“No, I’m hoping it hits mine first. Stella, I’m serious. What’s the security setting at headquarters?”
“Highest. After last night, I called the late shift and had it raised.”
“Good. Have someone with you at all times, though I think they’ll go after me first.”
“Who? Why?”
“Miksland,” Grace said, answering the second question. “They’re trying to shut down all inquiries, military and civilian. Claiming there are dangerous diseases in a secret laboratory, and that Ky couldn’t have gotten in if she hadn’t known about the research beforehand. They’re trying to pin it on Vatta—claiming that we’re all plotting revenge for the earlier attack on us.”
“That’s crazy! We’ve never had anything to do with pharma or medical research… have we?”
“Not here. There was some research decades ago on using tik extracts, but it went nowhere and your father sold off the company. Doesn’t matter what the facts are, though; some people will believe anything. And there’s an offplanet Vatta company that produces pharmaceuticals… I don’t have the files here, but I think it’s where that boy you found lives.”
“Toby?” Stella’s breath caught in her chest. “His family?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that Miksland was an anthill waiting to be kicked, and we kicked it. Ky was there, she saw things, she kept records and reported. The evidence she submitted, though, has gone missing. The other survivors, except for your three, are locked down in multiple facilities on medical grounds—supposedly in quarantine—and I haven’t been able to locate all of them yet, let alone get them out.”
“I’ll check which pharma-related units are where, and warn the managers. And I’ll need to open the house briefly at least once every few days, because we need to use the real kitchen.”
“No more than three people unshielded at any time,” Grace warned. “I’m holding the entire team who showed up at your place for now, but we have no long-term confinement here. What worries me more is the disappearance of the evidence Ky brought back: the flight recorder, the bio samples, and the logbook of that fellow Greyhaus. Was it destroyed, or stored someplace—and if so, where? I should’ve insisted on making copies in my own office before she handed them over.” A pause that Stella did not interrupt. “I’m getting old, Stella, and apparently careless. But if I resign now, or if I’m fired, there’s no one to speak for Ky and the others that I trust completely.”
“Hang on, then,” Stella said.
“I will,” Grace said, and cut the connection.
Stella called up the Vatta extended files. Toby’s father was indeed employed by a subsidiary, VNR Technology, that manufactured reagents used in pharmaceutical quality control, and had a research section that did something Stella didn’t understand.
Vatta had two other subsidiaries, one located on the same planet and another on an orbital platform in the same system, involved with pharma. One was still doing research on tik extracts and had produced several marketable products. As it was then after midnight at Toby’s family home, she sent a text warning there, and to the managers of all three subs.
Her skullphone pinged.
“Stella, do you suppose we could hire a cook?” Ky sounded perfectly serious and also completely calm, as if they’d never had a quarrel. And what a ridiculous question, when real danger threatened.
“A cook? Why? We have the programming in the kitchen appliances.”
“Yes, but Rafe says he’s tired of program-cooked package meals. And so am I, and neither of us really enjoys cooking. You’re busy with the business. I thought maybe we could hire a cook—even part-time, or every other day or something—who could do it from scratch. From shopping to cleanup—no extra trouble for you, for instance. I know Aunt Helen likes to cook, but she’s off with the kids.”
“You have any idea what that would cost? We’ll talk about it when I get home.”
“Spoilsport,” Ky said. “I was hoping not to have to figure out how to defrost those green lumps in the freezer without having them go limp.”
“You spacer types,” Stella said. “You’re entirely too dependent on galley equipment. Cold water, put them in—wait, do you even know what green lumps they are? And how many?”
“Six of them, whatever they are; the label is smeared. They’ve got frost all over them. I thought we should use them before they got too old.”
“Maybe they already are,” Stella said. “Cold water for a half hour, until you can see the surface. If it’s mushy, discard. If not… oh, never mind, I’ll come home now and take a look.” And she could talk to Ky without fear of anyone listening in.
“Would you?” Now Ky sounded plaintive, a tone never natural to her.
“I can, today, but only for a few minutes. And we’ll talk about a cook.”
Stella looked at the clock after that conversation. “I’m going home for an early lunch,” she said to her secretary. “Cory Dansen won’t mind if I cut that appointment by ten minutes; it’s just that quarterly report that I’ve read and will approve and sign for. Ky’s trying to cook and she’s hopeless. You’d think someone her age would know how to steam broccoli or grill it, but she’s hardly been near a kitchen for the past sixteen years, so I suppose she’s forgotten. Call Sandy, please, and ask him to meet me at the car at 1145.”
“Yes, Sera.”
At home, she found the others crowded into the upstairs kitchenette with the makings of cheese sandwiches they’d taken from the pantry before sealing the house again. “That doesn’t look like green lumps,” Stella said.
“I gave up on them. They smelled funny. What about Barash? She says her mother taught her to cook, and if she has a good wig and a Vatta employee ID she shouldn’t trigger any doubts.”
“You want me to fake a Vatta Transport ID? All because you can’t cook broccoli?” And of course, Ky was giving her orders again. Stella pushed that thought down.
“I have other things to do,” Ky said. Stella felt her jaw muscles clench. “And yes, Barash could cook broccoli, but if she can go out, she can acquire things for the others with less suspicion than ordering them in.”
“Toasted cheese, with paprika and a pinch of cayenne,” Stella said to Barash, who was standing near the kitchenette’s mini-oven.
“Yes, Sera,” Barash said.
Someone had manners, Stella thought, and sat down at the table. She waited to speak until Ky had a mouthful of sandwich. “And while I’m waiting, more news from Aunt Grace. Serious trouble, she says; she’s got that team locked up for now, but can’t keep them long—no facilities there. None but the officer have knowledge beyond ‘these are fugitives and need to be caught.’ The officer knows more but has some resistance to the drugs.” Stella accepted a plate from Barash. “Now, your idea about having one of our guests pretend to be house staff—that makes sense, and allows everyone more flexibility, but it will take time to get her an ID. What color wig?”
“Brown, Sera.”
“That was your natural color? But I have no reason to be ordering a brown wig. If it was for Ky, it would be black; for me it would be blond. We’ll have to try some colors around your face, see what would work. Some people with brown hair have a skin tone that can handle a different color—Thank you,” as Barash slid a toasted cheese sandwich onto her plate.
Grace Vatta tapped her fingers on her desk, wondering what else she could do. Mac was on the way up from interrogating the uncooperative captain. The man had a block on the interrogation drugs they had handy. Her own inquiry into the whereabouts of the survivors was on someone’s desk—it annoyed her that she didn’t know whose. Her inquiry into the lost evidence had been halted at the level of a lieutenant colonel whose general, he said, was unavailable, in transit from Port Major to Hautvidor. Her new secretary, Pamela, was supposed to be contacting survivors’ families. Surely someone was home and available to talk. But not yet.