Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

The ops team was out the door in a blur of speed, Ky and Rafe right behind them. They had the back door of the target unlocked before Ky reached it, and both attendants were down before they had time to return fire. Philo boosted Ky into the truck body. And there they were, five float chairs facing forward, five bald heads showing. Pockets on the back of each held a folder. Ky looked into the face of the rearmost, pulling out the folder. Gossin. Eyes opened, widened. “Admiral?”

  —

  When the truck finally started up, the two attendants sitting side by side eating something, it moved into heavier traffic for a while and then turned onto another, quieter road. Gossin dozed off and woke to voices both inside the truck and outside.

  “Why are we stopped?”

  “A traffic jam.”

  “Here? I thought all this was farm country.”

  “Driver says there’s a bunch of cattle in the road—no way around it; there’s a dozen vehicles ahead of us, at least one behind us.”

  Gossin heard a faint metallic sound from behind—perhaps a cooling grille on the truck behind them—then a hiss and a pop.

  “What—?” from one of the attendants.

  The door swung open; light and fresh air poured into the cargo space. Both attendants were up now, grabbing for something—and the soft phup-phup of a silenced weapon took them both down. Gossin felt the strap holding her to the headrest loosen; hands unfastened the straps on her arms, and someone knelt beside her, freeing her legs. She looked down into the familiar face of Admiral Vatta.

  “Can you walk?” Vatta asked.

  “M-maybe.” Gossin felt light-headed, almost faint, with relief.

  “Here—” Vatta signaled someone behind her and moved to the next float chair. “First one, quick.”

  Men she didn’t know lifted her out of the chair and down off the back of the truck. She felt pavement through the thin fabric slippers but managed to hobble to the much larger truck behind them. She felt a steadying hand on her arm, and then a lift through the side door of that truck. This time she recognized the face—Corporal Inyatta, her hair now dark fuzz instead of the neat braid she remembered. “Staff Sergeant,” Inyatta said. “Let me help you.” Full-sized couches had been fastened to the bed of the cargo space here. Inyatta eased her down onto the soft cushions, then brought a stack of clothes. “You can start changing if you want. They may not fit exactly.”

  Uniforms. A uniform that was almost her size, just a little big, with the proper patches for her grade, her former unit. She looked around; in the back corner of this truck were two enclosed spaces like tiny closets. Even as she picked up the clothes and stood, Chok was hoisted through the door, and with two helpers walked back to another couch.

  The closet contained a toilet, a sink, a stack of washcloths and towels. Gossin felt tears on her face; she stripped, took off the hated diaper, cleaned up, used the toilet, and dressed. Proper underwear. Real shoes. A uniform jacket. She was breathless by the time she’d walked back to the couch, where someone in a medic’s tunic was giving one of the two other people on it—McLenard and Kurin, Gossin saw—an injection. On a different couch, Chok sat blinking, brow furrowed. Then he shook his head.

  The medic looked up at Gossin. “Antidote for the sedative load. You’re looking pretty good; try this pill instead.” He handed her a pill and a paper cup of water.

  Gossin wanted to ask questions, but he was busy. Inyatta, at the front of the truck, was helping another—Cosper, she saw, the last of the five—to the third couch.

  “You’re probably hungry,” the medic said. “There’s food in the cooler behind that couch.”

  Gossin’s stomach rumbled. She remembered her grandmother telling her that those exercises might make her hungry. But now others were entering the truck—none of them in military uniform. Finally Admiral Vatta, who closed the side door and looked around, her expression as grim as when she had killed Master Sergeant Marek. Then she saw Gossin looking at her, and her expression softened. She moved to the center of the truck and spoke to the medic. “How is everyone?”

  “One alert; haven’t done the mental status exam yet. The others in various states of sedation. What’s our status overall?”

  “Page nine, line seventeen.”

  The medic laughed. Horns started honking. “Clear?”

  “Just about.” Vatta turned away from the medic and came to Gossin. “You might want to sit down; we’re going to move.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gossin said, automatically, though Vatta wasn’t in uniform. She sat at the end of the nearest couch; Vatta sat down as well. “What—how did you do it?”

  “We haven’t done it yet, Staff Sergeant,” Vatta said. “Not until you’re all free and able to testify in court. But in the meantime, have you eaten yet? The antidote lowers your blood sugar.”

  “No, sir—”

  “Well, I’m hungry and you will be. Hang on.”

  The truck lurched forward and to the left; Gossin grabbed the couch arm, and Vatta put a hand on Gossin’s shoulder, then moved quickly around the couch. “Hot or cold?” Vatta asked.

  “Anything, sir.”

  A wrapped sandwich sailed over the back of the couch and landed beside her. Gossin unwrapped it and bit down. More flavors than she’d had since Miksland flooded her mouth; she ate rapidly until it was gone. Vatta handed her a hot-mug. “The medic said no caffeine after the antidote; that’s cocoa. I told him chocolate’s also got a stimulant and he said it’s not the same. Hope he’s right.”

  The truck was picking up speed now and then swerved—but less jerkily—to the right.

  “Where are we going?” Gossin asked.

  “To the nearest town, a warehouse where you’ll transfer to another truck that’ll take you to the airport. Then you’ll fly directly to Port Major and then to the Joint Services Headquarters.”

  “All of us?”

  “All of you. Not me. I’ll be circling around trying to pull a similar trick on the next transport.”

  “What about the truck we were in?”

  “Well…it’s going to be towed to the next nearest town, where law enforcement will discover the driver is dead drunk, there are two dead people with no ID in the back, and the logo on the truck is a fake. That will keep them busy for a while. Especially since the tow truck will take the long way around Swallowtail Lake to get to Fordham.”

  Gossin nodded. “How long has it been?”

  “Since we left Miksland? Four tendays. Longer than it should have been,” Ky said. “I didn’t know about this—that you’d all been drugged and confined—until Barash, Inyatta, and Kamat showed up at the Vatta city house. Neither did the Rector. I was mired in legal matters when I got back to Port Major, first with stuff related to a family business matter, and then with citizenship challenges.”

  Gossin felt her jaw drop. “You got caught in the new citizen and immigration law?”

  “Yup. Never heard of it, family never thought to mention it. We all thought since I was born here, I was good for life. My cousin and I both had to reapply.”

  “But you—”

  Vatta shook her head. “Even so. Immigration came knocking on my aunt’s door, ready to cart me off to prison. I’d been on the planet for over a half year and never turned myself in.”

  Gossin couldn’t help laughing. “You were stuck in a lifeboat and then on Miksland—like the rest of us.”

  “Yes. And finally that was accepted and I now have a court date for a final determination and the Citizens’ Oath.” Vatta stood up. “I need to check on the others. Another sandwich?”

  The truck was moving smoothly; Gossin levered herself up, glad that she could. “I can get it—and if there’s anything I can do—”

  “Eat first.”

  Gossin retrieved a sandwich. Vatta was up in the front of the truck, talking to a man in an unmarked jumpsuit. She looked around. Kurin was awake now, sipping something from a mug and looking around. Chok came out of the makeshift bathroom, and Corporal Barash was there t
o offer support to a couch. Then Barash moved to McLenard, his eyes now open, but bleary, and spoke to him. With her help, he stood up and she guided him toward the bathroom. A well-run operation, as she’d have expected from Vatta.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DAY 10

  By the time they reached Weekes City, all the Miksland survivors were awake and able to move around independently.

  “Admiral,” Staff Sergeant Gossin said. “We could be a help with the next rescue—we’re up to it, at least most of us.”

  “Staff Sergeant, I appreciate your willingness, all of you. But we need your testimony; you’ll have recorders on the plane, and Sergeant Major Morrison will help you get it all down. We’re on a very tight schedule; we’ve got to have you all back in Port Major, in uniform, before a board that’s being convened to decide your fate. We can’t risk any of you on the subsequent retrievals.” She could see the resistance in Gossin’s face. “I know you want to help. I know you’ve been mistreated and you want to get back at them. But this mess is going to shake up everything—not just the military, but the government as well.”

  “Yes…I see. But I don’t like it.”

  “Understood.” Ky turned to Rafe. “I’ll be back in a few.” To Gossin she said, “Let’s get the group together back here. Everyone should hear this.”

  The five just rescued and Inyatta from the first group gathered around Ky on the rearmost couch. She gave them a précis of what had been going on. “So, we have a list of names we know are implicated in concealing the existence of the base on Miksland. Some of them are high up in the government, some are high up in the business community. We think, but are not sure, that some of the same people were working with my distant and exiled cousin Osman—who’s now dead—and with Gammis Turek. We know that’s not all of them. But anything I say will be tainted because my family were all killed, and anything the Rector says will be tainted in much the same way.” She was not about to drag in Aunt Grace’s dirty past at this point.

  “You people,” she said, “are different. You’re the innocents dropped into a situation you knew nothing about, had no connection to, and then you were abused afterward. Your testimony will have more weight than mine. Your physical condition and the medical records we grabbed—yes, they sent them along, in hardcopy, for which I’m grateful—will prove that your experiences really happened. And that’s going to be in the public record. So we need to get that recorded, with both Sergeant Major Morrison, whose reputation is impeccable, and two lawyers standing by. For the fourteen of you, that’s a lot of hours of recording, and the sooner it’s started, the better.”

  Heads nodded. Ky could tell that resistance to being sent away had vanished. “Eat and drink as much as you want while you’re here. The trip from the warehouse to the airport in Weekes City will be only about fifteen to twenty minutes. The flight to Port Major will be about four hours—”

  “What about the others? Will they have to wait until that plane comes back? That’s more than eight hours—”

  “No. We have other aircraft assigned, and alternative routes by road or train if needed.”

  Gossin’s brow furrowed. “This is really that big—as big as getting us off Miksland, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much,” Ky said. “And we’ve had to do it all with local resources. Couldn’t grab a handy merc company. But then we’re not up against another merc company, just a disloyal faction of Slotter Key’s own military, some criminals, and a huge amount of money.”

  “We’re glad you did it,” Gossin said.

  “Had to,” Ky said. “And I had a lot of help.”

  The truck slowed; they could hear more traffic noises outside. “Coming into Weekes City,” Ky said. “You’ll be changing trucks soon. There’ll be a couple of armed guards with you on the way to the airport.”

  Once in the warehouse, Ky stood by the door as the former prisoners—still bald of course, but looking more themselves in uniform—stepped down from the truck. She shook hands with each of them as they left and watched them walk across to the next truck. Then she went into the warehouse office to check on the progress of the whole mission. Three to go.

  “That went well,” Rafe said as the truck left the warehouse in Weekes City. “Let’s hope the rest are as easy.”

  “Can’t count on that,” Ky said.

  “I’m not. Just hoping. Are we on schedule?”

  “Close. Rodney says the next transport stopped for an unscheduled half hour so we need to dodge about a bit. We should pick them up on 47; there’s a truck stop we can use.” Ky yawned. “I can’t relax until they’re all safe.”

  “You should go back with these on the plane,” Rafe said. “It will give them confidence. Besides, you’re tired; you hardly slept at all last night. We can handle it.”

  “I’ll nap after we drop these off,” Ky said. “I need to be here, and Morrison’s on the plane. I’ll go with the last load.”

  “If it’s going to unravel, the last load is the most likely to be trouble. By then they’ll know the first load and maybe the second are late, and they won’t be able to raise them.”

  “Which is why I should be there with it,” Ky said. “You can go back if you want.”

  “Not without you.”

  “And I won’t leave the op until it’s over,” Ky said. “So keep track of your rounds.”

  “Have you reloaded?”

  “Of course.” Ky patted her own pistol, then tapped the military one slung on her shoulder. “Both.”

  “Let me take point next time.”

  “I can’t. Rafe, you’re used to working alone. I know you’re a crack shot. I know you won’t hesitate. But you’re not used to working in a team, and these people haven’t worked with you.”

  “Or you, except those on Miksland.”

  “I trained here. Less than sixty days shy of being the honor graduate, Rafe. I move the way they’re used to, when I’m on the ground.”

  —

  Stella Vatta, in the Routing Center of Vatta Transport’s Port Major headquarters, watched screens depicting the location of every Vatta Transport vehicle on the continent. Trucks, vans, aircraft, railcars, the little drones that carried light packages from warehouse to destination—a screen for each type, and a huge wall panel that combined them. On her own handcomp, Rodney was transmitting from the Weekes City warehouse, and she could also see where the prisoner transports were, if his algorithm was correct.

  “Ansible ping, Sera Vatta.”

  She left the center momentarily to step into a secured ansible booth and entered the code. No image, but Ky’s voice. “One down.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “Fine. Clemmander group cleared and reported aboard final transport.”

  Final transport sounded ominous to Stella but she knew what it meant.

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  The connection closed; Stella went back out into the Routing Center. On the aircraft screen, the icon labeled 57E—eastbound flight 57—had left Weekes City and was moving toward Port Major. On the ground transport screen, icons with Vatta codes moved as they would on any weekday. The truck that had just made a delivery to Weekes City was now on the road to Green Valley.

  And the truck she knew held three of the prisoners had left the truck stop and was moving east; it would reach the junction with the secondary road only a minute before the truck Ky was in, if the schedules held.

  COMMANDANT’S OFFICE

  “They’re late,” the voice on the phone said. Commandant Kvannis said nothing. “The first transport. They called in to say they were held up by a herd of cattle in the road—traffic stopped on both sides, local volunteer emergency service trying to get them back into the pasture, but they never called to say the road was cleared. I checked with that shire; the road’s been clear for an hour, so they should have been here.”

  “Did you check satellite data?”

  “Yes. The truck’s not on the road
anywhere. There’s a branch about five kilometers from there; they might’ve taken the road to Weekes City, but surely they’d call.”

  Kvannis’s stomach clenched. “What other vehicles were also stopped? Both directions?”

  “I don’t know. The satellite showed the blockage all right, but only fifty-five seconds of it.”

  “I’ll put our people on it.”

  Kvannis stared a moment at his desk, thinking. Missing truck meant missing personnel, meant—worst case—that five more of the personnel from Miksland might contact—might already have contacted—other people. They would be at least partially disabled; they were supposed to be moderately sedated. But if someone picked them up, took them to a hospital—well, he could put someone on that. He called General Mirabeau, the Spaceforce Surgeon General.

  “Why would I contact civilian hospitals in Weekes County, Commandant?”

  “Personnel in quarantine have gone missing. Some kind person might find them and take them to a hospital and we need them picked up and sent to the proper military facility.”

  “Quarantined? For what?”

  “It’s—” How could he say this? Mirabeau was one of the previous Commandant’s friends, and definitely not in the know, but he was someone whose rank and title would carry weight with any provincial county hospital. “It’s something the ground forces have tried to keep quiet, General. Highly classified, moderately contagious, caused mental degeneration.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, I’ll contact them.”

  “Tell them the military will send a secure transport and to keep the patients isolated and sedated.”

  “Right.”

  That took care of one potential problem. But—what had actually happened? What if the cattle had been a planned roadblock, so that someone could take them? But how? His skullphone pinged again.

  “Commandant, I have a result on that satellite analysis you asked for. Do you want to come down or do you want a summary?”

  “Summary first.”

  “Yes, sir. Seventeen vehicles were held up by approximately sixty cattle owned by Rock House Cattle Company. Someone came along last night, cut the fence, stole some stock that were in a pen waiting for a vet check before going to auction, and the other cattle in that field got out onto the road. The local emergency response service was there, along with ranch workers, but it took at least forty minutes to clear the cattle and get traffic moving again. All the vehicles were known to the emergency response team…a school bus transporting half-day students, ten private vehicles headed one way or the other, owned by residents in the area, a van owned by a large-animal veterinarian, a horse transport from Highfields Stud, a freight delivery truck—known in the area, comes that way daily—a furniture truck from Weekes City with an order of a living room suite and two beds, with mattresses, for a farmhouse recently purchased by a retired banker and his wife. Then a milk truck picking up milk from the three dairy farms. The only one not known to locals was a green truck with a yellow logo, that’s your target truck, right?”