Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

  “You need to call a Council meeting and have me explain it to them, then start proceedings to determine the correct legal actions,” Grace said.

  “So who would you recommend as your replacement?”

  “I can’t make any recommendation. It would taint the process. If I’m ineligible to serve, then I’m ineligible to advise, as well.”

  “I can’t—I can’t make a decision now,” Saranife said. “And I don’t want changes in the administration with a possible crisis coming. What if they just kill you?”

  “Then I’ll be dead,” Grace said. She could not resist the temptation to poke the woman again. “You do realize, don’t you, that everyone does die? Of something? I’m going to die; you’re going to die; everyone dies.”

  The President actually shivered, visibly. Well, she was only forty-seven, and her children were still in school. Grace softened her voice. “It’s been the human condition since long before we left Old Earth. And keep in mind that it doesn’t bother me. Hasn’t for a long time. So even if the court decrees an execution, I won’t be making a spectacle about it.”

  “Do you have any feelings? Anything you enjoy, that you’d miss?” Saranife was looking at her again. “A reason to stay alive?”

  She had not expected that. But then, people still surprised her, and she knew she surprised them. “Yes,” she said, making sure her voice softened. “I love my relatives. The twins—well, they’re at one of the difficult ages right now, but they’ll grow out of it, if assassins don’t get them. I’m fond of my friends. I like cooking, the process of it. I used to like gardening—the colors of flowers and leaves, the fragrance of soil and healthy plants—but these days my knees hurt.”

  “So if you hadn’t accepted my predecessor’s invitation, you’d be perfectly safe enjoying your family, cooking, gardening—it’s not your fault, dammit!”

  “True. But now that I know, continuing on a course that will inevitably harm my family and my planet would be my fault. And your letting me do so, now that you know, will be your fault. Don’t wait too long to make your decision. Let’s limit the harm as much as we can.” Grace stood up without a dismissal and walked toward the door.

  “Grace.” The tone of the President’s voice made her turn around. “I promise you I will do my best to make the right decision at the right time. For everyone.”

  Grace bowed, her mismatched hands together. “Thank you,” she said. “I will await your word.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DAY 12

  Grace arrived at the Joint Services Headquarters base still thinking about the implications of her own history. Arriving as Rector of Defense for a press conference, with a security escort to protect her from danger, not others from her, was a stark contrast with her first sight of the place as a prisoner in chains. It had been hot that day, humid, with thunderclouds looming.

  Now a few snowflakes danced in the air, but none survived on the ground and the flurry dissipated quickly. Her little cavalcade passed quickly through the gates, driving past the various buildings and parking lots to deliver her directly to the base hospital where the survivors were being treated and reunited with their families. Grace made her way in with her two guards to find an official reception committee inside the foyer: the base commander, General Molosay, the hospital commander, Colonel Byers, and Sergeant Major Morrison. Grace shook hands with them all.

  “The survivors are doing better this morning,” Byers said. “All but two are ambulatory, and having their families has eased the burden on our staff as well as raising their morale.”

  “Good,” Grace said. “Do we have time for me to meet them before the press conference?”

  “Yes, Rector,” General Molosay said, giving Byers a sharp look. “If you’ll come this way—”

  This way meant into an elevator to the fifth floor, given over for the moment to the survivors and their families. The noise when the elevator doors opened included not just a crowd of adults, but children down to toddler size as well. The survivors, in casual clothes, were notable only for being bald, though many of them wore a hospital robe over their clothes. A cluster of family members surrounded each one.

  Colonel Byers took Grace first to the two who had been injured in the rescue. “Gunshot wound to the leg,” he said of Ennisay as he led Grace down the hall. “He’s still too affected by the drugs to tank him for the leg, but he’s much better today.” He pushed the door wide, and said, “Here’s the Rector of Defense come to check on you, Ennisay.”

  He looked even younger than he was, and his mother, sitting beside him, glared at Grace like an angry hen. “You!” she said. “You let this happen to him.”

  “No,” Ennisay said, his voice just audible. “Not the Rector, Mama. It’s her and the admiral who got me out.”

  His mother huffed, arms crossed. “I want him home for good,” she said. “None of your nonsense about regulations and service commitment.”

  “Mama!”

  “We want to get his leg fixed, Sera Ennisay,” Colonel Byers said to her. “Time enough after that for him to make a decision.”

  “Half a year with no word at all and then nothing for four tendays after he’s supposed to be home—!”

  “Mama!”

  “Sera Ennisay,” Grace said, stepping forward. “I do understand—it’s been a terrible time for you and your son’s family. And you’re welcome to stay here with him until he’s recovered completely.”

  Sera Ennisay looked at her, and her face softened. “You—you have children—grandchildren—”

  “No, I couldn’t have children—but I have nieces and nephews I loved as my own, and their children are like my own grandchildren.” Not entirely true, but not entirely false, either. She had taken the entire Vatta family as hers, after the disaster, and Shar and Justin definitely thought of her as a grandmother type. “It’s always hard when you don’t know where they are, if they’re all right.”

  “Then you do know.” Sera Ennisay burst into tears and came forward, reaching for Grace’s hands. “Thank you! Thank you for bringing him home!”

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” Grace said, giving the other woman’s hands a strong squeeze, then releasing them. “And I’m sorry I must leave you now, and see the others.”

  “Oh—oh, of course, I’m sorry—”

  “Just stay here and cheer him up,” Grace said, turning toward the door. A stupid thing to say to the woman, but maybe she’d stop crying and actually smile at the boy.

  Next was Lakhani, who’d suffered a broken arm and a strained back in the melee that occurred during the third group rescue attempt. He, too, had family in the room: father, mother, and two brothers. They were undemonstrative people, taciturn but not unfriendly. “I brought a fruitcake,” Sera Lakhani said. “His favorite. There’s a little left.” She pushed a small piece onto a place and offered it to Grace with a fork.

  “Thank you,” Grace said. “Is it your own recipe? I make fruitcake, too, and I’m always looking for new recipes.”

  “Not really. I got it off the package of dried fruits years ago, when he was little.” Sera Lakhani pointed her own fork at Corporal Lakhani. “But since our orchard’s grown up, we dry some of our own fruit. I think it’s mostly the same.”

  “Tastes the same,” Lakhani said.

  “It’s very good,” Grace said after an exploratory nibble. “Is that—just a hint of cocoa powder in it?”

  Sera Lakhani beamed. “It is, indeed. And no, it wasn’t in the original recipe. And we use our own honey for the sweetener. Citrus honey.”

  “I will have to try that,” Grace said. “Corporal, I wish you a swift recovery.”

  “Thank you, Rector,” Lakhani said. “They told me they’ll tank me to heal faster after the press conference.” He paused. “Is the admiral coming today?”

  “I think not,” Grace said. “She was asked to take over the Academy as Commandant after Kvannis fled.”

  “Good,” Lakhani said. “She’
ll be good at that.”

  The rest of the survivors and their families were milling about, going from room to room, stopping to exchange stories in doorways, blocking traffic. Families introduced themselves to other families. It was chaotic, but Colonel Byers led her from one to another of the survivors and helped her extricate herself from the family members. She had met almost all of them when the elevator doors opened again and General Molosay’s aide came up to her. “Rector, the general’s asking everyone to get ready for the press conference. The media vans are here.”

  “Where exactly will we be?”

  “In the lecture hall downstairs; there’s room for all the ambulatory survivors on the stage, and for families to be seated. Hookups for all the equipment, as well.”

  —

  Ky Vatta finally had time to sit down in the Commandant’s office, the one she had last seen the day she’d been ordered to resign from the Academy. The carpet had changed, she noted; it had been a deep green and now it was blue, with a thin gold border. The office had three doors, not something she’d noticed back then. There was the one she’d come through before, opening onto the passage. She investigated the others: the one on the left as she entered opened into the Commandant’s secretary’s office. An older woman with short gray hair looked up from a desk and stood up. She wore a neat blue suit, not a uniform.

  “Commandant Vatta—I wasn’t sure you would be in today. Colonel Stornaki couldn’t tell me when I asked. I’m Sera Vonderlane. Perhaps you’d like to see the usual schedule? There are queries from some faculty and staff—and Commandant—er, former Commandant Kvannis—did not finish all the tasks he had said he would before he left.” Her singsong accent defined her origin, Hautvidor on Arland.

  Ky smiled. “Sera, I need a few hours just to settle in and familiarize myself with the layout of the offices here. If you could send an ordinary day’s schedule to my desk display, we can go over it later today. Do you have a direct link to my office in the residence?”

  “Yes, Commandant, certainly.”

  “Then if you could arrange items in order of urgency, and send the less urgent to the residence office, I’ll work on those after dinner tonight. Unless there are too many urgent ones.”

  “I have eleven red-flagged ones now, Commandant.”

  Ky repressed a sigh and stepped over to Vonderlane’s desk. “Let’s see them.”

  First up was the initial report from the night before of a disturbance in the second class. “That’s taken care of,” Ky said. “Those three”—calls from the Rector, General Molosay, and Public Affairs—“if they call me before I reach them, put the calls through. These four items I’ll need more background on; please send that to my desk display also, or if it’s classified, have the files ready. And the last three…I may need you to make courtesy calls and explain, but I’ll try to get through all of them.”

  Vonderlane’s expression brightened. “You don’t waste time, do you, Commandant?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Ky said. “And excuse me, now—I’m going to be walking around opening doors. For all I know something’s moved in the last eight years.”

  She went back across the Commandant’s office, reminding herself it was now hers, and opened the door on the other side. She found a small room that could clearly serve as a break room for the Commandant—it held a small cooler, low table, small sofa, and two upholstered chairs; a half bath opened off it. Its narrow window overlooked the front court and main gate.

  In the next half hour she found Stornaki’s office, the Communications office, the general Administration office where most of the clerical and accounting functions were carried out, and the Security office. She spoke briefly to everyone she saw, from Major Palnuss, the duty officer in Security, to Corporal Galyan, a file clerk coming down the passage from Admin with a rack of data cubes. Everyone knew she was aboard and in charge, and that, she hoped, would hold things steady until she really understood this assignment.

  One door opened into the Commandant’s private library, where she had sat that day, struggling to find the right words for her resignation. Where she had waited until Master Sergeant MacRobert came to escort her to the gate, and had spent part of that time looking at shelves of logbooks, fascinated.

  She looked, but did not find them on the shelf where they had been. Instead that shelf was filled with video racks full of entertainment titles. She could not imagine the Commandant of her day replacing those handwritten logbooks with entertainment.

  Finally she went back to the Commandant’s office, walked around the desk, and sat down. Here she was. Not just in the Commandant’s office, but in the Commandant’s chair, behind the Commandant’s broad empty desktop and a hastily manufactured nameplate in polished wood. Wearing a Commandant’s uniform, with the gold braid and insignia. And incidentally missing the press conference out at the base, at which all the rescued survivors would be on display and Aunt Grace would give a speech.

  This desk was not the same dark desktop she remembered; this one was a yellowish wood grained in gray. Had Kvannis brought in his own desk, or had the previous Commandant chosen a new one for some reason? She leaned over and looked at the dark-blue carpet. Yes…she could just see a faint depression where another piece of heavy furniture had been, not quite matching the footprint of this one.

  On the desk’s empty surface, the display plate almost reproduced the desk’s grain. Ky tapped it; the display shifted to a menu. She ran through it: her secretary’s grid for a daily schedule, now blank, the list of action items, a quick-call list, a faculty list, a staff list, a submenu of cadets arranged by class. She picked one off the cadet list at random, and found Arls Galonton’s complete record laid out for her perusal. Class (third year), his home (Fairmeadow, on Fulland) and family history, entry test scores, all complete to his performance on the midquarter exams (modestly above the mean).

  She went back to the quick-call list. Heads of departments, of course. Rector of Defense. Some names she didn’t recognize. And one she did: Quindlan. That family, involved in the destruction of Vatta’s previous headquarters and the deaths of all within it that day, connected—she was sure—to the Malines crime family. She had no idea how many Quindlans there were, or which Quindlan was the one Kvannis had on his quick-call list. Something to find out later.

  The shallow center drawer of the desk held a couple of erasers, rubber bands, paper clips, a stapler and a half-empty box of staples, a stylus for the desk’s screen, half a roll of mints. Well, Kvannis would’ve had time to clean this out. She was surprised that there was anything left. In the top drawer of the left-hand side, she found a box of notepaper embossed with the Academy’s name and logo, and the title COMMANDANT, and another box of envelopes. Behind them, shoved to the back of the drawer, was an empty pistol case similar to the one Greyhaus had left in his desk in Miksland and an empty metal box that reminded Ky of a cashbox. She sniffed it; it smelled of money.

  The drawer below held hanging files, most empty. The labels meant nothing to Ky—cryptic combinations of letters and numbers. She pulled out one of the few papers, part of a spreadsheet printout that looked like it might refer to financials, and put it back in its folder. She moved the files back and forth, to see what was under them. At the back of the drawer, someone had created a pocket; Ky fished in it and brought out a small orange envelope. Empty? No. A tiny key.

  Ky put the key on the desk and took another look at the bottom of the drawer. There was a discontinuity in the grain. She lifted out all the file folders and tapped, then looked at the front of the drawer. False bottom? Surely Kvannis would have emptied any secret compartments; if the key opened anything in this office, he’d have left it, but not the contents of the secret places. Or the key might be to some lockbox of his own, at his city home. She looked at the wall where the drilled-out safe gaped open. No way to tell now if this key would have opened it.

  She shrugged, put the key in her own pocket for later consideration, put the files back in the
drawer, and moved to the drawers on her right. The upper one held bound books, mostly of regulations. She was surprised: Kvannis had worked for the previous Commandant; surely he knew the relevant regulations by heart, or could have consulted them in the Commandant’s library. Manual of Courts-Martial, 13th Edition, looked as she remembered it from her classes, and so did Slotter Key Joint Services Training Standards, but On Conspiracy, Treason, and Sedition, though bound in the same gray cloth with black lettering on the cover…held sheets with lists of names and places, contact numbers, and timetables.

  Ky stared at it. Why had Kvannis left that here? Had he thought someone else would clear it away? Was this a copy left behind for someone who would collect it? She closed the cover, moved it to the shallow middle drawer, and moved the books to see what was underneath. As she did, a knock came at the door, and immediately the door opened.

  “Commandant, excuse me—” It was Colonel Stornaki. “I was just wondering—” His gaze wandered across the desk to the open drawer. Ky saw the momentary check, heard the hesitation in his voice, then the renewed pace as he went on, “if you knew where Master Sergeant MacRobert was.”

  “I’m not certain,” Ky said, “but he may have gone out to the base with the Rector.”

  “Oh. Well, he had certain files; I wonder if he put them in the—in your—in that desk.”

  “I doubt he would, Colonel,” Ky said. “If they were files he knew you needed, he would leave them in your office, don’t you think?”

  “He may not have known,” Stornaki said. He could not keep his eyes away for long from that open drawer. “Were you looking for something yourself, Commandant? Perhaps I could help.”

  “Perhaps you could,” Ky said. “If I knew exactly what I was looking for. Mostly I just wanted to know where things were—markers, stylus, paper, clips, and file folders. I still wonder why Kvannis fled in such haste—”

  “I still think it may have been an abduction.”