“Stay, by all means,” Ky said. “Can you function as a witness to validate the download?”
“As an officer of the court, yes,” Sera Lane said, pushing back her chair. “I will need to observe the hookup—does that other Vatta employee have certification in the procedure?”
“We’ll find out,” Ky said.
Downstairs, Rodney was busily working through something on one of the computers. Ky explained what they needed.
“Yes, Sera,” he said to Lane. He pulled out his identification and handed it to her. “I can access my personnel file for you and you can see it all, if you wish.”
“Not necessary,” Lane said. “Your certificate is high enough. I need to observe the hookup—any idea how long it will take?” She looked at Ky.
“No—I want to start with leaving my flagship, and then go all the way through. Hours. Maybe even another session tomorrow.”
“That’s too long for the storage on the media you’ve got,” Rodney said. “We’ll have to break it into chunks. These are two-hour backups.” He had pulled a carton of them from one of the cabinets.
“I’ll certify the hookup, and then when you break I’ll take custody of the backup until copies are made,” Lane said. “Perhaps break for lunch after the first session?”
“That works for me,” Rodney said.
He pulled out the necessary cables and plugged into Ky’s implant jack. Rafe appeared in the door. “Ky, Allie wants to know—what are you doing?”
“Downloading the record of that interview for Aunt Grace,” Ky said.
“Passive download?” Rafe turned to Rodney.
“Yeah—wait—is there another kind?”
“There is at ISC,” Rafe said. “It’s been known to cause brain damage.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. Cable to the backup, backup in the machine, client specifies the file location, and the machine just sucks that location.”
“Ah. Good.” Rafe turned to Ky again. “Allie wants to know if baked stuffed fish is all right for dinner tonight. Grocery has a special on crabs.”
“Fine with me,” Ky said. “And Stella likes fish.”
For the next two hours, Ky closed her eyes and watched the mental image of a glowing blue line stripping the interview file neatly into the backup cylinder. In the machine it would be broken into sound and image, separate output types for each.
It would have been restful but for her awareness that time was passing inexorably for the survivors still in custody. She had to find them, get them out of their torment, and keep them safe. Somehow. And all she had done so far was hide out in the house, accomplishing nothing. Her own and Rafe’s legal problems also bore in on her. Could Lane really get her citizenship back? And if she did, then the threat of a murder prosecution still loomed, with the evidence she’d so carefully collected on the entire trip lost—or rather intentionally hidden or destroyed. And Rafe—his visa extension now exceeded—could be deported anytime he left the house.
“Want to run another right away?” Rodney asked. “Or take a break?”
“A break,” Ky said. “I need to move around. Is Sera Lane still here?”
“I think so—I’ll call—”
“Never mind. I’ll run upstairs myself.”
Ky found Sera Lane up in Stella’s office, interviewing Inyatta about her statement. They both looked up as she entered. Inyatta looked tense.
“We’re in the middle of something,” Sera Lane said. She gave a slight nod toward the door.
“I had an idea,” Ky said.
“Later,” Lane said. “I need to finish with Corporal Inyatta and her statement so I can move forward on the murder charge.”
Ky shut the door and turned away, more than a little disgruntled. Rafe met her at the head of the stairs. “You look like you want to hit someone,” he said.
“I do. And I shouldn’t. I am so tired of being cooped up in this house!”
“Better than a cell,” Rafe said.
“Not enough better.” Ky pushed past him, down the passage to their room. He followed. “I can’t do the things I need to do to rescue my people.”
“They’re not really your people, Ky,” Rafe said. His reasonable tone grated on her nerves. “They’re Slotter Key’s problem—the military’s problem—and you don’t have the right. Let Grace deal with it, now she’s out of hospital.”
“I have every right. You don’t understand—” She stopped herself from what would have been insulting, and tried for a more measured response. “Rafe, even if I was wrong to take command after the crash—we can argue that later, if you want—once I did so, they became ‘my people.’ That’s how command works. That’s how I was trained; that’s how I think. And clearly, Slotter Key military is treating them not as valued members of the service, but as criminals.”
“I do understand your point, Ky, but be reasonable: you have no leverage. Your citizenship’s been revoked, you’re suspected of murder—if you involve yourself in their case, you could do them more harm.”
“Or I could get them out.”
“How? If you leave here you’ll be arrested. You have no resources—human or financial—to do the job. You’ve got to wait until you’re cleared of the murder charge and a citizen again, at least.”
“I’ve got to get serious about the mission,” Ky said. “It will help keep my mind off being housebound.”
Sergeant Major Morrison, in uniform, arrived at the door to her apartment building in the city to find additional security in place. The trip in, through cold rain, had not improved her mood, nor did standing in the dank breeze while someone looked down a list to find her name. Finally, he found it and let her by. Another guard was outside her door; she showed identification and he spoke into his comunit, a soft mumble. Morrison repressed an obvious sigh. She did not like this, even though she had suggested it. She should have sent someone else to pick up her clothes and move them to the other apartment, the one she hadn’t seen yet.
MacRobert opened the door. “Sergeant Major,” he said, with a short nod.
“Master Sergeant. I’m here to collect my clothes.”
He shut the door. “The Rector is waiting for you in the office.”
She went to the door of the office and stopped, startled by the change in the Rector’s appearance. Always before poised and erect, she now looked a little shrunken, as old people often did. Her gray hair was lusterless, her dark skin more wrinkled. She sat slumped in the chair, eyes closed.
“Excuse me, Rector,” Morrison said.
The Rector’s eyes snapped open, the same silver-gray as before, and just as alive and aware.
“Sergeant Major,” the Rector said. “Thank you for the loan of your apartment; I hope it will be a brief one.”
“Stay as long as you like,” Morrison said. “But—”
“But we have things to talk about.” The Rector pulled out a security cylinder and turned it on. “Try yours as well,” she added.
Morrison turned on her own. All the telltales were green.
“Have a seat.” The Rector pointed to the chair. “I’ve been told that your quarters and your office on base suffered intrusions and security breaches. And you believe these were related to your recent TDY when you observed what you considered ill treatment of other survivors of the shuttle crash just over a half year ago.”
“Yes, Rector. I’m certain of it.”
“I agree. I knew nothing until my great-niece Ky Vatta called in a fury supposing I must have known about and agreed to it. I believe you saw at least one of those who escaped confinement—is that correct?”
“Yes, Rector.”
“Do you also know that Ky’s citizenship has been revoked and she is about to be charged with murder, as a way to get her into custody?”