“Not really. Oh—I’m sure you noticed regular skullphones and other devices are now able to get a signal. Wasn’t us—the other side. I doubt any of that’s secure.”
“That’s why we’re not using them. I’ll be calling more often, but don’t worry if you don’t hear for a short time.”
“Ha.” A strong smell followed. End of call.
Grace settled herself to wait for Rafe’s report and had just closed her eyes for a restful nap when MacRobert came in looking grim.
“Something’s moving and I can’t get the details.”
Grace sat up and blinked. “Any clue at all?”
“Minimal. Pingat Islands Base requested some replacement parts for their Air-Sea Rescue craft. Those craft should’ve been inspected and any parts ordered last fall, before the weather closed in. A major I know in Requisitions told me it’s a huge order, big enough to require flying one of the big troop carriers down there. He questioned it; his boss questioned it; someone upstream told them to shut up and fill it, that if Pingats wanted all their supplies at the start of the flying season it would save fuel and time to send them on down instead of a flight every ten days.”
“Who upstairs?” Grace asked.
“No clear answer. I’ll keep digging. I tugged the list off the line,” MacRobert said. “And brought it to you without printing it because I’m not trusting very many people these days.” He handed the stick to her.
“What else?” Grace tucked the stick into her left pocket.
“Little things. Three deaths, one unreported for a long time on the grounds the body couldn’t be identified, all over on Fulland in one of the big server farms. That death occurred as the result of an explosion and fire in one of the smaller units, and the investigation was handled internally because no customer service was interrupted. It would have come at about the time Rafe’s pal unblocked the scan satellites passing over Miksland. The other two were the partner and adult son of the first victim. Neither of those deaths aroused suspicion, but they had been insisting to friends that something was wrong about the report of the first death.”
“What else?”
“They were all Miznarii. Low-level jobs; the one killed in the explosion was just a nightshift clerk monitoring normal equipment performance. Supposed to call a higher-up if any indicators twitched.”
“Contact made,” Ky said to the others. “The Rector knows we’re alive and where we are, but she’s also found evidence that our worries are not misplaced. This base is affiliated with a segment of the military that may be about to commit treason. For now we’re safe; for now we’ll look for every possible asset that can help us escape and survive when the time comes. On average of weather, we have 160 to 180 days to prepare.”
Gossin raised a hand and Ky nodded. “For which? Attack or rescue?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll be in contact with the Rector off and on. Everyone else, stay off com. Anything else?”
“I found something odd in that closet in the control room,” Hazarika said. “A dozen or so of these little cylinders.” He pulled one from his pocket. “I thought they might be security gear, but they’re not. Could be data storage, if we found a reader it fit.”
“Maybe magic wands,” Droshinski said. Everyone laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ky couldn’t relax. In subsequent contacts, Rafe had kept her up to date with what he’d learned, including the unusual supply requisitions for Pingats—surely meant for here. Somewhere somebody was planning how to kill them all, and she could think of dozens of ways they might do it. Explosives, bioweapons, chemical weapons… delivered from a distance on the planet, or sent in from space, or landed on the continent with troops. And here they were, with TARGET painted on top for anyone who knew of their existence. We will get you out, Rafe had said, but that meant waiting where they were. Where the enemy knew they were. Where the enemy or the enemy’s weapons might arrive first.
She should be moving them somewhere, but she was supposed to stay here. She leaned into the exercise machine, pushing, driving for more speed, more kilometers, more… and finally, completely out of breath, shaky, she stopped. The machine stopped. She’d redlined again, and the automatics cut the power.
She had to find something they could do to get out of the trap they were in. She had done the right things so far: gotten the crew to a shore, away from that deadly beach, out of the inadequate little huts, and into warm shelter with plenty of food and water. Her people were healthy and fit now, but without weapons, mobility, and a better grasp of what their enemies planned, they were still doomed. They had no mobility other than their own feet—too slow, too risky, and very much too traceable.
She looked around the gym. Gossin, Kurin, and Chok were on machines like hers. Sergeant Cosper flapped a pair of heavy cables as if they were ribbons; he stopped when she climbed off the machine and watched her walk toward the door. He had that look again; he was going to say something—
“You really should do some stretches, Admiral—”
The whooshing sound of the other machines stopped. Ky didn’t look at them, but at Cosper. “When did you start thinking I don’t do stretches, Sergeant?”
“I never see you—”
“You never see me shower, either. If you doubt my fitness, would you like a round of hand-to-hand?” She hoped he’d agree; she wanted someone to throw at a wall, big enough, like Cosper, that he wouldn’t break, but would make a satisfying noise. And learn humility.
“But you’re—but officers and enlisted—”
“It’s an unusual situation here, Sergeant.”
“I’m a lot bigger than you are,” he said. “And probably fitter.”
That did it. He thought she was too small? Maybe she’d throw him extra hard. “There’s one way to find out,” Ky said. She tipped her head a little. “Mats over there. Spotters handy.” She waved a hand behind her to indicate the others. “I’m not in your formal chain of command, so no dings on your record if you break something.” As if he could. She’d killed Osman Vatta one-on-one, and he’d been bigger than Cosper. She looked him up and down. “I don’t suppose you’re worried about being hurt—?” Her tone made it a question, just one shade shy of insult.
“Of course not,” he said. His jaw muscle twitched. “As you wish, Admiral.”
“Excellent. I need a swallow of water, then I’m ready.” She had been ready for a long time. The anger she had not let herself face, anger for many things, rose to awareness. Shooting Marek had not eased it, but increased it, for she still thought Marek had been fundamentally decent, a man corrupted by forces he did not understand or control. In a different service, he would have remained the prototypical good senior NCO, loyal to his service and mentor to the troops he led. Someone had taken advantage of him, of his not having an implant, of his being Miznarii, of his having a family, just as they had of the cadet who had caused her trouble and then committed suicide. Just as they had of the rigger on Moray who’d helped an enemy get command of new-built ships.
Cosper was different. Cosper was just another arrogant bully who needed a solid taking down, and she was going to enjoy giving him one. And she would work off some of anger’s dangerous energy as she did it. Without killing him. She didn’t want to kill him; she needed every survivor if they were all to survive. But if she could tarnish Cosper’s shiny impervious ego just enough to protect others from his bullying, all the better.