Cold Welcome

by Elizabeth Moon

  “She wasn’t happy about using a Spaceforce shuttle.”

  “I’m sure Pordre wasn’t, either. As it happened, they were both right. But Pordre…I don’t think he’s one of the worshippers who think she’s beyond fault and a genius at everything—”

  MacRobert choked and covered it with a cough. Teague grinned, watching them all. Rafe ignored them and went on. “It’s healthier to be a little—not skeptical, I don’t think, but conservative—in his understanding of her.”

  “There’s no chance he wants her dead so he can take over?”

  “Pordre? No. He’s too junior. She’s been quite frank in discussing succession of command if anything should happen to her. The relevant governments, and the senior staff of the SDF, all made suggestions. She did consult me about that, because prior to Turek’s pirate consortium, the biggest fleet in this end of the galaxy had been ISC’s. She thought its organization was pretty good, despite the obvious problems; she didn’t want to invent a bad wheel to replace a broken one.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know who she picked. I do know she laid out what she thought the various systems should do—how to allocate patrol sectors and so on—and how the overall command structure should be set up. Her staff back at SDF headquarters would know the details. She might have told me if we’d ever gotten that vacation.”

  “I think he’s solid,” MacRobert said. He wiped his mouth and put his napkin down. “Like you, Rafe, I had no bad impressions of him.” He looked over at Grace. “What happened today? You’re strung tight.”

  “Troop reassignments and a dead body,” Grace said. “We assumed all along that the opposition was using Spaceforce personnel.”

  “Yes, they’re on the lists—”

  “Well, they’re not now. All the personnel originally assigned to the research facility have been reassigned to joint maneuvers with the Twenty-Third Recon as part of Vermillion Cloud, the annual training exercise at Boole, up north.”

  “But who—”

  “And the dead body is their erstwhile commander, Greyhaus.”

  “The same Greyhaus—”

  “That Ky reported about, yes. Collapsed suddenly during a briefing, attempt at resuscitation unsuccessful. His exec, Major Gallinos, took over, pending official change of command. And that’s all I know.”

  “You think—?” Teague spoke before anyone else got it out.

  “I think treachery through and through,” Grace said. “I can’t determine who switched Greyhaus’ unit’s orders. Mac, that’s your assignment tomorrow. Who is going to be on those planes heading for Miksland? Nobody seems to know that, either. Are they civilians? Criminals? A private army?”

  “How many?” Rafe asked.

  “Two hundred,” Grace said. “I rousted out Personnel, who first insisted they were the same unit number and somebody’d made a mistake, and then said they were a recruit unit on the usual three-week field exercise. But they couldn’t tell me which recruit unit, where from. You don’t like me upsetting troops, Mac, so you figure it out.”

  “We only have three enlisted recruit training bases,” Mac said. “It should be easy—but why would they send recruits to dig out the survivors? Unless they don’t expect any resistance.”

  “It’s Ky,” Rafe said. “They’ll expect it.”

  “It’s not recruits,” Mac said, frowning. “Recruits chatter; they don’t keep secrets reliably.”

  “How qualified were those they replaced? How experienced?” Rafe asked.

  “Well trained, but as I said before we haven’t had a serious problem in many decades—since I was young, in fact—and so they’ve never actually been in combat.”

  “They’ll want combat-experienced troops because they know Admiral Vatta has that experience,” Teague said. He leaned forward. “Where would they get combat-experienced troops?”

  “Mercs,” Rafe and Mac said simultaneously.

  “Or pirates,” Teague said. “Didn’t Turek have some ground-pounders? And we know not all the pirates were killed in the war. Enough ships escaped—”

  Mac looked at Teague, brows raised. “But why would anyone hire pirates? Especially pirates who’d lost a war?”

  “Because they’ve worked with them before,” Grace said. Her fist came down on the table. “I am a blind idiot not to have seen it. We never did find out who was behind the original attack here, on Slotter Key. That the President was complicit, yes, but not where the weapons came from, who planted the bombs under the old headquarters, or who pushed the button on that drone.”

  “You thought it was Osman, didn’t you?”

  “Osman,” Grace said, “had sons. And allies.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SLOTTER KEY, MIKSLAND

  DAY 204

  “Sir, someone’s tickled the communications.”

  “What?” Ky looked up from her own logbook.

  “Pulled data from meteorology. I didn’t interfere, but I have a capture on what they got. There’s a weather break in eighteen days, plus or minus four.”

  “We knew that was coming,” Ky said. “Tell Gossin and Kurin, we’re now on high alert. They’ll move as soon as it opens. So will the Rector, no doubt. We’ll move sooner. Start packing.” The miserable brain-dead machines still would not move. So they would have to walk. Because she was not going to let her people die in a hopeless trap. How far could they get in eighteen days? Farther than if they sat here wishing for miracles.

  CASCADIA STATION

  DAY 213

  Stella Vatta stared at the screen and hoped her thoughts were not in a balloon over her head. She was not a ball to be tossed back and forth on long, tiring voyages. She was Vatta’s CEO; she had a business—no, several—to run and she needed to be in one place, with her own staff and clean lines of communication to Vatta’s many locations and enterprises. This had better be the last trip request for a standard year.

  Yet she knew she would go, and even as she snarled inside, she pressed the signal for her personal assistant to come in. While imagining shaking her great-aunt Grace upside down to see what came out, she gave quiet, precise orders for what needed to be done while she was gone. One of Vatta’s two fast couriers was actually onstation, but the crew were resting. Stella wished for the luxury of an actual passenger ship, with a cabin bigger than a cell and some amenities to enjoy during the voyage—exercise space, a real bath, a massage service, meals in a proper dining space—but Grace’s message, transmitted via Ky’s flagship, had been specific: come at once, fastest means possible.

  Nothing about Ky. Had her body been found? What was going on? She had agreed to a blackout on the topic, just in case Ky had survived and there was a chance enemies were still on her trail, but not-knowing gnawed at Stella. She and Ky had finally resolved all their adolescent difficulties; they had a good working relationship, and now…she missed her more volatile cousin.

  She spent the next two standard hours working through the usual midweek tasks that rose to the CEO’s attention. Her PA reminded her that she had been scheduled to speak at the opening ceremonies of the new Vatta plant on Cascadia itself; she recorded the speech, which took another hour, and wrote personal notes to the new plant’s manager and the town arbiter regretting that she had been called away on business resulting from her cousin’s untimely disappearance or death—they supposed the latter, given the circumstances. Polite responses came within the next half hour.

  The crew should wake by 1500 local time. How long to prep the ship? Ginny Vatta, the pilot, usually kept her courier hot, refueling before she left it. So it was time to go to her own apartment, take that last luxurious bath, and be ready to leave when the crew was ready. Given the message Grace had told her to leave in Gin’s queue, that would be very fast.

  She was inhaling perfumed steam, up to her neck in hot water, when the alarm sounded, followed by a crackle from the speaker in the bathroom and the sound of a gasp. Seconds later, a crash as the locked door to her personal suite w
as breached. She was already out of the tub, feet shoved into nonskid hard-toed slippers, weapon retrieved, grabbing for her emergency armor, when she heard them in the next room. She had one arm through the vest; she shot into the bathroom door, the round opening a gap. Two steps aside, other arm through the vest, slapping the fastening in back, don’t breathe in case they use gas. Her mask was on the shelf behind her; she felt back with her left hand as two rounds came in, shattering on the tub wall. Don’t breathe. She felt the edge of a temporary mask sticking out of the box, snatched it, pressed it over her mouth and nose. One cautious breath…good, but not enough. The better mask was under the counter…why had she put it there? Without taking her eyes off the door, she crouched a little and fished around. There.

  A faint hissing from the door, and the door handle slid out, smoking slightly, to clang on the floor. Stella caught a glimpse of a weapon through the opening and fired through it—a spudder and a frangible. Curse words out there. She grabbed a fresh magazine from the stack on the counter, switched out the partially used one, fired a quick four shots—spudders and frangibles—then hauled the full-spec mask over her head and fastened it. Her skin was itching now—that other had been gas all right, and some might get to her bloodstream through her bare, still-wet skin.

  Silence from the outer room. She climbed up onto the counter, pushing the station emergency button as she did so. Then up the apparently decorative lattice that served as an escape ladder if she needed it.

  The door burst in before she could push up the ceiling panel and climb through. Two figures in full protective gear paused for a fatal instant. Two quick shots and they were both down. She really wanted to pause long enough to get more clothes on. She could see at least one body on the floor of her bedroom, and hear voices—but now familiar voices that identified themselves.

  And here she was, crouched on a ledge near the ceiling, and bare as an egg but for the vest and the gas mask. And her clothes on the far side of two dead bodies sprawled on the bathroom floor.

  “Sera Vatta! Are you here?”

  It was the security guard for this sector. Stella knew her voice. “I’m in the bathroom,” she said, loud enough to be heard. “I was in the tub. Be careful, there’s gas residue.”

  Though, with the door open, not as much. She might as well climb down. She did so, carefully, as the security personnel moved into her bedroom.

  “Do you need assistance, Sera?” came the sector guard’s familiar voice.

  “If you could bring a robe from my closet,” Stella said, in as calm a voice as she could manage, “I would be most grateful. I would have to step on the bodies and possibly contaminate the scene to get to my clothes in here.”

  “Of course, Sera.” A few soft sounds, then the woman put an arm through the door opening, one of Stella’s robes draped over it.

  Stella took it, set the gun convenient to her hand on a higher ledge, and shrugged into the robe, running her hand down the seal. Then she picked up the gun again, took the last step down, carefully not touching the tangle of legs on the floor—ignoring the churning in her stomach—and walked into the bedroom. Two more bodies lay there, one with a mangled hand as well as the fatal wound.

  “This is the weapon I used,” she said holding it out. “It is loaded and still has a round in the chamber. I presume you will confiscate it.”

  The guard lifted her helmet shield. “No, Sera. No need. You were attacked in a most discourteous way. They entered your private rooms uninvited, even into the bath suite. That would call for an execution if you had not already killed them.”

  Stella blinked. She was still not used to Cascadia’s cultural settings. She had not imagined that they would treat her killing four people so lightly, just because the men had been discourteous.

  “I am sorry, however, that they intruded at all. It is my fault that I allowed myself to be stunned—”

  “Are you all right?” Stella asked.

  “Yes, Sera. My relief was due; he found me and revived me, but they had already broken into your apartment. And you yourself are unhurt?”

  “Yes,” Stella said. “Though I’m afraid there’s much to be repaired.”

  “Please accept my sincere apologies for what happened,” the guard said.

  “Of course,” Stella said. She hoped that was the right thing to say. “I am sorry you were impaired, even momentarily, and I hold you blameless. The responsibility is theirs—” She glanced at the bodies.

  “My team will record the evidence, then remove the debris,” the guard said. “I am not certain that, this late in the day, we can arrange repairs—”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Stella said. “My office can make arrangements while I’m gone.”

  “You were leaving?”

  “Yes. I’ve been called back to Slotter Key urgently. My cousin, as you know, has been missing—”

  “Admiral Vatta!” The guard’s face took on an expression of avid admiration. “Is there news?”

  “All I know is that I am to return to Slotter Key as quickly and quietly as possible.” She looked around the room. “I have failed in the second requirement, that of discreet, quiet departure.”

  “I’m sure the most important thing is that you find out about Admiral Vatta,” the guard said.

  Stella repressed a sigh; it might be considered rude. But really—Ky was a hero, to be sure, but she herself had started businesses that brought in substantial benefits to Cascadia. And yet her value to them sometimes seemed to come primarily from being Ky’s cousin.

  “I cannot hold out much hope she is still alive,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Crashing into an icy sea, and no word all this time. Everyone says there’s no way she could have survived on a life raft, even if she survived the crash. And yet—I cannot give up completely.”

  “Of course not.” The guard shook her head. “Perhaps there is news they do not wish to spread abroad. Perhaps she is alive but impaired. No word has come from her flagship, either.”

  “Will it be a problem if I finish packing?” Stella said.

  “No, Sera. If you would like a little time to dress and pack, we can stand right outside the door.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Stella said. She wanted out of the sights and smells and mess of it all, and she wanted to call her office and her crew—they should be awake by now—and get an escort to the docks.

  “A half hour would not be too long,” the guard said, bowed politely, and left.

  Stella dressed, including her everyday body armor, picked up the always-packed duffel, and added lounge clothes for the trip itself, her makeup case, the gas mask, the gun, and IDs. She notified the office that her assistant would need to come, assess the damage, and arrange repairs. She learned that the crew was already aboard the courier, readying for the flight, and would contact her in the next few minutes. She checked what she had against the list in her implant, then stepped carefully back into the bathroom to pick up the box of quick-masks and the rest of the ammunition, including the half-spent magazine. As she walked toward the bedroom door, she checked herself in the mirror. Her face showed nothing of what had happened; nothing marred her appearance, her clothes, her small luggage. Aunt Grace would approve.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MIKSLAND

  DAY 215

  “When are you going to tell them this place wasn’t made by humans?” Staff Sergeant Kurin had piles of supplies stacked along the walls, supplies that—it was now obvious—could not be carried by the eighteen survivors. Eight days until they expected the enemy to arrive: eight days of water, eight days of food, plus weapons, ammunition for the weapons, and communications gear—they were fit, but not that fit.

  “When we’re not trying to evade an invasion force,” Ky said. She felt like kicking the nonexistent tires of the vehicles they were working on. Trying to work on. “Besides, it was modified by humans, right here on the planet, or it wouldn’t have been full of clothes for us to wear, food we can eat, and beds to
sleep in. And for all we know, the terraformers are human.”

  “This is not a human-designed machine.”

  “Unless the humans who designed it wanted to frustrate all who came after.”

  “It’s got to be driverless,” Inyatta said, sticking her head out from under one of the vehicles. “Some planets use them. One of my cousins tried to modify his father’s field unit so he could nap while plowing.”

  “How did that work?” Betange asked.

  “Not very well. He didn’t think about having it slow down before turning at the end of a row. But the thing is, they exist. We’ve all seen them in vids from the older worlds.”

  “There’s got to be some way of turning them on and programming them, then,” Ky said. “I don’t see any standard input slot.”

  “If they were made by another culture,” Inyatta said. Before anyone else could speak she put out a hand. “Wait—hear me out. As the Admiral’s said, we’ve seen things we don’t recognize at all. Not the new stuff—the old stuff, like those marks on the controls under the labels we can read. So if this was made earlier—by some culture that came before the colonists we know about, and then moved on—”

  “Why would they leave?”

  “I don’t know,” Inyatta said. She pushed herself the rest of the way out from under the vehicle. “But that’s not the point. The point is, if this—all the parts of this we don’t understand—was made by another culture, we have to recognize it could be very, very different.”

  Ky nodded. “That’s true…but if we’re not the same, can we use any of it, or is this a waste of time?”

  “I’m thinking of what I know about driverless things. Inventory robots. Delivery units. Some use a sort of electronic map in the vehicle; others use a guideline.”

  Ky remembered something she hadn’t seen in years, her first visit to Vatta’s semi-automated warehouse at Port Major. “So we need to know how to give these things a destination—but we have no idea what destinations are possible. There’s got to be a map and some kind of control surface somewhere.”