Stella Vatta stared at the surface of her desk, having finally cleared the morning’s items, and wondered whether the change she felt would last or fade away. For now, it was still vivid in her mind—the attack, her fear, her determination to survive, her realization that she had to walk on blood and broken glass past men she had killed, through the destruction the intruders had wrought inside the house, and finally the moment when she saw herself in the mirrors flanking the door—the mirrors her mother had made her check every time to be sure she was fit to be leave the house—and had seen herself whole, real, for the first time.
Grimy, bloodstained, disheveled, her good clothes fouled past cleaning, everything she had been brought up to avoid—what should have completed her dismay—but still herself. Out of the dirt and blood and fear she had found a new self emerging, familiar and new at the same time. Stella Vatta, CEO of Vatta Enterprises, a woman whose strength was not her beauty, whose elegance was not her wardrobe, who could enjoy beauty and clothes and a fine house, but did not need them.
And that, she was sure after another brief consideration, was not going away. She didn’t want to be attacked—no sane person did. She would rather be clean, well groomed, wearing comfortable and attractive clothes—any sane person would. But never again would she feel incomplete without them. Never again would she feel guilty just because something had dirtied her face. She had earned that internal stability, not just by surviving the attack, but by all the years she’d lived, all the challenges met—even the ones she’d met badly. She had no mirrors in her office, but she didn’t need them. She knew who she was, and being a bastard, adopted, daughter of a monster—was not her identity. She thought of Osman, this time without shame or horror. “I’m not you,” she said quietly. “And you can’t define me.”
She took a deep breath, glanced at the time—three whole minutes?—and looked at the latest security analysis that had just popped up on her screen: threats detected, threats averted, threats reported to authorities. On Cascadia six incidents against the Vatta factory making shipboard ansibles, four of them traceable to the Bentik extended family. Jen’s relatives blaming Ky—and then Vatta—for her death. Somewhat to her surprise, Stella saw that although local law enforcement went warily on the first two, the next incidents had brought the usual swift and efficient response, senatorial family or not. Two family members were under arrest, and the family had been assessed a fine and a financial hold. Only two Vatta employees had been injured, and both were now in stable condition.
Stella sent personal notes to their families and commendations to her security staff and the Cascadian law enforcement. The other two threats hadn’t been traced yet.
Here on Slotter Key, other attacks had continued, at least partly in response to the rescue of the Miksland survivors. Besides the attack on the Vatta aircraft the day of the rescue, Vatta trucks had had tires slashed, resulting in one wreck. The home of a Vatta senior manager in Dorland was broken into and vandalized, with substantial property damage, but the family had been on vacation. She contacted Bry Skinner and promised that he and his family would be getting a Vatta Security detail as soon as possible. They were staying in a remote forest lodge.
“I’d like to send the family to live with my parents in Arland for a while,” he said. “If this gets worse—”
“Absolutely,” Stella said. “Have you been in contact with your parents?”
“Yes, Sera. They have a large house—it was on the market but they’ll be just as glad to stay there as long as it’s not just the two of them. They’re in Arsinine.”
“When can you get to a transport hub?”
“I’m not sure. I’m leery of hiring private transport in an area I don’t know well; ideal would be a VTOL of some sort, but the resort lists only local operators.”
“We’ll send info with the security team.”
She realized, in the midst of making calls to charter a VTOL craft with the range to extract them, arranging a charter flight for the family to Arsinine, letting Bry know that help was on the way, and ensuring ground transportation from the Arsinine airport to his parents’ house—that this was much like what Ky had done. That her care for Vatta employees was like Ky’s for her soldiers. Well. Another new idea, and one she would have to share with Ky when the Commandant had time.
Ky and Corporal Metis began searching Sera Vonderlane’s office. “Tech Coston will call if he needs us,” Metis said. “Did you turn out her purse?”
“Had her do it. I’m sure I have all the keys but the one she said opened her apartment. Also two datacards, the probe with the access built in, a couple of letters. Nothing in her pockets but lint.”
“She seemed like a nice lady,” Metis said. “Of course, I saw her only occasionally.”
“I think she is a nice lady,” Ky said. “But she’s been economically dependent on Kvannis for years. As his wife’s social secretary, she apparently did him some favors, too. And he was paying her another twenty-five percent on top of her salary.”
“That’s… illegal, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t think she knew. She’d started working for his wife because of her daughter’s injuries; he already knew about her medical expenses from that. She’d be doing him a favor to come to the Academy; he wouldn’t let her income suffer. That kind of thing.”
“I wonder what he wanted her to do,” Metis asked. They had found nothing in the center desk drawer but what should be there: styluses, pencils, notepads, some with notes and some not. A printed list of the Academy faculty and staff, faculty with blue checks beside their names and staff with orange. Metis opened the left-hand drawer. “Well. Here’s something.”
Ky looked over. He held up a small machine. “What’s that?”
“Something she shouldn’t have had. A fully programmable franking printer. She could make something look like it came from any government agency.” He pulled a pad from the center drawer, fiddled with the controls, and inserted a sheet; the machine emitted a beep and then the image of a Slotter Key stamp imposed on the Department of Defense logo. Another sheet; he changed the controls and that one printed out OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT. “These are coded, supposed to be strictly controlled.” He put it into the trolley he’d brought along for evidence.
Also in the drawer were preprinted envelopes with the return addresses of a dozen or more governmental agencies and offices in the military.
“Look at this,” Metis said. On the point of each envelope flap was a small irregular spot, a smudge as if it had been touched by a soiled finger. “A signal that these envelopes weren’t what they seemed?”
“Could be,” Ky said. Her drawer had produced a box of stationery, completely blank, a box of pens printed with the Commandant’s name and title—Kvannis, not Vatta, of course—and at the very back, a small envelope attached to the back of the drawer. “Bet this has a key in it,” she said.
“Let me, Commandant,” Metis said, as she reached for the envelope. He pulled a set of tongs out of his kit and tugged gently at the envelope. It ripped and a cloud of white powder flew out. He dropped the tongs and turned away, scrabbling at his pocket; Ky slapped her own emergency mask on and a second on him before he got his own out.
“Hurry,” she said, pulling him toward her office. Eyes wide, he followed her, but stopped at the door, pointing to his shirt front, speckled with white. “I’ll call,” Ky said. Tech Coston answered from the security office. She told him what had happened, what they needed.