The five just rescued and Inyatta from the first group gathered around Ky on the rearmost couch. She gave them a précis of what had been going on. “So, we have a list of names we know are implicated in concealing the existence of the base on Miksland. Some of them are high up in the government, some are high up in the business community. We think, but are not sure, that some of the same people were working with my distant and exiled cousin Osman—who’s now dead—and with Gammis Turek. We know that’s not all of them. But anything I say will be tainted because my family were all killed, and anything the Rector says will be tainted in much the same way.” She was not about to drag in Aunt Grace’s dirty past at this point.
“You people,” she said, “are different. You’re the innocents dropped into a situation you knew nothing about, had no connection to, and then you were abused afterward. Your testimony will have more weight than mine. Your physical condition and the medical records we grabbed—yes, they sent them along, in hardcopy, for which I’m grateful—will prove that your experiences really happened. And that’s going to be in the public record. So we need to get that recorded, with both Sergeant Major Morrison, whose reputation is impeccable, and two lawyers standing by. For the fourteen of you, that’s a lot of hours of recording, and the sooner it’s started, the better.”
Heads nodded. Ky could tell that resistance to being sent away had vanished. “Eat and drink as much as you want while you’re here. The trip from the warehouse to the airport in Weekes City will be only about fifteen to twenty minutes. The flight to Port Major will be about four hours—”
“What about the others? Will they have to wait until that plane comes back? That’s more than eight hours—”
“No. We have other aircraft assigned, and alternative routes by road or train if needed.”
Gossin’s brow furrowed. “This is really that big—as big as getting us off Miksland, isn’t it?”
“Pretty much,” Ky said. “And we’ve had to do it all with local resources. Couldn’t grab a handy merc company. But then we’re not up against another merc company, just a disloyal faction of Slotter Key’s own military, some criminals, and a huge amount of money.”
“We’re glad you did it,” Gossin said.
“Had to,” Ky said. “And I had a lot of help.”
The truck slowed; they could hear more traffic noises outside. “Coming into Weekes City,” Ky said. “You’ll be changing trucks soon. There’ll be a couple of armed guards with you on the way to the airport.”
Once in the warehouse, Ky stood by the door as the former prisoners—still bald of course, but looking more themselves in uniform—stepped down from the truck. She shook hands with each of them as they left and watched them walk across to the next truck. Then she went into the warehouse office to check on the progress of the whole mission. Three to go.
“That went well,” Rafe said as the truck left the warehouse in Weekes City. “Let’s hope the rest are as easy.”
“Can’t count on that,” Ky said.
“I’m not. Just hoping. Are we on schedule?”
“Close. Rodney says the next transport stopped for an unscheduled half hour so we need to dodge about a bit. We should pick them up on 47; there’s a truck stop we can use.” Ky yawned. “I can’t relax until they’re all safe.”
“You should go back with these on the plane,” Rafe said. “It will give them confidence. Besides, you’re tired; you hardly slept at all last night. We can handle it.”
“I’ll nap after we drop these off,” Ky said. “I need to be here, and Morrison’s on the plane. I’ll go with the last load.”
“If it’s going to unravel, the last load is the most likely to be trouble. By then they’ll know the first load and maybe the second are late, and they won’t be able to raise them.”
“Which is why I should be there with it,” Ky said. “You can go back if you want.”
“Not without you.”
“And I won’t leave the op until it’s over,” Ky said. “So keep track of your rounds.”
“Have you reloaded?”
“Of course.” Ky patted her own pistol, then tapped the military one slung on her shoulder. “Both.”
“Let me take point next time.”
“I can’t. Rafe, you’re used to working alone. I know you’re a crack shot. I know you won’t hesitate. But you’re not used to working in a team, and these people haven’t worked with you.”
“Or you, except those on Miksland.”
“I trained here. Less than sixty days shy of being the honor graduate, Rafe. I move the way they’re used to, when I’m on the ground.”
Stella Vatta, in the Routing Center of Vatta Transport’s Port Major headquarters, watched screens depicting the location of every Vatta Transport vehicle on the continent. Trucks, vans, aircraft, railcars, the little drones that carried light packages from warehouse to destination—a screen for each type, and a huge wall panel that combined them. On her own handcomp, Rodney was transmitting from the Weekes City warehouse, and she could also see where the prisoner transports were, if his algorithm was correct.
“Ansible ping, Sera Vatta.”
She left the center momentarily to step into a secured ansible booth and entered the code. No image, but Ky’s voice. “One down.”
“You’re all right?”
“Fine. Clemmander group cleared and reported aboard final transport.”
Final transport sounded ominous to Stella but she knew what it meant.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
The connection closed; Stella went back out into the Routing Center. On the aircraft screen, the icon labeled 57E—eastbound flight 57—had left Weekes City and was moving toward Port Major. On the ground transport screen, icons with Vatta codes moved as they would on any weekday. The truck that had just made a delivery to Weekes City was now on the road to Green Valley.
And the truck she knew held three of the prisoners had left the truck stop and was moving east; it would reach the junction with the secondary road only a minute before the truck Ky was in, if the schedules held.
“They’re late,” the voice on the phone said. Commandant Kvannis said nothing. “The first transport. They called in to say they were held up by a herd of cattle in the road—traffic stopped on both sides, local volunteer emergency service trying to get them back into the pasture, but they never called to say the road was cleared. I checked with that shire; the road’s been clear for an hour, so they should have been here.”
“Did you check satellite data?”
“Yes. The truck’s not on the road anywhere. There’s a branch about five kilometers from there; they might’ve taken the road to Weekes City, but surely they’d call.”
Kvannis’s stomach clenched. “What other vehicles were also stopped? Both directions?”
“I don’t know. The satellite showed the blockage all right, but only fifty-five seconds of it.”
“I’ll put our people on it.”
Kvannis stared a moment at his desk, thinking. Missing truck meant missing personnel, meant—worst case—that five more of the personnel from Miksland might contact—might already have contacted—other people. They would be at least partially disabled; they were supposed to be moderately sedated. But if someone picked them up, took them to a hospital—well, he could put someone on that. He called General Mirabeau, the Spaceforce Surgeon General.
“Why would I contact civilian hospitals in Weekes County, Commandant?”
“Personnel in quarantine have gone missing. Some kind person might find them and take them to a hospital and we need them picked up and sent to the proper military facility.”