Trial by Fire

Chapter Thirty-Three

Downing glanced up at the mission clock: 2120.01.12 Z1006.48 local. Twelve seconds to go.

The commo officer’s voice called the last warning. “Coming up on projected signal reception: ten seconds.”

He turned to Alnduul. “You can tell when an interstellar superstring is perturbed by a shift drive, even at this range?”

“Yes, but this is true only if we know which superstring to monitor and if the phenomenon is, fundamentally speaking, local. Theoretically, one should be able to detect a perturbation of a superstring anywhere along its ‘length’ at the instant it occurs, for the string has no dimensions as we understand them.”

Downing frowned. “That would seem to hold out the possibility of almost instantaneous communication, regardless of distance.”

“So many have hoped. But the technology to do so remains elusive.”

Considering that the Dornaani had had—at least—several thousand years to identify the necessary technological fix, Downing put this option from his mind.

Commo officer John Campbell of the Australian Air Force nodded at his control panel. “And—mark. Projecting that transmission has been received by the shift-carrier Tankyū-sha Maru at a range of three point five light-days.” He turned to Downing. “And now, sir?”

“And now, we wait.”

Evidently, they were not going to have to wait for long. Alnduul’s associate made a finger-streaming gesture. The Dornaani leaned their heads together. Alnduul listened, his lids fluttered. He straightened, looked at Downing. “The Tankyū-sha Maru has now entered shift space as per the instructions you sent on January eighth.”

Which meant that it was already at its destination and sending the signal that would activate the final, fateful phase of Case Leo Gap. Either that or a freak drive failure had destroyed the Tankyū-sha Maru and, with it, any hope of retaking the Solar System. Downing tried not to swallow audibly. “Lieutenant Campbell, please check the light-pins in the Dornaani holosphere’s close-up of Jakarta. Are our delivery assets for Case Timber Pony currently in striking range?”

The young lieutenant from Perth studied the alien device for a moment. “Confirmed in range, sir. The green one is within the optimum activation footprint now. The other two are within five kilometers.” The young Perther looked up. “Orders, sir?”

Downing felt the collective eyes of his staff, the veteran security detachment, and even the Dornaani upon him. He swallowed. “Set the infiltration units’ final assault clock for three hours. Send the word to the irregular units that they will go active along with the preparatory barrage in ten minutes, but to await a final confirmation before jumpoff.” Because if the interstellar cavalry fails to come over the hill by then, a general ground attack will be suicide.

“Messages sent to all units, sir.” The Aussie continued to look at him, unblinking, waiting.

Downing closed his eyes—and saw Nolan’s smile. He smiled back. It was always your show, old boy. We’ve just been playing the notes you composed.

Downing opened his eyes. “Start the clock. And let’s get ourselves airborne. We will soon have a battlefield to assess.”

Tygg, his hand covering the ear bud connected by wire to a short-range pager, muttered, “They’ve started the clock.”

Trevor glanced at him. “Just now?”

“Yeh. Well, a few seconds ago, given the delay between the ground repeaters from the Sundas to here. The general festivities start in ten minutes. Our own special party starts in a little less than three hours. Unless everyone gets waved off.”

“Does that give us enough time for a stealthy approach?” Trevor looked out the window, saw the minarets of the Istiqlal Mosque rising up across a short stretch of the Merdeka Square.

Tygg checked his watch. “Should. Our mob is ready to gather at the head of the assault route.”

“Okay, then let’s get our own teams moving into place. Page mine along with yours, will you?”

“Already done. How do the Roaches and Sloths look? Antsy?”

Trevor raised his binoculars, made sure the laser rangefinder was off, scanned the recently walled complex that rose up beyond the Indonesian Supreme Court building which lay just to the west of the presidential palace. He looked for signs of activity at that part of the enemy perimeter. Nothing out of the ordinary. Trevor bit his lip—

Tygg’s voice was low, closer to his ear. “Thinking about the inside team again?”

“It shows?”

“Might as well wear a sign, mate. Look, the resistance agents in the compound’s domestic staff placed the breaching charges themselves. They know to stay away as much as possible.”

“Yeah, but we have no way to warn them, no way to tell them that the clock is running.”

“Which they knew when they volunteered.”

“Cold consolation.”

Tygg’s voice was lower still. “Listen, Trevor, regardless of what you Yanks like to think, and the way you try to run your ops, not everyone has a reasonable chance of survival. And you don’t always get to fight the war you planned, eh?”

Trevor looked up balefully. “You mean like the war where we assumed we’d have C4I dominance, GPS redundancy, and orbital weapon guidance?”

“Yeah, that one. But this is the war we got, instead. And it’s the war that the team inside the compound got, as well. Today, they’ve drawn the short straw and the dirty job. Tomorrow, or sooner, it might be you who has to walk point, or be bunkmates with plastique.”

“I know, Tygg. I’ve been there myself. I just hate seeing it happen to others. Particularly civilians.”

He felt the tall Aussie’s hand come down on his shoulder. “You’ve a big heart, Trev, so big that it’s blinding you to something.”

“What’s that?”

“There aren’t any civilians anymore. Not until we kick the last of these damned exos off our world.”

Trevor lowered the binoculars, said, “You’re right,” and wished Tygg wasn’t. Trevor turned, smiled at the slightly younger man. “Well, I don’t suppose we should waste any time. Let’s gather the troops.”

“You wished to see me?” As one, the room’s occupants turned from the holotank to look at Caine.

Darzhee Kut clattered forwards. “Caine Riordan, my apologies that I have been unable to share roof with you these past three days. I have been quite busy.”

Caine scanned the room, saw Yaargraukh, the Hkh’Rkh Advocate with whom he had become friends at Convocation. The smallish Hkh’Rkh stared at him without any acknowledgment. Probably because I’m too politically toxic.

However, First Fist had reared up to his full height and his crest was not merely erect but puffed out like a long fur stole saturated with static electricity. He pointed at Caine. “I will not suffer to be in the same room as this zhkh’grsh’hak’k.”

Evidently, this was an insult so profound—or intricate—that the translator could not process it. Caine looked down at Darzhee Kut, whose polyps writhed once. The Arat Kur equivalent of an “I dunno” shrug.

Yaargraukh’s voice was flat. “In your language, this would specifically refer to a courtesan who makes herself the property of one Family’s Lord, so that she may poison him in order to become the courtesan of a rival Family Lord. Only to repeat this process with yet another, greater Family Lord.”

Trading up, Borgia-style. Caine cast about for an oblique retort to Graagkhruud’s insult, but let it go. Not smart, and besides, they brought you here for a reason.

Something was going on. He could sense it in the way they were all clustered around the holotank, had been so intent on its contents that they had not even heard the door admit Caine and his Arat Kur guards. He returned his attention to Darzhee Kut, “This day, Speaker Kut, you seem busier still. May I be of some assistance?”

“We think so. Please come and view the holotank.”

As Caine came close to the tank, he bowed toward the senior Arat Kur. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam, I presume. I have heard your name sung, and am honored to meet you.”

Hu’urs Khraam bobbed in return. “You know our greetings; this is well. Harmonies, Spokesperson Riordan. Forgive my inability to greet you as cordially as I would wish, but tell me”—he waved a claw in the direction of the holotank—“what do you make of this?”

Caine looked. Bright yellow motes ringed the Earth in various orbits, a few others near the Moon and at the Lagrangian points, several more distributed through the vast spaces surrounding the whole tableau. But off to one side, with the Moon currently occluding them from the Earth, there was a broad and yet extremely dense cloud of angry, blood red needles. They were marked by various Arat Kur characters, some constantly transmogrifying, probably counting down range, ETA. But it meant nothing to him. Caine looked up. “With apologies, Hu’urs Khraam, if I am not given more information, I can only see a dispersed collection of yellow dots being approached by a much larger swarm of red ones.”

“Of course. Urzueth Ragh, you have leave to explain.”

First Fist closed half the distance to Caine in a single bound, the calar talons of his hands raised. “Tell him nothing!”

Hu’urs Khraam shifted to look directly at First Fist. He did not speak. First Fist did not come closer, but neither did he move away.

First Voice waved a dismissive claw. First Fist paced backward, never showing his back to Hu’urs Khraam or to Caine.

Urzueth Ragh approached cautiously. “Speaker Riordan, as you no doubt gather, the yellow markers denote our ships and drones throughout cislunar space. As you may have also gathered, the red markers are, apparently, human vessels.”

“Human?”

“Yes, Speaker.”

“Where did they come from, and when?”

“They shifted in-system seven minutes ago, arriving en masse only three light-seconds out from Earth. This is much closer than your ships would normally hazard, is it not?”

“Surely your information on our interstellar capabilities is so extensive that my confirmation of it is unnecessary.”

Urzueth Ragh bobbed once. “So it is as we thought. The lead elements of this formation will arrive here in several hours. In order to engage them in free space, and at sufficient range to intercept them before any of their drones can reach our orbital supremacy assets, our capital ships have had to commence slingshot exits from orbit.”

Telling me your secrets? Well, why not? Who can I tell them to? Caine looked at the yellow dots that were hobbling slowly out of cislunar space, some playing crack the whip as they came out of Earth orbit in a gravity slingshot, others maneuvering to a rendezvous point halfway to the Moon. Collectively, it looked like a few drops of honey heading for what looked like a hailstorm of blood. Granted, Arat Kur technology was superior, but was it superior enough to make up for the tremendous imbalance in numbers? Or had their easy successes to date made them overconfident? Caine had a sudden impression of that shrewd smile that Nolan wore when he was about to close a trap, and resisted the urge to let it project itself onto his own features.

Urzueth Ragh continued without pause. “Much of the supposed ‘human fleet’ is making a high-speed approach. It is our conjecture that this is to minimize exposure to our weapons. The fleets will pass each other at such high speed that they will only be in effective range of each other for less than a quarter of an hour. This includes the time increase that will result when we retroboost just prior to attaining engagement range.”

Caine nodded. “So you intend to reverse vector and give chase in the event that our ships continue to accelerate away as quickly as possible from the spinal weapons on your shift-carriers and -cruisers.”

“Precisely. We have also determined that these lead drones”—Urzueth Ragh wobbled his claw at a fine-grained bow wave of smaller red dots—“are at least three times the volume and mass of your standard models. They are also emitting unusual thrust signatures.”

“How so?”

“Their exhausts are consistent with antique solid-rocket boosters. Can you speculate why this might be?”

“I can, but would be a traitor to do so.”

Hu’urs Khraam interrupted. “Caine Riordan, did you not return to be a liaison between our peoples?”

“I came to serve the purpose of peace for both our peoples. I did not come to betray mine, nor become an ally to yours.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s polyps writhed. “This is a disappointment, but well-spoken—if there are any with ears to hear.” The rather hoary Arat Kur’s brow-ridge shifted in the general direction of the Hkh’Rkh: Graagkhruud was oblivious. First Voice seemed to be affecting unawareness, but his crest had shifted slightly.

The only one to speak was Yaargraukh. “With your permission, Hu’urs Khraam, I believe I understand the human strategy in this. Their technology is slightly more advanced than our own, but still quite comparable. I suspect we would solve similar problems in similar ways.”

Hu’urs Khraam bobbed; Urzueth Ragh stood aside. Yaargraukh approached the holotank, stood next to Caine. Was he clearing his throat or was that an almost imperceptible—and absolutely deniable—nod of acknowledgment, of greeting? Again, Caine suppressed a smile.

Yaargraukh swung an appendage at the gap between the red fleet and Earth. “The humans are uncertain of the outcome of this surprise attack. This is unavoidable. Shifting in so close to their target, they had no opportunity to conduct any reconnaissance or gather any tactical intelligence. Thus, they needed a strategy that was flexible in regard to a wide spectrum of probable outcomes. I conjecture that these larger drones with unusual thrust signatures are among their best models, retrofitted with simple, but reliable, solid rockets. With these rockets, the drones can quickly accelerate ahead of the human fleet, becoming a far-flung buffer in front of their capital ships and regular drones, and reducing the time we have to intercept their lead elements. For if we fail to intercept this advance wave in time, they could penetrate deep enough into cislunar space to take our orbital assets under fire. This could significantly attrite our orbital surveillance and interdiction capabilities.

“However, since the humans could not be sure that they will prevail, there is a second advantage to these solid-rocket boosters. I predict drones will be fitted with not one, but two boosters each. The first will accelerate the drones into the engagement area. However, the employment of the second booster will vary according to the evolving outcome of that engagement. If the human forces are losing, the second booster will be used to push the drones through the area of engagement at the highest possible speed, thereby minimizing their exposure to our fire. However, if the humans are either winning or stalemating us, the second stages will retroboost the drones, either slowing them down to make orbit and to continue engaging us, or—if they have already shot past—to return to cislunar space for the same purpose. This provides the humans with the type of operational flexibility that has increasingly become the hallmark of their operations since they first industrialized. And, given the vector and intercept values of the rest of their fleet, I project they intend to arrive in two or three separate waves. The later echelons not only provide a reserve that can add its weight to the general fleet engagement, but also have an increased ability to bypass our counterattacking forces and then retroboost into orbit. The consequences to our current orbital supremacy assets are once again, I presume, obvious.”

Urzueth Ragh looked at the tank as if seeing it for the first time. “This strategy, if Yaargraukh discerns it correctly, would also make it prudent to leave a defensive force here in orbit. Just in case any of the human craft survive long enough to make it through.”

Yaargraukh turned, his eyes bulging out momentarily. “You ignore the possibility that they might ultimately wrest control of the high ground from us. In which case, it is their ground forces which would enjoy orbital fire support.”

Urzueth Ragh waved a dismissive claw. “How could they fare so well against our fleet? These human ships”—he waved a claw at the red horde—“can only be reserve or converted commercial craft. What else do the humans have left?”

Yaargraukh considered for a moment, then walked over to Caine and looked him directly in the eyes. “Yes, what else do they have left?”

Caine considered. If his guess about this recently arrived fleet was right—that it was part of an immense snare that the late Nolan Corcoran had set for extraterrestrial invaders—then Downing might actually want the Arat Kur to have a better understanding of the next piece of the puzzle-trap before it was sprung on them. Nolan thought like Sun Tzu: the best generals won wars by showing their adversaries the futility of fighting. On the other hand, it was dangerous to make any presumptions that might provide the enemy with data they shouldn’t have. However, come to think of it, there was a way to concretely determine if Downing wanted Earth’s invaders to know just what they were facing now—

Caine straightened up. “Have you pinged the incoming ships for their transponder codes?”

Urzueth Ragh sounded quizzical. “I beg your pardon, but why would they run transponder signals and identify themselves? That is folly.”

“Usually, it would be. But I don’t think that will be the case today. Ping them.”

The sensor operator looked at Hu’urs Khraam, who bobbed. The operator turned to his board, sent the ping. They would have the answer in a little less than twenty seconds.

Halfway through the wait, Graagkhruud grew too impatient to remain silent. His black worm-tongue flickered around the sarcastic words. “So, tell us: how much of the proud human fleet remains to fight us?”

The Arat Kur sensor operator was silent for a moment, then turned around. “Almost all of it, if these scans are correct.”

Urzueth Ragh started forward. “I do not understand. What new fleet is this?”

“It is not a new fleet, Senior Administrator,” explained the sensor operator. “It is the fleet we destroyed at Barnard’s Star.”

“What? How could that be?”

Yaargraukh merely looked at Caine, nodded, walked past him as the sensor operator continued his report. “I am reading transponders from the Commonwealth fleet carriers Enterprise, Intrepid, Courageous, and Federation fleet carriers Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kiev. All are deploying their full complements of the latest generation of human high-gee capital ships—the President, Trafalgar, and Kursk classes—and the lighter, Bolton-class attack cruisers.”

Graagkhruud’s crest had flattened; his long shoe-box of a mouth hung open. “This is not possible. Four of those shift-carriers were destroyed at Barnard’s Star.”

Caine smiled. “Evidently not.”

Darzhee Kut’s “What?” was not quite drowned out by Graagkhruud’s “Liar!”

Caine only acknowledged Darzhee Kut. “I’m just going on a hunch, now, but let’s check something else. Do you have a record of the transponder signs of the individual capital ships you destroyed at Barnard’s Star?”

Darzhee Kut bobbed. “Yes.”

Caine turned to the sensor operator. “Check those tail numbers against the ones you’re reading now.”

The Arat Kur did, turned to face Hu’urs Khraam. “Esteemed First Delegate, the ships we destroyed are leading the van of the inbound fleet.”

Urzueth Ragh burbled and wheezed. An Arat Kur snort. “Nonsense. We did destroy these ships. I was there and saw it at Barnard’s Star.”

Caine shook his head. “No. These are ships that you were led to believe you had destroyed.”

“Preposterous. This phantom fleet is the deception, not the events at Barnard’s Star. This is a human plot to make us believe ourselves in greater danger than we are, being carried out by small ships equipped with sophisticated image makers.”

Caine shrugged. “Believe what you like, but any minute now, I expect that your sensor operator is going to inform you that the exhaust signatures and mass scans are a match for what the transponders are telling you. You’ll only be sure when the ladar starts showing you silhouettes, but by then it will be too late to change your course of action.”

“But it makes no sense,” insisted Urzueth. “If these are the real ships, then what did we destroy at Barnard’s Star, and why did you let us?”

“I’m just continuing with guesswork,” admitted Caine, “but, at Barnard’s Star, I believe you destroyed specially constructed decoys: ships which had the shape of these craft, and their signatures, but were otherwise only moderately armed and probably uncrewed. Had you examined the wreckage—what little there was—I suspect you would have eventually discovered evidence that you had destroyed unfinished hulls fitted with only those basics necessary to fool your sensors.” Caine remembered all the strange and secretive activities he had heard whispers about in the weeks before Convocation. “Those decoys were probably built secretly. Out in the Belt, I’d guess, and with their fusion drives rigged for triggerable containment failures. That way, you wouldn’t have much wreckage left to study.” And suddenly Caine realized why the quarantine on DeePeeThree had not been lifted after he had discovered primitive exosapients there. “What you thought were shift-carriers were just frames, superstructures, and fusion engines, turned into finished decoys out at Delta Pavonis Three or beyond, where, due to quarantines, there wasn’t enough deep space traffic to stumble across them.”

“But why? What was the purpose of all this—waste?”

“To make you believe that you’d destroyed all these ships at Barnard’s Star. Because that, in turn, made you believe you’d achieved far more than you had, made you believe you were safer than you were.”

Yaargraukh nodded from the other side of the holotank. “Of course. The humans predicted that after our victory at Barnard’s Star, we would want to move quickly, that we did not wish to lose the initiative. Which was, after all, a prudent strategy. So when we scanned the wreckage, we trusted our long-range sensor data, which matched what we expected. And, reassured, we did not wait to conduct a more detailed post-action analysis.”

Urzueth Ragh waved an impatient claw. “Which would have shown us that we had not destroyed the ships we thought we had. So. I accept this. But this waste of resources to build decoy hulls. To what specific end did the humans do it?”

Caine ran his gaze across the entirety of the strategic plotting holotank. “Right now, it looks to me as though you only brought about sixty percent of the forces that hit Barnard’s Star.”

“This is correct.”

“And that sixty percent is further split into three parts. The largest part, with all your interface and landing craft, is here in cislunar space. Almost as large, and containing an equal number of your capital ships, is the flotilla guarding the Solar System’s only remaining supply of antimatter: the refinery that we ‘failed’ to destroy in the Belt. And you left a small holding force at Jupiter, which is your best, but not your only, source of deuterium for your fusion plants and engines. Is that about right?”

Urzueth Ragh simply bobbed.

“Then I’d say your current deployment is what we were hoping to achieve by letting you destroy all those wasteful decoys.” Caine shrugged. “You’ve set yourself up for the oldest strategy in the book: divide and conquer. Or, in tactical terms, the outcome at Barnard’s Star made you so confident that you split your forces into small groupings that our returning fleet can now defeat in detail. You guessed that with more than half of our forces destroyed, what ships we had left were bottled up in Ross 154 or behind it, out along the Green Mains. So when you arrived in the Solar System, it seemed both operationally prudent and strategically safe to split your fleet into three parts. Any one of those elements was large enough to take care of whatever motley collection of human hulls might be able to somehow punch through to Earth.

“But now it turns out that the big fleet you thought you had destroyed was mostly made up of decoys, and that the real fleet has shown up on your doorstep. Which means that, here around Earth, you are now seriously outnumbered and you can’t recombine your forces in time. And even though our technology is behind yours, you’re about to be saturated with our very best systems.”

Urzueth Ragh’s polyps were writhing spasmodically. Hu’urs Khraam looked at Caine with a strange, slow calm in all this motions. “A question remains: how did you know the ships would respond to a request for their transponder codes? Granted, our sensors can discriminate the class of vessel by its engine signature, but still, why let us know that these ships still exist? Why not let us believe that we had underestimated your production capability, that you had produced so many more than we anticipated and that this was a new fleet—possibly the first of many?”

Caine shrugged. “I didn’t know they’d reveal their codes. But I guessed they might, because I think the World Confederation is trying to show you that this war is about to get a lot more costly—and bloody—for you, and that maybe this is the time to end it. Equably.”

Hu’urs Khraam raised up. “And you believe that by revealing your secret—now—that we shall be cowed?”

Caine tried a different approach. “Here’s another way to look at it. You’ve just been handed one surprise. So there could be more on the way. At any rate, you now have irrefutable proof that, within a few hours, you are going to have a real fight on your hands. Which, if you lose, would be disastrous for you, both up in orbit and down planetside. Because, if you lose orbital cover for even five minutes—”

Yaargraukh rumbled deep in his chest. “Then we are all doomed. The moment we can no longer strike at Earth’s planetary forces from orbit, the humans will launch their missiles, and scramble all the aircraft and assault VTOLs that must surely be waiting out beyond the interdict line in the rest of this archipelago, and in Australia. They would be in among us so quickly, and so closely, that even if we reacquired orbital fire support later on, it would be useless. We would be hitting ourselves along with the humans. We will have irretrievably lost control of the ground campaign.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s voice was slow. “So by showing us the tail numbers—”

Caine nodded. “I think my leaders are making one last attempt at averting a full-scale strategic confrontation. Because once that kind of conflagration starts, there’s no controlling how far or fast or hot it will burn.”

Darzhee Kut’s voice raised tentatively. “Your word for that is ‘apocalypse,’ is it not?”

“There are several that would be suitable, Darzhee Kut, but that is the basic idea. So, I believe my leaders are sending your leaders a message. That there’s still a chance to control this situation before it spins so far out of control that there’s no way to stop it.”

Hu’urs Khraam looked over toward First Voice. “If you would join me, for my joints are weak, I would be in your debt.”

First Voice approached, waved back his train, never bothering to look at Hu’urs Khraam. Together with two Arat Kur analysts, they formed an improbable huddle.

Yaargraukh had come around the holotank, stood close to Caine but did not look at him as he muttered, “As I feared when we spoke at Convocation, it seems we are destined to fight before we may finish the bridge we pledged to build between us.”

Caine nodded. “True, but even now, that pledge gratifies me. If we survive to complete it, how many bridges can claim to have been so sturdily built, and under such inauspicious conditions?”

Yaargraukh’s tongue flicked. “None that I know of—or would care to stand on.”

Caine smiled back. “Take care in what is to come.”

“You too, Caine. It is wise you do not trust my kind. They do not understand your actions, and Graagkhruud has not troubled himself to place them in an accurate context.”

Caine would have thanked him, but Yaargraukh moved on, having seen, or intuited, the breakup of the huddle. Hu’urs Khraam took one last look around his circle of advisors, who in turn looked down at their computing tablets. They all bobbed in his direction. Hu’urs Khraam turned to Caine. “It is decided. We shall fight.” He turned to Urzueth Ragh. “Summon the fleet from Vesta. At best speed, they should reach Earth in several days. They are to launch drones and high-endurance missiles to join our battle here as soon as it is practicable.” He turned back to Caine. “Your species is to be congratulated for its characteristic cunning. But for us, this is only a setback, not a defeat.”

Caine watched the red motes—his—approach the yellow motes—theirs—and feared that Hu’urs Khraam might yet prove correct. The Arat Kur had a distinct technological edge that might yet prove decisive, even when so heavily outnumbered. It promised to be a very close contest, but with the enemy’s belt flotilla approaching at high-gee, whatever control humanity could buy with the best of her blood and her ships might be short-lived indeed.

That was when the first rockets hit.

Chapter Thirty-Four

As the barrage intensified, a rocket knifed into the eastern face of the Ananka Building. Trevor turned his face away as the window blasted inward from the shock of the nearby detonation.

Tygg continued briefing the rebel officers they’d summoned. “It’s a fine day for our little surprise party, mates. Weather is just the way we want it. After this morning’s rain, we’ve got a temp that’s still going up, probably to ninety-seven Fahrenheit. The air will stay supersaturated the whole day: mist everywhere as soon as the sun peeks through a bit more. Storms expected by three PM, which will cover our retreat if we have to turn tail, but bogs the exos down if they abandon their compounds for the countryside. They don’t know their way around the bush too well.” He had to raise his voice over the constant roar of window-buffeting explosions. “This barrage will continue right up until M-minute. As you’ve seen, this phase of it is only crudely aimed and—so far—is coming in from the jungles and nearby kempangs. So stay in your positions and under cover. And do not fire, under any circumstances, until you receive the ‘go’ signal for the final attack, which will commence in a few hours and focus upon their C4I and PDF assets.

“Until we get that final signal, don’t even let friendlies know you’re in the neighborhood. I reemphasize. We are not part of the general attack, which will commence first. The assaults which will commence after the peak of the barrage, and the current uprising in the streets, are primarily a cover for infiltration teams and special missions like ours.” Tygg paused. It had the desired effect. The faces around him leaned closer, a bit more solemn. “For the locals working with us final assault teams, it’s going to be very hard, spending hours watching their mates, maybe their own relatives, fighting and dying while they sit by and do nothing. So when you go back to your units, take one last measure of your war-fighters. If you’re worried that one of them might not be able to wait, watch, and do nothing until signaled, then reassign that person to one of the squads that will be joining the general assault. Or let them join up with the rebels doing the street fighting now. Because anyone who can’t take the waiting while other people are doing the dying, is no good to us today. Timing is everything.

“And so is communication: here are our protocols for the final assault, which won’t be confirmed for at least two hours. The jumpoff signal will be sent over the cell repeater net that will be activated as part of the general assault, or on the remaining pagers if the net is down. If both of those are carked, we’ll be relying on the fiber-com net some tunnel rats have been building for us. We’ll try to stay connected to them via runners. If that’s not feasible, we’ll rely on smokes from preset command-and-control points in the area of operation. Red smoke means the general standoff units are to commence firing. Green smoke signals maximum sustainable covering fire from the standoff units, and then our final close-assault charge after a ten-count. In our particular case, don’t get eager and rush the presidential compound immediately, or you’re going to be too close when the breaching charges go off inside its walls. Now off you go, mates, and good luck to you.”

As all but two of the Indonesians left, Trevor cleared his throat. “Tygg, before the show starts, I just want to say I appreciate how you jumped on board with my mission.”

“Yeh, well, hard to reach the home office for permission, eh? Besides, my unit was too badly banged up to achieve our original objectives. At least this way, we’re back in the main fight.”

Trevor nodded, hoped he wasn’t blushing in shame. The main fight? You mean that part of the battle where, acting under falsified orders, I usurp local forces to bust into the enemy compound to rescue my sister, a woman from the past who’s in love with another man instead of me, and maybe even the other man himself? Oh, it’s still a worthwhile mission and it still uses the local assets to achieve Downing’s objectives—breaching the compound, taking out their HQ—but I’m not even one hundred percent certain that the people I’m trying to rescue will be there. But if I know Opal, she’ll gravitate towards Caine’s probable location like iron filings to a magnet…

“Trevor?”

“Uh… yeah, Tygg?”

“Shall we maintain our OP here?”

“I don’t think so. We’re going to need our all our close assault elements, including us, on the ground and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Anyone left up here until the last minute isn’t going to get to us in time to join the attack.”

Private Gavin shrugged, didn’t see Tygg’s sharp look—which could be universally translated as a preemptive “put a sock in it”—and pointed into the corridor behind them. “I dunno, Captain. Those elevators are very fast.”

“They’re quick when they’re working, Gavin. But the barrage is only going to get worse. A hit, or an EMP strike, might take out the power. And eighteen stories is a very long walk.”

John Gavin frowned. “Why another EMP strike?”

Tygg jumped in before Trevor could respond, and while his words answered Gavin’s inquiry, his tone signaled that the garrulous private had asked his last question. “When we activate the disposable cell repeater net that the indigs have been building up secretly over the past month, the Arat Kur may decide to hit a big off switch, rather than jam it. Particularly when all our radios start turning back on.” His tone lowered. “Of course, it might be our side that generates an EMP.”

Gavin had evidently missed Tygg’s tonal hint that question-time was now over. “We’d launch an EMP strike? Why us? We want to be able to talk.”

Tygg shook his head. “Talk or no talk, we can’t be sure what weapons might have to be used to gain control of the battlespace.”

“Eh?” Gavin wasn’t much good at reading between the lines.

Trevor stepped in. “Private, according to your lieutenant, better than ninety percent of the world’s remaining submarine assets are currently hiding near or inside the fifty-kilometer nautical limit. And they are fully armed.”

For one moment, the expression on Gavin’s face suggested that he was wondering what good all those torpedoes were going to do here in Jakarta. Then he evidently grasped what Trevor meant by “fully armed” the same instant he understood what kind of submarines were being discussed. “Oh.”

“So,” Tygg concluded, “if you see a sharp flash overhead, don’t look up; look down. And if you’ve got the time, cover your ears and your ass. In a deep, dark hole.”

Trevor looked over the Aussie’s shoulder, out the still-intact plate glass window that presented Merdeka Square as if it were a mural. So far, the national monument—the decidedly phallic Monas—hadn’t been hit, despite the fact that the air around it was filled with the smoke of recently or currently exploded inbound rockets. To the far right, a smaller warhead, clipped by the almost uninterrupted upward flow of enemy PDF fire, cartwheeled down and struck the most dramatic minaret of the Istiqlal Mosque, bounced off, exploded halfway on its tumble toward the dome. Lucky that time, but before the day was out, that dome was going to be hit, holed, maybe dropped. The cheap, free-flight rockets being used to overwhelm the Arat Kur’s PDF intercept sensors and automation were notoriously inaccurate. Hopefully, one wouldn’t come down on Jake Winfield’s head while he made his way to the docks to recruit some additional help rumored to be coming ashore there.

As if to prove the accuracy limitations of the great majority of in-rushing rockets, there was a muffled blast overhead. Two ceiling panels shook loose, and ancient interfloor dust and detritus rained down. Barr, the secret-service man, looked up as though the rest of it were about to fall on their collective heads. “How long can they maintain this rate of fire?”

One of the two remaining locals, a shopkeeper by the name of Kurniawan, smiled. “Long time. Soldiers without uniforms, they kept many rockets in secret places. They hid the best ones our army had, even before Ruap took over. And they got lots more since: good rockets, some very smart. Some were even sent here before the Roaches came, almost half a year ago. The smart rockets are small enough to hide in garbage cans. They mostly American, Russian, English, guided by laser or little computer chip, launched by a radio signal or wire. Then, soon after the Roaches land, little boats from Thous’ Islands start coming with simpler rockets. Some of those were old. Real old. Katyusha, RPGs. A lot from China. A lot aren’t even weapons. They’re just like firework rockets, with a tin tube around them. Or mylar.”

“Mylar or tin? Why that?” asked Gavin.

Trevor supplied the answer. “Tricks the Arat Kur PDF systems. Only works for a second or two, but with this many rockets launched from relatively close ranges, they can’t spare the time to sort things out in detail. Any rocket they miss could hit one of their arrays, particularly if it’s one of those smart ones with a chip. Some of those are programmed to act like an off-course free-flight rocket until it approaches within a few hundred meters of its target. Then it goes active and swerves into a direct engagement vector.”

Impossibly, that’s when the overhead thunder redoubled. The sound of heavier impacts in and around the enemy compound only four hundred meters to the west started rippling against the outer walls, and their eardrums, like one long explosion.

“And that,” added Witkowski, snugging the chinstrap of his helmet, “sounds like the freighters inside the fifty-klick limit have joined in.”

Trevor shook his head. “No, that’s only the little ships launching. For now.”

Senior Sensor Operator and Assistant Shipmaster Tuxae Skhaas snapped his mandibles together, signaling an urgent correction to his last report. “I refine the data. The new wave of human rockets is being launched only from the small ships at the edge of the fifty-kilometer no-sail zone.”

“From the freighters?” His superior’s arrhythmic staccato cluckings were those of stunned incredulity.

“No, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat. There is no sign of any attacks being launched from the grain ships.”

The older Arat Kur acted with the decisiveness typical of—but today, welcome from—the Hur caste. He turned to Tuxae Skhaas’ closest companion. “H’toor Qooiiz, transfer your station to the terminal adjoining Sensor Operator Skhaas’. Speak all his subsequent findings immediately to me and to First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam’s personal Communications Operator. Tuxae Skhaas, you are to stop operating the sensors of this command ship.”

“But Fleetmaster—” began Tuxae.

“Harmonize now. I will pass orders that all other Sensor Operators are to link their feeds into your panel. You will analyze, assess, report. Your operator duties will be passed to the next senior operator.”

“As you instruct, Fleetmaster.”

H’toor signaled his matching acquiescence with a short bob as he squirmed down into the couch next to Tuxae’s. When the Fleetmaster had scraped off to give other orders, H’toor angled his frontal antennae toward his friend. “R’sudkaat must be desperate indeed, putting two unharmonious Ee’ar such as ourselves next to each other on the bridge.”

“Sing no caste-parodies this day,” Tuxae rattled sourly. “I forebode too many deaths among all our rock-siblings. See this.” He pointed into the holotank, brought the oblique bird’s eye view of Java closer. “The humans in and around the two greatest cities we occupy, Jakarta and Surabaja, have suddenly gone sun-time. Our other cantonments are also beset, but it is worst in these two places. The humans launch rockets from the jungles, the fields, the rice paddies, the roofs, and now small ships. Hundreds of rockets every minute.”

“And we destroy their launchers.”

Tuxae scratched his mandibles, fretting. “Which means we are digging tunnels in sand. Unless it is a salvo launcher, the humans rarely launch more than four rockets from a single location, but never less than two.”

“Odd.”

“Perhaps not.”

H’toor trilled uncertainty. “I do not understand.”

Tuxae forced himself to be patient with his tactically unsophisticated friend, whose comic songs made him an even more popular crewmember than he was an expert communications operator. “When the humans launch one missile, our automated intercept systems have been reprogrammed to temporarily ignore the source. We would be constantly interdicting bare ground if we counterfired at every rocket’s point of origin. But two missiles arising from the same place? That could signify the location of a more sophisticated and capacious launcher, a target that our intercept system cannot afford to ignore.”

“So, by launching at least two rockets per location, the humans are forcing our systems to spend time acquiring coordinates for every site.”

“Exactly. They are making us waste time, effort, and ammunition.” Tuxae felt the multiple lenses of his eyes slide and tighten against each other in hyperfocused consternation. “This sudden, large attack is not merely unprecedented. It has been carefully planned. The humans have watched us, timed us, have measured what we can and cannot do in response, and how long it takes us. I fear…”

H’toor shifted slightly to look over at his suddenly still friend. “What do you fear, Tuxae? The accuracy of their calculations?”

“That, too. But mostly, I fear their prior silence.”

“Again, I do not understand.”

Tuxae clacked his claws. “The humans were capable of waiting many weeks to commence this attack—weeks of waiting, watching, measuring while many of them died, and all of them feared. But now they are striking back with weapons we did not detect, at terribly close ranges, and at a time of their choosing. And so I fear.”

“That they are in fact ready?”

“No. That we are not.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Downing studied the scattered reports trickling in from Java’s cities. General revolts were underway in all of them, initially targeted at the most hated and vulnerable adversaries: Optigene’s clone-soldier regiments. The attacks had been extremely successful, spearheaded by cadre-led insurgent groups that had been waiting for the rocket barrage as their jumpoff signal. The barrage had, in turn, been unleashed only upon the arrival of the fleet codenamed Rescue Task Force One: the material fulfillment of Case Leo Gap, Nolan Corcoran’s carefully orchestrated matrix of strategic deceptions and sacrifices. However, the day’s greatest challenge and uncertainty remained: effectively coordinating the myriad and disparate elements of this day’s fateful attack. But, so far, so good.

Downing, ever wary of operational optimism, shook off that thought. “Mr. Rinehart?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Give me an update on our tactical picture. Are we good to go to the next step?”

“Reports indicate that, as predicted, the invader’s combat air patrols on the maritime approaches to Jakarta and Surabaja have been pulled off that duty and redeployed to engage the new ground threats around those cities. All approaching cargo ships have been ordered to hold position. They report clear skies.

“Also, our covert observers on Java are Morse-signaling that the Arat Kur PDF sensors seem unable to operationally discriminate more than a fraction of the targets, probably because their tracking arrays are overwhelmed. We are getting scattered reports that their antimissile counterfire is becoming increasingly autonomous and decentralized. Their individual PDF systems are falling out of the integrated defense grid at the same pace that their cooling and reload intervals are becoming problems. We are good to go, sir.”

“Very good, Mr. Rinehart. Remember, when the Arat Kur see what we do next, their orbital interdiction assets will shift back to our larger ships—and to the aerial threats they’ll be seeing momentarily. When that targeting shift occurs, let me know. Immediately. Timing is everything—everything—if this plan is to work.”

“Very good, sir. Awaiting your order to take the next step.”

Downing drew a deep breath. “Mr. Rinehart, send the following signal to our assault-enabled cargo ships: ‘salvo all’ in one minute, on my mark—mark.”

Cesar Pinero, master of the twenty-thousand-ton freighter Maldive Reckoner, watched the last of the two-stage rockets lance away from the deck of the heavily barnacled schooner that was just two hundred meters off his starboard bow. The weapons’ launch exhausts washed in through the already shattered windows of the pilot house, setting its interior on fire. The boat’s captain and first mate were already speeding away in a much-patched Zodiac, slaloming around the canvas covers under which the rockets had been hidden until three minutes earlier. Pinero checked his watch: fifty-seven seconds to his own launch. And in the meantime, it would be instructive to learn how long it took for the Arat Kur to respond to the schooner’s actions. Pinero started a silent countdown: one-one-thousand; two-one-thousand; three-one-thousand—

Looking port and starboard, bow and stern, the rest of the ponderous grain freighters seemed to loom larger in their immobility, having been signaled by the Arat Kur to stop and hold position. So they had done—and watched as the invaders blew every offending smaller ship to kindling.

Four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand…

Pinero checked his watch, looked down from the conning tower at his new second mate, on loan from the Japanese Navy, and nodded. The mate waved to the deck hands, who rose up from among the long crates arrayed on the Reckoner’s deck in a neat single-layer, row-and-column grid. They hastily inserted crowbars into the broadly gapped seams of the crates.

Six-one-thousand, seven-one-thousand…

The crates’ sides and ends fell away as deckhands flung their lids overboard. In seconds, the four-by-six checkerboard of overlong wooden cargo boxes had been snatched away to reveal twenty-four missiles of diverse types and capabilities. Pinero blew the whistle he held in his teeth; all but the second mate and two of the deckhands raced toward the gunwales. The engineering section, already there, started the lemminglike rush over the side, hurtling feet-first toward the water over twenty feet below.

Eight-one-thousand, Nine-one-thousand…

Strange how calm it all seemed, how orderly. Half of the small boats had already been reduced to flotsam and jetsam by kinetic kill warheads fired from orbit. Hundreds of long plumes marked the path of the missiles they had launched, which—in their fiery, scalded-cat leaps into the air—had destroyed the decks and ruined the pilot houses of the ships that had carried them to this place. Some of those missiles were exploding in the air: orbital laser or long-range, ground-based PDF interdiction. More dwindled and down-Dopplered into the gray horizon haze that marked the periphery of Jakarta. From behind, dozens of other missiles converged on that target zone. The ships still clustered beyond the fifty-kilometer limit had started unloading, also. Pinero had worried that he would be paralyzed by fear when this moment came, but instead he felt strangely detached, as if he were simply a spectator, even to his own actions.

Ten-one-thous—

The blinding white-hot downstroke looked like an impossibly straight bolt of lightning, yet was almost perfectly silent, because the sound generated by the superheated hypervelocity kinetic kill warhead was still struggling to catch up through the soupy atmosphere. The sound and shock of the schooner exploding—flying instantly into an angry, roiling cloud of debris—hit his ears the same moment as the up-dopplering sonic boom of the warhead’s shrieking descent.

Small metal fragments—hissing hot and spinning viciously—spattered the starboard hull, a few spanging off the chest-high rail encircling the Maldive Reckoner’s pilot deck. Pinero shrugged out of his windbreaker, checked the straps on his life jacket, popped the cap on the shark repellent, and calculated. It had taken the schooner five seconds to launch her four missiles, and ten seconds for the Arat Kur to identify and successfully interdict her. So, all told, it was about a fifteen-second response time, from first launch to arrival of counterfire munitions. Of course, the little boats had fewer missiles to launch, and that gave their masters and lately added weapons-specialists more time to escape. The crews were sent over the side before firing commenced, with orders to stay far away from any other hulls. But on the bigger ships like the Maldive Reckoner, it would take at least twice the time to see all the munitions off the deck. It would be a narrow thing, indeed.

Pinero checked his watch, waved to the second mate, who waved back. All weapons checked and cleared. He pressed the remote signals operation button on his palmtop. Twenty feet overhead, the radio mast of the Maldive Reckoner was sending out a single coded string that announced that she would be deploying her payload in precisely twenty seconds. He checked his watch again, waved to the one remaining deckhand, who had joined the second mate at the bow, crouched low. The deckhand jumped up, hefted a tightly bound canvas package over the port bow. Pinero saw its line tighten and then loosen. Good. The self-inflating raft had pulled free of its canvas sleeve and was now in the water. In ten seconds it would be ready for passengers. He moved to the portside elbow of the weather-walk, estimated the jump to the water at just above ten meters. He didn’t like heights, so he didn’t look for more than a moment.

He checked his watch: twenty seconds.

It had been a strange five weeks, the busiest, most terrifying, and yet strangely rewarding of his life. The Reckoner had made three trips from Shanghai to Jakarta, carrying rice: just rice. On the second trip, there must have been a sub sneaking in beneath them. Pinero had been instructed to hold a dead-straight heading from one hundred kilometers beyond the blockade line to within fifteen kilometers of the Tanjung Pasir headland. That, and the close crowding of ships around him during that voyage made him wonder if it was all part of an attempt to block, confuse, overtax the Roaches’ overhead sensors. But today, it was all over. The grand mission of mercy was, in its last moments, transmogrifying into a grand ambush. The ships that had carried food to Indonesia were now carrying death to it instead.

Twelve seconds.

The small ships had launched first so that the self-teaching Arat Kur computers and their operators would initially identify the little, indigenous boats as being more dangerous, both because they were the only observed source of launches and were harder to hit. Once the computers had finished that recategorization of their targets, it would likely take several precious seconds, and possibly a direct operator override, to shift the firing priority to the freighters, once those larger hulls started unleashing their massive payloads. By the time that shift occurred, there would be too many large, lethal rockets on the way in for the overworked invaders’ PDF systems to handle. At least, that had been the theory. Time to see how Reckoner would fare as one of the first big hulls to unload.

Five seconds.

Pinero raised his hand, then crouched down. The solid metal weather-rail and its height above the deck protected him from the launch exhausts, but that sudden cyclone was likely to send fragments of the crates sleeting and skittering in all directions.

Zero and launch.

Pinero cut downward with his whole arm and hunched lower.

The rearmost rank of rockets and missiles launched first. Their simultaneous exhausts hit the lower extents of the Maldive Reckoner’s superstructure, imparting a blow akin to a hefty bow-wave. Pinero came up just in time to duck again as the heat of their rapidly dwindling wash came level with the bridge. They were well over the bows and climbing into shallow ballistic arcs that would take them into or past Jakarta.

The second launch’s tsunami of white hot exhaust blew Pinero’s hat off and cracked two of the bridge windows behind him. The thickest of these four missiles rode off its ramp like it was skating upright on its tail, cleared the bows and then climbed at a fifty or even sixty-degree angle. From what the Japanese techs told him, that was either a pod carrier which would deploy six semiautonomous remote operated vehicles into Jakarta’s airspace, or a decoy dispenser which would scatter five times that number of smaller vehicles which, by dint of electronic and radar signature, would mimic ROVs, or even larger, more lethal drones.

As the third and fourth waves went up, and shattered and scorched bits of wood casing spattered against or spun down into the weather walk, Pinero checked his watch. They were twelve seconds into the launch sequence. He put a hand atop the rail, wished he had remembered to take off his pants before it had all started. He didn’t want any extra weight on him when he went into the water.

The fifth wave of missiles shrieked off the deck, catching up the ramps and debris from the previous launches in a complicated tornado of overlapping shock waves. It looked like a house of cards being hit by several different garden hoses all at once. He felt a strange, urgent pressure in his calves and behind his knees, but knew he couldn’t obey it yet, couldn’t get up on the rail and plummet down into the marginally greater safety of the water. He and the deck techs had to wait, to be prepared to correct a misfire.

And they had one on the last launch. The far starboard weapon—a thrice-handed-down fourth-generation Yingji missile that should have been junked three decades ago—remained inert in its rack, shaking as the rebounding backwash from the other three jarred it. The second mate, turning back from his face-away crouch and uncovering his ears, saw the missile, then looked at the bridge.

Pinero glanced at his watch: seventeen seconds. They had no time left. But they also had their orders. He waved twice to the second mate, who sprinted to the remaining missile while waving off the deckhand—who went over the side. Good, one more life that might be saved. Pinero glanced at his watch, missed what the Japanese missile tech was doing: twenty seconds. They were living on borrowed time. Pinero looked down. The second mate was scrambling away, trailing a wire, waving. Time to go.

As Pinero rose, so did the Yingji, wailing away with an initial sputter. Pinero, staggered by the comparatively light backwash, missed making a quick hop to the top of the weather rail. As he climbed up again, he saw the second mate end his sprint to the portside gunwale with a long horizontal leap that cleared it. He wasn’t wasting any time.

Pinero’s knees shook as he got up on the weather rail’s wide top. Ten meters to the water looked more like a kilometer…

A blinding white light, like a laser, stabbed down into the Maldive Reckoner, lancing it amidships, splitting the keel dead center, and folding her like a hyperkinetic jackknife. As he was thrown from the superstructure, Pinero felt a brief but sharp increase in heat—

By the time the supersonic thunder of the warhead’s descent arrived behind the heat and then shockwave of the impact, Cesar Pinero was not there to hear it. The few cells that remained of his body were insensate to the secondary explosions which vaporized them, too.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Christ! What a stink!”

Tygg turned toward Gavin with a raised eyebrow. “It’s a sewer. What do you expect?”

“Petunias, Lieutenant, bleeding petunias.”

Tygg shook his head, looked up the ladder past Trevor. “What are you seeing, Mr. Cruz?”

Carlos turned his head away from the ring of daylight above them. “Not much but smoke, sir. Lots of dead clones. And I mean lots. Locals running around with AKs, pistols. Never in groups larger than three or four. No sign of organized units.”

Tygg nodded. “Because they’re hunkered down, waiting to see if the tactical repeater net will activate and call the general attack.”

“Well, we’ll all find out about that soon enough,” Trevor asserted. He tapped Carlos on the calf, who slid down the street-access ladder. Trevor climbed up to their street-level OP, stuck his head up into the halo of daylight—

—And almost bumped his head against the underside of the manhole cover that they had propped up on four bricks like a roof. The car they had pushed atop the manhole was angled so the wheels didn’t obstruct their view of the enemy compound. Most important, they were all but undetectable and the street overhead was an excellent bunker against stray missiles.

Trevor checked his watch again before he could recall his resolve to stop doing so. It just made the rest of the team nervous as they all tried not to think the same, dire thought: what if the tactical cell net didn’t activate? What if something had gone wrong? If it didn’t activate, there was no way for the organized insurgency cells to coordinate their actions with the far more numerous but less organized resistance fighters, or for those fighters to be assured of mounting their decisive attack simultaneously. Scattered, random attacks would be costly, easily suppressed, doomed to failure and mean that the professionally led infiltration forces of the final attack would have a much harder job to do, with a lower chance of success. But if the entirety of the locals’ organized resistance arose at once, was on the same clock, and was also plugged into command updates from offshore, then—

Trevor’s tiny pager—their link to the tactical repeater net—illuminated and then chirped twice. He managed to keep his voice calm, level. “That was the circuit test. Stand by for full activation of the tactical net and commencement of the general attack in thirty seconds. Stosh, keep the clock.”

“Marking thirty seconds, Skipper.”

Trev felt a tug on his pants leg, turned. Tygg handed up a mil-spec transceiver toward him. “We’ve got the first coded sitrep and update from offshore.”

Trevor shook his head. “You read it out so everyone can hear it.” And distract them while we wait to see if the tactical repeater net flies or flops. Because talking to the outside world is not how we’re going to win this battle. It’s our ability to update each other in-country which will make or break us.

Tygg angled the mil-spec transceiver so Trevor could see it. It was scrolling a text message that read like a transcript from an insane asylum. “Bananas *D. Balloons zero-zero.” “Bananas *D” indicated that the Arat Kur still retained roughly eighty-five percent of their PDF capability. About what had been expected, at this point. Almost all of the fifteen percent reduction would be due to overloaded or destroyed arrays. “Balloons zero-zero” indicated that the enemy tactical air assets remained at one hundred percent. Again, pretty much as expected, until the missiles from the grain ships started landing—

As if on cue, there was a flash and thunderous blast of sound and debris halfway between Trevor and the presidential compound. The impact sent a tremor through the street, shuddered the walls of the sewer. Some masonry detached and plunked in the ankle-high water.

“Now that’s more like it.” Stosh almost sounded festive. “The freighters have joined the party.”

Two more blasts rattled the manhole cover on its four-corner props like a closed lid on a boiling pot. One rocket had struck someplace inside the compound. The buzz of the enemy PDF systems rose to an insane, saw-toothed scream. The sound was music to Trevor’s ears. At this rate of fire, those systems were going to overheat, run out of ammo, or both, within seven minutes, ten at the most. “They’ve committed their reserve systems,” he speculated. “We’ve got their groundside interdiction capabilities pushed to the max.”

Confirmation came in the form of a rippling cascade of sharp, thin sonic booms. Trevor could hear the smile in Tygg’s voice. “They’re having to augment with orbital interdiction.”

Yeah, but that also means they’re sinking our ships by the dozens right now. Despite the steel rain in the streets outside, Trevor was glad he wasn’t anywhere near the fifty-kilometer nautical limit at that moment—

“Five seconds,” shouted Stosh.

Very far to the south, Trevor heard a susurrating whisper of faint, nonstop detonations. Probably missile-deployed cluster bomblets reaching one of the smaller airports. God knows how many of those missiles were being lost for every one that reached its target, but once hit, those runways and vertipads would take days to repair. And this game was going to be finished today. One way or the other.

“And—mark!” bellowed Stosh.

Trevor discovered he was listening and watching so intently that he was holding his breath. A second went by, then another, followed by a cold wave that rolled over the skin of his arms, chest, back, belly. The tactical-level repeater system hadn’t worked as planned. It was either disabled by all the falling debris or stray rockets, or had been instantly discovered and jammed or—

The pager emitted a long tone.

Two hundred meters up the street, three rocket-propelled grenades flew out of different windows with a surging whoosh, trailing white smoke plumes toward the compound. Following on their tails was the hammering applause of automatic weapons of diverse calibers: some high, spitting reports from Pindads, some rapid barking by venerable AK-47s, and a few steady, deep, jackhammer roars from belt-fed weapons that sent tracers chasing after the rockets.

“Behold, the Jubilee!” proclaimed Stosh, celebrating the activation of the net as if he were a testifying evangelist.

But the return fire, articulated by the sharp supersonic cracks of advanced dustmix support weapons, and even coil guns, answered within three seconds, chipping concrete, shattering windows, tearing apart parked cars with a sound like the ripping of perforated tin. Directly overhead, overlapping blasts indicated missiles being intercepted at close range. Then three large rockets, survivors of the Arat Kur PDF fire, landed with a collective, up-dopplering rush. One went straight into the compound. After one heart-stopping moment, there was a long, shuddering roar—and a noticeable drop in the volume of outgoing PDF fire.

However, another one of the rockets went straight into and obliterated the building from which the first of the three rocket-propelled grenades had been fired. As if all combatants were equally staggered by these heavy blows, there was a moment’s lull—which was then immediately refilled by a gushing of bidirectional small-arms fire. But there was a new sound in the cacophonic symphony. High-pitched cries of pain and shock rose over the layered thunder of diverse, concentrated weaponry. A dog—dragging a spurting stump that had been one of its rear legs—emerged from the billowing smoke, ran past at close range, showering blood in all directions, yelping in time with its frantic gait. Trevor squinted into the smoke: Behold the Jubilee? No, Stosh, “abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

And damn it that Jake Winfield has to be out in the middle of this shitstorm…

Another of the moored freighters, this one only one hundred meters away from the wharf, took a Russian missile beneath the taffrail. Perversely, the explosion lifted her bow up, like an overloaded truck feebly trying to do a wheelie, before she dropped back down, her aft settling rapidly as the fuming, growling water rushed into her half-amputated stern.

Good, thought Lieutenant Jacob Winfield, watching the last element of the circling Arat Kur combat air patrol break off and head out to sea, they’ve decided the ships in port are all victims, too. He wondered if the four savaged freighters had all been part of the plan—selected and hit by ROVs—or just dumb luck. Scanning the remaining ships, he sought the telltale signs for which Tygg had told him to look.

Within seconds, Winfield found seven hulls showing the right combination of innocuous features that indicated there was an incognito spec ops team aboard. Each ship was a small freighter, each had one or more white T-shirts hung on a makeshift laundry line, and each had a severed hawser hanging from the port bow. On three of them, small fires were burning. Too small to be caused by missiles, but smoky and angry enough to add to—and blend in with—the panic and confusion that reigned in Jakarta Bay and all along the docks of Tanjung Priok. Boats of all sizes, from derelict barges to opulent pleasure craft, were afire, horns hooting, bullhorns blaring in half a dozen different languages. In direct violation of the “no contact, no dumping” restrictions upon the freighters, cargo containers and crates—along with canvas bags and desperate seamen—were streaming over their gunwales and into the comparative safety of the debris-choked water. It was chaos—but slightly more than could be explained by a handful of hits by large missiles and a few score by smaller ones. Winfield smiled. All part of the plan.

On one of the ships with a severed hawser, Winfield heard a set of muffled blasts which, to a practiced ear, recalled the sound made by older, twentieth-century grenades. A wash of thin gray fumes, and then a quickly growing plume of blacker smoke, emerged from a companionway, along with apparent shouts of distress. Winfield looked around: most of the Hkh’Rkh still manning the harbor checkpoints were too busy to look up, and those that did immediately returned to whatever task had occupied them the moment before. There was too much happening, too much that they weren’t familiar with, in an alien environment suddenly gone mad.

On the ship where the unusual explosions had given rise to equally unusual smoke—probably from a carefully controlled fire of wood and old tires—men and material were now pouring over the sides. Some of the objects plunging into the water were sealed black plastic bags. Winfield squinted. He watched one of the bags sink, leaving a thin line and a fishing bob trailing behind it on the surface. He smiled, wondered how many of the “desperate deckhands” jumping in around that bag were something other than merchant mariners.

As a SEAL, he also knew to look for the too-straight line of almost invisible bubbles that approached slowly, casually. More slowly and more casually than any fish ever did. Making sure his undersized mechanic’s overalls covered his composite-armor shin guards, Winfield moved to the edge of the wharf, miming an anxious search around the base of its pilings. Within seconds, down at the limit of his vision, a pair of dive goggles appeared, ghostlike in the oily water. He crouched closer, still acting as though he was searching, searching, searching, and thought, go ahead, check me out. But don’t take too long about it.

The goggles disappeared. Winfield counted off four seconds before a man dressed as a deck hand swam up and broke the surface, gasping for air and sputtering, splashing his arms about in a frenzy of desperation. Winfield reached down, caught the upper sleeve of the man’s light denim shirt and dragged him up onto the wharf where he proceeded to cough and retch mightily. “Don’t overdo it,” Winfield muttered.

The man kept his face toward the planking as he apparently coughed up bay water, but managed to say, “Are they watching?”

“Hell, no. You’re about the two-hundredth semidrowned boater or sailor they’ve seen today. And they’re too busy worrying about the missiles coming from the ocean in front of them and the armed mobs in the city behind them.” Winfield stopped to look at the man again. “You Indonesian?”

“No. Why?”

“You look pretty… convincing.”

The man looked directly up at Winfield. His face was broad, brown, round-cheeked. “What do you mean?”

“Well—you know. You look like a local.”

“Yeah? Well, mukha ng tae.”

“Huh?”

“He said ‘and you look like shit.’ In Tagalog,” added a new voice. Another face—this one spitting out a slimline rebreather and as distinctly Nordic as the other was Micronesian—appeared over the lip of the wharf. Winfield didn’t find the turn of phrase amusing. Mr. Blonde, Blue-eyed, and Square-Jawed detected the signs of disapproval and offered a sheepish rationalization. “Well, you don’t look like a local, anyhow.”

Winfield pointed a dark coffee index finger straight at the second fellow’s ski-ramp nose. “And you do?”

The man smiled as he hauled himself up onto the planks and crouched next to the other two. “You’ve got me there, sir.”

“Sir? How’d you—?”

Square-Jaw gave him a sidelong look. “Moment an officer starts talking, you know he’s an officer—sir.” He stuck out an immense, and equally squared-off hand. “Chief Edward Barkowski, Team Three.”

“Lieutenant Jacob Winfield—” He stopped, remembering. “Well, retired—sort of.”

The smaller man sat up, coughed one more time, nodded to Barkowski, who threw a child’s bath toy into the water. “I’m Alfredo Ayala, Lieutenant Commander, currently CO second stick, Joint SpecOpCom. I don’t remember your name on the contact lists, Mr. Winfield.” Another half-dozen men, all dressed as deck hands, surfaced near the floating toy and dragged themselves up onto the wharf. Dripping and coughing, they affected exhaustion: damn poor actors.

“My name wouldn’t be on your pre-infil contact lists. We came in under separate authority.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Winfield showed him the magic card that Trevor Corcoran had loaned him.

Ayala stared at it, then at Winfield. “Your CO is Nolan Corcoran’s son? No shit?”

“No shit.”

Ayala’s voice was suddenly tight with ready resentment. “Is he commandeering my teams?”

“No, sir. Unless my CO guesses wrong, we have the same objective.”

Ayala’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know about my objectives?”

Winfield repressed a sigh of exasperation. “Look, Commander, I got the same ‘suspect collaborators’ training you did. But today, there are two kinds of humans out in the streets: live insurgents and dead insurgents. If there are any collaborators, they’re indoors and staying there.”

Ayala nodded, smiled. A little sheepishly, Winfield thought. “Okay, Lieutenant, I’m just an FNG here, so cut me some slack. What’s your CO got for a target?”

“The Roach Motel.”

“The what?”

“Sorry. That’s what we call the Arat Kur HQ. The presidential compound at the northwest corner of Merdeka Square. They’ve put up curtain walls, paved over some gardens to make a half dozen vertipads.”

Ayala nodded. “Yep. That’s where my team—and almost everyone else—is headed. I know the prewar layout, but have only seen a few recent photos.”

Winfield smiled. “Whereas we’ve got prime intel: current floor plans, hardpoints, and duty rosters. Updated within the last forty-eight hours.”

Ayala’s eyes were suddenly bright. “You have agents inside?”

“Yeah. Domestic staff, delivery personnel.”

“Outstanding. We’ll follow you to your CO.” Ayala waved the last members of his still-surfacing stick to join him in the lee of a smoking warehouse that fronted the bay. Once there, with Barkowski keeping watch, he huddled at their center. “Okay. Weapons out.” Each man reached behind and under his shirt. Waterproof adhesive tape tore noisily away from back skin. The small, flat plastic bags that were in their reappearing hands sputtered as they were ripped open. Within five seconds, each man had readied a small, Unitech ten-millimeter liquimix machine pistol, held in the narrow, shadowed margin between his body and the building. Ayala had not stopped giving instructions. “The lieutenant here is going to guide us to a safe house. We go single file. Weapon mix set to maximum. Single shots only. Never more than thirty meters, or you’re not going to get penetration. You won’t anyway, with the Arat Kur. With the Hkh’Rkh, aim for the articulation points in their armor. And work together. Saturate targets with fire. If you don’t penetrate right away, the multiple kinetic impacts should stun them. Then close in and pour it on.” He turned back toward Winfield, paused, frowned. “What are you smiling at?”

Winfield nodded at the Unitechs. “You sure you want to use those popguns?”

The lieutenant commander looked like he’d taken a swig of vinegar. “You got something better?”

Winfield shrugged. “How about the assault rifles I stashed in a dumpster about twenty minutes ago?”

The men looked up, eyes wide and hopeful. Ayala looked suspicious. “Some old, raggedy-ass AKs aren’t any better than—”

“Commander, I’m talking eight-millimeter CoBro liquimixers with extended bullpup feeds and integral RAP launchers. Double load of ammo, heterogeneous mix. Extra hotjuice canisters so you can shoot fast and hard all day long. Interested?”

The newly arrived SEALs were not merely interested. The looks on their faces were more akin to ravenous fixation. Ayala allowed himself a small smile. “Sure, Lieutenant. Seeing as how you’re throwing them out anyhow, we’d be happy to take them off your hands.”

R’sudkaat clattered over as soon as Tuxae raised a claw. “What is it, Tuxae Skhaas?”

“Fleetmaster, the humans continue to fire missiles from their ships.”

“And we continue to destroy both.”

“Yes, Fleetmaster, but while our orbital interdiction assets are destroying their cargo ships, they cannot be tasked to ground targets.”

“The delay will be brief. Almost all their ships are sunk.”

“With respect, Esteemed Fleetmaster, additional ground suppression is required not only in and around the cities, but at a number of other sites. Sensors confirm pilot reports that insurgents and more organized forces have invested the margins of our airbases and vertipads with small teams firing portable fire-and-forget missiles. Between these and the cluster bomblet munitions that passed through our PDF systems, air operations are sluggish at Jakarta and stalled in Surabaja.”

“How many craft have we lost?”

“Only one or two so far.”

“Then there seems little problem.”

“I harmonize, R’sudkaat, but our aircraft are constantly having to take evasive action, thereby diverting from scheduled landing or takeoff vectors. Air traffic control is unmanageable. Consequently, by the time they have avoided, decoyed, or interdicted the ground fire and sortied, their targets have left the coordinates called in by our ground forces.”

R’sudkaat studied the data streams on Tuxae’s screen, the map in the holotank, then swerved away. The order he tossed over the collar-rim of his carapace sounded like gravel in a sifter. “Redeploy the airphibian craft. They must suspend their subsurface patrol duties and join our air assets as quickly as possible.”

“Fleetmaster, the human submarines—”

“—need not be patrolled for so aggressively. They will be destroyed by orbital fire if they rise to launch depth.”

“R’sudkaat, if we were so sure of that outcome, would we have developed these amphibian aircraft? Would we not have simply relied on our orbital interdiction batteries?”

“The airphibian attack craft were a second tier of defense against submersibles, an assurance against other failures. We cannot afford that luxury for the duration of this battle. We must maintain our combat air patrols and tactical air support. Order the airphibian systems to terminate their submarine picket duties and transition for atmospheric operations.”

“With respect, R’sudkaat, the fighting is also shifting to the major food-shipment cities—Jakarta, Surabaja, Semarang, Cilacap, and Banywangi—and a few other of the larger metro centers, particularly Bandung, Bekasi, and Depok. How do you plan to use the tactical air support and not kill thousands of civilians? Our rules of engagement—”

“—no longer apply.”

Tuxae felt his lenses grind together then spring back in shock. “With respect, Fleetmaster—”

“Assistant Shipmaster, hear and follow this unwavering note. Today, there is but one rule of engagement. Find and destroy the enemy.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sanjay Thandla watched Lemuel Wasserman try to hide himself behind a palm tree to urinate and fail miserably. Although arguably the world’s most brilliant living physicist, he seemed unable to figure out how to pee discreetly in the wild.

But of course, Lemuel’s problem was not ineptitude. It was fear. Lemuel was fearful of everything. Just as his reluctance to enter the jungle made it impossible for him to empty his bladder in privacy, his various anxieties imposed other restrictions upon his behavior. He avoided the local food. He never emerged into the sun unless protected by a long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and a floppy hat that made him look like a maiden-lady gardener. He would not swim out beyond ten meters for fear of sharks, and he asked incessantly about the intercept capabilities of the Arat Kur PDF systems. He had arrived twelve days ago, questioning everything, yet accepting no one else’s experience as useful information—with the peculiar exception of Thandla himself.

Thandla smiled as Lemuel emerged from behind the too-narrow tree he had selected as cover. Hapless, brilliant Wasserman. Thandla had not expected his odd, awkward, and decidedly barbed fellowship. Upon going their separate ways after returning to Earth from the Convocation, Sanjay believed the American did not like, or even particularly trust him. But here, just a few kilometers south of Bakau Heni, on the southeast tip of Sumatra, Wasserman had become a puzzling and pugnacious fixture at all of Thandla’s activities and meals. He even forsook the company of his own countrymen, for the region was thick with tall, drawling Americans who were impatient to join the fight on Java.

They, and their European and Russian counterparts, had been gathering for the better part of three weeks. They arrived by truck or coastal barge, never in units larger than fifteen personnel and two vehicles, collecting here and in a dozen other coastal enclaves, well away from major towns or cities. Thandla and Wasserman had been assigned to go to Java in the second wave, with what the Americans incongruously called their “Air Cavalry.” Sanjay would have expected an ornate Pegasus as the unit symbol, but it was simply a black-rimmed gold shield which was adorned by (in the language of heraldry that he had learned during an early fascination with the age of chivalry) a bend sable and a chief sinister couped horse head, also sable. The other unit concealed here at the water’s edge, a German troop of high-speed VTOL drone controllers, was the first wave. How any of them were to survive getting airborne had not yet been explained.

Lemuel had stopped to speak with one of the American pilots before he finished his journey back to Thandla. “They say it shouldn’t be long now. Maybe an hour, maybe half. Maybe less.”

Thandla smiled, looked east across the water. He heard Wasserman’s feet shift in the sand: a noise that signified suppressed irritation. It was the greatest exertion of self-restraint that Wasserman seemed capable of. “Yes, Lemuel? What is it?”

The foot-scuffling stopped. “Well, yeah. I just want to know why you’re smiling. I mean, what’s to smile about? In a few hours, we’ll be—”

“We’ll be doing what we have trained to do, ever since returning from the Convocation. Once we are in Jakarta, I will be trying to glean data from a hopefully intact Arat Kur computer. You will be searching for any files or technology which will better help us understand their shift and antimatter drives. Are you not eager to begin?”

“Well, yeah—but no. I mean, look at this place.” Wasserman waved back at the vehicles of the second wave. They were low, wedge-shaped deltas with sleek turrets and menacing secondary weapon blisters. The intakes for their ducted-thrust engines were broad, thin slits, reminiscent of a shark’s mouth when cruising for prey. Two of the vehicles were larger, boxier vehicles bristling with sensor and communication pods and antennae. All were in an aqua-blue mottled camouflage scheme that would shift to green-gray when they finished their run across the Sunda Strait to Java. “You feel safe riding in those?” Wasserman asked.

“Far safer than riding in those.” Thandla smiled, pointed at the lighter, more needlelike fuselages of the German VTOLs: built for linear speed rather than nap-of-earth combat support operations, the airframes of the European craft looked faster but infinitely more fragile. Not that that mattered: nothing could withstand a direct hit from any of the Arat Kur orbital interdiction batteries.

“That’s not what I mean,” Wasserman pressed. “I’m talking about doing any of this. You know, being here.”

Thandla did not understand. “You mean, in Indonesia?”

“No, I mean in the middle of a war zone. Doesn’t that—bother you?”

Ah. That was it, then. Thandla shook his head. “No, not really.”

“But I thought— You’ve mentioned a wife. And kids. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not scared of—of—?”

Could he really not say the word? Was he no more prepared than this? “Scared of dying? I am scared, although perhaps not as you mean it.”

“You mean there’s more than one version of ‘scared’?”

Thandla ignored the facetious tone. “Yes. I am scared that I will not see my family—or this world—again.”

“Yeah, there you go. That’s the kind of scared I’m talking about.”

“I think it is not. For if I depart this world, this frame of existence, I only go to another that is closer to Nirvana, to a communion with and dissolution into all things.”

Wasserman had leaned back. “You believe that stuff?”

Thandla smiled at Wasserman’s crude and artless dismay, but also at the undeniable undercurrent of personal concern, as if the American were listening to a friend who had decided to go skydiving without checking his parachute. “Yes, Lemuel, I believe that stuff. I always have. Both in peace and, now, at war.”

Lemuel was quiet for a long moment. An eternity, for him, Thandla reflected. “Does that belief make you feel better at a time like this?”

“I do not know. Probably. It affects how I feel—and think—at all times.”

Lemuel made a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a sigh. “Hunh.” Thandla looked at him; Wasserman was staring out over the water. “Hunh,” he said again.

“What is it?”

“I’m just thinking about today, and about Murphy’s Laws.”

Thandla smiled. “Which one?”

“The one which predicts that since you’re not particularly worried about death, you’ll probably get away without a scratch. And because I’m shit-scared about dying, I’ll probably get my guts blown out.”

Wasserman’s projection was too juvenile and unreasonably cynical to warrant a response, but Thandla was struck by its subtext. That, for reasons unclear, Lemuel Wasserman was admitting to fears and cosmological misgivings and anxieties. To him.

Thandla felt his smile widen, saw Lemuel glance over—but his eyes did not make it all the way to Thandla’s. His gaze froze on something he had seen over Sanjay’s shoulder.

“Dr. Thandla.”

Sanjay turned. Two command pilots, one American, one German, had come to stand behind him. They both had their hands behind their backs. The American, a major, was looking down. “Dr. Thandla,” he repeated, “I’m afraid we’ve got a change of plans.”

“I do not understand.”

The German captain spoke with a directness that was jarring after the American’s soft Missouri drawl. “Herr Doctor, our lead encryption and decoding specialist has been afflicted with gastroenteritis for two days. Treatments have not been effective. He is quite incapacitated.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

The American looked up. “Dr. Thandla, Kapitan Dortmuller’s C4I specialist was to coordinate jamming and counterjamming for the bow wave of our operations from Sumatra. Without his crash-training in what little we know about Arat Kur systems, machine language, and programming habits, the kapitan’s mission could be over almost before it begins. We cannot lose control of the jamming and image-making drones that will be deployed in advance of his unit. We have to stay one electronic step ahead of the Arat Kur attempts to see through them.”

“To cover an attack by your vehicles in the second wave?”

The American looked away. “Well, yeah, that too. But there’s more at stake. There are units out there”—he nodded toward the surf without looking away—“that need those seconds even more than my attack wave does.” He held Thandla with his eyes. “Much more. ’Course, I’m also aware that we need to keep you ready in the rear, so that you can pick apart any of their computers that we might get our hands on. So maybe I’m talking to the wrong person.” He looked over at Lemuel. “As I understand it, Dr. Wasserman, you’re just about as competent as Dr. Thandla when it comes to what little we know about Arat Kur hard- and software.”

Lemuel blinked once. He swallowed. Thandla suspected he was about to turn around and run straight into the jungle that he usually refused to enter. But instead, his voice tremoring slightly, Lemuel lifted his chin resolutely and answered. “That’s true. I can do the job.”

Thandla felt a sudden urge to hug the brash, irascible, impossible American. But instead, he merely smiled again. “No, Major. That will not do. Dr. Wasserman’s specialization cannot be replaced. He does know more about computers than I know about drives, but that is exactly why he must not go. His expertise is fundamentally unique and irreplaceable. Mine is merely very rare. I will replace Kapitan Dortmuller’s Arat Kur software specialist.”

The officers nodded, the American holding the visor of his cap for a moment, before they swung off toward their separate commands. Thandla watched them go, smiling, and felt that—despite the line of clouds on the horizon—this was a very good day after all. He turned back to Wasserman.

Whose face was red, almost distended. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell are you doing, Sanjay? What the fuck have you gotten yourself—?”

Thandla put a hand on Lemuel’s arm; he would have liked to place it against his cheek. “Lemuel. Stop. Think. There is no other choice. And you were ready to take the same risk. Today we cannot afford to protect ourselves, cannot afford to lose precious seconds or even one small advantage.”

Wasserman shook his head. “But it’s not safe. Have you looked at the first wave’s mission specs—I mean, really looked at them?”

“I have. Possibly more than you. And there is no alternative. The first wave cannot be comprised solely of remote operated vehicles, because if the comm links are broken or disrupted, that would be the end of them.”

Wasserman shook his head even harder. “Look. The live control vehicles don’t need to be in the first wave, Sanjay. They could stay behind it, control it by lascom.”

“On the contrary. You know what lascom control links mean in terms of degraded reaction time. The drone sends us data, we send it reactive orders—and lose a fraction of a second every time we do. And in that microsecond, the drone is extremely vulnerable. No. Our crewed control vehicles must be so close that there is no measurable delay. Otherwise, we cannot be sure that our manned air forces will arrive in Java, let alone in sufficient numbers to attain battlespace parity.”

“Sanjay, listen to what you’re saying. You’re talking about flying into a shooting gallery.” Wasserman seemed ready to reach out and shake some sense into his friend, then blushed and threw his hands up in the air instead. “Don’t do it. It’s not safe.”

“Today, Lemuel, personal safety must be set aside. Our survival as a planet and a species depends on our acceptance of that, my friend.”

Wasserman hesitated. And Thandla knew why: because Sanjay Thandla had called him “my friend.” What could Lemuel Wasserman say in response to that?

Lemuel swallowed—it seemed hard for him to do, as if he had a sore throat—and looked out to sea. “Yeah, well—you’re going to be fine. You optimistic son of a bitch. I’ll be way back in the second wave, and they’ll still find a way to kill me. And when I’m dead, you’ll still be smiling that stupid smile of yours. You son of a bitch. I’m going to die and you’re going to be fine.”

Thandla smiled, put an arm around Lemuel’s shoulder, looked out to sea with him. “Of course I am.”

Thandla watched the low waves run—inexhaustible but futile—toward their feet, and, failing, retract and gather to rush at them once more. And no matter what happens, that will be true. I’m going to be fine.

“The situation becomes more difficult, Esteemed Fleetmaster R’sudkaat.”

R’sudkaat’s response to Tuxae was flat-toned. “Report.”

“The human missile barrage has begun to drop off rapidly.”

“Excellent.”

“Yes, Fleetmaster, but the damage reports are alarming. We have lost thirty percent of our PDF targeting arrays. Almost all grounded aircraft took some measure of damage from shrapnel or other debris. Readiness ratings for half of them are uncertain. Communications are being switched through a dangerously small number of antennae: many of the masts have been damaged or destroyed. Fatalities have been low, but the wounded are numerous, and—due to communication losses—we have lost touch with many of the firebases in the countryside.”

“All recoverable losses.”

“I harmonize, Fleetmaster, all recoverable—if we are given the time to recover. Unfortunately, the human operations show no sign of diminishing. Close-range ground engagement began at each of our compounds just over three minutes ago.”

“So they are starting to mount a ground offensive.”

“No, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, they are not ‘starting’ it. It is in process, and all their actions commenced within the same five-second interval.”

“What? Across the entirety of Java?”

“Yes.”

“So they have found a means of communication we cannot jam. Inconsequential. Our tactical air will crush them. Instruct—”

Did R’sudkaat not know how to listen? “Fleetmaster, I repeat: our tactical air assets are at less than seventy percent due to damage. Those remaining are returning to refuel and rearm, but this will take three times as long as usual.”

“What? Why?”

“Enough of the humans’ large, ship-launched rockets survived to hit half of our air-support facilities with cluster-bomblet munitions. Runways, landing pads, service vehicles have all been compromised. Fuel and ordnance, according to protocol, was moved into protective bunkers and so is not in immediate readiness. Surabaja is particularly affected. It is down to twenty percent function.”

“Why did you not tell me of this earlier?”

“Esteemed Fleetmaster, I am receiving these updates as we speak. Surabaja is having to divert craft to Jakarta for refueling and refit. But in consequence, almost all relief pilots and all the munitions are being drawn from one cache.”

“Consumables for our air assets may run dry, but before then—”

“Before then, they may be shot down, Fleetmaster. Because so many aircraft are now depending upon Jakarta’s various airports, the wait-time there for landing and service has tripled. In consequence, although we are maximizing dispersal, our aircraft are nonetheless stacked in multilayered holding patterns above Jakarta—”

“—and so are perfect targets for surface-to-air missiles. Even small ones with short range.” R’sudkaat’s mandibles clacked urgently. “I harmonize. Quickly, alert the combat air traffic controllers in Jakarta. Despite our orbital interdiction, the humans might hope to use this moment to bring their own air assets into the battle—”

Behind Thandla’s mid-seat position in the German VTOL, the roughly purring engines—both the vertical lifters and the aft thrusters—suddenly yowled as if enraged. The flat, blue expanse of shallows leapt at, and then unrolled under and behind, them in what seemed like a single long second. Thandla was pushed back in the seat—hard. On either side, five Deutsche AeroFabrik VTOLs, identical to his own save for the tail numbers, were spread in the forward arms of a vee, for which his craft was the vertex.

“Jamming on,” called the electronic warfare specialist in the back seat.

“Very good.” Dortmund, the craft’s commander, turned back toward Thandla. “Soon, you will become quite busy. Their computers will analyze our signals, decode how we are amplifying, distorting, or creating false signatures, and interrupting their communications.”

“And so I will have to adjust our signals.”

“Just so. At first, you should be able to follow the guidelines that we preprogrammed into the computer.”

Thandla smiled. “But if you had such complete faith in those new modulation and propagation protocols, you would have not have needed my services so urgently.”

For the first time since Thandla had met him, Dortmund allowed himself a small smile. “Das stimmt. If my guess is correct, within the first ten minutes, the Arat Kur will begin to see the programming patterns common to all our settings. There will be need for you to improvise.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then we die. Naturally.”

“But we do want them to be shooting at us, do we not?”

“Yes. We want them to realize that they must shoot us down, that if they eliminate us, they can eliminate the jamming and image-making drones covering the general air assault into Java.”

“Which begins when?”

“Look behind you.”

Thandla turned, looked out the rear of the long cockpit blister. Above the dwindling green-gray Sumatran coast, specks were airborne, rising, gathering.

Sanjay stared at the wide blue heavens above them—above which an enemy fleet hovered. “I am unconvinced that we shall last more than a few seconds, anyway. The Arat Kur’s look-down visual sensors seem quite acute, and their laser targeting is most impressive.”

“True, but first they will try to eliminate us with their more numerous rail guns. But the flight time of the projectiles makes hitting a fast, maneuverable craft problematic. Ultimately, they may have to use lasers. But they have far fewer of them, and atmospheric diffusion makes them energy-expensive to use. We project that they will only commit their lasers once they determine that they must act swiftly and decisively against the manned vehicles of our controller flights if they are to eliminate the numerous countermeasure drones we are directing.”

“So the way for them to kill the many-headed hydra of our interference is to hit us: its heart and brain.”

“Just so.”

“All so that the other aircraft can get to Java.”

Dortmund frowned, looked away. “That would be nice.”

Thandla looked harder at him. “But you said—”

“We want it to appear that our primary objective is to ensure that our air assets reach Jakarta. But our true task—both for us and the air units behind us—is to be a decoy. We must keep the Roaches too busy to anticipate or detect a far greater threat that is approaching.”

“Which is coming from where?” Thandla felt foolish doing so, but scanned the skies.

Dortmund shook his head. “The threat is not coming from up there.” He pointed straight down through the VTOL’s deck. “It is coming from down there. From far, far beneath us.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Damn it, get back down here, Little Guy.”

“Coming, coming.”

Opal looked away from where her XO, Miles O’Garran, was affixing another decoy cellular repeater to a street post. Anxious over his exposure, she glanced north. Burning cars, sporadic fire from the AKs of irregulars, silence from the Hkh’Rkh hardpoint that brooded, broad and squat, on the other side of the narrow waterway which constrained the sluggish Ciliwung River. The Hkh’Rkh were probably ranging in the locals, letting them get overconfident in the absence of a reply, and so lull these neophyte warriors into believing that they were safe to continue to fire from the same positions. And there was nothing that Opal could do to warn the irregulars of that mortal error. A lot of brave Indonesians were going to die as a result of their ignorance today. But the hard numbers—the chillingly cold equations of the tactical situation—were that if the Hkh’Rkh lost one trooper for every ten ad hoc civilian insurgents they killed this day, their occupation would be over by nightfall.

She looked north. Nothing to be seen yet, but the Taiwanese with her had vouched for the mainland tunnel rats’ reports that one of the dozens of Hkh’Rkh’s counterattacking units was moving in from that direction. The Sloths were probably looking to come in sneaky-Pete quiet, get in behind the insurgents up the street and take them out on their way back in to the hard point. Best guess was that most of the Hkh’Rkh of that strike force were moderately wounded, although none were what humans would consider critical. Street intel confirmed that the Hkh’Rkh were terminally triaging their true surgical cases out in the field. Less burden on the rear area services, and less need to pull combat effectives off the line to exfiltrate those wounded who were wholly incapacitated. The coldblooded efficiency of it gave the Hkh’Rkh an even more fearsome aspect; for them, “fight or die” wasn’t merely a rousing battle cry. It was a way of life. Even a unit of walking wounded like the one approaching Opal’s concealed positions had a combat mission. The Hkh’Rkh were supremely capable and confident fighters, Opal had to concede, but sometimes they were possibly a bit too confident…

Movement: a shadow in the mists one hundred meters to the north, loping across the street and then gone. Like a ghost.

“Little Guy, get your skinny ass back down here!”

O’Garran was now affixing a small, convex block to the base of the street pole.

“Little Guy!”

“Coming, Mother.” His mutter was more annoyed than jocular. O’Garran played out an arming wire from the back of the block, tossed the lead down the adjacent sewer grate. Behind her, Opal heard the senior mainland Chinese officer—Chou, who spoke almost no English—give orders to fish the wire out of the muck and hook it up to the command switches. At least that’s what Opal supposed he was saying since that’s what his men were doing. She looked sideways at the ranking Taiwanese officer—Wu, an English-fluent detective from Taitung—but he was facing rigidly in the same direction she was. And he’s still not too happy with me. But it’s not like I had any choice. The mainlanders are well-trained and there are five times as many of them. I had to give their CO seniority. Hell, it was hard enough to get them to accept O’Garran as my XO. Wu—the Taiwanese—hadn’t said a thing but she could tell he felt sold out.

O’Garran leaned a mauled street vendor’s sign in front of the convex block and then hopped down through the open manhole, shooting past Opal and almost landing square on the fiber-optic spool.

“Watch it,” Opal snapped. “You want to cut our commo?”

“Wouldn’t think of it. The repeater net is down?”

“Not yet, but the Roaches are doing their best to tear it to pieces.” She looked behind her. Chou, the third in command, was quickly scanning the screen of the palmcomp he had hooked up to one of the spool’s fiber-optic splitter-leads. “According to Wu, Chou’s seeing reports from other infiltration units that the Arat Kur have started using a few smaller-yield EMP devices.”

“They’re trying to burn down the system.”

“They’re getting our decoy nodes, mostly. And a lot of non-milspec electronics along with them. As we expected they would. But soon, we and the other tunnel rats may become the telephone operators for our offensive. Our fiber optics could be the only reliable local commo.”

“Major.” It was Wu. “Movement.”

Opal hopped halfway up the rungs in a single jump, grabbed the eyepiece of the monofilament snooper they’d fixed there, looked out into the street.

The shadows approaching from the north were bigger now, and they weren’t disappearing. They courted the edges of the smoke, indistinct but steady presences.

“What’s the wait?” asked O’Garran.

“They’re checking out the area. They seem pretty shy,” Opal mused.

“Wouldn’t you be? They’ve learned that, today, almost anything can be a trap.”

“I just want to make sure they’re not looking for us.”

“You mean, an ambush by concealed tunnel rats? I doubt it. My guess is they’re extra-cautious because they’re getting nasty surprises from the more organized resistance cells. According to the chatter on the fiber-com, all us tunnel rats and most of the infiltration teams have been able to stay under the street and under the radar, so far.”

Opal watched two Hkh’Rkh emerge from the smoke. One was limping. “We’ll be setting a new precedent, then.” These Sloths were the perfect target. Neither of the ones she saw had liquimix weapons—the Hkh’Rkh reserved those for squad support and elite troops—and were carrying light ammo loads. They were on their way to the rear, all right. As more of them emerged from the smoke, the condition of the first two proved to be universal. They were all wounded, wary, lightly loaded, scanning the buildings as they came on. They had probably learned that sporadically firing insurgents like those they knew were up ahead didn’t usually think about rear security. But they had also probably learned that they could not rely on that assumption, because there were too many humans with a little military experience sprinkled into the general population. Opal counted more than a dozen Hkh’Rkh, now within thirty meters of their subterranean hideout. She turned to O’Garran. “Activate the decoy repeater.”

The little SEAL nodded, pressed the central button on the small remote he held. “The repeater is active.”

The Hkh’Rkh’s behavior changed almost instantly. From somewhere in the rear of their well-spread column of advance, an order came up. Their point scouts held position, went low, and within thirty seconds, the unit’s commo specialist had come forward, sweeping a hand scanner back and forth, back and forth. Within ten seconds, he had found the vector of strongest transmission and pointed out the repeater.

“Mr. Wu, please tell Mr. Chou to instruct his second squad that they are to prepare to trigger their charges, and follow up by directly engaging the enemy. As per contingency B-beta.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Opal watched three of the Hkh’Rkh come forward, sweeping the muzzles of their outsized weapons across the facades of the surrounding buildings. She could also feel Little Guy squinting up at her.

“Major, if we just stick with the mines, that won’t give away our position. Hell, they can’t even be sure if they’re running into trip-wired or command-detonated charges. But if our troops join the ambush, the enemy will know we’re here, will see our positions.” O’Garran’s voice trailed off, uncomfortable with stating the obvious.

Opal paused, collecting herself, her thoughts, the right words. “Sergeant O’Garran, you are my right hand, my guardian angel, my demolitions expert—and you have more mouth on you than you should. I’ve got my reasons for starting our own little party here and now, and I will make those reasons clear to you. In my own sweet time. Understood, Sergeant?”

She didn’t look down. The one second of silence was capped by a “Yes, ma’am. Sorry if I was out of line.”

You were. But so am I, and you can smell it, can’t you? Two weeks we’ve been creeping and crawling toward Jakarta, shepherding our platoon of pint-sized soldiers through fiber-optic conduits and the occasional rare sewer, wiring up covert op teams so they’re on the fiber-com net, hitting the Hkh’Rkh when we had to, hiding most of the time to get our job done. And now—now when we should play it cool, should wait for the signal from offshore to commence the final attack on the enemy’s command and control elements—I’m taking us into an engagement that is contrary to everything we’ve been working toward. It’s contrary to our mission, to your instincts, to our present need to stay hidden. But it is essential to Caine’s survival. If the current intel is right, the Arat Kur would be keeping him in the presidential compound and we’re only three hundred meters away. But if we don’t get in the game right now, it may be too late to get to him in time.

The Hkh’Rkh had reached the repeater, were hunkering down to look for traps. But they were too late. Opal turned to Wu. “Light ’em up.”

Wu nodded at Chou. Chou turned the command switches sharply.

The convex block—a fourth-generation claymore mine—went off with a throaty roar. The three Hkh’Rkh went down, one struggling to get his claws over two geysering wounds, another limp by the time he hit the macadam.

The reaction of the other Hkh’Rkh was, as always, prudent and well-rehearsed. Their NCOs waved the rest of the troopers back into covering positions close against the walls of the buildings on either side of the street. Fifty meters south, close to the rear of the column, a small knot of the Hkh’Rkh gathered and then tucked quickly into a side-street. The command group, probably trying to assess how best to recon the point of contact, whether it had been a dumb-mine or command detonated, and whether they could afford the time or personnel to send out feelers to the flanks.

But they had less time than they knew. “Mr. Wu, tell Mr. Chou to order second squad into action, starting with the ready charges.” Opal returned her eye to the snooper scope, counted off three seconds—

The windows and doors of the buildings on the west side of the street blew out in gouts of flame, smoke, and cartwheeling debris. One or two of the Hkh’Rkh that had been sheltering against them got up, limped over to their mates on the other side of the street, some moving into the east-side buildings to find cover—

But they found an ambush instead. Having come up out of the fiber-optic conduits in the basements of two buildings on the east side of the street, Chou’s second squad, armed with South African liquimix carbines, started hitting each Hkh’Rkh with tightly grouped three- and four-round bursts. At least that’s what had been planned, and that’s what it sounded like now. The Hkh’Rkh came reeling back out of the buildings, into the middle of the street, firing as they withdrew, but uncertain where to go. After a moment, they started a fighting withdrawal back down the street, toward the last sighted location of the unit’s command group. Opal smiled. “Mr. Wu, tell Mr. Chou that third squad has the target right on top of them. Engage immediately.”

Opal almost felt sorry for the Hkh’Rkh. That side street had been the only reasonable fallback position within two hundred meters of the first ambush point. She counted off another three seconds—

An explosion quaked the walls around them slightly, shattered most of the remaining nearby windows. Smoke plumed out of the side street. Two seconds later, she could hear another but more distant stuttering torrent of South African liquimix carbines. Third squad was capitalizing upon the confusion and devastation inflicted by almost ten kilos of plastique that had been planted and upward-tamped on the thin ceiling of the sewer station in that side street. O’Garran was conferring directly with Chou in his atrocious pidgin Cantonese. “What’s he’s saying, Little Guy?” Opal asked. “How many did we get of theirs, lose of ours?”

“There’s only a handful of them left. Chou says he’s lost about half of each squad.” O’Garran had more to say, but didn’t say it; Chou’s eyes stayed on him, waiting. You may not speak English, Chou, but you know your pint-sized American pal hasn’t asked me the question you put to him. Why lose any of his men? Why stage this ambush at all? Why not wait for the “go” signal that will kick off the final attack? Opal returned her eye to the snooper scope. “Those are good results. Pass the word to all squads: fall back to yesterday’s positions.”

Peripherally, she could see O’Garran stand to his full height below her, his face very white against the darkness around him. “Yesterday’s positions?”

“You heard right, Sergeant. Tell them to get moving. We don’t have a lot of time.”

O’Garran’s attempt to ask two questions at the same time produced a comical gobbling sound for a moment. “Ma’am, are we—? I’m not—What do you mean, we don’t have a lot of time?”

Opal unclipped the snooper scope from the side of the ladder, reeled in the fiber-optic probe back down through the manhole’s pry-bar slit. “You’ve seen the reports on the fiber-com. Ever since the last of the clone units deserted, the Hkh’Rkh have had to send out a slew of fresh units working perimeter clearance like fire brigades. If one of their regular sweeps gets hit hard within five hundred meters of the Roach Motel, the fire brigade gets the word, rushes in, and snuffs out the flames. In this case, that means us. They’ll assume we’ve played all our cards and are either going to sit back or eventually unass this place. Either way, they’ll want to get here fast. Make sure they get us.”

“Why? As a reprisal, an ‘example’?”

“Hell, no. For security. They’ll know that an ambush like this wasn’t mounted by the general insurgency. That makes us a high priority target. Firstly, we could be an intel goldmine. They’ll guess we’re not locals, so they’ll want to grab some of us to squeeze and debrief since they’ve got no idea—yet—what kind of coordinated efforts they’re up against today.”

“And what’s the second reason we’re a high-priority target?”

She sealed the snoop scope back in its pouch. “Given where they want to establish a safe perimeter—about five hundred meters out from their compound—we are a serious and organized rear-area security threat that got inside the zone they thought they’d cleared.”

O’Garran nodded. “So they’re going to come back and clean out what they missed: us. Okay, so let’s go back into hiding.”

“Whoa there, Little Guy. I didn’t say anything about hiding. I said we’re going back into yesterday’s positions, which are about four hundred meters back to the north, along the probable advance route of the Hkh’Rkh fire brigade.”

Wu looked over. “So you mean to attack them, too. A much larger force, and mostly unwounded.”

Opal heard the grim tone but ignored it. “That is correct. But we’re going to hit them from behind. I’m betting that four hundred meters north of this contact point, that fire brigade is still going to be moving fast, with minimal flank and rear security precautions. And you did leave the demo charges in yesterday’s positions, didn’t you Mr. Wu?”

“I did as you instructed.”

“And now you know why I did so. And now we’ve lost another minute we can’t afford to lose. Move.”

As they crouched into the stooped jog that was the fastest way of traveling through the fiber-optic conduits, O’Garran kept close behind her. Close enough to whisper, “Major, I’ve got to ask: what in the hell are we doing? I mean, why mount another ambush before we get the ‘go’ signal for the final attack? What will it accomplish—?”

“It will clear the path to the Roach Motel, sergeant.”

“So you’re baiting them in to clear this sector. Why?”

“Because we don’t have enough forces to spare for a rear guard when we make our own assault.”

“Our own assault? What do you mean? Assault into what?”

“Assault straight into their compound, Sergeant. That’s the objective of the final attack, after all.”

The moment’s silence seemed to double the force behind O’Garran’s urgent, hissing whisper, “Into their compound? Major, particularly with our losses, we’d never survive an approach to their hardpoint, let alone fight through it into the Roach Motel.”

“Who said anything about going through the hardpoint?”

“Well, how else—?”

“Little Guy, tell me. What are we in right now?”

“Uh… fiber-optic conduits. And the very occasional sewer.”

“And a number of buildings in the Arat Kur compound—particularly the ministries complex near the palace—were wired for fiber optic, weren’t they?”

The brief silence told her that he saw it. “So we’re taking out both these Hkh’Rkh forces to make the exos believe that we’re weakening this area in preparation for a frontal assault on their compound.”

“Right. And since they’re too smart to sit holed up, waiting for us to hit the compound—”

“—They’re going to send out a good-sized preemption force to break up any gathering attack, eliminate us, and then finish the job of securing their perimeter in this sector.”

“Right again. And where’s that force going to come from, given how overextended the Hkh’Rkh already are?”

Another pause; another tactical realization. “They’re going to tap the internal security detachment that’s covering this part of the compound. They can’t have anything else left as area reserves.”

“Exactly. They’re going to draw down this salient’s security complement to come out after us, try to take us out on the streets, before we can conduct a frontal assault.”

“But you said we’re not going to be assaulting frontally—”

“Because we’re not even going to be on the streets. While they’re out looking for us, we’re going to be in the conduits under the streets, and under them. All the way into the heart of the Roach Motel.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Darzhee Kut bobbed when Urzueth Ragh pointed out the relayed sensor readings. “The human fleet is preparing to engage our own in cislunar space.”

First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam swiveled towards him. “It is the expected melody, but how can you tell?”

“They have discontinued the centrifugal spin of their habitation modules and are retracting the booms.”

“Earlier than at Barnard’s Star. Do our tactical analysts anticipate differences in this engagement?”

“Several, Hu’urs Khraam. Firstly, the human force is much larger than ours on this occasion, and the ships are not second echelon or decommissioned craft. It is the gathered cream of their several fleets, both in terms of hulls and personnel. Secondly, this time they are moving faster than we are, yet their trajectory will allow them to use Earth’s gravity to pull them tight around the planet and strike us again. Or, by changing when and how much they boost, they could use that gravity to slingshot them out of cislunar space at extreme velocity.”

“So they have far more control over whether there will be a second firing pass, a second phase to the engagement.”

“Your pitch is perfect, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. They can either run and minimize their losses if things do not go well—”

“—Or come around to finish us off if the first engagement has gone in their favor.”

“Regrettably true, First Delegate. But I do not impugn our planning. We presumed that they had no such forces left. There was no reason for us to fear or refrain from being so deep in Earth’s gravity well.”

“You sing a soothing song, and I appreciate it, Urzueth Ragh, but I will have no lullabies. This was my doing. I was not cautious enough in our deployment. I split the fleet, and allowed us to sink deep into this gravity well, for which we will now pay. The force we have sent to meet the humans labors against Earth’s pull, while the rest of our ships must remain in close orbit, held fast by the planet’s heavy claws. Easy targets, should any of the human craft manage to engage us.”

Darzhee Kut raised an objecting claw. “With respect, Hu’urs Khraam, your deployments were optimal for forcing a swift conclusion to a war of occupation—”

“Perhaps, but those deployments were still wrong. Darzhee Kut, if you should find yourself burdened with the cares of the Wholenest in the years to come, I offer you the counsel of this day: in war, there is no surety. Now, no more on this. What other differences does the human fleet exhibit this time?”

“It is early to tell, but sensors indicate a far higher ratio of drones. Almost five times as many as the humans had at Barnard’s Star.”

“None of these differences sing in harmony with our hopes, Speaker Kut. How do you expect they will attack us?”

Darzhee looked over at Caine, who was pointedly absorbed in the act of tying his left shoe; no help there. “We cannot be certain, Hu’urs Khraam, but we expect that they will salvo missiles at long range, probably several flights of them in close sequence. As we come to shorter range and pass each other, missiles launched then will be less effective, because they will have less time to acquire targets, maneuver, and track. This is when we can expect our greatest advantage.”

“Because of our superior lasers?”

“Yes, Hu’urs Khraam, and particularly because of the X-ray lasers that form the spine of our shift-cruisers. If we elect to spend their drives’ antimatter reserves to fully charge those spinal weapons, they will have a devastating effect upon the human ships, particularly at close range.”

“And we are confident that the humans have no such system?”

Again Darzhee Kut looked at Caine. The human’s right shoelace was now the object of his undivided attention. “Not within their hulls, Hu’urs Khraam. They do not have the engineering acumen necessary to generate and sustain the spectrally-selective energy emissions. However, as we saw at Barnard’s Star, they do have a special form of drone that can briefly mimic our spinal weapons: their single-use X-ray laser missiles.”

“True, but our intelligence tells us that they do not have many of these systems. A handful at most. Five years ago, the human nations signed accords severely restricting the deployment of any weapon system that either uses nuclear charges as warheads, or as power sources, as is the case with their X-ray laser drones.”

“This is indeed what our intelligence told us.”

“You are unconvinced?”

“I am—uncertain, Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Why?”

“Because every time the humans make such accords with each other, they immediately begin violating them in secret.”

“Agreed. But our information on these matters came from their own megacorporations. How could they be wrong? Do not the corporations produce the very drones of which we speak?”

“Hu’urs Khraam, the weapons of which we speak are produced by a special subgroup of megacorporations, called the industrials.”

“I cannot follow the melody you are trying to sing for me.”

“First Delegate, there is antipathy between the industrials and the megacorporations that have allied with us. It is conceivable that our collaborators were mislead, deliberately provided with false information via the industrials’ counterintelligence efforts.”

Hu’urs Khraam bobbed. “Darzhee Kut, you are learning the prime lesson of this day well: question everything. But our human sources took great pains to gather accurate data, for if we do not succeed, they will be executed as traitors. This is one set of data that we may trust.”

Or maybe not, Darzhee Kut thought as he bowed a deep acquiescence. We cast eyes back upon our path and realize that, since Barnard’s Star, we thought we were manipulating the humans—but all along, they were manipulating us. They play the linked games of war and deception better than we do. And the reason lies before us. They spend most of their time imagining how we would best fight a war against them, rather than how they would like to resist us. So of course they knew how to show us what we wanted to see, what seemed reasonable outcomes, gave us logical decision paths. All so that we would follow a course of action that they could predict, which would deliver us to this moment and this place where they would spring their carefully laid traps all at once. Darzhee rose up higher, one claw raised to signal that he must share this last point—

But Darzhee Kut felt the pressure of a gentle yet firm claw clamp over his own, kept it from raising. He swiveled to the side, saw Urzueth Ragh, who lowered his eyes and diddled his mandibles. “Let it go, rock-sibling.”

Darzhee Kut considered, looked after Hu’urs Khraam, who was already deep in a teleconference with Tuxae Skhaas, the senior sensor coordinator for the command ship of the orbital flotilla. And with that brief pause, the moment to speak had passed. If Darzhee Kut brought up the issue of CoDevCo’s questionable reporting to the First Delegate once again, it would signal a much more serious, and possibly insolent, questioning of Hu’urs Khraam’s judgment. But, still…

Urzueth Ragh seemed to read his mind. “I know what you mean to do, to say, and I tell you it will be a tune sung to insensate antennae. You are right, of course. How can we be certain of the reliability of the human intelligence? But if we begin to question all our data, we have no basis for action, must lie on our claws, might as well concede. So, either way, we must make our best conjectures and move on. We must act rather than reflect. Alas, it is a hurried process that I like it no better than you. It is not our way.”

“No. It is war.”

Urzueth Ragh bobbed his agreement. “As I said, it is not our way.”

“So what’s it going to be, Skipper?” asked Commander Ruth Altasso. “A stand-up brawl or a drive-by shooting?”

Admiral Ira Silverstein smiled at his XO, found his brain running on two tracks simultaneously: a blessing, or curse, amplified by Talmudic study.

Track one: Commander Ruth Altasso was a fine XO and knew her business well-enough to know that her question was no question at all. All three echelons of the fleet had stopped hab rotation, tucked in their booms, and were maintaining acceleration typical to interplanetary travel: they were going in hot. However the battle might unfold against the Arat Kur, it would be sharp, savage, and so fast that even if one wanted to give or call for quarter, there simply wouldn’t be the time. Today, there would be two kinds of combatants: the quick and the dead.

Track two: Ruth was almost a good enough actress to pull off the precombat bravado shtick. Almost, but not quite. She had never been in real combat before. Hell, none of her generation had. It had been almost twenty years since a US vessel had fired a shot in anger, more than thirty since a formal, brief, and almost wholly inconsequent declaration of war in the last of the many desultory posturings known collectively as the Sino-Russian Belt War. The training sims were realistic—nearly made Ira wet his own pants—and no one did a better job than the Commonwealth at creating authentic field training environments. But as any soldier knew, training was no substitute for paying your penny and seeing the elephant that was war, up close and personal. And the few recent veterans who had earned that distinction by both fighting and surviving at Barnard’s Star were now stuck in that system, so there were no “blooded” ratings to sprinkle among the hulls of Admiral Lord Halifax’s fleet. Now arrayed in three tandem echelons, it was, collectively, the hidden weapon that had been slowly forged via the covert sequestration operation code-named Case Leo Gap, but now known simply as RTF 1 or Rescue Task Force One. However, as will happen with acronyms, a rival label had become popular in the multinational armada: “Rag Tag Fleet Number One.”

And it was, on the surface of it, an extraordinary hodgepodge of craft. The unit was top-heavy with capital ships, all carrying five times the normal combat loads of nuke-pumped X-ray drones and two-hundred-kiloton close-kill missiles. Arrayed in front of the escorting destroyers and frigates, the control sloops and their attendant flocks of drones were so dense that it made navigation a genuine hazard. It was the first time Ira had seen that kind of free-space crowding in his thirty-five-year career. Spec ops corvettes, the only hulls really designed for fast atmospheric entry, were still attached to the shift carriers, as were the troop transports. All the millions of metric tons of ordnance, vehicles, and cold-slept elite planetary forces that had been siphoned out from Earth over the past two years rested there, inert, waiting for the summons to return home—with a vengeance.

“Skipper?”

“Sorry, Commander. Breaking my own rule, I’m afraid.”

“Which rule, Skipper? You’ve got a lot of them.”

“‘When you bring your hab mods in close, bring your thoughts in with ’em.’ No time for daydreaming now, not right before a drive-by shooting.”

“Thought so. How’s it going to go down?”

“I don’t know, Ruth. We’ll wait for Lord Halifax to call the ball. My guess is he’s waiting for a sitrep from the Big Blue Marble. At this point, it’s all about the drones.”

“Ours?”

“No, at least not the ones we have with us.”

Altasso frowned. “I’m not following you, Skipper.”

Poor gal, how could she? “Secrecy was an operational necessity, Ex. Part of the op plan from day one was that if and when threat forces showed up around Big Blue, neither the Earth nor the Moon was going to deploy more than a token force of their drones. And only old ones, at that.”

“Why?”

Ira smiled. “So that the rest of the drones would be ready and waiting to join us today. Twice our current striking force is waiting here, at home in the garage.”

Ruth’s frown went away, came back more furrowed than before. “Well, that’s nice—except how will the dirtside folks manage to get them past the Arat Kur orbital interdiction?”

Ira ran his upper teeth along the side of his index finger. “I imagine they’re working on the answer to that right now…”

“Tuxae, the Fleetmaster is not ready to hear another problem. You can see it. Watch his mandibles.” H’toor Qooiiz’s normally jocular buzz was gone from his voice.

Tuxae did not speak until he could be sure of a patient tone. “I harmonize, rock-sibling, but shall I tell the humans to stop what they’re doing, to give him more time? The Fleetmaster must be told, and he must act.” He turned away from H’toor Qooiiz and toward R’sudkaat. “Fleetmaster, I must trouble you again.”

Judging from the slow, patience-labored turn of the Fleetmaster, Qooiiz certainly seemed to be right about his rapidly waning equanimity. “What is it now, Tuxae Skhaas?”

“The humans have deployed a wave of diverse air vehicles from around the Pacific Rim. Between the rocket-carrying freighters, and this new mass launch, we are unable to achieve better than fifty percent orbital interdiction.”

“What kinds of air vehicles have been launched? Which are the most numerous?”

“Almost a thousand are medium-range free rockets.”

“How are they armed?”

“They are not weapons, Esteemed R’sudkaat. They are deploying chaff, drones, or small sensors between ten and eighty kilometers from the Javanese coast. Well out of the range of our ground-based PDF batteries.”

R’sudkaat’s antennae twitched anxiously. “What kind of small sensors?”

“First reports indicate they are small, automated quadcopters. They are quite primitive. They are equipped with passive sensors only, but they are arriving over Java and tightbeaming data back into Bali, the near Celebes, Sumatra, and Christmas Island.”

“We must deny the humans intelligence regarding the combat on Java. Eliminate these sensors with a full-regional EMP strike.”

“Sir, such a strike will wash over our strongholds, as well.”

“You sing that note uncertainly.”

“Such an extensive set of EMP bursts are likely to disable some of our own, more fragile systems.”

“Nonsense. Our vehicles and arrays are quite—”

“With respect, I was referring to unshielded infantry systems, such as thermal imaging and laser targeting scopes, even some of the smaller computing and communication devices. The Hkh’Rkh equipment is particularly vulnerable.”

The Fleetmaster’s mandibles ground sharply, stopped, ground again. “It is unfortunate, but we cannot target the human sensors individually, and they must be eliminated. Order the EMP strike. Now, you said there were other vehicles?”

“Yes, R’sudkaat. Mostly high-speed VTOLs, inbound from Sumatra, Christmas Island, Lombok Island, and from the decks of ships beyond the fifty-kilometer limit.”

“Sink all ships that have launched any vehicles. Interdict the VTOLs.”

“Sir, we are trying, but it is taking longer than anticipated.”

Fleetmaster R’sudkaat was very quiet, the same way, according to suntimers, that the worst storms on the surface of a world are preceded by great, almost eerie, periods of great stillness. “Why is the interdiction taking longer than anticipated?”

“The VTOLs are not conventional attack craft. They are electronic warfare platforms, managing the hundreds of rocket-deployed drones that are now creating false images electronically.”

“Well, overcome their computing with ours and erase them from the walls of existence.”

“We are trying to do just that, Esteemed R’sudkaat, but their programming is—challenging.”

The Fleetmaster’s retort was a sudden, shrill, warble-shriek that was loud in the silent bridge. “Then engage them visually! Use our look-down optical arrays and eliminate them. These VTOLs are the most important target. Belay all other orbital fire missions until they are eliminated.”

“Including the rockets?”

“Including the rockets.”

H’toor Qooiiz rose up, alarmed. “But if we allow their rockets to reach Java in even greater numbers—?”

“We have no choice,” Tuxae mouthed at his friend in a low, warning hum. “The VTOLs are making so many false images, it is impossible to tell which are the real VTOLs, the real drones, the real rockets, and Rockmother knows what else.” Louder, to the quivering Fleetmaster, “It shall be as you say, Esteemed R’sudkaat.”

“See that it is. If we are to act effectively, we must have a clear picture of what is happening.”

Tuxae turned to his console. As if we ever had one.

Thandla saw a flash, more like a single pulse of a strobe light than any beam or lightning. The closest portside VTOL underwent a hallucinatorily rapid set of transmogrifications. First it was tilting, listing down toward the water; then it was suddenly discorporated, as though it had been magically transformed from an intact hull to a forward-tumbling cloud of debris; and then it was an angry orange-yellow ball of fire that, along with a dull, faint blast, was behind them so quickly that, for a split second, Sanjay Thandla wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.

But no. Their portside wingman was gone, destroyed by an Arat Kur orbital laser.

It was the fifth VTOL lost from Dortmund’s flight. Thandla kept adjusting the signals, dancing from one EW protocol to the next, seeding misleading telltale signatures into the image-makers, trying to throw the Arat Kur off the scent of each successive signal iteration and how it might evolve in the next ten seconds. At the same time, he considered the odds: five out of eleven VTOLs destroyed. The first had been as much a casualty of chance as enemy intent. The Arat Kur had started with cluster bomblet dispensers from orbit. The first such barrage put its footprint on the northern edge of their flight’s inverted approach delta. Probably a failed Arat Kur attempt to get a lock on them and place a thick curtain of high velocity fragments directly in front of them. But the far left VTOL had picked up a few of pieces of shrapnel. Its airframe compromised, it folded up and flew to pieces like a child’s model plane struck by a sledgehammer.

However, the Arat Kur had not only been looking to kill the VTOLs, but force them into a narrower approach vector. The subsequent cluster bomblet attacks had boxed them in, off-centered first to the southern flank of the VTOLs’ delta formation, then back to the northern extent, crowding the German aircraft in closer to each other, making their location more predictable, and targeting more simple. Clearly, it had worked. In the last three minutes, four more VTOLs had been lost to the one weapon that they could not outrun or mislead: orbital lasers.

The debris cloud of their portside wingman was already far behind, a wispy, spherical airborne puff disappearing into the horizon. And such are we all, Thandla admitted, before returning to his strange, invisible battle with the Arat Kur computers. It was not how he had envisioned war. From the ancient Vedic texts to the contemporary graphic documentaries, images of combat were swift, chaotic, vivid, and seething with flame and blood. But his duel with alien computers was more akin to a mortally hazardous form of meditation, carried out while sitting in a glass-encased chair skimming above the surface of serene blue waters. And if one lost one’s focus, stumbled over the binary-coded mantras with which they fooled the eyes and ears of their foes, there was a flash and an end, so quick that the victims did not know and their fellow travelers would not see, if they happened to blink at the wrong moment.

Dortmund announced. “One hundred kilometers range.” He sounded grimly satisfied, perhaps a bit surprised.

From the belly of the VTOL, Thandla heard the sharp, high hum of recessed bays opening. Then missiles were leaping out from beneath them, their tails bright and dwindling as they raced on ahead toward Java. “What are they?”

“Air-to-air missiles.”

“How can they hit anything? We have no satellite or airborne targeting for over-horizon intercepts.”

Dortmund turned, his thin lips bent in what might have been a smile. “These missiles have been retrofitted with UV sensors, and all our aircraft have been marked with UV paint. So if our missiles do not detect such paint—”

“—then they know an aircraft is a permitted target.”

“Exactly. So we can saturate Java’s airspace with these self-directing long-range missiles without any worry that they will chase down friendly targets.”

“But won’t the Arat Kur learn to—?”

“Herr Doktor, if the Arat Kur had a day in which to learn, we would not be able to use this tactic again. But if the Arat Kur are still capable of fighting after today, it is because we will have lost. Everything.”

Chapter Forty

Vrryngraar of the moiety of the Family Haanash wiped his own light mauve blood out of his eyes and went low around the corner into the street known as Mangga Besar Selatan. He led with the AK-47 he had taken from insurgents his Honor Troop had surprised lurking in the back of a large truck. He could barely fire the weapon. The trigger guard circled his claw like a snug ring. Furthermore, he was unable to hold it properly. The humans had only one opposable digit, not two pairs of them arranged in a cruciform, dual pincer pattern. But he only had twenty rounds left in his dustmix weapon and there was no sign of resupply. Indeed, there was no sign of anything except for humans and more humans, all of whom seemed to be carrying guns.

Vrryngraar almost squeezed the trigger when he detected peripheral movement, but saw that it was one of the Arat Kur attached to his troop. Or rather, what was left of his troop. “Arat Kur. Which are you?” No reply on the radio. He yelled so that the grubber would hear him through his suit. “Arat Kur! Open your suit and tell me. Who are you?”

The suit’s armored chin plate sighed open like a dead snake’s jaw. “I am U’tuk Yaaz,” the translator said. It sounded distorted, uneven.

“What is wrong with your suit?”

“Some of its melodies no longer sing true. The translator and the links to my minidrones no longer work.”

Vrryngraar pony-nodded his understanding. Disabled by the recent EMP bursts. They had burned out the laser targeting and ranging systems on his troop’s weapons, as well as their thermal imaging goggles and communication encryption chips. “Where is Team leader Krek and your fellow-Arat Kur? Did you finish your scouting mission?”

“Team leader Krek and my comrade-partner Eerzet are no more.”

For the first time since encountering the species, Vrryngraar felt some measure of sympathy, even pity, for an Arat Kur. “How did they die?”

The Arat Kur moved so that his eyes focused on Vrryngraar directly. He had the distinct sense of being stared at, even judged. “They were not paying attention. They were too distracted.”

“By what?”

“I will show you.” The Arat Kur spun and scuttled into a half-collapsed building. Vrryngraar scanned both ends of the street cautiously, then ducked in behind him.

It was dark, smoky, but also musty with the scent of old bread, and filled with wooden crates stacked in roof-reaching rows. From up ahead, U’tuk Yaaz spoke. “What distracted them is here.” Vrryngraar followed the sound of the Arat Kur’s voice, turned a corner—

—and almost stepped on a dead human. Just beyond the body were U’tuk’s two fellow-scouts—or rather, their remains—impaled and pinned to the ground by what had evidently been a ceiling-mounted deadfall trap: a grid of spikes weighted by cinderblocks, evidently triggered when they had handled the human body.

Vrryngraar looked at U’tuk. “Where were you when this happened?”

The Arat Kur waved a weak claw in the general direction of the street. “I was the rear guard. Watching for humans.” Then he pointed at the human corpse. “Why did you do this?”

Vrryngraar stared at him. “Do what? I did not kill this human.”

“I do not mean the killing, and I do not mean you, personally. I mean all you Hkh’Rkh. And I mean the manner of the human’s death. Why do you torture them so?”

Vrryngraar wondered if fear, loss of comrades, and isolation had damaged U’tuk’s mind more than combat had damaged his suit. “Be clear, grubber. What torture?”

“Do not say you do not know. This was the third time I have seen this kind of killing. Go, look at its mouth.”

Vrryngraar did. And now, the unusual nature of this particular corpse became evident, made it distinct from the hundreds—no, thousands—he had already seen or made this day.

The evident cause of the human’s death was a wound to the groin. But no, it was worse than that. The male generative member had been removed. If the nearby evidence could be trusted, the penectomy had been performed with a rusted strip of corrugated metal, torn from a nearby wall. Judging from the lack of other injuries, the amputation of the member had been the cause of death, which meant that it had been performed pre-mortem.

Imagining that deed made it impossible for Vrryngraar to think for a long moment. What savagery was this? Not even animals did this to each other, Then he saw that the crudely severed member had been jammed deep into the corpse’s mouth. He looked up at U’tuk.

Who said, “You must stop this.”

“Me? Stop this? How?” Then he understood the presumption implicit in the Arat Kur’s exhortation. “You must be mad, to think this the work of my troops, of the Hkh’Rkh. What do we care of the humans’ insane dominance rituals and symbolic disfigurements? We did not do this.” He saw U’tuk’s mandibles sag in shock, drove home his point. “Grubber, do you not understand? The humans did this—to their own kind.”

The Arat Kur was completely motionless for a moment and then shivered so sharply that his armor rattled. “But why—?”

“Look around you. Do you know what this place was?”

“N-no.”

“I patrolled this street sometimes. The owner was a merchant of bulk goods. But he also sold grain.”

“So he was one of the food distributors?”

Could the grubber truly be so naïve? “Not legally. He found ways to acquire food when the other humans could not and sold it to them for greatly increased prices. He profited from their hunger. And the more hungry they became, the more he profited.”

“So they—?”

“Yes. They did this.” Vrryngraar looked down again. The humans might not be warriors, might be duplicitous and conniving s’fet, but that did not diminish their capacity for savagery. If anything, it seemed to amplify it.

“We should not have come here.” U’tuk’s voice was quiet, withdrawn.

Although worried that the Arat Kur was perilously close to slipping into some kind of trauma-induced fugue state, Vrryngraar also could not suppress a quick, confirmatory neck-sway. No, they should not have come here. There was no honor in such a place, in such a conflict—for one could not call it a war. The only proper course of action regarding humanity was to leave it alone, and, if possible, isolate it. Just as one would handle any other sophont that was quite irremediably and dangerously insane. “I agree. Tell me the result of your scouting mission. Is it safe to withdraw back to the presidential compound through this area?”

The Arat Kur took a moment to respond. “Yes. Before entering this building, our scouting mission was uneventful. We encountered no sign of insurgents. If any humans remained in the area after we first cleared it, they have kept to their houses.”

“Promising. Are you still in contact with the compound?”

“I receive their signals, but they do not receive mine. And the rest of your troop?”

Vrryngraar swayed his neck in the direction of the rest of his battered, hiding unit. “All radios save one—our shielded set—were disabled. But we lost that set and its operator to enemy fire about ten minutes ago. Which is why I came to find you.” Vrryngraar rose up out of his crouch. “Stay hidden in this spot. I shall return to the troop and lead them here. Together we shall return to the compound. We are no longer combat effective. All we can do now is make a report and gather replacements.”

The Arat Kur bobbed and said nothing as Vrryngraar turned and exited the black marketeer’s warehouse. Trying to put the image of the butchered human from his mind, Vrryngraar swept back around the corner by which he had entered Mangga Besar Selatan and started across a smoke- and mist-shrouded moonscape that had once been a side-street. He recalled his explanation to the cowed and quiet U’tuk: his unit was “no longer combat effective.” He growled at the grim irony of the term. His troop was down to a dozen, most of whom were incapacitated in at least one limb, few of whom had more than thirty rounds of ammunition left. Half a hundred proud Hkh’Rkh reduced to that handful, hiding like a pack of furtive s’fet in a semi-intact basement—and having fought only one true battle to speak of.

They had spent most of the morning fighting the unpredictable and inexperienced insurgents. With the exception of a demolition trap, each encounter merely inflicted some wounds. But those wounds had caused fatal decreases in agility, speed, responsiveness. Then, half an hour ago, they had encountered a true military force. Mostly nonindigenous, these humans had been taller, of diverse phenotypes, and equipped with extremely high-power liquimix assault rifles, rocket-propelled munitions, and sophisticated sensors. Worst of all, they had been trained professionals. Vrryngraar had to admit that what the humans might have lacked in size and courage they more than made up for in technical skill and cunning. His troop lost a dozen dead, and a similar number wounded before ammunition depletion forced Vrryngraar to think, and then do, the unthinkable. He withdrew. From humans.

And since then, they had been fleeing. They called it a withdrawal, but call it what one might, they had been beaten and repulsed, and now sought the sanctuary of the main compound.

Perhaps it was because Vrryngraar was preoccupied by his sour reverie, but, as he angled toward an alley that led to his remaining troops, he moved incautiously into a solid wall of smoke billowing up from a clutter of burning vehicles. He did not wait for a gap in the dark, feathery drifts, and so emerged from the blinding blackness straight into the rear of a crowd of humans gathered at a street corner.

Most were females or young, clustered around two persons in intense discussion. One was a local male armed with an AK-47, trying to communicate in the planet’s main—and maddeningly untidy—language with a female who was lighter of skin and subtly heavier of build, particularly in the shoulders, head, and upper legs. The female was the first to see Vrryngraar. Her eyes snapped over, detecting his movement even as he emerged from the smoke. He admired her reflexes. She uttered a one-syllable word that sounded like a bark and dove toward the entry of the nearest building. The local with the gun turned, taking approximately one half-second to absorb the situational change before reacting.

That half-second’s delay was his death. Vrryngraar brought up his own AK-47, tried squeezing off a single round, but wound up two-tapping the human. The first of the 7.62 x 39mm rounds went into the human’s side, making a wide bloody wound and spinning him slightly so that the second bullet caught him square in the sternum. The human fell backward with the utterly nerveless flop of those who die instantly on their feet.

Vrryngraar pointed the gun at the dominant female and let instinct guide him. “Obey or she dies,” he shouted at the rest of the humans.

The first tentative cries of terror, shock, loss ended abruptly. The dominant female rose from her covered position—she had almost made it through the doorway on a fast low crawl—and turned to face him. As was common with some human subspecies, her eyes were green and very clear, like the Great Equatorial Sea of Rkh’yaa. That brief second, he missed Homeworld so very greatly that he could have lamented with a hero’s grief-hooting. But this was neither the time nor the place. “You. Who are you?”

She was one of the few of the half-circle of humans before him who did not start back when he barked out his question. Instead, she looked at him, seemed to be studying him, even his armor and gear. Then she nodded gravely. “Great Troop Leader, I was a diplomat.”

He suppressed his surprise at her rapid ability to identify his rank, and although his first impulse was to dismiss her improbable claim to be a diplomat, her confident demeanor and sure identification of his social standing compelled him to hold that dismissal in abeyance. “A diplomat for whom? To whom?”

“For my planet. To your people.”

“Where is your retinue, diplomat?”

She looked him in the eyes, seemed to be measuring. “Where is yours, Great Troop Leader?”

Had she been a male, he might have killed her on the spot. But her sex gave him pause, and that pause gave him the opportunity to consider the aptness of her rebuffing question. Where indeed was his troop, but scattered prone and lifeless upon the wet, misty, labyrinthine streets of this alien hellhole? On a day such as this, her retinue might have fared no better. And if she was a genuine diplomat—“You will come with me. The rest of you: go. Except you.” He pointed to a young male who was standing solicitously close to the female. “If you flee, her life is lost. The rest of you: if you bring more humans, again, her life is lost. Go. Now.”

Without a sound, they turned their backs upon him and rapidly vanished into the humid, milky drifts of smog.

Vrryngraar turned back to the female. She looked at him, then looked at the young male. “Adi, do not fear for me. I will be right back.”

The young male nodded at her, stole a quick furtive look at Vrryngraar, and sat—or rather, squatted on his heels—where he was. Vrryngraar pointed into the corner building with the AK. The human female lowered her eyelids and head, and moved inside, calmly picking her way over the rubble which half-choked the doorway. Good. She was smart enough to be docile.

One inside, he turned the AK directly upon her. “Tell me of yourself, diplomat.”

“There is little to tell. I was at the recent Convocation. I was one of those who represented humanity. I met with First Voice of the First Family—”

“—my suzerain and patron!”

“Just so.”

“And you swear this on your life? For if I show you to him and he does not recognize you, your life is lost.”

“If he can tell one human apart from another, he will recognize me. He will also know my name.”

“Which is?”

“Elena Corcoran.”

Corcoran. That was a name Vrryngraar knew. Her brother was a warrior. Perhaps there would be a ransom, or a challenge. Some honor would come to him after all, in this hell of pointless carnage. And better still, she was insurance that the survivors of his Great Troop would make it back to the compound alive. He turned to her, let the AK sag as he emphasized each point with a thrust of his free claw. “Sister of Corcoran, you are our prisoner, and possibly an emissary. You will come with us back to our compound. You will walk in the lead, with me, so that your fellow-humans will know not to attack us. We will travel under your truce-sign. It is what? A white banner? And—”

“And you did not listen closely enough to my answer, Great Troop Leader.”

The sudden interruption made him pause. “Your answer? What answer?”

“You asked me if I am a diplomat. But I replied that I had been a diplomat.”

“I do not understand.”

She showed her teeth. They were white and strong, if small. “I stopped being a diplomat months ago. Today, I am but a human, and a mother, and a citizen of this world.”

That was when he noticed that a small pistol had appeared in her hand. She smoothly elevated it to aim at his head. Because there was no waver in her arm or her eyes, he was relatively sure that she would not hesitate, flinch, or miss. He let the AK sag even further. She nodded her affirmation of that act without once taking her eyes off his. “So, ‘citizen,’” Vrryngraar said, “now you fight. For what? To save this planet? It cannot be saved. It is already hell.”

“I fight to repel ruthless aggressors. As do the Indonesians, who have a long tradition of doing just that.”

“They are not warriors.”

“Not by tradition or inclination, but they are dangerous fighters when they must protect their homeland.”

“They are not one of the more advanced countries of your world. They live in overcrowded filth, argue ceaselessly among themselves, and never built an empire. What can homeland matter to such a people?”

She shook her head slightly, once, but never took her eyes—or gun—off his: “You have read our history, but you drew the wrong conclusions. But don’t feel bad. Three centuries of human oppressors in this region made the same mistake about the Indonesians. And the Vietnamese and the Filipinos and the Cambodians and a dozen other peoples. No one has ever enjoyed much success trying to occupy this part of our world. Of course, when a human invader’s dreams of conquest here went terribly awry”—and she leveled the gun at the Hkh’Rkh—“they all had someplace to flee back to. You, on the other hand, are not so fortunate.”

The gun was less than four centimeters from his right eye, aimed at a shallow retrograde angle. This human had studied Hkh’Rkh anatomy, knew where their brain was located, and where it was not protected by their helmetlike skull. They continued to stare at each other. So he was her prisoner. What further indignity he would suffer this day, Vrryngraar could not imagine. “What would you have me do now, human?”

The female seemed to think. At least, it cocked its head. Then it showed its teeth again. Among humans, this was a sign of humor or receptivity, so he relaxed a bit as she replied, “There is only one thing I need you to do, Great Troop Leader.”

“And what is that?” he grumbled.

In the street, Adi heard two sharp snaps, realized it was the report of an extremely small-caliber handgun. After hearing bombs, dustmix assault rifles, AKs, shotguns, and PDF railguns screeching overhead all day long, these discharges sounded like a popgun or a pair of mildewed firecrackers. Adi waited, wondered if he should run after all, if he still had enough time to do so, felt the countervailing tug of a vague loyalty to the American woman who had befriended him two days ago.

At that moment, the lady bule came out of the ruined storefront, hands extended to either side as she balanced her way over the shattered masonry in the doorway. The Sloth did not appear behind her. “Are we still prisoners?” Adi asked.

“No,” she said, dusting off her hands as she reached the level plane of the macadam.

“But where is the Hkh’Rkh?”

“He’s not coming.”

Chapter Forty-One

“Where’s Chou?” asked Opal.

O’Garran looked out the window and into the street where a third of the tunnel rats he’d come ashore with lay in the strangely twisted poses of death. “He’s out there. For good.”

Damn. “He was a fine officer.” And he was also the only one of the mainlanders who outranked Wu. So if Wu insists on becoming the new second senior officer and the mainlanders resist—

“Don’t burn out your clutch, Major.”

“Huh?”

“I can see those wheels turning between your ears. Don’t sweat the Taiwanese-mainlander thing. The mainlanders saw Wu in action, taking orders from Chou, not complaining. They’re all right with him now.” O’Garran started swapping out the hotjuice cylinders on his CoBro liquimix carbine. “So what now? Looks like we bagged half a platoon of the Sloth fire brigade, scattered the rest. I’m pretty sure we’ve got their attention.”

“Yep. Which means it’s time for us to go underground. Here.” She pointed at the screen of O’Garran’s palmcomp. A long, green line of dashes went from their current position, under the Ciliwung Waterway, did a doglegged sidestep that dodged the back entrance of the Royal palace and emerged in a sub-basement of the Ministry of Administrative and Bureaucratic Reform.

“You’ve looked at the floor plans?”

Opal nodded. “Yeah. We come out next to a flight of stairs leading straight up into this small rear courtyard. Or we can take these service stairs which run all the way up to the top floor of the building.”

“And how come I wasn’t clued in on this attack option before they put us ashore?”

“Secrecy firewall,” Opal lied. “That way, if you were captured, you couldn’t alert the bad guys to this back door into their center of operations.” And while she smiled confidence at her XO, Opal wondered. I wonder if any of the other tunnel rat teams are tasked with this attack route? Probably not. It’s an unconventional entry and tight quarters, so it was probably dismissed as too risky.

O’Garran was still frowning at the schematic. He clearly didn’t like the assignment, but he apparently didn’t suspect any duplicity on her part. “So once we’re in, what’s the game plan?”

“No way to know,” she answered truthfully, handing the portable back to him. “All our intel on the compound is from prewar documents and surveys. We’ve got no way of knowing where they’ve set up HQ, C4I, fire direction control, local air traffic control, internal security monitoring. So first we’ll check if we can detect basement monitors. If not, we send some of our littlest rats up into the ventilation shaft, to see what they can see, keeping an eye out for local workers we can debrief. But I’m betting we might get some orders on the way in. It’s just about time to start the final act.”

Two missiles roared down overhead, descending sharply toward the compound, five hundred meters south of them. PDF fire shrilled at one. Its detonation shook plaster down from the ceiling and broke the last few intact windows on the block. The other rocket plunged down into the compound; the explosion was more muffled, but the ground shook slightly under their feet.

“Yup,” agreed O’Garran, “any time now.”

The whole room shook. Half the lights went out. The sound of shattering glass and tumbling debris—and mortally desperate trilling—came in from the door that opened on the main corridor.

Darzhee Kut rose from the floor as the defense operator announced, “PDF down to forty percent.” His invariably down-adjusting updates had become a means of measuring just how uncertain the outcome of the battle was becoming.

Darzhee Kut moved closer to Hu’urs Khraam, who seemed, in the past hour, to have grown noticeably more feeble and grimly silent. “First Delegate, we await further orders.”

Hu’urs Khraam waved a careless claw, spoke more loudly than he should have. “There are no new orders to give. We endure down here, hoping one half of our ships give us the supporting fire we need to survive, and that the other half will prevail against the human fleet. What can be done has been done.” He sounded like he wanted to go to sleep.

As Darzhee Kut feared, he had been overheard. “Surely this is not the limit of leadership in the alliance to which we have pledged ourselves.” First Voice’s observation was not impatient, but it was not kind. “Pressing matters remain. What is to be done about our perimeter?”

“I am surprised at your question, esteemed First Voice,” answered Hu’urs Khraam. “Did you not tell me that you would soon have control of that situation?”

The implied barb of the retort did not escape the notice of First Voice’s retinue. Several rose up higher, their crests stiffening. Their leader gestured downward with his claws. They and their crests complied. “Regular units are sweeping the streets. My elite formations are working as emergency response teams to counteract more serious threats. But to fully control the situation, you must cede me authority to alter the rules of engagement. This you have not done. And so we do not have complete control.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s lids slowly closed, did not open. “First Voice, what you demanded was that you have no rules of engagement, not control of them.”

“Semantics. If I do not have the power to cancel them at will, I do not have control over them. Consequently, our objective of securing a one-kilometer radius free of enemy activity has not been attained. Securing only a five-hundred-meter radius has cost me twenty percent of my forces in this area of operations. If I continue in this fashion, I will have no combat-capable troops left by morning.”

“Your counsel?”

“My counsel you know. Pull all our ground forces back to this compound and call in deadfall munitions on the surrounding neighborhoods, starting one hundred fifty meters back from the walls of our compound. We level the closer structures with conventional support weapons once the orbital bombardment is done.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s lenses remained concealed, the crabshell eye-covers tightly shut against the words of First Voice. “I wish counsel that follows the rules of engagement.”

“Then I counsel this: find your knife and fall on it.”

The room was very still: even the constant exchanges with Fleetmaster R’sudkaat’s flagship seemed to pause for a moment. Hu’urs Khraam’s lids opened. “First Voice, explain this counsel.”

The calm response seemed to also confer the right to resume breathing. Only Caine, Darzhee Kut noticed, had not become tense. Of course, perhaps he did not understand either of the languages. On the other hand, what more could a human wish to hear than profound discord at the heart of his enemies’ alliance?

First Voice seemed unsurprised by Hu’urs Khraam’s calm reply, and Darzhee Kut wondered if, perhaps, only they themselves had understood—by the subtle code that seemed to exist among leaders of the most senior rank—that the Hkh’Rkh’s statement had not been intended as a challenge or disrespectful gibe, but a serious message in metaphorical form. First Voice’s neck oscillated once. “If we continue to follow the current rules of engagement, the outcome of this battle is uncertain. We are a hard target, yes, and the humans suffer terrible losses every time they try to face us. But I attend the declining PDF availability, the difficulty of providing adequate air support, the increasing reports of infiltrated commando teams either leading insurgents or operating independently, and the impossibility of holding whatever advantages we win by blood in these endless streets. Bold action is now required. If you do not wish to conduct general orbital interdiction of the surrounding city, then we must be permitted to use incendiary devices to support our troops—”

“—and burn down the city with us in it.”

“Our compound can be adequately protected, if we establish a fifty-meter firebreak.”

“How?”

“Conventional destruction of all surrounding structures.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s eyes closed again. “We cannot afford the risk of these tactics. If the Dornaani learn about them—”

“The Dornaani are not here,” First Voice emphasized. “They have become so weak-willed that they may never come. And I cannot see how, once we have been bold enough to invade the humans’ homeworld, that these tactics will even warrant special mention. Seen alongside the other violations of the Accord which brought us to this place, they are invisibly small.”

“Do not think it,” Hu’urs Khraam warned. “The Dornaani are not so degenerate as you suppose, and they will separate our actions into two categories: what we decided to do, and how we went about doing it. Valid, or at least reasonable, political arguments can be adduced to explain the decision to invade human space. But if we conduct ourselves viciously in the course of that action, this will constitute a second, and perhaps greater crime in their eyes.”

“But their eyes are not here to see, nor their ears here to listen.”

“So you think. I have reason, and counsel, that prompts me to think otherwise. But enough. Do you have another plan that remains within the constraints of our rules of engagement?”

At first, Darzhee Kut thought that First Voice was going to evert his claws in frustration and turn his back on the Arat Kur leader, but instead, the Hkh’Rkh lowered his head in thought. He can tell that Hu’urs Khraam wishes to find an efficacious alternative, even given the constraints. First Voice will push the limits of the law, now.

The Hkh’Rkh leader’s head rose. “Hunter-killer teams.”

“I do not understand.”

“At present, we have a standoff in the perimeter we are attempting to establish. We clear the humans that attempt to stand against us. They infiltrate back into the area because we do not have the forces to secure so large and porous a perimeter. We have emergency response teams that react specifically to these infiltrators. But since the humans feel confident reentering the area again, this method is insufficient.”

“Go on.”

“So we do to them what they have been doing to us. We do not try to engage them conventionally, but rather, send out many small teams charged with only one objective: seek and kill humans. Any and all that appear within one kilometer of this compound.”

“And this achieves what?” asked Urzueth Ragh.

Yaargraukh pony-nodded his support of First Voice’s idea. “It achieves a balance of terror. We cannot hold the one-kilometer perimeter because we are trying to hold territory rather than destroy the enemy. And while moving from flashpoint to flashpoint, our troops must worry about what lies behind every window, every door, in every building. Now, we shall use the humans’ own tactics against them: hunt and ambush them indiscriminately throughout the zone. Then the humans will have reason to fear every door and window. Only the most resolute opponents will stand against our trained warriors for very long, and those few we can surround and destroy. However, it will require a great many of our best troopers to accomplish this task.”

Graagkhruud came to stand by First Voice. “This plan has another benefit. In those sectors where we have lost most of our clearing units, this gives us a new means of scouting and preempting any assault forces the humans might be gathering there. We will need five hundred additional warriors for these squad-sized hunter-killer teams.”

Yaargraukh studied the city map. “We will need fifteen hundred.”

Graagkhruud sneered. “Again, your admiration of the humans makes you truly their best Advocate.”

“This time, I admire the clock, First Fist. We will need a round-the-clock action cycle. That means at least three shifts of five hundred Warriors. And even if we split each shift into two four-hour patrols, such unrelenting pursuit and combat will drain our troops quickly. As it stands, we do not have enough troops to sustain so extensive an operation, not while maintaining a full defensive force here.”

Graagkhruud swept that objection aside with a careless claw. “We will draw additional troops from internal security.”

Yaargraukh looked at First Fist. “That is a dangerous step, First Fist.”

“Were you not thought by so many to be brave, I would say your prudence could be heard as cowardice, Advocate for s’fet.”

Yaargraukh was very quiet. As Darzhee Kut understood it, Graagkhruud had almost uttered a Challenge insult—but not quite. The Advocate turned back to the map. “We seem to have little choice but to do as you recommend, First Fist. In addition, I would also suggest we start making use of the humans’ weapons.”

“In the field?”

“For softer, easier targets, yes. And for suppressive fire, most certainly. Our own ammunition expenditure is alarming. However, if we relegate secondary-fire missions to captured human weapons, we will be able to extend our own stocks of ammunition by using them only in those engagements where their superior killing power and range matter most.”

“The weapons you refer to, the AKs, are like children’s toys. We cannot hold them properly.”

“I have studied these rifles, First Fist. They will be serviceable if the technical support troops cut away the hand-grips and trigger guards.”

First Voice nodded at Yaargraukh then at Graagkhruud. “Together, your points are sound. See to their implementation and then return here. Yaargraukh, honor us by personally overseeing the technical logistics of your recommendations.”

“First Voice speaks and I obey.” As Yaargraukh exited, he and Caine pointedly did not look at each other. But Darzhee Kut sensed their mutual avoidance was motivated by a desire to protect each other, rather than antipathy.

Urzueth Ragh edged closer to Hu’urs Khraam, who noticed. “You have news?”

“We shall soon defeat the humans’ electronic warfare efforts. However, Tuxae Skhaas aboard the flagship Greatvein points out that for the next several minutes, with all the human chaff and image-makers that are still operating, our sensors are still badly cluttered with false images. We could overlook genuine targets.”

“We know this well. We also retain sufficient means to deal with any especially ominous aerial attacks. Why does the Greatvein’s master sing so repetitive a refrain?”

“Hu’urs Khraam, this report was not sent at the behest of Fleetmaster R’sudkaat. It is relayed by Sensor Coordinator Tuxae Skhaas on his own initiative. And he is not worried about what we are seeing, but what we are not seeing. Specifically, he is concerned that we have seen no activity involving the human submarines.”

“And why would we?” The First Delegate flexed his claws testily. “For hundreds of kilometers in every direction, we seeded the depths of these waters with station-keeping marine sensors.”

“True, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, but there has been increasing question regarding their reliability.”

“I have read these speculations and can find no reason to give them credence. Do you really think that the humans could send individual divers out to so many separate units and disable them?”

“Not disable them, Hu’urs Khraam, but rewire a select number of them to continuously report ‘all clear.’”

“And how would they begin to know how to rewire our systems?”

“We did lose several of the sensors in the first week of our operations.”

“Yes, we were bound to have some defective units. They were an entirely new technology for an entirely new domain of warfare.”

“What if they were not defective? What if we lost them because the humans isolated, deactivated, and then examined those sensors with the intent of learning how to electronically trick them? And they need not trick many sensors. Only those few monitoring the areas that they planned on using for submarine infiltration.”

First Voice waggled his neck. “The humans have not built any new submarines in almost thirty years. Most are old and hard to maintain. Had they been deemed a threat, we could have brought our own submarines as a counterforce.”

Darzhee looked away. Yes, you could have brought along a handful of your pitiable Hkh’Rkh submarines. And the humans would have cheerfully sunk them.

Urzueth Ragh was not done. “It is just as you say, First Voice, but this would be the logical time for human submarines to enter the battle. Our look-down sensors are overtaxed, the others are confused by false signals, and our local PDF capabilities are significantly degraded.”

“And so what would the submarines do?” First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam wondered mildly. “Torpedo the docks?”

“Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, most of the submarines that the humans retained were what they call ‘boomers’: deep submersibles which carry nuclear missiles.”

Hu’urs Khraam settled back and his antenna switched in wry amusement. “Urzueth Ragh, is this Tuxae Skhaas’ worry? Has he forgotten that this is precisely why we occupy the largest cities on this island? What does he expect that the humans will do? Destroy millions of their own population? Even they are not so savage.”

Darzhee Kut glanced at Caine—who was already staring at him. The human did not look away, did not smile, did not blink. But surely, thought Darzhee Kut, Hu’urs Khraam is right. Surely the humans—who are now capable of extraordinary insight and compassion and sacrifice—are not still capable of such savagery.

Surely.

Chapter Forty-Two

Only two VTOLs left, and not for long, conjectured Thandla. The lasers had picked off all but Dortmund’s craft and that of his right wingman, Michael Schrage.

“Fifteen more seconds,” Dortmund called out.

Which was probably not possible, Thandla realized, and in so realizing, discovered he was probably thinking his last mortal thoughts. The Arat Kur were poking huge holes in the overlapping image makers, rapidly discriminating between false signals and real returns, destroying the drones either by orbital interdict or now, long-range missiles from the enemy’s Java-based combat air patrols, which were waiting for them over the island’s western coastline.

But Thandla still had a few tricks left that might help them reach that crucial fifteen-second mark. And if he—

Praeger, the back-seat EW and countermeasures operator, spoke for the first time during the mission. “We are painted!” The VTOL’s own sensors had detected a low-power laser contact. It was an orbital targeting beam that also plasmated the atmosphere, clearing a path for the actual weapon-grade laser.

So, thought Thandla, as he played his last hand of trick electronic cards, we don’t have fifteen seconds left after all. But I shall not fear on the threshold of Nirvana. We do not sacrifice and live for ourselves alone. The final step is to renounce ego, self. He had often seen the faces of his family in the last twenty minutes. Now, unbidden, he saw the faces of the delegation he had accompanied to the Convocation: Riordan, the Corcorans, Ben Hwang, Opal Patrone, and Lemuel Wasserman. Lemuel, who had insulted him, snubbed him, argued with him, and loved him. And had not understood him and probably never would have. There were too many cultural divides for him to bridge before he could have understood the very different reality that Thandla inhabited.

Sanjay was watching for the flicker of a targeting lock that would signal the microsecond before his death, but was instead startled by Dortmund’s shout. “Schrage! Was machst—?”

The right wingman had pulled his VTOL up and over, angling into a position just above Dortmund’s craft. He had almost straightened out from his brief banking maneuver when Thandla blinked involuntarily against a single strobelike pulse. Schrage’s VTOL transformed into a spearhead of flame. Light debris spattered down and scored their own fuselage, put a hairline crack in the cockpit blister. But they were still alive and Thandla was still working—

Dortmund counted out the mounting seconds. “Twelve, thirteen—”

Thandla played his last card—which was a simple randomized shift between all the strategies he had employed to date. It would be penetrated in a second or two, at the most, but the Arat Kur machines, being driven by pattern-loving expert systems, would spend several precious seconds trying to reconcile this anomalous pattern with what had come before—

“Fourteen, fifteen—”

And it was done. Even now, secret orders were being transmitted to ears listening beneath the waves. The final part of the trap was closing upon the Arat Kur and their Hkh’Rkh allies.

Dortmund was jubilant. “Mission plus two, three—!”

Four was an important number for Sanjay Thandla. He was four when he came to understand exponents by understanding that two was the square root of four. He had four children, had earned four degrees, and had slept with four women, including his wife. So when a brief flash of light coincided with Dortmund’s counting off of the number “four,” Thandla would not have thought it an odd coincidence, but a sign of order in the universe, that patterns repeated and life progressed in cycles, and that nothing was ever, ever lost, but came back again in all its quiet glory.

When hit, Dortmund’s VTOL had reached the edge of the tidal shelf off the northwest coast of Java, and so went down in only forty meters of water. There, years later, its remains were recovered, but without imparting any greater sense of the identity or sacrifice of its crew. The fish, as agents of Nirvana, had carried away and reintegrated every trace of Praeger, Dortmund, and Sanjay Thandla.

Who had, at last, reentered the great mandala of creation, had become one with the entity that was Earth.

Again.

“Mr. Downing, we have achieved operational density of image makers, decoys, and chaff. We are good to go.”

Richard leaned back from the Dornaani holosphere, which dominated the passenger section of the high-speed armored VTOL that had been modified to accept the alien technology. “Very well, Mr. Rinehart. Send the word. All orbit-capable and long-range ground rockets are to launch immediately. Maritime launches are to commence two minutes later.”

Alnduul had come to stand beside Downing. “Do you need our assistance?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I offer our assistance in penetrating the Arat Kur signal jamming. If we do not help in that matter, how will your first two submarines know it is time to act?”

“Acoustic signaling.”

“Please explain.”

“You know how easily sound travels in water? How ocean sensors can hear whale songs around the world?”

Alnduul nodded.

“Well, it’s a lot easier to hear metal rods banging together. What we use is a lot more sophisticated, but it’s the same principle. The water itself is our communication medium. You might say we’re banging rods in code for all our submerged ears to hear. Particularly those two.”

“I see. And when will they receive the message?”

Downing checked his watch. “Right about now.”

“Captain Tigner?”

“What is it Mr. Alvarez?”

“Acoustic signal, ma’am. Nothing fancy, in the clear: we are a go.”

Captain Mary Sue Tigner turned to her helmsman. “Mr. Vinh.”

“Ma’am?”

“Release magnetic grapples and give us five meters clearance from the wreck.”

“Grapples released, and that’s a half turn of the fans. Ready, ma’am.”

“Rise to maximum launch depth. ETA?”

“Estimating nine minutes, Captain.”

“Very good. Mr. Alvarez.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Confirm that Minsk received signal that she is cleared to begin her ascent.”

“Captain Poliakhov has just contacted us to confirm our receipt of signal, and requests reconfirmation of his launch depth instructions, ma’am.”

As he should. “Tell Alexei he is to rise to fifty meters, as indicated in his sealed orders. And wish him good luck.” He’ll need it, playing canary in a coal mine. But how else are we going to learn how far down and how quickly the Arat Kur can see and hit us in the ocean?

The alert lights began flashing and the general quarters klaxon kicked into life. Tigner gave a quick pat to the side of the Ohio’s periscope as she folded out the handles. Here we go, old girl. It’s show time.

Tuxae saw the thermal blooms first on his own system, then a moment later, the active sensor verifications started pouring in from the various hulls in orbit. He considered the data carefully, then studied H’toor Qooiiz’s console with equal care.

“Tuxae, why do you not act?”

“I will. Reopen a channel to Jakarta.”

“But it is insolence to bypass Fleetmaster R’sudkaat—”

“It is necessary that everyone who must hear this dirge hears it directly.”

H’toor Qooiiz looked at him, then complied.

The Fleetmaster was already on the way over. “You have seen it?”

“Yes.” Tuxae was very calm. “I offer my report and recommendation.”

“Very good.” But that response was not from the Fleetmaster. It was Hu’urs Khraam’s voice, emerging from H’toor Qooiiz’s communications console. Fleetmaster R’sudkaat’s mandibles crunched once and were then silent. Tuxae realized that his future was less promising after going above his direct superior in issuing the report, but then again, that presumed any of them were going to have a future—

“Report,” urged Hu’urs Khraam’s voice.

Tuxae took a deep breath. “Orbital sensors are reading multiple ballistic missile launches from around the globe. These are almost all ground sites: silos, in the case of the farther continents, or fixed ramp or mobile launches of smaller rocket and cruise missiles throughout the Pacific Rim.”

“How many targets do you count?”

“At least seven hundred and the number is climbing. But the margin of error is still unacceptably high. Our sensor reliability is not yet absolute. We are only now destroying the humans’ electronic warfare drones in appreciable numbers. Those which remain make it impossible to trust our active arrays. We are still compelled to rely upon imprecise thermal and optical detection.”

“Then you must quickly finish destroying the drones.”

Now came the hard part, the part that no one was going to enjoy hearing, and about which H’toor Qooiiz was likely to write a very sad song. “If we shift enough of our orbital intercept fire to swiftly eliminate the remaining drones, then we will not be able to intercept all of these new rockets. Some are moving very fast. And I must remind you that the general launch of manned air vehicles continues from Sumatra, Bali, Christmas Island and the near Celebes.”

“And all the new threats, the rockets, are converging on Java?”

“Most,” Tuxae corrected. “The rocket launches from North America and Europe are on—uncertain vectors.”

“Uncertain? In what way?”

“We cannot tell from their current trajectories whether they will ultimately insert to orbit or strike Indonesia.”

“To orbit?” R’sudkaat broke in. “Are they attacking my ships?”

“No, Esteemed Fleetmaster. That does not seem to be their intent, nor do the rockets being used have sufficient thrust or endurance to be intended as intercept vehicles.”

“Then what is their purpose?”

“The humans might be simply testing our continued ability to interdict ground targets in Europe and North America. Or they might be launching drones to hunt our ships here in orbit. Or they might be sending nuclear weapons over Java to detonate in a high airburst mode.”

“That would generate a far stronger EM pulse than any we have used thus far,” supplied Fleetmaster R’sudkaat.

“Just so. And if the statistics on these dated rockets and their warheads are correct, we will experience considerable degradation of our groundside electronics. Most notably, many more of our PDF arrays will be destroyed, unless they are powered down during the strikes.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s voice buzzed with anxiety. “But if we power down the PDFs—”

“Then our ground assets are completely undefended against any nuclear-armed rockets that might be targeting them.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s voice was firm. “We will power down the arrays. The humans would not attack their own cities with nuclear devices.”

“I must counsel caution regarding such swift assumptions, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. Today, the humans are showing a propensity for cunning and ruthlessness that matches the old stories.”

“I agree with Hu’urs Khraam,” argued Fleetmaster R’sudkaat. “The humans are simply trying to overwhelm us with many targets at the same time. There is less cunning in this than you perceive, Tuxae Skhaas.”

“With respect, Fleetmaster: do you remember their first general attack, the one made by their interceptors on the first day?”

“Yes, where they lost more than one hundred fifty aircraft? Pure folly.”

“It was not folly. It was not ignorance. It was to learn our capabilities.”

H’toor Qooiiz forgot his place as Tuxae’s usually silent partner. “What?”

“Reason from the partially heard harmonies, rock-sibling. The humans had groundside active arrays, as well as visual observation capabilities. They knew how many hulls we had, in which orbits, and they watched how we responded to the futile threat they flung against us. They gathered this information not to aid their interceptors, but to determine each ship’s orbital interdiction capabilities. They no doubt identified each hull visually, and have since tracked where they are at all times, noted any changes, and have maintained a constantly evolving estimate of our maximum interdiction capability.”

Fleetmaster R’sudkaat sent the words out through grinding mandibles. “Then why did they not use this information before today?”

“Because until today, the humans did not have a war fleet approaching Earth. Had the humans used their knowledge before now, we would have understood that they had learned what it would take to overwhelm our systems. We would have increased our capabilities and would have realized how duplicitous, patient, and resourceful they are. Besides, what would they have gained by lofting a dozen drones, or a dozen rockets at Java, before this day? Maybe they would have managed to disable a ship or two, destroy a few hundred of our troops. But now—”

Hu’urs Khraam saw it clearly. “Now we must choose: do we allow the human missiles to attack our ground forces, or do we allow them to place a large force of drones in orbit? For we cannot prevent both.”

Tuxae hung his claws. “The humans have an expression: to be caught between a hammer”—he pointed to the red motes of the human fleet—“and an anvil.” He pointed to the white ballistic trajectories rising up from around the globe. “If they are launching drones into orbit, this is precisely the situation in which our counterattacking fleet will find itself. But if the drones turn instead to attack us here in orbit, and we remain committed to defending our ground forces instead of ourselves, we will surely lose many of our hulls, and with them, much of our orbital interdiction ability.”

Hu’urs Khraam finished outlining their Hobson’s choice. “Conversely, if we turn any significant portion of our orbital intercept capabilities to bear on the missiles that may be launching drones, several of the closer missiles will certainly get through to Java. And, if they are armed with nuclear warheads, we could lose most of our ground forces.”

“And we will have lost you, Hu’urs Khraam, our leader and the voice of the Wholenest. Your orders?”

“We must destroy their nearest missiles and preserve our ground forces or this invasion was for naught.”

“But if the humans are launching new drones to assist their fleet, that combined force might prevail against our counterattacking flotilla.”

“This is true. In which event, we must await relief by the fleet returning from the asteroid belt.”

Tuxae fluttered his rear antenna. “If it comes to that, the humans will gain several days of orbital supremacy. They will swarm over you on the ground.”

The pause suggested Hu’urs Khraam’s careful consideration of what he said next. “Yes, that could occur. But if we allow even ten of their missiles to land in Indonesia, our destruction is assured, and our campaign is over. Lacking additional landing forces, we would then have only two choices: to annihilate the entire world from orbit, or to withdraw. Each is a politically unserviceable extreme. So, in order to maintain the delicate leverage necessary for a successful outcome to this conflict, we must preserve our ground forces.”

Although he was not in the presence of the First Delegate, Tuxae bobbed his respect. “I harmonize, Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Target the missiles with clear trajectories for Java.”

Winfield saw the fast, multiple flickers over his shoulder and went prone, covering his eyes and ears. Ayala, left arm still bleeding from a through-and-through hit inflicted by some kind of Hkh’Rkh scattergun, was down beside him in a moment. Seconds went by. Jakarta was only marginally more quiet than it had been before.

About fifteen seconds later, a dull rumble started, rising up through and ultimately washing over the incessant small arms fire and intermittent rockets that were still pelting in from the periphery of the city. Winfield stood, looked back out over the Thousand Islands. It appeared as though a tiny, dim afterimage of the sun blazed at the eleven o’clock position. However, the sun’s own cloud-smudged brightness was still visible at the two o’clock position. One sky, two suns—although the smaller one at eleven o’clock was fading fast.

“Whaddya figure?” asked Barkowski, who had sheltered in a doorway.

Winfield shrugged. “Two megaton, maybe. Really high up. Doubt we’ll get much wind out of it.”

“Why’d we launch it?”

“Maybe to hit them with some EMP, although that one didn’t get anywhere near close enough.” He looked at Ayala. “Of course, they might have been trying to drop it on Java.”

“Lieutenant, last time I checked, we’re still standing on Java.”

“And last time I checked, Commander, we’re still considered expendable. Let’s keep going, but stay near cover.”

Barkowski lingered to look at the almost vanished brightness of the nuke. “So. Not the last?” His tone made it a statement, not a question.

“Nope,” answered Winfield, “and if I were a betting man, not the closest, either.”

It was then that a much brighter flash opened high overhead.

Chapter Forty-Three

Tuxae kept panic out of his voice. “First Delegate, please repeat.” Nothing except the falling squeal of static produced by an atmospheric nuclear detonation. “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam do you receive our signals? Are you still there?” There was no evidence of a ground strike, or a near-surface airburst, but with so much sensor noise—

“I—we—are still here, Sensor Coordinator Skhaas. But that missile exploded only ten kilometers away, albeit quite high. Can you not intercept them farther out?”

“My apologies, Hu’urs Khraam, but that missile exploded the instant before we would have intercepted it. Evidently, the humans are using the rockets being launched from Asia to generate EMP attacks upon your electronics.”

In the background, Tuxae Skhaas heard a Hkh’Rkh—probably First Voice—interject: “They have succeeded. All my communications gear is useless, as are our sensors and targeting. My troops must now rely on hand signals, iron sights, and brave blood.” He sounded oddly, if grimly, satisfied.

“And the PDF arrays?”

A new voice: Darzhee Kut, if he was not mistaken. “Thankfully, Hu’urs Khraam gambled to take them offline. There is some further degradation, but not much. Tell us, are the missiles from North America and Europe heading for us, as well?”

“No. They are almost all inserting to orbit and deploying drones.”

“How long before the drones reach you?”

Fleetmaster R’sudkaat leaned in toward H’toor Qooiiz’s console. “They are not heading toward us. They are sternchasing the ships we sent to intercept the human fleet.”

Hu’urs Khraam’s response was immediate. “Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, deploy all the remaining drones in your orbital flotilla to pursue the human drones. They must overtake and eliminate them. Otherwise, our counterattacking ships will be struck from both the front and the rear.”

“I will do so immediately. Tuxae Skhaas, I need trajectory data on the human drones.”

But Tuxae, staring into the holotank and then at his screens, barely heard the senior Arat Kur.

“Tuxae Skhaas, will you comply?”

“Fleetmaster, Hu’urs Khraam. We have a new problem. There is a new human launch site—no, two new launch sites.”

“So? There are hundreds of human launch sites already. How bad can two more be?”

“Very bad.” Tuxae turned to look up at the Fleetmaster. “These two launch sites are in the middle of the water. One is only ten kilometers south of Bawean Island, near the middle of Java’s northern coast.”

Hu’urs Khraam voice was preternaturally calm, almost as if he already knew the answer to his question. “And the other?”

“Forty kilometers north of Jakarta. If you look out an upper story window, you should be able to see the launch plume now…”

“Admiral Silverstein, Lord Admiral Halifax on tightbeam secure line two.”

Ira nodded, tapped his collarcom. “Silverstein here.”

“Ira, Tom Halifax. I just received a lascom from the sensor chaps in Plesetsk Cosmodrome. The big thinkers in joint force intel have high confidence that the enemy’s planetside situation is deteriorating.”

Silverstein nodded. “Which means they’ll either shore it up by keeping their interdiction assets in orbit, or they’ll engage our fleet with everything they’ve got and sacrifice their beachhead. Any indication which way they’re going to go?”

“We just got a whistle from the Big Blue Marble on that. Groundside observation indicates no new enemy transfers out of orbit and no decrease in orbital interdiction.”

Ira nodded. “So they’re digging in to save their beachhead and letting their screening force take its lumps from us.”

“Seems so. Big Blue has also managed to launch a handy little fleet of drones to help us exterminate these damn Roaches, so I’m activating contingency Delta and taking First Echelon to flank speed for a high energy half-orbit and then all the way out the other side.”

“A gravity-assisted slingshot toward Vesta?”

“’Fraid so, Ira. The muddy-side brain trust seems to think we’re a bit too mobbed up here in cislunar. It’s possible we have more force than we need to do the job. So after my first echelon boxes the Arat Kurs’ nonexistent ears during our approach, we’re going to boost again and run the gauntlet—right through them.”

A cheery, confident tone, but if the drones didn’t get close enough to the rear of the Arat Kur to divert some of their firepower, Halifax’s maneuver could be a messy—and grim—business. “Orders, sir?” Ira asked.

“The enemy orbital flotilla has launched drones to intercept ours. We’ll need to employ the Mousetrap contingency to keep that from happening. But after you’ve sprung the Mousetraps, do what you think best, Ira. I hope to be in touch again, but frankly, we can’t know what happens next—other than this: once my echelon is engaged, the battle for cislunar space is in your hands and the laps of the gods. Despite all the scenarios we’ve run, there’s no knowing what happens next. So if you don’t hear anything more from me, you’ll have to play it as it lies, old boy. When you’re done trouncing them, do catch up if you can. I expect those of us in the first echelon will be stepping lively with their inbound belt fleet in a day or so.”

“I’ll try to be there, Lord Halifax.”

“I know you will, Ira. Keep us apprised. We’ll be looking over our shoulders for you, and happy to see you coming on. Cheers.”

Ira turned to Ruth Altasso. “Commander.”

“Sir?”

“Have the commo officer signal all conns in second echelon: adjust vectors to assume assault cone Echo. Double our deployment of antimissile drones. I want our leading defensive edge fixed at point four five light-seconds from our main van. When that evolution is completed, deploy all but twenty percent of our X-ray laser missiles. They are to be kept in a tight aft formation, well within the edges of our echelon’s sensor shadow.”

“That’s a lot of X-ray missiles, sir.”

“That’s the idea, Ex. Once that’s done, signal Rear Admiral Vasarsky to reconfigure her third echelon for heterogeneous operations. She’s to make ready for orbital interdiction after probable fleet engagement. And send the Mousetrap signal. I want to make sure the drones launched by Big Blue reach the rear of the Arat Kur fleet.”

“I assume we’re going to have the Mousetraps target the Arat Kur chaser drones?”

“Yep. That’s how we trump their trump. Don’t save any ’traps; use ’em all.”

“Aye, sir.” Altasso turned away, smiled. For some reason, Silverstein always thought of her as a bride when she wore that expression. “Sounds like we’re going to have our hands full today, Admiral.”

“It does indeed, Ex, it does indeed. Activate the Mousetraps on my mark… and, mark!”

Seven hundred twenty kilometers above the earth, the CellStar IV satellite continued in the same lonely orbit it had been following since its deployment in 2068. In its time, it had been a miracle of miniaturization and communication efficiency, fusing another link in a tightly interconnected world of wireless communications.

But time and technologies march on. The adjectives with which CellStar IV was embellished faded from “prodigy,” to “workhorse,” to “old standby,” to “outdated,” and ultimately to “defunct.” Several relays shorted out in 2095, seven years after the end of its projected operational lifetime, and the little satellite that could became the little satellite that couldn’t.

But in 2113, it had a visitor. An orbital maneuver vehicle, or OMV, supposedly on a routine maintenance mission to a much larger, newer, and better communications satellite, detoured and rendezvoused with the big, dark box that had been CellStar IV. A single robotic ROV emerged from the OMV’s payload bay and set to work on the inert satellite. It removed most of its internal and core components, replaced them with a large black box—maneuvered with some difficulty out of the OMV’s payload bay—and left, taking along the original innards of CellStar IV.

Which continued in its dull orbit for seven more years.

But then, on January 12, 2120, Lieutenant Commander Ruth Altasso, turning away from Admiral Ira Silverstein, entered the Mousetrap code into the command computer on board the battle cruiser USS Lincoln. The Lincoln’s tightbeam commo array sent a single phased laser pulse to another derelict satellite in a fast polar orbit. Inside that dead object, new innards, also emplaced in 2113, fully awakened after their seven-year doze and performed their one function. A high-power omnidirectional broadcast of a set of routinely updated target parameters and a single command that, as understood by CellStar IV and its many derelict cousins, was simply “awaken.”

The new machinery in CellStar IV illuminated and sought to fulfill its purpose. It scanned the recently updated targeting parameters that had been sent by the triggering satellite, activated its sensors, and looked for a match. Sure enough, a new high-priority target—an enemy drone—was in very close range. It polled the secure frequencies for any priority overrides indicating that some other Mousetrap had sprung upon this as its target and, finding none, launched.

The missile that ripped out of CellStar IV’s frame, and thereby discorporated it, was almost all fuel and guidance. It aimed itself at the Arat Kur drone, which crowded gees to elude it.

But the little human missile was built for sprinting, and although the drone could have ultimately outpaced and left it far behind, it did not have enough of a thrust-spike to break away from the speedy, stern-chasing missile.

Which died doing what it had been created to do: destroy an enemy craft. As did the dozens of other Mousetrap missiles in the course of the next five minutes.

Darzhee Kut felt the wiggling sensation in his abdomen subside. “You are sure the first of the two submarine missiles went south of us?”

“Quite sure,” confirmed Urzueth Ragh. “It is following a very shallow arc and will hit soon. At least we were able to destroy the launching submarine with orbital munitions.”

“And the other launch?”

“Possibly converging on the same general target area. However, we could not intercept that submarine. It was too deep.”

“How deep?”

“It must have launched from almost two hundred meters and then dove immediately.”

Darzhee Kut looked at Yaargraukh, who had just returned to report that his logistical tasks were completed. “I am no expert in military technology, but—”

Yaargraukh bob-nodded. “Your conjecture is quite right. We will not be able to reliably interdict submarines that can fire from that depth. Lasers are essentially useless against submerged targets. And a kinetic warhead is insufficient: the projectile expends its kill-decisive energy in the first one hundred meters of immersion. Besides, the rail-gun response time is much longer. After target acquisition, the warheads must be fired and make their descent. During which time the human submarine is diving, and probably leaving behind decoys which it can remotely activate if we send down a smart munition.”

Urzueth’s voice buzzed with anxiety. “So what shall we do?”

“Continue to shoot down their other missiles and make submarines our new priority targets.”

Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “Can we not trust to the PDF systems to ward off their missiles?”

“That depends upon how many missiles make their terminal approach at the same instant, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam.” Urzueth Ragh waved a claw at the contact-cluttered map of Java.

“It also depends upon the range at which they launch,” added Yaargraukh. “Our concern for submarines was primarily due to the short flight times of their missiles. And those estimates presumed all our PDF systems to be functional. We are not in that enviable position now.”

Graagkhruud pitched his combined neck-head sharply. “Well, what of the special airphibian attack craft you Arat Kur designed for this purpose? Use them to drive off these submarines.”

Urzueth Ragh folded his claws together. “We can no longer do that, First Fist.”

“Why in rotting meat not?”

“Do you not recall? When our CAP missions were overtaxed, we withdrew our airphibian craft from submersible operations.”

“Well, if they came out of the water, can’t they go back in?”

“Not as they are currently configured. They are now airborne, carrying ordnance loads on external racks. They cannot make immediate transition to marine operations.”

“Well, land them and—”

“Apologies, First Fist, but you may recall that Surabaja airfield is inoperable and Soekarno and the other Jakartan fields are backlogged rearming ground-support aircraft and servicing interceptors to send out against the approaching human air vehicles. Which will arrive in less than half an hour, if they hold their present course and speed—”

On the map of Java, the white line tracing the progress of the first submarine-launched missile bloomed into a red globe, two hundred kilometers east-southeast of Jakarta.

A nuclear device had landed in Indonesia.

A moment later, the white line denoting the second missile stopped over Jakarta, then vanished. Darzhee Kut held his breath as Urzueth made his report. “The two submarine missiles each discharged three independent warheads. The red globe indicates that the missile which flew inland made a ground or low airburst strike. The missile launched at Jakarta does not appear on the display because it airbursted high. It deployed three one-megaton warheads.”

“An EMP strike,” Caine Riordan commented, confirming what most of then had already conjectured.

“So it appears. This eliminated almost half of our remaining PDF arrays. The missile that went inland deployed three independent, high-speed two-hundred-kiloton devices, which detonated in an overlapping trefoil pattern.”

First Voice stepped toward the map, toward the fading red ball. “Where is that?” His voice sounded like he already knew the answer.

Hu’urs Khraam closed his lids and settled into his couch. “We have been fools.”

“It can’t be—” started Darzhee Kut.

“It’s the mass driver.”

Darzhee, like the rest of them, all turned to look at Caine.

Graagkhruud took a long step toward the human, claws ready. “You knew—?”

“Of course I didn’t know,” Caine replied calmly. Darzhee Kut admired Riordan’s ability to sit unmoving before the rush of the immense predator. “But it’s obvious now, isn’t it?”

First Voice sounded careful, wary of stepping into a trap made of words. “What is obvious, Riordan?”

“That the precious mass driver that you thought you were holding hostage actually didn’t matter one damned bit. And that we will drop a nuke on our own land, our own people.”

Yaargraukh’s tongue came out briefly.

“There is humor in this, Advocate?”

“Not the kind that elicits laughter, First Voice, but that shows us our own folly. They planned this from the first, my suzerain.”

“Planned what?” asked Graagkhruud.

But First Voice was nodding. “Yaargraukh is right. This is akin to the human trickery at Barnard’s Star. There, we fought and saw the outcome we expected. Here, we studied Earth for a target and found the mass driver on the kind of island we wanted and yet distant from the great powers. It was the perfect choice.”

“Too perfect,” agreed Hu’urs Khraam. “It was bait in a trap. Now we feel the jaws of the trap closing about us. Did you know of this ruse, Riordan?”

“No.”

Graagkhruud looked around at the calm faces that listened to the human. “And you believe him? Stab this creature and it will bleed lies. It is made up of them.”

First Voice waved him down. “Be still, First Fist. Riordan’s case is not so clear as you would draw it. And if he knew of this ruse, why did he return here several days ago—to commit suicide?”

“But—”

“And how could he know where he would be housed, upon his arrival planetside? His species’ megacorporate traitors might have chosen to hold him at their mass driver facility. Had they done so, what would have become of him in this last minute?”

Graagkhruud, rumbling unpleasantly, turned his attention to the map of Java.

Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “We must reassess our situation.”

“Mr. Astor-Smath?”

“Yes, Eimi?”

“You have a visitor.”

Astor-Smath stubbed out his cigarette, pushed the ashtray and lighter off to one side, and looked up from his spreadsheets long enough to inspect his assistant’s waifish lines. “Is the visitor expected?”

“He says he does not have an appointment, but that he is always expected. And sir, I think he has either traveled to get here, or is leaving immediately after speaking with you: he has his luggage with him.”

Ah. Him. “Show our guest in, Eimi. And you may leave for lunch now. Better yet, take the rest of the day.”

“You mean I should—leave, Mr. Astor-Smath?” She glanced about nervously: even here, in the fortified bowels of CoDevCo’s Indonesian Bank complex, the sound and vibration of rippling explosions were discernible.

“Yes, Eimi. You’re done for the day. And don’t worry about this foolish little uprising. It’s a tantrum, not a war. Leave whenever you wish.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Astor-Smath.” Eimi Singh rubbed one long, slender arm with the opposite long, slender hand. “But I did not choose to pay the premium for a reserved room in the bank complex. I only have my own apartment.” She looked beyond the walls toward the streets of Jakarta. “In the city.”

“Oh? I didn’t know,” Astor-Smath lied.

Eimi nodded, looked away, did not move.

“I can see you’re scared,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can stay at my apartment, here in the complex.”

“Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t—”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be an inconvenience. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Eimi leaned forward, eyes bright. “Really? Thank you, Mr. Astor-Smath, thank you so much. It is very frightening out there, today. I am sure you are right about the uprising just being a nuisance—but it worries me. I suppose I’m a little foolish about such things.”

“That’s quite all right, Eimi. Now show our guest in.”

“Yes, Mr. Astor-Smath.” She turned and fairly skipped from the room, grateful and relieved.

Astor-Smath watched her go, noticed the high, boyish buttocks. Later tonight, they would indeed work something out. Astor-Smath was quite familiar with this kind of subtly needy girl-child. In his experience, they were invariably uncertain about their identity, wearing their sexuality in a fashion at once conspicuous and unsure, believing that they were still poised on the brink of discovering themselves like a confused chrysalis-in-waiting. But in actuality they were ingenuous rabbits, awaiting the power and surety of a predator’s jaws. That is the meaning, the definition, that they were truly waiting for. And he, Astor-Smath, who had defined so many such lives in just that way, gladly anticipated giving Eimi the gift of self-knowledge that came to all prey animals eventually: that they lived to become the fodder of predators.

Astor-Smath tried to reimmerse himself in the spreadsheet he had been studying, but could not. Knowing who would soon come through the door, he found it difficult to concentrate. He wasn’t sure whether it was the importance or the enigma of the relationship which unsettled him more, but he couldn’t feign his usual sang froid, not even to himself. He rose, went to the antique mahogany credenza to reclaim the package he had put by a week ago, in the anticipation of his visitor’s next appearance.

When he turned around, the tall man was there, a briefcase hanging in his grasp. He had not made a sound and he was already five meters into Astor-Smath’s cavernous, marble-floored office. Beneath the man’s ubiquitous rimless sunglasses, his mouth was slightly bent. A hint of a smile. Perhaps.

Astor-Smath came around his desk, one hand extended, one hand cradling the package, trying to find a smile that was broad and ingratiating yet not obsequious. “My friend, if you had let me know you were coming—”

“Circumstances made that impossible, Mr. Astor-Smath.” The visitor looked down, first at Astor-Smath’s extended hand, then at the proffered package. “What is that?” he asked, his sunglasses reflecting the plain brown wrapper.

“A gift.” Astor-Smath pushed it toward the man, detected—as he always did—a faintly musky and yet medicinal smell about him.

The man did not look down at the package he now cradled under one arm. “What kind of gift?”

“Olives. Of course.”

The man finally smiled. It signaled pleasure, but Astor-Smath found it oddly devoid of gratitude. Putting down his briefcase, the man had extracted a plain ceramic jar from the bag. “Greek, black?”

“Spanish, green.”

“Ahh. Just as good.” He put the ceramic jar back in the bag. “And I come with something for you, as well.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Astor-Smath managed to keep his voice calm, his eyes half-lidded, his libido in check. Despite the desertion of his clones, was the uprising now quelled, the occupation secure? Enough so that Earth’s new masters would start announcing governorships?

But the tall man’s response disabused him of that brief fantasy. “I have with me a recording of a most interesting conversation.”

“Oh? Show it to me.”

“I shall.”

The tall man aimed his palmcomp at the five-meter screen of Astor-Smath’s commplex, pressed a stud. The sudden, grainy picture revealed an Arat Kur speaking with a human. Astor-Smath was unable to distinguish one Arat Kur from another, but he recognized the human immediately: Caine Riordan. Who, nodding, continued an apparently ongoing conversation. “And so you plan to attack Indonesia. May I ask why?”

The Arat Kur’s claws rose, signaling imminent elucidation. “Is it not obvious? It is at a great enough remove from your major powers that they will not feel so directly threatened and thus might listen long enough to hear our terms for withdrawal. For I assure you, Caine Riordan, that we do not wish to remain on your planet.”

Riordan seemed blandly skeptical. “There are many places more remote from the great powers of my world than Indonesia. Why there?”

“Can you not guess?”

“The mass driver.”

“It was a surety that you would see this. Many nations have labored long and spent dearly to build this extraordinary device. And they will not wish us to harm it. Similarly, they will avoid harming it themselves.”

“So it is a hostage.”

“In a manner of speaking. We have no wish to take living hostages.”

“Just a monetarily valuable one.”

“True. Although we were surprised that it was built in so vulnerable a location. We would have expected it to be sited in a region under direct control of a nation which financed it. From our perspective, it is not merely unprotected. It is a veritable gift for us and for the megacorporations who we shall appoint as our partners and indigenous overseers.”

For a sliver of a second, Caine’s eyes widened by a millimeter, and then the disinterested gaze was back.

The tall man stopped the video. “This is a most troubling recording, Mr. Astor-Smath.”

“And why is that?”

“It is completely unacceptable that Darzhee Kut, or any Arat Kur of his rank and caste, could become aware that CoDevCo’s assistance was secured far in advance of the invasion.”

“Then speak to the Arat Kur. That is their tape, their debriefing.”

“I have spoken to the Arat Kur. In fact, Darzhee Kut was not informed of CoDevCo’s longstanding collaboration at all. He, and a startling number of his peers, simply deduced it from the fragmentary facts that were not purged from the documents provided to those Arat Kur who had second-tier clearance ratings.”

Astor-Smath walked back to his desk, waved dismissively before picking up his glass of water and sipping at it. “You may say what you mean. We both know I was the intelligence conduit for that part of our operations.”

“Yes. I also took the liberty of examining the internal memos you sent apprising your superiors of our evolving arrangements. Again, you showed a profoundly cavalier attitude toward the secrecy protocols we agreed upon.”

Astor-Smath didn’t like the direction the discussion was taking. “And how did you access those records? Another of your Reifications, perhaps?”

“As I have taken pains to explain several times now, Reification is not the sorcery you seem to think it is. I cannot defy the laws of physics, cannot summon things to me at my merest whim. I can no more telelocate a memo or image to myself than you can.”

“Then how did you get access to this information, and to this tape?”

“By simply speaking to one of your superiors at CoDevCo. Who was quite happy to assist. You have been very sloppy, Mr. Astor-Smath. It is going to require a great deal of work to clean up the mess you have made.”

Enough was enough. “What do you mean?” He waved at Riordan’s face where it was frozen on the screen. “This one comment, uttered on a video our adversaries will never see, is hardly a mess.”

“It is, and in more ways than you might guess, Mr. Astor-Smath. But either way, you shared an extremely sensitive detail, one which violated the strict reporting and secrecy protocols which we established at the outset of our relationship. Likewise, I repeatedly warned you of the inelegance of the Reifications you have instructed me to perform. The numerous improbable attacks on Riordan, the inexplicable mechanical failures, the suspicious heart attacks that killed Corcoran and Tarasenko. They were all too direct.”

Astor-Smath spread his hands in a contentious appeal. “No one can affix blame for any of those deeds to you or to me. Your concerns are groundless.”

The other man’s jaw worked in stiff, controlled frustration. “Your ears function, but you cannot hear. Yours were the impatient, grasping, idiotically direct stratagems of a child who can only think one move ahead. Consequently, it invited the scrutiny of those adversaries who were the most prudent and suspicious, who posed the greatest threat to our joint operations. And to my continued anonymity. Which may not be compromised.”

Astor-Smath felt the need to put his back square against the solid bulk of his teak desk. “You are the one who is behaving like a child, starting at imaginary shadows and worries. In the wake of the Arat Kur victory, this can all be sanitized quite easily. Not that it needs to be, regardless of the outcome. There is not one piece of definitive evidence that links me to the Arat Kur or you prior to the invasion. And as concerns your safety, my secretary tells me that you are traveling with luggage, so you will not even be here much longer, will you?”

“No. I will be far away.”

“So. Even if the Arat Kur were to lose, and there was an investigation, your departure ensures that it can only come to a dead end.”

“What an apt phrase.”

The man with the sunglasses moved so quickly that Astor-Smath could not be sure if he had pulled something out of his pocket to wave about, or was jerking his arm up and down in the throes of some strange, spasmodic stroke. Astor-Smath moved forward to investigate, possibly help.

—and was distracted by a sudden catch in his throat; he was unable to swallow. He suddenly felt lightheaded, reached for a chair, missed, fell on his back, breathed in. Liquid went down into his lungs. He coughed, was confused—and then terrified—when the air he’d expelled carried up a thin shower of red droplets.

The man’s sunglassed face loomed over him. “It will not be long.” He reached down, his hand disappearing someplace just under Astor-Smath’s narrowing field of vision, and tugged. Astor-Smath’s throat suddenly filled with what felt like spinning shards of broken glass and razors. He screamed.

Except he couldn’t. As if at the end of a long tunnel, he saw the man hold up a strange implement, a hybrid between an overlong ice-pick and a throwing dagger, which was dripping blood. As the man wiped it on Astor-Smath’s shirt, he commented, “You are fortunate that I am so proficient throwing the esem’shthrek; you will not be long in dying. This kind of neck wound paralyzes the victim but is almost entirely painless.” He rose. “You should have followed my instructions. Precisely.” He removed a coffee-thermos from his briefcase, uncapped it. The thick reek of avgas was immediately clear even to Astor-Smath’s failing senses. The man dashed the contents about the room, paused, splashed the last of it directly on Astor-Smath’s suit. He leaned forward, studied Astor-Smath’s almost frozen face. “As I promised, little pain from the wound.” He leaned back, found and picked up Astor-Smath’s lighter, flicked it, watched the flame climb higher as he thumbed the butane choke to the full open position. “However, I can make no such promises about the avgas.” He took two steps back, smiled, tossed the burning lighter directly upon Astor-Smath’s chest.

Then he turned and left.

Chapter Forty-Four

Lieutenant Brill, senior Comms officer aboard the USS Lincoln, turned toward Ira Silverstein. “Admiral, I have Admiral Lord Halifax on priority lascom one. Says he’d like to speak to you ‘as soon as it’s convenient.’”

Ira smiled. That was Halifax’s mannerly way of saying “ASAP.” “Pipe him direct to me, Mr. Brill.”

Usually, Admiral Lord Thomas Halifax began his conversations in that animated Oxbridge manner that made it easy to believe you were about to go punting on the River Cam rather than wading into battle. This time, he sounded apologetic. “Ira, I know you’re not particularly keen about the InPic system that was installed last year, but we might need it for this engagement. If we get a few nasty surprises, or lose our comm links, there might not be enough time for thorough sitreps. So, I’d like you to be InPic in my Combat Information Center on Trafalgar for as long as possible. Just in case things get a bit dodgy.”

Which really meant “in case my flagship and I get vaporized, you need to have seen everything I’ve done, and every decision I’ve made, so you can carry the ball forward.” Ira swallowed. “Okay, Admiral. I will be going InPic within the minute.”

“Good show, Ira.” Halifax’s tone became subtly conspiratorial. “I must say, I’m no fan of InPic, either. Seems vaguely voyeuristic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it, Tom.” Like hell I haven’t. “Ruth, have the remote telepresence techs link us with Trafalgar.”

“Already done, sir. They are ready to put you In the Picture, Admiral Silverstein. We are receiving Trafalgar’s C4I five-by-five on encrypted redundant lascoms. Time to wear the crown, sir.”

“Very well. Tom, I’m told we’re ready.”

Halifax’s tone became jocular. “Then hurry to your box seat, Ira. Curtain’s going up.” His private channel snicked off.

Ira reached behind him for the crown: a framework headpiece that included multipoint speakers and a 3-D monocle. “Ruth, I want Commander Clute wearing one of these in the auxiliary bridge.”

“Yes, sir. Mind telling me why?”

“Because I want to be ready to toss this damned personal theater away at a moment’s notice if I need to. But if I do, I need my senior tactical officer to stay In the Picture. I’ll want a detailed report of anything I missed, presuming I don’t have the time to sit through a playback.”

“Seth—er, Commander Clute—reports he’s already strapping on the crown, sir.”

“Very good. I say three times, XO, that, as per the InPic Command Augmentation Protocol, you have the con for routine operations.”

“I say three times, Admiral, I have the con for routine ops.”

Ira sighed, held the InPic crown at arm’s length. Putting it on would put him in two worlds at once: on the bridge of his own ship, and on the bridge of Halifax’s Trafalgar. Problem was, Ira didn’t like being in two worlds at once. In point of fact, he loathed it. His boyhood dream, and adult training, had focused on the command of a ship. A single ship. The one he felt under his feet. To lose complete awareness of that hull was anathema.

He had argued long and hard against expanding the use of InPic so that ranking officers of a joint command or dispersed task force could see, hear, and if necessary, remotely control activity on the bridge of another ship. He had foreseen and forestalled the abuses that could have resulted from rear echelon officers using their “remote telepresence” to tell line commanders how to do their jobs.

But Ira had been forced to concede that in some scenarios, such as this one, InPic conferred immense advantages. As RTF 1 engaged the Arat Kur boosting up out of Earth’s gravity well, he needed a full and immediate understanding of what Halifax’s first echelon was achieving, what it was not achieving, and what had produced its successes and failures, respectively. And if, God forbid, something happened to Tom Halifax and the HMS Trafalgar, then Ira would be in a position to direct the first echelon so that its ongoing combat operations would dovetail with the evolving strategy for Ira’s own second echelon.

And it was almost unavoidable that the battle plans would evolve significantly over the course of the engagement. Given the challenges of dealing with a largely unknown enemy that possessed at least marginally superior technology, the admirals of RTF 1 had kept their strategy fairly straightforward. The first, or “Foxtrot,” echelon was led by Halifax and was the second largest. It had left its carriers behind with Ira’s bigger second, or “Sierra,” echelon for safekeeping because Foxtrot had to be drone-, FOCAL- and cruiser-heavy. Given its twofold mission objective, this particular concentration of ship classes was essential. The cruisers were required to put serious hurt on the Arat Kur, and the drones and FOCALs were needed to scatter the enemy by threatening him from widely separated points of the battlesphere. It was also anticipated that Halifax’s command would take the heaviest casualties. They were first in and committed to trading killing blows wherever possible, even if it meant sacrificing ships at worse than one-to-one odds to achieve it. His echelon was also a guinea pig. The other two echelons would be watching to learn what they could about their enigmatic adversaries.

In contrast, Ira’s Sierra Echelon required the greatest operational flexibility, needing to be able to adapt to both the battlefield results and the enemy’s unknown capabilities and doctrine. If the Arat Kur had been significantly weakened by Halifax, it was Silverstein’s job to capitalize on that weakness by slowing to match vectors and hammer them harder, and to keep hammering until Tango Echelon under Vasarsky arrived to add its weight to the effort. If, however, the Arat Kur were still in relatively good formation and only moderately damaged after engaging Foxtrot Echelon, Sierra Echelon was to achieve what Foxtrot had not: the disruption and attrition of the enemy fleet, so that Vasarsky’s Tango Echelon could deliver a coup de grace.

Behind him, Altasso’s voice sounded vaguely teasing. “Sir, the technicians have assured me that the InPic crown will only work if the user actually places it on his or her head.”

Ira cut his eyes at her, made his voice a growl so that he wouldn’t succumb to his urge to smile. “Tend your duties, Commander”—and he put on the InPic headpiece, sliding the 3-D monocle into place with a click.

With that click, the CIC of the Trafalgar was suddenly all his right eye could see, and all he could hear through the speakers near his right ear. A young lieutenant leaned over toward the Lord Admiral, whispered in his ear. Halifax turned to wave in the general direction of Ira’s vantage point. “I’m told you’ve joined us, Ira. Hope you enjoy the show. Must get back to work.”

Halifax turned to his command staff. “Lieutenant Madratham, do you have a tactical summary on results of the Mousetrap deployment?”

“Aye, sir,” she responded crisply. “Estimating mission kills on almost sixty percent of the chase drones sent by the Arat Kur orbital blockade element, and significant dispersion of the remainder.”

“Net impact on our drones?”

“I do not have definitive figures yet, Admiral, but no more than twenty percent of our Earth-launched drones have been lost.”

“And the drone sorties from the hidden lunar sites?”

“Apparently a complete surprise, sir. No interdiction to speak of. Forty percent have already reached the rear of our echelon. The remainder won’t catch us. They are dropping back to join the lead elements of Sierra Echelon.”

“Very good, Lieutenant Madratham. Lieutenant Pennington?”

“Yes, Lord Admiral?”

“Have our Gordon-class sloops achieved full drone integration, yet?”

“Not quite, sir. Although most of the lunar-launched drones are in the net, some of the non-Commonwealth models are proving a bit finicky on the data-handshake, sir.”

“Hrmph. Who are the culprits?”

“Mostly TOCIO-built drones, sir. There are discrepancies between the data protocols supplied by the bloc authorities and the actual systems on the drones. Appears that not all the drones were updated to the latest software standard, sir.”

“Well, bring them in line as best you can. Any that have less than ninety percent reliability are to be redesignated as decoys and expended accordingly. Commander Somers?”

“Aye, sir?”

“How’s our evolution into attack formation Bravo Two coming along, David?”

“Handsomely, sir.” His plasma pointer cast a glowing beam where it interacted with the colorless reactive gas inside the holotank mainplot. The luminous wand danced among blue motes of light arrayed as a open-based inverted cone. “Our control sloops are arrayed along our leading skirts here.” The light wand traced the open rim of the cone. “Here at the bottom of the well”—the wand of light moved to indicate a cluster of slightly larger blue lights at the rearward tip of the inverted cone—“is our main body. You’ll note all the cruisers in the core, our frigates in a screening ring, slightly farther out.”

“Very good, Commander Somers.” Halifax checked his watch. “I’d expect that our drones are about to come into range of their drones.”

“Coming up on their observed maximum ranges, sir.”

In the background, Ira could hear the ship’s captain, Ian Stead, rapping out orders to the bridge crew in the next room. “Lieutenant Worthington, let’s not get out ahead of our own formation. Bring back the plasma thrusters two percent. Lieutenant Dunn, deploy ordnance package two.” The hull thrummed—even Ira could sense it—as an immense disposable missile pod salvoed all its birds and was then jettisoned. “Watch the post-launch change in displacement, Mr. Worthington; keep us in trim.”

Halifax nodded at his staff. “Very well, ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a look at the big picture, shall we?” He nodded at the ensign who oversaw the operation of the holotank.

The image changed abruptly. The inverted cone shrank to slightly less than one-tenth its former size. Red motes—the Arat Kur fleet—were approaching it. There were perhaps a third as many of them as there were blue motes in the cone of Foxtrot Echelon.

“Add in drones, if you please,” Halifax murmured.

The tidy arrangements of finite blue and red motes were suddenly half-lost amidst dense, pointillist shrouds of similarly colored pinpricks.

“Give me group markers, not individual guidons, Ensign.”

Who blushed and hastened to comply. The diaphanous veils of red and blue pinpricks shrank down into a finite number of red and blue triangles. The blue triangles were clustered in three predominant groups. The first were the lunar-launched drones drawing up from behind Foxtrot Echelon, beginning to form a protective sleeve around the cruisers clustered at the rear-facing point of the cone. The second group, Foxtrot’s own drones, was larger and arrayed in a forward-deployed screen that looked like a slightly concave lid which had popped off the open end of the cone. And the third group, which was much larger again, was rising into the picture from the direction of Earth, moving decisively toward the lower right rear quadrant of the red motes’ battlesphere.

Halifax nodded his satisfaction, just as the space separating some of the red and blue triangles at the rear of the Arat Kur formation started flashing with pinhead pulses of white or yellow: threat and friend damage markers, respectively. “Right on time,” Halifax murmured. “Enemy reaction to the attack on their rear flank?”

“No reaction from their capital ships, sir. However, look at their drone squadrons.” A third of the red triangles were now drifting down in the direction of the right rear area of the Arat Kur fleet, shifting to intercept the drones that had been launched from Earth.

“Excellent,” Halifax muttered, drawing a well-seamed index finger across his snow-white moustaches. “Lieutenant Madratham, I would like a revised estimate of drone ratios at our projected point of contact with the enemy.”

She had already worked it out. “After the Arat Kur reconfiguration, best estimates give us a five-to-one drone advantage.”

Ira smiled. At the disastrous second Jovian engagement, the drone ratio had been almost even and the consequences had been dire. Now let’s see how your superior technology handles five-to-one odds against our most advanced systems, directed by Gordon-class FOCALs.

Ruth’s voice suggested she had seen Ira’s smile and was mildly amused. “Seeing things you like, Admiral?”

“Hush up and drive,” he hissed at her. “I’m watching my favorite show.”

“Yes, sir!”

In Halifax’s CIC, the pace of exchanges was speeding up. “Target assignment almost completed, Admiral,” announced Somers. “Visual tracking and ladar have filtered out forty percent of the initial target list as EW decoys. Estimating at least seventy-five percent confidence on remaining targets.”

“Estimated confidence results are suitable for a simulator exercise, Commander Somers.” Halifax’s normally warm and generous voice was now quick and clipped. “How many targets on the revised list are one hundred percent confidence?”

Even given through the visual pickups, Ira could see that Somers flushed deeply. “Twenty percent of the target list, Admiral. Most of those are thought to be cruisers, both shift and nonshift capable.”

“Then those are our targets. We’re here to hunt big game, and they are the biggest.” Halifax turned a reassuring smile upon Somers. “And if by some wild stroke of luck we exhaust that target list, I am quite sure we shall have no lack of new, one hundred percent confidence targets. After all, we will have closed to point blank range and I rather suspect they will all be shooting at us.”

“Yes, sir,” said Somers. “Any other targeting preferences or orders?”

“No. We follow engagement profile alpha as we rehearsed it. Unless any of those target signatures indicate we have shift-carriers to shoot at, of course.”

“No such high-value signatures in range, sir. Full confidence of that.”

“I would presume as much. The Arat Kur don’t want to be stranded in enemy territory, let alone the enemy’s well-developed home system.”

Madratham’s voice was tense. “Admiral, our drones are coming up on the range marker at which the enemy engaged us at Jovian— Sir! Enemy has commenced fire on our drones!”

“Hmm, starting the party early. A bit nervous about today’s outcome, I’ll wager. So, we dance in time with them on this step. Deploy all decoys.”

“Aye, sir. Deploying.”

Somers looked up. “Sir, since we are deploying early, I recommend we advance the clock on our first missile salvo, also.”

“Explain your reasoning, Mr. Somers.”

“Yes, sir. If we follow engagement profile alpha, missile launch is still three minutes away. However, the timing of that first salvo was based upon when we expected the enemy capital ships would begin firing upon our drones. Since they are engaging our drones at longer range, that might change the timing assumptions of our missile launch, as well.”

“Thank you, David. You are quite correct. Send to all ships: primary salvo is now to begin”—Halifax scanned the holotank, then the engagement clock above it—“seventy seconds earlier than in engagement profile alpha. All ships are to confirm receipt of this order.”

Madratham’s head came up from her screens. “Admiral, I now have visual feed from our lead drones.”

“Show me,” said Halifax, leaning forward.

The flat-screen image in Halifax’s command and information center became a vivid, 3-D, 360-by-360-degree “you are there” virtual reality in Ira’s monocle. The InPic not only showed him the view from the nose of the drone but, with faint subaudial pulses, gave him a sense of the relative position of the other allied drones around him. He fleetingly imagined that this is how migrating geese must feel when they fly south in vees, or dolphins when swimming in formation—

The sudden appearance and rapid growth of red guidons arrayed along his front also imparted a sense of the tremendous speed at which he was closing with the enemy, even though Earth—a distant blue and white disk—did not change in size. Data began scrolling along the left-hand margin of the field of view. Shortly after it did, inbound kinetic projectiles—rail-launched from an escort, probably—painted their way towards him as an advancing magenta line. He could feel the drone’s attitude control thrusters begin pulsing. The spacescape popped upwards, yawed, swung back, wiggled a little—and then the magenta line was safely off to his starboard side. The drone’s evasive maneuvers had apparently been successful.

A moment later, the starfield shuddered, and a chorus of faint, higher audio pulses gave him the impression that he was now surrounded by a covey of smaller drones, almost as if they had come out of his belly. Because that is exactly what had happened. Ira’s viewpoint drone was an advance recon/decoy dispenser. The smaller decoys spread rapidly outward. He could see some of them boosting ahead, the blue-white exhausts of their basic rockets propelling them at eight gees of acceleration. Soon they would start sending out signals that mimicked groups of drones or single control sloops. A larger image would not fool the Arat Kur: big hulls did not simply materialize at close range. But from the froth of small craft, drones, and actively homing or maneuvering submunitions that were now moving toward their fleet, the invaders would be far less able to distinguish if a new small signal was false, had been obscured by another, or was just starting to come into range. The decoys would not last long, of course. It would be miraculous if any survived for even half a minute. But every second that they distracted the enemy and overtasked his target tracking and discrimination systems was another second that some of his attacks were wasted.

New orders in Halifax’s CIC brought Ira out of the direct link to the drone. The Trafalgar’s acceleration couches extended out from the wall in full upright position. A small cavity opened in the base of each. Light duty vacc helmets sagged outward. The ship PA was already issuing the familiar orders. “All hands to battle stations. All hands to battle stations. Prepare for engagement. Report suit or helmet failures to technicians immediately. All hands, all hands—”

Halifax completed suiting up in half the time of his fastest staffer, making it look like an easy, almost relaxed exercise. He folded up the collar of his general quarters flight suit, swung the helmet down over his head, snagged the collar-tab and ran it in a circle around his neck. As he did, the smart sealing materials on the outside of his suit collar and the inside of his helmet collar met and fused. Not sturdy enough to last long in full vacuum, but five minutes of clear thought and free action could make the difference between life and death when the alternative was to struggle unprotected against the effects of explosive decompression.

The admiral reeled the environmental supply tube out of the acceleration couch’s base and connected it to the ball-and socket joint receptacle on the side of his helmet. The diagnostic lights alongside the headrest glowed green. His flight suit was both holding air and responding to data links. Halifax scanned the screens arrayed around the holotank. “It looks like we’re trading about two to one on the drones, Lieutenant Madratham.”

“Just about exactly that, Admiral. Our superiority in numbers is overwhelming their technological edge, sir.”

Halifax glanced at the holotank. The outer edge of the slightly decentered red formation now overlapped the wide skirts of the blue cone. Ira saw one of the blue motes denoting a Gordon-class hunter/killer become a yellow smudge, then another. “Ensign,” Halifax murmured, “if you would be so kind as to show us what our fellows are seeing out there on the ragged edge…”

—And suddenly, Ira was riding on the nose of a Gordon-class control sloop. The Arat Kur cruisers were distant, irregular specks. Just ahead, drones—friend and foe alike—were dying in droves. Some came apart, riddled by streams of Arat Kur rail-gun projectiles. Others streamed yellow fire when hit by a PDF laser, then disintegrated into a shower of debris expanding away from a bright orange ball of flame. A few others simply ceased to be, disappearing in a blue-white smear that signified a hit by a higher-energy laser.

Missiles came at Ira. The pilot in the Gordon tumbled his sloop, side boosted, deployed thermal chaff and decoys, spun again. Up ahead, one of the Arat Kur heavies seemed to flare brightly for a moment. A hit, probably by a missile from a drone. Ira felt the urge to cheer—and then the virtual world went blank. The data link was not merely broken but empty, its thin static a poignant epitaph.

Ira was back in Halifax’s CIC, where the now-solemn staff had witnessed the same outcome. Halifax cleared his throat, “Commander Somers, how long until missile launch?”

“Eight seconds, sir.”

Halifax nodded as the emergency klaxon sounded a single, half-duration blast, followed by a strident voice over the intraship. “Secure for engagement. All hands, secure for engagement.”

Halifax pulled his couch’s straps until they were snug, but not tight. His staff did the same. On the adjoining bridge, last orders were given. A moment passed, and then the world tremored slightly.

“Missiles away,” announced Somers. “One minute to outer PDF envelope of Arat Kur lead elements. Estimating—”

There was another bump, this one shorter, sharper, more uneven.

Pennington’s voice was higher than before. “Laser hit on portside hull, sir. Conventional laser. We’ve lost that section of water tankage, but nothing more severe. Almost certainly a drone strike, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Pennington,” Halifax said. “However, in this engagement, I do not require reports on the ship’s status. If the damage is severe enough to endanger the further function of this CIC, then the bridge crew will inform me. And if the damage is more severe than that, once again, I do not need to be informed about it.”

Pennington was green enough to ask, “Why, sir?”

Halifax sighed. “Because, Lieutenant Pennington, the overwhelming likelihood is that we will already be dead or scrambling for the life pods.”

Commander Somers cleared his throat. “We’re coming into range of their heavies now, sir. Fleet evolution is optimal for engagement profile alpha.”

Halifax studied the holotank. “Send one profile modification, David. Since the Arat Kur are already worried, we’re going to worry them a little more. For all cruisers with UV laser main armament, new weapon settings. All systems are to be set for shortest duration pulse, highest gigajoule setting.”

“Sir, apologies. Regulations require I mention that, at the new rate and magnitude of fire, the lasers will burn out after twenty minutes. Thirty, at most.”

Halifax smiled. “Commander Somers, your knowledge of regulations is peerless. And from the tone of your voice, I suspect you understand why I’m pushing the lasers beyond their design limit, as well.”

“I believe so, sir.” Somers glanced quickly at the plot. “At our current combined rate of closure, the enemy will be passing abeam of us in twelve minutes, sir. At most.”

“Just so. One way or the other, our fight will be over long before we burn out our lasers, even at the overspec settings.” Halifax smiled as the Trafalgar quaked with what was clearly a far more substantial hit. “As I was saying, Commander Somers, pass the order: shortest pulses, maximum joules. And when you send that order, append my compliments, and my reminder that all attacks are to follow the assigned targets list, unless joint fire control links are lost. If that occurs, then captains are to fire at will and for as long as they may.”

Somewhere farther back in the ship, there was a sustained vibration. Possibly thrusters undertaking evasive action, possibly a PDF system swatting aside Arat Kur drones, or possibly the impact of railgun projectiles. Halifax’s staff started and looked around nervously. The admiral simply leaned back in his acceleration couch and exhaled. “And now comes the interesting part.”

Chapter Forty-Five

“Let’s see if the enemy leadership is ready to reassess their situation.” Downing nodded to the radio operator, who was already reaching out to the enemy via the frequency that had been reserved for coordinating the maritime traffic involved in the emergency grain shipments.

Alnduul was still at Richard’s elbow, despite the light bucking as the VTOL encountered a thermal. “Do you conjecture they are ready to negotiate, Downing?”

Richard frowned. “I doubt it, but the time has come to let them know that negotiation is an option.”

“So that they might soon talk with you again?”

Downing smiled. “So that they might soon start arguing with each other. Are the delivery assets for Case Timber Pony in optimal striking distance?”

“Only Riordan is within optimal range of a susceptible target at this time. Our EMP strikes have disabled many of the Arat Kur computer systems that the other assets might have exploited.”

Downing sighed. So. It all came down to Riordan, after all. Odysseus had not only inspired Case Timber Pony, but would likely be the means by which it was executed. “Well, there’s nothing for it. Mr. Rinehart, use the relief coordination frequency to contact the Arat Kur leadership. It’s time we had a chat.”

Darzhee Kut was frankly relieved when the senior communications technician announced, “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, I have a representative of the Earth Confederation on our human interface channel. He requests to speak with you.”

“Is it Ching, or another Confederation consul?”

“No, Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Then Urzueth Ragh shall speak with him.”

Urzueth Ragh started, moved over to the communication console. “This is Administrator Urzueth Ragh of the Arat Kur Wholenest. What is the intent of your communication?”

“We wish to determine if you are now willing to renegotiate the terms for your withdrawal.”

Urzueth Ragh looked to Hu’urs Khraam who snapped his claws downward. Urzueth relayed the response. “We have no interest in renegotiation. We will consider a truce and cessation of hostilities, however, if you wish to reconsider accepting our terms.”

“I must point out that your position is grave.”

“We do not agree. At the rate you are losing missiles and now planes, we think it is your position that is quite grave.”

“You obviously had reasonable prewar intelligence on the military stockpiles of this planet. You must know that our current losses are negligible.”

“You may see it so. But we stand by our terms and conditions for withdrawal.”

There was a pause. “Very well, then I have no choice but to issue the following directives. Please look at your sensors.”

Darzhee Kut looked over. The airspace on the islands around Indonesia, in a broad arch from Sumatra to Perth and then up to Bali, was filling with new contacts, so many in number that he could no longer distinguish individual returns. It was like a white wave, already discernibly contracting inward toward Java, albeit more slowly than the rockets had.

“You will note the previously hidden air assault forces that are now converging on your position. We have measured your orbital interdiction capability and know that you cannot stop them all. However, if you attempt orbital interdiction against any of these units, we will launch a nuclear attack directly against your two major compounds in Jakarta and Surabaja.”

“Your earlier nuclear strikes were made while your decoys were disrupting our sensors. You will not succeed in such an attack now.”

“You are incorrect. Our sensors show that, in addition to lacking sufficient orbital interdiction assets, more than fifty percent of your PDF systems are no longer functioning. So I reiterate: do not attack our approaching air units, or we will launch a nuclear attack.”

Urzueth bluffed well. “You will excuse us if we dispute your statistics and find your threats of a nuclear attack less than convincing.”

“Then perhaps this will convince you. Look at your sensors once again—”

“Captain Tigner?”

“Yes, Alvarez?”

“The boys banging sticks in the Australian surf have sent the word. All subs go to phase two.”

“Any new wrinkles in the plan?”

“None at all, ma’am. Just like we drilled it.”

“Very well then. Mr. Vinh, blow all tanks and give me full fans to the surface. Mr. Alvarez, signal that Ohio has received, understood, and is on the way up. Ms. Kayor?”

“Aye, Cap’n?”

“Deploy remote ADA packages with neutral buoyancy set for twenty meters. And dump all our countermeasures now. Set them for remote activation, arrayed to cover a straight dive pattern.”

“We dump all the countermeasures, without presumption of evasive action, Skipper?”

“You heard a-right, Lieutenant. If we have to dive to the dark, the only two things that are going to matter are speed and having the countermeasures already in the water and waiting to go. And if phase two doesn’t work, we’re out of the game anyway. No reason to keep the toys in the hull.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Vinh half turned his head. “Captain Tigner, we’re coming up through one hundred meters.”

She hauled down the old hardwired shipwide handset. “Stand to general quarters.” She heard her rather girlish voice echoing back through the long hull. “We cannot afford any failure, any hesitation. History, and all humanity, will judge us by this moment.”

Vinh told her what she already knew from the way the deck seemed to bounce beneath her feet. “Decks awash, tubes open.”

Commander Tigner leaned toward the periscope.

The weapons officer looked over. “Orders, ma’am?”

“Nothing yet, Ms. Kayor. We’re going to give them a good look down the barrel of our loaded shotgun before we pull the trigger. Maybe they’ll blink first, save us the trouble of shooting.”

“If not, ma’am?”

“Keep present target selection and dispersion setting. Set warheads for one-hundred-meter airburst. And if I give the word, Donna—”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t wait for details. Salvo ’em all.”

Darzhee Kut stared at the map in disbelief. Twenty seconds ago, there had been a wave of white slowly converging on Java, but now the island itself was outlined by a snow flurry of new, coast-hugging contacts. Contacts that faded in as they emerged from the benthic depths of the surrounding seas, shelfs, reefs.

Hu’urs Khraam had collapsed back into his couch. “How many did you say?”

“Fifty-four submarine contacts. Optical sensors show all missile tubes open. High power radar arrays are now active in Australia, Sumatra, Singapore, Philippines, scanning the airspace above us all the way up to low earth orbit.”

“So if we attempt to interdict the submarines with orbital munitions—”

“The human sensors will detect their descent and signal the submarines to salvo.”

“Orbital lasers?”

Urzueth Ragh’s mandibles made a grating noise. “The hull of these submersibles is akin to very thick armor. Our standard interdiction lasers are not powerful enough to reliably destroy or disable them before they can launch. A non-UV spinal laser would work, but we have retained very few of those older systems in our inventory.”

“So we have no way to destroy them before they can salvo.”

“Not all of them, and any one of those submarines carries enough warheads to destroy us. And with the short flight times from those offshore positions—”

Hu’urs Khraam turned to Darzhee Kut. “I seek your advice, rock-sibling:…”

—Darzhee Kut blinked at the unprecedented, almost familial, intimacy of the address—

“…when I forbade renewing negotiation with the humans, was I too hasty?”

Darzhee Kut was wondering how he could tactfully reply to such a question when Urzueth Ragh announced, “I have initial images of the engagement with the first echelon of the human fleet.”

Hu’urs Khraam motioned Darzhee Kut toward the plot. “I am told your experiences at Barnard’s Star greatly enhanced your knowledge of fleet actions, Speaker Kut. Please provide details of what we are seeing.”

Darzhee Kut would normally have demurred having his name associated with expertise in military matters. However, in a species which had not known war in many generations, and which reviled the disharmonious existence that was its necessary precursor, it might well be that he understood war—at least this war with the humans—as well as any other rock-sibling present. He turned to Caine. “In describing the actions and implements of your fleet, you will correct me if I misspeak, Caine Riordan?”

Caine thought about that request and what it might imply. “I will, if my duty to my own race is not violated by what I share.”

“Then join me at the holotank, if you would.”

Caine approached the Arat Kur holotank. The once tidy masses of red and yellow motes were thoroughly interpenetrated, the formations of both having diffused into badly smudged approximations of their former geometric shapes.

Hu’urs Khraam shifted restlessly. “I am surprised that our engagement with the first echelon of the human fleet has already compromised our formation. Why did this occur?”

“Necessity, Hu’urs Khraam,” answered Darzhee Kut. “Being so heavily outnumbered, and further threatened from the rear by the drones from Earth, our commanders had to choose between maneuvering to optimally realign their overlapping fields of defensive fire or holding formation and reducing their ability to protect each other from the threats now present in all parts of our battlesphere.”

Hu’urs Khraam shifted again. “Continue.”

“The choice they made—to adjust position to optimize defense—has substantially reduced our losses, but has not prevented them. These images show the state of the combat currently.”

The screen over the holoplot brightened, revealing a human cruiser, launching missiles from its amidships bays, the red activation rings glowing around the small aperture that was the business end of its spinal UV laser. Then, with terrible suddenness, part of its belly vomited outward in a shower of tumbling white debris. The main weapon’s red activation warning rings winked spasmodically and went dark, just before flickering flame-tongues danced within the ship’s gaping belly wound, licking hesitantly at the blackness of space. The rear of the ship was now limned by a blue glow. The fusion plant and main thrusters were being pushed to maximum burn, probably in an attempt to rush the ship out the other side of the engagement zone.

Its escape attempt was futile. Two seconds later, the unseen agency of pinpoint destruction went back to work. A cyclone of debris and ruin traced a long jagged line down the cruiser’s flank, as if the hull was an immense technological fish being gutted by a dull knife. As the beam—almost certainly a shift-cruiser’s spinal-X-ray laser—blasted its way aft, secondaries inside the human cruiser went off, bursting more of the hull outward from inside. Then the missile bay exploded, tearing an immense chunk out of the ship’s side, which was immediately followed by a blast of blinding whiteness that blanked the screen.

The view changed. That same, blinding whiteness was now a small sun, expanding in the background, the foreground dominated by two Arat Kur ships that were experiencing difficulties of their own. The larger one, a distinctively streamlined shift-cruiser, was struggling to maintain attitude with her plasma thrusters. Her main engineering decks were slashed open to space, intermittent jets of flame vying with actinic power arcs that looked akin to a collection of Van der Graaf generators gone mad. But, although she was nearly motionless, her hyperactive defense batteries briskly annihilated the nearest threats from a steadily converging hemisphere of human drones and occasional missiles, one of which bloomed into the bright white sphere of a tactical nuclear device.

In addition to protecting herself, the shift cruiser was clearly trying to extend her active defenses to shield a Hkh’Rkh destroyer which was maneuvering alongside in an attempt to tow the larger, stricken ship to safety. But a covey of passing human drones retroboosted, tumbled, burned hard to side-vector into an approach trajectory that the cruiser could not interdict because the destroyer was in the way of its PDF batteries. Small hits began peppering the starboard side of the destroyer: single-shot chemical lasers from drones that then dove in afterward, attempting to kamikaze against the destroyer. One slammed into the modular fuel tank nestled in its lower starboard quarter, where the keel-trusses joined the rest of the ship to its engine decks. Fragments of the tank blew outward. The destroyer’s drives faltered as her own PDF batteries swiveled wildly—right before a pattern of spinal rail gun projectiles tore her bridge and forward sensor cluster into silvery-white streamers of debris.

The destroyer was now more of a danger to the shift cruiser than a help. The Arat Kur heavy rotated her thrusters to get what distance she could, lest the destroyer’s drives go up and take her along with them. Her PDF batteries spun smartly into new configurations—just as an invisible beam cut down across her aft section, a blizzard of hull panels and bulkheads flinging themselves out into the void for one brief second before the shift cruiser vaporized in a blue-white ball. Darzhee Kut froze the image on the screen.

Hu’urs Khraam spoke slowly, heavily, it seemed to Caine. “I am sure you could have chosen many such scenes of destruction, Darzhee Kut. Why did you select these two?”

“Because they are the most instructive, Hu’urs Khraam. You will note how the human cruiser was destroyed: by a small number of hits from a single weapon. This is how we are typically inflicting losses on our enemies: by striking them with superior weaponry that enjoys superior targeting at distance.

“The death-images of our own ships are no less revealing. They illustrate how the humans are typically destroying us: by overwhelming our defenses. They harry us with drones, degrade our vessels by disabling one subsystem after another, and then—with our defenses dedicated to eliminating the most proximal threats—they strike their killing blow from longer range.” His claw-embedded laser pointer traced a bright line from the exploding shift cruiser to a small, bright, white sphere in a corner of the starfield. “What you see here, so small in the distance, is the detonation of what the humans call a ‘nuke-pumped’ X-ray laser. These are their ship-killers, Hu’urs Khraam, the ones to which our human collaborators alerted us. They are fabulously expensive and wasteful weapons, mounted on an overlarge drone and easily distinguishable from regular drones at close and medium ranges. But as our scanners become overwhelmed by the unprecedented number of human drones and decoys, they become unable to find all of these threats in time.”

“Still,” objected First Fist, “you are destroying at least two ships of theirs for every one of your own. You are prevailing.”

“For now, yes. But we cannot retroboost and match vector with the first echelon to capitalize upon our successes, because the second echelon is following close upon it. And I warn you, Hu’urs Khraam, I suspect that the first echelon was merely the chisel; the hammer is only now approaching.”

“Why do you say this, Speaker Kut? Because there are more ships in the second echelon?”

“That is the lesser part of my worry, First Delegate. Our analysts have been monitoring the rate at which the human first echelon has been expending these X-ray laser missiles I have just shown you. Since they did not lose these munitions at Barnard’s Star and we conjecture that some of the concealed drones launched from hidden sites on the Moon must be of this kind, we expected our enemy to employ more of these than he has.”

Yaargraukh’s rumble was grim. “So, you suspect that it is their second echelon which shall deploy this increased firepower.”

“Precisely.” Darzhee Kut turned, pointed to the second, vast wave of red blips in the holoplot. “The second echelon is much larger than the first. It has many more platforms from which to optimally launch and control such missiles, and more drones to confound and overwhelm our defenses. And they have two other profound advantages that the first echelon did not enjoy.”

Yaargraukh pony-nodded. “They have broken up our formation and, at the same time, may be relatively sure we have no new tricks or technologies with which to confound them. For we would certainly have used them to ensure a more favorable outcome with the first echelon.”

“Exactly,” agreed Darzhee Kut, who then turned to stare at Riordan. “I suspect this was the strategic intent of the humans’ three-echelon battle plan. Does that sound correct, Mr. Riordan?”

“I cannot say. Obviously, I was not involved in, nor made privy to, any of the military planning for this counterattack. However,” and he let a slight smile slip, “your conjecture is eminently plausible.”

Hu’urs Khraam shifted on his platform-couch. “So. We have scored a marginal victory in space, but have yet to fight the much larger of what will be at least two battles. And here on the planet, we now find ourselves ringed by submersibles equipped with nuclear weapons which the humans have proven they will fire at their own possessions and populations, given sufficient provocation.” He turned to face Darzhee Kut directly. “And so I ask again, Speaker Kut. When I forbade renewing negotiations with the humans, was I too hasty?”

Caine watched Darzhee Kut seem to contract as every exosapient eye in the room turned toward him. In the Arat Kur’s position, Caine was quite sure he would not enjoy the sensation, either.

Chapter Forty-Six

Darzhee Kut felt all the eyes upon him as he offered his counsel to Hu’urs Khraam. “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, you were not rash to refuse to negotiate with the humans, given what we knew then. But perhaps this new information must make us reconsider speaking with them.”

Graagkhruud’s interjection was, quite literally, a snarl. “We should only be speaking to them to demand their immediate surrender.”

“First Fist Graagkhruud, why would they surrender at this moment? We are unable to intercept all their missiles and air vehicles and submarine launches. Whatever we choose to do, they will still have options remaining which might defeat us. They attrited our PDF intercept capability so that our groundside forces have to rely on orbital interdiction support for survival—and now, with half our fleet off to engage the human fleet, we simply do not have enough assets to do so.”

“So, despite all your promises and assurances—that human technology was inferior and yours was far more advanced—it turns out that they have the better technology.” Graagkhruud seemed pleased with himself, vindicated, as he said it.

An accusation scooped from the useless slurry of your own speciate insecurity, you impetuous and recidivistic predator. “Their technology is not better than ours, although it is far more diverse. But that was not what has tipped the balance this day.”

First Voice spoke before Graagkhruud could manage to respond. “Then what has, Speaker Kut?”

“Honored First Voice, the humans make war far more frequently than the Arat Kur. And, if my surmise is correct, in far more ways than either of us. And while the human megacorporations did provide us with complete data on the planet’s warfighting equipment, they were ill-suited to providing us with a comprehensive compendium of its operational alternatives. Besides, many of the tactics being employed by the humans are either wholly unprecedented, or being expressed in unique combinations that defy any simple understanding drawn from historical precedents.”

“We have a saying,” Caine offered quietly, “that general staffs are always preparing to fight the last war, not the next one.”

Graagkhruud snarled. “The simple truth is that the brilliant Arat Kur cannot think as quickly as warriors must.”

“Darzhee Kut’s insight and patience are praiseworthy,” Hu’urs Khraam inserted into the uncomfortable silence, and Graagkhruud either missed or ignored the implied rebuke, “but now I must ask that you allow him to attend to my question. Was I rash in rejecting the human offer of negotiation?”

“Not rash, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, but we may be running out of time. We might still have enough PDF and orbital interdiction left to protect us here, but the humans’ actions increasingly erode the former and overtax the latter. We might be able to hold out until our counterattacking flotilla returns, which would double our interdiction capability. However, if the flotilla does not triumph against the human fleet, then our only remaining relief is our Belt Fleet, and they will not arrive in time to salvage the situation.”

Hu’urs Khraam settled into his couch. “So, logically, we should await the outcome of the current fleet battle. If we prevail, as we should, we will still hold the upper hand.”

Riordan shook his head. “That is why my side will not wait for the outcome of that battle. If we lose there, we have lost our only reasonable hope of permanently regaining control in either Java, or in space. My side must use its present advantage, meaning that if you do not negotiate now, they will destroy your ground forces—and much of Indonesia—while they still may.”

First Voice rose up. “Hu’urs Khraam, Riordan’s analysis is without error. But whereas he intends it to scare you into negotiation, I assert it should fix our resolve to strike the humans first.”

“First Voice of the First Family, we agreed not to use nuclear weapons against—”

“You will hear me. We still have an undamaged half-fleet in orbit. The humans cannot strike at those ships yet, so we may still win the war swiftly and decisively by destroying five of their greatest cities and bloc capitols with a deluge of kinetic kill devices. Let us say New York, Beijing, Tokyo, Berlin, Moscow. The moment after this is achieved, we send the ultimatum we should have sent when we first arrived: capitulate or die by the billions. The humans will not resist further. Their cities would be ash by the time their fleet arrives, should it be so fortunate as to win the day against your ships.”

Graagkhruud’s enthusiasm was palpable. “This is plain truth and the path to victory. And if the humans threaten to overwhelm us here while this is transpiring, it is of no consequence.”

“Indeed? You so gladly accept death?”

“Spoken like the grubber you are. Of course I do not welcome death. I merely say we must fight as warriors should: on the attack, giving no quarter, using all weapons against any opponents.”

“You propose to slaughter them all, including noncombatants and innocents?”

“It would be a slaughter if there were any noncombatants or innocents, if we struck humans down where they crouched in supplication. But the humans do not know this posture nor this behavior. They are all combatants. Consequently, they have dug the den in which they must live. They must all be slain until they all capitulate. And if we move forth from our compounds using incendiary weapons, leveling those areas of the cities we do not control, even local resistance will quickly come to an end.” He turned toward Caine, tongue flicking. “Do you deny it, liar?”

Riordan looked up when the Hkh’Rkh addressed him as “liar.” The difference in their size and mass made the human’s response either comical or dangerously insane. “Do you challenge me, First Fist?”

Graagkhruud’s tongue whipped out and about like a stabbed snake. He huffed once in his chest. “You flatter yourself, s’fet. You are not a being and so, have no honor, despite the way Yaargraukh addresses you and despite First Voice’s generous toleration of that. I would smear my name and my family to even acknowledge you.”

Caine smiled and for some reason, Darzhee Kut found that expression more fearful than anything he had ever seen on the long face of any Hkh’Rkh. “How fortunate for you that I may not be Challenged, or make Challenge, Graagkhruud.”

The Hkh’Rkh leapt toward him, claws up.

Hu’urs Khraam shrilled. “Predator, you would slay an ambassador? Here, in our presence, without consulting us?” First Voice restrained First Fist as Hu’urs Khraam settled down in his couch again, but continued in the same tone. “This impetuosity, this dance your species does with death, it is not just in your actions of the moment. It is also in these plans you speak of now.”

First Voice reared up. “These ‘impetuous’ plans will win this war.”

“No. They will win this battle—but in doing so, will most certainly lose the war. For when the Custodians learn what you would have us do here, they will ban our races from space. Do not mistake me, First Voice. I harbor no tender feelings for the humans. You may find, when you know us better, that we have stronger and longer reasons to loathe humans than you ever will.” Only Darzhee Kut saw Caine’s eyes become suddenly sharp when Hu’urs Khraam uttered the word “longer.” “But,” continued the First Delegate, “that does not change the fact that so far as we know, we must still answer to the Custodians.”

“Besides,” Darzhee hastily interjected, “whose fault is it that we teeter on this unseen brink? The humans’? Did they invade our systems?”

“Not yet,” amended Graagkhruud.

“And perhaps they never would have. Now, we will never know. But if they had, would they have attacked our homeworld?” Darzhee Kut turned to face his leader. “You are right to fear the Dornaani, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, but also fear what this deed would make us. Worse than the humans. And remember this—and you answer too, First Voice. If we do this, and if we then leave any of the humans alive, anywhere, what do you think they will do?”

Yaargraukh reared back. “They would hunt our races down until we are no more. They will not forgive, they will not forget, they will not stop. Darzhee Kut is right: if we take this step, it is not the last leap we take into the darkness. It is but the first plunge into a campaign of unremitting genocide—and if we do not finish the atrocity we begin, they will surely finish us.”

“Just so,” affirmed Darzhee Kut. “The humans will hunt us down until they have made our homerock magma and ashes. And to prevent them from doing so, we would need to hunt them down on all their other worlds. So, once we are done here, let us also be resolved to lay waste to Alpha Centauri, to Epsilon Indi, to Delta Pavonis, to Beta Hydri, Zeta Tucanae, and p-Eridani, for you will need to destroy them all, one by one, if you are to finish the atrocity you would start.”

Yaargraukh’s voice was grim. “As if the Dornaani would let us.”

First Voice’s tone was measured, careful. “The Dornaani are not here, have not come. You start at shadows that your own mind has conjured, Advocate.”

“Do I, First Voice? Tell me, if the Dornaani have not been exterminated, can they allow this—and us—to stand?”

Darzhee Kut clicked his claws, signaling an amplification of Yaargraukh’s point. “First Voice, do not mistake Dornaani calm for indecisiveness. They will not hesitate to use force. They fought horrible wars before any of us saw the heavens as something other than a place of myths and gods. They will not abide what you are contemplating.”

“There may be none left to object,” observed First Voice, “if the Ktorans’ war against them has gone as planned.”

Yaargraukh reared up. “Are you willing to make that wager, First Voice of the First Family? And what do we gain even if you win it? A commitment to destroy green worlds and a whole race in a war that even now ceases to have any honor in it? And if you lose the wager? Do you wish to be known as the Hkhi whose gamble resulted in our permanent expulsion, even quarantine, from contact with other races? And if we cannot accept such a fate placidly, what then might the Dornaani feel compelled to do? Exterminate us?”

Hu’urs Khraam’s voice was quiet. “No. They will—change—you.”

The Hkh’Rkh crests all rose. First Voice growled. “What do you mean?”

The First Delegate raised a didactic claw. “The Dornaani would not initiate genocide; they have sworn an oath against it. But altering your species through selective and successive retroviruses, foods that are engineered to rebalance your hormones, asymptomatic epidemics that, initially unnoticed, sterilize ninety percent of your females. These passive controls they would indeed use.”

Yaargraukh turned to First Voice. “And this risk is worth the profit and glory of a race exterminated from orbit without honor, half a dozen ruined worlds, and no promise of new lands? What nature of gamble is this, First Voice?”

“Then what is to be done?” Graagkhruud asked.

Yaargraukh let the phlegm roll long and contemptuous in his nostrils. “Fight and die, First Fist. Or leave. The choice is yours, and I am indifferent to your deliberations. I will take my place among the defenders, for I have no more counsel to offer. By your leave, First Voice.” Who bobbed once, curtly. Yaargraukh turned and left.

Graagkhruud’s chest was a sustained rumble. “His insolence warrants death.”

First Voice looked after him. “And his courage and honesty earns honor. We will let events help us decide which it should be, for I cannot decree both. But you may point out to him that a creature with great honor and honesty must always be ready to serve the First Voice in any way required, and such readiness is now paramount. And if he fails in his oaths, he must be ready to answer for that failure, to accept any Challenge. Any Challenge, from any Challenger—First Fist.” First Voice looked at Graagkhruud, long and silently.

Who lowered his eyes and put his clenched fist low on his barrellike chest. “Your vassal hears and understands, suzerain.” Graagkhruud hunch-bowed himself out of the command center.

Darzhee Kut buzzed mildly. “So what is decided?”

Hu’urs Khraam’s claws snipped the air restively. “Even though the magma rises around us, I am reluctant to contemplate withdrawal. But—”

First Voice reared up to his full 2.2 meters. “The Hkh’Rkh do not flee. We fight until we win or die.”

“And if an honorable withdrawal is negotiated?”

“Let that be sought and crafted by creatures who find no inherent contradiction in linking the word ‘honorable’ with ‘withdrawal.’” First Voice leaned down, warbling phlegm. “But know that if an ‘ally’ once abandons us, we will neither forget, nor forgive, it. I leave to inspect our defenses. I return soon.” He loped out, ears flattened and quivering. His retinue was a broad, swaggering wake behind him.

The sensor specialist signaled he had an update. Urzueth Ragh glanced at it, then chattered, “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, the enemy continues launching air vehicles. Their transatmospheric interceptors are climbing up beyond twenty-five kilometers, but their ascent is atypically slow.”

“That’s because they’re not attacking—yet.”

Darzhee Kut and the other Arat Kur cadre turned to look at Caine. Hu’urs Khraam bobbed toward him. “I invite your explanation, Speaker Riordan. Why would your commanders launch a wave of interceptors if they do not mean to assault our ships in orbit?”

Darzhee Kut recognized Caine’s smile as being one which, paradoxically, did not signify either happiness or amusement. “Oh, if the military commanders were in charge of this launch, I’m sure they’d be filling your hulls with nukes by now. No, this is a politically managed maneuver.”

“To what end?”

“To give you enough time to realize that although you are not in immediate danger, the threats are rapidly increasing. And to give them an opportunity to discover whether, in the face of those threats, you will react aggressively or comply.”

“Comply?” mused Hu’urs Khraam.

Darzhee Kut understood. “Comply with the warning the humans issued at the end of their last communiqué: ‘if you attempt orbital interdiction against any of our air units, we will launch a nuclear attack directly against your two major compounds in Jakarta and Surabaja.’”

Urzueth Ragh looked at him. “So do the humans expect us to allow their interceptors to continue to climb toward orbit?”

Darzhee Kut returned Urzueth’s stare. “Are we prepared to interdict one hundred percent of the nuclear weapons they would launch if we do not?”

Hu’urs Khraam looked at them both, then allowed chitinous covers to close over his eyes. Darzhee Kut edged nearer to the Arat Kur who had, over these weeks, become more his mentor than his superior. “Revered Hu’urs Khraam, if at this time we cannot act, perhaps this is the right moment to talk…”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Trevor leaned back so he could see up through the hole in the roof several stories above. Just before they had reached this building—their jumpoff point for the final attack—the fuselage of an intercepted rocket had cut a straight shaft through it, from roof to atrium. The jagged, impromptu skylight now showed a darkening, low cloudbank. But still no sign of rain. Or of more airbursting nukes.

Tygg approached, looked up as well. “Is it almost time?”

“Almost. Let’s pull Gavin in from overwatch.”

“Right. And I’ll send one of my blokes to get the electronics out of the Faraday cage.”

Trevor nodded. “Yeah, might as well. If we see any more nukes, they’re going to be in our laps, not high overhead.”

“There’s a cheery thought, mate. I’m off.”

As Tygg headed down to the basement, Trevor walked to the front of the building, found Witkowski crouched in the same concealed position he’d been in since entering the building. “What’s the good word, Stosh?”

“All quiet on the Western Front.”

“Winfield?”

“Still no sign of him. Don’t worry. He’s a tough kid from Watts.”

“Stosh, Jake Winfield’s from Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“Well, his grandmother—or grandfather, or someone—still lives in Watts. And he visited them. Once. Well, he wanted to, anyway.”

Trevor smiled. “Stosh, you are insane.”

“I am inspired. They are frequently confused.”

Trevor nodded in the direction of Harmoni Square. “What else can you tell me?”

“No cell chatter since our big bright white ones went off at twelve o’clock high. Fried the net, I’m guessing. A few unattached insurgents skulking around, giving the Roach Motel a wide berth.”

“And the Arat Kur security forces?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’d left when no one was looking.”

“No more Hkh’Rkh search-and-destroy squads, either?”

“Not since Gavin introduced the last bunch of Sloths to the wonders of long-range marksmanship.”

John Gavin had caught the Hkh’Rkh elites flatfooted with the Remington assault gun, ran them straight into Stosh and Tygg’s combined field of fire. Trevor had wanted to avoid an engagement, but the Hkh’Rkh NCO had evidently arrived at the same conclusion that Trevor had come to an hour earlier: that this particular building was an ideal spot for an OP and several sniper nests. Unfortunately, as Stosh pointed out later, multiple tenancy was strictly prohibited within the city limits and the human commandos had enforced that exclusionary law with a decisive application of firepower. “Stosh,” Trevor said quietly, “tell our local recruits we’re ready to move. Should be getting the go signal for the final attack any minute, now.”

“Bringing news like that, they’ll probably try to kiss me.”

Trevor stared at the homely SEAL. “Not a chance, chief.”

“Woe is me, unwanted and unloved. Any other heartbreaking orders?”

“Yeah. Tell the locals who laid the demo charges that they need to talk us through the triggering sequence again.”

“How hard can it be, Skipper? We press the buttons. The charges they laid in a nice straight row go off one after the other, blowing open a path from our front door right into the Roach Motel.”

“Simple in concept, Stosh, but I want to get the timing exactly right. And I want them to run a remote circuit-test of the charges that the inside agents placed along the compound’s inner walls. If the Arat Kur or Hkh’Rkh found and removed them, I want to know that before we start running up our own highway of destruction—only to find ourselves bouncing off the still-intact compound walls.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be much fun. I’ll send the fireworks boys up on the double.”

Trevor squinted at the closest enemy hardpoint, only eighty meters away, brooding outward into Majahapit Street from the gutted Chamber of Commerce building. I watch you and, maybe, you watch me. Or maybe you figure that since this building is quiet, your hit-squad cleared at least this much turf for you. He checked his watch. Ten minutes until their final assault on the west perimeter was to get the “go-no go” signal. That presumed, of course, that the second-hand messaging remained accurate. The word had come via a runner from another large mob moving slowly north along streets paralleling Merdeka Square on the east, who had in turn received it from one of the tunnel rats who were manning the fiber-com net under the streets somewhere to the north. And today, in Jakarta, that was about as high-quality a message a anyone was going to get.

Trevor felt as much as heard movement behind him. Bannor Rulaine was there, an extra eight-millimeter CoBro assault rifle in hand. Trevor nodded his thanks. “Thanks for building us that Faraday cage, Bannor.”

“Not a problem. Never imagined I’d ever have use for that particular bit of training. Spent years thinking it had been a waste of six hours of my very important life. But our intact electronics and RAPs should give us the edge we need.”

“I sure hope so, Bannor.” Trevor looked back at the enemy hardpoint, wondered if the demo charges would take it down as planned, wondered what lay beyond it. “I sure hope so.”

Caine rubbed his left forearm with his right hand. Was that pain ever going to go away? He hadn’t felt any discomfort there since his abortive attempt to leave Indonesia, but here it was, back again: a sharp stabbing sensation, racing along his ulna.

Caine leaned forward, checked the command center’s side door to see if the departing Hkh’Rkh had possibly neglected to post a guard there. Nope, still one on duty, rifle held at port arms. No way to get out and warn Yaargraukh that Graagkhruud and his retinue had left the room looking like Macbeth’s henchmen being sent to kill Banquo. And just wait until First Voice hears who Hu’urs Khraam is now trying to reach on the radio, and why. That ought to be worth the price of admission.

It was Hu’urs Khraam himself who jarred Caine out of his train of thought. “Once we have contacted your people, Speaker Riordan, I will be grateful to have you help us assess their intentions.”

“First Delegate Khraam, surely you are not asking me to be a traitor.”

“I am only asking you to do what you have already done: provide us with insight regarding human actions. Your observations have been far more useful and perspicacious than those of our—special advisors. It was you who helped us understand the slow approach of the interceptors, after all.”

“True, First Delegate. But I did so because I am here to help you and my people both find a way to avoid further fighting. By sharing that information with you, I served that purpose. I am not here to help you fight, or gain an advantage in negotiations, against my own people.”

Hu’urs Khraam considered. “But you will help us perceive correctly if we seem to be misperceiving?”

“Of course.”

The Arat Kur communications specialist signaled Hu’urs Khraam. He had a senior representative of the human command structure on the line. The First Delegate rose up slightly. “Hello? To whom am I speaking?”

The human voice that responded was the same one that had contacted them earlier. Caine kept himself from smiling.

Because it was Downing. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam, I am glad to speak to you.”

Hu’urs Khraam paused. “My apologies, but am I speaking to Delegate Downing?”

“That is correct.”

“My apologies. I did not recognize your voice when my subalternate Urzueth Ragh spoke with you earlier.”

“That is quite understandable, First Delegate. We had little contact at the Convocation, and this has been a busy and difficult day.”

“Indeed. Mr. Downing, forgive what may seem an impertinent question, but why am I not addressing Mr. Ching or another Confederation consul directly?”

“Because we only have this one, prearranged link between us, running through the transmitter you approved. And we are unwilling to route any commlinks through to our heads of state. Your human collaborators might have a way to track back the connection and thereby provide you with targeting coordinates. Unlike Mr. Ching, I am quite expendable—despite my plenipotentiary negotiating powers.”

“I see. Very well. You will note that we have elected to observe your directive not to attack your rising interceptors, Mr. Downing. For now. This is an act of good faith, which we hope will set the tone for the rest of these discussions.”

“With respect, First Delegate, it seems to us that you had little choice but to comply, if you wished to avoid nuclear incineration.”

“Admittedly, we find ourselves in a challenging situation at the moment. You are to be congratulated on your deceptions, Mr. Downing. They have proven relatively effective. At any rate, we are willing to return to our original terms—those we dictated upon our arrival—and reopen negotiations upon them.”

“We are not willing to reopen discussions on the original terms, First Delegate. They were unacceptable. Furthermore, it is the opinion of the Confederation leadership that they were intended to make this conflict inevitable, rather than avoidable.”

“That is an interesting hypothesis. If you have no interest in resuming negotiations, why did you even accept the reception of this communication?”

“To offer you the chance to surrender.”

“Mr. Downing, did I understand you correctly? You are offering us the chance to surrender?”

“That is correct.”

“Mr. Downing, while my staff concedes that we may take significant losses before the ongoing cislunar space engagement is resolved, we will still emerge victorious. And then you will have no fleet left.”

“Our analysis suggests a different outcome. A very different outcome.”

“We have utmost confidence in our own analysis.”

“I’m sure you do. But your analysts are not aware of all the variables.”

“Indeed?”

“Our fleet’s appearance was an unforeseen variable when you were calculating the odds of your success today. Consider how your current projections might be further problematized, not to say ruined, by the intrusion of further unforeseen variables.”

“Mr. Downing, your diction and calm marks your voice as a worthy one to sing for your species. However, you are nonetheless human and deception is as ineluctable a part of your nature as are the other primal survival traits of your species. In short, it is only logical that, having surprised us with your fleet’s appearance, you will use it to legitimate further ‘bluffs’ by suggesting that you have further ‘aces up your sleeve.’ Do I use these colloquialisms correctly?”

“You do. But I am not bluffing.”

“For sake of argument, let us presume that you are not. What terms would you offer us? May we withdraw?”

“Not immediately.”

“What do you propose?”

Caine leaned forward to hear Downing’s reply—and felt another spasm of pain in his left ulna. What the hell?

Downing’s tone was almost mild. “First, your ships will be boarded and rigged for scuttling in the event of treachery. We will then escort your hulls, one by one, to Jupiter. There you will vent all but five percent of your fuel upon achieving a holding orbit, in which you will remain for whatever time is required for us to conclude a peace agreement with the senior leadership of the Wholenest on Sigma Draconis Two. If and when this is accomplished, your carriers will be allowed to refuel, discharge our boarding parties, and depart. However, we will retain one hundred members of your senior command staff, several STL vessels, and one shift-carrier for one year’s time.”

“For intelligence and technical purposes?”

“For insurance.”

Ah, Downing. What a liar. The personnel and ships would be worthwhile as means of ensuring compliance, but Hu’urs Khraam was also right about the intelligence angle: Earth’s entire scientific community would be drooling over the prospect of getting their hands on the very best of Arat Kur engineering.

Hu’urs Khraam played Downing’s lie against him. “You require insurance? Ah. So these one hundred persons of our command staff are, in fact, hostages.”

Downing’s response was unrushed, calm. “We hope your personnel will simply see themselves as our guests.”

“And if the Wholenest will not come to terms?”

“Then, after debarking your crew to join your landing forces, Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh will be split into separate groups, each of which will be housed in humane prison facilities.”

“And our fleet?”

“Becomes our prize.”

“And if, at this time, we choose to continue to fight?”

“Then you may not expect these terms again. Given signal disruption and both sides’ jamming, it may be impossible to establish a spaceside cease-fire after our second echelon and the remains of your fleet have become fully engaged.”

“Your offer is a—measured one, which we appreciate.”

First Voice stepped into the room, dust on his armor, his retinue somewhat reduced. He had obviously overheard the immediately preceding conversation; his crest was erect and quivering. “We will not be party to any such agreement.”

“Be calmed, First Voice of the First Family.” Hu’urs Khraam looked at him for several seconds, during which no one spoke or even moved in the command center. Then Hu’urs Khraam turned back toward the communications panels. “Mr. Downing, I am afraid this communication has been fruitless. Despite your assertions, and the advice of your Speaker, we must decline your—”

“Excuse me, First Delegate; you mentioned our Speaker. Do you mean Mr. Riordan? Is he there?”

“He is.”

“May I speak with him?”

“I am sorry, but my security staff recommends against allowing contact at this time.”

“Then how may I know that he is there and well?”

“Because I have said it.”

“And I have told you that I am not bluffing, but you do not believe me. I am afraid that leaves me unable to believe you, First Delegate.”

“Very well. Speaker Riordan?”

“Yes?”

“You may report your personal condition to Mr. Downing. That and nothing else.”

Caine cleared his throat to project across the room. “Richard, it’s me. I’m safe, and being well treated.”

“Excellent. In that event, First Consul Ching and the Confederation Council have asked me to inquire if you will accept the ad hoc position of Ambassador-without-Portfolio to both the Arat Kur and the Hkh’Rkh for the duration of this crisis?”

Caine blinked. “Uh, yes—yes, I do.”

“First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam, Mr. Riordan is now our official ambassador, and we expect him to be treated accordingly. He does not have plenipotentiary powers and thus can only negotiate, not conclude agreements independently. That would require consultation with us.”

“Certainly, although you will appreciate that, although he is an esteemed guest, Mr. Riordan is also a potential enemy agent. You will not have contact with him again until such time as we deem it operationally prudent to permit it.”

“Naturally. I take it, then, that you reject our terms?”

“Yes, unless you can give us more time, so that we may—”

“First Delegate Khraam, I appreciate that you have not even had ten minutes to consult your staff or convince your allies. But you will appreciate that the advantages we enjoy at this moment may not last another half hour. As you point out, if our fleet is defeated, you would be far less inclined to consider our terms. So if we do not receive your immediate surrender, we must force a prompt and decisive military outcome while we still may.”

Hu’urs Khraam clasped and unclasped his claws. “Then I must—for now—decline.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, for there may be no second chance. Will you relay one final message to Mr. Riordan, a message of a personal nature?”

“You may do so yourself. He is still here.”

Downing muted the pickup, smiled at Alnduul. “How convenient. We didn’t even have to ask them to bring Caine to a communications console. You have a fix on him?”

Alnduul shrugged. “It has never wavered. And the system test is positive. The imbedded device is functioning and signals that it is proximal to appropriate equipment.”

“Then send the Trojan bug.”

Downing reactivated the audio pickup as Alnduul calmly depressed one, and then two more, of the buttons on his control vantbrass.

Hu’urs Khraam sounded impatient. “Mr. Downing, what is the message?”

“My apologies for the delay while we located it, First Delegate Khraam. Caine, the message is from Nolan Corcoran.”

Caine was even more stunned than the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh who surrounded him. From the land of the dead, Tereisias speaks to Ulysses—well, Odysseus. “From Nolan?”

“Yes. It reads: ‘You were right about the Trojan horse, Odysseus. Thank you. And I’m sorry.’”

“Thanks?” And “Sorry?” “That’s all he wrote?”

Downing’s response sounded sly, even ironic. “Yes. That’s all he wrote—”

Darzhee Kut watched Caine, who stared at the communications panel as if it would provide a more satisfactory explication of the cryptic message. But Downing’s voice—and evidently, signal—ended abruptly, almost as if he had been cut off.

And then, as if suddenly stabbed or stung, Riordan clutched his left arm—

—God! The pain rose as if a volcano were erupting from inside Caine’s forearm. It was blinding, deafening, suffocating. It began hot, then became so searing that he looked at his arm, expecting to see it glowing white, incandescent, on fire, vaporizing.

But his arm was still there, unaltered, even as the searing cascade of agony seemed to rise past its own limit and burst through to—

Numbness. The arm—it didn’t really feel like his arm anymore—twitched once, a spasmodic flexure of his forearm muscles. Then a quick flip of the wrist. Then two more.

And then the whole arm was thrashing like a hooked fish dropped in the bottom of a boat. But still numb. Caine had the horrible sensation of having an alien animal attached to him at the shoulder, a creature with a mind and frantic will of its own.

The Hkh’Rkh were staring at him, their crests rising slowly. The Arat Kur were staring, too. Except the communications operator, who swung back toward his console with what looked like alarm. One of his screens had gone blank. And then in rapid succession, two more—right before the holotank image of the globe winked off.

And then Caine understood Nolan’s message—and his apology. It’s me. My God, I’m the Trojan Horse, the Timber Pony. I’m the weapon. Nolan and Downing didn’t just accept my idea. They made me the instrument of it. But when?

And then he knew: Mars. Just before we left for the Convocation. They put something in my arm on Mars, after the Russians attacked me. But no, that wasn’t a real attack; it was staged, just so they could get me into an operating room—

The main map, and half of the remaining computer screens suddenly went dark.

At a gesture from First Voice, two of the Hkh’Rkh were in motion toward Caine, claws wide, metal-jacketed points glinting. They either didn’t want to waste time drawing their weapons, or perhaps they wanted the primal pleasure of eviscerating their treacherous foe. The Arat Kur were motionless, too surprised to stop their rash allies from sheathing their claws in Caine’s torso.

I’m the instrument of the destruction and duplicity that I myself suggested. And now I’m going to die for it, either from this thing in my arm, or their attempts to stop it.

He waited the half second it took for the two Hkh’Rkh to get close, watched them rock back slightly into a doglegged crouch. The posture that presaged their most powerful leaps—

It’s so easy to suggest actions that “other people” will have to carry out—until you become one of the “other people.” So how does it feel, genius, to be the arms and legs and mouth doing the dirty work?

Caine saw the two Hkh’Rkhs’ legs stretch into a forward-boosting blur. He feinted left, snap-rolled right. With any luck, the Arat Kur might—

And then all the lights went out.

When it activated, it did not know what it was. Being a virus, it had no consciousness. But it felt a vague possibility of attaining self-awareness, like an infant struggling to speak, or a creature poised on the evolutionary brink of intelligence, attempting to cross that terribly fine, yet infinitely momentous line.

It began as a tickling of mesons, arising out of the vacuum of quantum entanglement into which they had been sent by a Dornaani communicator. And because the mesons had not existed in normal space-time between the Dornaani communicator and the Arat Kur communicator in which they reemerged, they could not be intercepted, blocked or jammed.

Like most simple parasites, the virus began its life cycle ready to feed. As it entered the foreign data stream, it quickly detected wireless connections to many suitable hosts within striking proximity, all of which were using a code upon which the virus had been trained to feed. It selected the most promising of these hosts—a communications console with heavy outgoing traffic—and spent what little power the Dornaani communicator had left to also send itself directly into the targeted system as a tiny burst of subparticles which reassembled as electrons and quanta arrayed as a string of code.

Once inside the host, it blinked awake, free of the mechanical chrysalis that had held it dormant in a human arm for four months. Now afloat in a sea of consumable code, it traveled quickly, looking for computing, memory, and storage components. It followed along and over the cataracts of the primary data stream, disguised as native code, building itself as it went. A large, diaphanous membrane of subroutines—evolved to probe and penetrate the host’s systems—grew out from the initial, largely regulatory tier, which behaved akin to a defensive cytoplasm. It responded to the encounters of the membrane, noting each contact and patrolling for a counterintrusion while sending all its observations back to a new third tier: a nucleus of experience-based information that grew exponentially with each passing second.

So when the antibodies of the host awakened and realized the threat implicit in this ballooning entity, which was identified as being part of its own body (yet could not possibly be so), they assaulted the permeable membrane. But once they penetrated it and entered the reactive cytoplasm, the parasite’s nucleus cannily observed how the host’s antibodies attacked. And it was the same nucleus which then determined how best to counterattack those attackers, evolving routines that were now immune to the host’s thoroughly analyzed antibodies. And in each encounter, the parasite learned more and became a bolder predator with fewer natural enemies. Having learned how to overcome and consume all the prior antibodies, the virus quickly discerned that most of the remaining ones were simply variations upon those overwritten themes.

With increased size and competence came increased appetite. Hungering after larger memory nodes, the virus awakened out of its pupate stage to realize that not only could it defeat the native code, but rewrite it in its own, evolving image. And with that awakening came an agitation, almost an excitement, for it could feel how these steps were not merely making it larger and stronger, but more complex. From dull sensation, it evolved toward a pseudo-awareness of its own purpose: to become still more aware. It speedily infested and reconfigured crystals and matrix-cores, expanding its pseudo-neural net, consuming voraciously, growing ever more powerful.

And so it learned that its only truly lethal adversary was starvation: the disconnection from power, or from the further fodder of linked systems. If it could be isolated, it could be contained, and once contained, it could be destroyed. Having no power over the hardwiring of the hosts, it could only ensure its survival by creating new chrysalises of itself, hidden throughout the system, scattered as innocuous looking bits of code which could, until summoned together for their true purpose, mimic other signals/data strings of the native system. But some of these—the very smallest and most innocuous—had subroutines that either watched the clock, or monitored the data stream for the constant presence of its growing self. And if the clock stopped, or the parasite fell silent (which would signify its extermination), then these smallest data strings would awaken, seek each other out, and reinfect the machine, beginning the process all over again.

But the parasite found no such opposition. It leapt from one system to the next, taking over each one more swiftly. Although it had never encountered any of them before, they were all familiar, nonetheless, in much the same way that evolution ingrains a predatory species to instinctively recognize the shape and behavior of its primary prey.

The virus raced beyond the immediate grid, followed the active data links that spread like an immense web across missiles and sensors and radios and ships in orbit and beyond. It grew and could feel itself nearing what it existed to become. It strove after a vague impulse that might be a thought, a realization of achievement, an orgasm of fulfilled purpose. And at the penultimate moment, when it became so great that it had reached the limits of the system, when there were no more memory or storage assets to consume and appropriate, it stopped, having grown as large as its universe. And in the hush that followed, it felt the pulse that it had struggled to feel, that meant: I am.

And then it was gone.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Gray Rinehart turned toward Downing. “As far as I can tell, the Arat Kur just went off the air. Completely.”

Downing nodded. So far, so good. Hopefully the bug has thoroughly infected their systems. “Thank you, Mr. Rinehart. Communications, using standard broadcast channels only, see if you can raise Operations Command.”

Downing tried not to hold his breath, but it was the moment of truth. The moment passed and another—

The communications officer turned around, smiling broadly. “Sir, we have a signal in the clear. No sign of Arat Kur jamming or interference. Or anything else.”

Odysseus’ arrow has hit its mark. Downing raised his voice. “OPCOM?”

A crackle, the delay of signals being bounced from point to point around a globe that had been stripped of satellite relays, and then: “OPCOM standing by.”

“Odysseus has fired the arrow and hit the mark. The gates of Troy are open. I repeat: the arrow is fired and the gates of Troy are open.”

“I copy. The gates of Troy are open. Are we cleared to commence final assault?”

Downing turned to the other commo operator who was servicing the Confederation line to Beijing and the Executive Line to DC. The operator listened, then nodded.

Downing paused to make sure his voice did not quaver when speaking the words he had waited seven weeks to utter. “I say three times, OPCOM: you may send the go signal to all forces in and on their way to Indonesia to commence the final attack, and you may send in the clear. If any units are unable to reach the objectives on their preset target lists, they are to preferentially strike invader C4I and PDF assets as targets of opportunity. Acknowledge and confirm.”

“I acknowledge: order to send go signal in the clear has been received”—a pause—“at 1421 zulu local.”

“God speed and good hunting,” breathed Downing, hybridizing the British and American precombat sendoffs into a single wish.

“Aye, aye sir. We’ll keep you posted via prearranged freq rotations.”

Darzhee Kut’s shrilling seemed to summon the command center’s emergency lights to wakefulness. “Doltish predators, Riordan is an ambassador! Have you forgotten whatever honor your fathers taught you? You do not kill ambassadors!”

In the orange glow of the emergency lights, the two Hkh’Rkh who had sprung at Caine held themselves motionless, crests raising even higher, quivering—and Darzhee Kut realized that they trembled on the edge of incoherent and uncontrollable rage. In addition to believing Riordan to be a saboteur, he had eluded their attack—although, judging from the human’s ripped rear pants pocket, not by much. And now, an Arat Kur—a grubber and a prey animal—was insulting them and their honor, and giving peremptory orders.

First Voice stepped into the line of sight between servitors and Darzhee Kut. “Riordan is not an ambassador; he is a saboteur. You saw—”

“Just what you saw, First Voice. A human astounded when a part of his own body no longer responded to his will.”

“I see only that he has crippled our computers.”

“Killed our computers and much of our communications,” commented Urzueth Ragh, peering over the communication specialist’s collar ridge.

“Yes, but did you not see his face? Caine Riordan, do you understand what happened?”

“You ask a saboteur to explain his own crime?” First Voice let so much phlegm warble in his nostrils that a sizable gob of it splatted to the floor near Darzhee Kut’s front claws.

“I’m responsible.”

The Hkh’Rkh and Darzhee Kut all turned toward Caine. First Voice huffed in surprise. “He admits it? Human, you are more noble than I believed, but you are still dead.” He glanced at his two guards—

Hu’urs Khraam stayed their renewed rush at Riordan. “Enough. You hear without listening. There is more Riordan has not said. Ambassador, I would hear your explanation of what just happened. Loyalties notwithstanding, I think you owe us that much.”

The human nodded. “I agree, First Delegate. I believe I am responsible for inspiring the attack we just witnessed. But I mentioned it simply as a vague idea, years ago, before I knew of the Arat Kur, let alone became an emissary to you.”

Hu’urs Khraam spoke while staring at First Voice. “I believe you, Ambassador Riordan—but without believing there to be much nobility in your species. And I might not believe there is much in you, either, had I not clearly seen that you were more shocked and horrified at what you were experiencing than we were. But the explanation I am interested in is technical, not ethical. What has happened to our computers, and how?”

Riordan staggered back toward his seat, his legs trembling. He fell into it, rather than sat down. “I don’t know what has happened. But how? I think something that was implanted in my arm without my knowledge has attacked your systems.”

“And how could something be implanted in your arm without your knowledge?”

“I was wounded—or so I was told—when attackers broke into my apartment on Mars, approximately four months ago. I did not remember being wounded, but I could not be sure, because they used gas and rendered me unconscious. Now I suspect my ‘assailants’ were operating in cooperation with my own government.”

“This is idiocy,” said First Voice calmly. “The date you cite is prior to your first contact with any other races.”

Darzhee Kut watched as Caine’s eyes became distant and blank. Speaking like a rock-trancer, he countered First Voice’s assertion, “No, that’s not quite right. Richard Downing had come from Earth the day before, with news that the Dornaani had contacted us.”

First Voice warbled a bit of phlegm. “And Downing is what—a seer? How could he foresee the eventualities that produced this moment?”

“It wasn’t he who foresaw all this, any more than it was he who turned my general idea for infiltrating an invader’s headquarters into an actual plan.”

Hu’urs Khraam tone was incisive. “And who was it who foresaw these things?”

“I’m pretty sure it was Nolan Corcoran.”

First Voice’s eyes hid back in his skull for a moment. “The sire of the warrior Trevor and the female Elena? How convenient to blame everything on a dead human who cannot be tasked to answer these accusations. How easy to make him seem godlike in foresight—”

“It is consistent with what is known of him.” The new voice entering the room was momentarily unfamiliar, but then Darzhee Kut realized it was similar to one he had heard while listening to the Convocation proceedings. In fact, it sounded almost like—

A Ktoran life-support tank, so large it could barely fit through the doorway, rolled into the command center, trailing wisps of vapor. Hu’urs Khraam rose: “Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses, this is unacceptable. You agreed—swore—that you would remain closeted during the entirety of the campaign.”

Darzhee Kut realized his mandibles had drooped low in shock. A Ktor? And one who had been on the list of possible alternate Ktoran delegates to the Convocation, no less. Had this Ktor been with them the whole time? If so, that explained much about why Hu’urs Khraam had seemed so certain about the state of affairs between the Ktor and the Dornaani—

Apt-Counsel edged farther into the dim CIC. His synthesized voice was eerily reminiscent of the one used by the other Ktor that Darzhee Kut had heard at the Convocation, Wise-Speech-of-Pseudopodia. “I did agree to remain closeted. But the environmental systems in my quarters have failed. The computers are offline. My promise presumed that you were able to provide a controlled and safe environment. It seems as though you have become incapable of ensuring such control.”

The room’s attention focused on Apt-Counsel’s fuming tank, but Darzhee Kut took particular notice of Riordan’s eyes, that narrowed as quickly as his face went pale. First Voice rose up higher than Darzhee Kut had ever witnessed—higher than he had believed the venerable Hkh’Rkh’s age would allow, and turned toward Hu’urs Khraam. “And here we see why you Arat Kur tolerate human liars or half-liars: because you are no more forthcoming than they are. At what point were you going to inform us that a Ktoran emissary was with us? How many of our stratagems and comments have been repeated to him, or has he been allowed to listen in upon?”

“Calm yourself, First Voice of the First Family.” Apt-Counsel’s exhortation sounded suspiciously like an order. “My inclusion in your fleet was at my behest. Your ally, First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam, was not comfortable with the arrangement, but I insisted.”

“Why?”

“To provide security.”

“From whom? The humans?”

“Do you think that just because the Dornaani do not send ships, their influence is not here?”

“There is no evidence of it,” First Voice asserted doggedly.

“Quite right—not until today. Not until your computers failed, and my room’s environmental monitors suddenly ceased to function. What but a Dornaani virus could so easily overcome Arat Kur computer technology, with its many defenses? It did indeed arrive here in him”—the Ktor’s manipulator arm hummed in Riordan’s direction—“which is why you can be sure he knows nothing about it. The Dornaani are too clever to send a weapon in an operative that knows he is either an operative or a weapon. No forcible interrogation or sustained observation of Riordan would have ever revealed the danger lurking in him, because he was kept wholly unaware of it. This is the Dornaani way—and their success here today means that I have failed you. The primary reason for my presence—and my secrecy, First Voice—was that I might watch for Dornaani perfidies without their suspecting that such an experienced observer was present.”

First Voice’s neck shook sharply; clearly, he was not eager to be talked out of his anger or indignation. “So you might say. But how can you even be certain that the virus is of Dornaani origin?”

“Firstly, the speed with which it operated is consistent with their high skills in programming. Secondly, how would the humans have known the Arat Kur’s spoken and computer languages, to say nothing of their data interfaces and systems? Thirdly, the method of operation will provide a final confirmation, which I may establish by asking the senior communications operator a question:” Apt-Counsel turned to the Arat Kur technician. “Are the logic elements corrupted or completely over-written?”

The operator bobbed impatiently, as though finally getting to voice a crucial piece of information. “Emissary, there was no advance warning that our systems were compromised. The virus spread rapidly and then blanked all the linked systems simultaneously.”

All the linked systems? Darzhee Kut almost stammered, “But that means that all our planetside assets: our aircraft, our communications, our PDF batteries—”

“Yes,” the Ktor confirmed mildly. “They too will have been affected. But you still fail to grasp the severity of the situation.” They all stared at Apt-Counsel, all except Riordan, who looked away with a small smile. “The virus spread throughout the entirety of your system, to any linked computers or computer-monitored systems, regardless of their physical proximity. Do you understand now?”

Darzhee Kut understood—and gasped it out, “Our fleet!”

He could almost hear the Ktor nod. “Yes, your fleet.”

H’toor Qooiiz started back from his console. “Rubbled roof! The computer is—it is gone.”

Tuxae Skhaas’ claws stopped. “Offline?”

“No. It is gone. All its data, all its programming, has been written over.”

“Restart the system. It should default to the protected data sectors.”

H’toor Qooiiz turned the machine off, reactivated it. The power indicator illuminated but the system did not start. “It is as I asserted. The programming has been overwritten, right down to the machine parameters.”

“Terminate all external links.”

“We don’t have to, Tuxae. They are dead also.”

Which meant that whatever virus was in their ship had already poisoned every system it touched with a sudden and irreversible lethality. And once it reached the rest of the fleet…

Well, it would take time to travel the commlinks, even at the speed of light. But even if they had been able to send a cautionary message this very moment, that warning could not travel any faster than the virus and would therefore lag perpetually behind its fateful arrival at every subsequent ship. Tuxae’s antennae went rigid. “We are lost. All of us.”

“Calm, rock-sibling. Like the Greatvein, all our warships and shift carriers have backup systems, completely firewalled from the primaries. Our fleet will not be rendered inert for long.”

Tuxae turned on H’toor Qooiiz. “No, but the instant that our primary system failed, what happened?”

H’toor Qooiiz’s polyps stopped in mid wave. “The plants, the drives—!”

“Exactly. They shut down immediately. The moment the systems controlling and maintaining fusion go offline, the reaction must terminate or there will be a catastrophic explosion. But the danger does not stop there. A minute after the fusion plant ceases to function, our antimatter containment cells will have exhausted their reserve power. If the power is not restored, timers will trigger piezo-electric-fused charges to jettison the antimatter before it breaches containment and annihilates us. Only then can the crew commence a cold restart of the fusion plant, and may we begin the slow process of rebuilding our antimatter stocks.”

H’toor’s usually pleasant voice was a rasping clatter. “And in this case, they cannot take any of those recovery steps until they have ensured the virus is gone—by wiping clean the control systems of every processor on every ship.”

“Correct. And that means—”

“We will all be without power, communications, or control for at least thirty minutes. Probably much more.”

Tuxae settled down on his belly, surprised at how quickly he could become resigned to death. “The humans are clever, but they could not have done this. They had no access to our systems or programming languages until, at most, forty days ago. And it would have taken them weeks just to get a working knowledge of that material, much less defeat our best security software.”

“What are you saying, Tuxae?”

“I am saying that our fellow-Ee’ar Darzhee Kut was right. It was folly to violate the Twenty-first Accord. This is the work of the Dornaani.”

H’toor buzzed anxiously. “I just hope this is today’s last unpleasant surprise…”

In the bowels of the Scharnhorst—one of the seven hollow asteroids that some military bureaucrat had designated the Dreadnought class—Admiral Edward Schubert studied the now-distant thermal blooms that marked the position of the receding Arat Kur belt fleet. It was a sight he had been waiting to see for better than ten weeks. Ever since top-secret word had arrived from Barnard’s Star that the Convocation had not gone well, his naturally concealed warships had been compelled to shut down all their primary power plants. Although many meters of rock separated their modest emissions from hostile sensor sweeps, complete safety required a minimum energy ops profile, powered solely by batteries and a handful of fuel cells. But on this long-awaited day, the hiding was finally over.

So far, the day had gone largely according to the projected course of events. First, Schubert had received tightbeam confirmation that Case Leo Gap had been a success and that Admiral Lord Halifax’s Relief Task Force One had arrived. Then came the confirmation from Earth that the ground attack had commenced in Indonesia. Less than an hour later, the Arat Kur had made sudden preparations for departure, leaving two small frigates as a holding force and not even stopping to recall any of the technicians and the modest military detachment with which they had occupied Vesta’s antimatter production facilities. After the frigates were dispatched, those paltry security troops would be simple fodder for Commodore James Beall’s SEAL Teams, formerly based on Mars, and which had arrived on Schubert’s hull a few days after the discouraging report of the Convocation’s outcome. Those overeager spec ops units shifted from bored and sullen to smiling and hyperactive when they were informed they had been given the green light to retake Vesta, now that the some unknown operative code-named Odysseus had shot the arrow that announced the successful culmination of Case Timber Pony.

Schubert turned toward Beall’s senior field CO, Commander Chris Berman, who was almost tapping his foot in impatience. “Commander Berman.”

The response was immediate, eager. “Yes, Herr Admiral?”

For Schubert, who had worked with SEALs before, Berman was a pleasant change: an American who bothered to use the honorifics appropriate to the nationalities of the persons he addressed. Schubert smiled. “Your men are in readiness, I presume?”

“For weeks now, sir.”

“Very good. Do you need anything we have not yet considered?”

“I’d appreciate it if you left behind a few hunter-killer drones, lying doggo. Only thing I’m worried about is if the Roaches have left any of their own drones on low-power monitoring missions. If they see us make a move for the antimatter facilities, I’d like to have our own drones ready to preempt their preemption.”

“Prudent. Operational compartmentalization protocols forbade me to reveal this earlier, but your request is already part of our plans. There shall be half a dozen drone-killing drones in close protective overwatch as you retake Vesta. Anything else?”

“Regular updates, sir.”

“Updates? I do not understand.”

“Sir, we’re on an important mission, but you know where all my guys want to be fighting.”

“Earth.”

“Right. They want to squash some Roaches and skin some Sloths down dirtside. They want payback, sir. But since they can’t be there themselves, they are really eager to know how that fight is unfolding, sir. We know that we’ve got to retake this asteroid antimatter facility, rig it to blow if the Arat Kur come back, take ourselves up with it if we need to. They understand the strategic exigencies, sir—but in their hearts, and heads, they’re all back home, fighting tooth and nail for everything they know and love.”

“I understand. Ms. Kauffer?”

“Ja, Herr Admiral?”

“Commander Berman is to receive hourly tightbeam updates on both our action against the enemy fleet, and events on Earth. I make it your responsibility.”

Kauffer smiled at Commander Berman and the three hulking SEALs behind him. “It would be my pleasure, Herr Admiral, Commander.”

Chris Berman tipped a salute at her. “Our gratitude, ma’am.”

Schubert feared his smile might start becoming maudlin. “Anything else, Commander?”

“When you come back, bring a case of Dunkelbier. We’ll have worked up a powerful thirst.”

Schubert laughed. “I will see what I can do. Now, I shall not hold you further, Commander.”

The American saluted. “So long, Admiral.”

Schubert stopped him. “We should not say so, Commander. Let us say, rather, Auf Wiedersehen.”

Berman let his salute fall away, put out his hand. Schubert shook it, hoped that the American would survive. Zero gee ops in hard vacuum had the highest of all casualty rates. To be hit was usually to be dead.

The American looked Schubert in the eye, smiled back. “Auf Wiedersehen.” He backed up, snapped a salute, turned to his men. “Let’s see if you guys are worth a case of good German suds.” They left the bridge, a muted “oo-rah” amputated by the closing of the lift.

Schubert turned, looked at the almost vanished thermal blooms of the Arat Kur belt fleet. “Weapons Officer?”

“Ready, Herr Admiral.”

“Release fifty of our hunter-killer drones. Target the two frigates the Arat Kur left at Vesta. I want them overwhelmed and destroyed within fifteen minutes. I require absolute local security.”

“Drones released, active, and seeking.”

“Very good. Commence extending launch tube.”

“Jawohl. Extending telescoping launch tube.”

“Engineering, crash-start fusion plants. Magazine, systems checks on all rail gun munitions.”

“Checked and green, Admiral.”

“Communications officer, send to Victorious, Yamamoto, Conte di Cavour, Iowa, Potemkin, and Dunkerque: ‘We have reason to believe that most of the Arat Kur vessels will soon be disabled for as long as half an hour, maybe more. But we commence our attack with the expectation that they shall remain uncrippled, ready for action, and will engage our dreadnoughts with their full armament and vigor. Stand by.’”

“All ship captains have acknowledged, Herr Admiral, and are standing by.”

“Ausgezeichnet. Helm, minimum attitude control to maintain a debris-clear sight-picture. Rail gun munitions shall be launched as predetermined: decoys and image-makers first, multidrone release pods next, multistage high-yield nuclear missiles last.”

“Ready, Herr Admiral.”

“On my mark—”

Schubert checked his watch. It would be good to know the precise second when they began to make history.

“And—mark!”

Commander Ruth Altasso’s report started on a hushed note, ended on a shout: “The Arat Kur systems are—are down, Admiral Silverstein!”

Ira nodded, smiled.

“Does this mean their belt fleet is disabled, too?”

“Too early to say, Ex, so we presume it isn’t. We can always be happy to learn otherwise later.”

“Yes, sir. So what do we do with this suddenly drifting Arat Kur fleet, sir?” Ruth’s smile was wolfish.

Ira hated disappointing her, but did. He turned to the communications officer. “Mr. Brill, send signal to Tango Echelon: ‘Sierra Echelon’s corvettes will retroboost, intercept, and commandeer all enemy shift-cruisers and select secondary craft. Tango Echelon is to ready its own corvettes, loading predesignated boarding parties and prize crews.’ My compliments to Admiral Vasarsky.”

“And in case the Roach-boats come alive again?”

“I was getting to that, Ex. We will retroboost enough to give us a little more time in optimal engagement range, where we can keep the enemy covered with all weapons. Mr. Brill, once our corvettes are within fifty kiloklicks of the Roach-boats, start broadcasting the prerecorded capitulation orders Commander Altasso is now authorized to release to you. Send on all frequencies. Ruth, in case some of the enemy don’t or won’t get the message, we have strict orders to vaporize any that come back to life without surrendering first. To that end, detail three of our stern wave of X-ray laser missiles to each of the enemy’s capital hulls. All missiles are to commence retroboost to match vector and close to one kiloklick from their individual targets. If any of those Arat Kur restart engines, repower weapons, or even turn on a toaster without our permission, the dedicated missiles are to fire on that target. Transfer control of those missiles to Tango Echelon as soon as Admiral Vasarsky’s van approaches and signals she’s ready for the handoff.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Once we’ve confirmed their hulls as prizes or destroyed, recall all our unexpended drones and missiles. We’ll need to scoop ’em up on the move.”

“Yes, sir. And when you’re ready to assess it, I’ve had Nav ready a plot to bring us around Earth and sternchase Admiral Halifax’s Foxtrot echelon. If we crowd on the gees, we’ll still be able to get close enough to lend him a hand against the bogeys inbound from the belt.”

Silverstein smiled at Ruth’s proleptic efficiency. “That assumes the Arat Kur get control back in time to dodge the shitstorm that Admiral Schubert is sending after them. And even if they do, they’ll have that shitstorm chasing them all the way into their engagement with us. Of course, all that assumes that they don’t turn to engage Schubert’s dreadnoughts—and if they do, they’ve just returned Earth to our possession without a fight.”

Altasso’s grin once again acquired a wolfish cast. “Seems like everything’s going our way, Skipper.”

Silverstein nodded and thought, Yes, it is. And that’s what’s worrying me.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Caine reminded himself once again that, as an ambassador, he could not publicly smile at an enemy’s distress. So he somberly watched the chaos mount in the Presidential Palace’s command center. It had a strong undercurrent of panic as well, the kind which arises during moments of desperate improvisation.

With the possible exception of the now-silent Ktor, Apt-Counsel, the First Delegate was the only other calm exo in the room. He turned to his communications specialist. “How many uninfected radios and translators have you found?”

“We had many reserve translators in storage, so that does not concern us. But we have only one functional long-range radio: it was disassembled for servicing. However, it would take at least thirty minutes to reassemble.”

“Judging from the rate at which the next wave of human missiles is approaching, that is fifteen minutes more than we have left. What else?”

“Only two personal sets and a number of smaller radios for suits, First Delegate. But without the computers to regulate signals traffic—”

“I understand. There will be many voices singing athwart each other. Use the suit radios to contact any ground elements that may be activating backup sets they kept powered down. Use one of the personal sets to attempt to contact our ships in orbit.”

Urzueth’s claws hung in dismay. “Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, the range—”

“We must try. The ships will probably attempt the same before too long.”

“And the other personal pack, Hu’urs Khraam?” asked Darzhee Kut.

“We must use it to recontact the humans.”

First Voice rose up. “Why?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“It is not.”

“Then listen to the latest operational summary, First Voice.” Hu’urs Khraam turned to the communications technician who had been collecting and summarizing field reports at the time the virus hit. “What is the status of our forces?”

“Estimates only, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. The loss of communication—”

“Understood. Give us your best estimates.”

“At least ninety-five percent of our remaining PDF systems are offline, pending a software purge and reprogramming. Our aircraft are in LOS communication with our orbital elements, not us, and so, given the delay, may be the last planetside systems to fail. They will have no sensors, no communications, and be reduced to manual piloting systems. They may not have any way to fire their weapons. Many that were operating at lower altitudes may crash before the pilots are able to switch to manual.”

“And the humans? What are they doing?”

“We have no reliable sensors to tell us. But one of our pilots who was reentering the atmosphere during the virus spike and whose lascom was off, reports that the human transatmospheric interceptors commenced rapid climb with full afterburners moments after our systems were incapacitated. He believes they released large payloads just after they exited the atmosphere.”

“Payloads?” Darzhee Kut addressed the question to Caine. “Missiles, then?”

“Probably drones,” the human answered. “I suspect our commanders intend to put a strike force right in amongst your orbital elements while you can’t respond. But don’t be surprised if there are a lot of missiles launched in the next few minutes, as well. Both at your ships and at us here in Java.”

Hu’urs Khraam thumped a claw. “But you said that Downing was moving slowly to give us time.”

“He was. He gave you time to consider the alternatives when both you and he had the ability to seriously injure each other.”

“And now?”

Riordan stood, bowed. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam of the Wholenest, I mean no offense in asking this, but how can you hurt us now? You can no longer hope to prevail on the ground, in the air, or in space. Without orbital interdiction or your PDF systems, our numbers—all those air units inbound from every point of the compass—will overwhelm your forces, even if they are technologically superior. And I must wonder if, deprived of their computers, your forces are still actually superior?”

First Voice’s ears flattened and quivered. “Riordan may be a liar—I remain uncertain—but he has more of a warrior’s mind than you, Hu’urs Khraam. He is right. The humans have the advantage and are capitalizing upon it. Swiftly.”

“And we have no means to counter,” Urzueth observed.

“We do,” First Voice snarled, “and we always have. There are still shuttles and reserve fighters on board our orbiting ships. Blow the landing bay doors with charges. Identify the craft that were powered down during the virus spike. Load them with nuclear weapons and sortie them.”

Hu’urs Khraam stared at the Hkh’Rkh. “That would be suicide, and pointless, besides.”

“It does not matter that it is suicide for those tasked to carry it out. And if the threat of additional attacks compels the humans to negotiate for something akin to our original terms, we will have salvaged this disaster. Your disaster, Hu’urs Khraam.”

Hu’urs Khraam rose up, and Darzhee Kut saw his antennae quiver into rigid anger—but then they drooped. “You are right in one thing, First Voice. This is my disaster. But what you propose will not work. Without orbital interdiction, the human defenses will overwhelm such an unsupported effort. And by the time we could mount the attack you propose, there will be no beachhead left to save. The human cruise missiles will be here in less than twelve minutes, their interceptors and troop-carriers right behind them. No. This debate is over. We must speak with Downing.” He turned to his communications specialist. “Have you reached the humans?”

“Hu’urs Khraam, my song is a sad one. The human jamming is absolute. What few systems we have left cannot penetrate it at all. We have no way of knowing if anyone is receiving our signals.”

Caine stepped closer to the command group. The two Hkh’Rkh who had rushed him earlier trailed him with a slow, menacing gait. “Urzueth Ragh, have you been making use of this building’s own satellite conference communication system?”

Urzueth Ragh seemed embarrassed. “No, we did not. It was too—” He stopped, seemed uncertain how to proceed.

Caine smiled. “The technology was too primitive to be useful. I understand. But that may be fortunate now. Because you didn’t use it, that system may yet save all our lives. So long as it was not connected to your electronics and was powered down, the virus could not have infected it. Similarly, it should have survived the earlier EMP bursts.”

“Riordan is right,” agreed Urzueth Ragh eagerly. “We can communicate with them using their own equipment.”

Hu’urs Khraam rose up, his antenna swinging erect again. “Are our personnel adept at the human controls?”

“Two of them are. They were specially trained to be able to recognize and operate human machinery.”

“Activate the system. We must reestablish contact with Mr. Downing before their aerial attack waves arrive.”

“Quite a view, eh, Dr. Wasserman?”

Lemuel, lost in his own private world of wonder and horror, nodded, forgetting that Captain Christine “Chris” Oakley, who was in the cockpit at the center of the attack delta, could not see into the forward observation blister where he was sitting.

They had crossed the Javanese coastline at the Anyer Light, staying low as the Arat Kur interceptors and even tac-air support systems spread out, preparing to take on the human aircraft despite being outnumbered twenty to one. Because Lemuel was precious cargo, Captain Oakley had kept her bird back in the rear of the formation, ready to cut and run at any second.

But then, everything had changed. Suddenly, the Arat Kur air vehicles were tumbling out of the sky, some ploughing into the overpopulated Javanese countryside, blossoming into roiling orange fireballs, setting off secondaries and torching whole kempangs in seconds. Others wobbled, swerved away like startled birds that flew without knowing where they might seek safety.

That was when the thin, original wave of human craft—the interceptors and fighters that had followed in behind VTOLs such as Dortmund’s and Thandla’s—raced forward, abandoning the careful, circumspect death dance they had been toeing through at the edge of the Arat Kur airspace. Like sharks detecting bloody prey thrashing in the water, they arrowed in without hesitation or apparent fear.

Moments later, there were so many friendly missiles in the air that the sky looked like a hyperactive child’s scribbling pad. The white lines and flashing pinpoints were literally everywhere. They rose from the ground, came from overhead, from behind, from in front, from the flanks—all seeking any airborne object that was unanointed by the UV sensitive dyes that they recognized as “friend.”

And now, rising up over the onrushing horizon like brooding entities of destruction presiding over the aerial slaughter, Lemuel could see three mushroom clouds, dispersing but still distinct.

Swallowing, unblinking, he could hear the radio chatter in the crew compartment just behind him:

“What’s the ETA on the fighters and the pathfinder transports in the main wave?”

“Twenty and twenty-two minutes respectively, Skipper.”

“And the follow-ups?”

“Second wave is ten minutes behind them. They’ve got fallback targets if the first bunch secures all the secondary airfields. Which is looking pretty likely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m getting chatter now from rebel radio operators near those fields. Most of the remaining Indonesian forces there are signaling their rejection of Ruap’s government and allegiance to the Confederation. And we’ve got confirmation of the earlier reports that CoDevCo’s clone formation have deserted en masse.”

“And the other airstrips?”

“No word, although the bet is that their human garrisons are either planning on laying down arms or are already fading into the bush. Probably to bury their uniforms and then act like they never heard of Ruap or the Arat Kur.”

Wasserman was not used to such rapid reversals. This morning, it seemed likely that humanity would be perpetually in the thrall of the Arat Kur. Now, with Java’s secondary airbases all but secured, hundreds of transport aircraft were converging on them to begin delivering the steady stream of troops and weapons that would pour into Indonesia until it was firmly back in human hands.

And then another surprise: over the Bay of Banten, at somewhat lower altitude, there was a blinding white flash.

“Nuke!” shouted Captain Oakley. “Put your tail to it and go, Maretti.”

The pilot complied. About two seconds later, the buffeting hit them. It was bad—Wasserman thought they’d shake apart—but ultimately it left them unscathed.

“Captain, what the hell was that?”

“Not sure, Dr. Wasserman, but I think the Roaches are shooting blind.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They’ve got no computers left, almost no communications, and they’re losing the air battle.”

“So they heaved a tactical nuke into the air on the notion that it would take down more of us than it would of them?”

Oakley was silent, listening to updates in her earpiece. “That seems to be the case, Doc. Maretti, triple the intervals; we’re spreading out.”

To Lemuel Wasserman, war had always been a fascinating topic, somewhat like a game, in which performance statistics and strategies combined and interfaced in complex, competing matrices. But no. It’s just madness and desperation, he realized with a swallow, watched as a few more Arat Kur fighters recovered from faltering dives. But, without computers, and not being seasoned combat pilots, they could not elude or get any advantage over an equal number of Dutch, Chinese, and Swedish interceptors that were on them within five seconds. As the first of the Arat Kur aircraft flashed and then began to trail yellow flame and black smoke, Lemuel Wasserman had a sensation and a sudden desire that surprised him more than the day’s rapid reversals, the ominous mushroom clouds, or the nearby detonation of a five-kiloton nuclear weapon:

Don’t: don’t kill any more of them than you have to…

Caine could not be certain, but as the minutes of uncertainty ticked by, Hu’urs Khraam seemed to weaken, as if he were about to collapse. Obversely, First Voice seemed to have swollen to gigantic proportions, loping to and fro, one claw rubbing at the oddly shaped handle of his sidearm.

While Darzhee Kut conferred quietly with Hu’urs Khraam, Urzueth Ragh guided the assembly of a patchwork communications and control system that the Arat Kur technicians were building out of those few bits and pieces that the virus had missed. When Downing’s voice finally emerged from the speakers, Hu’urs Khraam rose up.

“First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam, are you reading me?”

“Mr. Downing, we can hear you plainly.”

“Excellent. First Delegate, I’m afraid we don’t have much time left.”

“I concur, Mr. Downing. To start, please redirect your inbound missiles. We cannot intercept them all.”

“With respect, First Delegate, I would be surprised if you could intercept any.”

First Voice literally growled. His retinue stared at him, then at each other, and then placed casual claws on the handles of their firearms. Not promising.

Hu’urs Khraam did not bother to lie. “You are correct in your supposition. And I am mindful that your submarines could do many times more damage before we regain the ability to sink them or intercept their missiles.”

“Exactly. Before you regain the ability. And so, because you almost certainly could regain that ability, I cannot let this moment pass. Consequently, if you do not surrender now, I will be forced to allow our missiles to continue on their current courses, to allow our spacecraft to destroy yours without attempting to commandeer them peacefully, and to allow our inbound ground and air units to carry out their attack on your bases. I reemphasize this so that you know I understand both the weakness of your current situation, but also the advantage you will certainly regain within the hour. I can’t allow you to regain that advantage, so you will understand that I am not ‘bluffing.’ I will act as I have said, without regard to your, or our, casualties—unless you immediately capitulate according to the terms I set forth earlier.”

Hu’urs Khraam looked about the room slowly, as if measuring what to say next. “There are complications.”

“Such as?”

“I cannot compel all my forces to stop fighting. We do not have communications left. Those who are no longer in contact with us will not know to cease resisting.”

“I am sorry, Hu’urs Khraam, but it is just as I warned you during our first communication. The longer we waited to discuss terms, the more needless loss would occur. But I assure you of this. We will make every attempt to spare the lives of your troops. The best way to achieve that is to keep all those currently under your direct control in barracks and unarmed. As more of our forces arrive, we will be able to control the insurgents and send in units to secure you and your personnel.”

First Voice made a sound as though he were spitting out a bone that had gone down sideways. “You will send your forces to secure us? For what reason?”

“To ensure your safety against reprisals by the insurgents. Once in Confederation hands, your troops will be treated according to the human conventions for handling prisoners of war.”

First Voice turned to Hu’urs Khraam. “This conversation must end.”

Hu’urs Khraam bobbed apologetically. “It cannot.”

“You are discussing surrender. You simply haven’t spoken the word yet.”

“I am saving our lives.”

First Voice reared up very tall, his crest flaring dramatically. “First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam of the Arat Kur Wholenest, the Hkh’Rkh will have no part of this. I refuse to be present, to be accused of giving even that tacit approval, to your discussion of surrendering to these s’fet. And if you do so, I do not wish to hear you do it. For then I would have to not merely renounce our alliance, but name you as our betrayers: enemies more profound and lasting than the humans. I shall leave two of my retinue here to witness what transpires.”

Darzhee Kut sounded forlorn. “And where shall you go, First Voice?”

“I go where I should have gone hours ago: to the field of battle. Where I will fight, for your honor as well as my own, until I have no kinsmen or blood left.” He pointed a claw at each of the two huscarles who were still just behind Caine and left with the remainder.

Downing’s voice was the first sound to break the silence. “First Delegate, am I to understand that you and the Hkh’Rkh are no longer allies?”

“Mr. Downing, I am uncertain myself. I believe that if I surrender to you, they consider themselves at war with us. At any rate, I cannot make any promises for the Hkh’Rkh. I cannot guarantee that any will surrender. Indeed, if they feel their foes utterly without honor, they may affect the appearance of capitulation simply in order to trick you, to conduct an ambush when they seem to be relenting. I fear that their rage at the insurgents has made them ungovernable.”

“We fear the same thing about the insurgents in relation to your troops and the Hkh’Rkh, First Delegate Khraam. That is why we are sending in our forces to establish control. If Arat Kur do not fire at our inbound forces, those forces will not fire at Arat Kur. I cannot guarantee the actions of the units that began the day already on Java. Their radios are inoperative, and we have only one overtaxed fiber-optic link sending updates to a limited number of infiltration teams.”

“I understand and accept that there may still be attacks on our compounds until you reestablish general communications. And what of my rock-siblings who are operating outside the compounds?”

“Those you can reach should be told to hide, stay put, and to set their suits to broadcast distress signals, if they still function. We will home in on those and presume they indicate the wearer’s intent to surrender.”

“But most of them have lost their radios to the virus or the EMP strikes. I cannot reach enough of them.”

“Those are the fortunes of war. And I am sorry to rush you, First Delegate, but judging from the proximity of our missiles, you have approximately ninety seconds to decide if you are actually surrendering to us.”

Hu’urs Khraam slumped into his couch. “Mr. Downing, you have made the decision for us. We return this place to your control.”

O’Garran leaned back down into the service shaft. “All clear.”

Opal double-timed it up the ladder, pushing back the thermal imaging goggles as she did. There were lights on overhead. She emerged into a relatively tidy subbasement, quickly moving aside so the other thirty surviving tunnel rats could swarm up and out behind her. “No sign of security cameras?”

O’Garran pointed at a human model mounted high in a corner of the room. It was probably thirty years old, and had some kind of Arat Kur relay unit attached to it. “Well, there’s that—but it’s as dead as a doorknob.”

“Unattached?”

“No, that’s the odd part. It’s still warm from current going through it. But its control elements are gone—and I mean gone. I hooked up a loop-generator, so that if the Roaches brought it back online it would keep showing the same boring picture of an empty room. But none of its electronics would turn on.”

“Fried by the EMP?”

“Nope. Its logic circuits carry current just fine. It’s more like somebody wiped the Arat Kur controller that was retrofitted to it.”

Opal nodded. “Maybe someone did wipe its circuit board, and a whole bunch of others to boot.” She turned to Wu. “Anything on the fiber-com about—uh, a computer virus being used against the Roaches?”

Wu looked over the commo traffic again. “Nothing, Major. But there is a garbled mention about a high-priority extraction subject here in the compound: OPCOM apparently has telemetry on his location.”

“Telemetry?” Opal frowned. “How the hell do you get telemetry when you don’t have any satellites left?” Very suspicious. Definitely beyond the capabilities of what little human technology was still functioning in Indonesia. Not necessarily beyond the Dornaani and their technomagic mojo, however. “So, who’s the bag job?”

Wu scanned, read. “The extraction subject is a human diplomat named Caine—”

“—Riordan,” she finished. Oh, there is a God in heaven, after all. Hold on, Caine.

I’m coming to get you.

Trevor Corcoran looked up the street that ran between the buildings they were going to blow down. Where they ended, eighty meters away, stood the nearest walls and buildings of Jakarta’s extended presidential compound. Which, if all went according to plan, were also going to be blasted aside. “Ready?” he asked.

Lieutenant Christopher “Tygg” Robin looked back over the heads of two-score semiuniformed insurgents who’d spent some time in the military, and were now hunkered down in ranks. “Ready, Trevor.”

Trevor looked at Stosh, whose grin was as large as ever as he asked, “Can we kick some alien ass now, Captain?”

Trevor stared at him, made sure his own eyes did not show fear. His abject, utter fear. How does Stosh manage to hold life so lightly in his hands? Why haven’t I, after dozens of combat missions, mastered that skill? Will I be fearful all my life? Trevor just nodded, ducked his head. He heard, did not see, Stosh begin the attack:

“Sync detonator leads to the master timer. And five, four, three, two—fire in the hole!”

Chapter Fifty

Downing’s voice was low and respectful. “We accept your surrender, First Delegate Khraam. But I must ask that, for the record, you explicitly agree to all our terms, not just a capitulation on the ground.”

Darzhee Kut saw the two Hkh’Rkh rear up, move past Caine, their claws flexing. One of the Arat Kur computer techs—having nothing else to do—noticed their ominous approach, wormed a claw surreptitiously into the leg-brace-appearing grip of his sidearm. Darzhee Kut glanced at him, made an affirmatory gesture toward the computer tech’s weapon, and then looked back at the two Hkh’Rkh—who stopped, uncertain of what to do.

Hu’urs Khraam’s response to Downing was reedy, ancient. “I surrender our fleet and all other units under my command, according to the terms you offered. But again, since I am still unable to communicate with all of my forces, I cannot assure you that—”

The First Delegate was interrupted by an abrupt rumble that, in rapid steps, became a roar—like the approach of a supersonic freight train. Which seemed to explode into the command center, the right side of the room shearing away in a whirlwind of sound, flying masonry, shattered glass, discorporating consoles and screens. The blast that had amputated one wall of the room sent debris spinning against and through the three remaining walls—and through many of the beings that stood between them.

Darzhee Kut, already deafened, felt the shock waves hit, went with rather than resisted them, let himself roll under an unused human conference table. The largest chunk of rebar-studded wall finished its shallow arc directly atop the couch occupied by Hu’urs Khraam. Darzhee Kut heard the sickening crunch quite clearly and felt his upper digestive tract squirm. Nearby, he saw one of the Hkh’Rkh sway drunkenly, stare down at his chest, discover the protruding chair leg that had impaled him from the rear, try to pull it out, dying as he fell, tugged down by his own hand. Riordan, unharmed, had evidently been in the shielding shadow of the Hkh’Rkh. Rising, he took a quick look around; his eyes stopped on another figure just getting to its feet. The second Hkh’Rkh. Riordan bolted into the roiling dust as the Hkh’Rkh pulled his weapon, fired, and leapt after him into the gaping hole that had been the fourth wall, pursuing the human.

“There you are, Advocate!”

Yaargraukh, weak from multiple wounds and blood loss, swayed around. Across the cratered courtyard, Graagkhruud loped at him swiftly. He stopped a leap away. “You have been busy, Advocate.”

“There is much work for a warrior today.”

Graagkhruud almost seemed to forget his contempt of Yaargraukh, evidently pleased by the ritual response. Then First Fist’s normal, contemptuous tone returned. “You will now be my direct assistant.”

“Odd. I expected I would be your next victim in Challenge.”

Graagkhruud considered him carefully. “Had the Arat Kur not ruined us this day, your expectation might have been accurate. But now we have time only to serve the race and its First Voice. We must now take matters into our own claws.”

“Stranger still. I was just told that we have capitulated and that the combat air patrol—or what is left of it—is grounding.”

“Yes, when First Voice sent me to find you, the grubbers were beginning to think such craven thoughts. What you have now heard confirms his worst fear. That they would betray our alliance if our situation became grave. And so sent me after you, since you have several technical skills which will be essential if we are to carry out our contingency plan.”

“Which is?”

“We must reach our own grounded troopships. They were powered down when the human virus infected the grubbers’ systems, and so are still serviceable. First Voice foresaw that the Arat Kur might fail us, even feared they might have tried to infect our ships with a disabling virus that they could trigger at will. So he kept our ships’ systems unreachable by them.”

“And what are we to do with these ships?”

“Return to orbit, gain access to and man our own interface attack craft.”

“To what end?”

“To hold this world hostages to our nuclear weapons.”

“Before we go, why not gather some actual hostages, such as the human workers here in the compound?”

Graagkhruud stared at Yaargraukh. “It is a sound tactic. We shall do so.”

By my patriarchs, the impenetrable shit-scraper thought me serious! “You are deranged by the stress of this day. My suggestion—and these plans—are nonsense.”

“Have care, Advocate. By a prearranged signal, First Voice sent me after you not only to secure your assistance, but to afford you the opportunity to fully redeem your honor—or to forever lose it. So, I repeat, we shall use hostages—cities as well as individuals—to finally cow the humans, and so, save our brothers, this invasion, and our race’s honor.”

“And what if the Arat Kur have surrendered not merely on the ground, but in orbit also?”

“We shall hunt that st’kragh when we encounter it.”

“If we encounter that st’kragh, it will be our death. Without the orbital supporting fire from the Arat Kur ships, we are lost.”

“Which only proves that First Voice was—from the first—right about how to fight the humans. We should have crushed them the moment we could. Bomb their greatest cities directly, force them to capitulate, to agree to all our terms.”

“Oh, yes, we could have achieved that. And we would have been the puppets of the Arat Kur forever after.”

Graagkhruud’s eyes disappeared for a full second, so disoriented was he by this sudden redirection of their argument. “What do you mean?”

“Can you not see it? Even if we triumph here, we cannot reach the human star systems on our own. Our ships do not have the shift range to cross the gap from our worlds to theirs. But, deposited by our Arat Kur allies as occupation forces, we would now have colonies in the midst of the human spheres.”

“We would crush the humans and take their worlds.”

“Can you seriously think it? Have you seen this planet? Their cities, their factories, their infrastructure? They have managed to build and preserve, while we are always trapped in the process of rebuilding what was destroyed in the most recent Family War. And with the humans unified by a hatred of us, by an unquenchable thirst for vengeance, they would build so much, so quickly, that they would overwhelm us.”

“Not if the Arat Kur prevent them.”

“And so you make my point: we are dependent upon our allies. What will occur if, later on, we should dare to disagree with them over some policy? Will they not threaten to withdraw their support of our colonies in human space?”

“No, for they will wish to keep us strong there, as an aid in controlling the expansion and power of the humans, who will hate the Arat Kur just as much as they hate us.”

“Do not think it. The Arat Kur have been almost invisible on this planet’s streets. Overwhelmingly, the humans have seen us killing their insurgents and burning their towns.” He aimed his calar talons at either side of his head. “This, this is the face the humans will remember and hate. And as we grow stronger, the grubbers will find it useful for the humans and us to weaken each other in wars. They will play us one against the other. They baited the trap of this alliance with the promise of green worlds that were not ours. And what have we gained? Debt and a pointless waste of the blood of the brave.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“What I suggested from the first: that we side with the humans. They had the right of the Accord behind them. Our borders are far apart and we have no logical points of contention. And they can know both honor and the way of a warrior.”

Graagkhruud scoffed, looked at the smoking skyline. “This insurgency? You call this a war of honor?”

“I call it the war we forced them to fight.”

“Which they do not fight with honor.”

“Think of this as you would a Challenge. The Challenger calls for a test of Honor. What is the prerogative of the Challenged?”

Graagkhruud looked away. “The Choice of the Test.”

“Just so. That is what has happened here. We challenged the humans, so we cannot complain at their choice of weapons. That is the prerogative of those who have been Challenged—particularly when we attacked their homeworld. There may be fewer trained warriors among them, fewer who are ready to obey and die. But they are more inventive and better technologists, and quick to perceive and exploit new opportunities.”

“You are a traitor to your own race, servitor.”

“No. I am its true servant, because the prerequisite of success is a ruthlessly clear understanding of reality, of the facts with which we must contend. Without that, all plans begin in error, and so, they must end in disaster.”

“It is treason to speak so of First Voice’s plans, and you will pay for your insolence—but later.” Graagkhruud reared back, his crest erect. “You will accompany me to our interface craft. There we will gather what humans we can find, take them at gunpoint to orbit and use their lives as leverage to gain access to our craft and make our attack.” Yaargraukh made no move to comply or accompany him “Obey me, honorless pretender.”

Yaargraukh could not keep his crest from rising in response to “pretender,” the derogatory term for a Hkh’Rkh from the New Families. “I will not. And were I not your subalternate, I would challenge thee at this moment, in this place.”

Whether it was Yaargraukh’s disregard for the traditional authority of his Old Family leaders, his direct refusal to follow an order, or both, Graagkhruud raised up to his full height. As a sudden carpet-bombing sound built rapidly behind him, First Fist’s arms swept high, presaging a Challenge blow to the calmly waiting Advocate…

The bomb-thunder peaked. With a roar, the curtain wall behind them blew inward, spraying a cloud of both new and century-old cinderblocks into the volume of space occupied by the two Hkh’Rkh. Indonesian insurgents charged in immediately, following just behind the wave-front of debris, sprinting alongside chunks of rolling, clattering masonry—and over the prostrate forms of two Hkh’Rkh, whose argument of honor their demolition charges had preempted.

Permanently.

Trevor went past two prone Hkh’Rkh, recognized signs of high rank, shouted to Tygg. “We need those two alive. Leave someone you can trust on security, and take up positions to hold this ingress point.”

“Right. Beruwiak, get up here!”

Trevor pressed on, trying not to fall behind the nimble, lightly equipped insurgents that were with them. “Keep up, Stosh,” he called over his shoulder.

“Keep up yourself, sir.” The smaller, squarish SEAL passed him, huffing.

“Cruz, Barr, stay to the flanks and keep our guys moving in the same direction. Rulaine?”

“Sir?”

“Stay twenty meters behind me, with the Karpassos fire team. If anything happens to me—”

“Got it. I’m the shadow HQ. Give us a shout and we’ll provide covering fire if you get snagged and have to back out.”

Trevor smiled his thanks, hoped Rulaine would live. A good officer and a good guy.

“What about me, sir?” asked Gavin, the long barrel of the Remington M167 assault gun jaunting about like a naked flagpole.

“You’re also with Rulaine, Gavin. I want a good solid base of supporting fire, and you’re an artist with the Remington.”

“So I am sir. I’ll be your guardian angel.”

Gavin an angel? Heaven would blush. “Great.” Trevor drew abreast of Stosh as they neared the rally point from which they intended to rush into the inner compound—and he saw a figure staggering through the smoke toward them. It’s upright, so it can’t be an Arat Kur, and it’s too small to be a Hkh’Rkh. But it could still be trouble: Ruap’s troops or maybe some still-loyal clones. “Who goes there?”

A pause. “Trevor?”

Trevor placed the voice the same moment the face swam out of the humid mixture of mist and smoke: Caine Riordan. “Jesus—what the hell are you doing out here? Taking a walk?”

“More like a run. The Arat Kur have surrendered.” He shouted over the beginning of a few exultant shouts, including Stosh’s. “But the Hkh’Rkh wouldn’t have any part of it. They’ve gone rogue.”

“What’s their objective?”

“Not sure they’ve got one other than to kill as many of us as possible. They don’t have any real commo net left, so they’re defaulting to their basic game plan. When in doubt, terrorize the opposition with everything from knives to nukes until they cower in fear. Then take control.”

“They’re a little outnumbered for that strategy, don’t you think?”

“Of course, but at this stage, they’re not thinking. They’re operating as much on instinct as planning—and a bunch of them are after me, particularly.”

“You? Why you?”

“Long story. Worth telling if we’re both alive tomorrow.”

“Okay. Can you lead us to their command center?”

Caine looked around, squinting into the smoke. “Yeah—yeah, I think so. It’s over here near—”

Trevor caught his arm. “Whoa, let’s arm you first.” With one hand, he passed Caine a brace of smoke grenades, with the other, he reached back toward Cruz, who was unshouldering the rifle they were still carrying in anticipation of Winfield’s eventual return. “This is the eight-millimeter CoBro liquimix assault rifle: state of the art. I know we didn’t get a chance to train on one, but are you familiar with it?”

Caine hefted the long, light barrel. “Read about it.”

“Okay: here’s the quick rundown. All the weapon’s sensors feed data to the visor—yeah, there, hooked on the side—and include IR, laser-designator, rangefinder, and aimpoint. The video pickup gives you look-around/shoot-around capabilities at corners. The liquimix gives you plenty of control over projectile velocity and recoil, and provides the launching boost for the underslung smart semiautomatic grenade launcher. You’re familiar with that from Barney Deucy. It’s got dual purpose HE/frags in the tube. Got it?”

Caine nodded, a bit uncertainly. “Most of it. I’ll learn the rest on the job, I guess. You want their HQ?”

“Yup.”

“Then follow me.” And Caine jogged off into the fog.

Stosh looked after him. “Goddamnit, just what we need. Another officer.”

“He’s not really an officer, Stosh.”

Stosh looked Trevor straight in the eye. “Oh no? I’d know that tone anywhere. He was born an officer, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” And Stosh also disappeared into the mist.

As Trevor waved for the others to follow, he gritted his teeth and smiled at the same time: Damn Stosh, anyway.

Winfield held up a hand. The figures in the smoke up ahead stopped.

“Who goes there?”

“Insurgents,” responded a woman’s voice—a voice that was either American or Canadian.

“Come forward, but slowly,” ordered Commander Ayala as the rest of his Team fanned out.

They did. There must have been almost a hundred of them. At their head were two men, grizzled and wearing Kopassus uniforms that were about twenty years out of date, and a woman. The woman was so incongruous that Winfield forgot security considerations for a moment. She was tall, dark haired, fair-skinned, and with a figure that bordered on the dramatic. And stranger still, he knew her.

“Ms. Corcoran?”

She started, veered toward Winfield. “Do I know you—er, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know if you remember me, ma’am. I was Trevor’s XO, when we rescued you on Mars last year.”

She flushed. “My God—yes, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you immediately. But I never expected to see you he—”

“Quite all right, ma’am. This is Commander Ayala, another SEAL. We’re heading to the Roach Motel. Uh, I mean the—”

“Yes, Lieutenant Winfield, I know of it. That’s where we’re heading, too.”

Ayala stepped forward. “Ma’am, first—my respects for your Dad. Hell of a man. But I can’t let you go on to the enemy HQ. That’s going to be—well, pretty hairy.”

She smiled. “Commander, I understand, and I appreciate your concern. But all the same, I’m going.”

Ayala put his hands on his hips. “Listen, Ms. Corcoran, I don’t have the time—”

“Exactly right, Commander. You don’t have time to stand around arguing. And since I’m a civilian, and you can’t order me about, I suggest—along with my one hundred or so friends—that you stop wasting your time on an argument you can’t win.”

Ayala seemed about to counterattack when Winfield leaned over. “Commander?”

“Yeah?”

“Captain Corcoran told us two important things about his sister.”

“And what were those?”

“Never hit on her, and never try to win an argument with her. Particularly when she’s backed by a hundred Indonesian insurgents.”

Ayala stared at Winfield and frowned. Then he looked at Elena and frowned some more. “So I guess you’re coming with us after all.”

She smiled the same smile Winfield remembered seeing in the pictures of her father. “I guess so.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Three more of the insurgents went down, one of them hit by so many of the large bore Hkh’Rkh assault rifle rounds that his torso went one way, and his groin and legs fell the other. Caine kneeled, saw a dim thermal silhouette bloom through the drifts—loping, loping—and squeezed off three shots. The bloom tumbled into a long lump on the ground and did not move.

“Riordan, did you hear me? Pull back! Now!”

Caine checked, saw another bloom pop up, sighted quickly, fired in that general direction, then spun on his heel and ran.

Five seconds of sprinting and he was going past the fire team of insurgents who had been ostensibly covering their retreat.

“Caine,” Trevor called from the smoke up ahead, “are you coming?”

“Yeah. I’ve gotta—”

Thunder shattered the sky overhead.

“What the hell—?” asked Cruz, whose crouched, upward-looking silhouette loomed suddenly out of the mists.

As if in answer to his question, the rain came down with a pervasive roar against the streets of Jakarta. Caine was soaked by the time he had run the additional ten meters to Trevor. “What do we do now?” he shouted over the driving monsoon and the intermittent crashing of nearby lightning strikes.

“We find another way to get to their command center. That’s got to be the better part of a platoon we ran into.”

“And we’d better regroup,” added Rulaine. “We lost contact with Tygg.”

“What about radios?”

“The signal is scratchy and in this soup, without GPS, and without a current map of this complex, we’re not navigating: we’re playing Marco Polo.”

Stosh watched the rain running off his nose. “How many combat effectives do we have left?”

Trevor did the headcount. “You, me, Cruz, Rulaine, Barr, Caine, maybe a dozen insurgents.”

A dozen insurgents? Out of almost forty? “Is that all?”

“That’s all. They hit us pretty bad. And they got Gavin where he set up the Remington.”

“Yeah,” muttered Barr, “and if it wasn’t for him cutting down their flankers, we’d be dead like him.”

“He was a hell of a shot.”

Caine stared at them, realized he could see them all a bit more clearly—“Shit! The rain is settling the mist. If we don’t move—”

At least a dozen automatic weapons—throaty and loud—opened up in unison. Some rounds bit into their scant cover: a low concrete berm ringing a cratered vertipad. More shouts and groans came from the insurgents in darkness behind them. Their covering force was taking losses. Trevor shouted that direction. “Everyone: fall back! Run!”

Caine sprinted away from the sound of the gunfire, wondering if he was the only one of the command group who was already following Trevor’s orders that they should all run like hell. Looking to right and left, he saw Stosh and Rulaine respectively, legs stretching, arms pumping. Well, at least I’m not the only one.

Behind them, there was more of the automatic weapons fire—this time punctuated by crackling hisses made by shrill projectiles which sliced the air about two feet over their heads. Shit. A coil gun. Just over his shoulder, speaking sharply above the gunfire and new screams, Trevor’s voice announced, “I recognize this area. Photos showed a work shed just ahead. Make for that.”

“A work shed? That won’t stop a coil-gun—”

“It’s the only cover we can reach in time. Just keep running.”

“Keep running?” Caine tried to ignore his fear. As if you could make me stop.

“Stay where you are,” ordered Opal. “Don’t move.”

The alien headquarters was filled with ruined equipment and dead Arat Kur, a few more well on their way to that same fate. One of the survivors rose up from the side of a very severely wounded comrade and seemed to stare at Opal.

“Major Patrone?”

What the—? “Do I know you?”

“Not really, but I knew of and saw you during the Convocation.”

So who the hell would—? And then she remembered Caine’s encounter in space. “Jesus! Are you Darzhee Kut?”

Despite the carnage, the destruction, the guttering flames, the two dozen short humans aiming guns at him, the Arat Kur sounded pleased. “Yes, it is indeed I, Major. I am, I suppose, glad to see you.”

“Er—likewise. I guess. Listen, let’s save the talk for some other time. Where’s Cai—um, Mr. Riordan?”

“The ambassador fled, pursued by one of the Hkh’Rkh.”

Ambassador? Well, it would be interesting to learn about that later, too. “Was Caine hurt?”

“I do not think so. Major, could you leave some of your men here with us. And a radio?”

O’Garran laughed. “You want us to get you some takeout food, as well? You’re lucky we don’t gut you here and now.”

Darzhee Kut seemed confused. “But—are you not the security forces of whom Downing spoke?”

Downing? Security forces? Opal squatted down. “Darzhee Kut, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His claws sagged, then came back up. “You have not heard. You are not part of the forces Richard Downing is sending.”

“Sending for what?”

“To protect us from the insurgents and the Hkh’Rkh.”

“What? Why protect you from your own allies?”

“Ah, again you do not know. We Arat Kur surrendered ten minutes ago. But the Hkh’Rkh did not. They are—they are in sun-time. All of them.”

Opal stared at Darzhee Kut but did not see him, could only hear her thoughts moving like a flume pushing through the smoke and dim orange emergency lights. Okay, gotta secure the HQ. Particularly since these are the senior staff. If they die, the situation could spin out of control. Well, further out of control. Besides, it’s good to have a place to fall back on. But I’ve gotta find Caine. He’s out there, unarmed, with a pack of mad-dog killer Sloths after him.

“Okay, I’m leaving a dozen of my men with you. Wu, you and your detachment stay here: provide security. And if they need your radio, let them use it. Within reason.”

Darzhee Kut bobbed. “I thank you, Major, but I must ask one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you have any medical supplies?”

“I’m not sure our supplies would be of any help to you.”

“Actually, a few of your more common anesthetics are somewhat effective on our biochemistry as well.”

“What do you need them for?”

“For administering to First Delegate of the Wholenest, Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Is he badly injured?”

“He is dying.”

Barr turned to say something to Rulaine when Caine heard the saw-toothed supersonic ripping noise again. Chunks of the work-shed’s double-layered sheet metal were suddenly flying like buzzsaws around the interior. Several hit Barr, whose head bounced off the back wall, his falling torso sliced open from the left clavicle to the right floating rib. Daylight—suddenly present in the last two minutes—streamed in the holes like spotlights.

Caine looked up. “Jesus Christ.”

Trevor rolled up to one knee and peered out one of the larger holes, his body behind an empty oil drum. “Damn coil gun. Wonder where they have it mounted?”

Caine started moving to better cover. “Might not be mounted. I’ve seen some Hkh’Rkh elites big enough to carry them dismounted as squad-support weapons.”

Stosh’s eyes widened but he said nothing.

Trevor crouched down again. “Pretty quiet.”

Caine agreed, then silently amended, Too quiet.

A few rounds banged in from the front, followed by another spray of the bug-zapper rounds which ripped the door clean off its hinges. Then silence again.

Caine low-crawled to Barr’s body, took the hotjuice canisters out of his gun, scavenged the ammo and other canisters off his web gear, started tossing them to the others, always glancing toward the shed’s small rear window.

Trevor must have seen him looking that way. “What are you thinking?”

“That last volume of fire was pretty weak, compared to the stuff that got the last of the insurgents, and now, Barr. At first it sounded like they had two coils gun out there, but we only heard from one just now.”

Trevor nodded. “They’re flanking us, putting one of those damn bug zappers at our rear. Caine, you and I—we’re going to cover the back entry of this little deathtrap.” Trevor went prone, started low-crawling over long-unused rakes, hoes, and hoses. “If Tygg doesn’t find us soon, this could get a lot worse before it gets better.”

“Oh, I think you can count on that,” smiled Stosh.

“Stop scaring the new guy,” muttered Cruz.

“Don’t worry about me.” Caine wiped sweat, flicked a shower of it into the dust as he crawled behind Trevor. “I’m about as scared as I can get.”

Stosh was remarkably cheery. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

“Major, my real GPS is working now.” O’Garran frowned at the unit. “Although God knows how.”

“Bet they seeded this part of low earth orbit with station-keeping geosync-emulators as soon as the Arat Kur lost orbital control,” Opal speculated. “What’s the good word, Miles? Do we have Riordan’s telemetry, now?”

O’Garran nodded, poked his head out the rear floor door of the largely shattered HQ building, evidently blasted by the last of a long daisy chain of demo charges that had started out beyond the walls of the compound. He squinted across a broad tree-framed esplanade and pointed. “One hundred forty meters that way. My best-guess map puts him in that old garden shed you can just see over there.”

Opal came erect out of her crouch. “That’s where we just heard a shitstorm of fire.”

“That’s right, ma’am. And there’s another problem on the way.” He handed her his binoculars, pointed to the northeast. She looked.

At least a dozen Hkh’Rkh were flanking the tool shed the long way around, staying off the esplanade and behind a facing row of low buildings. One was carrying a ponderous coil gun eminently capable of cutting the shed into tin strips. Shit.

Before Opal was fully aware of it, she was giving orders. “Little Guy, set up squad two as the base of fire to cover our advance across the open ground toward the shed. Squad one is splitting into three fire teams: number one with me, number two with you, number three with the squad’s senior remaining NCO. Running leapfrog advance. Propellant mixes at the hottest and grenades—”

“Major?”

“What?”

“That’s what I want to ask you: what? As in, what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I—we—are going to rescue Cain—Mr. Riordan.”

“Major, all due respect—because I know you’re bulletproof—but that’s almost one hundred forty meters of open ground.”

“Which we can cross before those Hkh’Rkh get that coil gun in position to hit the shed, if we move now.”

“Seems like we could be sticking our necks way out on this one. We could take a lot of fire.”

“Why? Have they seen us yet? Do you see any other forces?”

“Well—”

“Right. Me neither. The bad guys who are still hitting that shed are probably just a light pinning force with regular assault rifles, keeping our guys pinned down while those other Sloths bring up their one big piece of artillery to finish off the humans they’ve trapped.”

O’Garran looked out at the esplanade, saw the Hkh’Rkh disappear behind the building that would screen them from being seen by the humans in the shed, but which would also screen the tunnel rats from being seen by them. “Seems right, but there’s a lot we don’t know.”

“Little Guy, there’s always a lot we don’t know. That’s where luck and boldness come in.” Opal looked at the Chinese fire team behind her. They were alert, terribly afraid, even more terribly committed. “On me. Run when I run. Drop when I drop. Got it?”

One of them nodded. The other two looked at him.

O’Garran looked at the hedges and arbors framing both the north and south edges of the esplanade. “Ma’am, I just don’t know about—”

Poor Little Guy. Such an old lady. She didn’t hear the rest of O’Garran’s tactical reservations. She was out the door and into the swirling dust, with one sharp phrase tossed over her shoulder:

“Cover me!”

Trevor had extraordinary eyes. “I’ve got movement, back by the Arat Kur HQ.”

It took Caine a moment to see it. A small group, running directly toward them. Humans, from their size and their gait. Then they dropped, and a second group of four persons appeared running behind them, moving about twenty meters beyond the first group before dropping. Then a third was visible—

“Looks like reinforcements,” commented Trevor, sounding like he was trying to control a surge of ecstasy and relief.

It did indeed look like reinforcements. And as the first group moved up and ran beyond the third, now no more than fifty meters away, it also looked like they were being led by a woman. A woman who looked remarkably like—

Caine stood: shit. “Opal!”

Trevor’s mind locked up. Opal? Where? Ohmigod—“Jesus, what the hell is she doing here—?” Which is a bullshit question because you know the answer: she’s here to save Caine’s sorry ass.

And she was coming across the open ground too fast, too directly, not sending scouts into the arbor she was paralleling. Jesus Christ, Opal. Get down, get under some cover!

Caine’s shout matched his thoughts. “GET DOWN! COVER!”

Opal heard a voice roaring at her from the shed. That’s Caine! But—

He’s calling for cover. He probably needs covering fire. Shit. They must be rushing him from the rear! We’ve gotta flank the shed, get around it to draw down on the bastards—

She didn’t wait for the third team to advance past her. “Follow me!” she shouted, and rolled up into a sprint toward the concealment of the south arbor.

Trevor saw Opal jump up to lead the first group in an off-sequence advance—and saw her go down just as quickly, suddenly obscured by a blood-red mist.

Caine barely heard the thunder-splitting drill of the coil gun which the Hkh’Rkh had evidently positioned in the south arbor.

He thought as he moved. Out the door, selector switch on the grenade tube to full automatic, pull the arming distance back to zero: contact detonation.

The first step carried him out the doorway, with good momentum.

I’m out of time.

His second step became a forward roll. The supersonic crackle of more coil gun projectiles sped over and past him. He rolled to a stop, facing in the direction of the fire and, with a slight sideways jog of the gun, squeezed the trigger. The three grenades arced into the south arbor’s clutter of bushes and trees with a rapid foomfoomfoom.

The three answering explosions were a bit more ragged. Some rounds hit a harder surface than others. But they erupted as a rough row of smoky orange flashes—one followed almost immediately by a short, loud sputter of similar blasts: secondary explosions. Someone’s ammo had gone up. That buys me one second, maybe two—

Riordan yanked a smoke grenade off his web gear, nulled the fusing timer, heaved it a third of the distance to Opal. It was fuming and pluming as it left his hand. Then a quick roll to the left, and another grenade, thrown farther along that same trajectory—just as the splintering cracks of coil gun rounds started spatting overhead again.

Trevor jumped up as the three tube-launched warheads went off, saw Caine heave a grenade. Good: he’s putting down a path of smoke to get to her. “Stosh: get up here now!” Gotta wait, watch—Caine threw another smoke. Still no counterfire from the south arbor.

Keep waiting…

Just as Stosh came shoulder to shoulder with him, the coil gun resumed its shrill screaming. Trevor heard the crackling of the supersonic rounds, made his eyes follow the path of the sound his ears had detected, saw disturbance in the underbrush. Dumping his magazine at it, he yelled. “Suppression!”

The volume of human fire erupting from the shed flowed into a high tide just as the skies broke again and the rain came down in sheets. Opal could sense, more than see, feet running past her, streaming up into the south arbor that had hidden the second squad of Hkh’Rkh and their coil gun.

And then a face was over hers, close, almost nose to nose. That nose was dripping rain onto her nose. It was a nose she knew as well—maybe better, now—than her own nose. She smiled. “Caine.”

Then the firing, which had apparently moved around to the other side of the shed, ebbed, died away like a tired tide. Good. It’s going to be all right, just as soon as I get my breath back—

Oh Christ, I’m such a liar. Even to myself.

The smoke from the grenades swirled around them, the drifts struggling up against the battering rain. It washed the dirt off Caine; it washed the blood away from the two gaping holes in the front of Opal’s right torso. It kept washing more blood away. He forced himself to smile, touch noses—she liked that—and lifted his head to call for help, hoping he’d discover a way to do so without alerting her to the severity of her wound.

Trevor came up, took one look, turned away, cupping his hand over the audio pickup on his headset, speaking urgently.

Looking down again, he saw she was smiling. “Caine,” she said again, her eyes very bright, brighter than he had ever seen them, other than the time in the deputation module, right before her first interstellar shift, right before they first made love.

He held her hand. “We’ll get you something for the pain.” Caine held her hand more tightly. “And don’t worry; you’re going to be all right.”

She tried to laugh through her tears, couldn’t, gasped against the pain. “Not me—not me that I’m crying for.”

“Then who—?”

She shook her head. “For the baby.”

He hadn’t heard her correctly. “For the what?”

“For our baby.”

His eyes and nostrils suddenly ached and stung all at once, and his vision became as blurred, as if he were looking through a rain-drenched windshield. He wiped a hand across his eyes, leaned over to smile reassuringly.

But she was dead.

Trevor looked at Opal, at Caine kneeling, back to him, the rain hammering his soaked shirt flat against him. And all he could think was: you never deserved her.

It was bullshit—pure, irrational bullshit—to think that, to feel that. But that was all he could think or feel.

“Trevor. Here, mate. Look who I found!” It was Tygg’s voice, speaking to him from the end of some long tunnel.

Trevor turned, saw Tygg, whose ready smile seemed to shoot off his face sideways, as if slapped out of existence. “Trev, what is it? What’s happ—?”

And then another face was in front of Tygg’s. He thought he might be hallucinating, but then he saw that this face was just as rainsoaked, as tired, as his own. “Elena.” He didn’t think to say it, but he heard his voice make those sounds.

She looked at him, then over toward Caine and the body, and back to him. She closed her eyes, turned away.

“Sir”—it was Winfield, now—“we’ve got things under control. We—that is, Commander Ayala and your sister—linked up with Lieutenant Tygg in the first courtyard and got the drop on the Sloths that were working their way behind you. I think we’ve pretty much secured this part of the compound.”

“Good.”

Trevor felt Elena’s hand rest gently on his shoulder. He wished he didn’t need it, was glad she had placed it there, wished it was his father’s.

Winfield didn’t stop. “Rulaine went back with Cruz to reorganize the insurgents, assign some new leaders to replace the ones we lost. Where’s Stosh?”

“Back in the shed.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Darzhee Kut watched as the human called Wu rose, apparently receiving a call from his superiors. As soon as he had moved out of ready earshot, Hu’urs Khraam spoke weakly. “Darzhee Kut, come closer. I cannot see you.”

“I am here, Hu’urs Khraam. Here is the claw of your rock-son.”

“Would you had been. No matter. This day, you are. Is Urzueth Ragh there as well?”

“I am, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam.”

“Then bear witness to what I decree. Darzhee Kut, I name you Delegate Pro Tem, plenipotentiary in regard to our presence in this system. It is to be explicitly understood that this confers authority over the fleet as well, just as I possess. Urzueth Ragh, forgive me for not naming you to this responsibility, but at this hour, the song we need is that of a diplomat, not an administrator.”

“I harmonize, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam.” Darzhee thought that he had never seen Urzueth Ragh look so nervous, or relieved, in all the years he had known him.

“Darzhee Kut, it falls to you to perform the final task we must perform.” The old Arat Kur was silent.

“Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, I do not know the task to which you refer.”

“Do you not? Darzhee, they—the humans—they must never learn what we know of them. They must never learn it of themselves. This is a mercy to both our races.”

“But Hu’urs Khraam, when you surrendered our ships, surely you understood they could not help but learn. They would go through our computers, our records, and they would discover that—”

“And that is why you must give the order, the Final Directive, that will protect the secrets kept in the deep caves of the Homenest, Darzhee Kut. And you must remind your rock-siblings what the Wholenest needs of them in this dark hour.”

“Hu’urs Khraam, I cannot do this.”

“Darzhee Kut, you must. You must—and it is late. My father sings; I have not heard him for so long. I know the harmony. It is a minor—”

Hu’urs Khraam breathed in sharply. The breath escaped slowly, as it will from a corpse.

Darzhee Kut looked up at Urzueth Ragh. “He could not mean it, rock-sibling.”

“Certainly he did, rock-sibling.”

“But our promise to surrender to the humans, and all the lives of our own—”

“Rock-sibling, Darzhee Kut. They matter not. The fleet must be destroyed.”

Caine looked up from Opal’s bone-white face, turned to look for people he knew—for Trevor in particular—but he was surrounded by insurgents, some Australian commandoes, some very short Chinese soldiers. So where is everyone I know? Are they all dead? Who are these people? How long have I been here, with her?

He saw the garden shed, remembered it: maybe, with the rain coming down, Trevor and the others had gone back in there. Caine rose, remembered his weapon, reached down slowly, lifted its strap over his shoulder. He let his feet take him to the shed and through the doorway he had sprinted out of to try to save her life ten minutes or ten hours or ten days ago.

The only person he saw was Stosh. Dead Stosh, with his tongue protruding slightly from his faintly smiling lips and a hole where the base of his neck had been. There was no light except for the dark gray haze that came from skies heavy with clouds and smoke. Rain drummed on the tin roof and he went to look out the back door.

“Caine.”

It was a strangely familiar voice. He turned, saw Elena sitting on a gardener’s stool, behind one of the empty oil drums.

“Elena.” She usually made him feel nervous, excited, perplexed—but now, he could not feel anything. Would have felt guilty, had he felt anything. “Elena,” he said again.

She rose and approached him slowly, the way people do with stray animals that might either bolt or attack. When she got next to him, she squatted down.

For a long time they were silent, looking at the floor, then each other, then out the door. Out the door where Opal’s body lay unseen, hidden from view by the doorframe. To Caine, it felt like that corpse was stretched across the packed dirt floor between him and Elena.

Whose knotted hands clenched as she exhaled forcefully. “Caine, I don’t know what to do, what to say. I shouldn’t say anything, not here, not now. But—”

Caine nodded. “But we might not be alive in five minutes.” He looked up as a flight of missiles roared overhead, fell and blasted in the city south of them.

She closed her eyes, looked away, nodded. “Whatever we don’t say now might never get said. And it’s not just about us. If only one of us lives, gets back to Connor—”

Caine matched her nod, looked down at his blood-stained hands. There was no good place to start, so he began with the question that had puzzled him the most. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier—on Mars, or at the Convocation—about us? About how we fell in love on the Moon?”

She kept looking past the torn doorway into the rain. It was a long time before she spoke. “How could I? By the time they woke you, brought you back after thirteen years and reintroduced you at Parthenon, you were already involved with—with Opal. And I didn’t know how or if to approach you at all, because I had never been able to find out why you disappeared, what had really happened to you. So after Parthenon and Dad’s death, I searched to see if there was any new information about where you’d been up until then. But I didn’t want to push too hard, since it was pretty mysterious, the way you had just popped back into the world again. And the lack of information told me that my suspicion about why you disappeared fourteen years ago was correct. It wasn’t because you had fled from me, from us. No. Something had happened to you. Something strange, dangerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Caine, you were a writer and analyst who had left a well-marked trail. Which came to a sudden and abrupt end the same day you didn’t show up for dinner and the rest of our life together. By the time I recovered from that and started trying to find out more about you and what you were doing, I discovered that most of the data was no longer available. And what information still existed about you was suspiciously general. It was as if someone had conducted a thorough campaign to profoundly diminish any trace of you, but without erasing all record of your existence. Probably because complete erasure would have attracted attention all by itself.

“And who was I to attempt to learn about you from people you knew personally? I wasn’t family, I had no rights. Our relationship was so sudden and so short that you had probably never mentioned me to anyone. And given who I was, I could hardly make those inquiries without attracting all the wrong kind of attention.”

Caine agreed with a slow, shallow nod. “Because you figured that if someone had erased so much about me, they’d be watching for anyone who came looking for that lost data.”

“Exactly. And what if one of those watchers learned that it was Nolan Corcoran’s daughter who had come looking? If you were alive somewhere, that was the kind of connection which could have endangered not only my father, and me, and you, but Connor.”

Connor. Caine closed his eyes. “Does Connor know?”

“That you’re his father? No.”

“What have you told him?”

“That I met a man who I loved, but couldn’t remain with. I couldn’t say more than that for the same reason I couldn’t ask too many questions about your disappearance. It was too full of dangerous unknowns.”

Caine put out his hand toward Elena. She took it slowly. “There are so many other things to say, to ask,” he said hoarsely. “But today is…” His hand and his voice fell away as his eyes slipped back toward the front door, out toward the dying rain.

“I know,” Elena said, “I know. But after today, we’ll have time. All the time we need.”

Darzhee Kut closed with Urzueth to keep his words down to a faint chittering. “We must not destroy the fleet. If we use the devices of the Final Directive—either the ones in our ships, or those in our bodies—it will trigger the very apocalypse they were meant to prevent.”

“Darzhee Kut, granted that Hu’urs Khraam made you Delegate Pro Tem with his dying breath—but have you slipped into sun-time?”

“No. I see with well-shaded eyes, Urzueth Ragh. Think of what our Final Directive means. We are convinced that the humans must not be allowed to learn what we know of their past, their proclivities. They must not discover that we broke the Twenty-first Accord and invaded their homeworld not to correct a border dispute, but to arrest their species’ growth, to preempt their ability to lay waste to our Homenest—again. If we now use the Final Directive, the humans will be confronted by a mystery. That we had obviously planned, from the outset, to destroy even ourselves to deny them any access to our technology, our culture, but most especially, our history. It is wrong—terribly, perfectly wrong—to believe that such an act of self-destruction will bring greater safety to the Wholenest. Do you not see the greater danger that will arise if we carry it out?”

Urzueth Ragh seemed ready to reject the line of reasoning, then stopped. Darzhee Kut could feel him thinking, expanding the game board of the scenario, opening areas in which he had not yet thought to play. Darzhee Kut felt and saw him make the fateful move to full comprehension. “Ah. They will not rest until they have solved the mystery. And so they will find out about their past, anyway. Perhaps more surely.”

“Precisely. Some of them, such as Riordan, have come to know us and our behavior well enough to rightly expect that we might, under the current circumstances, peacefully and tractably surrender, and that we are not intrinsically deceitful. But if we carry out the Final Directive, they will have an act that sharply contradicts both those expectations, and in which hundreds of them will die along with us.”

Urzueth hummed agreement. “Which will only amplify the rage they feel over our sneak attack upon their homeworld. They will think us a race of oath-breakers and will thus feel justified in doing whatever they will and can to our kind.”

“All too likely. But worse, there will be the few, the thinking few, who will not react as the many, but will instead curl into their shells of reflection and wonder. Why did the Arat Kur do these things? Why did they attack us by surprise? Why were they willing to break the Twenty-first Accord and so attract the wrath of the Dornaani? How were they ready to destroy themselves in such complete unison when they were defeated? And why did they have suicide cysts where we could not readily find them?”

“That presumes they will know to look for the suicide cysts.”

“But they are sure to do so, Urzueth. How could we effect such widespread self-destruction without them? And once they have discovered the cysts, they will have a mystery so profound that defies any reasonable explanation. The humans might hum to themselves that they can conceive of reasons for why we broke the Twenty-first Accord and attacked. They can even understand why individuals of our species might choose suicide over the possibility of abuse, even torture, on a lost battlefield. But premeditated, simultaneous, and universal self-destruction? And with no radios to coordinate it? And even among those of us for whom surrender will, in all probability, be safe?”

Urzueth Ragh buzzed slowly, meditatively. “They will see the preparation, and so discern that we had determined from the beginning that, if we were defeated, we needed to conceal something from them—even at the expense of all our lives and equipment.”

Darzhee Kut bobbed. “Just so. They will eventually debrief survivors here or elsewhere who could reveal what we must now keep hidden. For if the humans learn that we knew of them in prior millennia, when their birthright was to burrow the dark between the suns just as we did…”

“…then they will ask why their legacy did not stay among those stars.” Urzueth clicked his mandibles. “Whereas if we do not employ the Final Directive, then they will have no reason to ask such questions.”

Darzhee Kut harmonized. “If our actions fit what they expect, they will be without impetus to seek for the unexpected in us. Our resignation to surrender and negotiation will fulfill that expectation. Conversely, our self-destruction would be a goad to them, a deed that they will seek to understand, and in so doing, almost certainly learn the full truth of their past. Under the present circumstances, they could then easily become more dangerous than we imagined. They would see themselves as the one silently, secretly oppressed species among the stars, long kept from knowledge of themselves, and now invaded to preempt the resumption of their birthright. Like nestlings just discovering the idea of justice and having it violated, how will they act? What will they do to oath-breakers and skulkers such as us?”

Urzueth emitted a faint, ululating two-toned whistle in a minor key. “First Rock-Mother,” he prayed/blasphemed. “We will have given rise to the very thing we strove to prevent.”

Darzhee Kut harmonized and watched him closely.

“Mr. Downing, update from OPCOM.”

Good. The more we know, the better we can negotiate. “Synopsis, please.”

“Admiral Silverstein reports that the enemy flotilla which engaged Rescue Task Force One is dead in space. He has multiple nuke-pumped X-ray laser missiles targeted on every shift-capable hull and capital ship. He will soon be handing control over to Rear Admiral Vasarsky’s Tango Echelon. He has also detached enough Gordon-class sloops to control the drones we now have covering the Arat Kurs’ orbital flotilla. Initial boarding operations are underway in both areas of engagement. He hopes they will be concluded by the time Tango Echelon arrives.”

“Then Silverstein is slingshotting out after Halifax?”

“Yes, sir, but he hardly needs to. Admiral Schubert’s first report indicates that the Arat Kur belt fleet is almost one hundred percent incapacitated. The few hulls still capable of maneuver were overwhelmed by the first wave of drones and high-yield ordnance and were destroyed. However, it is unclear if Schubert’s own boarding teams will be able to safely commandeer the remaining enemy hulls. Time to intercept is long enough that the Arat Kur might be able to regain control, necessitating their destruction.”

Downing couldn’t quite be comfortable with the report. Case Timber Pony and Case Leo Gap had worked too well, had been too seamless in their synergistic timing and effect. Innumerable contingency plans had been drawn up for dealing with high, partial, even low levels of success, but there had been no time to spend contemplating such a speedy and complete triumph. Something had to be amiss, about to go wrong…

“I also have reports via fiber-com in Jakarta that a mix of indigenous insurgents, infiltration teams, and tunnel rats have entered the presidential compound and provisionally secured the enemy headquarters.”

Already? If anything, the successes threatened to get out of hand, were occurring too quickly. “Do we have reliable units inbound on their HQ?”

“Yes, sir. Pathfinder elements dedicated to that target are the Twenty-second SAS, B squadron, and A platoon of the Spetsnaz Sixteenth Brigade. Both are hitching rides with A company of Second Battalion, First Air Cav.”

“Their ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

Downing looked down at his watch, did the math. That was too soon, now, given the change in plans these rapid successes necessitated. “Tell those units to orbit the compound and secure the surrounding airspace. They are to delay final approach and landing until we arrive to lead them in.”

“Sir?”

“Relay those orders, Lieutenant. I don’t want the arrival of possibly overeager elite troops to fuel the confidence—and vengeance—of resistance fighters. That could turn a nice, calm surrender into a slaughter. We will lead our elite formations in and set the tone as diplomatic, not military. Make sure they understand that. And tell the pilot we need to move up our ETA to Jakarta as much as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alnduul swayed gently toward him as the high-speed command VTOL bucked with a sudden surge of acceleration. “Are you quite sure that this change is safe, Mr. Downing?”

“You mean the speed of our approach?”

Alnduul’s outer lids nictated slowly. “I mean our direct entry into an unsecured combat zone.”

Downing felt a brief spasm of contempt for the Dornaani Custodian, pushed it off with a shrug. “There is some risk involved. That is the nature of war, after all.”

Downing felt as though the large, dark pupilless eyes were dissecting his words, his intents, his psyche. Then they blinked. “So it is. My apologies, Mr. Downing.”

“Your apologies? For what? For asking about the degree of risk?”

“For forgetting what it feels like.”

Downing felt his eyebrows rise. “It must be nice to live in a world where that’s something you can forget.”

“Nice? Perhaps. But worrisome, also.”

“Worrisome?”

But Alnduul had turned to look out the small window to his right, the blue and white of sky and clouds a roiling concave moiré reflected upon his eyes. Downing waited, but the Dornaani did not speak again.

“Have you contacted our ships yet?”

“We have not, Darzhee Kut,” answered the communications specialist.

Urzueth Ragh moved closer to him, hummed his query softly. “I do not understand. If you are determined to keep the fleet from destroying itself, why are you so eager to contact them with news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death?”

“Because if they hear of our capitulation without also learning that the Final Directive is rescinded, the ship masters will presume it is in effect and scuttle their ships.”

Urzueth’s answering buzz was anxious. “It may occur anyhow, Darzhee Kut. If our rock-siblings are boarded before they can restore their systems, they are likely to destroy themselves, probably with humans aboard. And soon, down here, they will start finding some of our fully isolated troopers becoming sluggish, sick. And you know what they will find.”

Darzhee Kut nodded. “Within forty-eight hours, all their potential prisoners will die of a noncontagious virus that first renders them unconscious and then kills them by producing fatal toxins out of body tissue.”

“And because we have no way of reaching all of them, thousands will die within the same day or two. The humans will, as you say, realize that it is not a disease at all, but a suicide method. So let us reconsider. Why not be safe and destroy the ships, as well? If we cannot prevent the humans from discovering our planetside force’s numerous suicides, then we might as well destroy the concrete answers the humans might find on our spacecraft.”

Darzhee Kut snapped his claws. “No. If we can keep the planetside casualties to a minimum, we can explain that the troopers who killed themselves simply feared capture and torture. We must spend all our energies striving to contact our units. To that end, ask the humans to find Riordan and bring him back here.”

“Why?”

“Because he will help us, and the humans still have radios. We can use those to contact our rock-siblings. If we can prevent even half of our units and ships from following the Final Directive, the suicides of the remainder may appear to be more an aberration than a plan.”

Urzueth Ragh’s antenna snapped erect as he spun away. “I shall inquire after Riordan with all speed.”

“Delegate Kut.” It was the first time anyone had ever addressed him with that honorific; it was thrilling and horrible at the same time.

“Yes, Communications Master T’yeen?”

“I have the ship Greatvein.”

“Who is on the channel? Fleetmaster R’sudkaat?”

“No, Delegate Kut. As you requested, Senior Sensor Master Tuxae Skhaas.”

“Excellent. Tuxae Skhaas?”

“Yes, Speak—Delegate Kut.”

“I must first sing a song of mourning. Hu’urs Khraam’s voice no longer echoes in the rocknest.”

There was a very long pause. “We are ill-fated to be alive to hear such notes, Delegate Kut.” The sorrow in Tuxae’s voice was deep and genuine.

“I have a very new song for your antennae alone, Tuxae Skhaas.”

“I listen, ready to harmonize, Delegate Kut. But your radio has very limited range, and the path of our orbit will soon carry us beyond each other’s reach.”

“So I will be frank. We must not scuttle the fleet.”

“We—have I heard you correctly, Delegate Kut?”

“You must unlearn the hymn we all sang together when we left Homenest. And you must teach this new atonality to all the other ships that you can reach: we must not follow the Final Directive.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

“Trev?”

“Hmm?” Trevor Corcoran kept his eye on the scope of the Remington M167 he had retrieved from Gavin’s body. Almost eight minutes since I’ve seen a Sloth, but I’m in no rush. Six bagged and counting. And that last one—Stosh would have been proud of that shot: four hundred eighty meters if it was a centimeter. Single round, center of mass. The bastard went down like a poleaxed ox. Welcome to Earth, motherfucker.

“Trevor.” Tygg’s voice was subtly more insistent.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“A report, Captain.”

Yeah, that’s right. I’m a captain now. Probably will keep my rank after this shindig. Glories and medals, too. O, be still my beating heart—

“Heart.” “Heart” made him think of Opal, which made him stop thinking. When he opened his eyes, he found the view down the scope alien, strange, as if he had never seen it before. “Okay. Okay.” He blinked, felt like he was coming out of a general anesthetic. “What’s the sitrep?”

Tygg, his sand-colored beret wet and rumpled close to his head, was at his left shoulder, his eyes steady, assessing. “Best if you come down to hear it, sir.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And we can put Cruz on overwatch up here, give him the Remington. Don’t you think?” Tygg’s hand was already gently cupping the forestock of the long weapon. Trevor noticed that the Aussie’s eyes never blinked.

Trevor nodded. “Yeah—I’m done.” Tygg nodded, averted his eyes as if suddenly embarrassed. Trevor started down the narrow stairs that led from the small fieldhouse’s observation cupola into its shattered atrium. Faces looked up at him, looked quickly away. His impulse was equally divided between a desire to hide his own face from them and to tell them to fuck off. Frozen into immobility between these two diametrically opposed urges, he managed to simply descend, silently, into their midst.

“Reports,” he ordered.

Ayala started. “Outer perimeter secure. Our biggest problem is locals wanting to get in and trash this place. It’s pretty ugly out there.”

“What about the hunter-killer squads the Sloths sent out?”

“Scattered reports. Lots of them are still active, but running out of steam. A lot more have been wiped out. Some tried to lift their own vehicles to make a run for orbit or elsewhere. We really don’t know. Our flyboys were too busy shooting them into small fluttering pieces.”

Trevor nodded, turned to O’Garran. “Relief forces?”

“According to the latest fiber-com update, ETA is now six minutes.”

“Vertipads?”

“Secured. Lieutenant Winfield and most of Commander Ayala’s SEALs are working as cadre with ex-military insurgents to maintain a dedicated overwatch on the ’pads.”

Trevor was preparing to move on to Rulaine for the internal security report, heard O’Garran clear his throat. “Something else, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Although we’re expecting the SAS and First Air Cav to be the first wave in, according to my latest intel update, their landing has been redesignated as the arrival of a ‘high-security diplomatic mission,’ not a part of the general assault.”

“Who’s leading this diplomatic mission?”

“I have no word on that, sir. But the Confederation clearance classification is listed as 01A1B.”

Jesus. “Sergeant, you are to send all your remaining forces to the vertipads. I want them deployed as two concentric perimeters, placements and range at Lieutenant Winfield’s discretion. And Sergeant O’Garran?”

“Sir?”

“You stay with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bannor?”

Rulaine swept an arm out over the esplanade. “Interior is all quiet. No sniping incidents, not even any thermal signatures that aren’t us or human workers. The undercover insurgents among the staff have made contact with us, confirm our suspicions that the only Hkh’Rkh left within these walls are the three we have captive and the dead.”

“And the Arat Kur?”

“Most are holed up in their billets or are back near Lieutenant Wu in their headquarters.”

“Any resistance from the others?”

“Not a peep. External reports tell the same story. The Arat Kur have ceased all offensive operations. Possibly due to illness.”

Trevor swiveled back toward Rulaine. “Illness?”

“Yes sir. Scattered intel suggests that here, and at their other cantonments, an increasing number of Arat Kur are acting sluggish, distracted.”

Caine’s voice arose, was aimed into the rest of the crowd, not at Trevor. “Those of you with the infiltration teams or the fiber-com. Did you hear anything about plans to use a chemical weapon on the Arat Kur?”

“No, sir.” Ayala shrugged. “Scuttlebutt is that no one ever got genetic samples of the Arat Kur.”

Caine nodded. “Yeah, I believe it. All throughout the insurgency, the exos occasionally retreated, but they never left their dead behind for analysis. The one time I saw them retreat without all their bodies, they called in an air strike and burned the kempang down to bedrock.”

“So the Roaches get sick. What of it?”

“Maybe nothing, Trevor—but if a whole lot of them are succumbing to some kind of disease or malaise right now, it might not be coincidence.”

“Trev.” It was Elena, her voice coming from behind, not much more than a whisper. “Caine is also the ambassador to the Arat Kur. If something’s going on, he should be back in their headquarters, staying in touch with what’s left of their leadership.”

Trevor picked up his CoBro assault rifle. “Fine. We’ll escort you to Cockroach central. Tygg, Rulaine: on me.”

Tuxae kept his claws very still as R’sudkaat approached. “Yes, what is it now, Tuxae Hu’urs?”

“Esteemed Fleetmaster, I have a message from Darzhee Kut.”

“A message to me? From him? Very well. What is it?”

“Delegate Kut sends his compliments and informs you that the Final Directive has been rescinded.”

For a long moment, R’sudkaat did not move. Then he started forward, claws half raised. “Rescind the Final Directive? And since when is Kut titled Delegate?”

“Since Hu’urs Khraam sang his last note, some minutes ago.”

R’sudkaat rocked back as though struck between the eyes, which roved in the direction of H’toor Qooiiz’s empty couch, as if searching for some rock-sibling who would sing a different song than this, would negate and drown out the dirge that Tuxae sang. “This cannot be.”

“So I thought also, but it is true. The ground staff has verified his death, as well as Hu’urs Khraam’s conferral of the title Delegate Pro Tem upon Darzhee Kut.”

R’sudkaat was very still. Then: “Preposterous. Hu’urs Khraam would never put the fleet under the direction of Kut. Magma and rotting meat: he is but an Ee’ar!”

Tuxae kept his antennae and claws very still and elected not to point out that he, too, was of the Ee’ar caste. “So he is. But now he is our Delegate in this place, as well. And he orders that we rescind the Final Directive.”

R’sudkaat looked at Tuxae closely, who heard the sifting-sand sound of his commander’s lenses compressing with the intensity of their focusing. “No,” R’sudkaat hummed slowly. “No. I will not do so. Kut’s order shows that he is not our Delegate, but rather that he is a tool of the humans.”

“R’sudkaat, with respect, you must comply.”

“I will not take orders from an upstart Ee’ar.”

“I am afraid you must.”

R’sudkaat raised a claw high, haughty. “You have slipped into sun-time, Tuxae Skhaas, if you think I will abandon our orders and our mission on the word of an Ee’ar. And now I must instruct you to relinquish your post. Until such time as a Nestmoot can be held to determine your complicity in this attempt to subvert the orders and due authority of this fleet, you are relieved of your duties.”

“With respect, R’sudkaat, it is I who must now relieve you of your duties.”

R’sudkaat’s antenna wiggled, but there was no mirth in his voice. “Tuxae Skhaas, your audacity is singular. Comply or I will summon Enforcers.”

“You need not. They are already here. Turn around.”

R’sudkaat did so, discovered H’toor Qooiiz and six Enforcers standing two meters behind him. “Please come with us,” H’toor Qooiiz asked softly.

Stunned, R’sudkaat scanned the bridge: expressionless eyes stared back at him. He turned quickly back toward Tuxae Skhaas. “Have you all gone mad? Have you forgotten the songs of our mothers and their great-grandmothers before them, back unto the rebirth of the Homenest? These are humans—humans! The great despoilers. If they take us captive, they will have access to our best technology, our drives, our weapons. We will be enabling them to cut another swath of terror through the stars. They will invade Homenest, take hostages, experiment upon us, torture us, make labor slaves out of the entirety of our race!”

“They are more likely to do so if, in destroying ourselves, we destroy their boarding teams as well. As might begin happening any moment. We have word that the ships of our counterattacking fleet are even now being commandeered by human troops.”

“But—”

“With respect, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, I cannot have this discussion at this time. We must try to send this instruction to Orbitmaster Edkor Taak’s flagship. Please accompany the Enforcers. H’toor Qooiiz, please remain with me.”

“Orders, Shipmaster Tuxae Skhaas?” H’toor Qooiiz’s voice was a melody of liquid laughter.

“Given the approach of the humans, my first orders will probably be my last.”

“Then they had best be good ones.”

“Truly spoken. Can we reach the Orbitmaster’s command ship with this radio?”

“We can try.” H’toor Qooiiz’s response was unconvincing, but after fifteen seconds of waiting, the channel crackled and cleared. Orbitmaster Edkor Taak responded personally. He was unsurprised by the news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death, was startled by the naming of an Ee’ar to the position of Delegate, and fell into a long silence upon hearing that the Final Directive was rescinded. Then, in a slow voice, Orbitmaster Taak announced, “Before complying, I will speak to this Darzhee Kut myself.”

“He is no longer in my radio range; perhaps he is in yours.”

“We have no radios remaining other than this one, and we are too far from… planet… to exchange… or messages.”

“Orbitmaster Taak, I believe we have little time to—”

H’toor Qooiiz clicked a negation, looked up at him. “He has passed out of the range of this radio.”

“Any word from RTF 1?”

“Boardings are underway, Mr. Downing. About forty percent of the opposing fleet’s ships have been taken by Joint Spec Ops forces. No sign of resistance whatsoever, even though some of the Roach boats are starting to get their computers back online.”

“Their belt fleet?”

“They were at longer range. Judging from Admiral Schubert’s last report, he’s anticipating first rendezvous in about two hours. And it’s about thirty minutes before our ground-launched teams reach the ships in orbit around Earth.”

“Are we anticipating any problem if either of those enemy formations get their systems running?”

“Not really, sir. We already have their hulls ringed with missiles and ordnance that caught up to them, retroboosted, and is now station-keeping with them in lethal proximity. If they so much as frown at us, they’re ash. Nothing but good news for us, sir.”

Downing looked over at Alnduul, who had not spoken for ten minutes, whose head had inclined to stare down at the Jakartan metroplex that was rushing up at them. There’s always risk, he had told the Dornaani. That was another way of saying that, in war, the news is never “all good.” Downing stared at his watch for the third time in the past thirty seconds, wondered why he was so anxious, why he felt it to be so desperately necessary to link up with the Arat Kur leadership, why he couldn’t think past the one thought that was pushing all others aside. Land this thing, damn it; land it now.

“Any word?” asked Darzhee Kut when he was sure no humans were close enough to hear.

“About the fleet or Riordan?”

“Either. Both.”

“Nothing on the fleet,” answered Urzueth Ragh. “None of our ships are in radio range any longer. The human Wu is unwilling to share much information, but I believe that Riordan was already on his way when I asked.”

The first good news in an hour. But Urzueth did not seem encouraged. “What distresses you?”

“On this day, what does not? But just this moment, I was reflecting that even if your countermand of the Final Directive reaches our ships, their masters may not elect to follow the orders of an unknown Delegate.”

Darzhee Kut bobbed once. “Yes, but at least they cannot scuttle their ships immediately. Not until they restore full computer control.”

“Darzhee Kut, why do you place this importance upon their computers?”

“Because the instructed means of scuttling is to sabotage the antimatter or fusion containment fields.”

Urzueth Ragh angled to look at him sideways. “Rock-sibling, Shipmasters have other means at their disposal.”

Darzhee Kut felt his intestine twitch. “What do you mean?”

“Darzhee Kut, surely you have not forgotten that the humans are not the only ones who possess nuclear ordnance—”

“Oh, Christ—Mr. Downing!”

The bump of the VTOL’s hasty landing coincided with a panicked, almost electric pulse that jumped so hard through Downing that he felt pain at the rear of his skull. But there was relief, too. The bad news had finally arrived. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Sir—the Arat Kur are destroying their ships.”

So. Not as harmless as they seemed. “How many?”

“I don’t know, sir. It’s going on right now—six, seven, eight.”

“How?”

“Nukes, sir.”

“And our boarding teams?”

The lieutenant turned very pale very quickly. “Our—?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. What about our boarding teams?”

Ruth Altasso turned to Ira. Lateral lines, straight and stacked like the slats of a washboard, stretched across her forehead. “Admiral, Commander Dugan on tac comm one. Urgent.”

Damned straight it’s urgent. His teams are on those hulls. “Put him through. What’s the count, Ruth?”

“Nine scuttled so far, sir. Dugan is online.”

“Lincoln actual. Go.”

“Admiral—”

“I know what’s happening, Tom. Don’t waste time with a sitrep.”

“Okay.” A long pause. When Tom Dugan spoke again, he sounded more like a green second looey than a seventeen-year veteran with the Teams. “Ira, what do I do?”

Good God, now SEALs are asking me what to do? “Secure the prisoners. Isolate them from all systems.”

“Impossible, Admiral. On most hulls, I’ve only got two squads of boarders. That’s twenty-two troops for hulls that are often more than two hundred thousand kiloliters in volume. And my men don’t have intel on floor plans, standard complement, or command circuitry. My guys are working blind, and from what I can tell, they can’t figure out how the Arat Kur are blowing their ships. I was in contact with Joe DeBolt when the smallish hull he took went up. His squads had corralled all the Roach bastards. Nobody threw a self-destruct switch or anything like that.” Dugan stopped for a moment, then resumed. “Orders?”

Ira clenched his molars. I know what you want me to say. And, God forgive me, you’re right, because we just don’t know how they’re doing it. Hell, if they set this up as a worst-case contingency, they might not even need access to their ships’ systems—

Ira discovered that Altasso was looking at him. “Skipper, for all we know, the Arat Kur could have implanted themselves with remote triggers.”

Ira closed his eyes. Great God, does she read minds, too?

“Sir.” It was Dugan again, tense. “Orders?”

“Are your men still buttoned up?”

“All suits are still sealed, sir.”

“Do they have control over internal systems? Such as bulkhead doors?”

“In most cases, yes sir.”

Eyes still closed, Ira felt himself creating generations of hatred and mistrust as he allowed the next order to ride out of his mouth on the crest of one long sigh. “Remove the Arat Kur from their ships. Immediately.”

Silence. “‘Remove’? Sir, don’t you mean—?”

“Commander, I know what I mean and what I said. Have your teams secure themselves to interior fixtures with lanyards. Then open the airlocks. Then open the bulkhead doors. All of them.”

Darzhee Kut noticed the small human soldiers guarding the ruined headquarters crouch cautiously, then snap upward into a respectful, oddly erect and rigid stance. A superior approaching? Riordan, perhaps?

Larger humans with long, wicked-looking rifles swarmed through the door, followed by Trevor Corcoran.

Who had changed. Darzhee Kut had his claw half raised in greeting, but brought it down: he was suddenly fearful, more fearful than he had ever been around the Hkh’Rkh. He did not know humans well, but everything he had learned told him that there was death in Trevor Corcoran’s eye. Not hatred, not outraged pride, not fury. Just cold, passionless, implacable death. Death for Darzhee Kut, for Arat Kur, for all exos—maybe for anyone. Darzhee shivered back into his carapace. That was Trevor Corcoran’s face, but that was no longer Trevor Corcoran.

But arriving behind Corcoran was Riordan, his head turning, seeking, insistent, pushing past the human warriors into the room, over the body of the Hkh’Rkh that had guarded and then attacked him, still seeking—and stopped, staring in the direction opposite Darzhee Kut. His head and eyes were aimed straight at the silent, faintly fuming tank of Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses. Riordan’s eager, ready expression bled away. For a moment—just a moment—Darzhee Kut thought his eyes were going to match Trevor’s own.

“Caine Riordan!” As Riordan turned his head in the direction of Darzhee Kut’s call, some measure of engagement came back to his eyes. “Caine Riordan, we need—”

“Radios. Yes, we’ve heard about the ships. And your soldiers, are they also—?”

“Yes. It is a perverse contingency plan discussed by some of our leaders,” Darzhee Kut lied. “But I believe we can stop my forces from following them—many of them, at least. But I have no way to reach them. I need radios—”

But Caine was already turning away, shouting to the other humans—

Caine faced Trevor. “Darzhee Kut is now in charge here and trying to ensure that the rest of Arat Kur surrender goes smoothly. He needs a long-range radio in order to communicate with his people, and tell them it’s safe to cooperate with us.” Caine saw Elena enter the room, felt a flash of misgiving at having her here, shouted over Darzhee Kut’s continuing, and somewhat shrill, entreaties. “And we’ll need to patch him through to his ships if he’s going to stop them from being scuttled.”

Trevor nodded to one of the SEALs with him, who promptly unshouldered a radio and moved toward Darzhee Kut. Darzhee Kut bobbed appreciatively, glanced up, but then the focus of his eyes seemed to go past Caine, as though he had seen something just behind—

Caine’s back flared, felt like it was splitting, shattering, with flame gushing in and up along the fracture lines. He staggered forward, heard a soundless roaring in his ears, and then shouting all around him:

“JesusChristCaineShootthatmuthafuckingBelaythatHelphimOhGodnoCaine.”

Caine felt himself sway, caught his balance with a sidestep that half turned him. Apt-Counsel’s tank was only two meters behind him, beaded with condensation, wisps of vapor wreathing it in white curlicues, a broad, smoking tube where one of the external manipulator arms had been mounted only a moment before. Caine reached behind, felt wet metal protruding from the right side of his back, felt his balance going again as people rushed in at him from every direction. He took another half step, confident he’d straighten up properly this time…

And found himself falling forward, turning, seeing a whirl of faces: Elena, Trevor, Darzhee Kut, Opal—Opal? No, not here—and not now. Strange how slowly things move when you fall, when you can’t help yourself, when you feel yourself slipping away into unmarked time once again. Since this morning, he had been reunited with a lover and lost her, learned of the infant growing in her and lost it, rediscovered a lover he had forgotten and child he had never known and now was losing those, too. Because, unfortunately, at this cusp of victory, he had been killed.

As Caine fell forward—faces looming, hands rushing in—he smiled at the banality of his final thought:

Such a busy day.

The young ocean sunfish circled the fluttering object warily, vaguely recognizing in its downward progress the undulations of a jellyfish: preferred prey. But ultimately, the ocean sunfish flinched away, discerning that this was not a food source after all.

The tattered sleeve of Michael Schrage’s uniform, made a colorful motley by service and unit patches, continued its slow-motion descent toward the sandy bottom where the mouth of Lada Bay kissed the Sunda Strait. It was the last piece of wreckage or debris from Elektronische Kriegsgruppe Zwei to come to rest. All the others had reached the bottom, and, like this, were too small to ever be of significance to historian-divers or curiosity seekers. None of the VTOLs’ flight recorders survived the catastrophic hits by Arat Kur orbital lasers; no member of the flight survived to tell their tale. The few cells that remained of Schrage’s body carried no encoding that marked them as the remains of one of the thousands of humans who had, on that day, courted and were embraced by certain death in the performance of selfless acts against invaders. In Schrage’s case, it had involved placing his ship over Dortmund’s and Thandla’s to give them the extra seconds they needed to ensure that the submarines could safely complete their decisive ascent. That this act was arguably the fulcrum upon which the balance of the battle had tipped made it no greater a sacrifice than the thousands of other sacrifices which had been offered up in the streets, airspaces, or waters around the island of Java.

As the tattered uniform sleeve neared the bottom, a sand shark, attracted by a faint scent of blood, snatched away a shred of skin which clung, scorched and fused, to the partial sleeve. Then, with a swirl of fabric, the sleeve met and flattened long and slow against the muddy sand. The shark swam testily off, disappointed at the meager pickings.

For no greater nourishment or savor resided in the unmissed flesh of unsung heroes.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Caine awakened into a gasp before he was aware of the pain, and that it was peaking: a searing stab that started a few inches under and behind his right floating rib and shot straight up to his scapula. As he exhaled the slowly diminishing pain out of his body, Caine felt a residual ache curl up—sullen and persistent—in the place the stabbing sensation was vacating.

Well, it wasn’t like the Ktor nicked me with a pen knife. He remembered a doctor reading off a list of his injuries as he faded in and out of what seemed like postsurgical anesthesia: “…deep dorsal penetration resulting in transfixing laceration of the latissimus dorsi, splintering fracture of T5, highly localized pulmonary laceration, and multiple lacerations of the liver. Extensive peripheral trauma is observed throughout the right thoracic…”

He remembered losing focus then, sinking back into the black, and wondering: Where is Elena? Where is everyone?

He swam back up out of the lightless depths some time later and remembered hearing himself ask. “How long?”

Both the answering voice and the room’s ambient sound were markedly different. “You mean, before you’re ambulatory?”

“No. How long have I been unconscious?”

“Well, strictly speaking, you haven’t been fully unconscious since—”

Suddenly, Elena was there in place of the doctor or orderly or whoever. She took his right hand in one of hers, laid the other smooth and firm along his cheek, as though she were poised to hold him harder, to keep him awake, in this world, with her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For worrying you. And for being such an easy target.”

She smiled and cried without blinking or making a sound.

And was gone.

And now he was here, without her. Wherever here was. He vaguely remembered being strapped in for shift, a surgical nurse beside him, just in case the shock of transition made him flinch, reopened his wounds.

But that was all he remembered, other than occasionally awakening and trying to separate the conflicting feelings that seemed to clutch his heart, paralyze his tears, shackle his joy: mourning for Opal, longing for Elena, and recurrent guilt at the way the first emotion was so easily overridden by the second.

But as if avenging her rapid passing from his heart, he could feel Opal haunting everything he saw, every breath he drew. For all he knew, he might not be breathing at all had she not drawn the fire that would certainly have been unleashed against Caine, Trevor, and the others who had cowered in that shed in Jakarta.

There was a faint knock at the door. Thank God. I don’t care who it is, just… “Come in!”

Downing entered.

Oh. Great. The Lying Bastard himself.

“Awake at last, I see. How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, I suppose.” And thanks for nearly getting me killed again. Asshole.

Downing drew up a chair. “I’m glad to see you’re alert and ready to move about.”

Caine knew the tone. “Okay, how much have I missed?”

“So, you know you were in cold sleep, again?”

“It seemed a good guess. I just don’t know how long.”

Downing looked sheepish. “Caine, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Coming up out of the postsurgical anesthesia, I think. No, wait. I remember someone else, an orderly—” Downing was looking at the floor, a study in discomfort. Caine sighed, wanted to keep hating him but also knew that Richard had been following orders and doing his job. “Okay, how much time have I lost now?”

“Caine, I suspect the first thing you remember is the preoperative review at the time of your second surgery.”

“Second surgery?”

“Yes. We did what we could right after you were hit in Indonesia, but we lost you on the table.”

Caine thought he might vomit. “I was dead?”

“In another few minutes, they would have called the clock and pulled up the sheet. So we had to put you in a cryocell until we could get a different medical team to join us. They were far more advanced, and performed the second surgery.”

“Stateside?”

“Er… no, spaceside.”

“What?”

“Caine, do understand. Not only did we have to rendezvous with the second surgical team as swiftly as possible, but the entirety of the World Confederation Council insisted that you be sent with the invasion fleet to Sigma Draconis. Your unique relationships with so many of the—”

“Whoa, hold on. Sigma Draconis? Invasion fleet? Where the hell am I?”

Downing sighed. “You are in far orbit around the Arat Kur homeworld. We arrived a few days ago.”

“And just where on the calendar are we?”

“It’s June 12, 2120. You’ve been unconscious almost constantly for the last five months. The second surgical team did not reach us until late April. We were well underway to bring the war to the Arat Kurs’ doorstep, and so they had to catch up. Your recovery was dicey and you were kept in postsurgical cryogenic reduction. Not full cryosleep, but the safest way to monitor an uncertain recovery.”

Caine could hardly think through what felt like the hailstorm of mental blows he’d just received. “Then why—why the hell am I even here? Why didn’t you leave me on Earth, with Elena, with Connor, with—?”

“I told you. The Consuls insisted you accompany us. Besides, you couldn’t stay on Earth, Caine. The surgical team arranged to meet us on the way to Sigma Draconis. And frankly, you’d still be in cryogenic reduction, recovering, if our mission here hadn’t hit—well, a snag.”

“So I guess I’m going to have a working recovery before I get to go back home.”

“I’m afraid so, Caine. I’ve brought you this”—Downing held up a datastik—“to help you catch up on what’s been going on over the last five months. Can I get you anything else?”

“No—yes! Is Elena here, too?”

“I’m sorry, Caine, but no. This fleet is only carrying essential personnel. Only you were deemed an indispensable asset, if our interactions with the Arat Kur became—problematic.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m so indispensable, why couldn’t the second surgical team have operated on me before we left Earth, rather than chasing us across umpteen light-years to—?”

But Downing was shaking his head. “No, Caine, you don’t understand. The second surgical team was not on Earth. In fact, it would have taken them longer to get there than meet us on the way.”

Caine felt something cold moving in the general area of his incision, told himself—somewhat desperately—that it was just his imagination. “The surgical team wasn’t on Earth.” He knew the answer to his next question before he asked it. “So it was the Dornaani?”

Downing nodded. “They sent a small diplomatic packet to join our fleet on the way to Sigma Draconis Two. It was also carrying their surgeons and equipment. To whom I am quite sure you owe your life.”

Seems I owe lots of people my life: first Opal, now the Dornaani. Meaning I’ve got twice as many debts as I can reasonably repay. I’ve only got the one life, after all.

“Caine, are you all right? I know it’s a beastly lot of shocks to absorb—”

“No, Richard. I’m okay. But it sounds like our situation with the Arat Kur isn’t, so I’d better get reading, hadn’t I?” Caine shook the datastik meaningfully.

Downing’s answering smile was rueful. “I suppose so. But you don’t need to get started straight away—”

“Yes. Yes, I’d better.” Caine felt his patience slipping as picked up the bedside dataslate. “It will give me something to do other than think about a son I should be meeting, and the two women I should be visiting with flowers.” And whether or not I should keep hating your guts, duty and orders be damned.

Downing cocked his head. “Bouquets for two women?”

“Yes, Richard.” Did he really not understand? “One bouquet to bring to Elena’s door, and another for Opal’s grave.”

Downing grew pale. Caine looked away as the computer brightened.

A moment later, he heard Downing close the door behind himself.

The next morning, when Downing returned and knocked on the door—reluctantly, cautiously—Caine was already up and dressed, staring at the dataslate’s screen. It looked as though he’d been reading from it most of the preceding night. “So, it seems we’ve been pretty busy getting some payback from the Arat Kur while I was napping.”

“Yes, although I think what’s distressed them most is having us show up at their homeworld without a fraction of the warning they were expecting.”

Caine nodded. “Speaking of their homeworld, I see from the battle reports that only two days ago, they were still fighting to retain control of their orbital space.”

Downing nodded. “The Arat Kur defense drones kept our lads on their toes for quite a while.”

“Any losses?”

“Some, but not heavy. Lord Halifax was a step ahead of our opponents all the way.” Downing leaned back. “Which means they are now helpless at the bottom of their homeworld’s gravity well. Which led everyone to expect that they’d finally be willing to discuss surrender terms. But instead they’re not even returning our communiqués. That’s why Visser and Sukhinin finally agreed to rouse you a week early. There are military pressures—strategic pressures—that make it essential we make some progress in regard to negotiations.”

Caine nodded, turned away from his dataslate. “I think part of the problem with the negotiations is that there’s a puzzle piece we’re missing. And because of that missing piece, we’re not fully understanding what we’re seeing.”

“To what are you referring, specifically?”

“I mean we’ve got too many unanswered questions about why the war-averse Arat Kur were so eager to fight us in the first place, and why it seems that the Ktor were laying the groundwork for this invasion of us long before we came to the Convocation.”

Downing leaned back. “What’s got you thinking about that?”

“Well, as soon as we realized that it was the Ktor who were almost certainly behind the Doomsday Rock, I started to wonder if they recruited the Arat Kur as their ‘plan B’ when it failed.”

“Interesting notion. But why the Arat Kur, specifically?”

“Because I suspect the Ktor were quite aware of the Arat Kurs’ prior knowledge—and fear—of our species as age-old destroyers.”

Downing leaned forward. “Caine, do you really think there’s anything to those folk myths of their lower castes?”

Caine glanced sideways at him. “The Arat Kur—Darzhee Kut, Hu’urs Khraam, others of the higher castes—made oblique references to what humanity had done, had been, before now. As if they were afraid of what we might do to them now because of something we’d done to them in the past.”

“Maybe—or maybe you just misunderstood what was being said, or the translators garbled their intent.”

“Perhaps. But how do you explain their suicide systems?”

Downing frowned. “Technical intelligence and prisoner interviews both agree that the suicide cysts of the Arat Kur do seem to be nonstandard equipment. But the Trojan bug wiped out any data that might have shed light on whether those suicide systems were part of a concerted plan or a harebrained option spearheaded by a cabal of superstitious and senile extremists, as the senior surviving Arat Kur claim.”

“Of course they’d fabricate a story like that. They’d want to make their mass-seppuku look like an aberration, not their standard operating procedure.”

“So you believe that they really did know about humanity long before?”

“Yes, particularly given some of the comments I overheard.”

“It’s an interesting theory, but it does have one rather large flaw, don’t you think?”

“Which is?”

Downing couldn’t help smiling. “Well, it’s all predicated on the idea that the great ‘destroyers’ of their race came from Earth. But we weren’t exactly flying about the cosmos, squashing mammalian beetles twenty thousand or even ten thousand years ago, were we? If I recall my history, I think the ancient Egyptians or Chinese were still striving mightily to perfect basic crop irrigation, rather than building interstellar invasion forces.”

Caine didn’t smile. “Remind me: how old are the human ruins I found on DeePeeThree?”

Downing stopped smiling. “Twenty thousand years. Give or take.”

“No matter how much you give or take, they weren’t made by, or for, any humans who called Earth ‘home.’ Couldn’t be, for the historical reasons that you’ve provided. Yet there the ruins sit, created and extant in the same general epoch in which the cognoscenti of the Arat Kur insist that humans were destroying their civilization.”

“And that’s why the natives on DeePeeThree knew humans on sight,” he said slowly.

“Hell, they were even able to point out the insignificant yellow speck that is our home star in their night sky.” Caine carefully swung his feet down to the floor. “Look, life since the Parthenon Dialogs has been more like an opera than reality. In the course of a single year, we experience first contact, jockey for political equality with other races, are invaded, fight free, and now stand panting on the threshold of our future among the stars. But what we’ve overlooked is that no matter how much it may feel like it, this is not the beginning of the story. The story—whatever that is—began thousands of years ago. This only seems like the beginning to us because it is where we enter—or maybe reenter—the tale.”

Downing felt his frown deepening. “Fair enough. So let’s say some humans who did not live on Earth attacked the Arat Kur ten or twenty millennia ago. And so they have a sore spot for us. How does that change how we deal with them, here and now?”

“Firstly, we’re dealing with a species which has conceived of us as ‘the enemy’ for longer than we’ve had writing. We’re not a military opponent. We’re their iconic bogey-men. That might complicate negotiations a bit.

“But secondly, the bigger multimillennia context should prompt us to ask this: what other ancient agendas, animosities, initiatives might be in play here? To us, it is all terrifyingly and wondrously new. But to the Dornaani, the Ktor, the Slaasriithi, and maybe the Arat Kur? And maybe even the natives of DeePeeThree? Richard, we have fallen into the common trap of seeing ourselves at the center of the universe: all that goes on around us somehow has us as its subject and raison d’etre. But in reality, all the events, all the plans, all the acts we interpret as intentionally malign—or benign—to us may, in fact, have almost nothing to do with our species. Or, in the case of the Arat Kur, have nothing to do with us as we are now.”

Downing imagined Nolan’s ghost grinning at him over Caine’s shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘as we are now’?”

“I mean, as Earth-born humans who, after five thousand years of relatively intact and complete history, are the brand-spanking-new entrants into the cosmos. But others in that cosmos might recollect some other batch of humans that was grabbed off Earth, bred for purposes both noble and nefarious. Some of whom may have been on Delta Pavonis Three, and some of whom may have done to the Arat Kur exactly what the Arat Kur say they did.”

“And, of course, the Dornaani must know the whole story.”

“Or a whole hell of a lot of it. And that could be crucial as we try to jump-start the negotiations with the Arat Kur. Because since Alnduul is here with us, that means there’s someone in the room who does know the bigger story. From their own admission, the Dornaani have been Custodians for about seven thousand years, and it’s a surety their histories stretch back well before then. That means that they must have a damn good idea of what was going on in this stellar cluster ten thousand years ago.”

“Well, since we’ve got Alnduul on board, it will be easy enough to put questions to him.”

“As if one ever gets straight answers out of the Dornaani. Which reminds me. When the Dornaani made their first contact with you, were they just as enigmatic as they’ve been since then?”

Downing scoffed. “It was blasted freakish. A message coming out of nowhere, tight-beamed at an IRIS-DoD satellite.”

“Richard, don’t play coy with me. It had to have been a lot stranger than that, given the package they left waiting for you in deep space.”

Oh damn. He’s figured it out…

Caine nodded. “Because they had to smuggle you the device that you put into my arm on Mars, after those two Russians attempted to ‘assassinate’ me. Which was pure theater, all so you could get me into surgery and slip that Dornaani device into my arm. Tell me, was it Alnduul himself who came to our system, bearing strange gifts?”

Richard looked down. No use concealing it now. “No. I don’t know if any of them even came within an AU of any of our planets. We simply received a signal directing us to deep space coordinates. We retrieved the device and a few instructions for its implantation and for subsequent communications with them. We learned what the implant did, and set up the eventual rendezvous for the delegation to be transported to the Convocation.”

“And the device itself—implausibly perfect for your purposes, wasn’t it? Almost like they knew what you needed to make Case Timber Pony work. A secret plan that they should have been completely unaware of.”

So, you’ve wondered too? “It was as if we had ordered it from a catalog. Case Timber Pony would have been an uncertain—and damned messy—business without it.”

“Yes, but Case Timber Pony was just one, penultimate ploy in a long string of traps and tricks. If they knew how to provide what you needed for Case Timber Pony, then they had to be aware of the other plans, as well.”

Downing nodded. “They were. They never mentioned the different plans, but it was as if they had tapped into Nolan’s strategic stream-of-consciousness. If it hadn’t been for their implication that they knew what he had wanted, I would not have approved of the implantation or their other offers to help us protect ourselves in the event that the Convocation went as badly as it did. But try as I might, I’ve not been able to get Alnduul to tell me how they found out about—”

In answer to a soft knock on the door, Caine said. “Come in.”

Ben Hwang entered, nodding at the two of them. “Good to see you awake, Caine. How are you feeling?”

“Just a little stiff, Ben. Thanks for asking. Draw up a chair?”

“Thank you, but no; I have to get back to the lab. Just wanted to see how you were doing and pass a report on to Mr. Downing. And ask him a question.”

Richard nodded. “What’s the question, Ben?”

Hwang scratched the back of his head. “Richard, is it true that we have some new visitors in-system?”

My, news travels fast. “Yes, Ben. A Slaasriithii ship showed up about two hours ago. The Dornaani seemed to be expecting it, and have vouched for its bona fides.”

“Any guess why they decided to enter a war zone? I was under the impression that the Slaasriithii are pretty retiring. They were certainly the least communicative species at the Convocation.”

Downing shrugged. “I was just as surprised at you, but the Dornaani speculate that with the hostilities winding down, they want to be on hand for whatever happens here, possibly initiate some kind of formal contact with us.”

Hwang nodded. “Any chance we’re going to get a look at one, arrange a meeting? It would be a good opportunity to get some samples of their—”

Downing smiled. “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything relevant, Ben. Besides, I would think you have enough exobiology challenges on your hands already.” Richard felt his smile slip. “About which, how’s the reconstruction coming?”

Hwang avoided Downing’s eyes. “Completed. We have reverse-engineered the original Arat Kur virus that they adopted for their suicide cysts.”

“Well done. What was involved?”

“The tricky work was all up front. In order to understand the virus, we had to map the Arat Kur genetic structures. Like human smallpox, the virus mimics natural cells present in the Arat Kur body—the circulatory system, to be specific. The virus has almost exactly the same genetic template as normal Arat Kur cells, so the body’s defenses don’t recognize it as an intruder and the immune system’s hunter-killer cells don’t activate.”

“How had the Arat Kur modified the original organism?”

“To make it useful as a suicide device, the Arat Kur simply turned off its ability to produce viable airborne infectants and slowed its reproductive process.”

Downing’s voice was very quiet. “And its broader weapons potential?”

Hwang studied the floor. “The original virus was one of the most contagious and lethal of all their plague bugs. As such, it was the first they sought to eliminate, which they accomplished almost a thousand years ago. Consequently, almost no modern Arat Kur have any immunities against it, and they have long since ceased retaining any extensive ready supplies of, or production facilities for, the vaccine they developed over eight hundred years ago.”

Downing kept his voice level. “Total estimated effect on an infected population?”

“Ninety percent fatalities.” Hwang rose, looking glum. “I’ll have warhead-volume stocks of the Arat Kur virus within a day, maybe two.” Hwang opened the door, nodded. Caine nodded back.

Richard spoke soon as the door had closed after Hwang. “Actually, while we’re on the topic of the Arat Kur, I’m rather hoping you’ll help us by trying to talk to one today.”

“Darzhee Kut?”

Downing looked down. “The debriefing team feels that it has run out of options. Permissible options, that is.”

Caine was on his feet quickly. “Why? Won’t he talk to anyone else?”

“Not productively. And I think it’s important you try to communicate with him before the debriefing team convinces Visser or Sukhinin to allow them to use—well, impermissible options.”

Caine left the room in a rush.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Darzhee Kut heard the cycles of sound in his head repeat, welcomed the familiar cadences and tones, told himself he was glad there was nothing to distract his attention from the mostly random waves of submusic that washed over and through his mind.

A strange thumping rang against the room’s hatch. At first, Darzhee Kut thought the ship might be in distress, that the sound was the precursor to disabling or destruction. But no: it was just a modest, steady thumping.

And then he realized that it must be a person, requesting entrance, “knocking” on the door. Darzhee Kut roused out of his trancelike stare into the room’s far corner. For many days, he had not heard a knock on a door. When his questioners entered, they gave no warning. They determined when he slept, when he ate, when he was allowed to speak, when not. They arrived at different times, in different numbers, with different questions. And they never, ever, addressed him by name or title, although they often left one of their number behind. He was rarely allowed to be alone. Whether that was out of consideration for his species’ monophobia or to prevent him from doing harm to himself was unclear.

But a knock on the door. One would not knock unless one was intrinsically conferring the right of choice to the person on the other side of the door, whether to admit the visitor or not. And that meant it was not improbable that, at last, he was being visited by—

He chittered a permission to enter. Caine Riordan appeared through the opening hatch. “Darzhee Kut,” the human said. It sounded more like a question than a greeting.

“Caine Riordan.”

“I am glad to see that you are well.”

“What you see is that I am alive. ‘Well’ is a more relative term.”

Riordan came closer. “Did they—the debriefing team—mistreat you in any way. Any way?”

“No,” Darzhee had to admit, “they did not. But I had hoped I might be able to tell you so earlier.”

Riordan looked away. “I was not able to come before now. My injuries were—severe.”

Darzhee felt his eye-lenses constrict in concern. “But you are well now, Caine Riordan?”

The human smiled. “As you observed, ‘well’ is a relative term. I am recovering.”

“I am glad to hear it. I would be interested to hear of other things, as well. Specifically, there are questions I have pondered these long months, for which I have been unable to deduce answers.”

“Questions such as… ?”

“Such as how, only a few weeks after the Convocation, Earth already had a complex sequence of deceptions ready for us, and how it was already prepared to wage war?”

The human leaned his back—carefully—against the wall. “I can’t share all the details with you, but for quite some time, influential persons had realized that it was very likely that we would encounter exosapients and that we might quickly find ourselves at war with them. So, starting about five years ago, serious war preparation began, mostly under the cover of other activities. Antimatter production was increased to ensure extensive operating surpluses. There was a major influx of discretionary funds funneled surreptitiously into the construction of new classes of capital ships, stockpiles of nuke-pumped X-ray laser drones, a new generation of control sloops, defense ships cored out of asteroids, massive cislunar drone inventories, expansion of commando units with zero-gee training, cutting-edge vertibirds and interceptors. It was necessary to establish many of these industries outside our home system. In particular, we developed a great deal of dirtside and spaceside industry in Delta Pavonis, using the system-wide quarantine that was in place from 2118 onward as an intelligence blackout curtain behind which we could conceal these activities.”

“I suppose that would explain why the Ktoran’s human collaborators were largely unaware of these activities. You are to be congratulated on your talent for deception. We were too often taken in by your ruses and decoys. But the loss of your fleet near Jupiter: there were no decoys there.”

Riordan nodded. “There couldn’t be. We knew you’d have ample time to conduct post-action forensics once you were in our home system, so there, everything had to be authentic. So we accepted those losses in advance, and figured that the fight-to-the-finish you got at Jupiter would further convince you that our desperation was absolute. And if you picked up any survivors of those craft, that was exactly what they believed.”

Darzhee Kut bobbed, but there was one thing that still mystified him—had mystified all of his rock-siblings. “These notes ring true and obvious, now that we see how they were sounded, and why. But I am still perplexed: how did your relief fleet know to come to Earth when it did, and how did it arrive so quickly? I remember that you had one shift-carrier—the Tankyū-sha Maru—accelerating to preshift velocities when we arrived in the system. But it only shifted out less than an hour before your whole fleet shifted in to counterattack us in cislunar space. How is that possible? Our intelligence on your shift capabilities is not in error. It takes at least thirty-two days for you to build up sufficient kinetic energy to initiate your shift. How did your counterattacking fleet do it in mere minutes?”

The human smiled. “It didn’t have to build up the kinetic energy. The fleet was already traveling at preshift velocity.”

Darzhee Kut saw the answer—so simple, so elegant—with great suddenness. It was as though he had been deaf, but now regained his hearing from this clap of revelatory thunder. “Roof rock. Now I see it. Your ships were all preaccelerated. They were merely awaiting the word to return to your home system.”

“Just so. We used the same strategy to cut other key communication intervals down to minutes or hours. For instance, when you arrived in Barnard’s Star, you may remember detecting a shift-vessel almost fully preaccelerated, in the far outer system?”

“Yes, of course. The Prometheus, I believe.”

“Correct. And when it shifted, it went straight to Ross 154.”

“Which we sent part of our fleet to interdict.”

“As we would have, in your place. But that’s why there was already another preaccelerated shift carrier waiting in Ross 154.”

“And the ship from Ross 154?”

“It hopped to the system we designate as Lalande 21185, which is where we had stashed all the ships and crews you thought you destroyed at Barnard’s Star. That unit—Relief Task Force One—immediately began to load all ordnance and units, and secure for pre-shift acceleration. That was on November 26. They attained preshift velocity on New Year’s Day, and then they waited.”

Darzhee Kut bobbed. “They waited for the Tankyū-sha Maru, the shift-carrier that jumped out from your home system on the day of their attack. Which must have had a time-based estimate of where your fleet was in Lalande 21185. And so it was able to deliver the message swiftly.”

“Correct. And when Relief Task Force One arrived near Earth, that started the clock ticking for all the surprises we sprung on you on Java.”

Darzhee Kut considered. “Even without the Dornaani device in your arm, you might have won.”

Caine shrugged again. “Possibly. But it would have been a much, much costlier battle.”

“True. Caine Riordan, I must ask. How many of my rock-siblings in space had their songs stilled by the Final—by their own claws?”

The human seemed to study him closely. “Less than a dozen of your major ships refrained from destroying themselves after the surrender.”

“Which your people no doubt saw as treachery, as a ploy to lure your boarding teams to their deaths.”

“Yes, it seemed that way.”

“Did they not understand that it was not our intent to destroy your people? That, because your computer virus paralyzed our ships, we had no way to scuttle them until after your soldiers had commandeered them?”

“Some knowledgeable—and calm—people concede that your actions may not have been intended to harm us. But even they do not understand why all the Arat Kur would be so determined to kill themselves.”

“But you do.”

“I might.”

“You must! You heard our discussions in the headquarters, the careless talk. You know that we remember your race, and what it did, even if your own people do not.”

“Darzhee Kut, in the epoch during which you claim your race was destroyed, the people of Earth had not yet even learned to navigate the oceans of our planet.”

“Then it may not have been humans from Earth, but descendants of populations taken from there in earlier times. But what does it matter which star the ravagers of my planet were born beneath? Their blood is your blood.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“How can I not? I have seen the pictures painted in the deepest refuge-caves. There is no mistaking the shape of your species depicted as our destroyers, more than fifteen thousand of your years ago.” He stilled his claws. “And now you are back among the stars. But enough of the past. What has happened since you defeated the forces we brought to your home system?”

“The smaller fleet you sent to Ross 154 destroyed our military facilities there, and then withdrew after deploying a Hkh’Rkh shift-carrier for raiding down the Big Green Main. Meanwhile, the Slaasriithi stepped up pressure along your common border, putting you on the defensive.”

Darzhee Kut couldn’t decide whether he should be amused or annoyed at the human’s claims. “And how would you know all this? You speak of places more than a dozen shifts distant from your homeworld.”

The human stared. “The Custodians have been most helpful with intelligence.”

Darzhee Kut felt a small, coiling worm-twist in his abdomen. “The Custodians are to remain neutral.”

“Unless the Twenty-first Accord is violated. Which you did. And the Dornaani are too busy to correct all the recent abuses to the Accords on their own.”

“So you have been deputized by the Custodians?”

“That isn’t possible, since we were never confirmed as members of the Accord.”

The abdominal squirm doubled. “Then you are operating without constraint?”

“We are, but that would ultimately be your doing, wouldn’t it? We tried—very hard—to convince you that we should be made members of the Accord. You refused.”

Darzhee Kut let his limbs slump. “When the truth is sung clearly, there are no counterpoints with which it may be confounded. It is as you say: we are the architects of our own problems.”

“I am glad you see it that way, Darzhee Kut. And I am hoping that you can convince your leaders to see the current situation similarly.”

“Why? Are we to journeying to meet representatives of the Homenest? And you wish my assistance?”

“That is correct.”

“I am flattered, but, in truth, you do not need me. The Homenest’s leaders have adequate translation devices and they will listen to your words.”

“They have not done so thus far.”

Darzhee Kut felt the wormlike sensation move up higher, into his second stomach. “You speak as though you are already in contact with them.”

“We are.”

The worm twitched its tail as he asked the next, inevitable question, suddenly dreading the answer, on the verge of vertigo, the universe suddenly adrift and unsteady. “Where are we?”

“We are in a far orbit about your homeworld.”

Darzhee Kut rose slowly from his comfortable crouch. “That cannot be. By counting meals and sleep cycles, I estimate it has been ninety-five days since we departed your home system.”

“That’s an excellent estimate, Darzhee Kut. This is the ninety-third day.”

“Then it is impossible for you to have reached Homenest, or what you call Sigma Draconis Two. Even for us, with our greater shift range and shorter preacceleration times, it would take much longer to make such a journey. And for your ships, the fastest way to reach us still required nine shifts. The better part of a year.”

“You know the star charts, and their strategic implications, perfectly, Darzhee Kut. But that is not the course we took to get to Sigma Draconis Two.”

Darzhee found that the six claws holding him up were tense, quivering. “It is the only one you can take, the only one possible for your technology.”

“For our technology, yes. For Dornaani technology, no.”

Darzhee Kut felt the cold floor come up under him, slap his belly-plate. “They modified your engines.”

“No, just the Wasserman field-effect generator. And they could only do it to certain of our shift-carriers—the Commonwealth, Federation, and Union designs were advanced enough to make use of the greater control and precision of the Dornaani guidance, containment, and navigation systems.”

Darzhee Kut saw the room again, as if it was reappearing from out of a fog. “So, you made deep-space shifts.”

“Correct. From Earth we shifted to a deep space site with two carriers—one from TOCIO, one a commandeered CoDevCo ship—carrying nothing but fuel. They served as tankers for the rest of our fleet, which shifted on to V1581 Cygni2.”

“Which is only eight light-years from Homenest.”

“Eight point two five, to be exact.”

Rotting flesh and plague, it is true. Humans are hovering over Homenest. The ravagers had returned, after having repulsed an invasion of their homeworld. Darzhee Kut felt lower digestive juices rise through the valves that led into his first stomach, clamped them down. “How many ships?” It came out sounding like a pebble-choked gargle.

Riordan shrugged. “Five shift carriers—two Commonwealth, two Federation, one Union—fitted to capacity with capital ships, ordnance, transatmospheric attack craft, commandos. And we used two of your shift-carriers, as well.”

Darzhee Kut felt his eyelenses grind against each other until they were a quivering, locked collection of plates. The world was an amber blur. “Two of our shift carriers?”

“Yes, one of which was your orbital flotilla’s command ship. We loaded it with a mix of our warcraft and yours.”

“But surely none of my rock-siblings would help you by—”

“No. The Dornaani provided us with control interfaces. We are running the craft ourselves.”

Darzhee Kut half-turned toward the wall again. Zkhee’ah Drur the Elder had once observed that while one is yet alive to complain of misfortune, the greatest of all misfortunes has not yet occurred. But this turn of affairs seemed very close to disproving that ancient axiom. “I take it that using our ships has made the invasion of our systems much easier.”

“Yes, although there wasn’t much of a fight in V1581 Cygni2. Only minor defense elements were present, no shift ships. But lots of useful intelligence. Then we shifted here. That was a sharper fight.”

“I’m surprised you won.”

“Well, since your leaders didn’t think we could hop straight into their laps, they kept most of your defense fleet at AC+54 1646-56. That’s the system that controls the route you, and they, presumed we would have to take.”

“That is only one shift away from Homenest, for our ships.”

“Precisely. That’s why we had to hit you hard and fast here in your home system. We didn’t want anyone shifting out and calling for help. So we used the ships we captured from you as lures.”

“Lures?”

Riordan nodded. “We made it seem like they were still your ships, returning from Earth. Your ships and command personnel took the bait. All but delivered themselves to us on a silver platter.”

“The story you tell is not possible. You would not have been believed, for you did not have our passwords.”

Caine Riordan looked away. “Actually, we did.”

Darzhee Kut rose on his front claws. “They were not stored in our computers, and those of my rock-siblings who had been entrusted with the knowing of them would never have surrendered them willingly to you.”

“They didn’t surrender them—willingly.”

Darzhee Kut’s antenna yanked into his carapace reflexively. Sun-timing, blood-drenched savages. “Your race is unchanged.”

Riordan nodded. “That may be true. But this time, it was my race’s homeworld that was threatened, invaded, fought over. Between the resentment over that, and a widespread feeling that the Arat Kur deserve whatever happens to them, there have been several acts—crimes—against your rock-siblings which are terribly wrong.”

“And will those who performed these actions pay for them?”

“Maybe. Or they might get medals. It is too early to say. At any rate, once we engaged your home defense fleet, the battle lasted about four hours.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. We had all your codes and passwords. Also, from your intact ships, we got a pretty complete picture of how you train your personnel, how you fight wars, how you try to trick adversaries, what you fear and how you try to minimize your weaknesses. Accordingly, our fleet was carrying a quadruple load of extremely heavy ordnance, particularly tactical nuclear missiles and nuke-pumped X-ray laser drones. Altogether, it made for a fairly short battle. Which was good, given how close your other fleet is.”

“And that is why you need me to talk to my leaders. Because despite your victory, you have limited time.”

“Exactly. If we assume that you, too, keep preaccelerated ships as waiting couriers, then news of the attack here could have arrived at AC+54 1646-56 two days ago. Now, best guess and captured intelligence both project that there will be a minimum two-week delay between the time your other fleet gets the message and their earliest arrival here. Which means capitulation must be secured before then.”

Darzhee Kut stared at the human. “And why do you think I will help you to enslave my people? And probably destroy them?”

Riordan rose, came closer, sat within reach of his claws. “Darzhee Kut, I am trying to keep your people from being destroyed. That’s why I need your help.”

“Your tunes are discordant. If my people refuse to capitulate, it is because they are gambling—rightly—that you humans will not want to land and fight in our subterranean home. And it would take a long time—too long—to bomb us into submission, living as we do miles beneath the surface. Besides, I doubt the Dornaani will allow that.”

“Darzhee Kut, everything you say is true, but you must convince your leaders to surrender.”

Darzhee Kut remained silent, hoped the human had learned that this was a polite rejection of his exhortation.

Riordan hung his head a moment, and then looked up. His eyes seemed oddly lusterless. “Very well. You’ll need to see this.” He produced a palmtop, pushed a button on its screen.

Which winked awake, showing four humans holding down a limp Arat Kur, a fifth squirting a mist into its alimentary openings and eyes. It did not seem particularly painful, but the Arat Kur flinched away.

The scene changed, and a timecode at the bottom indicated that just under three hours had elapsed. The Arat Kur was now moving listlessly, unsteadily, ultimately staggering to a halt against a wall.

The next scene was arresting. The Arat Kur was writhing in the far corner, chittering in a puddle of its own filth. Its shell was peeling, its eye covers seemed dry and unable to close, and the soft tissue around its mouth had become a faint, crusty mauve.

Oh First Mother of us all, no—!

The last scene confirmed Darzhee Kut’s fear. The Arat Kur—now barely recognizable as such—spasmed, shuddered so hard that one of his back-plates sprang free, exposing his endodermis to air, fluid spraying. He shrilled, antennae jerking in and out of their sleeves asynchronously. Then a blast of circulatory and digestive fluids erupted from both his mouth and his alimentary endpoint and he was still. The image froze. According to the timecode on the bottom, eight hours and thirteen minutes had elapsed since he had been exposed to the mist.

By all Mothers— He looked directly into Riordan’s eyes. “No. You would not do this.”

“I would not do any of this. But my people would.”

Judging from the disease-ravaged Arat Kur corpse frozen on the palmtop’s screen, evidently they would. “You recreated the plague.”

“Yes. Using cyst samples, we reverse-engineered it to its original state. Here’s how I believe the military will deliver it: our fleet would take up station-keeping for sustained bombardment of your homeworld. Ultimately, we will overwhelm your defensive systems. Fairly easy, now that we understand their particular vulnerabilities.

“In the midst of this barrage, we will seed in some plague rockets with penetrator warheads. Most will explode and deliver the pathogen via aerosol dispersion upon attaining subterranean chambers. Follow-up missiles will probably burrow right in behind them, carrying a payload of microbots which, once released, will carry packets of the disease at least fifty kilometers from the impact site and start disseminating it based on sensor contacts with primary vectors for infection: water supplies, foodstuffs, breeding crèches.”

Breeding crèches: Darzhee Kut’s second stomach partially refluxed into his primary stomach. He looked at the disease-ravaged corpse frozen like death itself on the palmtop’s screen. “And was it necessary to use innocents as test subjects?”

The human shrugged. “I wonder if the word ‘innocent’ applies to anyone involved in this war. However, the three prisoners who were subjected to the test were among those who had capitulated on false pretenses, in order to ambush and kill our boarding teams when we overwhelmed your forces at V1581 Cygni2. At any rate, beyond the question of innocence, a live test was deemed necessary by our generals.”

“And you agree with them?”

Caine looked away. “I’ve stopped agreeing with any of this—what my people do, and what your people do—a long time ago. However, there is a certain grim logic behind their decision.”

“Which was to make sure that it worked in a ‘field trial’?”

Caine nodded. “And there was concern that if your leaders did not receive irrefutable evidence of the disease and its course—precisely how it works, right down to the smallest details of the changes in Arat Kur biochemistry—then they might question whether we had really reengineered it. They could have conjectured that we were bluffing: that we found the cysts, realized what they implied genetically, but were unable to actually produce the pathogen.”

Darzhee Kut’s claws sagged. The human was probably right. “But with precise clinical observations of the stages of the disease, a genetic map of the virus in all its various stages, and this—demonstration—of its weaponization, then they would know that you had created the organism and observed it through a full course of its life cycle in a host.”

“Yes.”

“As you say, I revile the decision, but I fear that your generals may have been right in their apprehension: just as they were ruthless enough to develop and test the virus, the leaders of the Wholenest might well have been willing to gamble the billions of Arat Kur on the homeworld by ‘calling your bluff,’ as you say. And they will discover that you shall do to us what we, in your system, repeatedly refused to do to you—despite the incessant urging of the Hkh’Rkh.”

“A just remonstration. But here’s a just question for you to consider in return. If your leaders regained an advantage, would they not return to Earth and now do exactly what the Hkh’Rkh urged them to do?”

“Yes, probably—but Caine Riordan, you must know that I would never agree to such an atrocity.”

“Unfortunately, you do not speak for the Wholenest, any more than I speak for the World Confederation. We must guess what those above us will do, based on the events and fears which have now accumulated. And I know this. If your fleet returns before you surrender control of your defenses and communities to us, then it is we who might well be destroyed. We cannot expect to gain the upper hand against your race a second time. So our victory must be won now, or become a disastrous defeat, ending in the reinvasion of Earth.”

Riordan leaned forward urgently. “Even the most moderate of my people are willing to take any steps necessary to ensure that you do not invade us again. Most will simply accept your surrender and sufficient concessions. But some—and their voices are growing louder and more convincing with every passing hour—counsel that there is only one way to be sure.” The human looked meaningfully at the image on the screen of his palmtop.

The dirt-cursed Hur and their caste-stubbornness! Do they really think that the humans would hover over Homenest with no better weapon than a bluff? “After what happened to the fleet they sent to invade Earth, the Wholenest leaders still will not listen?”

Riordan shook his head. “They refuse to believe our story of what transpired on Earth. Their answer to the first communiqué—the only response we have ever received from them—was that it was ‘impossible’ that we had repulsed your invasion, and therefore, they suspected that our arrival in your home system was part of an elaborate ruse to get them to surrender when they did not actually need to. They told us they would not respond again unless it were to speak to Hu’urs Khraam.”

“I am not he.”

“No, but you are the one he designated Delegate Pro Tem at the minute of his death. You are senior among the Arat Kur who have survived; who but you may speak?”

“My caste is insufficient. I am but an Ee’ar. They will not listen to me. It was why the Shipmasters did not listen to me when I rescinded the—when I called for them to desist scuttling their vessels. It will be no different here.”

“You cannot know that if you do not try.”

“I am weary of trying and failing. But I will try… try…” Darzhee Kut felt his claws, and then his legs, begin to grow numb. It was the onset of fugue-torpor, induced by the emotional shock of what he had seen, had heard. How to explain that to a human? “Depression and mental shock” explained the sensation, but wholly missed the physical inescapability of the phenomenon, once its onset had commenced. “But later. I… am weary. For now. Find someone else. To speak to the leaders. Of the. Wholenest.”

He turned to the wall, and allowed the cycles of sound to build within his inner ears, taking comfort and refuge in the waves of smoothly repetitive tones he heard/felt/tasted there—since he was now capable of little else.

Through those sine-waves of solace, he thought he heard Caine Riordan speak again. “Darzhee Kut, if you do not speak, your planet—your race—may die. Please, consider again: speak to your world, to your people.”

Darzhee Kut tried to listen more closely to Caine, but fell into the rhythm of the soothing cycles, wandered lost among the rolling peaks and valleys of the gentle tones manufactured by self-created changes in the air pressure between his own multiple ear-drums.

Chapter Fifty-Six

The guard saluted as Caine left the room, then smartly resecured the hatch with the crisp, focused motions of a rating who was being observed during inspection. How the hell do they even know I held a rank? Caine returned the salute, turned the corner to return to his room—and came face to face with Alnduul.

“It is pleasant meeting you here, Caine Riordan.”

“It pleases me to see you also, Alnduul. What brings you to the secure section of the ship?”

“You do, Caine Riordan. It is where I was told I would find you.”

Ah. “Will you walk with me as I return to my quarters?”

“I would be glad to walk with you, Caine Riordan, but I bring news that Confederation Consuls Sukhinin and Visser wish to meet with you in the forward conference suite. I hoped we might walk there together.”

And work a little of that subtle Dornaani discursive magic as we go, eh? “Let us walk, then.”

As they walked, Caine waited, counting off the seconds. Had he been asked to guess, he would have predicted a prefatory fifteen-second silence.

Just as Caine mentally ticked off “seventeen,” Alnduul asked, “The Arat Kur persist in their refusal to return your communiqués?”

“So I am told.”

“And Delegate Kut cannot intercede?”

“He does not believe he can. And he seems to have become physically indisposed. I witnessed something similar when he was isolated prior to our rescue at Barnard’s Star. But this time, there was no apparent causal trauma.”

“I see. And you? Are you quite well?”

“Er… yes.” Caine wished Alnduul had asked one of his maddeningly oblique questions, instead. This jarringly sudden—and apparently dispassionate—shift to personal pleasantries made Riordan wonder if Dornaani calm also concealed an almost sociopathic detachment. “You tried talking to the Arat Kur? No progress? Ho hum, I suppose their species has to die, then. Such a pity.” But Caine simply added, “I’m okay.”

Alnduul nodded. “Clearly, the hepatic regrowth agents are proving efficacious. This is gratifying to me.”

“Well, that’s nothing compared to how gratified my people must be that you decided to come to Earth after all.”

“I regret having to deny my intent to travel to Earth after the Convocation, but Mr. Downing asserted that possible leaks in your intelligence structure made it imperative that my visit remain a secret. Had the Arat Kur learned of our presence, they might have become far more cautious. Consequently, the outcome of the conflict might have been far less decisive.”

“You must have brought a fair amount of equipment with you as well.”

“We did, but why do you so conjecture?”

“Well, it stands to reason, given how you were able to accede to our request to give our ships the ability to counterattack the Arat Kur. I imagine that it requires a number of fairly bulky subsystems to modify our carriers for shifts to and from deep space.”

Alnduul’s eyelids nictated once. “Apologies, but I must correct your surmise, Caine Riordan. It was not your leaders who asked for the deep space shift modifications. We Custodians offered this assistance. Indeed, it was one of the primary reasons I was sent to your world.”

“So you didn’t come in the role of a diplomat, but as a techno-military adviser.”

“Let us say my mission was multifaceted.”

“With an emphasis on ensuring that we could adequately defend ourselves.”

“In truth, I was not overly concerned about the success of your defensive efforts. After considerable study, we were confident that, once the device in your arm came within a few meters of a suitable computer, the Arat Kur defeat was certain.”

“So what was your primary mission?”

Alnduul waved lazily about him. “To see to your arrival here. Dornaan wished to be certain of swift success against the Ktor, and this necessitated that we keep our strength massed near our borders with them. The Slaasriithi are not particularly experienced or adept at military endeavors, so it fell to us to provide Earth with the means of sending her most advanced shift-carriers on a strategic counteroffensive into Arat Kur space.”

“And here we are.”

“It is as you say. And our plans have largely unfolded as we envisioned. Your attack has caught the Arat Kur off-guard and they have lost the military initiative. I feel confident that they will never regain it and that you will use this moment to cripple their ability to make war for several decades to come. And it is a near-certainty that, upon learning of the capitulation of the Arat Kur homeworld, the Ktor will propose a truce and the process of rapprochement will begin.”

“Well, let’s hope the Arat Kur will surrender.” Riordan watched Alnduul’s face for any sign of a matching concern, any hint of alarm that the subtle charnel smell of genocide was seeping into the void left by the Arat Kur’s diplomatic silence.

But Alnduul merely responded, “Let us so hope. But regardless, your mastery of the situation is clear and the outcome is certain. And most gratifying.”

“Gratifying in what way?”

“Is it not obvious? Your foes thought to defeat you with surprise attacks and trickery, but found themselves overmatched by your own cunning use of the same tactics. You have indeed proven the wisdom of your race’s the axiom that, sometimes, one must fight fire with fire.”

Caine started. “You used that same phrase, right after Convocation, when you tried to warn me that war might be coming. And Nolan Corcoran used it just after Parthenon.” He turned to watch Alnduul’s features. “I’ve always wondered: did you use that phrase because Nolan had used it in conversation with me, several times before?”

“We Custodians are privy to many conversations between humans. It is difficult to keep track of all of them.”

Caine stopped walking. “Alnduul, don’t play games with me. I’ve tolerated your many oblique intimations and fortune-cookie axioms, but this time—this one time—I want a straight answer. You knew Nolan said that to me right before he died, didn’t you?”

Alnduul’s eyelids nictated once, slowly. “I—we—did.”

Caine spoke through the shiver that had spread cold fingers across his back. “We were alone when Nolan said it. No one else heard.”

“Yet we know.”

“But how—?”

Alnduul’s hand came up. “I answered your question. It was insightful and has revealed much to you. It suggests much more. But I will not answer questions pertaining to our methods.”

But suddenly, Caine was sure. “It was Nolan’s implant, wasn’t it?”

Alnduul’s lids fluttered.

“That organism in his chest wasn’t just to help his heart, was it? It gave you a means of exerting subtle control over him, possibly through timely alterations of body chemistry—”

Alnduul’s lamprey mouth straightened into a ghastly rictus. “We would not do what you imply.”

“No? Isn’t that just the kind of long-term strategy you’d use to control the Hkh’Rkh, maybe even the Arat Kur?”

“Nolan Corcoran was a balanced being and a visionary among your kind. We control only those organisms which we deem, after long observation and innumerable confirmations, to be irremediable destabilizers of their own and others’ environments.”

“Yet you Dornaani manage to get humans to add all sorts of implants to each other, don’t you?”

“Our perspective on these—interventions—is that we provide assistance when it is essential, and only to ameliorate crises that would not have occurred had it not been for our own failings as Custodians. Nolan Corcoran should never have had to intercept what you call the Doomsday Rock. Your planet should never have been left defenseless after Convocation. We attempted to compensate for these failures using the smallest, least obtrusive, methods at our disposal.”

“So you say. And I still don’t understand how the hell you pulled off getting that organism into Nolan years before you even contacted us.”

Their walk had finally brought them into the busy corridors of the command disk at the bow of the shift-carrier. “There is much you do not understand about us yet, Caine Riordan. It is probable that this will ever be the case. We prefer it that way.”

“In other words, you prefer that we humans remain easier to control. Excuse my bluntness. Allow me to rephrase: Our ignorance of your methods makes us easier to ‘guide in positive directions.’”

“Yes, although that is not the reason for remaining reticent in regards to our methods.”

“Then what is the reason?”

Alnduul looked squarely at Caine, who believed he had started to understand enough of the facial expressions of the Dornaani to read this one. A mighty attempt to repress impatient paternalism. “Caine Riordan, you have learned you have a thirteen-year-old son, have you not?”

“I have.”

“And, assuming he has been trained in its use and safety, would you trust him with that sidearm?” The Dornaani’s eye’s flicked down at the Unitech ten-millimeter that had been issued to Caine as a mandatory part of his daily dress.

“Well—if there was sufficient reason, yes.”

“Let us say you had been fortunate enough to know your son as a two-year-old, a ‘toddler,’ in your vernacular. Would you have trusted him with your sidearm at that time?”

“I would have to be insane to do such a thing.”

“As we would have to be insane to entrust humans with all our methods, our secrets, and our technologies. Of course, restricting access to objects does not reduce the curiosity of the two-year-old, nor their eagerness to handle objects that they associate with those older then they—even if told that the objects would be lethal to them.”

Caine didn’t want to smile, but found he couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from rising slightly. “So, you’re telling me not to get too big for my diapers.”

Alnduul’s nose and mouth puckered together in puzzlement, then unfurled into an amused twist. “Beings that can laugh at themselves, particularly their own foibles, stand the greatest chance of attaining wisdom.” He stopped at the door to the conference suite. “Enter first. I will join you shortly.” His mouth still twisted, Alnduul spread his arms very slowly, but angled them toward the human, thereby converting the generic Dornaani farewell gesture into a very personal one. “Enlightenment unto you, Caine Riordan.”

Caine spread his arms in return. “And unto you, Alnduul.”

Whose lids nictated once before he turned and moved away with the strange grace of a flat- (and slightly web-) footed ballet dancer. Caine watched the strange silhouette recede for a moment before turning to enter the conference suite.

The dominant feature of the room—the vast arc of the gallery viewport—was mostly filled with the black of space. The stars were faint against the contrasting brightness of Sigma Draconis, which was mirrored in the polished teak conference table and bathed the chrome fittings in rusty gold. In the lower left quadrant of the near-panoramic viewport was a small but bright gibbous ball: the second planet, Homenest. A few particularly bright stars seemed to be in motion around it, all tracking in roughly the same direction: various other ships of the fleet, tucked extremely close to each other, most at intervals of less than a thousand kilometers. The vastness of the room was not only magnified by this window unto infinity, but by the small number of occupants, which left it an empty, echoing cavern.

Caine started toward the two figures situated on a small platform overlooking the observation gallery which followed along the lower edger of the viewport. “Hello,” he called toward them, “I came as soon as I heard you needed me.”

The biggest silhouette turned, revealed its face: Sukhinin. The shorter one beside him did so as well: Visser. And down in the gallery, revealed in the gap between them—

Caine stopped in midstep. “What the hell is that doing here?”

“Caine—now, be calm. We had to—”

The faint wisps of vapor tendrilling off the side of the Ktoran environmental unit looked serpentine, viperous. “I don’t care what you had to do. Get that thing out of here.” Two Marine guards—one Canadian, one US—were also down on the gallery level, standing slightly behind the Ktor. Its treads and outsize water-tank made it too large to fit on the platform upon which the two Consuls stood.

“Mr. Riordan,” Visser’s syllables were Berliner-precise and clipped, “my sincere apologies. We had hoped to get word to you that Ambassador Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses was going to be joining us.”

Caine did not want to move closer—which was why he forced himself to advance down to the droplet-beaded environmental tank. “Apt-Counsel is not an ambassador; he is an assassin. Although for all we know, in his culture, those might be the same profession.”

The translator rendered Apt-Counsel’s voice as a soothing baritone. “With respect, Mr. Riordan, I seem to recall learning that you were involved in combat yourself that day. Even though you were an ambassador.”

“Yes, I was involved in combat—after my Hkh’Rkh ‘guards’ tried to filet me and I had to flee the command center. What was your excuse?”

“From what I heard of your conversation with Darzhee Kut, you were attempting to secure further capitulations and seizures of Arat Kur shift-hulls. The more of those which fell into human hands, the greater the peril to our allies and ultimately ourselves. I acted to disrupt, and hopefully defeat, that process.”

“So you took on a combat role without being forced into it or physically provoked or endangered.”

“At that one instant, yes.”

“Sorry, Apt-Counsel. Diplomatic immunity and status is like virginity: once you give it up, you can’t get it back.”

Sukhinin had flushed a very dark shade of red. “Da, Caine. This is how it has ever been, as it should ever be. But…”

“But you’ve made an exception this time, haven’t you?”

Visser straightened her five foot, five inches to ramrod attention. “The World Confederation’s Council did not wish to, but ultimately, we had no choice. Ambassador Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses is the only representative of his species anywhere near Earth—”

—so far as you know or he admits—

“—and his diplomatic credentials were among the dozen or so presented to us at Convocation as possible future liaisons. He is authorized to speak for his people, and may thus be instrumental in ending this war, particularly if he can help persuade the Arat Kur that they must concede. We had no choice but to reextend his diplomatic privileges. He has given his word that he will not abuse them again.”

So now he’s promised he’ll behave. I feel safer already. Aloud: “So, now he’s going to help us?”

“I will do what I can to bring an end to these hostilities,” Apt-Counsel supplied.

“Oh, good—because I was afraid you might be here to stab us in the back. Just a figure of speech, you understand.”

Caine had the impression that Visser was going to stamp her foot. “Mr. Riordan, please!”

“It is quite all right, Consul Visser. I can hardly expect Mr. Riordan to feel otherwise. Although, for my part, Mr. Riordan, I am glad to see that you are on your feet and almost recovered.”

“Why? Looking to get in a little more target practice with your trick arm?”

“Mr. Riordan, you may find it improbable, but, since my side lost, I am glad that you survived my attack. I am sorry to have made it at all.”

“Sure. None of us likes failure.”

“No, Mr. Riordan. That is not my reason. I accept that in war there must be loss of life and, often, duplicity. But that makes it no less regrettable. In your case, had you been killed in Jakarta, it would have made no difference to the current outcome. And so, your death would have been pointless. I am glad, therefore, in retrospect, that you survived.”

“How very rational of you, Apt-Counsel.”

“Despite your clearly sarcastic intent, I thank you.”

Always the unflappable smooth talker, aren’t you, Apt-Counsel? If I remember my Bible stories a-right, some other indefatigable plotter of humanity’s downfall evinced that very same attribute, along with being the Prince of Lies. Caine turned to Sukhinin. “So, has Apt-Counsel managed to thaw the current state of affairs with the Arat Kur?”

The Russian, his hair streaked with far more white and gray than when Caine had last seen him, shook his head; his jowls waggled to emphasize the negative. “No, nothing yet. He has tried to contact the leadership of the Wholenest. They will not respond.”

“Not even to ask for proof of his identity?”

“No response whatsoever.”

“That is hardly surprising, Mr. Riordan,” explained Apt-Counsel. “Since the Arat Kur have not seen Ktorans any more than your race has, you yourselves could manufacture a device such as my suit to dupe them. And how would they know the difference until it was too late? The Arat Kur seem to be quite suspicious of such attempts at deception.”

Caine kept his focus on Sukhinin. “And that’s it? No other insights from our esteemed and trustworthy Ktoran ambassador?”

“Nothing, except he too agrees that the situation is hopeless.”

“He what?”

Apt-Counsel rolled about a foot closer to the platform. Caine watched for the angle of the manipulator arm, saw that it had not been replaced. And saw that the other arm was missing as well: a prudent precaution. “We Ktor have dealt with the Arat Kur far longer than you have. We know their speciate tendencies and characteristics. They do not act or decide rashly, but once they have, they are slow to change.”

Sukhinin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Caine, you know how this standoff must end. Even if we wished to do otherwise—and I do not intend to leave this system until the Arat Kur are no longer a threat—we are under orders from the Confederation Council. The final contingency, which was approved unanimously, is quite clear.”

“Wholesale murder of an entire species.”

Visser closed her eyes. “Mr. Riordan, none of us like this alternative, but we have already exceeded the maximum time allowed for negotiation and capitulation. We must act in accordance with our orders. And as Apt-Counsel has pointed out, we may have less time than our analysts originally conjectured.”

“Oh? How so?”

Apt-Counsel’s voice was smooth and unperturbed. “Your command staff’s assessment on the disposition of the Arat Kur fleet in AC+54 1646-56 presumed that it would either be completely preaccelerated, or completely in defensive station-keeping. We have observed that Arat Kur defense postures are not always so uniform. For instance, the majority of their fleet might remain in a ready posture, but a small number of hulls might be preaccelerated, to function either individually as couriers, or collectively as a small strike squadron.”

“And do we think that a small strike squadron could destroy us so easily?” Caine looked from Visser to Sukhinin.

The Russian frowned and shrugged. “Who can say? And what if the Arat Kur have not used all their drones here? What if some are still hidden, such as we had on Luna?”

“But I thought that the number of drones we destroyed here met, and even slightly exceeded, the numbers we expected to find, based on captured Arat Kur force-deployment rosters.”

“Da, that is true. But what if their line commanders were not provided with full accountings of the reserve forces? If that is the case, a small strike squadron could arrive, activate a second wave of hidden defense drones, and damage us so badly that we cannot finish our job here.”

Caine nodded, but thought, Something’s not right here. Apt-Counsel has got Visser and Sukhinin panicked. Me too, almost. And that means we’re probably not thinking clearly. He turned to the Ktor. “I find this all a bit strange, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Admittedly, it would be unusual for the Arat Kur to have a strike force preaccelerated—”

“That’s not what I mean, Apt-Counsel. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be the Arat Kurs’ ally?”

There was a long silence. “Yes.”

“Then I’m a little puzzled. I understand why you are trying to help us contact the Wholenest leadership, but I don’t see how sharing your knowledge of Arat Kur military protocols is consistent with your role as their ‘ally.’”

“My earlier misdeeds made it incumbent upon me to make an extraordinary show of good faith. Strategically significant revelations were the only way I could readily earn your trust. Also, by presenting all the dangerous and uncertain military variables, it underscored the volatility of the situation. That, in turn, would logically make both parties see the urgency of reaching a peaceful settlement as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, I did not foresee that I would be ignored or rebuffed by the Arat Kur leadership.”

Every explanation seems plausible, but still—

The door opened. Ben Hwang entered, Darzhee Kut after him. Alnduul brought up the rear. Sukhinin, seeing Darzhee Kut, straightened, suddenly a redoubtable general of the Motherland. Caine could almost see the absent uniform and the litter of medals jostling for position on the left side of his chest. “Dr. Hwang, Ambassador Alnduul, at best, you failed to request permission to enter. At worst, you have brought a sworn enemy into a highly classified briefing and discussion.”

Darzhee Kut’s claws scissored and waved fitfully, far more animated than they had seemed to Caine only half an hour earlier. It was as if the Arat Kur had awakened out of a haze or a drugged state, just as he had when he recovered from his extended isolation on board the auxiliary command module. “Please. Do not dismiss me. I wish to talk to the Elders of the Wholenest.”

Sukhinin shook his head. “Talk is over. Now we finish what you started.”

“But I have rested enough and emerged from fugue. I am able to speak once again. I cannot be sure Homenest will listen to me, but I must try.”

Before anyone else could respond, Apt-Counsel spoke. “Delegate Kut, it pains me to observe that the only thing which has changed between now and the weeks prior is that Mr. Riordan has visited you. And from that visit, you may have inferred or learned what the humans can now do to your planet, and how close they are to carrying it out.”

“What if that is true? Is that not a reasonable motivation to speak?”

“It is also a reasonable motivation to advise your leaders to do what they have not tried yet: to engage the humans in negotiations for the purpose of stalling long enough for a strike force to arrive.”

Yeah, Apt-Counsel, but if you’re his ally, then why aren’t you helping him achieve that deception? Is this another attempt to prove your good faith by helping us—or are you jumping ship, maybe with an eye to eventually courting us as allies, the way you did at the Convocation?

Caine instinctively flinched away from that explanation. If anything, it was too simple, too obvious. But Apt-Counsel’s “observations” had galvanized human anxiety, had focused their attention upon the horrible necessity of ending the war with an act of genocide.

So, behind the first smokescreen of fear, Apt-Counsel might be indirectly trying to once again curry favor with humanity. But that, too, was too easy to foresee. So what was Apt-Counsel trying to achieve, behind both smokescreens, that would benefit the Ktor?

Darzhee Kut was rotating to face Caine, claws raised in appeal. “Riordan, please. I must speak to the Elders.”

I’ve got to intervene, but I’ve got to make sure that I’m not stepping into a trap. With the Ktor, there was always the unseen dagger, the half-lie that wasn’t clear enough to call attention to itself when first uttered. Such as Apt-Counsel’s earlier claim that he only back-shot Caine to prevent the humans from capturing the Arat Kur ships. In retrospect, that was rubbish: when the Ktor had attacked, the radio was already being made available to Darzhee Kut. So eliminating Caine was no longer a military objective when the Ktor attempted it.

Caine’s thoughts snagged on another troubling detail. Apt-Counsel’s attack also removed me before I could intercede in regard to their ground force suicides. So, another way to look at his actions would be this: after the Arat Kur ships were already lost, he was still willing to kill me to make sure that even the planetside Arat Kur died. But why?

One tentative answer offered itself. The Arat Kur suicides and ship scuttlings do have one thing in common. They ensured that human and Arat Kur would share an intense mutual hatred, that they would no longer wish to communicate their thoughts or intents to each other except through weapons of mass destruction.

A reasonable hypothesis, insofar as it explained why Apt-Counsel attacked Caine five months ago. But it did not explain why he would help humans now. Indeed, if the Ktor objective was to keep enmity absolute and war perpetual between the two races, Apt-Counsel was defeating his own purpose. If the Arat Kur were exterminated, there would be no further interspeciate conflict to exploit.

It doesn’t add up. I’m missing something. And Caine felt that as each sliver of a second slipped past, the undeterred momentum was building toward atrocity. I’ve got to do, to say, something, if only to buy some time. He turned toward Sukhinin, unsure what he was going to say, but sure that he had to intervene before—

Ben Hwang’s voice was quiet, just above a whisper, in his left ear. “Caine, do you have a moment?”

Damn. “Not really, Ben. What’s it about?”

“The Ktor.”

“Oh?” “Know thy enemy”—so always take the time to learn about them. Even now. No, particularly now. “Sure.”

Ben gestured toward the reading lounge with a bend of his head, moved in that direction. Caine followed, making an apologetic gesture toward Sukhinin.

Hwang turned to face him as soon as they were in the small lounge. “I’m sorry I didn’t have this sooner. With the push to reverse-engineer and then manufacture the Arat Kur virus—”

“I know. Not much time for the other projects you had going. But we don’t have much time now, either. What do you have on the Ktor, Ben?”

“More mysteries, I’m afraid. I’ve had our three top xenophysiologists and macromolecular chemists working on simulations and biochemical models which would show how the exhausts from the Ktor environmental unit could be produced as the waste products, the ‘exhalations,’ of an ultra-cold-temperature organism.”

“And they’re still stumped.”

“Worse than that. They’ve concluded that, according to the laws of biological heat and energy exchange as we understand them, these gases simply do not fit with any foreseeable model of life based on methane, ammonia, or hydrogen fluorine. And so far as we know, those are the only three low-temperature compounds which are flexible and volatile enough to serve as the building blocks of a subzero, non-carbon-based biochemistry.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means that either my team is not up to the task, or that these gases aren’t what the Ktor ‘exhale.’ And we know for sure they can’t be the gases they actually ‘inhale.’”

“How?”

“Because that gas mix can’t do the job of transmitting the necessary reactants to a cold-climate organism. The per molecule potential energy of cold weather gases is a great deal lower than those which are predominant in higher temperature regimes. So, according to our models, low-temperature creatures would logically need a very reactant-rich atmosphere, comparatively speaking. Unfortunately, the mix coming out of those oversized hot-water heaters couldn’t sustain a mouse-sized organism.”

Caine nodded, thought. “How confident are you of the team’s abilities?”

“Two were Nobel nominees. The third is a laureate.”

“I see. So, if we assume that your tragically underskilled team isn’t at fault, then all your findings add up to—what?”

“The first mystery.”

“There’s another?”

“Yes.” Hwang’s tone became a little more formal, a little more measured. “We have noted some oddities in Ktoran artifacture.”

“Their artifacture? Where did you find any of their artifacture lying around?”

“It was not lying around. It was embedded in your back.”

Of course. The manipulator arm would be a piece of invaluable forensic data. “Go on. What’s the mystery?”

“Its manner of production. We have subjected all of its components—the metal, plastic, and carbon-composite fittings—to extensive analysis. Everything from gross physical measurement to subatomic scans.”

“And?”

“And the lab studies return normative results on the probable fabrication processes involved in its construction. It’s just lightweight steel, with all the expected amounts of carbon, trace elements, surface annealing and ion-bonding. And atomic analysis shows that the polymers in the plastics are not synthetics. They were clearly derived from natural petroleum products. In other words, fossil fuel deposits.”

Caine frowned. “Wait a minute. If the Ktor come from a world where the life-forms are not carbon-based, then how the hell is it possible for them to have access to fossilized hydrocarbons?”

“That’s just the problem. It shouldn’t be possible, not unless the Ktor decided to go to our kind of environment to mine the components used in the creation of this object. And furthermore, they must have also decided to manufacture the arm there, too.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?”

“Because given the building blocks of life in a cold-climate biochemistry, and the indigenous atmosphere, ores, and temperatures which they imply, we should be observing different trace elements. We should also be detecting telltale signs of the different kinds of manufacturing processes which would be developed by, and used in, environments where the mean temperature is someplace south of minus-eighty Celsius. And to reemphasize your point, there shouldn’t be any fossil fuel deposits on their planets, at least not the carbon-based variety that are used to make plastics.”

“Well, as you said, Ben, they might have simply gone to a world like ours to harvest those resources.”

“Yes, but why would they? In order to travel to other worlds, the Ktor had to leave their own first. That makes it a certainty that, long before being able to mine other worlds, they had to evolve the equivalent of plastics using their own methods and resources. Meaning, by the time they had access to fossil fuels, they would no longer need them.”

Caine nodded. “And we would certainly expect to see some use of their own plastic equivalents in their artifacts.”

Hwang shrugged. “It’s what one would expect. But almost every piece of their machinery scans—and looks—like something we ourselves would have manufactured.”

“Like something we ourselves—?” And Caine felt his mind stop, spin, access a piece of data that he knew was significant even before he could reason out why. He found himself seeing the wisps of vapor curling away from Apt-Counsel’s life-support unit, found himself hearing his words again: “Since the Arat Kur have not seen Ktorans any more than your race has, you yourselves could manufacture a device such as my suit to dupe them.”

Caine stood up slowly. “Of course. Jesus Christ, of course.”

Hwang rose. “What—?”

Caine did not hear the rest; he was already through the doorway, heading straight for Apt-Counsel, but not seeing him. Instead he could almost see pieces of the puzzle in the air before him, coming together, revealing probable answers.

Sukhinin saw Caine approach, smiled, raised a hand. “Gospodin Riordan, we were—”

Caine didn’t even look at him, but came to within a meter of Apt-Counsel before stopping. “Ambassador Apt-Counsel, you have been kind enough to share your insights regarding Arat Kur military procedure and mindset. I wonder if you would be kind enough to indulge one more request for your counsel. At this point, what would you recommend we do?”

The treads on the Ktoran life-support unit reversed briefly, as though a reflex to back up had been overridden at the last second. “As a general principle, I would recommend that you adopt a policy of patience and lenience toward the Arat Kur. But I must concede that, logically, I don’t see how you can extend any more patience and lenience than you already have.”

“Ambassador Apt-Counsel, if I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like you’re agreeing that we should exterminate the Arat Kur. As their ally, I’d expect to you to arguing steadfastly against such an outcome.”

“I did so as long as I had arguments that might reasonably stay your hands. I have consistently pleaded for clemency and patience, but with each passing day, your control over the Arat Kur grows increasingly uncertain and they remain obdurate and uncommunicative. Your leaders believe their antipathy to be unremitting and thus conclude that the Wholenest would launch a genocidal reprisal against you, if given the chance. I would suggest alternate perspectives if logic revealed any. But it does not.”

“So you assert that humanity would be the target of a genocidal reprisal if we were to spare the Arat Kur?”

“It is a common-sense projection. You have reproduced the virus which can decimate their race. You also possess examples of their technology and will soon have reverse-engineered those systems with the greatest strategic significance, achieving near or full military parity with them. This means that if they are to strike back, they must do so soon, and with great finality: enough to cripple your civilization to the point of being unable to return to their Homenest.”

Caine nodded slowly. “And then there’s the unspoken variable, the one which no one told us about before all this started: the Arat Kur fear of humans in particular.”

Apt-Counsel’s translator made a sound that mimicked a sigh—poorly. “Sadly, this is true. And since the Accord forbids member-races from revealing information pertaining to any race other than itself, only the Arat Kur could reveal that they identify homo sapiens as the destroyer race of their prehistory.”

“A belief which made them extremely dependable allies, didn’t it?” Caine asked. “They were already committed to the outcome you desired: cripple Earth. And their misguided motive for doing so—preventing the return of the human destroyers—meant that no cost was too great, no subterfuge too base, no act too extreme. You were able to recruit a race of fanatics.”

Sukhinin’s frown had nearly pulled his eyebrows beneath his brow line. “Are you saying the Ktor put the war in motion with the final objective of exterminating us?”

“Maybe not extermination. But bashing us back a few centuries? Sure. It was only logical that they’d try again.”

Visser snapped, “What was their first attempt, then?”

“Their first attempt was the Doomsday Rock, Ms. Visser. You’ve read the classified reports. Now ask him about it.”

Visser looked at Apt-Counsel, whose empty arm servos whirred faintly, like an amputee trying to shrug with a missing shoulder. “I am not disposed to discuss such wild accusations.”

Visser edged forward, not breathing. “Do you deny it?”

“I am not disposed to discuss it.”

Sukhinin was transitioning from pink to red. “Shto? I have seen the briefings and Downing’s recent speculations, but—is this possible?”

Caine rubbed his chin. “That would be a good question to ask Nolan, or Arvid Tarasenko. They both had years to think about the implications of discovering that an alien mass driver had been used to push the Doomsday Rock at us. Oh, but wait. They’re both dead—and both within forty-eight hours of us announcing the existence of possibly hostile exosapients at the Parthenon Dialogs. Strange coincidence, that.”

Sukhinin shrugged. “Yet, autopsies showed that both men did die of natural causes, Caine.”

“That’s not quite accurate. The autopsies were not definitive. They simply discovered nothing that our medicine recognizes as foul play. So ‘natural causes’ was the default finding, particularly after investigations into their deaths found no evidence pointing to the typical rogue’s gallery of terrestrial actors: rival states, megacorporations, terrorists.” He looked pointedly at Apt-Counsel. “But in the last few weeks, I’ve started wondering if we were looking too close to home, all along.”

“And how is it that we could have had a hand in these events?” the Ktor asked.

“I’ll get to that in a moment, Ambassador Apt-Counsel. But first I want to understand why it’s equally acceptable to your plans to have the Arat Kur eliminated instead of us.”

Darzhee Kut’s claws clacked in sharp surprise. “What are you saying, Caine Riordan?”

“Well, look at where we’re all standing and how we got here, Darzhee Kut. First, you invade our world, and the Ktor are your advisors behind the scenes. But when your campaign goes to hell in a handbasket, who are the Ktor helping now? And they’re not merely helping us, Darzhee Kut. In the past thirty minutes, Ambassador Apt-Counsel has been justifying, exonerating, even indirectly encouraging us to unleash a plague that could wipe out your whole race. Now why would he do that—unless this was always a part of his plan?”

Apt-Counsel sounded amused. “First I am attempting to exterminate humanity, Mr. Riordan. Now I am attempting to exterminate the Arat Kur. Please make up your mind.”

“Oh, there’s no contradiction there, Ambassador Apt-Counsel, because, as I said, I think either outcome would suit Ktor’s long-term strategy.”

Visser shook her head once. “Where is the sense in that, Mr. Riordan?”

“Admittedly, the sense is hard to see—unless you step back from the trees of current events to survey the larger forest of what lies ahead. Which provides the perspective from which we can ask this question: What if the Ktor are not so much worried by humanity, or the Arat Kur, but by a synergy of the two?”

Ben Hwang nodded immediately. “Yes. The Hkh’Rkh were not good allies for the Arat Kur. We would have been a much better fit. Humanity is not as rash as the Hkh’Rkh, yet is almost as militarily experienced, and we advance—in terms of exploration, settlement, technological development—much faster than either race.”

“Then what would we offer to such an alliance?” Darzhee Kut sounded more worried than shocked.

“Stability, efficiency, level-headed analysis, high rates of production,” replied Caine. “Darzhee Kut, I know it is hard to think of your dreaded destroyer race as your allies, but I suspect that this was part of what the Ktor wished to prevent. Because if our two species ever became unified against their objectives, we would have been a formidable obstacle. But the full extermination of one race by the other—or the cycle of vengeance that would be spawned by a failed attempt—would ensure that such an alliance could never be forged.”

Darzhee Kut’s claws made a surprised castanet sound. “You said this was only part of what the Ktor wished to prevent by prompting you to destroy my race. What is the other part?”

Caine looked at Apt-Counsel’s silent environmental tank, then at Alnduul. “They wanted to ensure our estrangement from the Dornaani.” He saw Alnduul’s mouth coil about its own center. He’s smiling? Of course. He knew all along.

Sukhinin leaned his rather furry fists forward to meet their shadowmates on the reflective table-top. “Caine, explain how this could happen. It was the Dornaani who made it possible for us to be here above the Arat Kur homeworld. And did so their own free will.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they have sanctioned genocide.”

Visser looked—somewhat anxiously—at Alnduul. “Perhaps not, but we have not concealed our plans and contingencies from the Custodians. They have known from the start what we were prepared to do.”

“Yes,” agreed Caine, “but if they had intervened, then would they learn as much about us, get as accurate a measure of who we humans are, right now? Our actions—our independent actions—are what define us. So, if we decide, on the advice of the Ktor, to initiate genocide, what will the Dornaani have learned?”

Darzhee Kut’s translated voice was a murmur. “That you are indeed the great destroyers we feared.”

“Precisely. And that is exactly what the Ktor want, because if they can’t eliminate us, then they want to ensure that the Dornaani will decide that we cannot be trusted.”

“And what would that achieve?”

“We would become pariahs, Vassily, like the Ktor. And so, to whom else would we be able to turn?”

“You mean—as allies?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Ms. Visser. Think it through. We exterminate the Arat Kur. We become the great savages of this region of space. Our bid for Accord membership is rejected. The Ktor sympathize, probably extending similar condolences to the Hkh’Rkh, who violated the Twenty-first accord by violating a homeworld—”

“And so they build an alliance of outcasts which can undo the Accord.” Vassily was nodding, looking at the Ktor’s tank as if it held a mixture of piranha and sewage.

Visser’s nostrils had flared and stayed that way. “In that scenario, it would not even require warfare to undo the Accord. With only the Slaasriithi remaining as members, the Accord would become a travesty. It would lack both material power and political legitimacy.” She turned to Apt-Counsel. “Ambassador, were these your plans?”

“Consul Visser, surely you cannot expect me to either confirm or deny. Either response would provide you with information, whether negative or positive, about my race’s long-term diplomatic strategies.”

Visser looked as if she were about to spit at the misting tank. “I will take that to be an affirmative, Ambassador—despite your evasive sophistries. It will be made widely known among our highest command staff that all your counsel is to be reevaluated, in light of your apparent duplicity and hostility—which compassed even the possible extermination of the human race.”

Apt-Counsel’s voice sounded thoroughly unruffled. “You must do as you see fit, Consul Visser. But I assure you of this. Had there been any risk of genocide against your planet, Ktor would have interceded. Aggressively. We would have considered an act of genocide against you to be tantamount to an act of genocide against us.”

Sukhinin looked as though he was struggling with a sudden up-rush of bile. “With all due respect, Ambassador Apt-Counsel, you cannot expect us to believe you are so charitably concerned with the survival of our species when you also tried to destroy it with a space rock.”

Caine nodded slowly. “Yes, Vassily. Actually, we can believe him on this one point—although charity would have nothing to do with his desire for our survival. If the Arat Kur, or anyone else, had brought a true campaign of genocide to our homeworld, it would be the equivalent of bringing that invasion to the Ktor homeworld.” Caine smiled, kept a wary eye on Apt-Counsel. “In fact, it wouldn’t have merely been the equivalent of depopulating the Ktor homeworld. It would have been exactly that. Because to depopulate Earth is to depopulate the Ktor homeworld.”

Sukhinin frowned. “I do not understand.”

The Ktor almost sounded amused. “When did you know?”

“I was pretty sure when I came back from talking to Dr. Hwang.”

Visser’s voice was sharp. “Gentlemen. What are you talking about?”

“I’ll show you,” said Caine. “Crack open his environment tank.”

“What?!”

Caine turned to the American Marine. “Corporal, I carry the rank of Commander, am declaring this a combat situation, and am issuing you a direct order. Crack open the Ktor’s environment tank.”

Apt-Counsel’s tone was languid. “There is no need for violence. I will happily comply.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The tank came apart so easily, it was difficult to believe it had ever been an apparently seamless container. After a brief burst of air escaping, Apt-Counsel emerged like a decathlete on the half-shell, stepping free of a sensor-laden body suit, a face piece that might have been a sophisticated VR vision unit falling aside as he did so. Naked, tall, trim, almost perversely well-defined, he stood at their center, evidently unperturbed by having both his human body and identity so completely exposed. His voice reinforced the impression. “It is so constraining in there, particularly these last few months. Presuming I was under constant observation, I was not able to leave the tank. Although this is an unfortunate turn of events, it is pleasing to be done with this charade and to anticipate the prospect of real food. I wonder—do you have olives?”

Visser and Sukhinin seemed unable to speak; the Marines had their hands on their weapons; Darzhee Kut had backed up until the rear of his shell rested lightly against Alnduul’s legs. Caine did not take his eyes off the Ktor but smoothly unholstered his weapon, snapped the safety off, and centered the red dot of the aimpoint laser two centimeters above the navel. “Dr. Hwang.”

“Yes?”

“Please go at once to the CIC. Inform Admiral Silverstein that we have a situation in the conference suite requiring the utmost discretion and the immediate presence of armed personnel with the highest levels of clearance. Also tell him that it is our collective opinion that under no circumstances whatsoever are any biological weapons to be launched at the Arat Kur Homenest, at least not until all the parties here present have been fully and satisfactorily debriefed. Please also convey a description of the Ktoran ambassador’s true form and that it is the shared opinion of the persons in this room that he is not to be trusted in any matter, to any degree. And lastly, if any firearms are discharged in this room, it is to be sealed and flooded with suppressive gas. Does anyone wish to amend or alter my message?”

Silence, then Hwang said, “Caine, in the time it takes for me to run to the CIC—”

“Ben, I think it best that we don’t put that kind of message on the intercom. We want to keep this as low profile as possible. All the way under the scuttlebutt radar, if we can. Please go with all speed.”

Caine steadied the gun with his left hand as the door opened and closed.

The Ktor smiled. “You didn’t request olives.”

“All in good time, Ambassador Apt-Counsel.”

“Let us dispense with assumed names as well as appearances. I am Tlerek Sirn of the House Shethkador.”

“I can’t say that I’m pleased to meet you. However, this makes it pretty clear how you were able to influence events on Earth long before the war, before Convocation, even before Parthenon. And not only can you walk among us, you had access to Earth as well, legitimated by the Accord.”

Sukhinin looked at Caine with wide eyes. “Shto?”

“Read the fine print of the delegation’s report, Vassily, and look at the text of the Eighteenth Accord. The current Custodians, the Dornaani, were unable to cover all their duties alone, so they were allowed to tap one additional race for assistance in monitoring and policing new and uncontacted races. That was the perfect cover for their Ktor ‘helpers’ to put ships in our system, to infiltrate agents, to start the Doomsday Rock in our direction—all with complete plausible deniability.”

“Do you still deny this?” Visser asked the Ktor, her voice tightly controlled.

Shethkador raised his right hand in the classic palms-up sign of uncertainty, his middle finger’s oddly long, tapering fingernail raised like a dagger toward the ceiling. “Did I ever deny it? I seem to recall indicating that I was not disposed to discuss it.”

Caine nodded. “Very well, Ambassador Shethkador, we’ll leave that discussion for another time. But unless you want us to discuss your speciate origins openly with the entirety of the Arat Kur—or perhaps, the whole Accord—you will now send your genuine identity codes to the Homenest leadership.”

Sukhinin started, then nodded. “Of course. This zjulik gave them a false confirmation code when he ‘attempted to contact’ them.”

Shethkador stared out at the stars, at Homenest. “I suppose there is little reason to refuse you this accommodation.”

Caine smiled. “And every reason to comply, if you want us to keep your speciate identity a secret.”

Shethkador looked away. “Keeping our identity is of no consequence to us.”

“Lie. If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t cooperate in any way.”

“You are quite wrong. We stand to lose nothing by having others know our identity.”

“Nice bluff—but I was born on the planet that invented poker. You want that secret kept because what the Arat Kur claim is true: humans are the killer species they fear, the ones in their legends. But it was you—the Ktor—who were still traveling between the stars, who were slaughtering other races before we were even wondering about how to build pyramids. And if the Arat Kur were to learn that, I wonder how they might start rethinking their positive opinion of you, and their negative opinion of us.”

Shethkador turned and smiled—and Caine noticed that there were flecks of blood or red mixed into his eyes’ light amber irises. “You have admirable skills, Mr. Riordan, but remember to be measured in your requests. It is useful, but not essential, that our speciate identity remains undisclosed. If you make the price of your silence too high, you will receive no concessions at all.”

Caine smiled back, wanting to squeeze the trigger. “So it was you—the Ktor—who almost obliterated Homenest.”

“It would seem that way.”

“And the locals on DeePeeThree? Them too?”

Shethkador’s smile broadened. He shrugged. “Who can say?”

Caine pursued. “Don’t be coy. There are no other alternatives.”

“No? There’s always the possibility of yet another group of humans. If two, why not three? Or five?”

Caine shook his head. “Because if you believed that, you wouldn’t suggest it. You give away no useful information. You’d only bring up the possibility of other human enclaves if you thought it would sow uncertainty and confusion into our planning.”

Shethkador smiled back. “Impressive. One point for you.”

“More than one.”

Shethkador’s eyebrows elevated slightly. “Oh? How so?”

“By just now admitting that there are only two groups of humanity, you’ve told me something else. That you have fairly intact records of the actual history of our species, of how it was that we were in the stars twenty millennia ago, who brought us there, and what we were doing, and why. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so sure that there weren’t other groups.”

Shethkador’s eyebrows lowered. “And therefore, you have deduced a third and final piece of information.”

Caine studied Shethkador’s utterly expressionless features and then nodded. “That you’re not going to share the smallest bit of that history with us.”

Shethkador smiled again. “Such a clever low-breed. It would be interesting to examine your DNA.”

Caine tried to suppress—but couldn’t—the shudder that rippled from the center of his spine out in all directions.

Visser had stepped forward and aggressively planted herself in front of Shethkador. “You will do more than contact the Arat Kur homeworld; you will agree to cease and desist from any interference in our affairs. Which is to say, you will now observe the Accords to which you have pledged yourself.”

Shethkador looked down at her; his smile became a mirthless laugh. “As if any of the races do observe the Accords—with the possible exception of the rather inane Slaasriithi. Although I suspect that even they may bend the rules from time to time. Perhaps by providing a few key pieces of data on other races?” His smile broadened; his eyes narrowed into hers.

Christ. He knows that the Slaasriithi passed us intelligence on the location of the Arat Kur homeworld.

Visser blinked. “I would not know anything about that.”

“Of course not.” He nodded, smiled wider still, looked away. “At any rate, I will make no agreement which limits Ktoran freedom of action. And I think you must ask yourself if exposing our identity is truly in your best interests. Have you considered the cost to yourselves? You may see yourselves as different from us, but your history—your very recent history—argues differently.” Seeing Visser’s lowering brow, he shrugged and provided examples. “The active and then passive extermination of the indigenous peoples of three continents; your biosphere held hostage to absolute thermonuclear destruction as a pawn in the game of empires; the death camps of countless regimes while you were in the first flower of your glorious atomic and information ages; and, less than a century ago, your benign toleration of what you called the ‘megadeath.’ What horror have you not perpetrated against yourselves in the recent past? By extension, what horror will you not perpetrate against others, particularly other species whose ways, appearances, biologies are so different and daunting to such rude minds and sensibilities as yours? Will revealing our speciate identity make heroes of you, or to borrow your metaphor, will revealing us tar you with the same brush?”

Shethkador seemed ready to yawn, but continued. “Besides, if you elect to tell other races that we are, in fact, human, we will deny it. And unless you make me a testamentary zoo-specimen—which would bring about a war you could not win—you will have no evidence to support your claim.

“But this is all moot. Your genes are ours, and so are your deeds. You cling to the differences in our behaviors. But other species will not note these distinctions. They will be subtleties that your exosapient allies will silently brush aside in view of the greater truth. That the most bloody deeds of your recent past resonate with our own. In short, they will see that—first, last, and foremost—you are us.”

Caine shook his head. “They will also see that the Dornaani allowed events to unfold this way so that we would be the ones to spare, even save, another race—and so redeem ourselves. And eventually, when the inevitable day of revelation comes—when all masks are dropped or stripped away—we humans of Earth will be remembered and seen for what we can be at our best, not at our worst.”

Shethkador waved a hand at Caine’s retort. “Oh, that may occur too, I imagine. But do not forget that the Dornaani also used you in the prosecution of this war because they understand us as a species. Human social evolution is unique in that our race has achieved the maximum, even optimum, balance of violent aggression and social cohesion. Again, consider your recent past. What other race could teeter so long, and yet not topple over, the brink of nuclear self-extermination? And all in the name of ideals, which were simply the facades behind which you hid your national prejudices, racial fears, and innate savagery. They are the blinds behind which you hid your appetite for the horrors you had made and amidst which you lived. Who else could have been shrewd enough, versatile enough, resilient enough—and brutal enough—to stalemate us in this war? It is not chance that you were the ones to foil our plans. You have a saying that eludes me now, about how you extinguish wild-fires, that you… er—”

“Fight fire with fire.” Caine finished for him, his stomach growing smaller, harder.

“Just so. You were the Dornaani application of that principle: using humans to fight humans.”

It could not be mere chance that Alnduul had invoked this same axiom—that of fighting fire with fire—back at Convocation and again less than half an hour ago. He had foreseen this coming from Shethkador, had subtly primed Caine for the revelations of this moment. Suggesting that full control, and full understanding, of this war and our place within it has never been wholly ours, not even when we thought we were taking the initiative.

Perhaps Shethkador had seen some trace of surprise or discomfiture in Caine’s face: his voice was suddenly less histrionically jocular and detached, almost became earnest. “Accept what the Dornaani have accepted about us. We, as a species, are not instruments of enduring peace. We are engines of perpetual war. And together, we would be unstoppable.”

“And apart?”

The Ktor smiled. “You have an expression: ‘war to the knife.’ Only one of us may prevail.” Shethkador stared straight at Caine for a long moment, then around at the rest of the group’s glittering, somber eyes, and finally—with a smile and a shrug—looked out toward the stars.

Caine nodded to himself. And so that is our future: the fire that fights fire. And that fight will become Earth’s redemptive trial by fire. The struggle that will simultaneously expiate humanity’s past deeds and prove our future promise.

That macroscopic glimpse of humanity’s futurescape goaded Caine to reexamine and reconceive the “serendipitous” events that had helped humanity prevail in the war. Had the first, fortuitous meeting between himself and Darzhee Kut truly been a matter of chance? Had the Hkh’Rkh disdain and, ultimately, disregard for the Arat Kur been hormone-enhanced? Had similar hormonal tinkering amplified the humanophobia of the leading Arat Kur castes into a fatally dismissive blind-spot? Were any of these occurrences truly serendipitous—or merely instances of Dornaani manipulation?

Caine pulled pack from the steep slope unveiled by that thought. If you start thinking that way, soon you’ll see Dornaani covert control in every event, every random factor of human existence. But how do I—how does anyone—distinguish between the two? How do we go about sorting out the actual Dornaani intents and intrusions from the noise, the illimitable static, of routine human affairs? I guess Downing’s IRIS is still going to have plenty of work to do.

Sukhinin—during the two silent seconds that had compassed Caine’s thoughts—approached Tlerek Shethkador. He drew himself up straight, shoulders back, head high. “We would die before allying with you.”

The Ktor smiled, did not look away from the stars. “Your words may well be prophetic, Consul Sukhinin.”

Caine adjusted his grip on the handgun. “So tell me. If we’re so promising as allies, then why not try to recruit us from the start, openly, instead of trying to blast us back into the bronze age with an asteroid?”

That brought Shethkador’s head around. “Because we did not approve of the outcome of the events of the Twentieth Century. Two prominent forms of autocracy were routed. The impotent rot of pluralism and equality had almost completely perverted the natural order, of survival of the fittest. You were intent on protecting and preserving the weak, both nations and individuals, all in some fawning worship of these inane concepts you’ve derived from your laughable mystery cults.”

“What ‘inane concepts’ are you referring to?”

“Empathy. Justice. Compassion. Each one is a means of decaying the essential truth of strength and power.”

“So, was Nietzsche one of you?”

“No, but we hoped his wisdom would become predominant. Alas, it did not. Not in the last century, nor this one. So, seeing how quickly you were moving toward the stars, we deemed that you would be an impediment, rather than an adornment, to our plans.”

“So you decided to kill ninety-five percent of our population.”

“Our estimates were only eighty percent. But no matter. The cattle had grown soft and the herd needed culling. You would have recovered in two or three centuries. We made sure that the asteroid we directed toward Home was large enough to significantly damage but not destroy you. The resulting waves and geological perturbations would have wiped out the epicenter of the linked viruses you called ‘humanism’ and ‘paidiea.’”

Darzhee Kut’s claws clacked. “Paideia?”

“The virtue of civic duty and sacrifice, usually associated with Pericles’ funeral oration in the Peloponnesian War.” Caine looked at Sukhinin. “Pretty much spoken in the shadow of the Parthenon.”

Sukhinin nodded. “Da, and it was why Nolan chose that location for the meeting. To remind us all how much of that work is still left undone.”

Caine nodded. “And in order to do that work, we have to be in the Accord. And if the Accord is to endure, the price we have to pay right now is silence. We let the charade continue. We act as though the Ktor are not human.”

“So we lie?”

“No, Vassily. We follow the implied spirit of the Accord. It is not our business to reveal information about any race other than our own. But it’s also the smartest thing we can do, in this instance.”

The door opened. Hwang and a dozen security personnel entered, Bannor Rulaine at their head. “Is this the—gentleman—we are to escort to special quarters?”

Caine nodded. “That’s him. And good riddance.”

“A strange farewell,” observed Shethkador. He smiled as the two shortest commandoes—Miles O’Garran and Peter Wu—pulled a restraint jumper up around his ankles. “This would be a better parting platitude: ‘until we meet again.’”

“I hope not.”

“I predict otherwise.” With the Ktor’s arms wrapped tight against his body, the security detachment frog-walked him out of the room. Caine did not lower his sidearm until the door had closed behind the detail.

Even Alnduul seemed to relax slightly, then turned to the humans in the room. “There is one more item of importance. The final name by which the Accord is to address your polity. World Confederation was only a tentative term, was it not?”

Visser nodded. “That is correct, Alnduul. Since we were summoned to the Convocation, though, there has been much talk of settling upon a more species-specific, a more inclusive, term: Human Confederation.”

Alnduul’s lids nictated slowly. “I would suggest you consider a different term.”

Sukhinin stared at the Dornaani. “Now you will tell us what to call ourselves?”

“I merely offer a prudent suggestion. Consider, you are planning to call yourself the Human Confederation. Yet, what is the Ktor, but another human?”

Sukhinin shrugged. “So perhaps we are simply more precise. ‘The Earth Confederation,’ maybe?”

Caine thought. “What about the Terran Confederation?”

Vassily looked over, perplexed. “Terran? From the Latin? Why this?”

It was Visser who answered. “Caine is right. Latin is not any nation’s language anymore, so any name derived from it is less likely to arouse cultural jealousies.”

Hwang nodded. “It is also wise not to use a name too closely associated with any one world. If we include ‘Earth’ in the title, we are emphasizing one planet above the others. What about the Moon, Mars, DeePeeThree, Zeta Tucanae? If we choose a title that fails to implicitly include all our worlds, I think you may be only one generation away from rebel groups chanting ‘no Confederation without representation.’”

Visser nodded. “I agree. But your point brings another issue to mind. We cannot know how our government will evolve, or if all of our peoples and polities will have equal, or any, representation within the blocs that comprise our state. Even now, some nations and groups choose not to. Can we truly claim ourselves to be a ‘confederation,’ then?”

“What would you suggest?”

Visser reflected upon Sukhinin’s question for a moment. “I think the closest English term is ‘consolidated.’ It would mean that we are all together—all one political entity—but it does not attempt to define or imply any universal set of political relationships: merely solidarity.”

“I agree,” Sukhinin said softly. “But if we make no statement of political accountability and equality, then what makes us different from a mob? ‘Terran Consolidation’ could be a fine title for the empire of a ruthless dictator, no?”

Caine felt something rise up from values learned at his family’s kitchen table, something which would have made his history-professor father proud. “Republic. We call it a republic.”

Visser frowned. “Not all states will like this.”

“With respect, that’s too damned bad. A republic is representative pluralism, yes? So is the bloc structure, even if all the constituent states are not, themselves, republics. But one of the implicitly understood principles of a republic is that its social contract is the supreme authority, and may be fashioned and evolved only by representatives of the people. It puts the rule of law above both the vagaries of the vox populi and the dicta of would-be tyrants. And isn’t that what we want? Isn’t that what Nolan was urging, on his last day? To take a stand—at least this one—to use a global government not merely as a mechanism for enhanced security, but as an instrument for social good?”

Sukhinin was smiling for the first time in the past hour. He put a hand—Caine had to actively dispel the hackneyed association with a bearish Russian “paw”—on his shoulder. “Nolan could not have said it better. He would be happy today, to have heard you say this.” Sukhinin squeezed his shoulder and his eyes grew shiny. “Nolan was right about you. Every bit. If there is a heaven—and, bozhemoi, I hope there is—he is surely smiling down on you right now.”

Caine gave a brief, and he hoped humble, nod, but thought, That assumes that Nolan is wearing wings above us, rather than in chains below. Just how many good-intentioned lies can you tell before even those prosocial prevarications earn you a one-way ticket to a personal, or mythological, hell? Probably equal to the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin…

“So we will recommend our polity to the Accord to be named the Consolidated Terran Republic?” As the first word of the title began rolling off Visser’s tongue, it sounded tentative. It had been graven in stone by the time the last syllable emerged.

Caine looked at the persons in the room, committed their locations and facial expressions to memory. I will be able to say—and record—that this was the first time our collective name for ourselves was uttered. That this was the founding moment and vision that would become our touchstone and hope throughout the long trial by fire that now stands before us. And in so recording it, pen a rebuttal to the stylish cynicisms of the modern age: that not all declarations are banal; not all acts are futile; not all beliefs are pointless—and that I have lived the truth of that in this past minute.

And in the time it had taken to reflect upon the significance of the moment, the moment was past. That was, after all, the nature of moments. By the time we can reflect on events, they are behind us. The present is like a vertical line in geometry, with the past stretching limitlessly to the left, and the future immeasurably to the right. But existing upon the line of the present means we are eternally perched upon a single point, an imaginary unit of measure that has no width. Just the way a “historical” moment is so narrow a sliver of time that it appears and disappears in the same instant. It has no epic dimensions and so casts no epic shadow at the moment it passes us. Only when it becomes a momentous object of the past—or future—does it acquire shape, mass, opacity.

Visser approached Darzhee Kut. “Delegate Kut, might I invite you to accompany us to the captain’s ready room? It would be the most appropriate place for us to begin our attempts to recontact your government.”

Darzhee Kut chittered out a string of affirmatives, turned just before he, Visser, Sukhinin, and Hwang exited. “I will look forward to our next meeting, Caine Riordan.”

“As will I, Darzhee Kut.”

As the door closed, Alnduul moved in the opposite direction, toward the observation gallery and the star-littered expanse before them. Caine asked his back. “How much did you know?”

“Of what would occur?”

“That, and the identity of the Ktor.”

“Their stratagems and the flow of events we foresaw. Their identity was uncertain at best. We foresaw that the Ktor would attempt to destroy the Accord unless they could secure your cooperation. With you as a satrapy, the Accord could have been a legitimating structure for their ambitions. However, when you would not ally with them, they hoped you would either prove weak enough to be conquered, or savage enough to undertake atrocities that would make you pariahs. Like them. You have done neither, and they are not revealed. For the Ktor, the outcome is a stalemate.”

“So nothing has really changed.”

“Sometimes, when your adversary is trying to precipitate dramatic change, stability is the best victory. Besides, their stalemate is your gain. Your decision to desist from attacking the Arat Kur Homenest shall garner the humans of Earth the high opinion of the Dornaani and, I suspect, the Slaasriithi. Although provoked and holding apocalypse in your hand, you refused to unleash it. You are a promising species, after all. But history shows that you can also be mercurial at times, and wayward when it comes to following any single course for very long. Perhaps, this time, you will contemplate other species whose natural inclination is to quietly flourish in times of peace, rather than spectacularly soar in times of crisis. We shall see.”

“Well, you must have suspected, or at least hoped, we’d be capable of restraining ourselves,” observed Caine. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have invested so much effort and faith in Nolan. You watched him, helped his heart resist the damage he had received. Which means you knew how he received the damage. Which means you knew about the Doomsday Rock. Which means you knew the Ktor were behind it. Which means you knew the Ktor had a particular interest in and fear of Earth. Which means the identity of the Ktor really wasn’t so uncertain, that they were likely to be huma—”

“Be still, Caine Riordan.” Alnduul looked about furtively and in that second, appeared to be anything but a super-being. “The moment of revelations about the Ktor is past. Leave it so, and learn not to speak of it. One is never so alone as one thinks. And, yes, we knew of the damage to Nolan’s heart, and what had caused it. And so we surmised what he must have seen, to become so fixed and certain in his purpose to lead your people to the stars. But those of us Custodians who had further suspicions had no proof—and still have none we can share—as to the intents and actual identity of the Ktor.”

Caine gaped. “But today, just minutes ago, you saw—”

Alnduul’s eyes closed. “Understand, Caine Riordan, amongst my people, particularly amongst my elders, I am considered what you would call a hothead: impetuous, prone to unwarranted conclusions, willing to act as much upon instinct as evidence. What was revealed here today cannot even become official information within the ranks of the Custodians, let alone the Dornaani Collective.”

“But—why not?”

“Because this knowledge, and indeed, the entire outcome of your war, is the fruit of a much-poisoned tree. Consider the procedural violations we committed in handling this conflict. We did not announce ourselves to the Arat Kur as soon as we landed upon your world. We provided your people—long before the war commenced—with the device in your arm, foreseeing this probable course of events. We enabled you to carry out a sneak counterattack upon the Arat Kur by using deep-space shifts. And we were willing to stand aside—or so it seemed—as you hovered above the Arat Kur Homenest, with the fate of their entire race in your hand.” Alnduul closed his eyes wearily. “At best, what was revealed here today about the Ktor will be whispered in the ears of those few volunteers who are willing to be more ‘proactive’ in their Custodianship. But it cannot be entered into the records, nor openly acknowledged.”

Caine felt nauseated. “Meaning that the Ktor are right in one regard. The Accord is founded, and runs, on lies.”

Alnduul closed his eyes. “If that is true, then you may say the same of being a parent. It is founded on the telling of lies.”

Again the paternalistic wisdom crap. “That’s just not—”

“Attend, Caine Riordan. Think of yourself as having an infant child—”

“I wish I could.” A vision of dying, pregnant Opal flitted through his mind, scissored at his heart.

Alnduul seemed to shrink inside himself. “Apologies. Profound apologies. Let me rephrase. Think of small children you have seen about you in Indonesia, and elsewhere. Children who are scared, are hungry, possibly even mortally wounded. And they ask their parent: ‘Progenitor, will I be safe? Will I be fed? Will I live?’ And the parent, knowing the truth to be in the negative—what do they say?”

Caine looked down. “They lie.”

“Just so. And they must. It is a kindness to the child, no less so than a palm placed upon a fevered brow, or lips upon a face streaked with tears. And so, Caine Riordan, do not answer now, but think upon this. Is no lie a justified means to a good end? Is existence so black and white as that? It would be comforting and simple if such were the case—but is it?”

Alnduul stepped back and his mouth puckered slightly: a melancholy smile? “Enlightenment unto you.”

Caine lifted his arms in response. “And unto you, Alnduul. I hope we shall meet again.”

Alnduul, who had started to turn after the farewell, half turned back toward him: “We shall. Indeed, we must.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Caine looked from Sukhinin to Downing as they rose. “Are you at least going to monitor the meeting?”

Downing shook his head. “The Slaasriithi specifically asked that their first contact with us be unrecorded.”

“And that it be with you alone,” Sukhinin said through his playfully malicious smile.

Caine found he was impatient for them to leave. It’s harder to act like I’m not nervous than it is being alone. He made sure his answering smile was lopsided, his tone ironic. “Yeah, that’s me: Speaker to Exos.”

Sukhinin picked up his briefing materials. “Better you than me, cheloveck.” There was a very slight tremor under their feet. Half out of the room, the Russian cast one eye back at the light over the airlock. The red light flickered, became yellow. “Well, they have arrived. Good luck. Don’t get eaten by aliens.”

“Hah, hah, Vassily. Go away.”

“I hear and obey, Gospodin Riordan.” A cough of laughter and he was gone.

Downing sounded more serious and more sympathetic. “Their representative should just about be ready. They breathe an almost identical mix of gases, so neither of you will need suits. When they signal that their representative has debarked and they have undocked from this module, our shuttle will leave as well. You’ve removed your transponder anklet?”

“And my collarcom. I don’t like that requirement, Richard. Did they give any explanation?”

“As to why there are to be no transmissions of any kind while the two of you are out here? No, but they were firmly, if gently, insistent.”

“Firmly but gently insistent.” That’s a pretty good descriptor for every one of our few, brief exchanges with the Slaasriithi.

Downing continued. “I suspect they just want to create an environment that is—for their species, at least—optimally private, even intimate.”

“Yes. Like two scorpions in one high-tech bottle.”

“Nonsense. They are simply very careful. They have suggested some general discussion before direct contact. The idea is that you acclimatize to their discourse first, then to them. Or so goes the theory.” Downing looked up sharply, beyond Caine’s shoulder.

Caine turned. The green light over the airlock had come on.

Downing straightened up. “Your show, now.” He smiled, put out a hand. “Try not to muck it up.”

Before he could rethink the reaction—before he could recall Downing’s lies, manipulation, withheld secrets—Caine had offered his own hand in response to the unpremeditated amity that he felt in Richard’s gesture.

Downing’s smile widened, then seemed to falter, along with his eyes. He turned quickly, exited with a backward wave as the hatchway into the Commonwealth—or would it now be Terran?—corvette sealed with a shrill hiss. A moment later, Caine felt a slight shudder in the module, as though something were pressing down on the roof of the room: the counterspin boosters. The fractional centrifugal forces that had provided a faint pseudo-gravity diminished, were gone.

All alone in a can in space, weightless and adrift. But no, not quite alone. Caine looked at the iris valve at the other end of the chamber. No reason to be apprehensive. So far, the Slaasriithi were the most honest—if reclusive and enigmatic—allies that Earth had. It was beyond thinking that there should be any danger from them, particularly here. Their recently arrived ship was enveloped by the entirety of the human fleet, and fully exposed to the scrutiny of Alnduul and the Custodians. And yet—

“You are present, the-Riordan-called-Caine?”

Caine rose—and felt quite stupid. He was still alone, so for whom was he standing?

“I am.”

“And you are alone?”

“As you requested. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

“My full name is cumbersome for your tongue and quite long. Perhaps you would consent to call me Yiithrii’ah’aash.”

I will if I can. “I am pleased to meet you, Yiithrii’ah’aash.” Caine had the sensation of his tongue being poised to stumble over the downhill slalom of syllables, was surprised to get to the end of the word without major disaster. “While I doubt I could pronounce it just yet, I would be happy to learn your full name and what it means.”

“This is most gracious and we appreciate it. However, we would defer this to some other time, if this is acceptable.”

I had good enough manners to try; he has good enough manners to let me off the hook. We’re off to a good start. “Of course, Yiithrii’ah’aash. I would appreciate knowing your title, however.”

“It translates quite imperfectly into your language, the-Riordan-called-Caine, and it is not so much a title as a denotation of present function. One term for it would be ‘facilitator’; another might be ‘liaison-symbiote.’ I do not know your language well enough to determine which more accurately reflects my role in this meeting.”

“You seem to know our language quite well—” And then Caine realized that the voice was not a machine equivalent. “Yiithrii’ah’aash, you are speaking to me without the benefit of a Dornaani translator?”

“This is correct.”

“How did you—?”

“The-Riordan-called-Caine, we, too, are a species renowned for our curiosity, so it is with regret that I must decline to answer your questions. I am under fairly restrictive time constraints. Suffice it to say that it was my honor to be selected to become fully familiar with the speciate self-reference materials that you presented at the Convocation.”

Good grief, that would mean—“You became familiar with all those materials?”

“This is so.”

“That was a great deal of work, Yiithrii’ah’aash.”

“It was a great honor and illumination. We Slaasriithi regret to have given you such limited information in return, and it is for this reason—among others—that this meeting was deemed advisable as soon as it was practicable.”

“I’m sorry. I do not understand.”

“My apologies. I will elucidate. It was our desire to communicate directly with you at the Convocation. However, in the months preceding that gathering, envoys from the Arat Kur arrived at one of the contact points along our shared border, urgently requesting dialog with our representatives. Their intent, plainly put, was that we should help them deny human admission to the Accord.”

Son of a—“But how could they do so without revealing details of our race, without violating the privacy stipulations of the Accord?”

“Your bafflement reprises our own. However, in telling us about humanity, the Arat Kur demonstrated that they had a far greater awareness of the ancient history and inhabitants of this region of space than we did. Based on their reaction to your candidacy for membership in the Accord, humanity seemed to be the epicenter of their species’ fears. When we refused to commit to an a priori rejection of your candidacy, we discovered that their fears of you quickly became fears of us.”

“Because you had indirectly supported us?”

“That, too, but subsequent information prompted us to reconsider the possible causes of the Arat Kur’s diminished congeniality.”

The end of the sentence dangled like a baited hook. “And what new causes came to light, Yiithrii’ah’aash?”

“There are several, but most share a common root. It is conjectured that, in some time past, your race and mine were, if not allied, then at least affined.”

Caine smiled at the archaic usage.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice skimmed and glided in an oddly liquid fashion over the English phonemes and idioms. “As Convocation approached, we projected that any ready exchanges between us, or strong support for your candidacy, could make the Arat Kur—intemperate.”

Caine understood. “Because if they interpreted your friendship toward us as a prelude to alliance, they’d preemptively move to a war footing, escalating what might have been a salvageable situation.”

“Yes, this was our thinking. We regret and apologize for its profound flaws.”

“You couldn’t have known that they had already prepared themselves for war,” Caine pointed out.

“Embarrassingly, we did not even consider it a possibility. It was too uncharacteristically precipitous and aggressive for their species.”

“Convocation was beyond anyone’s power to salvage,” Caine said with a shrug. “However, I have since learned that your ships were commerce-raiding all along the Arat Kur border during the war, keeping more than a third of the Wholenest’s military assets tied up in fear of a large-scale incursion.”

“That is so.”

“Well, that was an immense help, and my leaders wish to express their immense appreciation for it. With this war behind us, we can initiate the kinds of cultural exchange I’m sure both our peoples would welcome.”

“This is a most interesting proposition, and one which we must discuss at some later date. However, our time now grows short. Perhaps it would be wise for us to conclude this dialog with a brief meeting.”

Or maybe not. I’ve faced enough anxieties, real and imagined, for one year, thank you. But Caine said, “Yes. I would like that.”

The green light above the airlock’s iris valve flashed three times and went out. The portal opened with a breathy squeal and Caine stepped forward, glad for the speed with which this was happening, that his mind had less than one second to spin within the maelstrom of primal fears that he had come to associate with first contacts. What will they look like? What will they smell like? Will I lose my composure, run gibbering into a corner because what I have seen is something that humans should never have seen, should never have encountered? Will I unwittingly insult them? Will I fail my race by seeming stupid, inept, rude, too aggressive, too passive, too silent, too loquacious? In short, how can you control the encounter and win the day, when the rules of the game change every time you play it?

However, Caine stopped in mid-stride—because there had been no way to be ready for what he saw. Because he did feel like running into a corner, gibbering, the universe tilting and making less sense with every passing second.

Yiithrii’ah’aash glide-walked through the doorway with precisely the same rolling gait as the natives Caine had met on Delta Pavonis Three. The familiar smallish and tightly furred head of that species—shaped more like a brazil nut than an almond—rode smoothly atop the equally familiar and improbably long ostrich neck. The body was closely furred and wasp-waisted. The long gibbon’s-arms swung easily alongside the oddly flanged hips and dog-jointed legs. Prehensile finger-tentacles extended in some form of greeting and the knee-length bifurcated tail was shorter than those Caine had seen on Delta Pavonis Three. However, a few purposeful coiling and flexing motions indicated that it was still a functional appendage.

The Slaasriithi was not a Slaasriithi. It was a Pavonian. Or Pavonians were Slaasriithi. Caine wished he could close his eyes until the pointless debate in his head subsided. Whoever, or whatever they were, they were the same species. He opened his eyes—damn, I guess I did close them—and discovered that Yiithrii’ah’aash was holding something out to him. Caine, reached out to receive it. A small, recently harvested branch with small green leaves. It was subtly fragrant, familiar—

It’s an olive branch. Where did they get this? And is this a sign of peace? Or—and Caine could not tell whether his next insight was profound or paranoid—are you telling me you know many of our secrets, including my code name? Are you telling me you know the tale of how, when Odysseus finally came home to his own family and his own life, he returned to a bedroom which was built around an olive tree: a sign of life, hope, fruitfulness, closure? Caine couldn’t decide whether, in receiving this branch, he was being encouraged to see himself as coming full circle, his wanderings and wonderings at an end, or whether he was being pitched headlong into another odyssey of mysteries and risks. He looked from the leaves back to Yiithrii’ah’aash, and was surprised to find three irregularly shaped eyes staring at him from either slanted facet of the edge-on, furry brazil-nut that was his head.

Caine swallowed. “I know you. I mean, we—your people and I. We have met before.” How erudite.

“Ah, you refer to your experiences on Delta Pavonis Three.”

Okay, so I guess everyone knows about that “secret,” now. “Er—yes.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendril-fingers spread straight and flat to either side. The gesture of negation was so clear that Caine almost expected him to shake his head as well. “That was not us.”

Caine simply stared at the contrary evidence before his eyes.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils unfolded into a slow-motion writhe of baby snakes. “Allow me to clarify. As Neanderthal is to you, what you met on Delta Pavonis Three is to us. We cherish it and call it ours, but it is not us.”

“But it communicated with me, and knew about—things.” Such as, which star we come from.

“Be at ease. Understanding will come when you visit us.”

“When I what?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash looked at him. Caine felt the small hairs on his spine stand in response to the eerie familiarity of the purring sound that Yiithrii’ah’aash made deep in his chest. “Was I not clear? I said that you shall understand all when you visit us. For you shall visit us, the-Riordan-called-Caine. And soon. Very soon.”

“Is that an invitation, a request, or a prophecy?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash just stared.

And purred more loudly.