She wondered, as she ate, if Ky had told Aunt Grace she was leaving and why. Surely Grace would know. Maybe she knew when it would be over. She called Grace most evenings between 2000 and 2030; a call couldn’t possibly be suspect, and besides Rafe and Teague had increased the security of all the Vatta communications. When she finished the excellent little lemon tart Allie’d made, she called Grace’s number.
“Stella? Where are you?”
“At home, Aunt Grace. Everything’s fine. Quiet, with all of them gone—”
“Stella.” Aunt Grace’s tone stopped her. “Let’s talk about the business.”
“The business? But what about—?”
“Are you planning to open a new plant to manufacture the latest revisions of the shipboard ansible design, or can you retool?”
Clearly Grace knew the others had left—had known before she did. Probably she knew the whole plan in detail. And clearly Grace did not want to talk about it. Stella struggled to keep her voice level over the anger that rose higher. Left out again, alone again in possible danger—“Is it the link or me you don’t trust, Auntie?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Never mind,” she said quickly, before Grace could say anything. “No, modification in ansible design won’t require a complete retooling but we’ll need to move one end of the line—since I anticipated there would be future changes, the facility was built with that in mind.”
“Excellent,” Grace said. “Is Helen still on the Board?”
“No; she asked to be removed, so she could concentrate on the children.” She did not want to talk about Helen, or the family, or the business. Before Grace could ask another deflecting question, Stella asked, “Do you have any time frame for returning to your house?”
“I’m quite safe here, Stella, for the time being. Do you find it inconvenient to visit here?”
“No—I’m just—” Thinking of you and Mac would not go over well. “Concerned,” she chose instead.
“I’ll move back to the house when I’m discharged from physiotherapy. They come by every day to make me sweat.”
“That’s good,” Stella said. Grace wasn’t going to give up a thing, that was obvious. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, Aunt Grace.”
“Good night, Stella.” And Grace broke the connection.
Stella stared at the handset before setting it down with unnecessary care. She was not fooled. She was not happy. Ky hadn’t had the elementary courtesy to warn her the house would be empty. Grace still treated her as an inexperienced child. She picked up the tray with care not to let the silverware rattle, and took it downstairs again. She put the dishes in the autowasher; she, unlike her cousin, never left dirty dishes lying around for someone else to clean. Ky could have left her Allie, at least.
She put that thought aside with an effort. At least she had the rest of the evening to herself, and the music Ky found boring she found pleasant. In the security office, she checked all the outdoor video feeds. The street was empty now, the tracks of earlier traffic almost covered by snow. There might be light traffic later, when theaters closed and dinner parties were over. She imagined for a moment being young again, spending an evening out, dining, attending a concert or play, laughing and chatting with friends. She had enjoyed that. But that time was over, as long as this crisis lasted.
The automatic timer turned lights off and on using its randomizing scheduler. Stella closed down the files on the office computer and opted for an early bedtime.
“Anything?” The night supervisor, Vogel, looked up from his report form when Archer took the headphones off and turned toward the desk.
“Pressure tape on the Rector’s windows. Stella Vatta called, said the house was ‘quiet, with all of them gone.’ The Rector shut her down; Stella objected, and the conversation went elsewhere. Nothing new about the plant modifications that we didn’t already know. But it sounds like the Vatta house may be empty but for Stella.”
“Ah. She is usually armed, and a good shot.”
“Yes, sir, but at night? The house shielding is still full on, and as reported earlier—”
“The weak bands are now fully functional, yes, Archer. I haven’t forgotten. What about the garage?”
“Her car’s not there, but we know it’s still being repaired.”
“Her ankle injury?”
“It wasn’t broken, but one of the Vatta employees was overheard saying she was still limping.”
“Well. Thank you. I’ll pass this on.” Vogel copied the recording and attached it to a report that went directly to Michael Quindlan. Aside from that it was a boring shift—no more communications in or out of Grace Vatta’s borrowed apartment, nothing from Stella Vatta’s house—until a half hour later he had a call from Michael Quindlan himself.
“Patch into the team leader,” Quindlan said. “Call me on this link when something happens.”
“Yes, ser. What—” But the link was already dead. He gave the assignment to Vogel; the other operators were monitoring other sites.
“Do you want me to run a double on the house itself?” Vogel asked.
“I wasn’t told,” he said. “But yes, you should if you can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Stella found the empty silence less restful than she’d expected. She dozed off, woke again, dozed off, woke again. She could not help wondering where exactly the others were, what was happening, what would happen. Ky was impetuous; Rafe was decisive; Teague she still couldn’t figure out. The three women fugitives would do anything Ky told them, being military. The others, the civilians and military she didn’t know about, because Ky had said she didn’t need to know… they included Vatta employees, which she felt strongly she did need to know about. Rodney, for instance. Shortly after midnight, still not sleeping well, she got up, pulled on her house boots, and went to the office down the passage. She called up the flight plans for Vatta. Routine cargo flights out of Port Major, delivering goods ordered for the next day, it looked like. But any of those flights might have carried up to eight passengers, some of them ten. And she knew Grace had connections with Traffic Control; passengers might or might not be listed on the manifests.
She closed that search and tried to concentrate on the work she’d put in the transfer box.
A light on the desk security display turned red. She stared at it a moment. When she didn’t press the response button, the system buzzed. She touched the button. ROOF. GABLE OVER C-WING. She stared at the readout. It couldn’t be. Was someone already in the house? Could they possibly get through the hull-strength protection of the main house? And she was alone. She hit the panic button on the desk, fear already rising to choke her. The direct line to Vatta HQ didn’t light up. She picked up the handset anyway, entered the number. Another red readout: no connection. She tried her skullphone. Nothing.
Panic grew; her breath came short. She had her pistol, but how many intruders were there? She fumbled at the drawers, opening the one with spare magazines ready-loaded, one of her father’s habits, and pocketed them before remembering that his pistol used different ammunition from hers—and his pistol had been lost in the explosion. She looked at the wall behind which the secret room lay. She could go there. She could wait it out. Unless they found the codes. Unless they blew up the house. She was up, halfway to her bedroom, before she realized it. Now what?