“I-I’m not entirely sure,” Gerard said. He hated saying that; as CFO, he should be able to give precise figures. But his office, like his home, was a smoking hole in the ground, and he was finding it increasingly hard to think clearly. “More than I have myself, I know that. But I wanted to determine if you were willing, first—”

“I am,” came a voice from the corner. Gerard had almost forgotten Stella Vatta Constantin, Helen and Stavros’ younger daughter. The others turned toward her. “Don’t stare like that,” she said. “I screwed up once… just once… and you all thought of me as that idiot Stella from then on, right?”

“It’s not that—” Gerard began. Stella interrupted.

“Yes, Uncle Ger, it is. Just as you all thought of Ky as the gullible one. The thing is, I care about this family as much as anyone else. More than some. And I think Ky has more sense than you realize. I’m willing to bet my last credit on Vatta. How about the rest of you?”

“Some of us have families…” That was Vasil Turolev, whose Vatta wife and children had survived.

“Some of you are lucky,” Stella said, before Gerard could get his jaw unlocked. “So are you going to kick your luck in the teeth and run away?”

“I have to think about them,” Vasil said. “What will they live on if I do, and it fails?” Vasil’s wife shook his arm and muttered in his ear. When he looked away, she spoke up.

“I’ll put in mine,” she said. “Celia Vatta.”

“Mine, of course,” said Gracie. “Vatta will survive.”

“I certainly hope so,” Gerard said. He did not feel confident at all, and the pain clouded his vision; the stimulant dose he’d talked the doctor into was wearing off. “And we need to decide how to distribute the database we have…” His head rolled sideways; he couldn’t point to his implant without moving an arm, which took too much effort. “Stav’s was destroyed; I think mine should be duplicated… find Ky… tell her…” He could not keep his eyes open; the post-stim crash rolled over him, sucked him into darkness.

“Stella, dear, I need to talk to you…” Gracie’s voice stabbed his ears even as he drifted off. By the time she lifted his cranial flap and removed his implant, slipping it into the protective case with its nutrient bath, he was unconscious. He did not hear the family disperse, the low-voiced decision to bring a medical team here rather than move him. He did not regain consciousness before the emergency surgery, before his death.

Gracie Lane Vatta moved about the kitchen, mixing dried and candied fruits, nuts, flour, sugar in a large bowl, while the kitchen’s owner greased and floured deep pans.

“I can’t believe you’re making fruitcake now!” Stella Vatta Constantin said. The other woman, who had been introduced to her as Louise, glanced up and then continued her work. “People have died, others are dying, and—”

“Stella, I appreciate your sentiments, but if you make me forget the recipe these will be even viler than usual. Put that” —she nodded at the sealed implant case that held Gerard Vatta’s implant—” in one of those insulated bags.”

“You are not going to put it in a fruitcake and bake it! It’ll destroy it!”

“No, it won’t. I’ve done this before. There’s dual protection; the implant case itself is insulated, and the bag will give it another thirty minutes at baking temperatures.” Gracie looked blank, then began dumping spices into the batter. “The thing about fruitcake, Stella, is that no one thinks it’s anything but fruitcake. An aunt’s fruitcake is one of the most innocuous substances in the universe. It fairly reeks of family duty, stuffy traditions. You know about cover. How else could someone carry a highly valuable implant—”

“You’re taking it somewhere?”

“No, my dear. You are.” She glanced at the other woman. “Louise, could I trouble you to fetch the bottle of rum that’s in the guest room, the one I sent Pauli out for earlier?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Louise left the kitchen. Gracie moved closer to Stella.

“Stella, we can’t have just one copy of the command database. I’ve got one now; I’m not giving you one in case… in case someone tries to pry into yours. This is for Ky. I’m sure you can find her. She was going to Lastway as a final destination after Belinta. She’ll end up there sometime. But you won’t go directly there. I’ve got a courier drop for you to get to ISC headquarters. You’ll leave tomorrow morning, and you’ll travel as you have before. Legal representative, not family.”

“Right,” Stella said. “With a fruitcake.”

“With several fruitcakes. All reeking of rum.” Gracie finished stirring the batter. “I know I forgot something…”

“Vanilla?” Stella asked.

“Vanilla… no… not in the recipe. Something Gerry said, back at the house. Too much too fast… I should’ve been recording…” She shook her head. “I hate age. Wisdom—assuming you gain any—is not enough to trade for the youthful ability to stay up two days running and still remember things. Here, put the implant case into this pan; balance it on these little pins. And this little packet in the other. And for goodness’ sake, remember which is which.” The batter slumped into the circular pan, then the rectangular one, filling them, hiding the contents as Gracie nudged it around with a spatula. “Now—into the oven with them.”

Stella put the cake pans into the oven just as Louise returned with the bottle of rum. The three of them sat around the table until the cakes were done and cooling on racks.

“Better get to bed, Stella,” Gracie said. She fought off her own exhaustion. She had things to say to Louise, things to do, secrets still to keep, even from Stella. The girl—woman now—had come a long way. She had proved herself before now. And she was the only one who might—might—be able to do what Gracie considered essential.

In the predawn dark, Stella came back into the kitchen, dressed in the sober business suit that fit her cover story, her golden hair dulled with a rinse and slicked back into an unbecoming knot. Nothing could obscure her cheekbones, but makeup subtly denied the obvious beauty, masking the flawless skin with vague blotchiness. Gracie looked her over carefully. “Good job, my dear,” she said at last.

“Will you be all right, Aunt Grace?” Stella asked.

“Me?” Grace said. She allowed her smile to convey her intent. “Oh, yes, Stella, I will be all right. Very much so.”

Stella’s expression shifted, but she had been well trained; she did not even look at Louise as she said, “Do take care, Aunt Grace; I’ll miss you.”

“And here are your fruitcakes, Stella.”

“Aunt Grace, I don’t really need—”

“Of course you do.” Grace handed her the sack. “And there’s a little something in there for you, too, Stella.” A packet of diamonds, that most useful portable currency. Stella already carried some, in the pocketed camisole under her blouse, but it was impossible to have too many diamonds. “Lunch for your journey.”

“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Stella said, and hugged her lightly. Then she was gone, and Grace, already packed, left the house by another entrance, to meet another driver. En route to her next destination, she stopped briefly to make a call from a shielded site. Just before dawn was a fine time to wake a traitor, to whisper into his ear, “You will regret this…”

Gammis Turek read the reports with satisfaction. They had calculated correctly: they had beheaded Vatta Enterprises, and chopped off more than enough limbs. The Slotter Key government had been cooperative in rendering no more aid. What was left of Vatta would be harmless, the disconnected twitching limbs of what had been a formidable creature. They had missed the daughter, but she was a minor target anyway, and she was on a small, slow, unarmed ship. If he wanted her later, he could take her.

He placed the call to the Slotter Key presidential palace, aware that the very existence of the call would puzzle and alarm them.