Her skullphone pinged. She tongued the connection. Vatta, at last. She gave the countersign, a pattern of touches rather than out loud, just in case, and walked down to the main passage, leaving the larger weapon behind her. She hadn’t had to use it after all.
“Sera! Are you all right? This is Vatta Security, Philip Grayson—” A name she knew. “They’re all gone, we think.”
“I’m alive,” Stella said. “They got in from above—cut through the shielding—” She stared at the body on the floor in front of her. She could smell the blood, the death; she started shaking.
“Sera—” Grayson’s voice sounded farther away. “Sera, can you open a door for us?”
“I don’t know.” Her own voice sounded faraway, too. “I think they… damaged the main… house controls…” She was sitting on the floor now, leaning on the wall. “Can you use a master?” But her head cleared, now she was sitting down. “No—I know you can’t. I’ll have to come downstairs and manually let you in—” What door would be safest to approach? “Where are you now?”
“Our squad leaders, Mike Wilmots and Dusty Farsich, are at the front and side doors; three of our men are also at the garden door. So any door you can reach.”
Between her and the stairs—or the lift—were the bodies of more men, her kills; the smell of gunfire, blood, and death was everywhere. She pushed herself up the wall, pinched her nose shut, and edged past the body, flicking a light switch as she went. The stench was stronger at the head of the stairs: more bodies. More bodies than she remembered killing. She turned on all the switches near the head of the stairs; the colors leapt out at her. Blood on the carpet, smears of it showing clearly through her… her feet. The chameleon suit. She hadn’t turned it off. She went down the stairs, saw the ruin of the security office to her right… and leaned on the newel post, transferring the pistol to her left hand so she could operate the controls and turn the suit off.
Instantly she caught sight of herself in one of the mirrored panels that flanked the front door. The soft aqua sweater was spattered with blood and dirt, ruined. The gray hood over her head, the thinner gauze over her face made her look bald and plain. She pushed them back behind her, let them hang loose over her jacket. Her face was a mess, as bad as the jacket. Tears, dust from the hiding places, all smeared together. Her eyes were wide, her expression shocky.
This would not do. She was the CEO, she had to look like the CEO, at least look calm, in control, just in need of cleaning up. Watching herself, she opened her mouth, faked a yawn, moved her head around. Her shoulders relaxed a little. She put her pistol back in its holster, took more deep breaths, shook out her hands. Chin up, shoulders down. She pulled the comb she always carried from a pocket, did what she could for her hair in a few strokes. Better still. “Look like what you want to be,” her mother always said. Her mother had never fought for her life. The handkerchief her mother had also insisted on got most of the mess off her face; the lipstick in her pocket gave her a touch of color. And deep inside, something stirred she had never felt before. Now that it was over, now that she was alive and unhurt… could that possibly be what Ky and Rafe felt?
“Sera—?”
“I’m at the front door, Ser Grayson. Which squad leader is out there?”
“Mike Wilmots, Sera.”
“Please tell him I will be opening the door after he knocks three–two–four. My sidearm is holstered.”
“At once, Sera.”
The knocks came. She watched herself in the mirror for another count of five, moment by moment willing herself into what she wanted to be, as calm and controlled and gracious as her mother, then opened the door. The door’s manual control worked; the shielding moving aside smoothly. “Ser Wilmots, I am very glad to see you.”
“Sera! May we enter?”
“Yes, do,” she said, recognizing her mother’s tone and phrasing. Everything was all right now. And yes, what she felt was not just the relief she’d felt other times after danger, but pride.
Wilmot’s squad entered behind him; he sent them here and there with hand signals. The living room showed no damage from the invasion; he offered his arm. “Sera, perhaps you would like to rest here until we’ve cleared the house—”
“Yes, thank you.”
He guided her to the sofa and eased her down onto it.
“And you are quite sure you have no injuries that need attention?”
“Right now I would just like to sit here,” she said. “I don’t think I have anything serious.”
“And are all the exit doors on manual?”
“Yes.”
He moved away, glancing into the security office, then back along the living room to a short passage with a closet in it. He came back with an afghan and a pillow. “Here, Sera. After such a—a situation, you will be feeling shaken.”
“Thank you, Ser Wilmots.”
She had the shakes again while he was out of the room, but inside she was blazing with joy. She heard the kitchen door opening, the sounds of more people spreading through the house, tramping around, muttering into their communicators, commenting to one another. One of the women brought hot tea, and introduced herself as “Marina, one of the Hautvidor Vattas. Can I get you anything else?”
Stella smiled. “No thank you. I think I’m just a little tired—I’m usually asleep at this hour.”
“I should think so, Sera. We’re all impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“Well—you—um—killed so many of them. By yourself.”
“Wasn’t all my doing,” Stella said, between sips of the tea, hot and almost too sweet. “They killed their wounded before they left.” She didn’t want to think how many she had killed. Or wounded, for that matter.
When Wilmots came back, she was calm again, and warmer. He, on the other hand, looked worried.
“Sera, you cannot stay here until the house is cleaned and made secure again. Also you must have guards here around the clock.”
“I agree,” Stella said. “But for the rest of the night—I’m very tired—” Her skullphone pinged. She shook her head and made the sign for “skullphone,” then answered. It was MacRobert.
“Grace wants you to come here. Or there’s the apartment at headquarters.”
“How much do you know?”
“Grace was in touch with that night supervisor at headquarters; he’s gotten reports from the mobile teams. Did you know two police were attacked in the garden?”
“No. When?”
“Vatta Security had the police send a unit out when the house didn’t respond to the computer’s ping. Apparently they were doing a walk-around when they were attacked by two or three men in chameleon suits. When the men ran off, the police tried to shoot them; they took fire. Our teams were out at the airport dealing with another problem.”
“The house is a wreck,” Stella said. “They destroyed the security office here; all the video’s dead. Cut a hole in the shielding from Jo’s room.”
Someone started pounding on the front door; Wilmots and two of his team moved toward it. “Who is it?”
“You know perfectly well who this is,” said a peevish voice. “Open this door now!”