Rafe nodded. “And Vatta had refused to carry Quindlan’s cargo that they couldn’t give provenance for—that was long before, wasn’t it?”
“Right.”
“That time in the psych prison Ky told me about—did Grace ever get any treatment for combat trauma?”
“Apparently not.”
“She should,” Rafe said. “It helped Ky a lot.”
MacRobert looked at him and shook his head. “Rafe… you’re too young to understand some things, never mind what you’ve been through.”
Rafe bowed slightly. “My apologies.”
“Accepted. That Vatta lawyer’s stopping by later to talk to you about the progress on your own legal problems.”
Midmorning, Ky gave a brief press interview, at Joint Services Headquarters, along with General Molosay, Sergeant Major Morrison, and a representative from the Assembly. She let the others explain how the rescue plan had developed.
“But then you were rewarded by being named Commandant of the Academy,” said one journalist. “Isn’t that so? And is that not unusual, that someone not actually a graduate should be offered such a post? Or did you ask for it?”
“I will answer that,” General Molosay said, “since I made the decision.”
“I asked Commandant Vatta,” the journalist said.
“It was not a reward,” Ky said, “nor did I ask, or imagine it, until the general asked me to accept the post. When the former Commandant left secretly, it was understandable that the higher command would be concerned someone else at the Academy—the next in line for promotion, for instance—might be part of the same conspiracy, the one that kept the survivors isolated and in captivity.”
“But you—”
“But she had no connection with any of them,” Molosay said. “And she had combat experience, which most of our officers do not have. Plus familiarity with the Academy and its procedures. So for an interim appointment—and I stressed that it was an interim appointment—my staff and the government all agreed that she was both qualified in terms of military knowledge and stature, and completely unconnected with the current group of senior officers.”
“I see,” the journalist said.
“Next question,” Molosay said before the man could ask more.
Afterward, Molosay complimented her on her responses.
“The Public Affairs officer at the Academy coached me,” Ky said. “I could have used such coaching in the past—I know I ruffled feathers best undisturbed.”
“On another matter,” Molosay said, nodding toward the corridor that led to his office. “You have been busy over there, ferreting out bent officers and discovering most of the missing evidence. But have you had time to go over the items I sent with you that first day?”
“Frankly no, sir, I have not. Is there something that you want to brief me on?”
“Yes. Come on in—” He opened the door, then spoke to his aide. “Jerry, we’ll want something to drink and sandwiches; this may take awhile. Be sure the screening’s on max.” He waved Ky to a seat. “Do you have any information on the size of the conspiracy? Who else is behind it besides the former Commandant and this Colonel Stornaki you sent us?”
“I would bet on the Quindlan family, or some part of it,” Ky said. “While I was on Miksland, the Rector discovered some evidence that they had known about Miksland very early and had originated—or cooperated with—the plan to keep it secret. I’d always known our families were rivals in trade; what I didn’t know was that one of my ancestors refused to help one of theirs transport raw materials from Miksland and sell them—illegally—offplanet.”
“I’m more concerned about the military conspirators,” Molosay said. “You told us about Greyhaus; his logbook reveals that he was training military personnel chosen for their political bias and attachment to the Separatists, preparing for an insurrection funded in large part by those valuable ores being mined in the northern part of the continent. But such a conspiracy has to be bigger than a few officers and a few hundred disaffected soldiers. Even a large corporation like Quindlan, or a criminal organization like Malines—that’s not enough to pull off a successful revolt. Controlling the surveillance satellites so that in several hundred years they never reported what the surface was really like—?”
“The data could’ve been intercepted and falsified elsewhere,” Ky said.
“Not reliably for that long. And there’s this: you, as Commandant of the Academy, have other military duties that—worst case—might show up.”
“What’s that?” She hadn’t signed up for anything but running a military academy, definitely a full-time job. The sudden realization that though her word might be final in the Academy, she had someone above her in the command chain put a chill down her spine.
Molosay handed over a folder with the title of EMERGENCY ORDERS LOCAL. “The Academy is part of the Central Command’s Table of Organization. Normally that means nothing much. But in the event of an attack on Port Major, or any major emergency situation involving the capital, the Academy is tasked with protecting the seat of government. The ceremonial honor guard, though armed, may not be sufficient in the case of attack.”
Ky opened the folder and scanned the first few pages. “Has the Academy ever been called on?”
“Once or twice for urban riot situations, when the request for help came from the police. Never for protection from military attack. Even at the height of the Unification War, conflict never made it to this continent.” He looked at her as if expecting an answer.
“But now, since Kvannis hasn’t been captured, you’re worried. Any idea what troops he might turn up with?”
“Greyhaus’s bunch, for sure. They’d been moved to a northern base, but then dispersed, and now a number of them are AWOL. Right now it looks like somewhere between five hundred and a thousand, which isn’t anywhere near enough to win a war. Kvannis must know that. And I don’t know how many more there might be—two thousand? Three? Surely not more than that, at least not on this continent. But if they decided to hold the President hostage, occupy the Palace or Government House—”
“So… it’s my job to protect them with the ceremonial guard and cadets and staff? Is there an actual operational plan in here?” Ky tapped the folder.
“That’s a copy of what was written originally, with an update from maybe a hundred and fifty years ago. Not worth the paper it’s printed on, but you needed a copy. I know ground warfare isn’t your thing, and you were right to get your people out ahead of the trouble in Miksland, but I don’t have a spare thousand or so troops to lend you.”
“Any idea when this mysterious possible attack might take place?”
“No. But my gut tells me it’s coming. Not today or tomorrow, but if he’s got powerful and most of all wealthy allies in Port Major, it could be within a few tendays. There are riots in both Makkavo and Esterance; word is some ground troops have broken into the armory at Fort Jahren and marched toward Makkavo’s portside.”
“If we’re in your command, then how do we get more supplies?”
“Ask me, or my aide. We’re well supplied at the moment, so I can release ammunition, firearms—”
“Transport?” Ky asked. Molosay looked confused. “If there’s already an element of this conspiracy in the city, it would be stupid to march the entire cadet corps on foot across town to the government complex. They’ve had no training in urban maneuvers.”
“I’ll connect you with someone,” Molosay said. “I’m sure we have vehicles, but… do you have room to park them over there?”
“Some, certainly. I don’t know how many it would take. No Land Force background.”