They were halfway to the kitchen door when Rodney erupted from the lift with one of the maps they’d been using. “Ky, we have the time—” He stopped, seeing Sera Lane.
“I’m leaving now,” she said. “Whatever it is you want to say, young man, wait until I’m out the door. Coming, Sera Ky?”
“In a moment; I want to hear what Rodney has to say.”
Sera Lane nodded and went out, closing the door firmly behind her.
“It’s now,” Rodney said. “Morrison called. They’re planning to move the group in Clemmander starting at 0340 tomorrow. We’ll need to leave in an hour or two at the most, to have everyone in place. She’s got the military teams moving.”
“Call it,” Ky said. “I’m going to see Aunt Grace. Courtesy call. I should be back in an hour.”
“Tell Sera Stella?”
Ky shook her head. “Too risky, even by skullphone. She and I are the ones most likely to be monitored.” She looked at Rafe. “I’ll take my duffel with me, pick up more ammunition on the way. One of Rodney’s friends should pick me up from Grace’s.”
“Meet you later.”
She left the house, visualizing what would happen in the next half hour: the furniture van driving up, parking to block the view of their nosy neighbor across the street, apparently to deliver new mattresses and take away the old, while everyone now in the house slipped into the truck by the side door for the first leg of their cross-country trip. On the drive to Grace’s apartment, she ran down her implant’s checklist again.
“It would be unwise of your fiancé or his associate to take this opportunity to call attention to themselves,” Sera Lane said.
“I’m sure that he does not intend to call attention to himself,” Ky said. A few flakes of snow danced in the air; the forecast said more was coming.
“I hope not. He seems a reasonable young man, but what I’ve found recorded about him is troubling. It is not my place, but stilclass="underline" do you think your father would approve?”
“Sera Lane, I think my father’s opinion would be that Rafe will be a fine addition to the family.”
“But somewhat of an adventurer—”
“And so am I, Sera Lane. As have been many Vattas, including my father, when he was young.”
“True.” She said nothing more before they reached the apartment building. “Shall I call a ride for you to… the house?”
“I don’t know how long Aunt Grace and I will be,” Ky said.
Grace looked healthy, but moved with less energy than usual. “There you are,” she said. “I have something for you. It arrived early.” She pointed to a large flat box. Ky opened it to find three uniforms, complete from cap to shoes, with the correct insignia for each of the three women staying at the Vatta house.
“Sergeant Major Morrison,” Ky said.
Grace nodded. “According to Sergeant Major Morrison, they should fit perfectly. She said you’d know where to send them and said the buns were in the oven.”
“I just heard that from one of our research group,” Ky said.
“Who’s taking you to the warehouse from here?”
“One of Rodney’s pals. I’ve met him.”
“You may not save them all,” Grace said, her voice somber now. “It’s a complicated and dangerous operation—don’t blame yourself if—”
Ky shook her head. “I can’t think that way, not beforehand.”
“Right. Go now. Get it done.”
“Yes, Great-Aunt Grace,” Ky said. Grace laughed.
Down the passage, down the lift, and there in the circular entrance drive was Kemel, one of Rodney’s friends, wearing a dark jacket and a cap close enough to a chauffer’s. He took the box from her. “We ready?” he asked when Ky had settled herself in the backseat.
“Better be,” Ky said. “I’d hate to have wasted all those hours trying to make this plan as shaky and unworkable as possible.”
Sergeant Major Morrison arrived at Grace Vatta’s borrowed apartment as usual about 1900, crisply correct in uniform, a few flakes of the snow outside leaving damp patches on her cap.
“Coffee or tea?” Grace asked. “And the pastries on that tray are delicious.”
Morrison smiled. “Tea, please. Snow’s tailing off, but it’s still a night for a hot drink.” She took a security cylinder from the briefcase she carried and turned it on. Grace looked at her more closely, then poured the tea and handed over the cup.
“Something at the base?”
“Yes. I might miss tomorrow’s report.”
Bland and uninformative to any surveillance they hadn’t found. That could be ominous—or not. Grace tried to see which, in Morrison’s face, but the sergeant major had no particular expression. Grace made walking motions with her left hand across the pastry tray and raised an eyebrow. A short nod was the answer. Going somewhere. And the only likely “where” was the rescue of the other Miksland survivors.
Questions and advice roiled in Grace’s mind. She hadn’t been in on most of the planning; she was not used to being planned around instead of with. Not used to having someone else at the top of the decision tree. Compartmentalization, Ky and Morrison had both said. She was safer knowing less. Maybe, but safety wasn’t everything. Did they have a large enough force? What about alternative plans, alternative routes, in case something went wrong? She forced herself not to ask any of the questions.
Morrison picked up a pastry and bit into it. “It’s another TDY,” she said. “Shouldn’t be more than twenty-four hours, but you never know with these things, especially in the winter weather. Anyway, since I’ve been coming over here regularly, I thought I’d let you know.” For Morrison, a very informal speech. “With your permission, Rector, these are especially good and I’d like to take a few with me.”
“All you want,” Grace said, noting that formality had returned for the moment. “They want me to gain weight but I can’t eat all that without a stomachache. And there’s another tray in the kitchen. Also one of those padded grocery totes to carry them in. Assuming you have something in your briefcase you’d rather not get cream cheese or fruit filling on.”
Morrison laughed. Actually laughed. For a moment Grace saw excitement, eagerness, in her face, and then it vanished again behind the pleasant professional mask. “Thank you, Rector. If you’ll excuse me a moment—”
“I’ll come with you,” Grace said. “The delivery service is excessively meticulous about putting everything away, so the location of the tote is my secret.” She led the way to the kitchen. Morrison followed, without her briefcase but with her security cylinder. Grace pointed to it, and Morrison shrugged, her gaze roaming the room. So she didn’t trust the security that MacRobert had cleared. Interesting. And all the lights on the cylinder were green.
“There are the pastries; I’ll get the tote.” Grace turned to the cabinets, opened one of the lower doors, and reached for the padded tote folded up inside. “Ooh…” She stumbled, grabbed for the counter for balance.
“Rector!” Morrison sounded genuinely concerned.
“It’s nothing,” Grace said. “It’s leaning over, that’s all. Bit dizzy. I think I’ll sit down.”
“What can I get you?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Grace huffed. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. “I’m just—so tired of not being as fit as I was—”
Morrison took the tote, set it on the table. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” It sounded as grumpy as she intended. “I’m not going to faint or anything; I just need to rest here a minute or two.”
“I’ll sit with you, Rector,” Morrison said. Seated, she leaned over the pastries, putting them in the tote with care. “I can’t tell you everything,” she murmured, still looking at the pastries. “It should work. They should all fit.”