Where was Marek? Voices from the mess suggested that most of the others were eating breakfast. She had to hope he was there, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Marek watched the others eat their breakfast; his own bowl of porridge was untouched. He wasn’t hungry; his stomach was tight with anxiety. Why had Admiral Vatta been fumbling around in the darkened kitchen? Her story about a headache might be true, but he hadn’t found her in the clinic with a packet of pills—and she hadn’t been near the cooktop or the sink. What if she suspected something? What if she’d realized—but how?—that the power supply in her quarters had been sabotaged? If she had plugged in, she should be dead. He felt sweat gathering on him, a reaction he could not control.
“What’s the matter, Master Sergeant? Are you sick?” McLenard sounded genuinely concerned.
Marek shook his head. “No, just thinking. Don’t worry; I’m not going to waste food.” He had to eat. Others were watching him now. He had to act normal, as if nothing at all bothered him. Everything was fine. His stomach still felt tight, but he forced down a spoonful of porridge, then another. Surely he could finish a bowl of porridge. Each spoonful seemed to swell in his mouth, harder to swallow than the one before. He kept on, with no more interruptions, until his bowl was almost empty. When he looked up, the others were snatching hot sweet rolls off a tray; he got up quickly, took his bowl to the hatch for dirty dishes, and swiped out the remainder of his porridge with a rag, shaking it into the trash.
“You all right?” Kamat, one of the kitchen scrubs that day, peered through the hatch at him.
“Fine,” Marek said. “But I thought of something I need to do.” He made it to the closed stalls in sanitation and threw up tidily, then flushed it away, washed his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked as he felt, hollow-eyed, off color, sweating. No wonder they’d asked him if he was sick. Would a shower help? Would anything? He had hoped Admiral Vatta would plug in that abomination in her head and die instantly, painlessly, to be found the next day. She didn’t deserve to die, really; he admired her as much as any officer he’d served. She was smart, brave, and a good commander. She’d saved his life. Maybe he should have let go of that rescue ring, died that first day.
But his employers might have killed his family even though he was dead, because he had not kept strangers from the secret base. It was his fault they had made it to land, his fault they had left the beach, all of it his fault, they would say. So she had to die, but he’d hoped it would be quick and he wouldn’t have to see it.
All because she knew this place existed. Had been inside it. And would not keep its secret. Commander Bentik had seen her one night in the second hut, a power cable plugged into that abomination in her head, talking softly. She had already told someone where she was. Sometime in the next months she would open that next door—he wasn’t sure why she hadn’t already done it, except they’d been busy and he’d argued that it might be dangerous. She would find proof that this base was clandestine—she already suspected that. She would find the commander’s office, explore the desk, find the empty gun case… and all too easily figure out who might have taken it.
When warm weather came, when his employers came back with the seasonal crew, she would confront them—he knew that—and then they would kill everyone. The only way to save the others from his employers—the only way to keep them alive—to save his own family—was to ensure that they all agreed to keep the secret of this place’s existence, and limit the secrets they knew about. He swallowed hard against another rise of burning liquid. Perhaps she hadn’t found out about the power… but his gut was sure she had.
He had seen her talking to Commander Bentik on his way to the mess hall; neither of them looked happy. And he had not seen either when he hurried out, nauseated, after he ate. Bentik was on his side, he knew. She had accepted his comments about the admiral’s immaturity almost eagerly; she was someone of his generation and that meant… he was not sure what, with a Cascadian. But she had already been cold toward the admiral, critical of her command style, and she had warmed to his attention. Had she told Admiral Vatta about their conversations? That, he knew, would not go over well, if she had.
He washed his face again, took deep breaths. His color was coming back to normal, but he still looked far too troubled and grim, and his attempt at a smile looked clownish. He heard other toilets flushing, flushed his again, another handwash, and then out into the main room, where five people were brushing their teeth at the row of sinks. Without speaking to them he went to his own quarters and retrieved the pistol he’d taken from the armory and concealed under his mattress. Riyahn had known how to disable the palm lock, and he had a full clip in it. Now to find out where the admiral and her aide were.
The armory door was closed, as it should be. Ky tapped the code onto the pad. Jen stopped an arm’s length away as the door opened.
“What are you doing? Why do you want me in there?”
“Because it’s quiet and out of the way and the door locks from the inside as well as outside,” Ky said. “Come on.”
“You—you’re going to shoot me!”
Ky let contempt edge her voice. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. We have nowhere else in this complex as secure, and when officers have a disagreement they do not argue in front of enlisted. I know Cascadia has that rule as well.”
Jen reddened but came into the armory quickly. “It was rude to call me ridiculous.”
“Yes, it was.” Ky locked the door. “And it was rude for you to claim I was sleeping with Master Sergeant Marek. Tit for tat. I remind you again that you are on Slotter Key, not Cascadia Station.” Ky put an acoustic tab on the inside of the lock. If anyone tried to key in, she’d hear it. Jen, she saw, had moved to the other side of the room, back against the wall near the ammunition cabinets. Ky glanced around at the weapons racked behind transparent covers, organized by type. No gaps in the displays—but was that really all? Some weapons racks stored more than were apparent.
She pulled out her personal security set and scanned the room. Sure enough, there were pickups in three places; she reset the controls and hoped her set’s output was accurate in reporting that they had been scrambled.
Then she opened the nearest ammunition cabinet, shut and locked it, and opened the next. Jen stiffened and gasped. “Are you going to shoot—?”
“If I wanted to shoot you, I’d have done so already,” Ky said. “I have plenty of rounds for that. I’m checking inventory.”
“But nobody can use any of these—”
“So we were told. If I find a brick missing I’ll be fairly sure someone else is armed.”
Jen stared at her. “You think someone stole a weapon?”
“It’s possible. Did you?”
“Me? Why would I—I don’t even know how to use one.”
Ky shrugged. “When I first saw these open, there were thirteen bricks—cartons—of 10mm rounds in this cabinet. Seven cartons of solid slugs, three of flechettes, three with chemstun rounds. Now there are none. 10mm wasn’t a standard Slotter Key military caliber when I was in training here, and none of the weapons in these racks use that caliber ammunition. But I have a pistol that takes 10mm rounds, and Marek knows that. Someone took—or hid—the ammunition that fits my weapon. I need to know if I can trust you—so answer the question: did you take any ammunition out of any of these cabinets?”