Elizabeth Moon - Vattas 4 - Command Decision

Also by Elizabeth Moon

THEDEED OFPAKENARRION

Sheepfarmer’s Daughter

Divided Allegiance

Oath of Gold

THELEGACY OFGIRD

Surrender None

Liar’s Oath

PLANETPIRATES (WITHANNEMCCAFFREY)

Sassinak

Generation Warriors

Remnant Population*

THESERRANOLEGACY

Hunting Party

Sporting Chance

Winning Colors

Once a Hero

Rules of Engagement

Change of Command

Against the Odds

The Speed of Dark*

VATTA’SWAR

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Trading in Danger*

Marque and Reprisal*

Engaging the Enemy*

SHORT-FICTION COLLECTIONS

Lunar Activity

Phases

*Published by Ballantine Books

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Former Marine ELIZABETHMOONis the author of many novels, includingEngaging the Enemy,

Marque and Reprisal, Trading in Danger , the Nebula Award winnerThe Speed of Dark , and

Remnant Population , a Hugo Award finalist. After earning a degree in history from Rice University,

Moon earned a degree in biology from the University of Texas, Austin. She lives in Florence, Texas.

CHAPTER

ONE

Nexus II

Rafael Dunbarger landed at Nexus Center Port as Genson Ratanvi, a staid, slightly paunchy middle-aged

businessman in food service with a Cascadian identity. His tidy gray beard and gray-streaked hair, his

padded cheeks and aged skin, his sober business suit with a few lines of Cascadian green through its

subtle gray plaid all fit this image. Customs and Immigration passed him through, as his bioassays all

matched his identity—as well they should, Rafe thought. Short-acting DNA subs programmed with his

alter’s bioassays might give him a temporary headache, but that was a price he could pay. He had

obtained this first false ID at Cascadia more than a decade before, and he’d used it here several times,

on visits his family hadn’t known about.

The trip from Cascadia had been no worse than usual; he had spent the twenty-nine days chatting with

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other business travelers, exercising in the business-class gym, reading in the business-class lounge,

avoiding the gawking tourists and the family groups as his persona required, and carefully not thinking

about Ky or Stella Vatta. Ky was beyond his reach, probably dead; he could not tease Stella now, not

until she reached some equilibrium with her new identity.

Instead, he toyed with ISC’s problems. How had so many ansibles gone bad all at once? Surely not

chance…who had done it? Why was repair so slow? If he himself could restore function in a few hours,

why weren’t ISC’s repair teams making more headway? How deeply had the pirates infiltrated ISC?

Landing on Nexus II—he carefully did not let himself call it home—Rafe pushed that puzzle aside.

Genson Ratanvi needed to find a way to contact Rafe’s family, discreetly.

First he headed for the Ambisor, a commercial hotel frequented by business travelers where he had

stayed before; his minimal luggage trailed him on a rented hoverpad. Once installed in his room, he first

dealt with the hotel’s surveillance system and then installed his own unique gear. The hotel’s system

would now inform the hotel that Genson Ratanvi came in, bathed, slept, and went out, on a reasonable

but not too rigid schedule; it would believe anything he sent it, including remotely from his implant.

Pseudo-calls would be noted; pseudo-messages would be sent. Then Rafe called up the business

directory on the room display, marking the sorts of businesses he should, in this persona, mark, then

tapping the key to collapse the rest of the directory.

What he really wanted to know, he had noted in passing: ISC headquarters still had the same public

access number. Not that Genson Ratanvi had any reason to call there.

After a mediocre meal at the hotel’s café, Rafe headed out into the city. It was autumn in this location,

just after midday, local time. He drew a deep breath, anticipating and then enjoying the familiar fragrance,

childhood-deep in his memory. His favorite time of year, with apples ripe on the trees and the autumn

mushrooms mingling their scent with that of fallen leaves, even here in the city’s commercial district.

Probably every world had its characteristic scents, but he spent nearly all his time on ships and stations.

He felt a strange mix of nostalgia and fear: this was home, and home could be deadly.

The Number 161 tram still ran from the spaceport hotel district out to the northern suburbs; Rafe rode it

to the last stop, seeing little change from the last time he’d been here except that the long-delayed

northern extension of the freight monorail was finally in place. He got off in the bustling little market, now

full of school-children buying treats after school, and women—mostly employees, he knew—buying fresh

produce and meat for dinner.

He headed for Luce’s, sat down at an outside table, and ordered a slice of honeycake and tea with lime.

The lime came partly pared, a curl of peel holding it to the rim of the glass. He stared at it a moment.

Where was Ky by now? Off on that idiot attempt to build a fleet out of a bunch of untrained privateers?

His shoulders twitched. Dead. She must be dead by now; he was not going to think about her.

Except that she had shipboard ansibles and intended to use them. That, he had to think about, and

carefully, before he told his father. ISC must not decide she was an enemy. He owed her that much, just

in case she was still alive.

His portable security system informed him that—aside from the general surveillance designed to notice

and focus on suspicious activity—he was not observed. Humans were inattentive witnesses anyway, and

no one really cared about a middle-aged, slightly paunchy man quietly eating honeycake and drinking tea.

Nor would they care if he appeared to be talking to himself; almost everyone had an implant, and most of

those had skullphones.

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He activated his own skullphone and called his father’s private number. His father might be in a meeting,

might not answer at once, but—

“This number is no longer available. Please check the number you are calling and try again.”

Rafe sat very still, then made himself breathe normally. It had been years; the number was in his implant

files, but perhaps he had flicked the wrong one. That could happen. He entered it again.

“This number is no longer…”

He closed the connection and took a bite of honeycake. His father’s number was no longer available?

Had he changed it for some reason? That could be awkward; Rafe’s business persona had no reason

and no influence to get access to ISC’s chief executive. Surely his father hadn’t…died. Someone would

have told him. His mother would have, surely…

He activated the table’s local information file. His family’s home number would not be listed in such a

public place, but he remembered a lot of local numbers and he could see if there had been an overall

change. No. He did not have his mother’s private skullphone number, nor his sister’s, and he had not

wanted to call the house…all calls were recorded, and why would Genson Ratanvi be calling that

number? Call ISC headquarters? Use one of his other names? One of the names known to ISC’s internal

security? Very dangerous if someone there was crooked.

He found a useful number only two digits off his home—Flasic’s Bakery Supplies—and marked it on the

table’s list. Then he entered his own home’s number—a simple mistake, if anyone asked.

“Please state your name and reason for calling.” That was not a voice he knew, none of the household

he recognized, though his parents could have hired new servants since his last visit home. But the hair

rose on his arms. The link was hardbound, so that he could not simply cut off the call.

“This is Genson Ratanvi, just arrived from Cascadia,” he said in Genson’s voice, a prissy, plummy

version of a Cascadian accent. “I’m trying to reach Flasic’s Bakery Supplies…you are a purveyor of

custom-designed commercial bakery equipment and specialized mixes, are you not?”

“You have the wrong number,” the voice informed him. “Where are you calling from?”

It had to be official. Something was very wrong indeed. “From a place…er…Luce’s?…they have

honeycakes and lime tea.”

“And when did you say you arrived?”

“A few hours ago; my ship from Cascadia docked at Nexus Station yesterday.”

“Do not attempt to end this call. Just a moment.” The connection hummed and hissed. Rafe finished his

honeycake and sipped tea while he waited.

The voice came back, a little less strained. “You entered the wrong number, a seven instead of a five.

We have confirmed your arrival today. You may end this call now.”

“What is this about?” Rafe asked. “Is something wrong?” Genson would ask that.

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“It is no affair of yours,” the voice said; the connection broke.

“Would you like something else?” Luce’s proprietor, whom Rafe had known since childhood, stood by

the table, looking at him with suspicion but no recognition.

“It’s very good,” Rafe said, waving his hand at the crumbs on his plate. “But this is confusing. I need to

contact Flasic’s Bakery Supplies, and I entered the wrong number and someone was very rude to me.”

“We aren’t as formal as you Cascadians,” Luce said, picking up the plate. “Don’t assume we’re rude if

we’re not all flowery.”

“No offense intended,” Rafe said. So Luce knew he was Cascadian? Who had told him? “I was just

surprised. Do you know where Flasic’s Bakery Supplies is? Perhaps I should walk there instead of trying

to call. I don’t want to make more mistakes.”

Luce smiled. “I can take you there myself; I was going over to get the estimate on a new oven.”

Rafe doubted that, but he was willing to let Luce walk with him the several blocks to Flasic’s. Anything

to convince the ants’ nest he’d kicked that he was harmless and forgettable. On the way, he was able to

convince Luce that he knew something about bakeries; Luce didn’t seem to realize that it was mostly

Luce’s own knowledge that Rafe had picked up as a boy, being fed back to him in handy snippets.

Once in the store, he invented a problem with oven manufacturers on Cascadia, and inquired soberly

about the possibility of importing high-volume, precise-temperature-control ovens from Nexus. He had

shipping costs at his fingertips; he ran over the figures with the enthusiasm and thoroughness of any

businessman, and finally shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said to the sales representative who was

talking with him. Luce, he noticed, was still hovering across the room, trying to pretend a serious

conversation with another man. “It’s simply too expensive, even if we went straight to your

manufacturers. Perhaps we can hire some of your experts as consultants instead. I know ovens are

supposed to be simple, mature technology, but every time we try to scale up bakery output, we end up

with inferior product and unhappy customers.” He smiled at his sales representative. “Thank you for your

time; you were very helpful, and I’m terribly sorry I can’t promise a sale. You will forgive me?”

The man blinked at him. “No need to apologize, sir; it’s my job—oh…you’re from Cascadia, right?”

“Yes. I suppose we do seem overly formal to you—but that’s not intended as an insult.” Rafe had

always enjoyed his Cascadian persona; overblown courtesy could be every bit as deadly as biting

sarcasm, an art form with its lethal edges well concealed rather than exposed.

“Not at all,” the man said. “We’re a bit too direct sometimes, probably. It was a pleasure, sir.”

“And to me, as well.” Rafe stood up to leave, and was not surprised that Luce was also through, and

coming toward him, smiling.

“Success?” he asked.

“Alas not,” Rafe said. “Transportation is still too high. But don’t let me detain you; you have a business

to run.”

Luce seemed willing enough, once outside, to turn back toward his own place. Rafe went to an

information kiosk and looked up the manufacturers whose names he’d just learned, then called each one

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to inquire about offworld consultancy contracts. Since he could use the same spiel with each one, the rest

of his mind was free to wonder how long it would take to bore the man watching him from the café

across the street, and how soon he could evade his watchers.

By now it was late afternoon, time for workers to be coming home. Most people would be thinking of

food or entertainment or both, and so might a businessman from offworld. He bustled across the street

and interrupted a waiter at the café. “Where can a visitor get some…you know…?”

The waiter glared at him. “Food, drink, or sex?”

“I was thinking, dinner and a show—music, dance, something like that. Anything but my hotel room.”

“The Zedaiyah Dinner Theater’s about six blocks that way—” The waiter pointed with his elbow.

“Please excuse me; I have customers…”

Rafe’s watcher was easily close enough to overhear, even if he didn’t have a spike-mike. Rafe turned

away and headed “that way,” stopping several times to ask passersby if he was going in the right

direction. He’d been to the dinner theater once as a child, when they’d had a special children’s holiday

program: something with fairies and unicorns and a wicked witch flying through the air. They’d been given

all the candy they could eat, and he had been heartily sick on the way home. The next year, he’d refused

to go. He hoped dinner would be better this time.

On the way, he called his hotel on the skullphone and asked the concierge to arrange a ticket for him; it

was waiting when he came to the ticket office. He went in, while his follower had to stop and buy a

ticket, and looked around. Tables arranged in steeply pitched rows around the playing space, which

looked much smaller now. Emergency exits there and there…restrooms male and female…a stairway to

the balcony level. The bar to one side, where the early arrivals were gathered at small tables or standing

by the polished bar. He headed that way, showed his ticket to the usher, and chose a tiny table in an

alcove.

Two hours later, replete with a surprisingly good meal, he was eeling out the emergency exit without

tripping its automatic alarm. The business suit and certain other elements of his disguise were stowed in

the men’s room, behind a ceiling tile over one of the stalls. Handy that Nexus society, founded on

communication, still believed in privacy to the extent of having some completely enclosed stalls in every

public restroom. He wore a camouflage skinsuit, and in the soft autumn mist that always came up after

dark he had no trouble passing unseen through the town streets, then along the private road to his

family’s home.

He knew every centimeter of the road, every bush, every tree, every place someone could hide, every

surveillance device and its range and sensitivity. He was prepared to confuse, to fox the scans, to disable

some completely if he must.

He was not prepared to find the place uninhabited and unprotected except by its fence and hedge…and

one very obvious police guard at the gate. He got in unnoticed, which he expected, and into the

house—the empty house, with only a few dim lights on and all surveillance gear disconnected. The

furniture was still there, the gleaming tiles of the kitchen, the long polished floor of the grand salon, though

the leaves of the ornamental tigis drooped and the soil beneath it was dry. Tall bookcases in the library

still held their books, both modern and antique. The music room still held the priceless grand piano, the

concert harp, the cabinets full of music scores and recordings. A pale irregular area perhaps one by two

meters marked the floor, visible even in the dim light.

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He could not resist going upstairs to his old room, telling himself he might find some useful clue on the

second floor. He had suspected his parents would clear it, turn it into a guest room, but instead it seemed

unchanged, a wrenching time capsule. A crude model of an ansible platform, a school project for which

he had won an award when he was nine, still stood on a shelf, the faded ribbon beside it. Textbooks still

jammed the low bookcase. Even his clothes—including the uniform of the hated boarding school—were

still in the closet, carefully sealed in preservative packs.

For a moment, he leaned his head on the closet door frame, his breath coming fast and uneven. He could

not have said, in that instant, if it was rage or pain that wrenched so powerfully. He had been prepared to

have his life erased, removed utterly from his respectable family’s awareness, but they had

kept…someone had kept…so much. Even—and tears burned his eyes—the fateful display sword that

had saved his life and caused him so much grief.

He eased back downstairs and out of the house with his usual skill, while his emotions swirled…he had

not known, he had not understood. What he had not understood, he could not say; he wanted

desperately to see his father, talk to him. He forced that aside as he moved back across the property

toward the road. Whatever had gone wrong, he must not be suspected or captured now.

Reentering the theater at the climax of the second act, he slipped unobtrusively into the men’s room, into

the stall he had used, retrieved his costume and put it on over the skinsuit, and then—sticking a finger

down his throat—vomited into the toilet, noisily. It was easier than he’d thought it would be, and his face

was suitably pale when he looked in the mirror. He returned to his table at the intermission; a passing

waitress asked him if he felt all right.

“Too much travel,” he said, smiling at her. “My stomach—it is delicate, I’m afraid.”

“Should I call someone?”

“No…I should be all right now. But tell me—is it possible to get a private car to the port area? I don’t

know if I feel like riding the tram.”

“Of course, sir. Would you like me to arrange that now, or do you want to see the rest of the play? It’s

quite good—”

“I will try to stay, but—”

“Just press this button, if you need me,” she said, reminding him of the call button on his table.

“Thank you,” he said.

Through the third act of the romantic comedy, he tried to think rather than feel. He had expected a chilly

reconciliation or an angry rejection…not this blank nothingness of absence. Were they dead? Surely he

would have heard…but he had not been at his last reported address; he had been in space, much of the

time in FTL flight, utterly unreachable, for…more than half a standard year now. Perhaps they had died,

and no one could find him. Yet…why then the odd response to his call? And if they weren’t dead, where

were they?

He clapped with the rest when the show was over, and the waitress came over to check on him and tell

him she had arranged a car. He thanked her; he had already left a generous tip. His watcher was outside

on the steps, feigning interest in a poster advertising the show. Rafe leaned on one of the pillars until a car

drew up and the driver asked for “Gen-son Ra-tan-vi?” with the accent on the wrong syllable in both

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names.

The watcher stared fixedly at the poster—better than whirling around, but not much, Rafe thought as he

got into the car and gave the hotel name and address to the driver. He made no effort to lower his voice,

and besides, the watcher could always check with the car hire company. The paunchy foreigner had

indeed gone straight back to his hotel after being sick in the men’s room.

He lay a long time on the bed, wondering what to do next. The newsfeed in his room, its sound

automatically muted this late at night, had nothing about his family, and only the blandest announcement

that ISC was making good progress restoring ansible service. The talking head for that announcement

was Lew Parmina, his father’s closest associate and expected successor. Rafe remembered the

man—intelligent, sophisticated, affable—who had been his father’s messenger in the most difficult years

when his father had virtually disowned him. Parmina had counseled patience, had promised to do what he

could to mend the breach; he had sent friendly notes now and then with the remittance payments. He

looked much the same, with the well-groomed gloss of the successful man of business.

Rafe turned off the newsfeed. He didn’t care about Parmina unless the man had something to do with his

family’s disappearance. Which surely he did not: he was well up the ladder to the highest position in the

most powerful monopoly in human space; what more could he want?

Where was his father—his mother—his family?He felt as if a crevasse had opened up beside him and

half his universe had disappeared into it, as if he teetered on the brink of some bottomless pit. He

shivered and dragged the bedcovers over himself. It was like something Ky had said—tried to

say—about her family’s death. He had been so sure he knew how she felt, what it was she had to cope

with. An adult, someone who’d been out on her own…how bad could it be?

He had known nothing. As the shiver built into shudders, as he felt himself engulfed in a sorrow colder

than death itself, he knew that she had felt this: the last of her family, as he might well be the last of his.

Bereft, alone…and so much younger than he was, so much less experienced.

And she had gone on. He let himself hold to that, for the moment. That crazy idiot, that stiffly, stubbornly

upright prig of a girl, who shared with him a guilty secret delight in killing: she had not collapsed under this

sorrow. She had fought back. She had saved him—humiliating as that was—and Stella and Toby and her

ship and her crew, and gone on being who she was.

He was warm again, and able to breathe. She was probably dead by now, or soon would be, and

because of that it was safe to admit what he felt. To himself, anyway. And what would she do, in his

situation? He almost chuckled, imagining that dark, vivid face, those intense eyes. What he himself would

do—would find a way to do—when he’d had some rest.

What a team they could make, if they didn’t kill each other. If they didn’t each die before they met again.

And on that thought, he fell asleep.

The smell woke him. A chemical knife, it stabbed deep into his awareness; he was sitting bolt upright

before he realized he was awake.

That miserable implant. Ky. It must be Ky trying to use the cranial implant. He staggered into the

bathroom—the only logical excuse for waking so suddenly if someone had breached his security.

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Only the alarm functioned without an external power source. He did not want to link himself into the

room’s power outlets, and yet—he came out of the bathroom, checked his security devices, and

burrowed into his luggage for the special cables. He had checked the quality of the line signal and was

about to hook himself up when he had another thought.

What if it wasn’t Ky?

Here, of all places, someone knew that he had a cranial ansible. His father knew. The technicians who

had built and installed it knew. They were supposed to have been told that it had failed, that it was both

useless and dangerous, and all their notes and so on were supposed to have been destroyed, but what if

not?

What if whatever had happened to his family had let the enemies know not only that he had a cranial

ansible, but also how to contact him?

He would be immobilized, nearly helpless, as long as he was hooked in.

But if he didn’t hook in…

The hotel room had not been designed to be impenetrable, but he did the best he could, as silently as

possible, with the chair and the ottoman. Then he arranged the cables, took a deep breath, and activated

the ansible.

It was not quite like using an ordinary skullphone. Ordinary skullphones didn’t smell like gas leaks,

skunks, rancid butter, wet dog. The smell associated with being called changed to the one associated

with a connection being made. Then a faint sound he associated with an open line, nothing more.

Somewhere, someone’s telltales should have gone from standby to connected. Someone had placed the

call…someone should be speaking. Rafe said nothing. Ansible-to-ansible was not the same as

implant-to-implant; he could not strip data from someone’s implant this way even if they had the same

setup he did. Which he hoped no one but Ky Vatta did.

His only safety lay in patience—waiting out whomever had called.

Seconds passed. Minutes. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. If it had been someone friendly on the

other end, they’d have spoken by now. Ky, certainly. His father, if nothing was wrong with him. Anyone

else—would be trying to trace the signal? Would be planning to send some devastating blast right into his

brain? At least he knew—hoped he knew—that wouldn’t work. The safety interlocks prevented any

excessive power surges. Nor should they have been able to trace his location from the ansible’s

response. But no one who wouldn’t speak to him should have been able to initiate the call.

Finally he heard, dimly, voices talking. Not talking to him, but talking somewhere in the pickup range of

whatever unit they were using. He boosted the sensitivity, shunting the input to storage for later analysis.

“…the light’s green. It has to be connected.”

“…not in the index. A private ansible? Would he have had a private off-list ansible?”

“…knows? ’Sposed to be the son’s private number, but nobody’s there—”

“It’s connected.”

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“Could be in automatic mode. If it’s designed for relays or something.”

Three voices, Rafe decided. Too far from the pickup to tell much about them, at least without signal

analysis.

Then, loudly, “Hey! Answer me!” Male voice, not above middle age, used to having its orders followed.

Rafe said nothing.

“Got to be on auto,” the same voice said, this time in a normal tone. “I don’t hear a thing.”

“So he lied to us. Not his son’s number—”

“Or his son has it on auto but with no pickup message.”

“We should leave him a message,” a more distant voice said.

“Not until we know where he is,” the closest voice said.

The connection closed with a snap; Rafe sat a long moment without moving before he unplugged the

cable and re-coiled it into its place in his bag.

Two and two in this case made a very unsavory four. The most likelyhe to have told them the number

was his father. He would not have given that number except at great need, probably under duress. That

and the trap on the house number, the immediate tail put on what should have passed as an innocent

businessman, the empty house…all that suggested an organization with enormous resources, if not the

government itself, operating with the government’s consent if not approval. Remembering what Ky and

Stella had told him about the attacks on Vatta on Slotter Key, he wondered if the pirates had somehow

intimidated the Nexus government into letting them kidnap the head of ISC. Or if they had infiltrated

some group within ISC.

Not likely, he decided. The men had not sounded like expert ISC communications technicians; they’d

used none of the jargon peculiar to the trade. That meant they might not be able to trace the ansible relay

beyond Nexus and thus could not find him. On the other hand, they might have a skilled technician in their

organization, or even captive.

Either way, Genson Ratanvi and his food processing needed to disappear in a way that would not alert

anyone to anything. He would have to leave the planet, or appear to, on his way back to Cascadia. It

was almost dawn…an energetic businessman with a digestive upset might well be up and making calls,

hoping to find a place on a ship home. Then again—he’d been here only a day. Would he give up so

easily? No. Nexus had other cities, other suppliers. Surely the man would travel around, unhappy

stomach and all.

Rafe logged on to the hotel’s travel information site and soon had an itinerary that gave him a reason to

be in every major city over the next four weeks. He declined the hotel’s booking agency and made the

reservations himself, choosing to change carriers here and there. With excellent communications links,

Nexus travelers were spontaneous in their schedules; no one would notice particularly if someone on a

scheduled ferry or flight didn’t show up, especially if the passenger called in.

By the time Rafe came down to breakfast in his business persona, he had determined that the contact

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Elizabeth Moon - Vattas 4 - Command Decision

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