Raising Caine

Chapter One. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Weightless, Caine Riordan escorted the Slaasriithi ambassador to the exit of the free-floating habitation module in which they had met. Nearing the docking hatch, the slender exosapient raised one gibbonlike arm to steady its zero-gee drift and raised the other to lift a tendril-fingered hand in farewell.

Caine returned the wave as the ambassador disappeared into its diplomatic shuttle and wondered, Will I ever get used to being the point man during first contacts? It didn’t seem likely, not when every new species presented him, and humanity, with yet another disorienting surprise. In the case of the Slaasriithi, the surprise had been in their appearance. Not because they were ghastly — they weren’t — but rather, because they were unnervingly familiar. Tightly furred, wasp-waisted, and with a roughly tetrahedral head perched atop an abbreviated ostrich neck, the Slaasriithi were identical to the primitive beings Caine had met on Delta Pavonis Three two years ago. But Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash had denied kinship between his race and that one — sort of. Leading Riordan to conclude that there was only one constant when conducting a first contact: each day ended with more questions and mysteries than it had begun.

As the hatch whispered closed, a muffled thump drew Caine’s attention to the opposite end of the module: his own retrieval shuttle had completed its hard dock. A voice emerged from the speaker: “Sorry about the bump, Commander Riordan.” The voice was mature, matter-of-fact — not one of the young, nervous pilots that predominated here in the recently pacified Sigma Draconis system. The Arat Kur locals, driven all the way back from their invasion of Earth, had put up a stiff fight before conceding. In consequence, there were now slightly fewer young pilots in the fleet, and those who remained were no longer quite so brash as they had been when they arrived. In short, they had grown up.

But this shuttle-jockey sounded as if he had grown up quite some time ago. He expanded upon his brief apology: “Guess I’m getting a bit rusty.”

“Hardly felt the bump,” Caine lied politely. “Can I get out of this tin can, now?”

“No, sorry, sir. Another half hour and the xenomicrobiologists will be done with the quarantine protocol.”

“I’m not ‘sir.’ Just ‘Caine.’”

“Uh…not to seem contentious, sir, but it says right here on my orders that you are a full commander, USSF.”

“Really? I wasn’t when I left the shift-carrier this morning.” Although, for all I know, Downing has put me back on the active duty roster. Again.

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t know anything about that. All I know is what I read in my orders.”

“Fair enough. They keep changing my status back and forth so fast, I’m not sure of my title from day to day.” Or whether I’m a soldier, an intelligence operative, an envoy to exosapients, or just a civilian again. “What about you? Navy?” Caine was slowly drifting back down toward the deck: the pilot of the retrieval craft had imparted a slow rotation to the module. As Caine’s toes made contact, the whole world seemed to be sliding subtly, but perpetually, sideways: the Coriolis effect from the spin.

The shuttle-jockey corrected him. “No, sir. I’m not Navy. Commonwealth Survey and Settlement Office.”

“You have a name?”

“Karam Tsaami.”

Caine, in the course of his travels, met a lot of people whose names were unusual cultural mash-ups, even for this day and age. Still, this was one of the more peculiar combinations. “So you’re, uh, Finno-Turkish?”

“By way of Toronto, yes.” Tsaami’s tone was distinctly wry. “And unless I’m mistaken, sir, you’re the guy who reported first contact with the natives on Delta Pavonis Three at the Parthenon Dialogs two years ago.”

Yes, the same natives who paradoxically, even impossibly, are dead-ringers for the Slaasriithi I just met with. “That was supposed to remain a closed-room debrief.”

“Yeah, well, the story even reached me out where I was ferrying, er, special payloads. In the Delta Pavonis system.”

“Special payloads?” Although officially civilians, a lot of SSO jockeys ferried covert operators around the colonies beyond Alpha Centauri. “Spend a lot of time at Delta Pavonis?”

“It’s been my home, on and off, for the past three years.”

Three years? The pilot’s voice suddenly seemed familiar. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who flew me out to the illegal CoDevCo facility on DeePeeThree?”

Karam Tsaami sounded pleased. “Yep. That was me. Been a long road since— Hold up. I’ve got incoming commo, highest priority.” The ten-second pause felt like ten minutes. “Commander, we’re going dark. Admiral Lord Halifax has called the fleet to battle stations. An Arat-Kur shift cruiser just popped in-system. ETA fifty-five minutes.”

“And we’re going to hide?”

“Commander, given our size, our best chance in a shooting war would be to become invisible. But since we can’t do that, we’re going to remain a motionless and inconsequential speck while enemy scanners are filling up with weapons-hot bogeys. So yes, we’re going dark. Right now.”

The speaker’s glowing green indicator winked off. Then the module’s lights did the same, leaving Riordan alone in the gently rolling darkness.

Except that, squinting, Caine now noticed a small red light, blinking alongside the hatch through which the Slaasriithi ambassador had exited. Riordan pushed off the floor, drifted to the hatchway: nothing but the aft airlock beyond it. So did the light indicate a pressure leak? A compromised seal?

No, he realized, leaning closer, that’s the activation light for an external commo jack. So was someone actually outside the module, trying to reach him? Caine punched the manual activation stud. “Hello?”

“Commander Riordan, is that you?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Bannor Rulaine, sir.”

It made no sense that Bannor, a friend from the war, was floating just outside the airlock. To the best of Caine’s knowledge, the ex-Green Beret should still have been babysitting an enemy agent back on the flagship, a liquimix battle rifle aimed at the Ktor bastard’s midriff. “Bannor, what the hell are you doing out there?”

“Well, sir, I’m doing what our boss Mr. Downing told me to do: watch over you. I’m not alone. Miles O’Garran is here, too.”

“Little Guy” O’Garran, as well? Well, Downing certainly pulled the A-team off the benches for this overwatch mission. “So why the heck are you on the outside of the module?”

“We’re here to make sure you had some unseen backup. Just in case something went sideways.”

“Which, thanks to the Arat Kur, has now occurred. You got the alert?”

“Loud and clear. And unexpected. I thought we’d accounted for all the Roaches’ ships.”

Caine suppressed a sigh. That’s because you’re a few steps further down the clearance food chain. Just because we secured the Arat Kurs’ home system doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods. “Well, your overwatch job ended when the Slaasriithi left, so get in out of the cosmic rays.”

“Thanks, sir, but even cracking the outer hatch is contrary to the current blackout protocols. Opening the airlock to free space would produce a thermal differential that could show up on enemy sensors. Besides, our mission isn’t over until Mr. Downing says it is. Oh, and Chief O’Garran just reminded me that this is a rare opportunity for us to work on our tans.”

Yeah, tans which can be measured in double-digit REM per hour — the kind of tan which causes you to lose hair, and maybe a few years, if it goes on too long.

The green light flashed on the comm panel behind Riordan. “Hold on, Bannor: message coming in.”

Karam Tsaami’s voice was tense. “Commander, some big shot named Richard Downing wants to put you in the loop. The big loop. As in, patched through directly to Admiral Silverstein’s combat information center.”

“And when does this happen?”

“Dunno, sir. I’m just standing by like you are.”

Riordan heard the weary tone of a long-term professional — a long-term government professional. Who had been his aerial chauffeur on Delta Pavonis Three two years ago. An extraordinary coincidence. Or probably not, Caine realized with a smile. “So, Karam, nice to have you ferrying me around during yet another first contact. Pretty small universe, wouldn’t you say?”

“What? You don’t like me?”

“Oh, I like you just fine, Karam. It’s implausible coincidences that I’m not so fond of.”

“Yeah, okay. I was your taxi driver to the CoDevCo compound on DeePeeThree because I had the right clearances. But now — well, things are different. When it comes to you, that is.”

Huh? “Different how?”

“Caine, er, Commander, it’s like I was implying earlier: you don’t seem to realize how many people know your name, now. More to the point, you have no idea how many people are probably following your movements. Of course, being at the center of events during the invasion of Earth didn’t help matters, if you were trying to stay off the radar.”

“Not like I wanted that attention.”

“Didn’t say you did. You don’t seem the type. But even before the fires had burnt out in Jakarta, a bunch of intel types were inviting lots of your prior official contacts to come have a nice quiet chat in a nice secluded place for a nice long time.”

“Did they suspect some of you as moles?”

“Maybe, but mostly they were looking for folks with clearance who’d already had direct contact with you. They picked me to be one of the ship jockeys who could also watch your back. But you pretty much fell off the grid after Jakarta.”

Did I ever. “That’s because I didn’t walk away at the end of the Battle of Jakarta. I rode out here to Sigma Draconis in an intensive-care cold cell.”

“Ah. Sorry. I didn’t know that you— Wait: message coming through.”

Tsaami was back on within the minute. “Okay, I’m jumping off the line. Mr. Downing is going to come on in a few moments with brief instructions. He’s bouncing this one commo through my lascom and then cutting me out of the loop.”

“Good talking to you, Karam.”

“Yeah, likewise. We’ll have to get a beer someday when you aren’t on everyone’s watch list.”

The circuit switched channels with a pop. Downing’s voice — crisp, urgent, and decidedly Oxbridge — crackled out of the speaker: “Caine, if you are reading this, you are to reply with a zero point two second coded lascom pulse with wavelength variation protocol Hotel X-Ray Seven.”

Riordan did so, and then, after his pulse’s variation fingerprint had cleared the security firewall, asked, “Richard, what the hell is going on? Why would only one Arat Kur ship shift into—?”

“No time now, Caine. You’ll be receiving live-feed from my pickup here in the intel situation room. Once you are in that loop, just listen. Do not send. It is unlikely that tight-beam emissions would register on enemy sensors, but we don’t want to take a chance. In the meantime, stand by for emergency extraction by us, by the Slaasriithi, or to hear that we are relinquishing command authority over your team — Tsaami, Rulaine, O’Garran — directly to you.”

Riordan increased the volume for Bannor’s benefit. “So I’m waiting to learn if the shit that’s hitting the fan will bury half the fleet. Or more.”

Downing only replied, “Stay alert.”

The circuit closed and then reopened on a different frequency, this one a loud babble of orders, reports, and counterorders: the sounds of Admiral Ira Silverstein’s CIC at red alert and weapons free.

Bannor commented through the external comm circuit: “They sound pretty panicked.”

Riordan listened more carefully. “They’re scrambling every drone and Hunter-class control sloop they’ve got on ready status. Problem is, this Arat Kur ship shifted in so close that they don’t have the time to push out a full protective hemisphere around our shift-carriers. Whatever happens is going to be close, dirty, and very destructive.”

“Makes me glad the Arat Kur only brought one ship.”

Caine grunted agreement and listened to the staccato sitreps and flight ops chatter crackling out of the speaker behind him. He recognized Admiral Silverstein’s voice laying down a barrage of orders: “I want those Boulton-class cruisers out in front and on our flanks. And Commo, you tell the shift-carrier captains that if I don’t see them redline their thrusters and un-ass this area of operations, I will personally come to each of their bridges when this is over and bust them down to ensigns. Nothing is more important than our shift hulls. Nothing. Signal Halifax on Trafalgar that we are now at eighty percent of maximum power output and stand ready to discharge spinal weapons and point defense fire lasers simultaneously.”

“Sir,” cried another familiar voice — communications officer Lieutenant Brill, if Caine remembered correctly—“I’ve got incoming signals from the enemy ship. Well, maybe it’s not an enemy ship.”

“Brill, give me clear data or I’ll find someone who can.”

“Sir, I think— Listen.”

Yet another voice, this one unfamiliar, became prominent. “—your fire. I say again: hold your fire. This is prize-ship Doppelganger, transmitting on all frequencies, all codes: please respond. Repeat, hold your—”

“Damn it!” Silverstein shouted. “Captain Kagawa, you nearly had us soiling our duty suits over here. We were seconds away from frying that Arat Kur hull you’ve commandeered. Why the hell didn’t you follow protocol and communicate immediately?”

Kagawa sounded harried. “Two problems, Admiral. The first was that the Arat Kur left us some viral surprises in the communications software.”

“Damn it, I thought we’d purged all that crap.”

“From the coding and management systems, yes, sir. But not from the physical interfaces. The Roaches must have rigged this sleeper virus to activate when the shift drive was engaged without a passkey code. From the moment we came out of shift, we couldn’t get the radios or lascoms to realign or transmit.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you stand off and pulse your power plants to send a Morse code mayday in the clear?”

“Well, sir, that’s the second problem.”

“More software issues?”

“No, sir. A diplomatic issue.”

“A diplomatic issue?” Silverstein repeated.

“Yes, sir. Our ranking passenger — and he officially ranks me, once we entered this system — ordered that we maintain our approach even as we tried to regain control of our communications.”

“What? Why? Damn it, who is this ass, anyway?”

“It is I,” said another familiar voice, “Ambassador Etienne Gaspard, charged to lead the negotiations with the Arat Kur Wholenest. And now, apparently, I have been promoted to ‘ass.’ I am unfamiliar with the duties and prerogatives of that new rank, Admiral, but it shall figure prominently in my report of this event. Of that I assure you.”

“What the hell is going on?” Bannor asked, evidently having heard the furor but not the specific words. “Are we being hit by the Arat Kur?”

“No,” Riordan answered, “worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

“We’re being hit by diplomats. Stand by to come in out of the sun, guys.”

Chapter Two. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

As Riordan exited the meeting module into the quarantine section of Ira Silverstein’s flagship Lincoln, klaxons began yowling and the alert-condition lights began pulsing red.

Richard Downing waved for Riordan to remain on the other side of the clear plastic barrier as the ship lurched into sudden acceleration and the compartment’s intercom announced, “Mr. Downing, you’re wanted back in the CIC’s intel annex.”

“Acknowledged. But what in bloody hell is happening now?”

“Sorry, sir. Unidentified ship just shifted in.”

“Another one?”

“Yes sir, and only twenty-five light-seconds beyond geosynchronous orbit. They are not responding to hails, but— Wait a moment, sir. I have more data coming in.”

Caine put his hands up against the wall of the plastic box in which he was being held. “Richard, get me out of here.”

The commo officer’s report resumed before Downing could respond. “Classified update for you, Mr. Downing. The ship identifies itself as a Ktoran vessel operating under ‘Autarchy aegis’—whatever that means — and is demanding the immediate repatriation of their ambassador, Tlerek Sirn Shethkador. They are still not acknowledging our hails or altering their trajectory. They’re coming straight at us, sir. We’re deploying to engage.”

“Very well, keep me informed. Downing out.”

“Richard, get me the hell out of this box now.”

“Caine, I—” The quarantine section’s commo panel buzzed; Downing rolled his eyes. “Bollocks — now what?” He tapped open the circuit. “Yes?”

“Richard, Ben Hwang here. I just got the lab results: you can release Caine from quarantine.”

“Many thanks, Ben. You’ve heard the situation?”

“I have. And I figured you’d want Caine to be on hand for whatever comes next. He saw through the Ktoran bullshit the first time. He might again.”

“Indeed he might.”

“One bit of bad news: there’s no usable genetic material from the dead skin and hair we harvested from the Ktoran ambassador’s first holding cell. He must have been misted by a gene-specific toxin when he emerged from his bogus environment tank. So we’re going to need to take a cell sample against his will.”

“Not with a Ktoran ship in-system, you’re not. He threatened war the first time we tried that. Now he just might be able to carry out that threat. Besides, overriding his diplomatic privilege is a political decision, not military.”

“Well, we do have two Republic consuls in the Fleet.”

“Yes, but not a lot of time, so start the process, Ben. If you need me, I’ll be in the auxiliary bridge’s intel annex.” Downing closed the channel, instructed the waiting orderly: “Mr. Riordan is to be released immediately. You will forego taking his exit vitals.”

Caine refrained from drumming his fingers as the orderly started undoing the box’s seals. “What’s our job?”

“Since the Ktorans have come looking for Ambassador Shethkador, we have to run real-time technical and diplomatic intelligence.”

Caine shrugged. “Well, if our objective is to maximize our safety, the course of action regarding Shethkador is clear.”

“Oh?” Downing asked as Caine emerged from the quarantine chamber. “And what course of action is that?”

“You kill him. Immediately.”

Downing blinked. He had probably presumed that such ruthless thoughts never entered the former defense analyst’s mind. “Caine, I agree that Shethkador is a right bastard, but — he’s an ambassador.”

“Yes, he’s an ambassador who back-shot me in Jakarta while masquerading as a genuine exosapient. In other words, he’s also a lying assassin.”

Downing shook his head. “I know he deserves to be shown out the nearest airlock, but killing him could start a war.”

Riordan shrugged. “I know we can’t kill him, even though that would be the safest course of action for fleet security. But that’s the risk we take for the good of Mother Earth.”

“I don’t remember you being quite so sarcastic, Caine.”

“I don’t remember having to be courteous to monsters who’ve tried to kill me. Multiple times.”

Downing seemed to be casting about for an appropriate riposte but didn’t find one. He opened the hatch. “We have a job to do.”

“Yeah, don’t we always?” Caine led the way out.

* * *

Standing at the edge of the intel annex’s small holotank, Caine watched as the Ktoran ship — signified by a red mote — effortlessly slashed through the screen of defensive drones that had been deployed by European Union, Russlavic Federation, and United Commonwealth warships. The Hunter-class drone control sloops — small blue specks — gave ground before the much larger vessel, which to Caine looked like an ominously effulgent drop of blood.

“They didn’t even bother to use any drones of their own,” muttered Gray Rinehart, Downing’s assistant and adjutant-director of IRIS. “They just took out ours with onboard lasers. Didn’t even use their main, spinal mount: just their secondary UV batteries.” He shook his head. “Damn, but they’re swinging a big brassy set.”

“And making a point while they’re at it,” Caine murmured.

Vassily Sukhinin, senior consul for the Russlavic Federation and a confidante, stared at the plot, frowning. “If you mean that they are trying to show themselves to be unconcerned with our weapons, I wonder if they will be so dismissive when they come within range of our nuke-pumped X-ray laser drones.”

Caine shook his head. “I’m not saying that they’re invulnerable, just that they have a lot of abilities that we don’t.”

Sukhinin scanned the flatscreens ringing the space above the holotank like a halo of black rectangles. “Where are the visuals? We littered nearby space with no- and low-metal microsensors. The Ktor must have entered their range by now.”

Downing, cupping his hand over his earbud, explained the lack of images. “The Ktor have been eliminating the microsensors as they approach.”

Caine nodded. “Which means that they’re doing it from ranges greater than fifty thousand kilometers, since we’re not getting any visuals first.”

Downing glanced up. “According to the comchatter, the Ktor are eliminating the sensors from ranges substantially greater than fifty kiloklicks.”

Sukhinin’s expression went from surprise to narrow-eyed wariness. “How much greater, Richard?”

“One intercept took place at one hundred and fifty kiloklicks.”

Sukhinin nodded at Caine. “You have the right of it, then. These svolochi are showing off both their muscles and their keen eyes. To be able to intercept a sensor with less than one hundred grams of metal in it, and no larger than a wine bottle, at half a light-second?” He snorted. “That is not good tactics; that is a dominance display. Particularly since their spies within our megacorporations surely informed them that our microsensors have almost no detection abilities beyond one hundred kiloklicks.”

Caine nodded, watched the death dance progress in the holotank. Lincoln and the two closest shift-carriers were a triad of blue spindles, all making best speed away from the oncoming bogey. Fanning out in their wake were two disk-shaped screens of azure motes: smaller warcraft that had already been deployed when the Ktor arrived or that were now detaching from the cradles of the fleeing carriers. The first screen, mostly comprised of lighter patrol craft — drone-controlling sloops, corvettes, and a few frigates — had formed up around a small hub of destroyers and cruisers that had been scrambled to respond to the false alarm caused by the arrival of the Doppelganger.

The second, larger disk was predominantly comprised of capital ships, mostly cruisers of various marks, with destroyers roving ahead and at the periphery. A steady stream of aquamarine mayflies — drones — were emerging from its outer surface, with slightly larger gnats — X-ray missiles or similar decoys — hanging back behind the bow wave of the formation.

Downing touched his earbud again, confirmed what the holotank was showing them. “We are at eighty-five percent deployment, shift-carriers now at one point five gees constant, heading directly away from the intruder.”

Caine glanced at the single blood-speck that was chasing half a fleet and closing the distance rapidly. “Ktoran acceleration?”

Downing’s reply was muted. “Two point one gees. They will reach our long-range engagement envelope in twenty minutes.”

“Which means we shall be within their demonstrated range in ten,” Sukhinin grumbled.

Gray Rinehart raised a single, silvery eyebrow. “I thought they were here to pick up their ‘ambassador,’ not start a war.”

Caine shrugged. “They might be multitasking today.” Even Sukhinin had a hard time smiling at that gallows humor. “But if they really do mean to fight, they must have more ships around here somewhere.”

Downing nodded tightly. “Agreed. Their abilities are far beyond ours, but they are not gods. Our numbers are too great for them to be able to—”

The door toned twice: coded entry had been requested and automatically approved.

The bulkhead-rated portal moaned aside, revealing a Naval Intelligence liaison. Just behind him were several heavily armed guards, clustered around a tall human male in a day-glo orange jumper. “Mr. Downing, I’ve brought the prisoner as per—”

If Downing’s abruptly outthrust and quivering finger had been a discharged pistol, the liaison would have been dead where he stood. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Why the hell is he here?”

The human in the day-glo orange jumper smiled faintly.

The liaison blinked and swallowed. “Sir, Mr. Downing, I thought — that is, when the XO ordered that I bring all relevant security assets to your situation room, I—”

“Lieutenant, you will listen to every word I am about to utter very carefully, or you will be swapping that nice blue uniform for a duplicate of the orange jumper being worn by our ‘diplomatic guest.’ The detainee you are escorting — Tlerek Srin Shethkador — is not coded as a routine intelligence asset. He is coded as a level 1-A security risk. He is a known assassin and saboteur, and will readily violate his diplomatic privilege to carry out such acts. The special protocols for handling this individual indicate that he is to be kept in restraints and under guard at all times, and is not to be allowed within two hundred meters of any class-one or — two communication, computation, guidance, or weaponry systems. He is presently within one hundred meters of multiple systems of each type I just enumerated.”

Over the course of this clipped-syllable summary, the liaison had flushed, then gone white, and now looked as though he might vomit.

Conversely, his prisoner’s smile had widened slowly but steadily. From over the pasty-faced liaison’s shoulder, the Ktoran said mildly, “It is always nice to be appreciated.”

Downing didn’t take his eyes off the ambassador who had very nearly misled the human command staff into believing that the only possible resolution to the war with the Arat Kur was extermination, rather than negotiation. “Mr. Rinehart.”

“Sir!”

“You will please take charge of this detachment. You will convey the prisoner back to the secure containment facility in cargo module seventeen-D. He is to be returned to his hermetically sealed quarters therein. You will retask Mr. Wu to resume direct monitoring of this individual. Once Mr. Wu is in place, you shall evacuate the air from the cargo bay and leave a full platoon of Marines on level-two alert in the designated overwatch positions surrounding, and leading to, module seventeen-D. I regret to order that you rouse Major Rulaine to command the entire detachment, but he is the best person for this job. Return here once you have ascertained who gave orders for our ‘guest’ to be removed from the secure containment facility. That person either ignored, or somehow missed, the authorization level required to do so.”

As the Naval Intelligence liaison stepped aside, Gray Rinehart stepped forward, drawing his side-arm: a liquimix NeoCoBro machine-pistol. He leveled it at the Ktoran ambassador. “Mr. Shethkador, I trust you are going to be fully cooperative.”

“I have been thus far. This young officer asked that I accompany him to this place. I did so without hesitation or question. I trust that was sufficiently cooperative.”

Rinehart made no direct response. “After you, Mr. Shethkador. Lieutenant, you lead the way back. Detachment: weapons off safety. And leave me a clear field of fire.”

Murmurs of assent accompanied the group back out the door, which sealed slowly behind them.

“That was strange,” Caine said.

“More than strange,” Downing amended, still staring at the door. “That should never have happened. When Major Rulaine was taken off the detail to provide overwatch for your meeting with the Slaasriithi ambassador earlier today, I personally replaced him with a new IRIS striker: Peter Wu, one of the tunnel rats who breached the Arat Kur compound in Jakarta.”

Sukhinin’s frown deepened. “So, this could not simply be a clerical error, a ‘glitch’ as you say.”

“No, it can’t. There’s a reason I assigned Wu to report directly to me as the watchdog over our Ktoran guest. If anyone tried to countermand our security precautions, he was present to inform them that they may not do so unless they have a bloody executive order. Or one from the Joint Chiefs.”

Caine looked up from the holoplot. “So why didn’t Wu call in?” And why is it that, every time the Ktor are involved, there’s always something that goes inexplicably awry? Power plants short out, pacemakers stop working, airlocks burst open, computers malfunction, monorails crash…

Downing shrugged. “Wu’s silence is actually not so much suspicious as it is a matter of bad protocol management. All matters pertaining to the disposition and whereabouts of the Ktoran ambassador must remain on a secure channel, so Wu could not use the intercom. But the call to general-quarters shut down his collarcom. Only command-grade intra-hull wireless is permitted during battle stations. Otherwise, there’s too much EM emission and too much unnecessary comchatter.”

Sukhinin folded his hands. His tone was low and respectful: a sure sign that a circumspect criticism was forthcoming. “So Mr. Wu’s inability to report this matter promptly is an operational — er, slip — that shall want redressing, yes?”

Downing’s smile was pinched. “Yes, Vassily. I’ll get fleet security to change the protocols.”

Caine pointed into the holotank. “You’re not the only one making changes. Look.”

The red mote denoting the Ktoran intruder had now begun to spawn a small swarm of ruby pinpricks.

“Drones.” Sukhinin drew in a long breath, then: “Perhaps they have come to fight, after all.”

“I don’t know,” murmured Downing as he rubbed a finger meditatively across his lower lip. “I still think the odds are so heavily stacked against them that—”

The alert-status lights flashed anew and the klaxons emitted a rapid, three-pulse warning.

Sukhinin, who was not intimately familiar with Commonwealth shipboard procedures during general quarters, started. “Shto? What is this? We are not already at battle-stations?”

Downing frowned. “We are. This is a special alert, reserved to call attention to an additional, unexpected development or threat.”

Caine saw two of the flatscreens over the holotank brighten. He stared, then pointed. “You mean something like that?” The two older men glanced up.

A dim, fragmentary shape — part flattened ellipse, part droop-winged delta — stood out, ghostlike, against the darkened half of the larger of Sigma Draconis’ two moons.

“Yes,” Downing said quietly, “I mean something like that.”

A fleetwide sitrep erupted from the room’s speakers: “Unidentified bogey at one-hundred-twelve kiloklicks, bearing 175 by 13, relative ecliptic. Assumed to be hostile. All helms: commence defensive evolution Echo Whiskey Seven Niner in sixty seconds measured from my mark. And…mark. All remote CICs are to activate InPic telepresence systems and prepare for—”

Asked over the torrent of orders, Sukhinin’s questions came out as dry-throated croaks: “What ship is that, and where did it come from?”

But as more of the mystery ship came into view, its outline now picked out by a ladar scan, Caine realized that he’d seen that shape before. In fact, it was identical to that of the first exosapient spacecraft that human eyes had ever beheld—

“That’s a Dornaani ship, not Ktoran,” Caine shouted. “Tell our people to stand down. It’s here to aid us, not attack us.”

Downing squinted at the image. “Yes, it’s rather like the one that carried us to meet our exosapient neighbors at Convocation. But still, it could be a trap. The Ktor are no doubt aware we are familiar with that Dornaani design, might logically use it to fool us, if only briefly, into thinking—”

“Then don’t trust your eyes,” Caine interrupted. “Get Admiral Silverstein or Admiral Halifax — or whoever you can reach — to run a spectroscopic check on that ship’s hull materials. And to analyze the drive emissions, while they’re at it. Lemuel Wasserman ran those same scans the first time we saw that ship, said that both yielded distinctive results. So if the comparison produces a match—”

Caine fell silent: Downing, convinced, had turned away, was already busy trying to get in touch with the fleet’s commanders.

Sukhinin looked over. He smiled faintly. “You are starting to sound like a genuine naval officer. So perhaps you were not sleeping during the classes they rushed you through at Barnard’s Star Two-C.”

Caine tried to smile, but couldn’t. He remembered the classrooms he had occupied for as many as twelve hours a day at the joint Commonwealth and Federation naval base — The Pearl — located beneath the uninhabitable surface of Barney Deucy. “I had great instructors,” was all he could say. Because the classrooms and instructors and the Pearl itself were just so much floating detritus now, the residual spoor of the surprise attack with which the Arat Kur had commenced their war upon humanity.

Downing looked up. “Analysis of the new ship’s hull is ongoing. There is no thrust signature, so no help there. The vessel is now emitting the transponder code reserved for the Accord’s Custodian vessels, although that proves nothing.”

“Well,” temporized Caine, “it does prove one of three things.”

Sukhinin’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And what would those be?”

Caine shrugged. “One, that it’s a Custodian ship. Or two, that the Ktor are emulating a Custodial vessel, which is so severe a violation of the Accords that they must be planning to renounce their membership, anyway. Or third, that someone else is trying to run a false-flag operation.”

Sukhinin glanced at Downing and added a shrug of his own. “Caine has a point. Well, three of them.”

“Probably so,” conceded Downing. “But new sensor data is pointing to the first alternative. Hull results match those from the Dornaani ship. Fleet sensor ops are still trying to puzzle out how it was lurking there the whole time and we didn’t see it.”

Caine remembered some of what Lemuel Wasserman had remarked about the initial readings he got from the Dornaani ship. “Wasserman speculated that their hull was made out of material that had variable physical properties, controllable by the operator. At first, our radar couldn’t register it. Attempts to get an active scan outline came back like a froth of random noise. But then all of a sudden, our readings cleared up. As if the Dornaani had hit the ‘off’ switch on a variable stealth device.”

Downing was nodding. “That’s what fleet is reporting now: the same ‘fade in’ effect, only much, much quicker. So, unless the Ktor have the same capabilities and have built a Q-ship that matches the Dornaani design, meter for meter and curve for curve, I rather suspect that our newcomers are—”

The room’s speakers reactivated, filled the room with a carrier tone. “Mr. Downing?” The accent could have belonged to a BBC newsreader.

“Yes?”

“This is Commander Mark Lucas, Royal Naval Intelligence aboard HMS Trafalgar, contacting you at the instruction of Admiral Lord Halifax, who sends his compliments. We are receiving signals from the Dornaani Custodial ship Olsloov. The Dornaani indicate that they are about to initiate a communiqué in which we may not participate, but in which we might have a keen interest.”

“Thank you, Commander. If I parse that correctly, our Custodian friends are inviting us to eavesdrop on a conversation they are about to have with the Ktoran intruders.”

“That’s the gist of it, sir. But I repeat: access is not being offered for our command staff, not even Admiral Lord Halifax. Just you. And Commander Riordan.”

“And Consul Sukhinin?”

An extended pause. “Yes, sir: the Custodians are pleased to approve Consul Sukhinin, as well.”

“Excellent. By the way, did the Custodian communicating with you identify him- or herself?”

“Yes, sir. The Dornaani’s name is Alnduul, Senior Mentor of the Custodians’ Terran Oversight Group.” A pause. “Is that significant, Mr. Downing?”

Chapter Three. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Downing turned toward Caine with a broad smile. Riordan reflected that it was probably a match for the one he felt growing on his own face. So, Alnduul is still in the vicinity. Thank God.

The British naval intelligence officer cleared his throat. “Mr. Downing? Did you read me? Am I to infer that this ‘Alnduul’ is a friend?”

“Sorry, Commander. Yes, I did read you. And yes, Alnduul is most assuredly a friend.”

About the best damned one we have among the exosapients, Caine added silently. Maybe the only one we have.

“Very well, sir. I’m adding you to Alnduul’s comm channel.” Rather than shutting off, the speakers remained active, a white-noise hum filling the compartment.

Sukhinin was frowning. “These Dornaani: they make me uneasy.”

Downing shrugged. “Well, Vassily, they are exosapients.”

“Bah. I am referring to their actions. Alnduul was with us only a few days ago, yes? He was present when we discovered that the Ktor are not only murderers and liars, but a breed of displaced humans.” He literally spat. “So, once all was well, and the Arat Kur had agreed to negotiate with us, Alnduul takes his leave, waving his long fingers like streamers in the wind and wishing us enlightenment. A small ship collects him, swings behind the larger moon and disappears. So we presume that the ship must have contained a miraculously small shift drive and that he is gone.

“But today, our Mr. Alnduul shows up in the vicinity of the same moon, commanding a ship that has probably been floating there the whole time. In what should be plain sight. So I must wonder: how many days has it been watching everything we do, eavesdropping on every message we send? No.” Sukhinin shook his head. His meaty jowls amplified the motion. “I do not like it.”

“Well, he doesn’t lie to us,” Caine pointed out.

“Perhaps not, parnishka, but he doesn’t tell us all the truth, either. It would have been nice to know he was perched near the larger moon like a great, invisible vulture, watching us.”

“Or watching over us, as seems to be the case here.”

“Or maybe both.” Downing raised his hands to stop the debate. “I think it unwise to either be too wary, or too trusting, of the Dornaani at this point. But Alnduul, at least, has demonstrated his willingness to help us, even at the expense of his reputation among the rest of the Dornaani Collective.”

Sukhinin huffed. “So he says!”

Richard sighed. “Vassily, while I am quite a fan of Russian caution, not to say cynicism, I must—”

The carrier tone from the speakers acquired a fine thread of static: an open channel. “This is Senior Mentor Alnduul of the Accord Custodians, sending to Ktoran vessel. You are currently in violation of the Thirteenth Accord, which requires that you run a transponder at all times.”

“With all due respect,” a human voice answered, its tone suggesting that the amount of respect due was very minuscule, “this vessel is running with an active transponder.”

“Incorrect. You are running a locator beacon only. The Thirteenth Accord stipulates that your transponder must also relay your ship’s polity of origin, its name or code, its master, and any special conditions under which it might be operating.”

The human voice was bored and dismissive. “We openly identified our origins and our purpose shortly after shifting into this system.”

“You have violated the Accord, even so. All required data must be included in the transponder signal at all times.”

“Senior Mentor Alnduul, it would be most agreeable if you do not belabor this matter. It is a quibble.”

“It is the law. You will adjust your transponder signal immediately.”

Caine wondered if the human voice was going to respond, Or you’ll do what?

But instead, Downing, who was listening closely to his earbud, pointed to one of the flatscreens. A new wave of transponder data scrolled past, indicating that the vessel was indeed from the Ktoran Sphere, was named Ferocious Monolith, listed Olsirkos Shethkador-vah as the acting captain, and had been sent under the auspices of an authority labeled “Autarchal Aegis” to retrieve ambassador Tlerek Srin Shethkador, presumed to be in Arat Kur space.

Alnduul’s voice was more crisp than Caine had ever heard it. “Your compliance is appreciated, Ferocious Monolith. It is difficult to conceive why the Ktoran Sphere, currently under numerous Custodial sanctions, would fail to instruct its ships to observe the Accords more carefully. Today’s violations would be significant at the best of times. Given your polity’s suspended membership privileges, it is extremely severe.”

“Perhaps we do not attach the same measure of importance to rules-stickling. Our attention is focused upon our mission to retrieve Tlerek Srin Shethkador, a mission which your own superiors approved some weeks ago. Consequently, our arrival here should not cause consternation. Or a violent repulse by the so-called ‘Terrans.’”

“I possess a copy of the Custodial travel warrant that confers permission for you to enter this system to retrieve your ambassador. However, that warrant stipulates that you are to arrive no earlier than eight days from now.”

“We hope it is understandable that we are eager to reclaim Srin Shethkador. That is the cause of our haste and early arrival.”

“Yeah,” drawled Caine, “sure it is.”

Alnduul wasn’t having any of it, either: “Given the Ktoran Sphere’s recent violations of various accords and Custodial mandates, these additional infractions do not bode well for reinstatement of your membership.”

The reply was unruffled. “I believe the correct terminology is alleged violations.”

Alnduul’s voice was as flat and cold as a skating rink. “Sophistry. Characterizing your violations as ‘alleged’ is akin to characterizing the laws of gravity as ‘tentative.’”

“Yet, until a judgment is made, the term ‘alleged’ is consonant with the juridical protocols of the Accord and Custodians. Is it not?”

“You are correct.” Alnduul sounded as though he would have rather eaten his own leg than agree. “For now, you will immediately cease all offensive operations and terminate your acceleration. Once you have complied, we will communicate the purpose, and legitimacy, of your mission here to the representatives of the Consolidated Terran Republic. We will encourage them to return your ambassador as soon as they may, at which point you are ordered — under Custodial authority — to commence preacceleration and depart the system as quickly as practicable. An approved list of systems whereby you may return to the Ktoran Sphere will be relayed to you at the end of this communiqué. To deviate from that route will lead to swift repercussions.”

“We shall be duly attentive to your instructions.” The Ktoran carrier wave faded out, followed shortly by an increase in light static: two-way communication was now possible.

Alnduul’s voice returned to its customary, milder tone. “Gentlemen, the Ktoran interlopers are no longer on the channel.”

Sukhinin didn’t waste a second. “Many thanks, gospodin Alnduul, for providing us with timely information regarding the Ktor’s expected arrival.”

Alnduul sounded puzzled. “But…I did not.”

“Of course not. Nor did you share other relevant information.” Sukhinin was flushed now. “You did not let us know you were still in the system, did not let us know that the Ktor were coming, did not immediately intervene when they arrived. Let me see — am I missing anything?”

Sukhinin’s sarcasm was no longer lost on Alnduul. “I assure you, it was our intent to apprise you of the Ktor’s imminent arrival once the negotiations with the Arat Kur were well under way.”

“Why? So that we might enjoy a few more days of blissful ignorance?”

“No. To ensure that the Arat Kur negotiators could not be emboldened by rumors of the pending arrival of their strongest allies. And also to ensure that we remained undetected for as long as possible. That way, the exchanges between yourselves and the Arat Kur could not be accused of taking place under Custodial auspices.”

Downing managed to ask a question before Sukhinin could find another argumentative brickbat to sling at Alnduul. “But wouldn’t it be best for the negotiations to have the implicit benefit of Custodial oversight?”

“Although the Arat Kur have violated the most crucial of all the Accord’s rules, they are still members, which means that they may still expect equal access to information. On the other hand, humanity is still a protected species, since the Convocation at which you were to have received your membership was derailed by the disputes which led to the late war.”

Sukhinin became even more red. “And so you would support these attackers of our homeworld — these chudovishnie Roaches — against us in the negotiations, if they asked?”

Alnduul sounded weary. “It is not so simple a matter as that, Consul Sukhinin. No Custodian — indeed, I believe no one in the entirety of the Dornaani Collective — would wish to take the side of the Arat Kur against your interests and claims for reparation. But this scenario is without precedent in the annals of the Accord. Therefore, we felt it best to let the disputatious parties come to their own agreements. Specifically, if you wished to aggressively seek reparations for war damages, we did not wish the Arat Kur to know we were present, and thus, to exercise their right to call upon us for mediation. As they now might, if word reaches them that we are still present in this system.”

Downing rubbed his chin. “So perhaps the Ktor’s early arrival is not simply a consequence of their excessive enthusiasm for retrieving Tlerek Srin Shethkador.”

“I’m sure that the timing of Ferocious Monolith’s appearance serves many Ktoran agendas, not the least of which would be to remove the ambassador before his identity as a human was revealed. Of course, they had no way to know that they were already too late to prevent that.”

Sukhinin placed a fist on the commo console. “And you still insist that it is wise for us to help these virodki hide their true nature?”

Caine leaned toward the Russian. “Vassily, if we don’t, we lose the only leverage we have over them. I don’t know how long the Ktor expect to be able to conceal their speciate identity and their genocidal campaign against the Arat Kur over ten thousand years ago, but evidently they consider it important to suppress that information for now.”

Alnduul’s eyelids nictated once, quickly. “Caine Riordan is correct. At this moment in time, you are well-advised to protect the secret of the Ktor. Sometimes, a long-term benefit is derived from maintaining a short-term silence. Accordingly, I encourage you to return the Ktoran ambassador to his ship. But I may not instruct you to do so, since you are not members of the Accord.”

Sukhinin cocked a wicked eyebrow at Downing. “It might be useful, as well as amusing, to keep this moshennik Shethkador around for a bit longer, hey? Extract some repayment for what he wanted to extort from humanity? And let his comrades shake their fists.”

“Vassily—” Downing began carefully.

“Bah, Richard, you take me too seriously.” Sukhinin gestured into the holotank: the red blip and its small cloud of attendant ruby mayflies were still chasing the actinic blue points, albeit lazily. “I know the Ktor have not come just to shake their fists: they will use them, if they become too aggravated. I speak of what I wish to do, not what I recommend we do.”

Caine sighed, smiled. “Well, that’s a relief.”

Sukhinin’s eyes moved to meet Caine’s, but his wolfish smile did not change. “I’m glad you feel so, parnishka.”

Caine had learned that when Sukhinin used that familiar appellation, the odds were dead even that he was about to drop a bomb on the person so addressed. “I’m not sure I like the way you said that, Vassily.”

Sukhinin had the good grace to look abashed and sounded genuinely apologetic. “Caine, surely you must see what this means.”

“What this means—?”

Alnduul’s voice intruded. “I believe Consul Sukhinin is suggesting that you escort Ambassador Shethkador back to his ship.”

Caine remembered the pasty, nauseous appearance of the hapless security liaison only ten minutes ago and was fairly certain his own face looked like that now. “You’re joking.”

Downing shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no. Firstly, we can’t let any Ktor on our ships. We have seen how much unexplained havoc seems to follow wherever they go. Secondly, whilst Vassily and I are the only ones who should go, who have the diplomatic credentials, neither of us are permitted. He is a World Confederation Consul: he shouldn’t even be this close to a potential war zone. And in my case, well, there are a few too many of IRIS’ secrets up here.” Richard tapped the side of his head.

“I’m in IRIS, too,” Caine offered lamely.

“Being in IRIS is a great deal different than being in charge of IRIS, Caine. Besides, if we do send you over, that might actually help take any enemy spotlight off you.”

“Because if you’re willing to send me, they’ll deduce that I mustn’t know anything they’re interested in?”

“Exactly.”

“And if they decide to dissect me, just to make sure?”

Alnduul broke in hastily. “I would not permit that.”

“Alnduul, no disrespect, but you won’t be there.”

“No, but we may equip you with a biomonitor. If the data stream from it is in any way obstructed, impaired, or altered, my ship will consider it a hostile act against a person who is acting at the behest of the Custodians.”

“Does that mean you’re…uh, deputizing me?”

“Nothing so involved as that. But the twenty-first accord allows me to solicit help from willing parties in accomplishing the mandate of that accord. If you agree to carry out this task, you will have our express protection. Over which I have full and immediate control.”

For the first time in many months, Caine felt that he had just become more, rather than less, safe. But damn it, stepping foot on a Ktoran vessel? Really? “Look, can’t we avoid all this?”

Downing folded his arms. “How?”

“By handling the transfer the same way we handled my meeting with the Slaasriithi ambassador. We rendezvous with the Ktor at a module floating in space. They get Shethkador and go back to their ship. We return and go into quarantine. That way, no one”—which is to say, me—“has to journey into the belly of the Ktoran beast.” Caine waited for someone to say something, even Alnduul. But no one did. “Well?” he asked.

Downing looked up. “Caine, if we do that, we’ll be losing an immense opportunity. By asking for us to return Shethkador, the Ktor are also inviting us to go to their ship. To see it from the inside.”

Caine blinked, sputtered. “Well, it’s just fine with me if we pass up that ‘opportunity.’”

“Caine, our ability to fight the Ktor — which hopefully won’t happen for some time, if ever — will be markedly improved by every bit of specific data we can gather about them and their technology.”

“Well, then send an engineer, someone who’s got that skill set.”

“Caine, your powers of observation and deduction are exactly the skill set we need in this circumstance. If we sent an engineer, we might miss important social and cultural details. If we sent a xenologist, we might miss technical components. We need someone who specializes in observation itself, and who has a broad enough knowledge-base to sift out significant factors from background noise. And that specialist is you. That’s why you’ve become the first choice for first contact.”

“Richard, you may mean that as flattery, but I hear it as a death sentence.”

“I know you do, and it’s beastly bad luck that we have to ask you to go back into the bull-ring again, but we’ve been handed a short-lived opportunity and no time to prepare for it. You have the best skill set, and you also have had the closest prior contact with the Ktor.”

“When you say ‘close contact,’ are you including that arm-spike Shethkador fired into my back in Jakarta? The one that would have done me in if it hadn’t been for Dornaani surgeons? Because, I’ve got to tell you, that kind of ‘close contact’ is a little too close for my tastes. Don’t want to repeat it.”

“We — and significantly, Alnduul — will not allow that to happen.”

Vassily opened his hands in appeal. “Understandable. But if you will not go, you know what will happen, of course.”

Caine felt his stomach sink. “You’ll send someone else.”

Sukhinin shrugged, his expression a hang-dog acceptance that life was inherently unfair. “Of course.”

Riordan pushed back from the holotank, disgusted. “I guess I don’t have a lot of prep time.”

Downing’s eyes were sad, apologetic. “No, you don’t. Let’s get started.”

Chapter Four. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Strapped into one of the forward acceleration couches in a Commonwealth armored pinnace, Caine glanced back toward the cargo section where Tlerek Srin Shethkador and Miles O’Garran’s security detachment were waiting. Downing was alongside Riordan, studying the feed from the forward sensors. “Do we have a visual yet?”

Downing shook his head. “No, but it’s still early.”

Caine rubbed his hands, felt chilly despite the constant twenty degrees centigrade maintained inside the armored pinnace. “You know, I’m surprised the Ktor agreed to have me come aboard. My prior exchanges with them haven’t exactly been pleasant, and I just outed Shethkador — and therefore, all of the Ktor — as humans a couple of days ago. I doubt I’m on their ‘favorite Earth-folks’ list right now.”

Downing’s smile was faint. “True, but it’s of no consequence. You’ll go aboard, present your credentials, participate in whatever ridiculous minuet of courtesies and verbal fencing they elect to impose, and be present long enough to see Shethkador aboard to the satisfaction of this Olsirkos Shethkador-vah.”

“Sirs,” the copilot called into the passenger compartment, “I have a visual of Ferocious Monolith. Feed three, if you want to take a look.”

“Very good, Lieutenant,” called Downing, who pulled the screen into a position where both he and Caine could study it.

Riordan wasn’t convinced he was looking at a shift-carrier at first. It did not have the distinctively freight-train modular appearance of all human and most Arat Kur shift-capable craft. It was shaped rather like a thickened Neolithic arrowhead, a wide, flat delta shape, with a notch separating the warhead from the after part that would be lashed to the shaft. There were no rotating habitats in evidence, and further surface details were hard to discern because, unlike any other spacecraft Riordan had ever seen, its surface was dead black. Truly dead black, Caine realized as he looked for reflections and found none. “I think that hull is designed to absorb light,” he muttered.

Downing nodded. “The same sort of effect we’ve noticed with the Dornaani. But this is a damned odd hull design. How do they maintain gravity equivalent in crew quarters? And if that large section aft of the widest part of the delta-shape houses their engineering decks, then how the devil do they shield themselves from the output?”

Answers started presenting themselves. Caine pointed to a pair of transverse seams that had appeared close to the center of the arrowhead. “Something is separating from the hull; a whole band of it is lifting up.”

“No,” corrected Downing after a moment, “that band of hull is splitting apart along the ship’s centerline, dividing into two equal halves that are moving out from its axis.”

Caine squinted and then understood what he was looking at. “Those two halves, at the end of those extending pylons: those are the rotational habitats.”

Which now underwent a further transformation. The two faces of each segment began to split apart and open like a jackknife. They ultimately unfolded into two hinged, mirror-image halves, the top and bottom faces joined at a one-hundred-twenty-degree angle of incidence. They began to spin around the ship’s long axis.

“That’s a pretty impressive piece of engineering,” Downing murmured.

“I don’t think they’re done showing off, though,” commented Caine, who had noticed movement back along the notch that divided the ship into its forward and aft sections. “Look.” From the section behind the notch, fins or sails were extending outward.

Downing frowned. “What the devil—?”

“Sirs!” exclaimed the copilot. “Intruder energy output is spiking, neutrinos increasing sharply. I think their engines are—”

But Caine didn’t hear the rest. The fins or sails were becoming a kind of black parasol around the stern of the ship, screening the forward personnel and cargo section from the aft engineering decks.

As the parasol continued to expand outward like a skirt, the copilot reported, “We are no longer in the line of the emissions, sir, but they continue to spike. We can detect the bloom around the edge of that…that stingray’s peacock tail.”

Downing glanced at Caine. “A peacock-tailed stingray: seems as good a description as any.”

Caine shrugged. “Better than anything I’d have come up with.”

Downing grinned crookedly. “I thought you were a writer.”

Caine tried to return the grin, but couldn’t get past the irony of who had whisked him out of that career, thereby destroying it. “Yes, well, two guys from IRIS put an end to that about fifteen years ago, now—Richard.”

Downing looked like he had swallowed his tongue. Or wanted to. “Caine, I—”

Caine shook his head. “Sorry, Richard. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to joke about that. But what’s done is done. I’m where I need to be, I guess, and we work well together. Let’s leave it at that, yeh?”

Downing nodded, avoided Caine’s eyes by focusing intently on the screen. “Look at the thermal image overlay.”

Caine did, and frowned. “Damn, with all the energy their power plant is putting out, that flimsy parasol ought to be white-hot by now. The neutrinos alone should be cutting straight through—”

Downing shook his head. “No. It’s not just a shield. Look how its rim temperature drops off rapidly, even down where the parasol emerges from the hull. And it’s not just a radiator, either.”

Caine felt his eyebrows rise slightly. “Advanced thermionic materials?”

Downing shrugged. “What else makes sense? Whatever that parasol is made of, it not only absorbs heat but eliminates it, probably by converting it directly into electricity. And it’s doing so at efficiency levels that are at least an order of magnitude greater than anything we have. It’s a damper, shield, and power-reclamation system all in one. A pearl of great price.”

“Yes, and another bit of purposeful bragging,” Caine added. “A ship with a system like that is going to have a much better power-to-mass ratio than ours or the Arat Kurs’.”

Downing nodded. “To say nothing of higher operating efficiency and better ready power levels.”

Caine sighed, leaned back. “So they’ve shown us that they can put a tiger worth of hurt in the body of a housecat. But there is one significant drawback to their dominance display.”

Downing smiled. “They’ve shown us how much higher we need to be able to jump if we want to match them. Although I must say that is a high, high bar.”

Caine shrugged. “Which means we’d better get hopping.” He stood into the zero-gee without remembering to be careful — and discovered that, finally, it was starting to become second nature. “Let’s request approach instructions and get this over with.”

* * *

Shortly after they docked with Ferocious Monolith, the Ktoran craft brought its rotating sections to a halt and commenced to spin slowly around its own keel, instead. Caine surmised that was probably because the exchange was likely to take place in the main hull and the Ktor didn’t want to go through those formalities in zero-gee. It was pretty hard to look dignified and imposing while floating, unpowered, in midair. Particularly their returning leader, the Srin Tlerek Shethkador.

The Srin Shethkador. None of the analysts who had pored over every recorded word of the assassin-ambassador’s utterances had been able to determine precisely what a Srin was, nor was Shethkador disposed to clarify the matter for them. It was clearly a title of some importance, but whether it was civil or military, inherited or earned, remained a complete mystery. And it will probably still be a mystery when this day is over, Caine reflected as the armored pinnace’s docking hatch opened to reveal the Ktoran ship’s ingress: a shiny iris valve. After a five-second wait, the plates of the valve dilated with a ringing hiss, revealing four guards in what looked like armored vac suits, unfamiliar weapons at the ready. Faceless behind the black helmet visor that was part of their uniform equipage, one stepped forward and gestured that Caine should approach.

Caine turned and saw that Miles O’Garran was right behind him, the top of his head barely reaching Riordan’s shoulder. “Ready, Miles?”

“Whenever you are, sir. But—”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you want me to do this solo, leave my guys back here to keep the ambassador company?”

“I’m sure.”

“May I ask why, sir? They’re all eager to come along. Real eager.”

“That attitude, while laudable, is why I’m leaving them here. For all we know, the Ktor might try to have some fun with us, try to provoke us into making some misstep. I need a seasoned pro who can keep his head clear and his finger away from the trigger if that starts happening. I know you’re good for that job. The other guys and gals: they seem a little too heavy on the oo-rah and a little light on Zenlike serenity.”

O’Garran smiled. “Good working with you again, sir.”

“You too, Miles. Let’s get this over with.”

The corridors to the bridge were masterpieces of defensive architecture: cutbacks, hard-points, doorways, and angles that had been designed to make any hostile boarding attempts a tactical nightmare. No automated defense blisters or systems of any kind, though, Caine noted. Strange.

Bracketed front and back by their escorts, Caine and O’Garran arrived, without fanfare or much warning, on the bridge of the Ferocious Monolith. They passed through a slightly wider automated hatchway and were suddenly in the surprisingly small compartment. Caine peripherally noted various details: that they hadn’t come through the largest entry to the bridge; that most of the crew were in plain gray flight suits; that instead of appearing extremely advanced, the bridge was spartan. It even lacked the minimalist elegance Riordan associated with higher technology: it was a triumph of ugly utilitarianism.

But Caine did not focus on any of these, or the hundred other details that vied for his attention. The best way to look anxious and disoriented is to gawk at my surroundings. And I’m not here to look like a yokel with wide eyes and hat in hand. This is the lair of dominance-obsessed predators; my job is to find the alpha and look him in the eyes and keep looking. And to not blink. Not once.

Riordan did not have long to wait. A tall, trim Ktoran — much adorned with what were presumably symbols of rank or achievement — turned from a cluster of advisors and faced the human visitors. He stared.

Caine stared back…and did not approach.

The Ktoran frowned. “I am Olsirkos Shethkador-vah, Master of Ferocious Monolith. You may approach.”

Well, I see we’re going to start the wrestling match right away. “I am Commander Caine Riordan, Consolidated Terran Republic Naval Forces. I have been approaching since I boarded your ship. I am here to present my credentials and documents concerning the violations, condition, and repatriation of Ambassador Tlerek Srin Shethkador.” And he did not move, except to hold up the relevant papers: hard copy only, both to follow diplomatic protocol and because the last thing either human or Ktoran computer experts wanted was to have any contact between their respective systems.

Olsirkos narrowed his eyes. “Evidently you do not understand our customs.”

“Probably not. Evidently you do not understand ours, either. I presume you wish to have the Srin returned before I depart?”

“You will not depart without returning the Srin.”

“I will if you do not take these documents from me.”

“Allow me to rephrase. You shall not be permitted to depart if you do not follow our customs and acknowledge my authority in the appropriate manner before we proceed.”

“Allow me to explicate. If I am not allowed to leave when I choose to do so, the Dornaani will see to it that any obstructions are removed. Forcibly. And while you have our cordial respect, your authority is over your own personnel, not us.” Caine kept the documents upraised and motionless.

The crewmembers near Olsirkos — mostly officers, from the look of them — glanced at the master of the ship. In contrast, the gray-suited personnel at the duty stations seemed desperate to focus their attention on something else—anything else.

Olsirkos’ color had begun to change, but then the flush of anger receded — with unnatural speed, it seemed to Caine. As if that involuntary reaction had been explicitly and swiftly countermanded. Instead, the Ktoran smiled. “It would be interesting to see,” he commented in an almost diffident tone as he stepped down from the command platform, “how this encounter would have played out in the absence of your Dornaani warders.”

“Probably less well for me,” Caine admitted, “but no different for you. With or without the support of our Dornaani friends, Tlerek Srin Shethkador will only be returned when proper protocol is observed.”

“And if we had elected to seize your armored pinnace and take him?” Olsirkos approached slowly.

“You would have discovered that there is a an explosive decompression setting for the Srin’s compartment, rigged to a deadman switch.”

“Which you have just revealed, minimizing its effectiveness.”

“True, but you would have less luck neutralizing the bombs on board the pinnace, since they are activated by both command detonation controllers and breach-sensitive countdown triggers. The blast would not only vaporize the Srin, but also severely damage this ship.”

Evidently, Olsirkos Shethkador-vah had not been expecting that response: he halted at a distance of two meters. He also did not seem to suspect that the second threat might be a lie; rather, he seemed to reassess Caine. Who could see, in the Ktor’s subtle shift into a deceptively casual stance, his opponent’s decision to change tactics. “I know you,” Olsirkos said.

Caine swatted away a rising edge of anxiety. “Indeed?”

Olsirkos seemed disappointed that the rhetorical shift had not rattled the human. “Yes, but I thought you were a diplomat, a delegate to the late, disastrous Convocation where our peoples first met. Yet here you are, a member of your planet’s quaint military forces.”

Ignoring the goad implicit in the adjective “quaint,” Caine shrugged. “Once we discerned that war was imminent, many people elected to join the fight that led to the defeat of your allies. I was simply one of them.”

Olsirkos fought down his color once again. “You mistake our role in your late conflict with the Arat Kur and the Hkh’Rkh. We were not their allies. We merely shared common interests and provided advisors. Furthermore, the forces you claim to be invaders were invited planetside by humans — by leaders of some of your most powerful megacorporations, if the reports are accurate.”

“The reports are accurate, but evidently incomplete. The megacorporations have no standing before the Accord, and no power to speak for the people of Earth or the broader Terran Republic. And besides, I don’t recall anyone inviting the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh to mount their initial sneak attack upon our naval base at Barnard’s Star. As to the matter of whether or not you were their allies, I can only report that they claim you were.”

“Yes, the endless war of words.” Olsirkos smiled. “We have not declared war upon Earth, and only had advisors present, but you list us along with the actual invaders, who then attempt to embroil us in the hostilities by claiming an alliance that does not exist. Ask them to produce any such official documents or treaties to which we were party with them. You will find none.”

And why am I not surprised in the least? “Whatever circumstances are claimed by our respective governments, Tlerek Srin Shethkador committed several crimes while upon Earth — and since, while in our custody.”

“Ah, you are referring to his attacks upon yourself and others?”

“Others?” Damn, I wish I had the time to—“Those are among the charges, yes.”

“And perhaps they were valid. But they ceased to matter when your World Confederation accepted him as our official representative and ambassador, who then traveled to this system with your fleet. As I understand it, any alleged transgressions he may have committed before that appointment were, of necessity, pardoned. He could hardly be both a felon and an ambassador, after all.” Olsirkos’ smile was that of a man twisting a knife in an old enemy’s heart or, in this case, twisting the robotic arm Shethkador had fired into Caine’s back in Jakarta.

“This,” Caine commented after a sigh, “has been a diverting conversation, but it grows tiresome. I take it you wish to have the Srin returned promptly?” He waggled the papers in his hand.

Olsirkos’ smile faded. “Yes, I do.” Without allowing his gaze to drift from Caine’s eyes, he snapped an order at a gray-suited crewman to his left. “You, autarchon, fetch the documents.”

The gray-suited figure swung around, his eyes avoiding both Caine’s and Olsirkos’, took the papers gently but firmly from Riordan’s hands and transferred them to his superior with a slight bow of his head and bend at his waist.

“Return to your post,” Olsirkos muttered as he glanced down at the sheaf of documents and then held it back over his shoulder. “Intendant Hekarem, see that these are in order.”

One of the nearby officers fairly leaped forward, took the papers out of Olsirkos Shethkador-vah’s hand with an excess of care, and retreated to peruse them.

Caine returned Olsirkos’ stare and discovered that he did not have to feign boredom anymore. The dominance duel that had started as riveting had become repetitive, then pointless, and now, childish. But damn it, I can’t look away if he doesn’t do so first, so I guess I just have to—

Olsirkos looked past Caine toward O’Garran. His smile transformed into a smirk. “Pitiful,” he said.

Oh, no. Little Guy, don’t you dare—

Miles “Little Guy” O’Garran’s retaliatory inquiry was quiet, controlled, and full of rage. “Would you care to clarify?”

Damn it, O’Garran, I told you: we’re not here to start a war; we’re here to end one. Caine cleared his throat for Olsirkos’ attention. “It may not be inconsiderate to openly comment upon a stranger in Ktoran culture,” Caine observed in a neutral voice. “It is considered offensive in ours.”

“Oh, I am familiar enough with your cultures. But you are on our ship, and we will not put our conventions aside for your comfort.”

“I was not asking you to.” Caine reflected that this first contact — with another branch of humanity — was, in every conceivable way, by far the most unpleasant one he’d ever experienced. “I was simply explaining my companion’s reaction.”

“Yes. I am aware. Frankly, I was not staring, but examining your servitor. I find it most amusing that you elect to bring the inferiorities of your culture wherever you go. Whether out of blindness or perverse pride, I cannot discern.”

“The inferiorities of our culture?”

“But of course.” Olsirkos gestured toward O’Garran as if he were a disappointing show dog. “The physical insufficiencies of this servitor alone prove my point. We would never tolerate a genetic deficiency that is so obvious, and so easily corrected. And if we did, we would never make such a specimen a warrior.”

O’Garran made no sound, which worried Caine more than if he had. “You know,” Riordan said with a mirthless smile, “we have a saying on Earth about combat capability: that it’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” And then, over his shoulder: “Sorry, Miles; no offense intended.”

Caine could hear the grin in Little Guy’s response. “Absolutely none taken, sir. And oo-rah.”

Olsirkos matched Caine’s stare, smiled when he saw he was not going to win that dominance contest. “Yes, I have heard that inane axiom. All other physical parameters being equal, size is decisive.”

“Oh, you must mean as demonstrated by the Hkh’Rkh, who average almost two and a half meters? But I wonder if the example of the Hkh’Rkh adequately supports your implication that Chief O’Garran is an inferior warfighter. Indeed, the accuracy of that claim could have been assessed during the recent fighting in Jakarta.” Riordan shrugged. “But it would be difficult to gather the relevant Hkh’Rkhs’ opinions on that matter.”

“Why so?”

“Because they’re all dead. Chief O’Garran was not in a position to take any prisoners that day.”

Olsirkos blinked. And Caine responded with a widened smile. Gotcha, asshole. “May I presume that our credentials have been verified and that the initial pleasantries are over?”

“They are indeed over.” Olsirkos’ stare, now openly hostile, reminded Caine of a chained attack dog straining at its collar. “The papers are in order. Return the Srin at once.”

Caine folded his hands. “This will go more quickly if you observe proper diplomatic, or even military, etiquette. Such as: since we’re not under your command, you will secure our cooperation by making requests, not by giving orders.” And while your enraged eyeballs try to jump right out of your head, I will ignore you and survey my surroundings patiently — and so, observe what I can for the technical intelligence people.

Affecting disinterested waiting, Riordan could not change the angle of his head too dramatically. He had, at most, one hundred forty degrees of frontal exposure that he could take in, and could not be noticed looking in any one place or at any one object too long.

The most striking item was the crew itself. Its physiognomies and demographics were markedly distinct from any human ship Caine had ever seen or heard about, in any era. The majority of the gray-uniformed drones, one of whom Olsirkos had labeled an “autarchon,” were not merely thin, but spindly: probably born, bred, and employed in zero or partial gee. Their tasks — running various ship’s systems — were logical extensions of that hypothesis: they were performing duties they’d learned growing up on a space station, a moon, or a ship.

Furthermore, none of the bridge crew appeared to be over thirty-five, forty at the outside, and none of them were women.

Another surprise was the absence of robots. Although consumer and industrial ’bots were rare on Terran ships, most military hulls had a sizeable complement of zero-gee floaters: ROVs that fetched, maintained systems, and carried gear about the ship. No ’bots of any kind, or their ubiquitous charging stations and ready racks, were in evidence on Ferocious Monolith.

From what Caine could tell, the Ktoran computers had sophisticated interfaces, but there was a great deal of hard-wire control redundancy. Old-style keyboards, trackballs, and intercom handsets were tucked away in emergency access slots. Clearly, the Ktor preferred hard-wired systems. And come to think of it—

Caine shifted his attention back to the crew, focusing on the officers this time. Sure enough, none of them had collarcoms or their analogs. Instead, they all wore some kind of multipurpose device clipped on their belt, equipped with a spooled cable. But almost no one was using them. In the time he’d been on the bridge, Riordan had seen two autarchons communicating with another part of the ship, and both times, they used one of the numerous — and seemingly anachronistic — hardwired handsets.

While studying the belts of the officers, Riordan also discovered that everyone over the rank of autarchon was armed. All had daggers of some sort, and almost as many had handguns, several of which looked outlandish. But the weapons were not standardized; the greater the apparent importance of any given individual — which Caine inferred to be roughly proportional to their accumulation of medals, insignias, and other official gewgaws — the more profoundly eclectic their gear and attire appeared to be. In fact, the most senior of the bridge crew were all wearing different uniforms. The only common adornment was a small, square, gray shoulder patch.

Peripherally, Caine saw Olsirkos lean in slightly closer. The Ktor muttered, “I request that you return our Srin with all possible speed.”

Caine did not hurry to bring his eyes around to meet with the Ktor’s. “We are pleased to comply. I will contact the pinnace and have Tlerek Srin Shethkador transferred to your custody.”

“Do so.”

Riordan tapped a three-tone code into his collarcom. The security detachment would commence unloading the Srin immediately upon receiving it. Making sure that O’Garran was close behind him, he made briskly for the exit.

Chapter Five. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Riordan hadn’t finished strapping back into his seat aboard the armored pinnace when Downing sealed the hatch to the bridge, snapped off the intercom, activated a white noise generator, and turned toward him urgently. Caine raised his hands: “Richard, calm down. I didn’t learn that much about the Ktor. I’m sure the debrief—”

“Sod the debrief,” Downing said flatly. “It will happen when and if it happens. We’ve got more pressing matters. We just got a communiqué from the Slaasriithi. They want to go now.”

“Go where? Home? Well, why’s that a problem? They’re not needed for the negotiations with the Arat Kur.”

“No, Caine. They want to carry human envoys, you and a few others, to their homeworld. And they want to leave in the next twelve hours.”

“Richard, that’s — that’s nuts. They can’t just expect us to—”

“They can and they do expect us to accede to their — well, not demand, but very strongly worded exhortation. The arrival of the Ktor seems to worry them. Profoundly. When I pressed them for a slight extension, just a day or two to prepare, they rejected that idea. And how often have you seen the Slaasriithi reject an idea outright?”

“Never.”

“Not me, either. Maybe Alnduul will be able to shed a little more light on the matter: I’ve put in a call to him. But some of the phrasing in the Slaasriithi message—‘compromised security’ and ‘possible infiltration’—leads me to wonder if they already know that the Ktor are actually humans.”

Caine saw it. “Damn, of course. If they know that, then they’ll realize that the Ktor infiltrated corporations and government agencies on Earth. And each of those infiltrators probably recruited more than a hundred human collaborators. So the longer we stay here, with a Ktor spymaster-assassin now repatriated to one of his own ships, the better the chance they have to activate some sleeper cells that might be in the fleet.”

“Exactly. They are probably conjecturing what we already know: that the Ktor can create and control suicidal saboteurs, penetrate many of our data and intelligence networks, and exchange information between their operations cells faster than should be physically possible. Given a few days, they could pull some strings, change some files, and seed any diplomatic team we assemble with one or more of their own operatives. Which, depending upon how and where those operatives struck, could leave the Slaasriithi uncertain of how safe it is to deal with us at all.”

The intercom status panel flashed red. Downing jabbed the virtual button. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Downing, but I have Senior Mentor Alnduul on secure three.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Patch him through.”

The compartment’s comm screen brightened, revealing the Dornaani’s back-sloping teardrop head and large eyes. Underneath his single nostril, his lamprey mouth was clenched tightly before he began to shape human words. “I have responded as soon as I was able, Richard Downing. I have already been apprised of the situation. The Slaasriithi ambassador, Yiithrii’ah’aash, contacted us as soon as Ferocious Monolith revealed its identity. They were unaware that any Ktoran ships were expected in the area, and were alarmed to learn that this one arrived so early. Frankly, I cannot fault the Slaasriithi’s reaction. But I also suspect they were more sanguine about inviting a human delegation after meeting with you, Caine Riordan.”

“That sounds promising,” Downing observed.

“I agree. The Slaasriithi make decisions and act upon them at a much more leisurely pace than the other races of the Accord. For them to tender an invitation regardless of the current pressures says much about the impression Commander Riordan has made upon their leaders. But their acceleration of this diplomatic mission also signifies they fear the Ktor could undermine it. If you refuse to leave promptly, I believe they will withdraw their invitation. They no doubt wish to ensure that envoys from your species would be drawn from a pool of persons unlikely to have been subject to Ktoran influence.”

Caine leaned toward the Dornaani’s image. “That’s an interesting speculation, Alnduul. I don’t see how you could arrive at it unless you also presumed that the Slaasriithi have a strong suspicion — or know—that the Ktor are another branch of humanity and that therefore they could have infiltrated us earlier.”

Alnduul’s nictating eyelids cycled even more slowly this time. “I cannot comment on your conjecture, Caine Riordan. But the fundamental logic is inarguable.”

Huh. Typical Dornaani. They manage to tell you you’re right without coming straight out and telling you that you’re right. “Alnduul, am I correct in assuming that you believe it would be in our best interests to comply with the Slaasriithi request?” Which is to say, go completely unprepared?

One of Alnduul’s hands rose into view: his long fingers trailed like streamers in a sad, slow wind. “As a Custodian, I am unable to share my personal counsel on this matter. However, I have approached the on-site representative of the Dornaani Collective with a request that my ship, the Olsloov, be allowed to provide you with transport on your journey.” The end of his statement was abrupt, clipped. Among Dornaani, that was the equivalent of a pregnant pause.

Caine managed not to smile. Okay, so you’re willing to piss off your boss to try to get us a high-security ride to the Slaasriithis’ party. So, yes; you think it’s important that we go. “Thank you, Alnduul. I am unsure if you’re familiar with the human expression, ‘a wink is as good as a nod’?”

“I cannot recall hearing that expression,” said Alnduul. Who then nictated his left inner eyelid with uncharacteristic speed.

“Did he just wink?” whispered Downing.

“If not, he developed a very timely facial tic,” Caine replied.

Alnduul glanced off-screen. “I am summoned to discuss my request to transport you aboard the Olsloov.”

Downing nodded. “We’ll start making our preparations.”

Alnduul’s fingers made a gesture that somehow used the rotary motion of a pinwheel to impart an impression of a passing ocean swell. “I shall update you with all speed. Enlightenment unto you both.” The screen went dark.

Downing leaned back in his acceleration couch. “Well, now we have to find a consul to send along with you as a plenipotentiary ambassador.”

“We’ll need a world-class technical expert as well. Thank God we’ve got Lemuel Wasserman traveling with the fleet.”

Downing elected — somewhat conspicuously — to begin studying personnel rosters at that very moment. “Doctor Wasserman is no longer with the fleet.”

Caine started. “Wait a minute, just two days ago, you said Lemuel had been sent with the fleet to—”

“He’d been sent with the fleet, yes. But he didn’t make the shift with us into Sigma Draconis from V 1517. He stayed behind with the two shift-carriers we left there, the Gyananakashu and the Arbitrage.”

Caine stared at Downing, started breaking down the improbability of Wasserman simply being “left behind.” “Lemuel was assigned to assess which Arat Kur technologies we needed to get our hands on. No one else can match his ability to see beyond the current theoretical horizon, even if he is a pain in the ass. And he trained for months to do this job. Which now, all of a sudden, he’s not doing.” Riordan frowned. “So Wasserman saw, or learned, something on the way from Earth to V 1517. Something so important that he’s being sent back home.”

Downing shrugged. “Assignments change.”

Caine sat back slowly. “No, not in the case of someone like Lemuel Wasserman. Assignments like his don’t simply ‘change.’ But they might get preempted if something more urgent comes along.” Riordan considered what might warrant that kind of preemption and then realized: “Of course — Wasserman has learned how the Dornaani manage to shift to deep space. When the fleet shifted out from Earth with their help, you must have set him up as the technical liaison to the Dornaani when they were temporarily modifying our ships. And, against all odds, Lemuel struck paydirt, learned how they work that magic. And now, he’s traveling back with the first of the tankers the Dornaani will help shift back to Earth. Hell, that means he’ll also be on hand when they remove the modifications: another golden opportunity to gather more data on the underlying physics and the engineering.”

Downing put down his slate. “Caine, this is not a need-to-know topic for you.”

Riordan shrugged. “Maybe not, but it will influence what our legation to the Slaasriithi should be trying to achieve.”

“How so?”

“Come on, Richard. Wasserman may get his hands on the theoretical and technical recipes for how the Dornaani manage to make deep space shifts, but that’s only half the objective. To make optimum use of that capability, we need to keep expanding our shift range, and there’s no way the Dornaani are going to let our people near their drives. But the Slaasriithi are, by all estimates, more advanced than the Arat Kur, so they are a better place to go seeking that kind of technical assistance.”

Downing picked up his slate again. “You posit an interesting theory, Caine, but I can’t comment on it. Instead, I’ve been concentrating on finding technical experts who can replace Wasserman. A number of likely candidates have just arrived on the Doppelganger, in fact.”

Caine shook his head. “Filling Lemuel’s shoes: that’s a pretty tall order.”

“Yes, it is. Wasserman’s broad range of abilities enabled him to coordinate our technical intelligence for a wide array of fields, as well as working as a specialist in high energy and theoretical physics. But fortunately, Earth also sent along naval designer Morgan Lymbery to assess Arat Kur aerospace technology.”

“Isn’t Lymbery the guy who spearheaded the development programs for the Boulton and Hunter classes?”

“Yes. Bit of a maverick. Eccentric where Wasserman is pugnacious.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’m sure he’d like to oblige, but he’s in cold sleep. Same with most of the other personnel we’ll be pulling for your mission: a collection of experts we can thaw out at need.”

Caine nodded. “And as you say, we’re going to need an ambassador with plenipotentiary powers, too. It’s a lucky break that we have three consuls with the fleet.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, we have only one choice.” Downing ticked off the excluded consuls on his fingers. “Visser can’t commit to this mission. She is needed on Earth if she is to prepare for her turn in the proconsular seat. For that reason, Sukhinin has to remain here: he and Visser were the only ones on-site for the breakthrough in communications and negotiations with the Arat Kur. One of those two must continue building upon that personal foundation. Besides, Sukhinin is the only consul whose specialty is in military policy. Rather crucial during the negotiation of a surrender, as well as reparations that involve transfers of strategic technology and skills.”

Caine’s stomach sunk. “So you mean I’ve got to travel with Etienne Gaspard?” The guy who almost got Doppelganger destroyed a few hours ago, and tried to rhetorically crucify me at the Parthenon Dialogs last year? Please, no…

“Yes. Gaspard. And he’ll be a right wanker about this, I’ll wager.” Downing shook his head. “According to the dossier he relayed shortly after arriving on Doppelganger, he spent four months preparing to replace Visser on the negotiating team. So he’s sure to be hopping mad.”

“Great.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it, Caine. From what I can tell, the last time he was briefed on the Slaasriithi was when he came to my office in DC last year, just before the invasion. So you’ll need to educate him en route.”

Caine hadn’t intended to recoil, but he did. “I’m supposed to educate Gaspard? On a topic I hardly know any better than he does? C’mon, Richard: how about you send me on a combat mission instead? Direct insertion into a hot LZ? Can’t be any worse: probably a damned sight better.”

Downing smiled ruefully. “Be careful what you wish for, Caine. You just might get it. Now let’s get to work.”

Chapter Six. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Olsirkos Shethkador-vah was waiting at the embarkation portal when the plates of that outsized iris valve rang open. Tlerek Srin Shethkador stalked over the threshold and dismissively acknowledged the crew’s obeisance, offered the moment the krexyes horn howled to announce his arrival. Shethkador was gratified to notice that the horn was genuine and not some insulting pseudo-chitin imitation. He nodded irritably at Olsirkos. “’Vah,” he muttered, “escort me to the Sensorium at once.”

Olsirkos waved four huscarls over. Their composite armor plates thumped dully as they fell in around the Srin and the ’vah. “Srin Shethkador, do you not wish an interval of restoration in your quarters? We have prepared suitable facilities in the rotational habitat, and hope you—”

“I must make contact with the Autarchs immediately. I will take my ease later.”

“Fearsome Srin, the orders we carry from the Autarchs do not compel you to—”

“I follow protocols of which you would not be apprised.”

Olsirkos averted his eyes deferentially. “Yes, Srin.”

“Your diligence in pursuing both your duty and my comfort are noted, Olsirkos.”

“The Srin honors me with his regard.”

“So I do.” And now that he has been lulled into a false sense of security—“However, that honor is overshadowed by your handling of my repatriation. You shifted into this system near the main world, knowing that it was surrounded by the Aboriginals? And you entered at combat speed, with the rotational habitats retracted, and without compliance to the Accord transponder requirements? Were you trying to rekindle the recent war, ’vah?”

Olsirkos — who could well expect to lose face, rank, or possibly toes or fingers over such infractions — did not flinch or swallow nervously. “Those orders were not mine, Masterful Srin.”

“Ah. At the behest of the Autarchs, then?”

“It is as you say, Srin.”

So: more idiocies from dust-covered oligarchs who spend too much time plotting combats rather than engaging in them. “Explain, ’vah.”

Olsirkos nodded compliance. “Most of the Autarchs wished to effect your repatriation with a minimum of activity or upset. Several, our own House included, opined that it would be best if we merely sent an away-boat to reclaim you from a neutral facility, such as a free-floating module. But Houses Jerapthere and Falsemmar insisted that this first direct meeting with the Aboriginals should show them how primitive and useless their spacecraft and weapons would be in a confrontation with ours.”

“And their rationale for such an idiotic plan?”

“I was not privy to their discussions, Potent Srin. However, the implicit rationale of the orders seems to be this: by striking terror and awe into the Aboriginals, they will be doubly reluctant to engage or confront us, and thereby, be more easily intimidated and manipulated.”

“Absurd. The Autarchs have achieved but one thing: they have revealed the standards of innovation and excellence that the Aboriginals must be resolved to meet. And, so, they will become less terrified.”

“Fearsome Srin, I do not understand.”

Of course you don’t. “’Vah, attend and learn. For the Aboriginals, we were more terrifying when they lacked any sense of our capabilities. That constant, unbounded fear would have undermined their efforts against us, for they lacked a concrete benchmark which, once achieved, promised greater parity with us.

“Most Aboriginals find such an amorphous competition exhausting: it ultimately erodes their morale and energy. But, thanks to the Autarchs, they now have quantifiable technological intelligence on our midrange space and military capabilities.”

“But, seeing how far above them those capabilities are, will that not terrify and cow them?”

No matter how carefully the Breedmothers groom the genelines, the gift for strategic insight remains rare and elusive. “’Vah, you do not understand this phenomenon because you are too accustomed to interacting with helots and huscarls. Like other Wildings, Aboriginals have not been taught to perceive and presume their own innate inferiority. Rather, they will work to catch up to us, if agitated. And this ship’s ominous approach has indeed agitated them.

“It is alarming that the Autarchs failed to learn this lesson from the Aboriginal repulse of the recent invasion, since I presume that they all supported this insipid posturing.”

“Several objected initially, Srin, but ultimately consented. In return, those reluctant Autarchs received concessions.”

“Which were?”

Olsirkos stood taller. “That a member of House Shethkador — namely, myself — should be placed in command of this Aegis hull. As it was, they were unwilling to accord that honor to anyone over the rank of a first-generation Evolved. So I was sent.” Olsirkos’ voice did not falter, but his gaze did. “I was concerned you might feel insulted that you were retrieved by a mere ’vah, such as myself.”

“I am insulted, naturally,” Shethkador said with a shrug, “but am neither so stupid nor intemperate as to perceive you as the architect of the insult.” Besides, it’s not as though the rival Houses would accept two Awakened Shethkadors as the two senior officers on an Aegis ship. A multi-House command staff is the only means whereby the Autarchs are assured that a hull’s actions will not be unduly influenced by factionalism. “Immediately after I have completed my Reification, I will be consulting the ship’s manifest to acquaint myself with our resources. Are there any expended or missing assets of which I should be made aware?”

“Not as such, Srin. But some assets were deployed to observe the Aboriginal activity in the system we passed through immediately prior to this one.”

“And that system is?”

“V 1581, Srin. Upon arriving there, we discerned it to be the system where the humans first entered Arat Kur space. They left behind two tankers. One is a megacorporate ship; the other is from the TOCIO bloc. Another craft, the prize hull the humans have renamed Doppelganger, was also present, hurrying to make shift here. Since it seemed likely that we would have to reenter V 1581 when we begin our journey back to the Ktoran Sphere, I deployed one of our patrol hunters, Red Lurker, with our frontier observation team to gather information on the Aboriginal traffic and activity in the system.”

Srin nodded. “Very well. And how long has Red Lurker been on station there?”

“Approximately three weeks, but they are furnished for long-duration detached operations. Also, should something untoward befall them, they are quite expendable.”

“More so than the rest of Monolith’s crew?”

“Yes, Srin. The frontier team assigned by the Aegis overseers were almost all Arrogates, and few have genelines prized by their adoptive Houses. If they are lost, it neither diminishes our ability to project force, nor strikes a hostile spark between any Houses.”

Arrogates, who were descended from Extirpated Houses, were noteworthy for their political neutrality, having little reason to prefer one faction above another. But in consequence, they were a polyglot group and, so, often trailed loose ends of mixed loyalties and diverse aspirations.

Tlerek Srin Shethkador did not like loose ends and this situation promised to be rife with them, some of which might be fraying badly at the margins. He would have preferred to immediately peruse the dossiers of the frontier group in detail, but it was urgent that he conclude his contact with the Autarchs swiftly. He restricted himself to one cautionary observation regarding the detached observation team: “It is unwise to leave behind any groups with technology that, if it were to fall into the hands of the Aboriginals, would help them achieve parity with us. Your hands will be forfeit if you have been careless, ’vah.”

Olsirkos smiled shrewdly. “In this particular, you need have no misgivings, Fearsome Srin. While the frontier team does have advanced technology with them, it is impossible for the Aboriginals to acquire it.”

“That is a most confident, but also a most improbable, assertion. Serendipity favors all combatants equally. How is it, then, that the Aboriginals could not, under some odd inversion of likely outcomes, lay hold to the technology possessed by the frontier team?”

Olsirkos smiled more widely. “Because I put the technology, and the team, someplace that the Aboriginals cannot reach.”

Shethkador did not show the extent to which Olsirkos’ mysterious comment and confidence intrigued him. He stopped before the entry to the Sensorium. “I require that the honor guard precede me and sweep for any anomalies before I enter.” Olsirkos gestured the guards through an iris valve that opened upon a circular, dimly lit chamber. A pong of thick, unctuous musk and decaying incense wafted out.

“I will want a complete operational report when I am done here. Be sure that it is extremely detailed,” Shethkador warned Olsirkos. “I may have need of the smallest particulars.” His honor guard, finished with their sweep, stood aside at rigid attention as he entered the reeking, domed chamber.

After the antique iris valve rasped closed, Shethkador sealed it with his personal code and crossed to the small, featureless panel where the Catalysites were stored. He passed his hand over the panel, which, sensing the requisite amount of Symbiot in his bloodstream, slid open. He removed one of the tightly sealed opaque vials waiting in a row, tapped for the panel to self-seal, and positioned himself on the cushions he had selected.

Among the Awakened, who were the unofficial meritocrats of the Evolved, some relished the power and reach of a Catalysite-assisted Reification, claiming it to be the ultimate dominative euphoria. Shethkador was not among their number, and secretly contemned such Awakened as weak-minded sybarites. After all, they reveled in the dominion enabled by the Symbiot without bothering to reflect that they were relying upon an external source to attain that acme of power. Well, no matter: that weakness would eventually be their undoing when the genelines of their Houses came to contend with another that was populated by fewer lotos-eaters.

Shethkador elected to forego the meditative preparations; it was superstition rather than effective practice, in his opinion. He popped open the vial and inserted his finger into the complex microecology within until it met the sluglike dermis of the Catalysite.

He contemplated a quadratic equation until the perfusive flood of burning had swept out into his body. It left a singed tingling in its wake and a perception of the universe as a hierarchy of pressure-sensitive control cells, each cluster of which was itself but a small cell in still greater control clusters, and which all expanded upward and outward into a limitless whole that was greater than the sum of its parts, and through which his awareness grew and expanded, rushing toward an infinitely receding periphery that was the demarcation line of—

All things stopped. Were frozen in the impossibly small spatio-temporal lacunae that separated every action from every reaction, even on the level of entangled quanta. Guided by instinct and the Symbiot within him — and he detested being uncertain of where the former ended and the latter began — he found the incomplete cluster he sought: the Autarchs of the Ktor.

Who were slightly more than fifty-five light-years distant.

Chapter Seven. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Davros Tval Herelkeom, senior of the five Autarchs who had made themselves available, acknowledged Tlerek’s contact: “Your signal is clear, Srin Shethkador. Your House sends its compliments and anticipates a report of success.” Which was a strange greeting in that this affirming welcome should have come from Tlerek’s great-uncle once removed, the Tval Kromn Shethkador, who was present in the group. On the other hand, if these walking fossils are currently split among themselves, it might be deemed an unacceptable entreé to House-domination if both Shethkador voices become preeminent in this counsel.

Tlerek sought a tone of response that was at once direct, assertive, and tinged by the annoyance he felt over the resolution of the war upon Earth. “Regrettably, I must disappoint the anticipations of both my House and the Autarchs. The Aboriginals stayed their vengeance against the Arat Kur homeworld, largely because they discovered my identity as homo imperiens.”

A long pause, and then a contentious, angry query from Beren Tval Jerapthere. “You have failed?” Beren’s tone bordered on effrontery.

“I did not fail, but I report failure. Do you wish my report on the conclusion of the war?”

Beren became peremptory. “Yes, at once.”

“I am pleased to comply. The fleets of the so-called Consolidated Terran Republic successfully misled the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh into believing that their initial attack upon Barnard’s Star was a genuine surprise which decimated their formations. This was a ruse. The human fleets reappeared after the invaders divided their forces and were committed deep within the gravity well of Home, or, as the Aboriginals call it, Earth. Aided by a Dornaani computer virus introduced through a joint Custodian-Aboriginal clandestine operation, the forces of our proxies were neutralized or eliminated, with many of their hulls falling into the hands of the ‘Terrans.’”

Davros Tval Herelkeom resumed control, somewhat archly, of the contact. “Current disposition of enemy forces?”

“I am unsure, but the most technologically advanced of the Aboriginal fleets are currently here in far orbit about the Arat Kur Homenest, which has surrendered to them.”

“The Arat Kur surrendered?”

“Yes. You may recall my prediction that I would lose the ability to mislead each side into believing that the other was obdurate in their hostility if the Aboriginals discerned my true speciate identity. Which they did.”

Ruurun Tval Tharexere, oldest of the Autarchs and of his unity-obsessed House, entered his observations into the contact. “This is most unwelcome news.”

“With all respect, Autarch, the course of events followed my misgivings as players follow a script. The Aboriginals detected the forensically inconclusive waste-emissions from the false environmental suit and that, in conjunction with the military and diplomatic peculiarities of the conduct of the conflict, led one of them to hypothesize my true species.”

Beren’s resentment and rage were palpable through the contact: he had been the architect of many of the stratagems that had gone awry. “You would blame our plans, our technicians, for your own failures? Failures against Aboriginals?”

“Instruct me, Autarch: how were these my failures? Did I not point out the risks in the suit’s design and the underlying xenobiological conceits? And did I not predict that the Aboriginals had an excellent chance of defeating the Arat Kur?”

“Yes, but their defeat was an acceptable outcome if it created an opportunity to entice the Aboriginals into wholesale genocide. The ostracization they would have faced for that act would surely have pushed them in our direction, and so, under our dominion.”

“And I warned, did I not, that the plan’s signal weakness was that I had to be physically present in order to obliquely encourage that genocide?”

“Yes, but—”

“By your leave, Autarch, my House will wish to inspect the transcripts of this exchange, and I humbly request that I may finish without interruption.”

Beren’s almost shuddering response conveyed barely suppressed fury. “You — your request is…granted.”

“My thanks, Autarch. I warned, did I not, that being physically present amongst the Aboriginals would give them the time and opportunity to conduct detailed analysis of the suit and its components, even if only by external sensing?”

“I cannot, at this time, find mention of—”

“I asserted this on the third day of tactical planning, Autarch. Please consult the transcripts. It was one of my first objections.”

Beren paused. “Ah — yes, now I recall.”

“It is happy indeed, Autarch Tval Jerapthere, that your memory now compasses this instance. To conclude, I felt it likely that the Aboriginals would — through inspiration, thoroughness, or serendipity — discover that the environment suit was a deception. They did, and the outcome was as I predicted: they are now aware of our true speciate identity. Furthermore, they have shared it with one Arat Kur of the Ee’ar caste, who will no doubt share it with select members of his own, as well as the Hur, caste. There was also a Custodian present, so the Dornaani discord occasioned by their contending conjectures about our identity are now at an end, and so too is the concomitant drain on the surveillance and intelligence assets they have long dedicated to the matter. Furthermore, the Aboriginals now have full access to Arat Kur technology.”

Ulsor Tval Vasarkas’ declarative was shaded to suggest that the Autarch would brook no dispute on the matter. “That latter risk was deemed acceptable.”

“By the Autarchs, perhaps,” Shethkador replied carefully. “However, you may recall that I opined differently. The observable phenomenon of postwar rebuilding on Earth, in the face of the unresolved exosapient threat, was already arising when the Aboriginal fleet departed for its strike against Sigma Draconis. Even now Earth is reverse-engineering key naval technologies: pseudo-singularity capacitors, navigation systems, field-effect generators, spinal-mounted X-ray lasers, high-yield pulse fusion thrusters, antimatter production and retention systems. They will be manufacturing them within two years. In five years’ time, these technologies will be commonplace in the Aboriginal formations. In ten years’ time, they will be ubiquitous.”

Davros’ contact was unconcerned. “Let them do so. The economic impact of such rebuilding will cripple them.”

“On the contrary, Autarch. It will strengthen the Aboriginals by providing jobs in their market-driven economy and will make them both bolder and more canny opponents.”

Beren pushed back to the fore of the contact, and his shading was as reptile-cool as it was hostile. “Are you saying our plans were folly?”

Time to redirect the exchange. “I would not risk my geneline by suggesting that the Autarchs could be so profoundly and singularly mistaken. Let us say that we are all still paying for the error of the rogue elements of House Perekmeres.”

Beren’s contact was as calm as his animus was clear. “It is always convenient to blame the dead, Srin Shethkador.”

“Perhaps, but it is never right — nor wise — to blame the Autarchs, Autarch. And is there any denying that House Perekmeres’ unapproved attempt to cripple Earth with an asteroid strike triggered this cascade of disastrous sequelae? Instead of eliminating the Aboriginals as a threat and resetting their cultural paradigms, the so-called Doomsday Rock alerted them to exosapience and interstellar travel and, thereby, accelerated the problem. Were not the lately failed war plans — hasty, forced, inelegant — simply the ineluctable offspring of the Perekmeres’s defiance of the Houses and the Autarchs?”

If Ulsor Tval Vasarkas’ comment had a subtext, Shethkador could not discern it: “You sound as if you would purge the Perekmeres again, if it were possible.”

“I laud the thoroughness of their Extirpation, even down to the fetuses in the EndoWombs. I would have gladly assisted, had I been asked.”

This time, Ulsor’s contact trod a line between assertion and irony. “Your reputation for dutiful service remains impeccable, Srin Shethkador.”

“I would best serve the core values of the Creche worlds if my perspicacity enjoyed equal confidence among the Autarchs.”

Ulsor’s response was quick and sharp. “Is this insolence, Srin Shethkador?”

“This is simple fact, esteemed Autarch. Did I not fear this outcome? Did I not predict its disastrous progress?”

“You did. So how do we know that you have not had a hand in creating that failure to enhance your reputation for foresightfulness?”

“Let us assume, as your hypothesis must, that I have lost all loyalty to the Ktoran Sphere. Even so, the scheme you suggest would still be folly for me and my geneline. There is more glory to be had, more fame to be acquired, more improvement of my gene-rating to be enjoyed, in acquiring victory than there is in having been sadly correct in my foresight. Will I be draped in the enemy’s skins because I predicted this failure? No. But I might very well have worn that mantle of the flayed remains of our foes had I been able to send word that Earth would soon come under our power. No, esteemed Autarch: though I may be proven right by these events, it is no victory for me.”

Tlerek could almost see Ulsor’s nod across the dozens of light-years. “Well said. And better still, it is as you say.”

Shethkador could feel the strength borrowed from the expended Catalysite’s protoplasm beginning to wane rapidly, like a star tucking behind the terminator line of a swiftly rotating world. And not a moment too soon: these walking corpses would remonstrate and share their dubious wisdom for hours, given the chance…

Kromn Tval Shethkador’s contact reached out across the light-years briefly but sharply. “Your signal fades, Tlerek Srin Shethkador. You proceed with our trust in your judgment.”

There was a pulse of approval from Ruurun, followed shortly thereafter by Ulsor’s clipped, “Your perspicacity does not go unappreciated, young Shethkador.” But the emphasis upon “young,” and the absence of praise for other characteristics, was not lost on Tlerek.

He resolved to dominate what was left of the contact with pointless pleasantries, so that none of the Autarchs could utter any last-second directives that might restrict his actions. “I am gratified to represent the Ktoran Sphere in this place, and to attend to the voices of the Autarchs. I shall make further report when I determine whether it is best to reposition Ferocious Monolith so that it seems to have commenced its homeward journey as instructed by the Custodians, or to fabricate a pretext to remain and gather further data.”

Tlerek Srin Shethkador waited for a response. There was none — and his perception of the universe as a vast membrane comprised of touch-sensitive cells was gone. In its place was the narrow reality contained within the scope of his senses and an annoying feeling of diminishment.

Shethkador was up off the cushions as soon as he became aware of that first tinge of melancholia: down that path lay overuse of, even addiction to, the artificial surges of the Reifying power enabled by the Catalysites. Of course, the Catalysites themselves were not the enemy: they were utterly insensate. The foe was the Symbiot itself, seducing with the temporarily actualized promise of fabulous power — power which came at the cost of one’s autonomy. Which was why the Ktoran reflex for dominion was all-important, not merely because it fueled the will to control all other species and planets, but to maintain control over oneself. Resolving not to rub at the painful welt on his index finger, where the caustic fluids of the Catalysite had surged greedily into his bloodstream, Shethkador exited the Sensorium.

Olsirkos was there. Two guards were present also, but hanging well back, out of earshot. “Fearsome Srin,” Olsirkos began, “if you should wish to first take some repose in the—”

“I have need of information, not rest. It is also necessary that I make an appearance on the bridge. Attend me.” Because, as the ancient axiom has it, “one cannot assert one’s dominion in one’s absence.”

Without checking to see if Olsirkos was at his heels — for it was the ’vah’s life if he was not — Tlerek Srin Shethkador made swiftly for the bridge.

Chapter Eight. IN THE EXOSPHERE V 1581 FOUR

Hirkun Morsessar, Tagmator of the Aegis patrol hunter Red Lurker, stared at the visual feed from the bow: swirling, dimly lit whorls and clouds. The violent collage was mostly white, but some of the drifts and plumes were bilious. Others were tinged with ochre. Together, they recalled the miasmas that hung about the Creche worlds’ shabbiest, unventilated pipehouses, tucked away in grimy urban helot-warrens.

A sharp bump, followed quickly by a sideways shuddering, reminded Hirkun that, despite appearances, they were actually in the upper reaches of the medium-sized gas giant that occupied the fourth orbit around the star the Aboriginals had labeled Cygnus 2, or V 1518. “Attend to your instruments,” Morsessar warned the pilot. The Autarch-assigned helmsman — a lictor, equal in status to a huscarl but without affiliation to any House — complied as best he could, but the buffeting downdrafts from the port side were patternless. They defied both his and the flight computer’s abilities to predict and stabilize their flight.

“Apologies, Tagmator.” The hush in the Houseless pilot’s voice sounded more like the product of fear than regret.

This was satisfying and proper. Technically, the maximum disciplinary action available to Hirkun was comparatively limited; lictors were the ward-chattels of the Autarchs themselves, and so could not be harmed too greatly without inviting their masters’ censure and consequent reprimands from one’s own House and Family. But this lictor was sufficiently fearful of Hirkun’s power, even so — one of the few gratifying elements of this accursed observation mission. A misnomer if there ever was one. Just how much observing can one do from inside a gas giant? “Keep your course, helm; you have strayed twelve degrees from our assigned heading. And make our journey smoother. Exercise greater powers of anticipation.”

“Yes, Tagmator.”

An impossible feat, of course, but one never maintained dominion by lowering expectations or even making them reasonable. We exceed our limits only when forced to do so, as the Progenitors’ Axioms had it. And since Hirkun’s life and fortunes depended, for now, upon this crew, then it was certainly in his best interests to—

The iris valve to the small bridge scalloped open: a tall, black-haired woman entered and sank, brooding, into the seat that doubled as the XO’s position and the backup sensor and comm ops station. She did not make eye contact with Hirkun.

“Problems, Antendant Letlas?”

“No, Tagmator,” the willowy Antendant answered curtly.

“Antendant, if you wish a recommendation that will aid your ascent to Intendant-vah, do not trouble your commander with indirect communication. Speak frankly and at once: what troubles you?”

Letlas sat straighter. “Apologies, Tagmator Morsessar. I am annoyed at myself.”

That was unexpected. “How so?”

She glanced at the pilot, the only other person on the bridge. “I am uncertain that my concerns are best shared in this place.”

Ah. Hirkun turned to the lictor. “Pilot, monitor the Aboriginals’ broadcast frequencies through your helmet. Increase the volume to maximum. Be certain you cannot hear me — even my orders.”

“Yes, Tagmator,” he replied, making haste to comply.

Once the lictor had settled the light duty helmet over his head, with the blasting static still clearly audible, Hirkun nodded. “Proceed, Antendant.”

“Tagmator, I am unsure that our chief sensor operator is fully competent.”

“You mean Nezdeh, the senior Agra?”

“Yes, she. Tagmator, I shall speak further only at your express encouragement.”

That cautious phrasing puzzled Hirkun. “Antendant, that is the formula whereby an Intendant — or an aspirant, such as yourself — warns one of the Evolved that to continue might involve speaking ill of another one of the Evolved.”

Letlas avoided Hirkun’s eyes. “It is as you say, Tagmator.”

Hirkun was too surprised to suppress the frown that he felt bending lines into his face. “Speak clearly, Antendant: do you suspect that Agra Nezdeh is Evolved, but masquerading as non-Evolved?” Impossible.

“This is why I was irresolute in expressing myself, Tagmator Morsessar. I know full well how absurd this must sound. But I have watched her manipulate the controls as she tracks the Aboriginal craft that is orbiting just above us, while we remain beneath the storm heads that block their rudimentary sensors.”

“Yes, and so far, she has done an adequate job.”

“Yes, Tagmator. She does an adequate job. But no more. It is not the place of us non-Evolved to merely perform adequately in our specializations. Since we lack the onerous responsibilities of ensuring dominion, we have the luxury of becoming true specialists. Nezdeh has not done so, but rather, shows a great breadth of competencies.” Letlas paused. “It is more akin to the skill diversity routinely associated with the Evolved.”

“Even among Intendants, to say nothing of huscarls, some non-Evolved have far more promise as generalists than as specialists. It can be frustrating. It can also prove invaluable.”

Letlas looked away. “Tagmator, I do not wish to seem obstinate, but—”

“Your insight is sought, Antendant. Speak your mind.”

“If Nezdeh were young, I would be less concerned. But by her age, a trend toward generalization at the expense of specialization would have been noticed in one of the non-Evolved. It would have been either corrected or exploited. But for her to come to this ship, at the last moment, touted as a sensor and communications specialist when she is, at best, adequate — this fills me with misgivings.”

Hirkun nodded. “It is peculiar.” He did not add his own misgivings, which did not concern Nezdeh’s skill levels so much as the peculiar manner in which she had been added to Red Lurker’s complement. The veteran communications specialist who had been part of the patrol hunter’s rota for the last three years — Lokagon Emren Arrepsur-vah — had made his final return to space only four days before Red Lurker had been deployed. Wrapped in the winding sheets of a defeated duelist, Emren Arrepsur-vah had been pushed toward the winking red speck that was V 1581, four and a half light-hours away. By the time his remains were embraced and immolated by that red dwarf star, all memory of him, and the House to which he had aspired to add his geneline, would be long gone.

Nezdeh Kresessek-vah had been Arrepsur-vah’s logical replacement, recommended by the Aegis database as both capable and seasoned. Her slightly greater age and her status as ’vah — aspirant to having her geneline formally integrated into that of House Kresessek — had led Hirkun to conjecture that she was a promising Intendant, about to come into her own. Now, however, he began to reconsider: it was possible, given her rank, that she was in fact Evolved, a refugee from a House so badly defeated that it had been Extirpated. If so, then that would certainly explain why her skill set was marked more by breadth than depth. He would have to investigate her origins more closely upon the return of Ferocious Monolith.

But Hirkun perceived that her current performance might reveal other useful clues as well. “Antendant Letlas, is there any sign that her skills are improving? For instance, was she better than adequate in detecting the departure of Ferocious Monolith earlier today?”

Letlas forestalled a shrug. “Tagmator Morsessar, her performance was improved. But I am unsure if it was because her skill with the sensors is improving, or because she had maintained a log of Monolith’s telemetry as it preaccelerated to its shift point. She knew exactly where to find the shift-bloom in her sensors. She may have known approximately when to look, as well.”

Which was not overly peculiar. The customary preacceleration protocols would, if followed, enable a fair estimate of the time at which the ship’s velocity — which was to say, its increase above rest-mass — reached the point at which it could engage its shift drive. But typically, sensor operators did not seek the bloom except to confirm that a ship had shifted when and where it said it would. “Are you saying that Nezdeh pinpointed the shift-bloom even before Ferocious Monolith’s tight-beam shift notification reached us?”

“Yes, Tagmator.”

That was a fairly impressive sensor achievement. But it was also an expenditure of effort without any meaningful gain. “Has Nezdeh put us at risk of discovery by the Aboriginals? Has she been overly bold in shadowing the Aboriginal shift carrier that is refueling above us, the Arbitrage?”

“No, Tagmator. If anything, she has been remarkably circumspect in the performance of that particular task. Indeed, she has shown her greatest skills in trailing the megacorporate craft at considerable distance while remaining beneath various meteorological disturbances. She was able to track it by the slight ionization path that the craft’s passage leaves as it moves through the thin particulate field at the highest level of the gas giant’s exosphere.” Letlas paused. “Given the ease with which she did it, I suspect she has performed that task many times before.”

Hirkun heard the implicit warning in Letlas’ observation. “It may be that she is one of the Evolved, and that she has been displaced by the dissolution of her original House. And I intend to inquire into that matter when Monolith returns for us. But in the meantime, there is no cause for alarm.”

“I hear the dominance and wisdom in your words,” recited Letlas carefully. “I was simply perplexed that her dossier contained no special mention of her origins, as would be customary if she was Evolved.”

Hirkun was resolved not to be schooled by an upstart, a mere aspirant to the ranks of the Intendant class, but he could not bring himself to rebuke her for being both prudent and perceptive. The lack of greater detail surrounding Nezdeh’s posting to his command was atypical. “Antendant Letlas, your input has been noted. You shall now put this matter from your mind. After all,” he waved his hand at the screen’s depiction of onrushing vaporous drifts, “we are in the high guard position within a gas giant, unable to exit without risking detection by the Aboriginals, and without any means to leave the system until Monolith returns to covertly extract us.” He leaned back in the wide commander’s seat, affecting more ease than he felt. “Even if the irregularities in Nezdeh’s posting were, somehow, indicative of a threat, just what could she — what could anyone — hope to achieve in circumstances such as ours?”

The iris valve dilated as if in direct response to Hirkun’s rhetorical question, opening without the prefatory activation tone. Which is not possible, unless—

Hirkun was on his feet before his startled blink was completed. He measured — only semi-consciously — the rate of the ship’s forward momentum, and how that would complicate his rise into a spin-and-draw crouch. Without so much as a wobble, his Evolved senses combined to place him in two-thirds cover behind the command couch’s heavy back, his liquid-propellant handgun up, his thumb already adjusting the zero-gee setting to a full-gravity regime. He felt a satisfied smile on his face, exulting in the lethal grace with which he now drew a bead on the iris valve—

And felt two impacts in his chest, very near his heart. They staggered him enough to throw off his aim: three percussive blasts from his pistol drilled expanding rounds into the valve’s coaming, less than ten centimeters from where Agra Nezdeh’s cheek was resting, her feet braced, her body mostly behind the bulkhead. Two other recent rotations into his crew — the Evolved Antendant cousins Vranut and Ulpreln Balkether — had rolled into the room under the cover of her fire, were already rising with the speed one would expect from their genelines.

Hirkun willed the circulation in the vicinity of his clustered wounds to decrease, boosted both the arterial and venous peristalsis to compensate for the redirection of that blood flow, triggered a full spectrum endorphin and adrenal cascade, and, in the same moment, expanded his peripheral awareness to take stock of Letlas’ reaction to the mutiny.

She was sheltering behind her seat, her hand conspicuously far away from her sidearm. No real surprise: she is no fool.

Using countervailing hormones to steady the incipient tremor from the adrenal flood, Hirkun tracked over toward Nezdeh. She ducked behind the starboard bulkhead—

— Just as Idrem, the Red Lurker’s senior lictor, leaned around the port side rim of the iris valve with a needler. The coil rifle emitted two of its characteristic high-frequency snaps. Hirkun felt two hammers rip through his body, one shattering his left hip, the other blasting through his right lung.

As he fell, struggling against the loss of control, he appreciated the conservative tactics that had been used to kill him. The mutineers had known that they would not have sufficient aiming time to be sure of scoring immediately lethal hits upon him. So they had concentrated on inflicting wounds that cost him initiative and reflexes to counteract. That, in turn, had allowed Nezdeh — the apparent ringleader — to stay exposed just long enough to draw his attention away from where Idrem emerged with the far more lethal, but less handy, needler. The traitor had aimed, wisely, at the center of mass: the shattered hip overcame even an Evolved’s ability to stand, and the punctured lung forced Hirkun to choose between conscious control of blood loss, or making a counterattack. In such a rapid exchange as this, there was no time to sequence them: it was one or the other.

Hirkun resolved to shoot as he fell to the deck. He missed, but came close enough to keep the mutineers’ heads down.

But only for a moment. As the Red Lurker’s master converted his fall into a roll that put him behind his command couch, Vranut Balkether popped around the far edge of Letlas’s couch and fired his own liquid propellant handgun into the prostrate, struggling Hirkun. The Tagmator tried to concentrate on how many of that quick flurry of rounds had hit him, where, and how to respond. I have lost, but as long as I live, I can bargain. And lie. Vengeance can come later.

But he felt control of his body slipping away along with the fixity of purpose that had allowed him to track and respond to his numerous injuries. He saw Nezdeh’s face loom over him and he knew, with dull certainty, that there would be no bargaining.

As her pistol came up level with his forehead, Hirkun reflected that here was the proof of yet another Progenitor Axiom, the one that explained why women should not be sent on field missions:

They are simply too dangerous.

* * *

Nezdeh, late of House Perekmeres, stepped over Hirkun Morsessar’s corpse, fired two rounds into the cowering pilot, and then leveled the weapon at Letlas. “You. Antendant.”

Letlas made the appropriate prostration with reassuring swiftness and enthusiasm. “I hear your words, Agra — no, Berema Nezdeh Kresessek-vah.”

She laughed. “What an inanity. That you style me a Lady of a House for which I am still ostensibly a ’vah, an Aspirant? Your eagerness to flatter leads you to foolishness.”

“I mean to respect, not flatter. But I know not what to call you, Berema.”

Nezdeh considered. “There is merit in that point. Scant merit, but merit still. Look up, Antendant, and tell me: do you wish to live?”

Letlas looked up. Before her mouth opened with the answer, her eyes made it clear. “I wish to live, Berema Nezdeh.”

As if there had been an iota of doubt. “And will you take service with House Perekmeres, as a probationary Antendant?”

Letlas stammered. “With — with House Perekmeres?”

“Is your hearing impaired?”

“But House Perekmeres was Extirpated, Fearsome Berema.”

Ah, she is catching on: she does not know my former rank, but has deduced that I was high enough in the genelines of Perekmeres to warrant the honorific “Fearsome.” She thinks quickly. “Extirpation was inflicted upon us,” Nezdeh said crisply as more of her mutineers entered the bridge. “That does not mean I accept it, any more than I accepted the vile touch of the Kresessek abomutations who hoped to add my geneline to theirs in the old manner. Now, I shall ask it one more time, since your wits seem addled: will you take service with House Perekmeres?”

“I…I will, Fearsome Berema.”

“Excellent. Rise. Now, enter the commander’s access code for the engineering and helm controls.”

“I am but an Antendant, Fearsome Berema.”

As Idrem came to stand beside Nezdeh and the deck jounced through another patch of extended turbulence, she brought her pistol to bear on the Antendant once again. “I have observed the bridge routines and who was present, or not, when various systems were accessed or terminated. The XO naturally has a separate but equal set of command codes, but I slew him ten minutes ago in his quarters. There is one crewmember, often of lower rank, who also has access to the commander’s codes.” She smiled. “I am familiar with these protocols, having captained ships before. You were present at the correct times, and are the correct rank with the correct role. You are the keeper of the codes. I have eliminated all other possibilities. Do not try my patience, Antendant. Enter the overrides.”

Letlas averted her eyes, moved to the blood-and-bone-spattered commander’s console and entered the codes. She looked up. “How may I serve House Perekmeres now, Fearsome Berema?”

“This way,” Nezdeh replied. She raised the pistol and fired two rounds into the Antendant’s chest.

Letlas gasped as awkwardly as she fell, blood pumping out of two craters that bracketed her sternum.

Nezdeh stepped closer to watch the light leave the Antendant’s eyes. “You hesitated. Had you meant to serve Perekmeres, you would have rejoiced in the opportunity to comply immediately, and thereby prove your loyalty.” Letlas was either wheezing for breath or trying to speak, but it did not matter: moments after Nezdeh had pronounced the epitaph of her insufficiency, the Antendant was dead.

Nezdeh looked about the bridge. One cannot dominate from behind a wall of silence, went the axiom of the First Progenitors. She kept faith with their wisdom: “Ulpreln: your hand to the helm. When the bow is steady, don the pilot’s helmet so that you may listen in on the briefing.” She unreeled and spoke into her beltcom as she waved for two of the mutineers to clear the three bodies. “Brenlor Srin Perekmeres?”

Her earbud crackled with the reply. “Here. Do you have dominion, Nezdeh Srina Perekmeres?”

She smiled. “I do. The rest of the crew?”

“Sworn to service or dead.”

“Were any of the uncertain members swayed to our side?”

Brenlor’s pause was pregnant. “Not reliably so.”

Nezdeh closed her eyes: Brenlor was marginally her superior and had a full measure of what she considered House Perekmeres’ most characteristic negative trait: male impulsivity. Which was often expressed through bloodthirsty aggression. “This was necessary, Srin?”

His response had a discernible edge. “It was. Besides, the poison meant to incapacitate the off-duty crew was fatal in three cases.”

Nezdeh glanced at Idrem, who shrugged: “As I warned from the outset, dosing and individual susceptibility were variables beyond our control. The outcome was uncertain, at best.”

She nodded. “Brenlor, we must hold our briefing promptly. The orbital path of the human shift carrier will soon be optimal.”

“Understood. I shall meet you in the ready room.”

Nezdeh glanced behind her at the entry to the small compartment which served as commander’s office and briefing chamber. “We shall be there.” She moved in that direction, turned to the rest of the team that had stormed the bridge. “Follow me.”

* * *

Nezdeh did not move her eyes to observe the faces of the Evolved and the Intendants wedged in tightly around the briefing table: she merely expanded her peripheral awareness so that the edges of her vision were nearly as acute as the focal core. As Brenlor’s assertions of House Perekmeres’ imminent resurgence veered increasingly toward stentorian bombast, she surveyed her assets:

Idrem: indispensable and crafty. Unlike Brenlor, who had fled House Perekmeres’ precincts prior to its Extirpation, Idrem had managed to stage his own apparent death, using vat-grown tissue and blood to leave a forensically convincing residue. He had then taken refuge in the one place that subsequent investigation was unlikely to find him: among the ranks of the Autarchs’ Aegis forces. He had made his supplication in the guise of a huscarl left masterless by the liquidation of a lesser Family from an entirely different House. By the time the Extirpation occurred, he had been wearing the Aegis gray for nearly a month.

Nezdeh did not like admitting it, but Idrem was probably her intellectual equal, possibly her superior. That thought rankled, but also, oddly, titillated. He was not the most athletic or vigorous of the Evolved, but he was also immune to the unremitting need for making dominance displays. The more impetuous of the Evolved males presumed this indicated passivity, and so were ready to dismiss Idrem. But Nezdeh realized the true source of Idrem’s quiet: utter self-assurance in himself and his competence. That made him far more dangerous than most of the boisterous males around him, for he could not be manipulated by his temperament.

Of the other four Evolved, three were young and from Families that were comparatively distant from the progenitorial root of the true House of Perekmeres: first cousins Vranut and Ulpreln Balkether, and an aunt that was their chronological junior, Zurur Deosketer. In a few more generations, their genelines would have become so dilute that their offspring would have had to seek other fortunes. But now, with the blood of the House of Perekmeres wiped from the marble halls of both its greatest and least Hegemons, their fortunes were ascendant: scarcity of a geneline, like any other resource, greatly enhanced its value.

The fourth Evolved, and the third woman on the mission, Tegrese Hreteyarkus, had also been an Arrogate — a war prize — of Perekmeres’ Extirpation, and passed to a minor Family of House Vasarkas. Unlike the rape-minded Srinu that Nezdeh had repulsed in House Kresessek, House Vasarkas had allowed Tegrese to exist like a bird in a shabbily gilded cage. Blending her geneline with theirs was left as a matter of her will.

But her will was focused upon escaping her hybrid existence as part-prisoner and part-chattel. She had volunteered for wet-work and received it by convincing her overseers that she meant to learn whether she wished to serve House Vasarkas as a Breedmistress or adventurer. Her actual intent had been to acquire the freedom and mobility to seek out other survivors of House Perekmeres and to plot its restoration.

Two others, Sehtrek and Pehthrum, were former Intendants of the House. Since their genelines had not been Elevated prior to the Extirpation, they had been deemed reliable by the Autarchal Aegis and were Arrogated to it. Their assignment as lictors to Ferocious Monolith had been arranged with little effort almost four months ago.

Nezdeh leaned back. Nine persons, and two of them Low Bred, with another six to be added after the first phase of their mission was complete. So, altogether, fifteen renegades of the purged House Perekmeres against the might of the Hegemons of the Great Houses and the juridical authority of the Autarchs, whose ostensible neutrality was a farce. Autarchal decisions almost invariably aligned with the interests of the Hegemons. If Nezdeh’s small band could contend with those daunting odds, it would be a story worth telling — if any of them lived to tell it.

When Brenlor finished his oration, Nezdeh stood slowly. “We all know what must be done. We have excellent intelligence on our first target, and it is utterly unsuspecting.” She glared around the table. “But do not underestimate the Aboriginals. The Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh did and they are now paying for it.

“We cannot afford such payments. We have no place to which we may retreat, for there is only one outcome that does not end in our death: absolute victory. So, no bravado. We cannot afford it. No unnecessary destruction. Again, we cannot afford it. No wasted time. Yet again, we cannot afford it. When those who shall carry our restored genelines into the future speak of this battle, they shall recall it not as an arrogant gamble, but as a precise, clinical operation. That shall be our legacy and the source of our glory.”

The eyes around the table had kindled to her words, whereas Brenlor’s had left them merely smoldering. She was speaking the truth, and they knew it.

Nezdeh pushed back from the conference table. “Report to your stations.” She checked her wrist-comp. “We are in position. It is time.”

Chapter Nine. IN CLOSE ORBIT and IN THE EXOSPHERE V 1581 FOUR

Jorge Velho, acting captain of the SS Arbitrage, cursed as the navplot stylus slipped out of his hand and — surprisingly, in his experience — fell to the deck. Granted, the speed of its fall was nothing like Earth norm. It was more like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pond, but still, it tricked his space-trained senses. He associated bridge duty with either free-fall or micro-gee, unless the engines were engaged. However, the Arbitrage’s proximity to the gas giant that bore the chart label V 1581 Four allowed it to exert almost a quarter gee on them.

Velho’s XO, Ayana Tagawa, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. However, his helmsman, Piet Brackman, emitted a sardonic snort. “Need a lanyard for that, sir?”

Jorge tried to turn a stern gaze on Piet, but couldn’t keep a straight face. “Just steer this barge, you réprobo. You have little room to talk. You bounced off two walls in the galley before you found your footing, yesterday.”

“That is not a fair comparison,” Piet complained. “The toruses were still rotating then. I had gee forces in two directions.”

“As did the rest of us who were in the toruses. And who did not fall down.”

“Eh, go back to Belém. Sir.”

“Right after we drop you off in Pretoria. From orbit.”

Ayana may have sighed. She often did when the two old friends began chiding each other. Her eyes had not strayed from the navplot: a 2-D representation with a faux-3-D “deep screen.” “Sir, we will need to reduce our velocity by four meters per second if we are going to stay within the optimal retrieval envelope for both our tanker-tenders.”

Jorge Velho glanced over her almost elfin shoulder. “Is Deal One lagging again?” The pilot of the lead fuel barge was a rather annoying perfectionist, her many minute corrections accumulating into noticeable delays.

“No, Ms. Ho is right on schedule. The difficulty is with Deal Two.”

“Piloting errors?”

“No, sir. Mr. Vindar reports that the starboard fuel transfer umbilicus seems loose. He has been taking extra care attaching and detaching from the skimming drogues. He fears that any imprecision during those maneuvers may torque the mating rings and tear the umbilicus free of Deal Two.”

Jorge nodded, checked the feed from the long-range camera that was tracking Deal Two. The tanker-tender, shaped like a bus half-transformed into a lifting body, would have to initiate a fuel-costly burn in order to keep its rendezvous with one of the Arbitrage’s four smaller, flatter skimmers. The skimmers were remote-operated vehicles designed to move deep into a gas giant’s exosphere and lower a drogue into the predominantly hydrogen soup below, drawing it up via pulsed electromagnetic tractoring. Any delay in transferring the harvested hydrogen meant a delay in them returning to their next run, and so on and so forth, causing the logistical dominoes to fall ever further and faster.

“No,” Jorge decided. “We’re cutting our losses. Bring Deal Two back now. Inform Deal One that she is to finish her current fuel transfer from skimmer three and follow Deal Two back to the barn.”

“Sir, that will seriously impact our projected refueling time.”

Jorge nodded. “Agreed, but tell me: if we lose one drogue’s load, how much will our mission be impacted?”

Ayana returned his nod. “Yes, sir. You are correct: the time it would take to replace the umbilical would be worse.”

Piet shook his head. “Much worse. I’m not even sure we have a spare umbilical in stores.”

Jorge stared at the deck, was suddenly struck by a mental image of the pale, jaundiced gas giant looming far beneath his feet. “And CoDevCo managed to blank much of that data before Arbitrage was impounded for use as a military auxiliary.”

Ayana looked at Velho out of the corner of her eye. “Kozakowski might know.”

Yes, indeed he might, Jorge allowed, but I hate having that man within ten meters of me. Aloud: “Kozakowski might know, but I’m not sure he’d tell the truth.”

“So what’s new?” Piet asked sourly.

Jorge smiled. “My point exactly. Mr. Kozakowski’s loyalty is to the Colonial Development Combine—”

“—which makes him a traitor,” Piet supplied.

“—and he has not been forthcoming, despite being granted immunity from prosecution.”

Ayana had finished sending the new orders to Deal One and Deal Two. “What exactly did he do, more than any of the other executives, that helped the invaders?”

Jorge shrugged. “I am not sure. Any specific charges were suppressed by the time the Auxiliary Recrewing Command forwarded his dossier to me.” But there was scuttlebutt, as there always is between captains, military and civilian alike. And I would not be at all surprised if the rumors are true: that Kozakowski had been a CoDevCo liaison to, and factotum for, the Arat Kur, and maybe even the Ktor. Although it was hard to see how a human would have come to serve the Ktor, who were reputedly ice-worms that traveled about in environmental tanks that resembled oversized water-heaters on treads.

Kozakowski had been CoDevCo’s master aboard (but not captain of) the Arbitrage when she was intercepted by a Russlavic Federation cruiser, so it was quite probable that he knew if spare fuel transfer umbilicals were in the ships’ stores. But still—

Piet Brackman jutted his prominent chin toward the ventral view monitor: the ever-approaching rim of the gas giant seemed to be fading away, being consumed by the blackness of space itself. “Approaching the terminator, Captain.”

“Ten minutes to loss of lascom and line of sight back to the fleet assets near planet two,” Tagawa added.

“Very well.” Protocol dictated Velho’s next orders. “Ms. Tagawa, initiate contact with provisional CINCSYS and advise them we are about to go dark. Attach the estimated time we shall emerge from planet four’s comm-shadow. Request immediate confirmation of receipt of our transmission, and pending day-codes. And—” Velho paused: Tagawa turned, obviously sensing how his tone veered toward hesitation rather than finality.

“And yes, Ms. Tagawa, we shall do as you suggest: call Kozakowski to the bridge.”

* * *

Ulpreln struggled to keep the Red Lurker’s bow steady. “Apologies, Srina Perekmeres.”

Nezdeh nodded, leaned over so she could read the helm instruments. “I read the wind speed in excess of eight hundred kilometers per hour. Imperfect control is not merely understandable; it is unavoidable. And as regards the formality of your address: we shall dispense with that until we once again have our own compounds and courts. Then, you may style me so nobly.”

Ulpreln half turned from his console, a small smile sending wrinkles into the crescent of his cheek. “As you wish…Nezdeh.”

The young Evolved’s voice was not insolent; it was appreciative. This was consistent with her greater plan: to bind the group’s loyalty to her. She wished Brenlor no ill, but dominion had to be split evenly between them, or she would not have enough power to govern his rash reactions and overly bold plans.

From his post at the sensor station, Sehtrek pointed to one of the secondary screens. “Our target, Nezdeh.”

In the overhead, or spaceside, view, there was a longish spindle of pristine white, distant through the misty atmosphere.

“Ulpreln, hold relative position. Sehtrek, maximum magnification.”

“Resolution will be poor, Nezdeh.”

“Let it be poor. Show me what is there.”

The indistinct spindle was replaced by a long, batonlike ship: a typical human design. The ship’s own fuel, engines, and power plants — and all their radioactivity — were clustered at the stern, behind two great disk-shaped shields. The habitation toruses and command section were located at the bow. In between, large fuel tanks and a few cargo modules followed the long thin keel, giving the impression of railway cars on a great length of track. Relatively close by, a fuel tender was returning to the ship, heading for one of two large docking cradles just forward of the skimmed fuel tankage. An identical craft was approaching at a leisurely pace from the opposite direction.

“Range to objective and predominant wind speed?” Nezdeh demanded.

“Range is just under eight kiloklicks. Wind speed averages three hundred forty kilometers per hour, plus or minus fifty.”

Nezdeh nodded and studied the improving image. The human ship’s rotational habitats confirmed her cost-cutting, megacorporate origins: the after-torus was a solid design, whereas the forward one was actually a hexagon. Each side was a framework cradling various modules, most of which were hab mods. Most importantly, neither the torus nor the gigantic hexagon were rotating — standard procedure when a ship was under thrust.

“Acceleration of target?”

“None. Its engines are in readiness, but thrust has been discontinued. I believe they are trying to facilitate an earlier retrieval of their tankers and skimmer ROVs.”

Could it get any better? “I make our intercept ETA approximately twenty minutes if we sustain three-point-three-gee constant and then counterboost at max.”

“Allowing for buffeting, and the gas giant’s decreasing gravitational pull, that is a reasonable estimate, Nezdeh.”

“Wait for the furthest tanker to be secured in its cradles. Then commence intercept as soon as you have a clear trough between the storm cells and with minimal particulate density. We want as direct and unimpeded a path as possible.”

“As you order, Nezdeh.”

She toggled the intercom to the EVA ready bay. “Brenlor.”

“Here. How long?”

“I would say twenty-five minutes. Are you prepared to strap in? We will be closing at three-point-five-gee sustained.”

“We are suited. Strapping in.”

She signed off, turned to Idrem at the weapons console. “Readiness?”

“UV laser warm and ready for full charge. All six directional blisters test green. Railgun same.” He met her eyes. “I should turn the weapons over to Tegrese.”

Tegrese moved toward the weapons station, but kept her eyes on Nezdeh for approval.

Nezdeh frowned. “I mean no slight, Tegrese, but Idrem, you are our best gunner.”

He nodded. “Yes. But I am needed more urgently on the EVA team.”

Which was, regrettably, true. Not because Idrem had excellent EVA and personal weapon skills — although he did — but because someone with sufficient authority had to be present to ensure that Brenlor’s actions in securing the Arbitrage did not become too destructive. Nezdeh looked away so that neither Idrem nor Tegrese would see her regret. “Go then, Idrem. Tegrese, stand to the weapons.”

“Yes, Nezdeh. Shall I ready missiles, as well?”

Nezdeh shook her head. “No. They are too imprecise.” She resumed poring over the intelligence and confidential files they had on the SS Arbitrage, courtesy of the many collaborators they had suborned within the ranks of the Colonial Development Combine. Where greed is great, corruption is simple, as the Progenitors’ axiom had it.

Ulpreln almost sounded excited. “Nezdeh, the second Aboriginal tanker is in contact with the shift-carrier, and I have an acceptable meteorological window.”

Without glancing away from the data that had been furnished by traitorous Aboriginals, she reached behind her command chair for the acceleration straps. At the same time, she began consciously adjusting her blood flow to aid her vacuum suit’s antipooling systems. “Sehtrek, pass the word: commence acceleration compensation protocols.”

She kept reading the human data and the target updates as the announcement went out over the intercom. When it was done, she glanced at Ulpreln. “Activate the navigational holosphere, close tactical scale.” He complied: a three-dimensional representation of the surrounding ten kiloklicks blinked into existence at the open center of the bridge. She assessed the conditions and smiled: perfect. At last, the axe of fate swings for, rather than against, the fortunes of House Perekmeres.

She elevated her chin slightly. “Commence intercept.”

And then, even though she was prepared for it, three point five gees of upward acceleration slammed half the air out of her lungs.

* * *

“Captain Velho, please join me at the plot.” Ayana Tagawa’s voice sounded unusually constricted.

Moving close alongside her, Jorge Velho was briefly afflicted by a familiar melancholy twinge. Proximity to Ayana reminded him of just how profoundly she did not return his romantic interest. But that sensation did not survive his first glimpse of the new blip in the navplot. “Is that a malfunction?” he asked.

“No, sir. It is not. I have confirmed it with radar, although the return is oddly compromised, in much the same way that stealth coatings dampen and distort detection.”

Velho stared at the blip. “But this is not possible. A powered object moving up at us from out of the gas giant?”

Piet had craned his neck to get a look. “Nothing can survive being inside a gas giant. Go too low and you’re crushed. But at altitude, the flying conditions are the equivalent of being in a nonstop hurricane.” Which Velho knew to be an understatement, whether Piet intended it that way or not. Gas giants the size of V 1581.4 usually had relative wind speeds of up to five hundred kilometers per hour. Especially turbulent ones often exceeded one thousand.

But in the navplot, the impossible contact kept coming up at them. And it was coming fast. “Cross sectional analysis: does the database have a ship-type identification?”

Ayana shook her head sharply. “No recognition from the ship form database, and we have the postwar update running. Also, while the approaching craft’s thrust agency is clearly magnetically accelerated plasma, this specific signature is unknown. But the metrics indicate that the energy density of the drive is unprecedented. Nothing in our inventory, or even the Arat Kur’s, can put out that kind of power, given the limits of its size.”

Damn it, I’m going to sound like a madman reporting this contact, but—“Ms. Tagawa, is there a comm relay platform that we can send to from our current position?”

“No, sir. All ancillary comm and sensor platforms were seeded near or at the approaches to planet two, where the fleet engaged the Arat Kur. Nothing’s been deployed out here yet.”

And why should there be? We plan on leaving Arat Kur space as soon as possible. But that meant there was no one to alert, no one to call for help. SS Arbitrage was all alone. With one chilling exception. “Ms. Tagawa, please hail the contact. All frequencies, all languages and codes. Don’t forget to include the Accord code.”

As she did so, Piet turned from the helm. “Jorge, whoever is on that ship is not interested in talking with us.”

Velho nodded. “I agree.”

“Then why try?”

“Because we know nothing about them. So any reply gives us more knowledge than we have now.” He turned toward Ayana. “Response?”

“No response, sir. And I don’t think we’re going to get one. The contact’s telemetry suggests intentions that, as Mr. Brackman speculates, preclude communication.”

Jorge felt his heavy brows bunching against each other as he frowned. “What is its telemetry?”

“Range, closing; bearing, constant.”

It took a moment for Velho to recall what that crisp definition actually meant. “It’s going to ram us?”

Tagawa shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Or board us.”

“That’s impossible.” He hesitated, remembering some of the stories that had come out of the Epsilon Indi system just after the war. “Well, it’s nearly impossible.”

Ayana nodded. “Yes, sir, that is the conventional wisdom.” She pointed into the plot again. “But this craft is wholly unconventional. I am not sure the same rules apply. And it is difficult to conjecture why a ship that can withstand immersion in the upper stratosphere of a gas giant and capable of such extraordinary thrust would expend itself in a ramming attack. Which leaves one logical alternative: she is attempting a rendezvous. And if we refuse to let her dock…” Tagawa’s voice trailed off; the conclusion of her analysis was inescapable.

Piet cleared his throat. “So: what do we do? I’d like to suggest running like hell, but we don’t have ten percent of that hull’s acceleration.”

“First,” Velho announced at the end of a sigh, “we start screaming for help.”

Tagawa raised one eyebrow. “We are in the communications shadow of the gas giant, sir.”

“Yes, our lascom is useless, but if we start broadcasting a wide-dispersal distress signal now, we could reach any covert patrols or classified microsensors that might be lurking out here. In the meantime, we’ll give our visitors something to worry about.”

“Such as?” Piet sounded doubtful.

“Such as having to work to catch us, even if we can’t outrun them. Max burn on the main drive, Piet.”

“Sir,” began Piet, whose sudden formality meant he was getting seriously scared, “as per your orders when we cut thrust to effect retrieval of the tankers and skimmers, our plants are now in power-saving mode. We can’t reach full thrust until we get to eighty-five percent of maximum power plant output, and that will take at least fifteen minutes.”

“I am aware. Maximum means you get me as much thrust as you can, as fast as you can. Also, accelerate the skimmers and put them into a close slingshot orbit, the closest they’ll take without being pulled in. And Ayana, I want them running their transponders in distress mode, nonstop.”

She nodded, understanding. “So that the intruder must choose between chasing us or catching the skimmers before they get around the gas giant’s far terminator and beyond its broadcast shadow.”

“Yes, and in the meantime, I want the point-defense fire mounts brought to bear. At the intruder’s rate of closure, we’ll be able to use them as ship-to-ship weapons in about eight minutes. Now, where’s Mr. Kozakowski?”

“Just arrived, sir,” came the corporate factotum’s voice from the hatchway.

Jorge turned, nodded tightly and wondered how long the unctuous owl of a man had been listening just beyond the hatchway. “You received an update on our situation?”

“Which situation do you mean, Captain? The umbilical hoses or the unidentified intruder?”

“For now, our concern is solely with the latter. Your technicians are to meet ours back at the cargo freight module, just forward of the cargo cradles.”

“Very well. What is their task?”

Kozakowski is the last human I want to reveal this to, but now I have no choice. “When we commandeered the ship, we took the precaution of not just refitting it as a tanker. We added some cargo modules of our own.”

“I have noticed.”

Snide bastard. “Did you also notice that one of them is autodeployable?”

Kozakowski frowned. “You mean it is a cargo module that can be triggered to release its payload into free space? That is usually a military variant, is it not?”

“It most certainly is. As a precaution, we were tasked to carry a small number of ship-to-ship drones in the autodeployable module. But it needs to be powered up and patched into our command system, first.”

“So we have some real weapons?” Piet almost shouted.

Velho smiled. “As soon as we activate the module’s integral subsystems, we can send out a little fleet of our own.”

Kozakowski’s smile was dim: he was clearly unhappy that this information had been withheld from him. “I shall get right on it, sir.” He nodded and moved toward the hatchway that led off the bridge and into the keel-following transport tube.

“Mr. Kozakowski, can’t you coordinate your technicians from up here?”

“Perhaps, but many of them are, well, suspicious of your prize crew. And although your personnel are obviously the experts when it comes to an autodeployable cargo module, mine are familiar with the particulars, and idiosyncrasies, of the Arbitrage. So I think it wisest that I be present to ensure that my crewpersons cooperate smoothly with yours, given that our lives are at stake. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely. Go at once.”

His smile still wooden, Kozakowski left the bridge.

— Just as Ayana’s unflappably calm voice cracked under the stress of an urgent report: “Intruder’s energy levels are spiking. Our hull sensors detect a low-power laser painting us: they’re acquiring ladar target lock, sir. And probably readying a beam weapon of some kind. I recommend—”

And then the world wrenched violently sideways.

Chapter Ten. IN CLOSE ORBIT V 1581 FOUR

“Results?” demanded Nezdeh, glancing at Sehtrek.

“UV laser blisters one and two have eliminated Arbitrage’s facing point defense fire batteries. Marginal damage to surrounding structures of the command section.”

“Was the bridge hit?” Nezdeh’s tone was sharp. As she’d intended.

“N-no…Srina Perekmeres,” Sehtrek assured her hurriedly.

Tegrese hovered eagerly over her weapons panels. “If the Aboriginals tumbled their ship, they could bring their navigational laser to bear. Is it advisable for us to—?”

“We will need the Arbitrage’s nav laser ourselves. Besides, it bears upon too limited an arc to be of any danger to us. It is designed to engage targets at ranges of multiple light-seconds, but also within a very narrow forward cone. What of Arbitrage’s communications arrays?”

“Both primary and auxiliary arrays have been eliminated by blisters three and four. Blisters five and six remain ready in PDF mode.”

“Excellent. Time to intercept?”

“Eight minutes, Nezdeh. We will be tumbling for four-gee counterboost in ninety seconds.”

“Understood. Pass the word. Sehtrek, I require a magnified image of the Aboriginal ship.”

A highly detailed 2-D visual of the Arbitrage replaced the navigational view. Nezdeh sought, and saw, the damage inflicted by her lasers. As she inspected the enemy’s wounded hull, she peripherally noticed activity at the head of the cargo cradles, where the two tanker-tenders were moored and several conventional cargo modules were secured. “Sehtrek, I cannot tell what the Aboriginals are endeavoring to accomplish near their cargo modules. What do the sensors tell you?”

“Several things, Srina Perekmeres. The most obvious is that they seem to be attempting to resolve some sort of malfunction involving the first tanker-tender transfer’s umbilicus and its connection to the fuel intake port.”

“You are sure this is a malfunction, not the opening gambit of some defensive ploy?”

“I see no evidence of the latter, Srina.”

“Very well. It also appears that there is some reconfiguration occurring near one of the wedge-shaped cargo modules just forward of the main tanks.”

“Yes, Srina Perekmeres. I believe they are attempting to open one of the cargo modules presently, but are encountering difficulties. However, I suspect—”

“Yes, it is almost certainly a weapons pod of some kind.” Nezdeh leaned back, rubbed her chin, measured the benefits and risks of the alternatives for addressing this new challenge. Destroying the cargo pod before it opened was simplicity itself: two of her UV laser blisters could reduce it to glowing tatters and strips of metal and composites. But any weapons inside the module — indeed any and all assets on board the Arbitrage—were worth their weight in gold to a small, independent, and desperate group such as hers. Perhaps, if they were careful enough…

No. I cannot risk it. “Blisters one and two, target the opening cargo pod. Fire until it is destroyed. Keep your aimpoint away from the keel and adjoining pods and structures.”

Tegrese muttered, “Yes, Nezdeh,” even as she worked to follow her orders.

On the screen, the weapons module flew apart as if being savaged by an invisible flail. A moment later, two bright flashes obscured the view of the Arbitrage, and, fading, revealed that significant damage had been done to two nearby cargo modules, as well as the already struggling tanker, which had now been half torn out of its docking cradle and was floating at an acute angle relative to the keel.

“Nezdeh,” began Tegrese carefully, “I—”

“It was no fault of yours,” Nezdeh interrupted. “The damage was caused by the secondary explosions from the weapons the Aboriginals had stored in that module. It was a risk, but one we had to take. Lurker is too small to be safe from even such rudimentary drones and missiles as Earth produces. If our PDF arrays had failed to intercept any one of those munitions—” Nezdeh left the comment uncompleted. Red Lurker might enjoy many extraordinary technological advantages over her immense, lumbering foe, but this much was true: size was a value unto itself. More specifically, Arbitrage was large enough to carry munitions so powerful that even a near miss could cripple a small hull such as the Ktoran patrol hunter. Even when fighting hobbled kine, one must still avoid the horns.

Sehtrek’s tone was perplexed. “Srina Perekmeres, the Aboriginals’ active sensor array is gimballing away from us.”

Nezdeh stared, thought, smiled when she realized what the Aboriginals were attempting. They are clever, not readily cowed or dismayed. One day, their genelines will refresh ours most productively. “Tegrese, eliminate their primary and auxiliary arrays, immediately.”

“As you order, Nezdeh.” She complied without a pause, realigning her weapons. “But what are they attempting?”

“They mean to use their active sensors to send messages. It is a crude broadcast signal, at best, but, pulsed, they could send a simple report in their species’ distress code.” As she watched, two of the long, narrow masts of the Arbitrage’s dispersed array shuddered, then almost jumped away from the shift-carrier as if an invisible scythe had severed them. “Maintain fire until their systems are eliminated.”

“Yes, Nezdeh. The Aboriginal ship is slightly faster than we anticipated, more responsive to her attitude and plasma thrusters.”

“That is to be expected. The Arbitrage has only completed half of her refueling requirements. She has less mass to push than when she’s fully loaded.”

Tegrese glanced up. “What shall we do with the Aboriginals themselves?”

“That will be determined by their reactions to us. Ulpreln, prepare for terminal intercept.” Nezdeh secured her straps: four gees of counterthrust was nothing about which to be cavalier.

“What do you mean, ‘how they react to us’? We are dominant!” Tegrese held tightly to her gunnery console as Ulpreln slowly tumbled Lurker so that her engines now pointed at Arbitrage, the correct position for terminal braking.

“Tegrese, except for a few of the Aboriginals’ leaders, they all believe our charade: that the Ktor are a nonhumanoid species indigenous to some frigid world, with body chemistries based on ammonia or hydrogen fluoride. Once we have boarded them, and they quickly discern that we know little of Earth, they will just as quickly conjecture that we must either be the Ktor or their servants — which, for all intents and purposes, has the same effect upon our charade: it will be over. At that moment, their fates are bound to ours, for they may not return to their own kind to tell our secret. Ulpreln, attend the mission clock: commence our counterboost as scheduled.”

Three seconds later, Ulpreln engaged the thrusters once again; the counteracceleration crushed Nezdeh back into her couch.

* * *

Jorge Velho released his white-knuckle grasp on the arms of his command couch. “They’ve destroyed both arrays?”

“Yes, sir.” Ayana Tagawa’s reply was eerily calm.

“Probably because they realized that we meant to try signaling with them. As you feared.”

She half turned, so that their eyes could meet. “Sir, I meant no disrespect or criticism with that warning. Despite the risks, it was the only reasonable course left to you. Many civilian commanders would not have conceived of it.”

Velho noticed the slight emphasis she put on the word civilian. Why would she even phrase her comment with that adjective, unless her dossier was somehow incomplete—?

But there was no time to pursue that thought; the attackers were not wasting time. “The intruder has tumbled and is counterboosting.” Ayana paused, checking her data. “At four gees.”

Piet glanced up at the navplot, assessing. “They’re going to shoot past us.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jorge, who had piloting credentials but nothing like his helmsman’s experienced, instinctive surety.

“Because unless they mean to maintain that counterboost right up until they kiss our hull, they won’t have killed all their forward momentum, relative to making an intercept.”

Ayana stared at the plot. “But that is exactly what they mean to do. Look at their telemetry: at their current rate of relative deceleration, they are going to match our vector and achieve an approach velocity of zero at exactly twenty-one meters from Arbitrage. And they are making for a logical boarding point: the EVA hatches in the lading and remote engineering sections, just forward of the tanker cradles and cargo racks.”

Piet shook his head. “That’s madness. No one can take four gees of sustained deceleration and then be ready to un-ass their couches and conduct an assault. One or the other maybe, but not both.”

“And yet,” Ayana pointed out calmly, “there is no other explanation for the intruder’s course of action. They mean to board us.”

Velho accepted that the impossible was becoming the inevitable and sought for a way to reverse that trend. “Piet, give me full portside roll from the emergency attitude control system.”

Ayana looked around with a smile. “Excellent, sir. They will not be able to dock with a rolling ship, not until they have rematched relative vectors. That will delay them considerably. And using the compressed gas of the emergency ACS will not give them a ready thermal target, as would the plasma thrusters.”

Jorge smiled, but feared the expression was as crooked as he felt. “That’s the idea. Now, let’s see if it works. In the meantime, get me an updated damage report, and get Kozakowski back on the bridge.”

* * *

“Srina Pere — Perekmeres,” Sehtrek grunted out past the lung compression of the sustained four-gee counterthrust.

Impressive; not many low-bred, even Intendants, have that much willpower. “No need to speak,” Nezdeh said with considerably less effort. “I see it. A faint roll in the target. Tegrese, thrust signatures?”

“No new thermal signature,” she replied.

So. The Aboriginals are not using their heavy plasma thrusters, then. Which logically meant compressed gas thrusters. “Sehtrek, give me a particulate density scan of the space immediately proximal to Arbitrage.”

“Plumes of p-parti-ticles on the port side—”

“Track those plumes back to the hull of Arbitrage. Relay those coordinates to Tegrese. As soon as you have them, Tegrese, fire one UV laser blister at each.”

Sehtrek gasped out, “Relaying.”

Tegrese nodded. “Firing.”

“Report,” Nezdeh demanded as, at three points along its port side, the Aboriginal craft spat out showers of violently spinning debris.

Sehtrek coughed. “Plumes dissipating. No new particulate emissions from compressed gas thrusters.”

“Roll rate of target?”

“One tenth of an RPM.”

“Ulpreln?”

“Commencing correction.” Lurker bucked slightly as a new, inward-spiraling vector was added to her course.

“Time to intercept?”

“Revised ETA is five minutes.”

Nezdeh toggled her beltcom. “Brenlor?”

“Here.”

“Stand by for boarding. In five minutes, the rehabilitation of our House begins in earnest.”

Chapter Eleven. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

By the time Caine and Downing reached the secure conference room on board the Commonwealth shift-carrier Lincoln, the rest of their delegation workgroup was present: Sukhinin, Gray Rinehart, and biological expert Ben Hwang. The Marine guards started to close the door—

Flashing a clearance card at the guards and breezing past them into the compartment, Etienne Gaspard continued toward the head of the table. Once there, he took the chair that the other five had left unoccupied, so as to avoid the appearance of taking charge. “Good,” Gaspard said, “we are gathered.”

Caine and Downing exchanged looks. “Why, yes,” Downing murmured, “we are gathered.”

Caine resisted the impulse to close his eyes. Really? I’m going to have to babysit this jackass across God knows how many light-years?

Sukhinin had the rank, both military and political, to bring Gaspard to heel. Or at least, to try: “Gospodin Gaspard, while it is good of you to come, it is also a mystery. You were not summoned, to my knowledge.”

“An understandable oversight. Fortunately, upon debarking from Doppelganger, I requested an update on all top clearance communiqués. When I saw the topic of this meeting, I realized that I would have to be involved. It is only logical that we are sending a consul to the Slaasriithi, is it not?”

“Yes,” Sukhinin said slowly, “it is.”

“Then let me be the first to congratulate you on this extraordinary assignment, Admiral Sukhinin. I’m sure you will be—”

“I’m not going,” Vassily said with all the animation of a slab of granite. “You are.”

Gaspard smiled, then looked at Vassily and the other people in the room. The smile fell away from his face. “Gentlemen, this jest is in very poor taste.”

“It is not a jest, gospodin Gaspard. Consul Visser must return to Earth. I must remain here, due to relationships already forged with the Arat Kur. You are the only available consul.”

“But — but I have prepared for this assignment to Homenest assiduously, constantly, for many months! It is an outrage that I should be asked to—”

“Gospodin Gaspard, you are not being asked. You are being told. Am I clear?”

Gaspard finished sputtering, remembered the poise he had lost about two sentences earlier. “What is not clear to me, Admiral Sukhinin, is whether you have the authority to make this decision.”

Sukhinin smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Computer,” he spoke at the ceiling, “secure communication protocol Borodino Five. Raise UCS Trafalgar.”

Within two seconds, a new voice boomed out of the speakers: Admiral Lord Thomas Halifax, C-in-C of the Republic Expeditionary Fleet. “Vassily, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Thomas, I am sorry to disturb you, but I require a confirmation of one of today’s earlier decisions. You are comfortable designating Consul Gaspard as Ambassador Plenipotentiary to the Slaasriithi, yes?”

“Comfortable? Completely! Right man for the job, I’d say. And we can’t have you gallivanting off to parts unknown, you old war-dog.” He paused. “Problems, Vassily?”

Sukhinin’s narrowed eyes and mirthless grin were aimed at Gaspard. “No, I think not. Thank you, Thomas. Tea, sometime?”

“Of course. Your way or mine, Vassily?”

Sukhinin sighed. “I am a good host. We shall spoil the tea with clotted cream and serve it in dainty cups.”

“Right, then. I’ll have my orderly set it up. Halifax out.”

“Computer,” Sukhinin spoke to the ceiling, “close channel.” He lowered his gaze back to Gaspard. “Consul Visser solicited Admiral Lord Halifax’s recommendation on this matter. He witnessed, and seconded, her appointment of me as her replacement. Therefore, it has the approval of both military and civilian authorities. Now, are there any further questions about my orders?”

Gaspard’s chin was desperately high. “No, Admiral. I am satisfied as to their legality, but must question their advisability. Specifically, what background materials do we have on the Slaasriithi?”

Downing leaned forward. “Only the ‘child’s primer’ that they gave to us at the Convocation, of which I believe you received a copy.”

“Yes…but, mon Dieu, that document is so general as to be worthless. Have you not requested more details?”

“We have,” Caine explained. “When we asked for a more extensive history of their species, we got a response that boils down to ‘come meet us; then you will understand.’”

Gaspard stared at the others in the room. “Gentlemen, must we truly accept such an enigmatic invitation? This is all most irregular.”

“Yes, it is irregular,” agreed Downing. “But yes, you must go. This is not just a matter of seeking a conventional, realpolitik alliance, but a unique opportunity to initiate a technical intelligence pipeline that could furnish us with paradigm-shifting advances. Bloody hell, if the Slaasriithi don’t keep you bottled up in your own modules the whole time, just touring their ship could be an engineering gold mine.”

Riordan took up the thread. “The Dornaani have told us, point-blank, that the Slaasriithi are significantly more advanced than the Arat Kur, whose technology we’ve now inspected in detail. The Arat Kur fusion plants are smaller and more efficient than ours, as are their antimatter production and retention systems. The Slaasriithi are an order of magnitude more advanced.”

“Gentlemen,” Gaspard sighed, “your enthusiasm for machinery is understandable. But are there no other objectives? No cultural initiatives? That, after all, is my area of expertise.”

Caine leaned forward. “Frankly, I think the cultural benefits of a meeting with the Slaasriithi could be the most significant, in the long view.”

Gaspard, finding some ground on which he was comfortable, leaned into Caine’s comment. “Go on, Mr. Riordan.”

“The Slaasriithi are a conduit into the deeper history of this part of space and of the exosapient races we’ve discovered within it. They might be able to answer key strategic questions, such as: why are so many intelligent races contained in a one-hundred-light-year-diameter sphere? Why is there no Convocation record of making contact with other intelligences beyond that range? Why are so many green worlds readily inhabitable by the majority of the races of the Accord?”

Gaspard’s eyebrows had risen high on his forehead. “I understand that these are crucial questions, but they speak more to cosmology than strategy, non?”

“Not entirely,” Riordan responded. “Getting those answers helps us understand the larger political and astrographic environment in which we’re operating.”

“Have we not had analysts studying these ramifications?”

“Mr. Gaspard, as I understand it, every single analyst we have has been working overtime for the past year and then at triple-speed when we were invaded. This is really the first opportunity we’ve had to lean back and look at the bigger picture. There have been too many impending catastrophes to spend time pondering the deepest implications of the marble and granite bones of the twenty-thousand-year-old human ruin — and conundrum — we found on Delta Pavonis Three.”

Gaspard nodded. “Yes, I have thought this too. Even now, too many strategists and statespersons are flushed with the euphoria of victory and the relief of deliverance. They are not speculating upon the mysteries behind us, only upon the possibilities before us.”

Caine nodded. Well, Gaspard had frequently been an asshole, but he was proving to be a fairly insightful asshole. “Mr. Gaspard, I couldn’t have said that better myself.”

Gaspard frowned, considered. “No, you probably could not have.”

So he’s not just an asshole: he’s a total asshole. Aloud: “I just hope the Slaasriithi are going to be as productive as we’d like them to be in answering these questions.”

Downing leaned forward. “Why do you think they wouldn’t be?”

Caine shrugged. “I don’t mean they’d be uncooperative, but so far, their self-representation suggests that they might not record or even think of history the way we do.”

Gaspard shook his head. “History is history. How can it be different?”

Ben Hwang folded his hands as he took up the explanation. “The Slaasriithi are polytaxic. The integration and interaction between their different subspecies — or, more properly, taxae — may necessitate a tendency toward what we would think of as self-effacing consensualism. There are hints, in the primer they relayed to us, that in their society, pride of self and cult of personality are not merely morally egregious but might be considered dangerous psychopathologies.”

“What you are suggesting,” Gaspard summarized over steepled fingers, “is that they might not keep a history, but merely a chronicle of the past events.”

Downing nodded. “I think that’s possible.”

Gaspard gaze slid away from Downing, settled upon Caine. “And you concur with that conclusion?”

“Frankly, I don’t know enough to concur or demur, Mr. Gaspard.”

“Yet it was you who brought up the possible limits of their historical perspective. Do you doubt your own assertion?”

“Mr. Gaspard, I presented a possibility, not an assertion. As for doubts — well, we’ve spoken to a grand total of one Slaasriithi, and we have their primer.” Caine shrugged. “I know it’s human nature to want to draw conclusions, but I distrust straight-line projections when we only have two data points.”

Gaspard nodded sharply. “I quite agree. All these hypotheses follow logically from the data we do have, but we do not have very much. Well, when the time comes for me to be awakened, I will ask you to apprise me of any new information you have acquired from our Slaasriithi hosts.”

Caine frowned. “You intend to travel in cold sleep?”

“Of course I do.”

“Mr. Consul,” Downing began cautiously — Caine could not tell if he was being cautious about arousing Gaspard’s temper or his own—“it was presumed that you would logically wish to spend all available time preparing for your meeting with the Slaasriithi.”

Gaspard stared at Downing. “I am pained to point out that there is nothing logical about that presumption at all, Monsieur Downing. Here, instead, is what is logical: that this mission, too, may be cancelled. And if it is, I much prefer not having burdened my mind with yet another encyclopedia of facts that I shall never use, and having lost a further four months of my waking life needlessly committing them to memory. After all, if the Slaasriithi decide to strictly enforce their statement to Mr. Riordan, that we must ‘meet them to understand them,’ they may not even allow us access to their vessel or provide us with additional preparatory materials during our journey to their homeworld. In which case, I would have remained awake for the singularly productive pleasure of staring at the dull walls of one of our habitation modules. Of course, I insist on being awakened should we face a crisis or emergency.”

Caine smiled. Well, you clearly don’t know much about the real practicalities of cold sleep. Not if you think being roused for an unfolding crisis is a good idea. Awakening cold sleepers into a crisis is like dragging a boozehound out of bed to rescue his family when he’s still sleeping off a binge. Accelerated reanims are more trouble than they’re worth.

Sukhinin’s voice interrupted with a toneless imperative: “Ambassador Gaspard, for that is your primary title for the duration of this assignment, let us be clear on one further matter. Although you are our senior envoy and a consul of the Republic, do not presume that you may issue orders to Captain Riordan in all matters.”

Caine’s surprised sputter did not allow him to get out the question before Gaspard did: “Captain Riordan?”

Sukhinin stared at Gaspard, then glanced at the other faces ringing the table. “Was I unclear?”

Downing leaned forward. “Ambassador, it is necessary that we send along a person of appropriate rank, both to advise you on the military ramifications of any agreements you might make with the Slaasriithi, and as your legation’s security and intelligence overseer. Riordan’s former rank of commander was deemed insufficient for this role. He is thereby being promoted to captain, although that is as much in recognition of his actions in the recent war as it is an administrative necessity.”

Caine looked from Downing to Sukhinin. “Thanks. I think.”

Sukhinin fixed him with a look that said, You poor young fellow, and held up a hand to stop Gaspard’s imminent protestations. “This is not open to debate or discussion,” Vassily declared. “Firstly, although you are a consul, and so carry plenipotentiary powers for entering into treaties with the Slaasriithi, you have been a politician, not an ambassador, up until this point in time. Nyet?”

“I trained as a diplomat, in the most prestigious—”

“I was at the Parthenon Dialogues with you, gospodin Gaspard, and so have heard of your credentials from the Sorbonne. From your own lips. Repeatedly. But in point of fact, while you have served on numerous international councils and commissions, you have never worked as an ambassador between two human nations, nor have you ever been on a first contact mission. Correct?”

Gaspard had no ready response.

Sukhinin ploughed ahead ruthlessly. “Even more marked is your lack of specialization in military and intelligence matters. In short, Captain Riordan has exactly the experience and skills to assist you in assessing the full implications of any agreements you might make with the Slaasriithi. Actually, if I had the authority to promote him further, I would: protocol implies that a flag officer should be charged with these responsibilities. The rank above captain — commodore — at least occupies a gray zone between command and flag ranks.”

“So, Riordan may contravene my orders?”

Downing shook his head. “No, you have different spheres of authority. In matters pertaining to the security of the delegation and its operations, he makes the final decisions, although he must solicit and consider your input. Conversely, in diplomatic activities, you hold full authority, although, once again, Captain Riordan is obligated to offer his opinion on the military implications of your decisions, and you are obligated to take those into consideration.”

Gaspard stared at Caine. “Well then, Captain, I shall look forward to your military assessment of whatever information is conveyed to us by the Slaasriithi — or not — during my slumbers.” He rose. “I shall be preparing for relocation to the Slaasriithi shift-carrier and the commencement of my cryogenic suspension. As I understand it, you will make the final arrangements for the transfer of my staff, who are already in cold sleep. Good day.” Gaspard was out the door without a glance behind or even a nod of farewell.

Gray Rinehart looked at Downing. “So, does Caine get combat pay while traveling with that jackass?”

Downing sighed, smiled ruefully at Riordan. “If there was any justice in this universe, he would.”

Chapter Twelve. IN CLOSE ORBIT V 1581 FOUR

Kozakowski had rolled back the blast covers on the Arbitrage’s portside bridge windows to watch the intruder approach. It was no longer obscured by the wispy edges of V 1581.4’s cream-and-ochre atmosphere. “My God, they must mean to ram us.”

Ayana shook her head and glanced over Kozakowski’s round shoulders at the brilliant blue exhaust flares of the intruder. “No, Mr. Kozakowski, but they do not mean to give us much time to prepare or fire at them.”

“As if we had anything left to fire,” Jorge Velho amended. He finished activating the automated anti-intruder systems, then turned to the intercom, collecting himself to give an order that he never wanted, and never thought he’d need, to give: “All hands, this is the captain. The intruder is confirmed to be on an intercept course, with the evident intent of boarding us. They do not respond to hails. All security teams: confirm your readiness with the XO and secure for vacuum operations.”

“Vacuum operations?” echoed Kozakowski.

“Yes,” confirmed Ayana. “Although contested boardings are extremely rare, one of the most common tactics by a boarder is to create conditions of explosive or at least dislocating decompression. That is why we have sealed the bulkheads communicating with the hull-proximal sections and reduced them to zero point two atmospheres. Fortunately, even though we’ve cut rotation, we still have some gravity, due to the proximity of the gas giant beneath us. Combat in true zero-gee is extremely unforgiving to the untrained.”

Kozakowski nodded. “Some of my crew is trained for both low- and zero-gee operations. Let them help.”

Velho did not turn to look at Kozakowski. Yes, your crew was trained by the same megacorporation which sold us out to invaders just half a year ago. And with you in charge of that crew, we might have the same mysterious “difficulties” that kept us from getting the drones released from the autodeployable module in time. What should have been a twenty-second operation took over a minute — which was too long. But instead, Velho said: “Mr. Kozakowski, we have taken heavy damage to a number of key systems, systems with which your personnel have far greater expertise. We are going to need that expertise if, after this action, we hope to effect repairs. By holding back those experts, that reduces your available crew complement to twenty. Those remaining twenty are currently manning the essential systems in engineering and staffing damage control parties.

“Conversely, most of my prize crew are reasonably proficient with weapons and antiboarding tactics, and more than a hundred are defending the EVA ingress points in the engineering and cargo oversight modules. In short, we have the right assets in the right places.” Which also means I don’t have to worry about any megacorporate turncoats shooting my people in their backs.

“And if you really want to help,” Piet muttered, “you could decant a few dozen of those clone-soldiers riding in the freezer section.”

Kozakowski did not deign to face the pilot as he rebutted. “CoDevCo’s Optigene clones are not superhuman. Just like anyone else, they cannot be roused straight from cold sleep into operations. The biochemical reanimation requirements take forty-eight hours alone. It would require another thirty-six to forty-eight hours for full restoration of autonomic and voluntary muscular function, and perhaps yet another day for full mental function. I hope it is enough that I have granted you full access to their equipment lockers. And I am still willing to take my place among the defenders, even if you do not permit any of my crew to accompany me.”

Jorge considered the offer: it was too measured to be fully convincing. So, Kozakowski, the first time you’re eager to help us is when you could be killed doing so? Or rather, so you can sabotage our defensive preparations and curry favor with your true masters? Or am I just being overly suspicious? “No, Mr. Kozakowski, as the original master of the ship, I think it important that you remain here on the bridge.” Velho picked up one of the autoshotguns that had been liberated from the Optigene clones’ combat stores. “I will oversee the defenses personally.” As if I really know what the hell I’m doing. This was not part of the job description when the government came looking for civilian prize crews. “Now, before I go, let’s see if we can give our attackers at least one nasty surprise. Is Mr. Vindar off Deal Two?”

“Yes, sir. Remote piloting protocols are engaged.”

“Are the thrusters still hot?”

“Enough for one good burst, sir.”

Kozakowski looked from one face to the other among the three bridge crew.

Jorge suppressed a smile at the CoDevCo factotum’s perplexity. “Piet, do you have the controls routed through to your board?”

“Aye, sir.”

Jorge eyeballed the trajectory of the intruder in relation to where Deal Two was dangling, only half in its docking cradle. “She might not come out of the clamps cleanly,” he warned.

Piet shrugged. “We knew that from the moment we came up with this harebrained scheme. But it’s the only shot we have, Jorge.”

“It is as you say, my friend. And we will let your instruments and eyes determine when to—”

“Engaging now!” Piet interrupted.

He triggered Deal Two’s emergency umbilical release, slammed the thrust relays on his remote operations board to maximum, yanked the tanker’s flight controls up and then savagely over.

In the screens, Deal Two’s thrusters blasted out a glowing wave of plasma. They propelled her up out of the docking cradles and then, gimballing, began to swing her in a scalded-cat hop toward the oncoming intruder—

But something unexpected was trailing behind Deal Two as Piet tried to effect his own, unorthodox ramming attempt: the tanker-tender’s umbilical was still attached to the Arbitrage, probably due to the prior damage—

Although the resistance only caused a mild jerk and delay in Deal Two’s half-Immelman attempt at smashing itself into the oncoming ship, that was time enough for the attackers to react. Two of the low, black, lusterless mini-domes near the prow of the enemy ship spun in the direction of the tanker—

— which was abruptly ripped end to end by invisible, crisscrossing beams which left glowing slices along Deal Two’s fuselage. One of those beams triggered an explosion which converted the whole boat into a tumbling storm of debris. The intruder jinked slightly to avoid a spinning, savaged bay door, and kept coming on.

No one said anything. Jorge Velho hefted the autoshotgun, reflected that he hoped his experience with semiautomatic sporting versions on his uncle’s sugar and silviculture plantation near Belém would stand him in good stead. “Ms. Tagawa has the con. And she will assume command in the event that I am — incapacitated.”

Ayana started. “Captain Velho, as the XO, I am expendable and should be—”

“Ms. Tagawa, the matter is not open to discussion. Ignoring my command prerogative for a moment, it is quite obvious that you are more familiar with the best protocols to employ in this scenario.” You seem to be much more familiar with them. Indeed, suspiciously so…“Arbitrage needs that expertise, whether in escaping, or negotiating a settlement with the intruders.” He told himself that only a tiny part of his motivation stemmed from male protective instincts that had been drilled into his genome through uncounted millennia. “Piet, keep a firm hand on the tiller.”

“Aye, sir,” said the South African ruefully.

Velho exited the bridge, pointedly resisting the urge to glance back.

At Ayana.

* * *

Nezdeh watched the external monitors as Ulpreln counted off the last ten meters to the Arbitrage. “Ten, nine…”

“Slow us.”

“Obeyed. Eight, seven.” The pause lengthened. “Six. And…”

“Now: final retroboost.”

“Boosting — and we are at relative-velocity all-stop, Nezdeh.”

“Still no countermeasures deployed by the target?”

Sehtrek glanced up. “None observable, Srina Perekmeres.”

She nodded and switched channels. Action: at last. “Primary EVA team?”

“We are ready.”

“Commence assault.”

“Complying.”

In the external monitors, Nezdeh watched the main EVA hatch, just aft of midship, open. A line of spacesuited figures emerged. Organized as three separate teams, they traversed the four remaining meters to a double-sized EVA portal in the Arbitrage’s hull, a small access bay for loading ship’s stores. Each team’s lead figure used active maneuver jets to reach the Aboriginal ship, towing three more figures behind. As two of the team leaders produced tools consistent with forced ingress procedures, the third team leader floated to the side, weapon ready.

“Secondary EVA team?”

Brenlor’s impatience was audible. “Here. And still waiting.”

Nezdeh almost rolled her eyes. And you shall continue to do so. For one more minute.

* * *

On the bridge of the Arbitrage, Emil Kozakowski was tempted to shove Tagawa out of the way to get a better look at the small external monitor that showed the would-be boarders who had gathered forward of Deal Two’s empty docking cradle.

“Yes,” Tagawa was telling Velho over the intercom, “a dozen boarders at bay Foxtrot-Twelve. I do not recognize their weapons or suits.”

Velho’s voice, Lilliputian as it escaped Tagawa’s earbud, began shouting for more personnel to deploy to the bay, drawing them from the teams watching other access points and from the reserves being held further in-hull. Kozakowski estimated that the defenders would outnumber their dozen attackers by better than six to one, once the repositioning was completed. He leaned toward the screen and Ayana. “What are the raiders doing at the bay, do you think?”

Tagawa did not even move her eyes toward him. “They seem to be attempting some kind of external electronic bypass.”

“Odd. How could they hope to understand the electronics of our ships?”

Now she did turn toward him. “I was wondering if you might be the very person to answer such a question, Mr. Kozakowski.” Her gaze was level. It was no more emotional than usual, but somehow, it conveyed a startling degree of animus.

Kozakowski felt his face grow hot. “I do not appreciate your insinuation, Ms. Tagawa.”

“And I do not appreciate your presence, Mr. Kozakowski. But, as to the matter of their boarding attempts: you will notice the large cases carried by two of the waiting team members on each of the boarding strings. I suspect that if they cannot bypass our electronics, they shall use explosives. I expect, given the technology we have witnessed so far, they would breach the hull easily.”

“Wonder why they didn’t just use charges in the first place, then,” commented Piet sourly.

“The mere fact that they are boarding us suggests that they value either the ship, or something on it,” Ayana replied, without glancing at Piet.

She was studying the actions of the breaching team so closely that she did not notice new motion in another screen, half-obscured by Kozakowski’s pear shaped body. It offered a wide-angle view that, while reprising the boarding attempt in miniature, showed the entirety of the raider—

— From behind which, four more space-suited figures emerged. Unlike the first twelve, these boarders were wearing large maneuver packs, carrying sizeable weapons, and seemed, if anything, overburdened. As soon as they had regrouped just beyond the far aft quarter of their own hull, they fired their maneuver jets and moved rapidly forward, angling toward the keel of the Arbitrage.

Kozakowski glanced at Ayana, who was not allowing her gaze to drift in his direction — or, therefore, toward the monitor containing the wide-angle view of the intruder.

Kozakowski watched the four new figures jet out of the side of the frame. They would soon be between the stilled rotational armatures of the Arbitrage’s twin toruses, heading toward the bow.

He said nothing.

* * *

Nezdeh watched the four members of Brenlor’s Team Two, all wearing heavily armored EVA suits, cut a straight line through the radial arms of the Arbitrage’s two rotational habitats. “Is there any sign they’ve been detected?”

“None, Srina Perekmeres,” Sehtrek replied.

Nezdeh shook her head. “Still, they will spot Team Two any moment.” But every additional moment that Brenlor’s men remained undetected meant less warning for the defenders. And given the diversion that Team One was staging near the more logical entry point — the bay door — the Aboriginals might, even now, be concentrating their forces away from Brenlor’s actual point of entry.

Nezdeh activated her beltcom. “Brenlor, ETA?”

“Thirty seconds. Radiation dose-rate from this gas giant is tolerable.”

“Is it interfering with your electronics?”

“No. They are sufficiently hardened. Heads-up display and map schematics are reading clearly. How kind of the Aboriginals to provide us with deck plans of their ship.”

“That is the point of suborning an opponent, rather than attacking or conquering them outright.” A distinction which the other Perekmeres males would have been wise to appreciate before they hatched the ridiculous plots that ultimately led to our House’s Extirpation. In the monitor, she saw the four figures of Team Two arrive near a small, personnel-sized airlock door, just forward of the leading rotational habitat. “Activate your helmet cameras.”

Brenlor’s reply was sardonic. “Activating — and enjoy the spectacle. Idrem, enter the ship’s secure code into the manual access keypad.”

* * *

Ayana Tagawa frowned. For a military boarding party, the dozen figures at the threshold of bay door F-12 seemed to be taking their time, most of them hanging patiently on their lead-strings.

Too patiently, she suddenly realized.

Tagawa leaned forward to inspect the nine non-team-leaders closely. What she saw was not consistent with techniques for conserving life support: rather, it was a complete lack of motion.

Which instantly changed her perception of what she was seeing. This was no longer an oddly casual boarding attempt by twelve personnel, nine of whom were remaining admirably motionless. It was a ruse, in which only three persons were showing any signs of activity, urgent or otherwise. Which meant—

Ayana leaned forward to peer around Kozakowski, who was still staring out the windows like an utter idiot — and, in the portside bow monitor, she saw four figures gliding to a halt near the outer hatch of airlock C-2. Each wore a heavier, bulkier spacesuit, the torso covered by armored plates. And their weapons—“Captain Velho, the primary boarding attempt is taking place now at airlock Charlie-Two. I repeat, primary boarding attempt is under way at Charlie-Two, not Foxtrot-Twelve.” She stared into Kozakowski’s almost-surprised eyes. “You weren’t watching the monitors?”

“The monitors?” He sounded puzzled. “I wanted to make sure they didn’t come near us here on the bridge.”

“You—?” Can Kozakowski really be that stupid, that—? Ayana leaned away from the man before she was conscious of doing so: no, he can’t be that stupid. No one can. I should shoot him now — but I have no proof.

In her earbud, Ayana heard Jorge shouting for several fire-teams to double back to Charlie Two. But Ayana knew those reinforcements were already too late: one of the four boarders was entering a code into the external control panel. And there wasn’t enough time to crash the computer or override the systems.

Not anymore.

* * *

Brenlor’s voice was harsh. “Idrem, what is delaying you?”

If you had a genuine interest in anything other than weaponcraft, you might know. “Brenlor, simultaneously opening both the outer and inner hatches of an airlock is a difficult override to achieve, even if one has the codes. There are built-in safety constraints that preclude—”

“Just be swift in your task, Idrem.”

“I shall.” And I shall not title you Srin or any of the other obeisances you especially want from me, since you know I am your superior in every way but one: I lack the Blood of the First Line of the First Family. Although, given the failures of that Line’s Extirpated Hegemons, I suspect their geneline had already been corrupted—

The airlock’s external panel began flashing red, along with all the lights ringing the outer hatch. “Brenlor, we are ready.”

“Assault positions,” Brenlor ordered over the tactical channel. “Vranut, you enter. I shall cover, then follow. Idrem, you and Jesel secure the inner hatch behind us.”

Vranut was already in position when Idrem warned, “The hatch will open very quickly. I am invoking an emergency protocol for rapidly expelling contaminants or extinguishing a fire.”

“I am ready,” Vranut replied, setting his needler to low power and maximum rate of fire.

“On three. One, two—”

On “three,” Idrem hit the entry tab; the outer hatch flung itself aside. Vranut was halfway in the doorway, started, and with catlike speed and grace, rolled himself back out — just in time to avoid a flailing human as he tumbled out into space. The Aboriginal was wearing a light duty suit, trailing a snapped lanyard. The garment was already beginning to balloon. Unrated for full vacuum, the occupant would not live long enough to deplete the small life-support unit strapped across his shoulders.

Vranut peeked back into the airlock cautiously, then entered low and fast against the diminishing outrush of atmosphere and detritus. Sparks and chips marked where defensive fire began seeking him.

Brenlor extended his weapon around the rim of the outer airlock hatch. “I see them,” he muttered, playing his coil gun about slightly so that it transferred the whole interior picture to his HUD. “Transmitting.”

The view from his weapon’s scope was now on each of the four boarders’ HUDs. Idrem studied the tactical situation: three defenders just recovering from the outdraft of the explosive decompression, half concealed in doorways on the entry corridor. Further on, at a tee intersection, there was what appeared to be a barricade behind which several indistinct figures lurked.

“We’ve surprised them,” Brenlor shouted. “Vranut, prepare to advance. We will fire high-power bursts to clear the near doorways. You are to take cover in the furthest one you can reach.”

“And Vranut,” added Idrem, “I will follow up with a grenade down the hall.” He stare-selected a spot just behind and beneath the barricade, letting his eye remain fixed until a crosshair appeared at the desired point. “Wait until it discharges. It should interrupt their fire for several seconds.” Or perhaps permanently.

Brenlor grunted something that sounded like consent, then yelled. “All fire!”

Without exposing any part of themselves other than their weapons, Brenlor and the ’sul named Jesel set their needlers on maximum propulsive power and began firing four-round bursts. In the HUD, Idrem could see the four-point-two-millimeter projectiles go through defenders and the doorjambs behind which they hid.

Idrem did not wait for the bodies to begin their slow slump to the deck. He leaned his grenade launcher around the corner, depressed the trigger that showed the thirty-eight-millimeter self-seeking rocket grenade the aim point he had stare-selected, and then squeezed the firing trigger. The grenade sped towards its target, self-correcting for any post-firing motion of the launch tube with micro thrusters while the grenade launcher itself selectively counter-vented the propulsive gases to eliminate muzzle jump and recoil.

The grenade exploded — noiselessly in the air-evacuated corridor — sending obstacles and bodies spinning away from its point of detonation.

Vranut did not wait for Brenlor’s “Advance!” Consistent with training and reflexes ingrained since he first sprouted facial hair, the Evolved maintained a low posture as he glide-sprinted forward, making it to the furthest doorway along the corridor. He turned to wave the other three boarders inside with one hand, keeping his weapon pointed back toward the ruined barricade with the other. His weapon’s scope evidently showed him a defender rising up from the blast, wielding an archaic assault rifle. Without turning, Vranut used the HUD to aim at the figure behind him, squeezed off a low-power five-round burst. Three of the rounds were stopped by the tangled remains of the barricade; the other two made pinhole puncture marks in the defender’s chest. The four-point-two-millimeter flechettes’ biosensitive nanites instantly registered contact with living tissue. The stabilizing fins snapped backward and perpendicular to the axis of the penetrator core, inducing wild cavitation before they emerged, corkscrewing, from just beneath the Aboriginal’s scapula. In contrast to the modest entry trauma, the exit wounds were marked by broad gouts of blood.

“Corridor cleared,” Vranut reported as the others took shelter in the doorways.

Except Idrem, who remained at the control panel alongside the interior airlock hatch. He entered the codes for full override authority, triggered both doors to close — and then the illuminated keypad grew dark. The roaring cyclone of the automated repressurization system died down to an anemic wheeze, and amber hazard lights began glowing along the junctures of the deck and the bulkheads.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Brenlor demanded.

“I believe the Aboriginals have performed an abrupt termination of their computer’s function. They have ‘crashed’ it, in their parlance.”

“So they no longer have control of the ship?” Brenlor’s voice was not merely eager, but malicious.

“No, but nor do we.” Although I was about to secure it.

“Then they are helpless.”

“They have fewer options. But now, so do we. I can no longer terminate their life support, nor can I secure tactical advantages by controlling bulkheads, lighting, and other on-board systems.”

“They are not needed.” Brenlor rolled out of from behind the cover of a doorway and into the corridor. “And I suspect they won’t have many defenders left.” He slid a thick tube off his back and began undoing one tightly sealed end. “Jesel, check for thermal blooms at the intersection.”

Jesel complied, moving forward and turning up the sensitivity of his faceplate’s built-in thermal imaging sensor. He stopped about three meters away from the corner. “Faint signatures to the left; none to the right.”

“We might miss some of the defenders, particularly if their duty suits are sealed and fitted with cold cans,” Vranut pointed out.

“It is unlikely that they are taking precautions to conceal their body heat,” Brenlor countered. “Look at these.” He toed a dead Aboriginal. “They’ve left their helmets unsealed. Probably to conserve the pittance of air they have in their tanks. But today, that conservation of resources will prove their undoing.”

“How?” Jesel asked.

“Because today they are going to meet these.” Brenlor smiled as the lid of the canister came off with a depressurizing hiss. The open mouth was a honeycomb of twenty-two hexes in two concentric rings around one central hex. A hideous head, somewhat larger than that of the animal that the Aboriginals called a weasel, popped out of one of the cells of the honeycomb.

Three similar heads followed shortly. In the thin air, the creatures emitted coarse, clattering whines, akin to sand being tossed into a desk fan. “These are upt’theel,” Brenlor explained with a smile. “They are old friends of our Family, used for boarding or other assaults where a well-prepared defender has taken refuge in tunnels and similar close structures.”

More upt’theel heads emerged from the canister. Idrem had only seen the diminutive monsters twice before, had only used them once, and did not relish the memory. The upt’theel was a long-bodied octoped with chitinous legs that were even sharper than they looked. Its almost neckless head was liberally and evenly speckled with light sensors, with two genuine eyes directly above the mouth. Its wide-hinged jaw hung open to pull in as much of the thin air as possible, revealing a serrated ridge in place of teeth. The ridge was the color of obsidian and, by repute, harder than basalt.

“Should we not be moving?” Vranut asked from the corner of the intersection.

Brenlor watched the other creatures emerge, with the same rapt fascination of the Evolved who patronized helot death-arenas. “We do not need to rush. Their slow movements tell us that no enemies are near.”

“They are…Awakened?” Jesel asked.

Brenlor laughed aloud. “Idiot. No, of course not. But their sense of smell is acute. They will detect a carbon-based animal, or its decaying flesh, quite readily.”

“So the other defenders of this ingress point have fled?” Jesel sounded dubious.

Idrem looked at Vranut, who ran a thermal imaging sweep down either branch of the tee intersection.

Vranut shook his head. “No; they are edging closer again.”

Brenlor actually smiled. “Then let us welcome them back.” Taking an opaque vial off his light cuirass’s left load-strap, he walked to Vranut’s position, the canister of upt’theel in his other hand. “They are unique creatures.” He spoke with the didactic detachment of an aficionado. “Their world was at the inner edge of the habitable zone — such as it is — of a blue-white giant. Not many species can evolve, much less thrive, under the gaze of such a punishing furnace of heat and radioactivity. Yet this species did.” Brenlor laid the canister down. “It is always gratifying to watch them do their work.” He slung the opaque vial around the left-hand corner, ending the toss with a sharp twist of his wrist. The glass container smacked into a wall: its shattering elicited one or two cries of caution from the Aboriginals who had apparently been trying to sneak up on the boarders.

The sand-and-fan whine of several of the upt’theel suddenly rose to a full chorus of pebbles-into-a-turboprop screeching. Like a horde of perverse lemmings mutated into pangolin-centipede-gila monster hybrids, the strange beasts flowed out of the honeycomb cells of the container with serpentine fluidity, snuffling as they sped around the corner. Not one bothered to look down the other, right-hand extension of the corridor.

Idrem nodded in that direction. “Apparently, the right-hand turn is clear.” Meaning that the most direct path to the bridge was open.

Brenlor was unconcerned. “By the time the upt’theel reach the rotting bait I’ve thrown down the hall, they will smell the Aboriginals who are approaching.”

“And this is why we remain with suits sealed?” Jesel asked.

“Yes. As long as the upt’theel cannot smell us, we are of no more interest to them than the bulkheads.”

Stony, screeching disputes — probably over Brenlor’s morsel of bait — rose, and then were suddenly still.

“Ah,” said Brenlor, “they have the new scent.”

Jesel made toward the corner aggressively, his needler coming up.

Brenlor put a restraining hand upon his arm. “Give them a moment to get started. It’s easier for us. And more gratifying for them.”

Around the corner, a fusillade of panicked gunfire erupted, followed closely by high-pitched human screams.

* * *

Ayana could not breathe as she watched the monitors displaying the approaches to airlock C-2. A swarm of small creatures akin to crustacean weasels had emerged from one of the attackers’ containers and were now flowing like a low, rolling tide toward a half dozen defenders preparing an ambush in the corridor beyond the ruined barricade.

The creatures’ sinuous, serpentine advance ensured that only a few were hit by the crew’s gunfire, mostly by their one autoshotgun. Then, as the strange animals neared the defenders, they launched into what appeared to be a somersault.

But the somersault did not end. With their eight liberally jointed legs rolling them forward, their exoskeletal back plates worked like the rim of a wheel. The defenders, apparently perplexed as much as unnerved, fired wildly. The duty-suited humans splattered a few more of the attacking beasts into chunks just before discovering that they had emptied their magazines. The rolling creatures bore in among them like a herd of animate hoops.

The small predators used the speed they had accumulated by uncoiling straight out of their final revolution into a mouth-first leap at their prey. Even before the creatures’ claws and legs started slicing at and embedding in the flesh of the defenders, their sawlike jaws were at work, burrowing into viscera. Ayana felt bile jet up into her mouth as the killer weasel-crustaceans became more akin to gut-burrowing worms, their progress marked by intermittent spurts of blood and ruined intestines. Their screaming victims tried yanking them out, only to slice their hands open on the knifelike edges of the beasts’ bodies and legs.

“Jorge — Captain!” Ayana cried, knowing she could not regain full vocal composure. “The boarders have eliminated both layers of defense for airlock Charlie-Two. Repeat: the—”

As if being progressively drowned by an advancing wave of darkness, the screens in the bridge went blank, one after the other. The carrier signal in her earbud died as well.

Piet spread his hands upon the bridge controls. “What just happened? How did—?”

Ayana interrupted, looking at the sensor logs. “We were just swept, from the docking cradles to the bridge, with some kind of focused EMP wave. Our less robust electronics have been disabled. The rest seem compromised.”

Piet leaned aggressively over his console. “That’s not possible.”

“Apparently, it is,” Kozakowski muttered.

Ayana turned on him, her sidearm out of its holster with considerable speed. “Tell us what you know about this weapon. Now.”

“Kn-know?” Kozakowski stammered, his hands rising in a mix of haplessness and tentative surrender. “I don’t know anything. There are rumors that the Ktor might be capable of such things, but I have had no contact with them or their technology.” He blinked rapidly. “Now, put up that pistol, Ms. Tagawa. I am not the enemy.”

“That,” she said, “remains to be seen.” She turned away from Kozakowski, but did not reholster the gun. “Mr. Brackman?”

“Yeh, Ms. Tagawa?”

“Since you no longer have a bridge station to run, concentrate on trying to raise the captain through one of the hardwired emergency intercom sets.”

Piet frowned. “This megacorporate econobucket doesn’t have an extensive intercom system, sir.”

“Do your best. We must inform the captain that the boarders are not attacking toward the bridge, as we anticipated. They are heading straight toward him.”

Chapter Thirteen. IN CLOSE ORBIT V 1581 FOUR

As Team Two moved by leapfrog toward the Aboriginal defenders in the cargo and docking modules, Idrem’s helmet comm buzzed: a private channel from Nezdeh. He toggled it with a push of his chin. “It is Idrem.”

“The deck plans indicate you are approaching the defenders’ primary concentration. Do you expect that Brenlor will be able to defeat the Aboriginals with only minor damage to the facilities?”

Idrem wondered at the directness of her question and what it implied: that she was depending upon him, Idrem, to attempt to limit the operational excesses of their mission’s nominal commander. “Yes, I can see to it,” Idrem replied.

Nezdeh was apparently not expecting that answer: she was silent a moment before asking, “How?”

“Before leaving Ferocious Monolith, I purloined several canisters of antipersonnel heat-seekers and marker nanites. I have already convinced Brenlor that this would be the most expeditious, and least damaging, means of securing the ship.”

“That could be a risky operation, Idrem.”

“Do you trust my competence, Nezdeh?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Then I shall not do anything to risk the success of this mission, nor shall I fail you.”

“Very well. I must coordinate with Brenlor now.”

“Acknowledged.”

The circuit closed at the same moment that Brenlor paused to shoo some of the upt’theel away from an Aboriginal corpse. After he used a spray bottle to douse the body with chemicals that the creatures found aversive, they came wriggling up out of the thoracic cavity, dripping gore and whining irritably. He herded the remaining dozen beasts forward to break up another knot of defenders who had been too late to help their comrades at airlock C-2.

Judging from the flags on the sleeves of the corpses, and from snatches of their panicked exclamations, they were all from the human political entity known as the Trans Oceanic Commercial and Industrial Organization bloc. Usually referred to as TOCIO, its acronym was neither a subtle nor coy referent to the capitol of the nation state that was its dominant power. Many of the bloc’s nationalities were represented among the casualties inflicted thus far. Other than the red ball of Japan itself, Idrem had identified national patches indicating that their wearers were from Brazil, India, Myanmar, and Chile.

Even without control of the ship’s command systems, defeating the ill-equipped Aboriginals had not posed much difficulty and even less threat. Only the Japanese nationals had been carrying truly dangerous weapons: dustmix battle rifles which, at these ranges, were certainly just as deadly as the Ktor’s own needlers. However, they did not have the muzzle velocity that made it possible to penetrate almost every wall or floor in the ship except for vacuum-rated bulkheads and hatches. But for the Ktor, constrained to wearing only the light armor augmentations that were standard issue for the crew of a patrol hunter such as Red Lurker, there was still risk involved if they rounded a corner into a torrent of automatic fire from the Japanese rifles.

The other firearms were not particularly dangerous. The majority were caseless assault rifles that had been furnished to the Optigene clones by their Indonesian hosts. These serviceable weapons, named Pindads, were unable to penetrate the Ktoran light armor at all. And while the hailstorms of slugs fired by the enemy’s autoshotguns could batter one of the Evolved to the ground, their penetrative power was even lower, and their raw kinetic impact was easily distributable through the smart armor fabrics of the Ktor.

“Idrem, are you ready?”

“I am.” He inspected the corridor ahead. “The Aboriginals are around the far corner?”

“Yes,” Brenlor confirmed. “According to the deck plans, it is a double-width passageway that opens out into a wide marshalling area with multiple egress routes. That is where their main body has deployed itself. And if the engagement goes against the humans, they have various retreat options that lead to regrouping points.”

“In that case,” Idrem replied, “we must ensure that they are unable to make use of those options. Please load the nanite marker grenades into your launcher.”

Brenlor took the three thirty-eight-millimeter grenades that Idrem proffered, none of which were fitted with rockets, and loaded them into the left-hand cassette that fed his needler’s underslung launch tube. “I have not had the occasion to employ this system, nor this tactic,” Brenlor admitted in a low voice.

“It is not difficult, and it is most effective against lightly armored targets, such as our present adversaries.”

Vranut and Jesel continued to guard the corner screening Team Two from the mass of Aboriginal defenders. As Idrem loaded three miniature signal-seeking submunitions into his needler’s side-by-side grenade cassettes, he watched Brenlor guide three of the remaining upt’theel back into their carrier. “If we lose the rest in this assault, these will enable repopulation,” he explained, almost defensively.

Idrem ignored the gruesome images that Brenlor’s comment invoked. “Whenever you are ready.”

Brenlor nodded and, using the right combination of attractant and repellent scents, prompted the nine remaining upt’theel around the corner.

They lifted their noses, catching the fresh prey scent — just before two of them were blasted to slimy mauve and gray bits by the hammering of an autoshotgun. As if they had been one creature, the survivors sped in that direction. The volume of gunfire rose precipitously. The Aboriginals were now busy enough for the Evolved to commence their actual attack.

Idrem nodded at Brenlor, who lifted his needler, stepped forward so he could see partly down the corridor at a very shallow angle, and discharged his grenade launcher at a distant point along the opposite wall.

The round struck the bulkhead, caromed off as per Brenlor’s intent. Abruptly, through the many awakened eyes of the warhead’s submunitions, Idrem could see the casing split off, freeing a flock of small gray balls that flew in a wide arc, and then rolled as Idrem directed through his HUD. As these devices drew near to the defenders, he activated their proximity deployment systems. Nanites sprayed out into the spaces occupied by the enemy.

Idrem nodded to Brenlor. “The next two, now. In rapid sequence.”

When Brenlor’s second nanite-dispersing grenade landed nearby, the Aboriginals attempted to assess what nature of weapon was being fired at them. But seeing no explosion or gas or other aversive effect, they returned their attention to the onrushing upt’theel, and the raiders they presumed to follow shortly behind them.

When the third canister ricocheted down toward the defenders and broke open, a few of them discerned that the small rolling balls were something other than debris and shot at them without effect. That last swarm of rolling nanite dispensers made it into the deepest reaches of the defender’s positions, thereby also providing Idrem with extensive advance reconnaissance of their enemy’s deployment. Not that it would be required.

Idrem stepped forward, watching the munitions-cued timer tick down in his HUD, measuring the elapsed seconds since Brenlor’s third round had deployed its spherical submunitions.

“How long—?” Brenlor began impatiently.

Idrem stepped in front of Brenlor and fired the first of his signal-seeking cluster munitions on a similar, wall-glancing trajectory. A moment later, Idrem patched the streaming recon-view that the nanite dispensers fed to his HUD through to the other members of his team.

The first cluster munition was angling off the wall when its seeker head emitted a brief, powerful microwave pulse. Instantly, human silhouettes glowed into existence on the Ktor’s HUDs. The nanites, primed by settling on warm moving objects, responded to the microwave wash by absorbing and then reradiating it, albeit much more gradually.

In the same moment, the round’s flechette warhead discharged. Over a hundred of the small darts whined forward like mosquitos, jetting into the same cone that the microwave pulse had illuminated. But each flechette was equipped with a seeker-head that detected the now-radiant bodies of the nanite-dusted humans. The flechettes twitched their tail fins slightly; each altered its flight path to intercept one of those glowing silhouettes.

The effect was gratifying. The defenders in the corridor went down in windrows. The micro-tine neographene penetrator points breached their suits easily, and the fins of each flechette stripped off upon contact with flesh. Consequently, whereas the entry wounds appeared like sudden sweeps of tiny stigmata, the exit wounds were akin to those made by a tight pattern of pistol slugs, pulping whatever they had passed through. The Aboriginals fell, their clutching fingers attempting to staunch wounds that could not be staunched.

“Impressive,” Brenlor allowed. “The corridor is clear.”

It was, except for one terrified Aboriginal who had been out of the signal-seeker’s line of sight at the moment the flechettes were discharged. Idrem changed the next round’s setting — spherical dispersal — and laser-painted its discharge point at the entry to the cargo marshalling area. He fired again.

This round glanced off the wall at roughly the same spot but bounded until it reached the discharge point. The sharp flash momentarily hid the sudden sprawling of almost a dozen bodies all around the warhead, including the hapless Aboriginal that the first round had been unable to “see.”

Idrem changed the next aimpoint to a spot deeper in the marshalling area, stepped out into the body-littered passageway, fired it, set a fourth and final round for a still further discharge, fired. He waited for the glowing, thrashing bodies to settle as the two rounds went off in quick succession. Six figures, two only partially dusted by the nanites, were running toward the exits. Most were limping or staggering. “Vranut, Jesel; follow those six and eliminate them. Brenlor and I will dispatch the enemy wounded, unless we find useful survivors.”

“And who among these slaughtered sheep would be useful, now or even beforehand?”

Idrem suppressed three Progenitor axioms that seemed to have been written expressly as rebukes for Brenlor Perekmeres’ impetuosity. Instead, Idrem merely countered with, “One may always be surprised by advantages arising from unexpected sources.”

“I suppose so,” Brenlor allowed. “Let us eliminate the unexpected sources.” He led the way.

Too eagerly, Idrem thought.

* * *

Nezdeh made sure that she arrived on the bridge of the Arbitrage while Brenlor was still securing the rest of the ship. Thankfully, Idrem remained with him; the Progenitors only knew what he might have done without some tactful supervision.

There were three Aboriginals on the bridge, already deprived of their weapons. “Who is in command here?”

All three of them made to speak, but, seeing each others’ motions, held back.

The first to recover was the tall, spindly male. “I am in command. Piet Brackman, First Officer and pilot.”

Nezdeh glanced at the others. The female — a small, distinctly Asian subtype from what Earth experts called “the Pacific Rim”—had no reaction to the statement. The other, a Eurogenic specimen who was small for his sex and flabby, seemed to become thoughtful at the ostensible first officer’s claim. It was not credible that command succession was unclear after the death of their captain, whose body and station were conspicuous among the fifty-two Aboriginal corpses in the cargo marshalling module. Consequently, something was being withheld. That was unacceptable, both in terms of gathering intelligence and in establishing dominion.

Nezdeh drew her liquimix pistol slowly. “I was born and bred to command. I will not tolerate lies or disobedience.” She raised the weapon, aimed it at the tall human male’s forehead. “Of the three persons on this bridge, I know you will lie to me. A true commander would have spoken quickly and assertively regarding his or her place in the chain of command. And there would have been no uncertain glances.” She snapped the safety off. “Because it would be useful to have your cooperation, and because you are ignorant of our ways, you have one opportunity to redeem yourself: identify the actual commander.”

The human named Brackman swallowed—piteous, she thought, how openly they display their anxiety—and explained, “There was a…a disagreement about command.”

“How so?”

“I was the XO. Not common for a pilot, but I have seniority. But when Captain Velho left the bridge, he put Ms. Tagawa—” the tall Aboriginal glanced at the small Asian female—“in charge of negotiating a surrender in the event that we lost control of the Arbitrage. But he didn’t change the chain of command.”

“I see. So he did not trust your judgment?”

“I get angry. Easily. So I guess he didn’t think I’d be a good negotiator.”

“Interesting.” The main lights reilluminated suddenly, as did the external monitors. The life-support system sighed into renewed activity. “We have restored your electronics and restarted your computer. We have also accounted for the entirety of your armed crew, who seem to be wearing national uniforms, not those of the Colonial Development Combine. Explain.”

The tall Aboriginal’s stare suggested that he had only heard the first phrase in Nezdeh’s second sentence. “You have ‘accounted’ for the — my — prize crew? What does that mean?”

“It means precisely what you conjecture. They have been eliminated.”

“All of them?”

Nezdeh closed the distance between them so fast that the low-breed male blinked—good; it is time to acquaint them with our innate superiority—and she slashed the pistol barrel across his face. The Aboriginal staggered, almost fell, but caught himself on the helm console. “You answer questions; you do not ask them. I am patient because it has been several centuries since any of your cultures have embraced the truth of the will to power, as does ours. But you shall learn. Or die. Now, I ask you again: why is this crew comprised of two distinct groups, one national, one megacorporate?” Peripherally, she noted that the other male’s eyes had widened slightly when the blow fell. The small Asian female had not reacted at all. Excellent training and possibly excellent genelines, but that could also be problematic. Time will tell.

Brackman was rubbing his jaw. But what the Aboriginals lacked in readiness, they made up for in spirit: although at the wrong end of a gun barrel, the male’s eyes were wide, bright, furious. “This ship, the Arbitrage, is a megacorporate hull. Which means it belonged to traitors.” He glanced at the other male, and the look in his eyes changed from fury to hatred. “When we kicked their invader cronies off Earth, we took over their shift carriers, but we had to crew them with loyal personnel from the merchant or colonization services. Like me and Ms. Tagawa. But we had to keep a core staff of the CoDevCo crew; they know the ship best.”

“Very well. Now, why is this ship in this system?”

The human frowned. “We’re just refueling to—”

Nezdeh had to repress a sigh. “You will find that while I do not relish violence for its own sake, I am ready to embrace it where it is an effective tool. Now, I will ask again, for you know the intent of my question: how is it that a shift-carrier from Earth, which cannot reach this system directly, is here at all?”

The male shrugged. “We had help.” Nezdeh made sure her move to strike him again began at an inordinately slow pace; Brackman stepped back, hands raised. “The Dornaani. They gave us what we needed to make a shift to deep space.”

“Gave it to you? Their modification is presently integrated with your drives?”

“No. They came aboard, modified our guidance systems. Added things to it — I don’t know. I’m not sure they let anyone know exactly what they did, including the officers who came on board with them. Then, right after we arrived here, they removed it.”

“And your ship acted as a tanker, carrying the fuel for the rest of the fleet that moved directly on from deep space to carry out the attack against this system, and then Homenest?”

“I guess so, yes. Look: they didn’t tell me — us — much.”

Which made unfortunate sense. The information in the Arbitrage’s databanks — the first thing she had accessed when the system started rebooting — had some small but important gaps, particularly in the recent navigational and operational archives. “So, what orders are you carrying out now?”

“We’re refueling.”

“Do not be obtuse. I refer to your current, and your contingency, orders.”

“We’re to shift to join the fleet in Sigma Draconis.”

“When? You no doubt have a projected departure window.”

Brackman glanced away, looked as though he might throw up. “Forty to forty-two days, depending upon skimming conditions.”

“And how soon will there be an inquiry if you do not arrive at Sigma Draconis?”

“Well, we — Immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes.”

Nezdeh smiled. “Thank you. You have been very helpful. Unfortunately for you, you are not at all a convincing liar.” She raised the pistol and fired twice.

The first round hit Brackman square in the forehead, but had barely enough energy to make an exit wound. The second popped open a dark red hole just to the left of his sternum; that round did not emerge from his back. Nezdeh had reduced the propellant not only to reduce the recoil to zero, but to prevent overpenetrations, and hence, damage to important ship’s systems.

Brackman hit the deck with the odd gentleness of all limp bodies that fell in low gee. Blood spread out slowly from the back of his head, giving him a round red martyr’s nimbus that shone in the overhead lights.

Nezdeh turned to the two remaining Aboriginals. “A commander would not have a moment’s uncertainty regarding the response protocols to be observed if his ship was overdue. Besides, a search would not be ‘immediate’; this hull adds no appreciable combat capability to your counterinvasion fleet. It is an auxiliary, and an increasingly redundant one.”

“Which makes it perfect for our purposes,” added Brenlor as he entered the bridge with Vranut and Idrem. “If there was one ship your fleet could afford to lose, it was this one.”

Nezdeh smiled tightly, kept her eyes on the Aboriginals. “I trust you understand now that I will not tolerate liars.” She turned to the male. “You are Kozakowski, are you not?”

He blinked in surprise. “I am. How do you—?”

“Do not question me. Besides, the answer to your question is obvious. Our agents aided your megacorporation in the recent war. Do you think we did not acquire complete information on your assets and personnel? And you, having been a direct liaison to one of us at Barnard’s Star, should certainly know better.”

The Asian female glanced sideways at Kozakowski; had she possessed a knife, Nezdeh had no doubt that the diminutive woman would have gutted the collaborator. Kozakowski swallowed tightly, looked imploringly at the Ktor. “I kept your secrets. I have not failed you. I compromised and delayed the defense of this ship. Why would you expose me?”

“To bind your fate to ours. Irrevocably.” Nezdeh was annoyed that the Aboriginal did not see it for himself. “Now, there is no path back for you. Your secret is revealed. You cannot return to your own primitive peoples; they will be happy to execute you. And some of the nations of your planet have retained suitably agonizing forms of capital punishment.”

“But if he kills me first, his secret remains safe,” the Asian female murmured.

Nezdeh turned, surprised. She saw that far, that quickly. Let’s see what else she has deduced: “So, do you presume I wish you dead?”

“No,” said the female. “The opposite. Now that I am aware of Kozakowski’s treason, if anything befalls me, you will look to him as the architect of that misfortune. And so, I am the means whereby you ensure that his fate is sealed, if he should abandon you. In that event, you would return me to my people, who would have every reason to believe my accusations. So, logically, you intend to keep both of us alive for the foreseeable future, or you would not be using us as means of leverage against each other.”

“You are correct. We need you alive to oversee the operations of this ship and its megacorporate crew. But be warned: the crew’s continued survival is contingent upon your cooperation, Tagawa. That includes whatever persons may be in your cryogenic suspension modules.” She turned to Kozakowski. “In your case, you may hope for a richly rewarded future with us.”

Brenlor leaned forward. “But should you displease us—” He let the statement hang unfinished.

“You can count upon my loyalty,” Kozakowski hurried to assure them.

Nezdeh turned toward Tagawa. “And you?”

“I am compelled to comply and shall do so.”

Idrem raised a single eyebrow. “Will you?”

The Aboriginal female stared but did not say anything.

Nezdeh glanced at Idrem. “You have additional information on her? What have you learned?”

“It is not what I learned, but what I found. We were searching all bunks and staterooms for undisclosed weapons or communicators. I discovered this in a hidden safe beneath her bunk.” He produced a long wooden box, closed with an old bronze latch.

Nezdeh frowned, took the box, and opened the lid. Inside was a long knife with a broad, oddly angled blade that came to a slanted, off-center point. The blade itself was half wrapped in a length of white cloth. She removed and unwrapped the knife; the blade shone and winked wickedly. “This is not primarily a weapon, I think,” Nezdeh speculated. She stared at the Asian female. “Tagawa, what is this?”

* * *

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Ayana Tagawa prepared herself to die unflinching and with honor. “It is a tanto.”

The female Ktor — for she could not be a representative of any other power; the Ktor were the only alien species that humanity had not yet been seen in the flesh — frowned at the blade. “I know this term from studying one of your warrior cultures. It is, and you are, Japanese?”

“It is. I am.”

The Ktor named Nezdeh tested the edge with practiced care, touched the ceremonial cloth that had been bound around the center of the blade. “This is used for ritual suicides, is it not?”

“It was.” Ayana left out the fact that although that use was now quite rare, it had not disappeared entirely.

Nezdeh fixed red-flecked hazel eyes upon hers. “Do not attempt to lie to me, low-breed. You would now be as dead as Brackman if you did not interest me.”

Untrue. Brackman was extraneous to your plans. But you need me to ensure your hold over Kozakowski. “I misspoke. The tanto is still used in this fashion, but very infrequently.”

This seemed to partially mollify the Ktor, but only partially. “It is a warrior’s means of preserving honor, I recall. So tell me — warrior — did you intend to use it on yourself?”

Not before I used it on as many of you as I could catch by surprise. “No, it is not mine,” she lied. “In my culture, a woman’s honor is not that of a warrior, and her failures are not effaced in this fashion.” Which was no longer uniformly true in Japan’s changing culture. “This tanto was my father’s and those of my family’s many fathers before him. He was a warrior, as were they.” Which was true.

Nezdeh stared at her for a long time. Ayana had the sense that her life depended upon the Ktor being unable to read anything in her face, her eyes.

Apparently, she succeeded at remaining expressionless. Nezdeh passed the box to the most junior of the four Ktor. “You may not have this weapon, of course,” she commented casually, “but we shall retain it, undefaced. On this you have my word.” The other two senior Ktor glanced at her in what might have been surprise.

“In the meantime,” Nezdeh continued, “both you and Kozakowski shall acquaint our logistics officer, Sehtrek, with the contents of your ship, its lading manifest, and most particularly, any pertinent facts or contents which do not appear in your data files. And unless you wish to lose appendages, do not think you will conceal anything from us. Nor should you think that we will be so gullible as to believe that you have no hidden caches or off-manifest items. Sehtrek will be here within the minute: attend him when he comes.” She turned to the two other Ktor who had spoken. “We should confer on our next steps.” Then, with a final glance at Ayana, the Ktor woman exited.

Ayana, half-surprised to still be alive, wondered if she should be grateful or dismayed that she was.

Chapter Fourteen. FAR ORBIT SIGMA DRACONIS TWO

Caine Riordan watched as a crab-armed cargo tug grabbed a habitation module from the Lincoln’s forward cargo racks, leaving a gap in the serried ranks of its fellows. The tug’s operator was quite accomplished: even as its manipulator arms half rotated the hab mod, the tug was already boosting away from the human shift-carrier and angling into a trajectory that would take it toward the nearby Slaasriithi ship.

Downing approached the gallery window, nodded at the tug as it overtook their shuttle on a roughly parallel course. “I believe that hab mod is your new home. It should be in place by the time we rendezvous with the Slaasriithi.”

The deck moved slightly under their feet. Their own craft had cut thrust, probably to let the tug get farther ahead. Riordan reached out for a handle, steadied his body against a slow drift up from the deck. “So where are the other warm bodies who’ll be going down the rabbit’s hole with me?”

As if in answer to his question, Ben Hwang drifted into the room. “I’m here. Can’t say I’m enjoying the ride, though.” He moved slowly toward the gallery window, carefully towing himself from one hand hold to the next.

Downing watched the Nobel prize winner’s cautious progress. “Rulaine and O’Garran are coming out on the next shuttle, along with this Tsaami fellow who ferried you to and from your meeting with the Slaasriithi ambassador.”

“A second shuttle, just for the three of them?”

“No, they’re just tagging along with all the kit we’ve scratched together for you. I’m not sure you appreciate the challenges this has posed, Caine. This fleet came out here to fight a war, not explore new biospheres. This mission has half a dozen logistics staffs scrambling to find compact, pioneer-grade biosensors, microlabs, an automed, and more Dornaani translators.”

“Hah,” said Vassily Sukhinin from the doorway, “those bean counters have it easy.”

“Oh?” smiled Riordan. “And you’ve come along to say farewell, too?”

“Da,” Sukhinin grinned back as he glided, quite professionally, to join the other three at the wide expanse of triple-layered glass. “Anything to get away from the staff officers who have been pestering me about finding personnel for your legation. The Fleet doesn’t have enough of the civilian-grade specialties and is also struggling with an incomplete database.”

“Incomplete?” Hwang echoed.

Sukhinin nodded. “Yes. It was just luck that Doppelganger is carrying most of the needed specialists. Along with gospodin Gaspard and his staff, she brought hundreds of civilian personnel, many with credentials that are rare among military ranks. But each of them must be added into the Fleet’s database. And only after trickling through Doppelganger’s Arat Kur communication systems. It is not a smooth operation.”

Downing stared at the distant speck that was Doppelganger’s sister ship, Changeling. “And I won’t even be here to see the end of it.”

“You are leaving already?” Hwang sounded as surprised as Caine felt. “I thought you were staying until Visser formally hands the reins over to Vassily.”

Downing shook his head. “The secure pouch that came on board Doppelganger carried new orders. Due to Wasserman’s discoveries, I have to catch up with the outbound Changeling and oversee his security, all the way back to Earth. Lemuel Wasserman is now the pearl of great price, so we can’t let anything happen to him. The wanker.”

As Hwang pushed himself further down the expanse of window to get a better vantage point as they approached the Slaasriithi shift-carrier, Riordan’s took advantage of the comparative privacy. “So Richard, once you’ve left Sigma Draconis, who’s going to run the on-site intelligence operations?”

It was Sukhinin who responded, elliptically. Or so it seemed, at first. “Originally, I was concerned that it would be intolerable to remain here, working alongside that arrogant upstart, Gaspard.” The Russian’s smiling eyes became sharp. “But now, he is traveling to have tea with aliens. And I have determined, after speaking with Richard, that there are additional interesting activities that want my attention while I am in this system.”

Caine looked from Downing to Sukhinin and back again. He nodded thoughtfully at Richard. “So. Vassily is replacing you.”

“Yes.”

Caine waited a moment. “In every relevant regard.”

“Yes.”

Caine glanced at Sukhinin. “So you know.”

Vassily smiled. “Yes, I know about your clandestine Institute for Research, Intelligence, and Security.”

“For how long?”

Vassily’s smile widened as he checked his watch. “About five hours, now, I estimate. But its existence was no surprise to me.”

Caine nodded. “Did Nolan drop some broad hints?”

Sukhinin straightened. “Nolan Corcoran and I were friends, but you must also remember that the admiral was a consummate professional. I understand your supposition: that given our coordination before the Parthenon Dialogs, and our prior friendship, he might have…well, ‘encouraged’ me to speculate that there was an undisclosed international intelligence group assessing Earth’s vulnerability to exosapients. But he did not do so. And he did not need to. I had my own suspicions.”

Downing, surprised, glanced at Sukhinin. “I didn’t know you guessed at the existence of IRIS before the Parthenon Dialogs. I doubt Nolan did either. He was very fond of you and certainly would not have wanted you to feel excluded.”

Sukhinin waved a dismissive hand. “Nolan did not exclude me; he spared me. I see very well how this IRIS has tied all of you in knots, has ruled your lives. Besides, at the Parthenon Dialogs, it was crucial that I had no knowledge of the secrets he kept. That way, no collusion between us — either as individuals or as representatives of our respective blocs — could be asserted.”

Riordan’s nodded. “But you suspected that IRIS existed.”

Sukhinin grinned. “Caine, parnishka, I knew it existed. I just did not know what it was called or precisely what it did. Years before, several of Moscow’s most gifted intelligence analysts had been reassigned to a secretive transnational cooperative which put them above my clearance level.” He wagged a finger. “Above my level. But I was satisfied that whatever this mysterious organization was, it posed no threat to the Federation or to Russia.”

One of Downing’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t strike me as the trusting sort, Vassily.”

“Well,” the Russian replied, scratching at his ear, “my superiors assured me that the unusual clearance elevations were proper and necessary. And you can imagine how much confidence that instilled in my cautious soul.” He had inserted his small finger halfway into his ear; he grinned meaningfully. But his expression became serious, even melancholy, when he removed it. “However, I deduced that Nolan was at the center of this star-chamber. And I had trusted him ever since he risked a court martial by helping my men during the Belt War. I knew who Nolan was, in here.” He thumped his chest faintly. “So I reasoned that, eventually, he and I would have a private chat, and my questions would be answered. However, I did not foresee that he would be assassinated, any more than I foresaw that I would become the answer to my own questions. As is the case now.”

Downing’s collarcom toned softly. He cupped a hand over his earbud, responded with a resigned, “Very well,” tapped out.

“Problems?” asked Hwang, who was drifting back into earshot.

“What else? The Euro armored cargo shuttle that was scheduled to transport the second half of the cold-sleepers has had an engine failure. Not serious, but it can’t be fixed in time.”

“And what was so special about this cargo shuttle?”

Sukhinin smiled slowly. “I suspect that it was not the shuttle, but certain members of her crew, that were special.”

Downing nodded. “Secure personnel, one of whom is an IRIS operative. Now we have to make do with a set of routine boat jockeys. The closest available is a TOCIO lighter.”

Hwang shrugged. “Well, it’s not as though some enemy agent would just happen to be assigned to the TOCIO shuttle that just happens to be filling in for the EU craft that just happened to break at the wrong moment.” Hwang grinned. “Rather implausible, wouldn’t you say?”

Downing’s answering smile was faint. “I suppose so.”

* * *

Agnata Manolescu brushed a bang of fine, dark brown hair out of her eyes, visually confirmed what her dataslate told her: all eleven cryogenic suspension pods flagged for transfer to the Slaasriithi shift-carrier had been scanned, data-tagged, and were now awaiting pickup by the TOCIO lighter that was due in—

— That is due right now! Agnata realized with a gulp. It was a rushed transfer, one which she’d been pulled out of her bunk to expedite. And, expected or not, she insisted that her work be invariably perfect, which is probably why the duty officer of the RFS Ladoga had interrupted her dreams of hiking in the Carpathian Mountains to handle it.

Well, that and her security clearance, which was evidently why the D.O. had sent her down here without even one deck-hand to provide assistance. She glanced at two of the cryopods, the ones that could not have been released without her direct electronic countersign. Clearly, this was not just any shuffling of near-frozen personnel.

The lights in the cargo bay’s control room strobed at the same moment that orange tabs began flashing on the main control panel: the TOCIO lighter had arrived in the approach envelope for docking at her bay. She toggled the secure circuit: “This is RFS Ladoga, bay control D-8, awaiting authorization code.”

“This is TOCIO lighter, B-114. I am in your envelope and transmitting the code.”

Agnata’s computer recognized the code. “Accepted. Stand by to commence hard dock.”

“Standing by.”

Agnata hit the autodocking touchpad, split her attention between monitoring the actual process through the glass panel of her control booth and scanning the telemetry data on her overwatch monitor. The flashing red lights in the outer bay — the part of the loading platform that could open directly unto space — doubled in speed as the muted rush of evacuating air diminished. The relatively small bulkhead doors retracted, revealing a slowly widening rectangle of star-strewn space, the center of which was dominated by a roll-on/roll-off TOCIO lighter. A brief nimbus of thrust limned its stern and the craft drifted forward slowly, the pilot counting down the meters over the comm channel. When the pilot reached the one meter mark, she pulsed the forward attitude control rockets: terminal braking. The craft drifted to a halt a few centimeters away from the cargo bay’s outer coaming, from which four articulated clasps reached out and snugged the lighter against the docking sleeve. As the sleeve started inflating and the so-called “hard rim” clutched the nose of the lighter, the pilot signaled the end of the process: “My instruments show hard dock.”

“Mine also,” Agnata replied. “I shall meet you at the inner bay door.”

“We’ll be there within the minute.”

The pilot had not lied: she and her sizeable, silent cargo-handler were waiting by the time Agnata arrived to check their clearances and cycle them into the actual lading spaces of the Ladoga. She indicated the three loaded standard robopallets and then the partially loaded secure robopallet, which was framed in red and yellow stripes. The pilot strolled past the lashed-down cryopods, aiming her data-slate at each until the inventory numbers matched and showed green. However, at the secure robopallet, the screen of her dataslate flashed red. “This is incorrect,” she muttered, removing her space helmet.

Although protocols dictated that full vacuum gear be worn and sealed at all times in both inner and outer bays, it was traditional courtesy to remove helmets and converse in real air if an exchange was going to be anything other than perfunctory. Agnata removed her own helmet. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Inventory number mismatch. These two secure cryocells: they’re the wrong ones.”

Agnata shook her head. “That is not possible. I checked the physical labels against the inventory code, and then against the order tear sheet that came in from Lord Admiral Halifax.”

“Well, the chips in both of those cryocells are not recognizing their inventory code. Unless — could the physical labels have been switched?”

Agnata started. “It is unlikely — but it is possible.” She moved forward, bending over to inspect the top surface of the first cryocell more closely. “Wait a moment. I shall check to see if the labels have been rebonded to the surface of the—”

Lightning exploded between her temples, froze her, overrode the grinding of her own teeth—

* * *

The pilot nodded to her assistant. After he removed the livestock stunner from the back of the Russlavic cargo-chief’s reddening neck, she tossed her head toward the mass of stacked containers. “Find the two cryocells we need.”

The hulking cargo-handler nodded, started to move off with the secure robopallet. “Do I refile these, or—?”

“Not where they belong. Put them in the holding cage for damaged cargo and pull their lading chips.”

“But then the manifest updating system won’t read them, will show them missing.”

“That’s the idea. Now hurry.”

The pilot ran an implant scanner over the pale, unmoving cargo chief, detected the Russlavic-standard transponder-biorelay in her left tricep. She zipped down that sleeve, then removed a small gray container and a circular scalpel from her own breast pocket. She swiftly scooped out the device located in Agnata’s arm, and dropped it into the container, which was half filled with a nutrient medium surrounding a pulsing EM emitter. It was a sophisticated underworld method for keeping a biomonitor from signaling complete failure — until the emitter’s battery ran out, at least.

Agnata moaned softly, one hand rising toward the red hole that had been cut into her arm.

The pilot’s assistant returned with two new cryocells on the secure robopallet. “I’ll load those,” she said, “you take care of her.”

“Take care—?” He stopped, probably comprehending, but not wanting to.

“Yes. We’re going to take her with us. But it would be needlessly cruel to dump her into vacuum while she’s still alive. Take care of her with that.” The pilot nodded at the livestock stunner, started guiding the robopallet toward the outer bay, their lighter, and their rendezvous at the Slaasriithi ship.

“But I–I’ve never killed a woman.” The assistant’s massive shoulders were slumped.

The pilot rolled her eyes. “You’ll get used to it. Now get going; we don’t have a lot of time.”

* * *

When their armored shuttle came about for nose-first docking, Caine was not immediately certain he was looking at the Slaasriithi shift-carrier. Although it was clearly formed from metals and composites, it did not look mechanical. “It’s so smooth,” he wondered aloud. “It almost appears as though—”

“—as though it was grown, not built or manufactured,” Ben Hwang finished, nodding.

Sukhinin stared sidelong at the two of them. “Gentlemen, I do not pretend to have much grounding in the life sciences, but of this I may assure you: that vehicle is not some great space-plant.”

Downing grinned. “No, but I suspect Slaasriithi metallurgy — probably material sciences in general — employs entirely different processes than ours. Hopefully,” he finished, glancing at Caine and Hwang, “that’s part of the information you’ll bring back home.”

Caine nodded, looked for the complicated and diverse structures found at the bow of any human shift carrier but saw none of them. Instead, a large silver sphere capped the keel: almost certainly the command and control section. Starting just behind it was a stack of toruses which resembled a keel-enclosing sleeve of immense, brushed-chrome donuts. They were set off at points by symmetrically arrayed metallic or composite bubbles, and even smaller bean-shaped objects.

As they watched, one of the donuts split into two half-rings. Each half was pushed outward slowly from the keel by what appeared to be self-extruding composite-filament shafts. Once at full extension, the donut halves started rotating around the keel.

Downing shook his head. “Well, that’s a different way to create a gravity-equivalent environment.”

“Look at their cargo containers,” Hwang added, pointing back toward the waist of the craft. “Like something bees would build.”

Instead of the heavily built cargo frames and docking cradles of human shift carriers, the Slaasriithi craft used various permutations upon honeycombs and hexagons. The keel was, itself, a cluster of hexagonal shafts: it was as if the Giant’s Causeway of Ireland had been reformed into a kilometer-long pole. Shorter hexagonal sections, probably cargo containers, were affixed along its length, reprising the keel’s own shape. The sections were subdivided into segments, each juncture joined and reinforced by a substance akin to the composite, which had extruded from the hull to deploy the half-donut rotational habitats. And aft, where a human ships’ drives, power plants and even fuel tanks tended to accrue in boxy agglomerations, the Slaasriithi ship was distinguished by symmetric clusters of spheres, all seamless and perfect.

“It doesn’t look real,” Riordan murmured.

“Yes,” Downing agreed. “It has a rather impressionist feel to it. Something Magritte might have imagined.”

Hwang was smiling. “I wonder what our ships must look like to them?”

“Great angular monstrosities,” Sukhinin pronounced, then pointed. “This should be interesting.”

Caine and the others followed the vector implied by his index finger. The tug carrying Caine’s and Ben’s hab mod was approaching the bow of the Slaasriithi ship, cruising slowly past the fat silver toruses.

Halfway toward the large silver sphere at the bow, one of the smaller spheres began moving out from the keel. The tug angled sharply towards it, maneuvered so that the human hab mod — a comparatively inelegant tin can — was poised next to the aft surface of the sphere. It held that position.

Caine scanned the rest of the Slaasriithi ship: no other motion. No ROVs or other craft were on their way to help with the attachment of the module — which was looking damned near impossible.

Until Ben Hwang chuckled. “Well, that’s an odd way to dock a module.” He pointed.

Six small, equally spaced extrusions were emerging from the rear of the sphere, reaching to make contact with the hab mod.

Caine stared. “Is it growing the docking interface?”

Hwang frowned. “I don’t think it’s growing, at least not the way we’d mean it. But it seems the Slaasriithi have materials that synergize mechanical and biological properties. Look: those extrusions resemble the racks holding their cargo tubes in place: six parallel ribs projecting backward from the vertices of a hexagon, with secondary extrusions stretching between them. When they’re done, they will have woven a basket around our hab mod.”

Sukhinin nodded, stood away from the gallery window. “We are nearing the point where we shall release your transfer module to a Slaasriithi tug, and I am thirty minutes overdue for my final conference with Consul Visser. Doctor, Caine: I wish you the best of luck and safe travels. Richard, you shall continue to brief me on local intelligence matters during our return trip?”

“I’ll be right behind you, Vassily.” As Sukhinin exited, Downing turned to Riordan and Hwang. “Well, chaps, I can’t say I envy you.”

Caine hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You mean because we’re sailing off into the great unknown on the SS Magritte?”

Richard smiled. “Well, that too. But truth be told, I was thinking of traveling with Gaspard. Beastly duty, that.”

Hwang smiled. “I’m sure we shall manage.” He put out a hand. “Safe travels home, Richard.”

As Downing shook Hwang’s hand, Caine found himself unable to keep thoughts of “home” under the tight control he had exerted since being roused from cold sleep only seventy-two hours earlier. Images of Elena Corcoran — and their son, Connor — displaced what his eyes were showing him. “I’d like to get home, too. Pick up where I left off with Elena. Start being a father to Connor.” Pushing aside the sudden homesickness, Caine stuck out his hand as well, did not care, at least momentarily, that Richard Downing hardly deserved a fond farewell from him.

But when Caine mentioned the lover and son he had left behind, Richard glanced away quickly, feigned interest in the now fully loaded — or would that be encysted? — habitation module. “They’ll be ready to launch your transfer module any minute now.” He let his eyes graze briefly across Riordan’s. “Safe travels, Caine.”

If Downing had left the room any more quickly, his stroll would have qualified as a trot.

“Odd,” observed Ben Hwang. “I wonder what troubled him?”

Caine shrugged. “His conscience, probably.”

“Yes, but why just now?”

Caine said nothing, but silently agreed: yes, why just now?

The almost mythological outlines of the Slaasriithi shift carrier loomed before them as they awaited the two-minute warning to board the transfer module that would convey them to the alien ship.