Marque and Reprisal (3 page)

The aircraft they were in, escorted by Slotter Key military aircraft that did not make her feel as safe as she would wish, flew not to the capital but to her private residence near Corleigh Town. She had balanced the greater protection the government already provided to the capital with the vulnerability of several hours over open water… with the ease of tracking aircraft from space… with Gerard’s condition.

Who had done this? Why? And why do it this way, an open declaration of war not only against Vatta, but also against Slotter Key? What was the message here? Would there be more attacks, and when, and where?

Her implant, customized for her work, laid out for her the information so far obtained, in the usual matrix. What resources were implied by the choice of weapons, the choice of launch site. What conditions were necessary for the attack to succeed, what were the pinch points in the execution where it might have been frustrated. Which known enemies of Vatta or Slotter Key had such resources.

Working through the usual routine of analysis held off, for the time being, the shock she knew was hovering just overhead. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. These things didn’t happen in real life, to ordinary people. She knew better. She had seen war before; she knew its terrible thirst for death, for the destruction of beauty.

By the time the plane landed, she knew this attack could not have occurred without help from somewhere in the Slotter Key government. Her anger spread from herself and the attackers to that as-yet-unnamed traitor. Someone had kept Spaceforce from reporting a shuttle dropping from a ship in orbit, or someone had deep-sixed the report. Someone had kept the satellite surveillance from reporting that installation on Bone Island. Someone—someone here, within her reach—had connived at the attack, had wanted to destroy her family, her life.

Gracie Lane Vatta smiled to herself, a smile that old enemies, now long dead, would have remembered. The enemy had won the initiative. The enemy had caused great damage. No doubt the enemy was dancing or laughing or in some other way enjoying the triumph. But Gracie Lane Vatta would wipe that smile off the enemy’s face, stop that dance in its tracks, stuff the laugh back down the enemy’s throat. She could not do it all by herself, and her resources at present were limited. But at least the traitor or traitors on Slotter Key… those she could reach and those she would take care of, whatever else happened.

The voice in Gammis Turek’s earbug said what he expected to hear: “—unexpected attack on our citizens. Outrageous. Can’t be tolerated—”

But they would tolerate it. They would do nothing effective, while pouring out torrents of words, because they knew what he knew, that they could do nothing. Their fancy Spaceforce, so shiny and proud, could do nothing because they had no way to operate outside their own system. Their privateers, so hated and feared, could do nothing because they had no command structure. Slotter Key had dealt with the rest of the sector in its own way: arrogantly. A combination of cheeseparing caution—using privateers for outsystem operations cost less than funding a real space navy—and exuberant flouting of the rules, such as they were, that governed such uses. No other planetary system would come to their aid just because one of their richest corporations had suffered a terrorist attack.

Time for turnabout. Time for reversals. Time for Slotter Key to realize that, just like Vatta Transport, it didn’t have any recourse. It might be only a side issue in a greater war, but it was a side issue that gave considerable satisfaction to some of its allies. He didn’t doubt that in five or six years, the Slotter Key Spaceforce could be a force to reckon with, but it wasn’t now, and now was all that mattered.

“You listen to me,” he growled at the voice; it stopped in midword. “You will do nothing. The time has changed, and Vatta serves us well as a warning to others. Stay away from them. Give them nothing. Anyone near Vatta will fall in the same catastrophe.”

“But they’re our—”

“They’ve supported you and your party, of course we know that. They think you owe them something. Well, it won’t be the first promise you’ve ever broken.” Gammis had a list, in case it should become useful.

“But—”

“If you move against us,” Gammis said, “we will destroy not just Vatta, but Slotter Key, as well. We have the ships. We have the weapons. Ask your Spaceforce—go ahead. They’ll tell you. We have many allies who would enjoy seeing your presidential palace a smoking hole just like Vatta headquarters, who would be delighted if your people died of plagues or starvation.” He paused; the jittering voice in his ear said nothing. He let his voice soften. “And there is, of course, something positive to be gained by freeing yourself of Vatta’s trade domination. If Vatta takes the fall, trade will not be interdicted… it’s just that someone else will profit from their tik plantations…”

Silence continued. Gammis counted seconds. They would take the bait, but how long would they think about it?

“Vatta,” the voice said, this time calmly, “has done nothing to deserve this. If you had attacked privateers—”

“Hitting the innocent is a more effective warning,” Gammis said. Not that Vatta was entirely innocent. They had stupidly supported InterStellar Communications all these years; they had reported suspicious ships and persons… and besides, it was one of their own who betrayed them, who urged that they be made an example. In the longer plan, in the greater scheme of things, that one would surely fall since he could not be trusted, but in the meantime he was useful, worth doing a favor for. “You will do nothing,” Gammis said again. “If you want your government to stand.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to explain…,” the voice said.

“You’ll figure something out.” Gammis cut off the connection.

“Will they behave?” his second in command asked. “Or will they leak?”

“They’ll leak in time,” Gammis said. “Vatta’s got supporters on their own world. But they have no way to spread the word. They don’t realize it yet…” He chuckled, and his second in command grinned back at him. This was the way they should have done it from the first. The Sabine mess had been a big mistake; Gammis conveniently ignored the fact that he had voted to blow the ansible platforms. This time… this time they had a better plan. He knew the coalition wouldn’t last forever, but for now, for the length of time it would take to bring down InterStellar Communications and consolidate the power they needed, it would hold.

They didn’t have to kill all the Vattas, whatever that idiot said. They only had to kill enough, at once or within a short interval, enough to shock and terrify the rest: Vatta and non-Vatta shippers, Slotter Key and other planetary governments. No more little bangs, no more sporadic raids. One big paralyzing, terrifying, enigmatic explosion… He grinned wider. He could just imagine the frantic scrambling, the panic spreading through Captains’ Guildhalls, government offices, corporate headquarters, all across this sector. Everyone trying to figure out who, and why, and what would happen next. He and his allies were the only ones who knew the answer.

By the time they figured it out, if they ever did, it would be too late. He knew all about Slotter Key’s President; the President didn’t even know his name. Someday everyone would know it.

Ky checked in at the Captains’ Guild and took her duffel up to her room while her escort waited. It took only a few minutes to unpack and freshen up. She would take the paperwork to the Economic Development Bureau first, and then pay her courtesy visit to the Slotter Key legation. With any luck, she could have the afternoon free to start looking for cargo. She’d downloaded a list of recent shipments, but Belinta’s exports didn’t match well with her understanding of what would sell at Leonora. Lastway was a mystery; from the records, its markets went up and down dramatically, depending on what preceding ships had delivered.

At the Economic Development Bureau, she handed the paperwork to a bored clerk and received the confirmation of the final funds deposit in the Vatta account. She was almost back to the legation when her escort turned to her.

“Captain, there’s an urgent message from the Captains’ Guild. Your ship wants to contact you, and you have no implant.”

“Call the legation and tell them I may be delayed,” Ky said. “We’ll go to the Captains’ Guild.”

Only a few minutes later, she was in a secure communications booth in the Captains’ Guild lobby, talking to Quincy aboard
Gary Tobai
. “Slow down,” she said finally. “I thought it was cargo thieves and now you’re telling me it’s sabotage?”

“The station police say it is. Was going to be. They found our cargo—the original, part of the consignment to Leonora—in a utility closet. They’re sure it’s the same; it’s got the consignment IDs on the tape. But what was in the container that fellow loaded was a time-delayed explosive. They said it could have blown up the ship. And part of the station if we’d still been docked. If I hadn’t noticed—and I almost didn’t, he was just a dockworker, I thought—Captain, we could have been killed—!”

“But you did spot him, and we weren’t,” Ky said. Her mind whirled. Sabotage was not unknown, and Paison’s allies might consider that they had a motive. They knew—anyone who followed the news stories would know—where she was going when she left Sabine system. But Belinta was an unlikely place for an ambush, she’d have thought. Well out of the way, small, little traffic, an insular, suspicious culture. It would have been more cheaply and easily done somewhere else.

“They want us to leave,” Quincy went on. “For our own safety, they’re saying, but I can tell they’re scared.”

So was Quincy, by her face and voice, and no wonder. “A good idea,” Ky said. “How close were we to finishing loading?”

“Another six to eight hours.”

“It will take me that long to get back up to the station,” Ky said. “Unless I charter a flight.” Would that be reimbursable as a legitimate expense, under the circumstances? “I’ll let the consul know something’s come up, and forget looking for cargo.”

“Don’t forget to report this to headquarters,” Quincy said.

“Headquarters?”

“All material threats against Vatta ships—you’ll need to give them an ansible call right away. So if it’s more than local, they can warn other ships.”

“That seems a bit extreme,” Ky said. “I think it’s probably something to do with Sabine; it shouldn’t affect anyone else.”

“If you had the Vatta implant, it would be in emergency procedures, Captain. Piracy, sabotage, anything like that. Call headquarters immediately—I would have, if I hadn’t been able to raise you within the hour.”

“You still could—” Ky began.

“No, it’s captain’s responsibility; they’ll want to hear from you.”

“I should wait until I’m up there and have the report from the police,” Ky said. “They’ll ask questions I can’t answer—”

“Immediate notification is the priority,” Quincy said. “It’s in the implants.”

If she did what she planned, she’d never have the Vatta implant. Wrong time to think about that, though. “All right. I’ll call right away, then see how soon I can get back up there. Once you’ve got the ship loaded, button us up. Will the police put a guard on our dock space?”

“Yes. There’s one out there now.”

That was a help. She hoped that was a help.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said, and signed off. Now for the ansible call home. Belinta’s ansible-access procedures worked normally, the status lights blinking appropriately through their sequences. She had no idea what time it would be at Vatta corporate headquarters, but it didn’t matter. They had someone on duty in the communications suite at all hours. The green lights blinked three times, and the screen lit, but showed no image.

“Vatta Headquarters,” a voice said. “This call originated on Belinta. You are Captain Kylara Vatta, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Ky said. This didn’t sound like standard procedure. “Are you transmitting visual? This screen is blank.”

“Link your implant for urgent download,” the voice said without answering her question.

“I don’t have an implant,” Ky said. “What is it? I was going to report a threat—”

“Uh… go ahead. Report the threat.” She heard voices behind the voice she was listening to, as if the sound shielding weren’t on. She couldn’t quite hear what they were saying.

“Unknown persons posing as dockworkers attempted to load an explosive device onto my ship,” Ky said. “The ship is safe and undamaged, but they got away.”

“Understood,” the voice said. “We have a situation here, too, Captain. We are sending a warning to all ships; there appears to be the possibility of multiple threats to Vatta personnel.”

“What kind of threats?” Ky asked.

“I… am not at liberty to say,” the voice said.

“Could you connect me to my father, please?” Ky said. She would find out more from him than from some communications tech. “Gerard Vatta? Or my uncle?”

“Uh… I’m afraid that’s not possible at this time,” the voice said.

“Why?” Ky asked. “He’s got his skullphone.”

“He is…” A pause. “He is temporarily unavailable. Your message will be forwarded immediately and I’m sure he will want to speak with you.”

Cold swept over her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You said a threat—what’s happened?”

“Captain—” Another pause. “It is not for me to say. There is a Situation.”

“Are the senior officers all right?” Ky asked.

“I believe so, yes.” Something in the voice conveyed doubt, not assurance.

“But you aren’t sure—”

“It’s the—” The screen blanked, and the status light went to yellow, blinking. SIGNAL LOST. DO YOU WANT TO RECONNECT? Y/N appeared instead. Ky sat back; she could feel her pulse racing. Whatever had happened had happened—instantaneous communication or no, whatever it had been was over. She could do nothing about it. She would try a direct call to her father—much more expensive, but at the moment money didn’t matter.

She cracked open the booth door to let her security escort know that she would be making more calls, but before the door was fully open she saw a trio of masked figures push through the inner door of the lobby, weapons out. Her escort, standing at the desk chatting with the assistant manager, whirled, but too late: he was dead and so was the assistant manager before either of them could push a panic button. Ky ducked back into the booth, but did not latch the door; that would turn on the ENGAGED light. Instead, she held very still.

“What room?” she heard one of the intruders ask. A mumble, then the same voice said, “Upstairs.” An instant of relief. She eased around to peek out the door. One of the figures was crouched over the bodyguard, going through his pockets. No chance then to run out the door and get help. She could almost feel the blow in her back if she tried it. But once they found she wasn’t in her room they’d search the place, including this booth.

The booth held nothing she could use as a weapon. The booth could not be used for local calls—and would not function anyway without the door being latched, at which the telltale light would come on. All this ran through her mind, a cascade of logic that came down to one conclusion—and she was already in motion when she became aware of it.

The masked figure frisking the dead guard had his back to her at the moment—five strides took her across the lobby. Three before he noticed anything and whirled, but she was already moving so fast that his hasty shot missed, and she was on him. Primary disarm—the weapon flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. Her chop at his throat met a hard surface; he wore armor under his clothes. He uncoiled a vicious kick; Ky evaded it, whirling and noticing the movement of his left hand toward his side. The next weapon—instead of trying to intercept that movement, she dove toward the dead guard, snatching his weapon as part of a sideways roll, and shot her attacker square through his mask before he had his weapon all the way out. She recognized the stab of emotion that passed through her, sharp and sweet; a wave of guilt followed:
Not again.
She shook it away.

Seconds had passed. They would be at her floor now. They would be opening the door. And how many were left outside, in case she managed to escape and try to flee? If she’d had an implant, she could have called for help by now. Ky reached over to the reception desk’s outside line. It hummed, and she punched in the local emergency code. A faint rhythmic buzz… three, four, five. Behind the reception desk was the office—she hadn’t been in it, but brief glimpses when the clerk came in and out suggested the usual work space, which might or might not have another exit. The corridor to the left led to the dining room, and from there to the kitchens and presumably another exit, which might also be covered by the assassins. But offices, dining rooms, and kitchens had lots of hiding places. Which…?