to try to reach the Rector?” Kris sounded genuinely shocked.

  “It was made clear to me that trying to go up the regular chain of command would get me sent someplace like that myself.”

  “You—I can’t believe it. They wouldn’t—not to the sergeant major.”

  “Kris, they’re watching me. When I heard on the radio the Rector was hospitalized, I realized I could send up a card with flowers—perfectly appropriate in the circumstances. But I ran into this colonel who started asking questions—trying to probe for more—and—a couple of things happened, and I don’t want to tell you because you should not know, if someone asks. I heard about the Rector on the car radio; I went to a store and picked up dog food and groceries; I stopped by the hospital with a card and flowers; I came here and stayed overnight. That’s all.”

  “But you told me the worst—didn’t you?”

  “What’s happening to the troops? Yes. And I had to, because I had to involve you and Irene. I may need messages passed; you must not tell anyone else.”

  Kris frowned, then nodded. “We can do that. But if they come asking—”

  “What I just said. We didn’t talk about Miksland survivors. We talked about dogs and weather and the Rector’s health and you tried to persuade me to let you take cells from Ginger and try to do artificial breeding with them—”

  “Which you know I would love to do—she’s very healthy, has great conformation, a good disposition, trainable and intelligent—”

  “Yes. And I’m still unwilling to subject her to the surgery—”

  “It’s only a few milliliters of blood—”

  “No. But I’m willing to consider it when I retire in a year or so, and can enjoy the puppies. You can tell them that. Are you still thinking of antique Chow DNA for a cross?”

  “There’s a new strain out from Overholt Beta. It wouldn’t take antique DNA; we could order frozen sperm.”

  “Good. The antique DNA worried me. Frozen sperm sounds more reasonable.”

  “Cost would be about the same, and not cheap.”

  “You said puppy buyers would cover it—still think so?”

  “Oh, yes. Every time we board her, I get questions about her. Seriously, if you’d consider it—”

  “Maybe. Better than no. But for now I need to get out to the base before noon. Work stacks up while I’m gone.”

  “You take care.”

  “I will. I do.”

  On the way to her duplex on base, where she always kept fresh uniforms ready, Morrison hoped Ky Vatta and her crew would soon have some useful information. And would manage not to get caught at it. She had no further reason to contact the Rector unless summoned, and her brief past acquaintance with MacRobert gave her no reason to contact him.

  As she entered the senior NCO housing neighborhood, she saw a white van pull away from the curb in the next block. Her duplex was in the next block. She turned into the driveway on her side of the duplex, stopped beside the kitchen entrance, unlocked the door, and sent Ginger inside while she unloaded the groceries and dog food. When she came inside, Ginger had her nose on the kitchen ventilation grate, wagging her tail busily.

  “Oh, Ginger,” Morrison said. “I haven’t been gone that long; there’s not a mouse in there. You’re such a silly dog.” Silly dog being a code for “find another.” Everyone knew base housing was surveilled: it was the military after all. But the eyes and ears had always been minimal at Morrison’s base residence: one eye doubling the normal security camera at each door, one ear in the base-supplied comunit. Anything in the ventilation grate…was new.

  Ginger wandered into the living room, pointing out another installation in a grate there. And in the bedroom and the second smaller bedroom Morrison used for an office. “Time to go out,” Morrison said. “I need to shower, change, and get to the office. I’ll be back in time to feed you.”

  She rumpled Ginger’s ears on the way to the back door that opened into the run she’d built within the small backyard. Ginger had a shelter, water, and a feeder much like the one at Kris’s. After a shower and a change, she went straight to headquarters admin section and her office. Yes, in only three days her inbox was over half full. Corporal Bannister, her clerk, had them tabbed and ready. Corporal Gorse, on weekend duty, offered to bring her coffee.

  “No thanks, Molly. Had a late breakfast with friends.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d be in today, Sergeant Major.”

  “I’d rather face a clean desk next week,” she said, opening the first folder. Routine; she just needed to read and sign. So was the next, and the next. At this rate she’d be done in an hour. She glanced at the clock, and called out the door to Gorse. “Anything in the black box?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major. It came in late yesterday; Corporal Bannister locked it in.”

  “I should have asked about that first,” Morrison said. On an off day, like this, it didn’t matter as much, but she usually dealt with higher-level classifications first.

  The black box required thumbprints and voiceprint. Morrison went through the usual routine; the box’s lock snapped open and she took out the single blue envelope. The box kept a record of every opening, the time every document was taken out and put back in. She went back in her office, locked it, turned on the DO NOT ENTER sign, pulled out the security cylinder, and turned it on. Instead of the usual blue light, a red light flashed repeatedly. “What the—” Morrison turned the cylinder off, unlocked the door, and opened it. “Molly, has anyone been in my office today?”

  “No, Sergeant Major. Not while I’ve been here. I did go down the hall about 0915. Major Pahora asked if you were here and you weren’t, and he said then he wanted me to take a box down to Dispatch. I was gone maybe ten minutes. I didn’t tarry anywhere.”

  Ten minutes. A good tech could easily place an illicit eye or ear in ten minutes. Several in fact. “Call Security,” Morrison said. “Tell them Sergeant Major Morrison has found a security breach in her office. In the m
eantime, I’ll replace this in the black box; I can’t read it until I know my office is clean.” Her office had been certified as a secured site for reading classified material, and this was the protocol.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major,” Molly looked pale. “I didn’t—I swear—”

  “I don’t blame you, Molly. I wasn’t here; you didn’t know if I’d even be in, and you were asked to run an errand. No harm, no foul. But someone slipped up. We leave it to the Security people. I’ll make a formal inquiry to General Visoni once I’m back in my office. Until Security clears it, and us, neither of us goes back in there.”

  Security arrived, a major Morrison had never met and two techs. “I’m Major Hong. What’s the problem, then?” he asked.

  Morrison explained. “So I had my clerk call Security and we’ve both been here, outside, since.”

  “Had you opened the envelope?”

  “No, sir. As per protocol, I brought it into my office, locked the door, and engaged the local scan. At the alarm, I vacated the office and told Corporal Gorse to call Security.”

  “When were you last in your office?”

  “Three—no, four days ago, before I left on assignment.”

  “And what was that assignment?”

  “Sir, that assignment was classified and I cannot discuss it here.”

  “I see. Who was commanding?”

  “Colonel Asimin Nedari, sir. It was a Joint Services mission.”

  “Do you know if he’s on base?”

  “No, sir. We got back late yesterday afternoon, and I left right away to pick up my dog from boarding and do some grocery shopping.”

  “So you didn’t stop by the office here?”

  “No, sir.”

  He looked through the open door. “Is that your debugger on the desk?”

  “Yes, sir. I turned it off when it signaled a breach.”

  “Good. What level of security was the document?”

  “Level Two.”

  “Umm. Well, we need to find you a secure place to read it. Unless you’re sure it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “It’s most likely one of two things, sir. A copy of the committee report to be filed in this office’s safe, or a copy of some courts-martial reports I’ve been expecting from Dorland. Neither would be urgent. Of course I won’t know for sure until I read it.”