“But nothing much in the media.”
“She didn’t want a big fuss, she told me.” Stella pushed her hair back and clenched her fingers in it. “Such a mess—you can fix it, can’t you? It’s ridiculous that they’re treating her as a common criminal—”
“Not quite that,” Sera Lane said, “or she’d be in prison by now, awaiting deportation. Or she might well be drugged into apparent brain damage. She’s getting special treatment only because they haven’t broken into the house.”
“They would’ve tried that, if my security team hadn’t shown up.”
“True. I sense desperation. But you did very well; that officer was attempting surveillance, of course, but he’s not the most skilled. I need to contact my office now and let the morning shift know I will be late or absent, depending on your needs. Do you think you could find out what time dinner is?”
Upstairs, Ky shut off the video feed. “Do you believe Stella really didn’t think about my citizenship status?”
Rafe tipped his head to one side. “Certainly possible. She knew you were being treated as a celebrity, a hero, before you arrived. She would assume special allowances would be made, and if someone did make a fuss about it, at a level where it mattered, you would be told. She traveled back and forth several times in that half year, as you know, and it was only on the most recent arrival that Immigration tagged her. The news that you had survived, that you had led other survivors to safety—that was loud, the first days while you and she were busy with the Vatta turnover. You were ducking interviews, and the news began to die down faster than I’d have thought. We know now that someone was behind that, and the news media had already lost contact with the other survivors.”
“Why, though?”
“Maybe the media were told about a possible contagion or toxin, told not to scare the population. Slotter Key’s media’s a lot more controlled than ours on Nexus.”
“So someone set it up that way.”
“Looks like. Probably not Immigration, though they might’ve had a mole in the hole. Or someone suddenly noticed that you weren’t a great public figure anymore, and decided it was time to check into your citizenship status. And someone else said, ‘Sure, go ahead, we don’t need her on this planet anyway if she’s not going to be a hero anymore.’”
Ky’s skullphone pinged. “Yes?”
“Dinner in forty minutes. I’m lying down, downstairs. My ankle isn’t broken, just bruised. Sera Lane’s staying.”
“I’m coming down,” Ky said. She found Stella alone in the living room and told her about the man across the street.
Stella grimaced. “Oh, him. Cecil Robertson Prescott, self-appointed neighborhood watchdog, though he’s really interested only in finding things to complain about. He acts like he’s lived there forever, but it’s really only ten or twelve years. Father used to wonder where he got the money for it.”
“Why?”
“Ah. Well, according to Father, the Prescotts were one of the Founders, and chose one of the smaller land grants because of its location and the scenery. They wanted an isolated island all to themselves, because they planned to make a mint by picking up contract workers and then not paying them.”
“But that’s against the Founding Contract!”
“Yes, and presumably that’s why they picked a remote island, and why—after a lot of stuff Father told me that I don’t remember—they went broke and came straggling back to Port Landing and Port Major. This branch of the family had to do actual work up around Grinock Bay, but then Cecil managed to cobble together enough to buy that house and he’s been the neighborhood grouch ever since.”
“How did he get the money?”
“Father never figured out, or if he did, he didn’t tell me. I was tempted to infiltrate their house and record them, but Father said let it go.”
“What did Aunt Grace say?”
“I think she dug around a little, but she had other, more urgent concerns. And then the attack came.”
“And this house was spared,” Ky said. “I wonder why.”
Stella looked at her, wide-eyed. “You don’t think—”
“I know Aunt Helen thinks it’s because it was a Stamarkos house to begin with. But think, Stella—how easy it is for him to keep an eye on this place.”
“But why would the Prescotts want to attack Vatta? The Quindlans—”
“He could be working with them. For them. Or someone else. Aunt Grace was getting close to finding out how things connected—”
Over the course of the evening, Sera Lane interviewed all three fugitives from the military, Ky with her combination of pending murder charges and citizenship issues, and—briefly—Rafe and Teague with their visa problems. She stopped shortly before midnight. “I’ve got as much as I can get my head around, and I definitely need help. Sera Stella, I’d like you to assign two more attorneys and at least three more assistants to these cases—they’re complicated and though I’m willing to lead, there’s simply too much to do and too little time.”
“I’ll speak to Legal first thing tomorrow,” Stella said.
“We may have to go outside Vatta,” Sera Lane said. “We do not have a great deal of depth in immigration issues. It would be best to use Vatta’s people on these cases, and hire outsiders for the more routine issues the company usually faces. Employees wanting to take citizenship here, for instance. I will write up my recommendations tonight—”
“Would you like to stay over?” Stella asked. “My mother’s suite is unoccupied.”
“No thank you. I want my own desk and my own bed; I hope that doesn’t sound ungracious, but at home I have everything I need.”
“You’ll need an escort,” Rafe said. “That police officer will have reported you’re here, and someone might wish you ill. Where do you live?”
“Cantabile Gardens; I have a very pleasant unit in Section One.”
“Stella?” Rafe looked at her.
“I’ll call—who, though? Vatta Security?”
“I would.”
Sera Lane left with a Vatta Security team driving her car, and her riding in the following car with two more. She checked in later to report that nothing untoward had happened, and she had agreed to have an escort the next morning as well.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On the way into base the next morning, Sergeant Major Morrison stopped by the vet clinic to see how Ginger was doing and bring her a treat.
“She’s doing well, considering. I wish someone would invent a regen tank for dogs—but their biometrics are just too different.”
Ginger whined and pushed her nose against the front of the cage. The bright-pink wrapping over the splint looked three times as big as her other legs. Morrison murmured to her and pushed a treat through the bars of the crate. Ginger gobbled it and licked Morrison’s fingers.
“How’s the other thing going?” Kris asked.
“Not as well as I’d like. Heard from MacRobert this morning?”
“He’s over on the other side with Jo-Jo. I’ll walk you through.”
MacRobert, measuring rations into numbered bowls in the facility’s big feed room, looked up as they entered. “Ah, Doc—how’s the Red Queen this morning?”
“Doing well. Owner would like to discuss her rations with you.” She took the bowl he had just filled and put it on a rolling cart with others. “I’ll take these out to Jo-Jo. Owner has some special treat she’d like to incorporate in Ginger’s feed.”