Command Decision (25 page)

“It seems incredible…”

“Come up to the bridge,” Ky said. “I’ll show you.” As she came through from the passage, Hugh called the bridge crew to attention. Ransome looked around, by his expression impressed with the size and complexity of
Vanguard
’s bridge. “Take a look at longscan,” she said. “That’s
Bassoon
over there, see? What’s the scan range say?”

“Four point two minutes,” Ransome said. “So scan lag’s actually light-minutes…”

“Yes. Now—” Ky nodded at Hugh. “Let’s light up the ansible.” To Ransome she said, “We know what channels the pirates are using; we don’t use the same ones, even though transmissions are supposed to go only to the designated node.” She turned to Hugh. “Hail
Bassoon
.”

“
Bassoon
from
Vanguard
—”

“
Bassoon
here—”

“Testing,
Bassoon
. Confirm receipt of the following course data—”

“Confirmed receipt, returning—”

Ky glanced at Ransome. His mouth had dropped open; now it snapped shut.

“It—it really works! Ansibles on ships! Fantastic!”

“It really works, and I’m sure you can see the implications for military work—”

“Oh…yes,” he said. “We can reach each other instantly, anywhere…well, except nonspace…and—and coordinate maneuvers—it’s wonderful!”

“It would be more wonderful if we were the only ones to have it,” Ky said. “But at least we do have it; the pirates no longer have a monopoly on ship-to-ship instantaneous communication. Now—you need to know the technical details, how much power it drains, and so forth. That will help you decide whether to purchase—”

“I want it,” Ransome said, flushing a little. “I don’t care what it costs; if I have to refit my ships entirely, I want it. What fun it will be!”

“Here are the specs,” Ky said, handing over the hardcopy she’d prepared. “Do not—understand me, do
not
—discuss any of this on conventional com, do you hear?”

“Oh—yes. Of course.”

“Let your engineers look it over, decide if the ships need any modifications to handle the power drain, and then contact me again without mentioning anything openly. In fact, it might be better if we all went back to Adelaide for a…a final dinner party, say…”

“Of course. Brilliant,” Ransome said, glancing at the specs. “I must have this—I must—it
will
work, I’m sure of it.”

Back on Adelaide, with three of the remaining ansibles stuffed into Ransome’s ships—a job that had taken two and a half days—Ky transferred almost all the credits to the Vatta account at Cascadia, less the bank’s fee for transfer. The small remainder paid for the dinner she hosted for the captains and senior crew. The next day, they would set off for what Ransome insisted was “the adventure of a lifetime” and Ky hoped would be the next step toward victory.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Nexus II

Rafe had not believed he could sleep, but once he lay down on a cot in Gary’s underground headquarters to wait for his transport, the relief of the rescue sent him under. Gary woke him only two hours later.

“Sun’s coming up. Time to hit the road. You’re still a new helper in the business, same ID as what I gave you yesterday. We’re going to my workshop—”

“You really do make windows and doors? And why there instead of Balcock?”

“My people need salaries even when we don’t have a specialty job. And I have a legitimate small business within two hours of each of my…secure ops command posts, like this. The people at the nearest business don’t work that op. And so far, that’s worked for me. Enough chatter…you should pretend to sleep in the van. You’re lazy. Once we’re at the shop, you should have time for a real nap before you shower and change back into your Cascadia persona. We need to have you seen coming back to pick up your ID, which should be free by late afternoon. I’ll take you in, then you and I will head for the next transfer point. And don’t ask me where.”

“How are they? Have you heard?”

“Alive. Signs of maltreatment, but they’re not in danger of dying—at least not from that. They’re still being assessed. I know you won’t relax, but I don’t cut corners on medical stuff.”

By the end of that day, Rafe felt as confused as he hoped anyone trying to trace him was. Sid had driven the van to Gary’s shop—a typical light-industrial shop with ventilation hoods rising from its pitched roof. Everything about it looked completely legitimate, from the sign out front to the fence around the paved yard, where another van with the same logo and a heavier truck with a load of wood were parked. Inside, it smelled of sawdust and machine oil; saws screamed and routers snarled as at least a dozen workers, all in similar coveralls and wearing safety glasses and ear protectors, worked on what Rafe assumed were actual windows and doors.

Gary’s office, at the back, had a wide table piled with samples of wood, design displays, and paperwork; through a side door, there was a tiny efficiency apartment—a cot, a cooler, a bathroom with shower and toilet. In the afternoon, Gary appeared—looking rested himself—and Rafe, back in his Genson Ratanvi disguise, got into Gary’s car for the drive to the village. They arrived near sunset; Lilyhands met them outside the bar and handed over Rafe’s ID with a smile.

“Judicar got back this morning, Ser Ratanvi; she said to apologize to you for the inconvenience. And we all wish you the best.”

“You were most gracious hosts,” Rafe said. “And I do apologize for the misunderstanding.”

“I’ll be glad to run you into the city,” Gary said.

“That’s very kind,” Rafe said. Probably everyone in the village was in on the ploy, but it never hurt to be courteous.

From there, Gary drove him through the night as Rafe struggled out of Ratanvi’s disguise once more and put on the sweater, slacks, and wool jacket Gary provided. At a private airfield Rafe boarded a small craft, and spent two uncomfortable hours wedged between crates, and a pilot who never spoke. Outside, just before they landed in the early morning, he could see lower hills rising close to a wide brown river they seemed to be flying along. He spent the last leg of the journey locked in the back of a bread truck making deliveries, and obeyed the driver’s instruction to walk around from the loading dock and present himself at the front door of the clinic.

It reminded him unpleasantly of the Green Hills Center with its broad green lawns, its exposed public drive to the front, and the concealed drive up which the bread truck had come. On black glass doors etched with a pattern of leaves, the clinic’s name and specialty was embossed in ornate gold script:
ALARO CLINIC
.
SUBSTANCE ISSUES
.

Inside, behind a dark stone enclosure, a uniformed man gave him a sharp look and then opened the door beyond. “This way, please. You’ll want to see Doctor Alaro.” Tension knotted Rafe’s stomach. He trusted Gary; he had to trust Gary, but this could be a trap.

The hall beyond the door, carpeted in dull olive, appeared to stretch the depth of the building. A man came out of a doorway ahead and turned toward him. “Ser Dunbarger, isn’t it?” He was taller than Rafe, trim, with dark hair becomingly streaked silver.

“Yes,” Rafe said.

“I’m Doctor Alaro. You’ll have many questions, but you’ll want to see them first, I’m sure.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and led Rafe down the hall to a cross-corridor, then turned again. “We’re going down—there’s a lift just here—” The sign by the lift said
STAFF ONLY
, and it required a key. Once in the lift, Alaro kept talking. “There’s been no evidence that anyone knows they’re here. Apparently there’s quite a bit of activity up north, and in the northwest, but nothing to worry about. If you’re wondering, this is—most of the time—a private and very expensive clinic for moneyed individuals who habitually poison themselves with undesirable chemicals. We also take in the occasional wealthy psychotic who refuses treatment elsewhere.” The lift stopped; he led the way out. “Just down here…”

It looked like every hospital corridor Rafe had seen, very clean and—for something underground—very airy.

“Your mother and sister first; they’re conscious. Talk to them first, then come talk to me,” Alaro said. “There are decisions to be made. Be gentle; don’t try to interrogate them, but let them talk if they want to. When you’re through there, Doctor Kinjon will take you to your father. He’s assigned as your father’s primary physician while he’s here.”

Rafe’s mother and sister both wore thick fleece robes incongruously printed with bright pink flower shapes that looked ugly against the bruises. Following doctors’ instructions, Rafe kept his tone light and soft.

“Mother? It’s Rafael—”

“Rafe? Oh, my—” She burst into tears and reached toward him. Rafe moved closer and took her hands in his, careful not to dislodge her IV line. “Raffi, why weren’t you here? He could never have done it if you’d been here.”

“Shhh…” Rafe stroked her hands.
Don’t ask questions,
the doctors had said.
Don’t disturb her.
But she was already disturbed—how could she not be? “I’m here now, Mother,” he said. “And you’re safe.” She clung to him, her eyes still desperate. Rafe fought down the rage she must not see; his anger had frightened her so before.

“Is he…they won’t tell me…”

“Father is alive,” Rafe said. “He’s very weak.” How much to tell her? How much did she know, or guess? “He escaped; he tried to get out and find help, but it was too cold.”

“They hurt him,” his mother said. “They hurt all of us. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing—he was going to be CEO anyway—”

“Father?” Rafe asked.

“No, no! I forgot, you don’t know. Lew. Lucky Lew, your father called him. A fine young man, we thought. He always seemed like a fine young man…a good family, nice manners, a hard worker…I can’t understand it. Why—”

“I never liked him.” The voice from the next bed startled him. Rafe turned to look at his sister Penelope. Her dark hair hung lank and stringy beside a pale, gaunt face; she looked nothing like he remembered, or like the formal portraits displayed at home. “You told me how wonderful it was for Father to have such a reliable, competent successor, but his daughter was scared of him.” She looked at Rafe. “I knew her at school.”

“You never told me that!” Indignation lent a touch of color to his mother’s cheeks.

“I tried to. You told me not to meddle, that all children get crosswise with their parents on occasion.”

“They do, but—of course you couldn’t have realized. But Raffi—why did it take you so long?”

“So long?”

“You didn’t get your father’s messages?”

“No, nothing. That’s one reason I came back to Nexus to visit. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I tried to call and didn’t get an answer.” Best not tell her about the trapped phone connection; she didn’t need something else to scare her. “Then I went to the house, and it was obvious—”

“What—what did you find at the house?”

“My room,” Rafe said. He hadn’t meant to say that. “You kept my room the same.”

“Oh, Rafe…” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You saw…”

“I expected you to clean it out. You told me not to come back.”

“I knew you would,” she said. “I knew you would someday come to your senses and be our son again. And then you’d come home, and your room would be ready for you just as if…as if it had never happened.”

But it had happened, and all his life since, and theirs, had been changed forever that night the invaders tried to kidnap him and his sister, and a young boy had taken a lucky swipe with a display weapon and killed a man twice his age and size.

“I saw it,” Rafe said. “You even kept my old models. I wish you’d been there with me. Anyway, I didn’t know where you were, or what was wrong—just that something was.”

“They told him—your father—that they’d set traps for you, that you couldn’t possibly get through. Was it you who got us out? I didn’t recognize—”

“I hired the team,” Rafe said. “I wasn’t on it myself; I’m not trained for that.”

“I thought we were going to die,” his mother said. Her grip on his hands tightened. “I thought they’d kill us. I thought nobody would find us even if they were looking. He said they wouldn’t, that he had convinced the police it was for our safety that we were sequestered.”

“He convinced someone,” Rafe said.

“How did you know that we needed help?” his sister asked. “Or where we were?”

“The house, for one thing. The plants were dying. I couldn’t imagine Mother leaving the house without arranging for their care—in fact, without leaving servants there, if only to guard it from thieves.”

“Did you water them?” his mother asked. She had always loved her plants; the big tigis in the living room was her pride, raised from a nub only a finger tall.

“Mother!” his sister said. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“No,” Rafe said. “I didn’t. I could tell something was wrong; I was afraid if I turned on the water, it might bring…trouble.”

“You always were the smart one,” his sister said. “If I hadn’t been so scared that time—”

“You were only a little kid,” Rafe said. “Of course you were scared.”

“You were only eleven.”

“Eleven-year-olds are big kids,” Rafe said. “At least, eleven-year-olds think so. Penny, don’t feel guilty, please. None of this is your fault.” Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks; he couldn’t stand it. “I’m going to check on Father,” he said. “I’ll be back.”