Engaging the Enemy (3 page)

Rafe grimaced. “My core loyalties, at the moment, are highly tangled. I should be most loyal to ISC, yes. But it was our captain here who saved me from a situation in which honor would have required suicide.” He swirled a little cleanser into the bowl and mug, and rinsed them. “Thus I have a certain point to my loyalty to the captain, which frankly is giving me a bit of a headache.”

“I can imagine,” Martin said.

“I doubt it,” Rafe said. Ky grinned to herself. Part of that headache had been literal: Rafe found out the hard way that she wasn't much like her cousin Stella when it came to advances. If the rest of the crew knew that she had dumped Rafe on his back for making a move on her, they were all pretending the incident hadn't happened. “There are…other considerations.” The look he gave Ky had the force of a blow.

“For the present,” Ky said to Martin, “Rafe is part of the equation. We have determined that our interests run together, since both Vatta and the ISC have been attacked, presumably by the same organization.” Then to Rafe, “Have you had any success digging into Osman's files?”

Rafe grimaced. “The man has the best security I've ever seen outside of ISC research labs, and maybe better than that. I'm working on it. So far I've managed not to let the database destroy itself as I sneak in, but that's about it. I have found some interesting references—already forwarded to your desk, Captain. I'm not sure what they mean, but I thought you'd want to look at them.”

“Definitely,” Ky said. “But I've been shuffling numbers for two hours. I need some exercise before I work my brain any more. I was planning to spend an hour or so in the gym.”

“Want to spar with me?” Rafe asked, with just the slightest edge to it. Martin stirred but said nothing.

“Fine,” Ky said. “You probably have tricks I don't know…” She kept her voice light, but his eyelids flickered. He knew and she knew. She had surprised him that time; she wouldn't surprise him again.

Ky ran through some simple warm-ups and stretches, noticing that Rafe had his own set, not quite the same as hers. Then they spread one of the mat sets and took opposite sides.

“Half speed,” Rafe suggested.

Ky nodded. Her heart thudded; she had always liked hand-to-hand practice and found it hard to go less than full-out, but she had not done this in…too long. Rafe's loose-limbed crouch seemed too casual, but she knew it was not. She settled a little more. He had height and reach on her—

He was moving, a smooth glide, deceptively slow. Ky shifted in time with his movement, meeting his strike with a hand placed to deflect then strike on rebound. His foot slid out to hook her ankle…she had moved, forcing herself to the same slow rate…and for several minutes they ran through a series of attacks and counters, all in slow motion. Ky realized quickly that he was a cunning fighter; his attacks were always multiple, coordinated. She could not react instinctively with the obvious, simple counter without putting herself in the path of the next attack. Her own attacks were complex, too, but she had not gone past combinations of three, and Rafe handled these easily.

“You're quite good,” Rafe said, slipping one of her kicks past his hip. “I think I have the edge technically, but you may be faster and that would negate it—” The next kick caught him as he was moving back. “I suppose I don't need to be too ashamed that you got me last time.”

“Only ashamed that you tried it,” Ky suggested, ducking and weaving to avoid his next series.

“I still think you were lying to the mercs,” Rafe said. “You don't really think I'm that repulsive.”

“Repulsive, no,” Ky said. “You're good looking, in a—” She tried a flurry of strikes, unsuccessfully. “—a certain style of looks.”

“Faint praise,” Rafe said. His next kick was slow, obvious; Ky shifted sideways and did not take the invitation. “And, damn it, you're too smart. That usually works. Break, please.” He backed away to one side of the mat; Ky moved to the other. “I need to talk to you, seriously,” he said. “This takes too much concentration. Can we do something else?”

“Sparring was your idea,” Ky said. “I'd just as soon try out one of these machines.”

“Good. It's about the internal—”

“Ansible,” Ky interrupted. “Of course. Let me make it clear. I didn't want it, and now I've got it I don't intend to use it, or tell anyone about it. Is there any way to remove it?”

“Not that I know of. For your own safety, it's important that no one know you have it.”

“They won't, unless you tell them,” Ky said.

He shook his head. “But if someone finds out, they may try to get at it, or make it work. I was told it would be fatal.”

T
hey were back in her office, and she was about to open the cargo inventory list again when Rafe asked, “Are you going to try a salvage claim? Or just go for a share of value?” For once, his voice had no edge.

“It's a Vatta ship,” Ky said. “I'm claiming it as stolen property; shouldn't need to go through the court at all…”

Rafe pursed his lips. “You're not law enforcement; you don't have a right to just grab your own back.”

Space law, Ky recalled, had been more arcane and confusing than n-space theory. “I suppose it depends on which jurisdiction we land in…wonder if Osman has a law library in his database anywhere.” Her implant queried the ship database, then dug deeper into the relevant sections. Salvage wasn't an option: not with witnesses to the fact that
Fair Kaleen
hadn't been derelict or abandoned. Reclaiming stolen property…no, Rafe was right. Very few jurisdictions allowed that. In fact, the only legal standing she had was as privateer.

And she still hadn't told Rafe she had that letter of marque. If she stayed on that course, she'd have to tell him eventually, but in the meantime she had another person aboard she trusted more. “Excuse me,” she said to Rafe. “I really must get this done.” He raised his brows at her, but left quietly.

If she had been legitimate military, and Gordon Martin had been her senior NCO, she'd have known how lucky she was. Now she wondered if he'd be willing to stay with her once he found out.

Martin looked at her with a faint but definite smile. “Privateer, eh? Well, they picked a good one this time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shifted in his seat. “Ma'am, I did serve on a front-line vessel; we…knew unofficially, I guess you'd say, about the privateer program. Damned foolishness, I thought most of the time, though I'd like to have been assigned to one.”

“So you'll stay?”

“Until you throw me off, ma'am. It doesn't bother me. Privateers are official, just about; they do something that needs doing.”

“You do know that the government seems not to be happy with the Vatta family at the moment.”

He shrugged. “That's politics, Captain. It'll shift back; it always does. Your family's got a good reputation. And I know you.”

That took care of one problem, but she had a raft of others, legal and practical. Staying busy might keep her mind off those scenes the implant had made all too memorable. She wanted to go home; she wanted to go home now. Find the surviving members of her family, find out why Slotter Key had turned its back on them. She could not believe the government had caved in for Osman, of all people.

In the dark hours between midnight and dawn, the presidential palace was dark except for the duty rooms: communications, security. The President, in his comfortable bed, had finally fallen asleep; his wife, in the adjoining bedroom, snored loudly, but thick walls and doors muffled those annoying rasps and gurgles.

He woke to the sound of a comunit chime, his heart pounding. Who would call at this hour? No calls should have been passed through; his valet should have woken him…his hand was scrabbling on the bedside console when he realized that it was his internal unit, his skullphone.

“Look under your pillow,” a voice whispered. The line went dead.

Every hair on his body stood up; he was drenched in cold sweat. There could be nothing under his pillow—he always turned his pillows before he went to sleep—but he could not ignore that voice. He turned on the light and lifted his pillow.

The data chip, hardly larger than his thumbnail, gave him no clue. It was there, in that place where it could not be, a tiny, shiny, terrifying presence. He had a chip reader in his room, of course, but he felt a great reluctance to use it. What if this wasn't really a data chip, but something else, something explosive? What if it was toxic and had already poisoned him? The sweat trickling down his sides stank…surely he didn't smell that bad all the time.

When he looked around the room, nothing else was out of place. He heard no sound he should not hear, but his heart was pounding so loudly that he could not be sure.

He had to get hold of himself. He had to calm down and think. If he called in the security forces, they would wake up everyone, create a huge mess, and probably not find out anything useful. He knew who was behind this, whether it could be proven or not: Grace Vatta. The old hag was crazy; she'd been in a mental hospital at one time, and they should never have let her out. He just had to find a way to neutralize her.

Gracie Lane Vatta smiled to herself as she watched sweat trickle down the President's face, his ribs, his back. His security should have detected the tap into their own surveillance system years ago, but they hadn't. Now, would he put that chip in the reader, or not? Would he call his security squad? She had plans for each possibility, plans he would find as unsettling as the chip under his pillow. No doubt he would have plans, too, when he calmed down. She knew he was smart enough to suspect her, but she was confident that her plans were better than his plans. She'd had longer to work on them.

A telltale lit on her work board. With one eye on the screen showing the President, Gracie switched that channel to full recording and answered the call. “Found something,” a male voice said. Gracie ran the scan through her voice files and her mouth quirked. Master Sergeant MacRobert, Slotter Key Spaceforce Academy. Should she use his name and startle him?

“Identify, please,” she said.

“Spaceforce Academy,” he said. “I think you know who I am and I'd rather not have my name used. I hear you're looking into the late unpleasantness. In detail.”

“Yes.”

“That Miznarii kid who got your youngster in trouble—”

She repressed a gasp. “Yes?”

“He had contact from someone who claimed to be a Vatta. Ever hear of someone named Osman?”

“Osman Vatta, yes.” She remembered Osman all too well. She'd tried to convince the Vatta higher-ups at the time to have him killed, but she was fresh out of the asylum and that had led to threats of having her recommitted. If Osman was involved, that explained a lot. Osman had known about the bunkers under corporate headquarters, for instance.

“He is a Vatta?” The voice—MacRobert, no doubt about it—sounded uncertain.

“Unfortunately, yes. A most unpleasant piece of work, and long since kicked out, but a Vatta. So Osman paid the student to get Ky in trouble?”

“What he said was that Osman was sympathetic to the Miznarii feelings about biomodification, and suggested that Ky, as a Vatta, would be more likely to help him get contact with a cleric so that he could tell his story.”

“What is he, stupid? The boy, I mean.”

“He's not the brightest cadet we've ever had, but not actually stupid. Inexperienced. Quite genuinely religious, the fervent kind. Osman also told him that Ky wouldn't get in trouble because she was a Vatta.”

“So it wasn't malicious on the boy's part?”

“Not against Ky, at least. He was shocked when she disappeared. He claimed she was the only person at the Academy who befriended him and was nice to him.”

“How'd you find this out?”

“He…er…didn't graduate.” MacRobert's voice was grim now. “No matter what was said, Ky was a popular cadet, and no one else was willing to put the time into this fellow she'd been tutoring. He was pretty much shunned. He…er…committed suicide.”

“After telling you all this?”

“No, after writing it all down, as a religious duty. Luckily I got hold of it before a Miznarii chaplain did. I…er…edited it a bit, but I made a copy. Thought you might want it.”

“What I want is some idea of why you're doing this,” Grace said. “I suspect you're committing several breaches of regulations—”

“Spaceforce didn't do its job,” MacRobert said. “Somebody got to somebody, and I want to know who and how. I think you're likelier to find out.”

“We should meet,” Grace said.

“No.”

She had expected that and had her answer ready. “We need to talk longer and more openly than we can over any com line, no matter how secure. Either you trust me or you don't.”

A long pause; then: “Why should I trust you?”

“For the same reason I should trust you,” Grace said. “We need each other; it would serve neither of us to harm the other. You care about Spaceforce—”

“And Slotter Key,” he said quickly.

“Fine. And so do I. Vatta and Slotter Key both.”

“You're on a no-contact list,” MacRobert said.

“So are you: Vatta was told not to contact anyone at Spaceforce Academy.” Grace said. “Your point is? We need to meet. Do you ever get leave?”

“In seventeen days,” he said. “Graduation's over, there's the cleanup period, then I get ten days before the new class arrives.”

“What sport?” Grace said.

“Sport?”

She let her irritation hiss out on her breath. “Pick a sport,” she said. “Something you do anyway.”

“Oh. Er…fishing. Up in the Samplin hills; I usually rent a cottage on one of the streams near Tera Lake.”

“Fine,” Grace said. “Just do that. I prefer dry flies.”

“I'm a wet-fly man myself,” he said.

“Well, then. Until.” She closed the connection.

On her visual, the President got up, went to the bathroom, came back with a glass of water, fumbled in a drawer, and unpeeled an orange pill. “Now that's a mistake,” Grace murmured to herself. “You're going to be drowsy in the morning…” He had left the chip under his pillow. Another mistake. If the drug made him forget it, and his house staff found it…she grinned, imagining the furor when Security got hold of it. She watched until he was clearly asleep, snoring, then played with the room's surveillance equipment, inserting a shadowy figure that moved to and from the President's bed from a closet. They'd find that on the daily review, and whoever was supposed to be monitoring the night shift would be in deep trouble.

Then she reviewed the rental records of holiday cottages on likely fishing streams near Tera Lake, and found that MacRobert had booked through Murrian Holiday Rentals for the past twelve years. In their records, his first preference was Greyfalls, second was Over-brook, and the third was Greentop. All were on Middle Run. He had a current reservation for Greyfalls; the other two were also reserved already. The nearest available property was Brookings Manor, “a working farm with sizable residence suitable for bed-and-breakfast accommodations. Includes fishing rights on Middle Run within walking distance. Available for seasonal or long-term lease, or purchase.” It wasn't a bad location at all, and it might serve displaced Vatta family members as an interim residence-headquarters.

After some haggling with the Larger Properties section of Murrian Real Estate, Grace arranged a year's lease in the name of Stavros' widow, who had—understandably—gone back to using her maiden name. A widow and her relatives retiring to a remote country estate would raise no eyebrows. Helen was presently living in one of the Stamarkos homes; that couldn't go on for too long anyway.

It was so satisfying when one action solved more than one problem. Grace stretched and let herself drop into sleep for a short nap. The one good thing about being old was that she didn't mind not sleeping through the night.