Raising Caine

Chapter Twenty-Eight. IN VARIOUS ORBITS BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

“They call the planet ‘Disparity’?” Tygg stared at Riordan, who had conveyed the information. “What the hell kind of name is that? What’s it mean?”

“Wish I knew,” Riordan confessed, “but I don’t. Got the name from Yiithrii’ah’aash just a few minutes before we started shuffling gear around for tomorrow’s landing.”

Keith Macmillan, hearing the exchange as he went to get another load from the cargo mod, grunted. “I guess we’re going to be staying here a little longer than on Adumbratus.”

“Why do you say that?” Melissa Sleeman asked over her shoulder. She was helping — well, more like directing — Tygg as he relocated her test gear to the corvette.

“Because they’re having us pack for a bloody camping trip, and landing us in two boats,” Macmillan answered as he disappeared around the bend.

Which Caine knew to be only part of the reason for tomorrow’s two-vehicle planetfall. After Adumbratus, the Slaasriithi had sheepishly admitted to overestimating the avionics automation of the TOCIO shuttle and had been alarmed when neither their shift carrier nor Adumbratus’ ground station had been able to achieve a solid lascom lock to relay telemetry and meteorological data to it during the unexpectedly rough descent. This time, the Slaasriithi had urged a “buddy-system” landing. The concept was to let the far more robust and cutting-edge Wolfe-class corvette, the UCS Puller, lead the way down, relaying both its own sensor readings and any transmitted data to the shuttle following on its heels.

Few of the legation noticed the change: they were eager to begin the visit, particularly since getting their first look at Disparity yesterday. Easing into near orbit, they had watched as, due to the rotation of their habitation module, the green and blue planet slid swiftly in from the top of their view ports and dropped just as swiftly out again every forty-eight seconds. Unlike the outré appearance of Adumbratus, the second planet of BD +02 4076 conformed to the image invoked by the term “green world.”

It was indeed the greenest planet Riordan had ever seen. Only fifty-four percent water-covered, Disparity’s seas followed the equatorial belt, dividing the planet into pole-centered landmasses. There were a few land bridges joining the two ragged collections of top and bottom continents and one seasonally-migrating ice cap. But those land bridges were apparently eroding: coastal archipelagos flanked the remaining spines of once-wide isthmuses.

Disparity’s other unusual feature was the bright blue of its seas, which were much shallower than Earth’s oceans and were reportedly well-populated by analogs of cyan-colored algae and plankton.

But even those colors were faint when compared to the vast verdant swathes extending away from the water on both the north and south continents. Whether light grasslands or dark forests, the rich, saturated hues indicated that the vegetation was not interspersed with many badlands or scrub-plains. With the exception of a few dramatic mountain ranges and small wind-shadow deserts that clung to their upland skirts here and there, the green of Disparity’s landmasses did not suffer interruption or preemption until it grudgingly mixed in with the tans and browns that rimmed the seasonal icecap.

Caine reached the corvette’s portside hatchway and passed his load to Peter Wu, who glanced at the other people approaching with similar burdens. “Captain, don’t the Slaasriithi have robots?”

“Some.” Riordan considered reminding Wu that there was no reason to revert to addressing him by rank again, but thought the better of it. The career military personnel had their own very practical instincts about such matters. In this case, while exchanges remained informal within their own circle, they stuck with the basic formalities of ranks and titles when mixing in with the civilians. Caine had spent as much time as a grass-roots insurgent as he had in true military formations — which was to say, not much of either — but accepted the wisdom of their unspoken but unanimous choice in the matter.

Peter was still looking grimly at the approaching bucket-brigade of packages to be passed through the hatchway. “So where are the robots, sir?”

Caine shrugged. “Far away from us. After the debacle with Buckley, the Slaasriithi have become extremely cautious about bringing any systems into contact with us. However, I am told that stops tomorrow.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“We get hit with another dose of markers.”

Trent Howarth stooped through the airlock to take the load from Peter. “Yeah, magic dust with mucho mojo, according to Major Rulaine.”

Riordan smiled. “According to Yiithrii’ah’aash, he’ll shower us with a super-strength mix just before we start planetside. The markers will provide us with up to a week of affinity and even influence over the local wildlife. Well, the Slaasriithi biota, that is; not all of Disparity’s flora and fauna have ‘harmonized’ just yet.”

“So why not put the magic dust on us now?” Peter passed the package to Howarth, eyed the next, larger one being carried jointly by Phil Friel and Tina Melah.

Riordan stepped back out of their way. “Gaspard and I wanted it checked out, first. So Ben Hwang has been looking at it from the bio side, Rena Mizrahi from the medical angle, and Oleg Danysh has been pulling apart its atomic structure.” He turned to head back for another load.

Wu sagged under the crate that Tina and Phil passed to him. “How unfortunate for them, having to work so hard.”

Caine smiled, waved, turned the corner around which Macmillan had disappeared and which led to the shuttle and the other modules that comprised their restricted domain aboard the Slaasriithi shift-carrier.

As he went further along the gently curving stretch of corridor, he encountered more of the legation’s sweaty geniuses-become-stevedores, mostly carrying survival packs toward the shuttle. Riordan was considering lending a hand there, as well, when his collarcom emitted a flute-and-wind-chime tone: an incoming signal from Yiithrii’ah’aash. Caine tapped the collarcom. “Hello, Ambassador. How may I help you?”

“Caine Riordan, I trust the relocation of your supplies is proceeding well?”

“Yes. Not without a few mishaps, of course.” But you’re not contacting me to check on our box-juggling follies. “Are our activities causing you any concern, Ambassador?”

“No, but we are experiencing an unexplained malfunction at the berth where your shuttle is docked.”

Caine hardly realized that his pace had slowed. “What kind of malfunction, Ambassador?”

“Power loss. However, it is only affecting the securing clamps and the hatch seals, which have released.”

Riordan came to a stop. “Is there a danger of separation? Do we need to evacuate the bay?”

“That would be precipitous, Caine Riordan. I am sure that we shall have isolated the problem in a few minut—”

The circuit cut out; the lights flickered once and died. The hallway was plunged into darkness, except for the bobbing blue collarcom lights of a few distant team members. One fell with a curse; something she’d been carrying broke with a sound like smashed crockery.

Damn it. Caine tapped his collarcom, tried to recontact the ambassador. The corridor’s emergency lights flashed on — amber, low, calming — and went out again, just as fast.

Riordan began feeling his way forward in the darkness and hammered at his collarcom — which emitted an affronted chirp; the wireless power supply was off, too. Batteries only, now. He switched over to the legation channel. “Everyone, this is Captain Riordan. Get to the nearest wall so you can feel your way along. Move with all haste to whichever of our two boats are closest. Hold your collarcom over your head with your other hand, so people can see where you are.”

“Captain Riordan.” It was Gaspard. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know, but the Slaasriithi are as surprised as we are. I was on a channel with Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash when—”

“Then why should we move to our ships, before we even know what is happening?”

You shouldn’t be doing this on an open channel, Gaspard; I don’t have the time to save face for you. “If something does go wrong, those ships are our only assured means of escape.” Riordan heard Dora Veriden mutter something about prudent action and no reason to take any chances.

“Very well, Captain; we shall do as you say. Do you have any recommendations regar—?”

A fierce quake sent Riordan to his knees. Shit.

“Mon Dieu!” Gaspard’s voice was more surprised than it was panicked: better than what Caine would have anticipated three months ago. “What is happening?”

Caine scrabbled back to his feet, double-timed forward. “Ambassador, absent other data, I would say we are under attack.”

“Under attack? But I thought it was merely a power failure of some kind—”

Bannor began snarling at panicked team members to stay off the line and keep moving to the closest boat. Caine hoped the legation would be able to make out his words through the cross talk: it was unlikely that there’d be time to repeat anything. “The power outage was probably sabotage, since the emergency power went out as well. We’ve lost mobility, which makes us an easy target, particularly with the ship’s point defense systems and sensors off-line. Whoever is out there shooting at us, almost certainly with a laser, lined us up and hit us as soon as their sensors confirmed that all our active systems had gone dark. Which they seemed to waiting for. The hit we felt was pretty far away from us, though. Probably up near the bow.”

“Concur,” Bannor said sharply. And then his voice was on the secure tactical channel. “Caine, how long until you get back to Puller?”

“I’m not heading toward Puller.” Up ahead, a male member of the legation fell, cursed, fell again, his voice getting more shrill and panicked. Caine moved in that direction.

“Sir, with all due respect, we’re your ride. Civilians go planetside on the shuttle; security forces go on the—”

“Bannor. It’s now twice as far for me to get to Puller. Besides, your top priority is to pull in all the people who are closest to you, lock down, and get away.”

“Can’t. Power outage has frozen our berthing cradles in place.”

“And you’ve got shipboard lasers at murderously close range. Keep your plants at low output: enough power to cut yourself free, but not enough to give the threat force an easy lock on you. And if you can’t release the airlock’s mating rings, blow the outer coaming with the embedded explosive bolts.”

“Okay, sir, but not until we see you and the shuttle safely away.”

“Don’t be insubordinate.”

“I’m not, Captain. I’m obeying orders.”

“Whose?”

“Mr. Downing, sir. He thought it was possible that something like this might happen.”

* * *

“Target damage assessment?” demanded Nezdeh.

Tegrese’s reply sounded as though it was coming through clenched teeth. “Modest. I did not hit the presumed command and control section. Given the light debris and heavy outgassing, I project we hit a large access tube.”

“Our railgun projectiles?”

“Estimating impact in eighty seconds.”

If the Slaasriithi ship hadn’t been paralyzed by sabotage, it was doubtful that those staged composite penetrators would have hit her at all; the range was too great and the large ship’s PDF batteries were too numerous and powerful. Apparently, the Slaasriithi did not have separate high power offensive lasers, and smaller, weaker point defense batteries. In keeping with the species’ decidedly nonwarlike nature, they folded the two roles into a single system. The result was a significantly weaker offensive laser threat, but a significantly greater defensive intercept capability: more beams, with higher power, greater effective range, and lavish targeting arrays.

But right now, the Slaasriithi shift-carrier’s lasers were as cold as her power plants and her fusion drive, and they would hopefully stay that way long enough for Nezdeh to finish her off.

Something in Sehtrek’s voice told her that she might have less time to deliver a coup de grace than she wished. “Nezdeh, the first enemy ‘cannonball’ has risen above the planetary horizon.”

Right on time. She waved a hand through the distance-hazed close-up of the Slaasriithi ship in the holosphere: it disappeared. “Tactical navplot,” she ordered the computer.

The ship’s outline was replaced by a three-dimensional overview of nearby space, where a threat-coded orange ball was rising over the rim of the blue planetary sphere. On the other side of the sphere, a larger orange spindle — the stricken enemy shift-carrier — floated haplessly. As she watched, several orange pinpricks in the vicinity of approaching orange ball flickered into existence, pulsing. “Microsensor phased array?” she asked.

“Correct,” Sehtrek replied. “As small and undetectable as our own. They are almost certainly relying upon broadcast power from the planet’s many orbital solar collectors. I detect seven active sensors. They are striving for target lock.”

“That is their only reason for illuminating them,” Nezdeh muttered, assessing the distribution of the enemy sensors and the respectable rate at which the orange ball was approaching.

Tegrese’s voice was tense, eager. “Shall I target their sensors?”

Nezdeh shook her head sharply. “No.” Tegrese, at this moment you are a fool asking to play a fool’s game. “We haven’t the time to spare. Besides, we are seeing only the first tier of their detection assets. They doubtless have many replacements seeded in various orbital positions, still floating inert. Resume firing upon the Slaasriithi ship as soon as you have corrected your locational lock.”

“Which lock, Nezdeh? The one guiding our laser strikes against the bow, or for the railgun lock upon the stern?”

“Correct both, but the stern is the most critical. If we can cripple its main power plant before our saboteur’s work is undone, we can easily destroy the target, despite the size difference.” Which was why Lurker had a self-guiding tactical nuclear missile in its recessed bay; once targeting was assured and either the Slaasriithi’s PDF batteries were inert or the flight time was brief, that single hammer blow would finish the job. But the Slaasriithi’s present power loss would not be permanent, and the range was still too great. And since we have but one sure way to kill our foe…“Ulpreln, both fusion and plasma drives to full on my mark. Zurur, send word to the rest of the crew to secure themselves for sustained four-gee thrust.” She saw Ulpreln’s head start to turn. “When we activated our own dispersed array of microsensors, they had an indefinite warning, at best. But when we fired, we revealed our precise coordinates. There is no longer any advantage to hiding among the debris from the asteroid collision we caused. Tegrese, illuminate all active sensors. Ulpreln, plot the most direct course toward the target and accelerate to full.”

Ulpreln nodded, turned to his console — and the universe slammed Nezdeh back into her acceleration couch.

In the viewscreen, the last few widely spaced rocks drifting between Red Lurker and her target rushed past them. Nezdeh was sorry to see them disappear astern. The asteroids had been helpful, obscuring companions ever since the Arbitrage and her Ktoran tug had edged in toward the spinward trojan point after finishing a hasty and incomplete refueling. They had counterboosted into the midst of the drifting rocks using a retrograde approach effected solely by the Aboriginal ship’s magnetically accelerated plasma thrusters, thereby minimizing all chances of detection.

Once hidden, Brenlor had exhibited admirable patience as they determined their best ambush point and observed what little they could from that extreme distance. He even accepted that his role in the coming attack would be to remain hidden with the Arbitrage and the tug. This had happily obviated any need to underscore that Brenlor’s personal mastery was in hand-to-hand, not ship-to-ship combat. As one of the least patient of the young Evolved in his House, he had not possessed the precision and cool calculation that made for excellent ship captains. Fortunately, other matters had precluded his participation in the strike. Preserving his geneline, the closest to the progenitorial core of House Perekmeres, was first among these, followed closely by maintaining the reign of terror he had established over the Aboriginals aboard the Arbitrage. Given its size, the human ship had to remain hidden and distant from the engagement since, along with the tug, it was their only means of exiting the system, whatever might transpire.

Nezdeh’s more difficult, and tedious, problem had been to make a sufficiently stealthy and close approach to the target zone. Coasting, running off minimum batteries, and often tarrying in the shadow of one or more of the rocky fragments of the asteroid collision they had caused, Nezdeh approached their ambush point on a retrograde vector, sending a cluster of disposable microsensors on ahead. Functioning as a passive phased array, they immediately detected the orbiting, spherelike vehicles the Ktor had observed upon arriving in the system. The larger ones, which they dubbed cannonballs due to their occasional bursts of astounding five-point-five-gee acceleration, were evidently the most sophisticated of the objects and also the most likely to be defense systems. They changed their telemetry without any regular period: in short, no firing solution calculated from their orbital path remained viable for more than seven or eight hours.

The planet’s scores of smaller spheres were, presumably, communications and sensor platforms. Although the cannonballs were the greatest direct threat, these smaller spheres, as well as any undetectable devices comprising a phased array, had commanded Nezdeh’s attention. Would they scan the new, slowly diffusing spray of gargantuan boulders behind which Lurker was approaching?

But the orbital array’s passive sensor results apparently did not alarm either its live or expert system controllers: no active scan had been initiated. The collision Red Lurker had engineered resembled the sequelae of a natural event, and since none of the ejecta was heading directly toward the planet, its denizens had evidently concluded that it was unnecessary to inspect the debris more closely. Besides, in order to do so, they would have had to illuminate and thereby reveal the active sensors kept in the region for detecting enemy craft. Reassured by the Slaasriithis’ complacency, Red Lurker concluded her approach, drifting along behind the largest rock chunk that would pass within sixty thousand kilometers of the planet.

Tegrese’s voice roused Nezdeh out of the momentary reverie that had arisen even as she continued to assess the data streams floating next to the holographic navplot. “New firing solutions are ready, Nezdeh. Using both phased array and on-board sensors, confidence of laser solution is absolute. Railgun targeting confidence is ninety-five percent, with mean point of impact variance of up to ten meters.”

“Continue to refine railgun targeting. Sehtrek, how long before the cannonballs are in range, presuming they are capable of six gees?”

“Uncertain. At their current rate of acceleration, the first one will be in our laser’s effective range in four minutes. Our railgun—”

“The railgun is useless against the cannonballs under these conditions. The flight time of our projectiles makes hits improbable until the enemy craft are much closer. Any sign of the other cannonballs?”

“None have appeared above the planetary horizon yet. We conjectured that they would be profiling themselves against open space by now.”

Nezdeh looked in the holotank, read the data. “And the one approaching us is only accelerating at four gees.” She shook her head. “Unpromising. If they were all closing at six gees, we would know they are not taking the time to measure our actions. Instead, the lead cannonball has slowed itself so that the others can accelerate and catch up while it observes us.” She drew in breath against the push of Lurker’s acceleration. “We must expect that the last two targets will come over the horizon together.” So much for defeating an amateurish enemy in detail. The lead cannonball is their sacrifice: they will use it to see how we fight, our capabilities, and our limits. And the latter two will rush in to take advantage of that knowledge by attempting to overwhelm our defenses. Ruthlessly efficient, for an ostensibly nonviolent species.

Tegrese’s voice was tight with resisting the four-gee compression. “First flight of railgun munitions are about to hit their shift-carrier. Targeting update: laser mean point of impact certain to the limits of sensor accuracy. Confidence of new railgun firing solution: ninety-eight percent with seven-meter MPI variance. Am I to keep all lasers on the primary target?”

Nezdeh nodded. “We have several minutes before the first cannonball can threaten us.” I think. “We must keep the Slaasriithi vessel powerless. To do that, we must concentrate our fire upon her.” Unfortunately, at this range, our lasers lack the coherence to inflict maximum damage, and if she manages to change course, our railgun may miss. “We shall cripple her now so that we may kill her later.”

“While hoping that the cannonballs don’t kill us in the meantime,” Tegrese murmured.

“True,” replied Nezdeh. “Now: fire all.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine. IN VARIOUS ORBITS BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Caine Riordan had just finished helping up the man who had fallen ahead of him in the darkness — Nasr Eid — when the world shook again. But much harder.

Riordan hit the far wall of the corridor like a rag doll slung across a room. He bounced off, the wind driven out of him, but was glad for the reflexes that brought up his left arm to cover his head and turned his fall into a crude roll. Finally, the long hours of intermittent martial arts practice were paying a muscle memory dividend.

As he rose, a sudden forward-suction draft pulled the air from behind him, the force against his back building swiftly toward hurricane intensity. Goddamn, explosive decompression up ahead? Nothing to grab on to, no way to—

The growing maelstrom diminished quickly, then stopped. His collarcom, still in his right hand, emitted a wind-chime and flutes tone. He tapped it. “Ambassador?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s connection was very poor. “Caine Riordan, can you hear my words?”

“Yes, but not well. Can you give me a sitrep — uh, a situation report?”

“I can, but it must be brief. I am using a personal communicator with low batteries.”

I doubt we have much time to talk, anyhow. “Ambassador, do you know who’s attacking us?”

“We have no sensors, and so cannot tell. You must board your ships and descend to the planet at once.”

“Already under way.”

“Excellent. Do not stop to draw supplies from your cargo module.”

“We’re not. Was it hit? Was that what caused the explosive decompression?”

“It was. Our extrusions have sealed the breach. But the module was not the attacker’s target. Its rotation simply brought it into the path of a beam locked upon the main spin-armature. You must evacuate at once; without power, we cannot stop the rotator arm. The damage and postexplosion vibrations will cause it to tear apart and fly away from the ship.”

Caine, panting, had been sprinting since he’d answered the page and now he could feel that the rotator arm was, in fact, wobbling: the irregular Coriolis effect made the deck swim unsteadily under his feet. “Ambassador, our corvette is still in hard-dock and the power is out. Will your biosystems resist our attempts to override your locks or clamps?”

“They will, but— Do any of your personnel have access to the samples of the new markers? If your crew coated themselves with those, that would allow you to—”

“Negative; all the samples are in the hab mod. They’d never make it there and back to the corvette in time.”

The bulkhead disappeared from under Caine’s trailing palm; an intersection. Damn it, which way—? Right! He scrabbled in the dark, found the right-hand bulkhead, ran onward, staggering as the deck undulated beneath his feet.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s next suggestion was hurried. “I have sent a disabling command through the chemistry of the ship’s biota; it may or may not reach the correct docking ports. But use whatever means you must to break or blast yourself free.”

Yeah; that’s the plan. Caine heard what sounded like a flurry of gunshots up ahead. What the—? “Ambassador, is there any chance that you will be able to get your ship’s power back on-line?”

“Unknown. Hull breaches have restricted our access, and because our ships are far more self-repairing and self-monitoring than yours, our crew is much smaller.”

Although that’s not working out so well for you right now, is it? “Were the power plants hit or—?”

“It was sabotage, Captain.”

“But I assumed that no Slaasriithi would ever—”

“You are correct, Caine Riordan: we do not have traitors. It was one of your people, Dr. Danysh. We do not know how, but he entered the keel access tube and deployed a feedback device that caused cascading overloads. It did not disable our power plant, but has blocked all electrical current to the bow of the ship, including the bridge and its command circuitry. The engines shifted into standby mode the moment they were no longer under positive control. Now hurry; you have little time left. When you commence planetfall, inform me of—”

The channel crackled and died as Caine rounded the last bend, saw that the shuttle’s forward and dorsal boarding tubes were sealed. However, a dim light shone from the doglegged passageway that connected to the aft airlock nestled between its drives. He reattached his collarcom. “Bannor, do you read me?”

“Five by five, Skipper. Where are you?”

“In the shuttle’s aft boarding tube. Get going.”

“I leave when the shuttle’s flight crew tells me the hatch is closed. But be careful; there’s been comchatter about shots fired in the after compartments.”

“Yeah, I heard them.”

“Then don’t waste time talking to me when—” Bannor’s voice was suddenly muffled; he’d leaned away from his audio pickup. “Dr. Lymbery, I need a green light on that cluster-munition drone. Dr. Sleeman, sensor status?”

As Caine rounded the corridor’s final bend, he heard metal groaning behind him: the rotational arm was starting to deform. It almost drowned out Sleeman’s response to Bannor: “Passive sensors are tracking back along the attacker’s firing vectors. We can—” A surge of static obscured the rest, broke the circuit.

Riordan ducked through the hatch of the shuttle’s rear airlock — and stumbled over something.

Caine threw his hands out to break his fall, discovered that whatever had tripped him was soft, warm, and wet. At the same instant, his collarcom crackled back to life on a new channel. “Captain Riordan, you are on board, yes?” Humanity’s premier crash-lander, Raskolnikov, sounded impatient.

“Yes, I’m—”

“Excellent. We are leaving. Strap in.”

But Caine, seeing what he had fallen on — or into — almost recoiled back out the autoclosing hatch as it bumped against his spine and pushed him closer to—

A tangle of bodies. And blood.

“Captain Riordan: strap in!”

“Go — go; I’ll…I’ll be there. Soon. Undock and go.” It wasn’t a prudent order, but Riordan needed five more seconds to memorize the forensic details of the murders he’d discovered:

— Rena Mizrahi, body twisted, eyes open, arrestingly pale, three bullet-holes in her torso, one center-lined on the sternum through which blood had flowed freely. A dated Steyr-Aug ten-millimeter caseless pistol lay just beyond her limp fingers.

— Gaspard’s assistant Dieter, crumpled in a heap, like a marionette with all its strings cut. He had been killed by a single round to the back of his head which had exited at the top of his left eye’s orbital ridge. A gory red and maroon hole revealed brain tissue.

— Oleg Danysh, lying his length across the deck, an Embra-Mitsu dustmix pistol still locked in his hand. He had been hit four times in a pattern stretching from the base of his neck to his right upper chest. The other entry wounds — arm, leg, hip — were equally wide, almost certainly the handiwork of ten-millimeter fast-expanding hollow points from the gun beside the late Dr. Mizrahi’s hand.

Riordan jumped up, sprinted toward the combination ship’s locker and main cabin access foyer. The drives behind the bulkheads on either side of him shrieked with sudden, deafening urgency. He yanked open the hatch to the foyer/locker, dove through—

The shuttle pulled sharply to port, away from the crippled Slaasriithi ship, and then upward, rearing like a horse and twisting as it did. Caine’s body went sideways as he entered the foyer. His gut and floating rib slammed into the coaming, bent him like a pretzel just before tossing him aside, rather than back down the passage toward the airlock. “I’m in,” he grunted into his collarcom.

The hatch behind him rammed shut as the shuttle’s next maneuver threatened to throw him across the foyer.

But having been in enough desperately maneuvering vehicles to distinguish sudden engine thrust from a hit, Riordan was able to ride the wave of motion. He rolled sideways as he neared the door into the cabin and hung there until the shuttle righted. He slammed his palm at the door release, then tumble-crawled through the opening door—

Just as the shuttle dove sharply. He bounced off the ceiling. The craft veered briskly to port. He crashed into an acceleration couch.

Riordan struggled to hold on to the couch, the world indistinct and gray as he swam up out of the successive blows and shocks. Far away, his collarcom crackled: “Captain, strap yourself in. I must resume evasive actions in three seconds.” The new voice — calm, unflappable, and deadly serious — was Qin Lijuan’s, who was now handling the shuttle as though it were a stunt plane. This was Qin’s forte, was why she’d been multiply decorated after the Second Battle of Jupiter.

Caine clambered into the couch and was just securing the straps when she resumed her corkscrewing evasive maneuvers. He looked out his passenger window — its cover had frozen in the half-closed position — and saw the rotational arm begin to flop like a limb with multiple fractures. Its crippled contortions carried Puller into view. One of the corvette’s laser-focusing blisters emerged and swiveled toward the berthing arms. Each docking clamp flared as if an invisible brace of gigantic arc welders were cutting at it. The clawlike protrusions flew back in pieces, tumbling end over end — and directly toward the shuttle. Closer. And closer—

— and missed the shuttle by five meters. The tube connecting Puller’s ventral airlock to the shift carrier exploded outward in a sharp orange flash: explosive bolts had blasted its hatch and outer coaming away from the vehicle, freeing it from the rapidly disintegrating rotational arm. Puller was dense enough that the rapid unmooring didn’t sling it off like a spinning top, but Karam was going to have his hands full correcting the significant three-axis tumble.

The chaos at the bow of the Slaasriithi ship fell away as Lijuan tumbled the shuttle and boosted back along the shift-carrier’s keel, getting distance from the tangle of flying debris and thrashing rotational arms.

Caine had just started to become aware of his immediate surroundings — the whimpering of at least two passengers, his own rank sweat, his blood-splattered duty suit — when a flurry of bright flashes speckled the shift-carrier’s aft-mounted spheres, the ones which housed both fuel tanks and power plants. Riordan knew what he had seen: impacts by a dispersing pattern of railgun sub-projectiles.

Two of the globes exploded in silent, self-shredding fury, sending a wave front of small debris racing outward.

Straight toward the shuttle.

Chapter Thirty. IN VARIOUS ORBITS BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Nezdeh stared at the holotank and the view screens and reflected how aptly the changes of the last twenty seconds illustrated the tired Progenitor axiom, Good fortune arrives in bits and pieces, but bad luck comes all at once.

Moments after the target had finally been dealt a solid blow — two of her fuel tanks destroyed and her primary rotational armature coming apart in a roiling litter of modules and debris — the last two Slaasriithi cannonballs emerged from behind the planet. As they did, the third, closer cannonball commenced a six-gee counterboost, slowing it at the same moment that Sehtrek reported it was now targeting Lurker with active sensors. Nezdeh ordered Tegrese to bring the starboard laser blisters to bear upon the enemy craft. It was not yet at optimal range, but there was nothing to be lost by trying to destroy or disable it, particularly before it initiated its own attacks.

But then Sehtrek called Nezdeh’s attention to two new drive signatures that had sprung into existence near the Slaasriithi hull: smaller vessels, drawing rapidly away from her. One staggered through a hail of debris, and, trailing hydrogen, dove straight into the planet’s gravity well. The other seemed to emerge straight out of the debris cloud, accelerating rapidly. Two seconds later, it illuminated active sensors and acquired target lock with extraordinary speed. The engine signatures of both craft were primitive — first-generation magnetically accelerated heavy-plasma thrusters — and the radar and ladar emissions were crude. So: these were not Slaasriithi craft, clearly. Aboriginal, therefore. But the one meant to fight and the other meant to make planetfall, both of which complicated her mission.

“Nezdeh, I await your orders,” Tegrese said urgently.

“I am waiting — for that.” Nezdeh pointed in the holotank; the orange delta signifying the human warship spat out an identically-hued spark at Red Lurker. “The humans have launched a missile. No, correction: given its size and complexity, it is a drone.”

“It is not homing.”

“It does not need to, not yet. We have an active sensor lock on the Slaasriithi ship, so they have simply established a reciprocal lock along our emission. We are doing the drone’s work for it. And as for the Aboriginals’ other weapons—”

Red Lurker shuddered. Sehtrek looked up. “Lasers. Two hits. Low power beams, visible wavelength. Highly diffused at this range.”

Tegrese had apparently forgotten she was speaking to a Srina. “What are you waiting for, Nezdeh? They could destroy—!”

Nezdeh turned, fixed her with a stare, regretted taking the seconds to deal with Tegrese. But the loss of some additional paint and laser-ablative layering was nothing compared to losing even one iota of dominion. “The Aboriginals cannot destroy us with their laser at this range. Which you would know if you had the proper mastery of your station. We have exhaustive data on their technology. Or had you forgotten that, along with your deference?”

Tegrese’s eyes widened, then tightened and grew tense crow’s-feet at their corners, but finally, her gaze lowered. “My apologies for both transgressions, Srina Perekmeres.”

“I shall forgive them both, this one time. Now: adjust railgun targeting to correct mean point of impact to the engines on the Slaasriithi shift cruiser.”

Sehtrek leaned closely over his readouts. “Nezdeh, the forward sections of the Slaasriithi craft are beginning to receive power again. She has just illuminated active sensors.”

Keeping the tactical initiative was looking ever-more questionable. “Portside lasers are to target the Aboriginal corvette. Commence fire as soon as you have an eighty percent confidence solution.”

“And their drone?”

“Shift one of our starboard laser blisters to PDF mode and commence streaming interception fire immediately. Inform me when it is neutralized.”

Tegrese’s voice was careful. “I mean no disrespect, but I must confirm: do you intend to dedicate only two starboard laser blisters to the closest cannonball?”

“Yes. Regaining control of this engagement means reducing the number of opposing threats. The human corvette will be the easiest to eliminate, and in so doing, we also complete part of our mission. We will then be able to reconcentrate on the more difficult targets.”

“And the human shuttle?”

Nezdeh resisted the urge to close her eyes in frustration. “The debris, range, and other threats are too great for us to engage it now.”

“We could use our own missiles to—”

“No: we must launch a full spread of missiles at the Slaasriithi before she is able to reemploy her own lasers in the point-defense fire mode. Once her PDF systems are active, we will be as powerless to damage her as the humans are powerless to damage us.” She glanced at the lead cannonball; it still had not fired. Which bothered her. “Commence all attacks,” she ordered.

* * *

As soon as the shuttle’s rapid acceleration down toward Disparity settled into a consistent trajectory, Caine unbuckled and struggled forward against the two gees to reach the bridge’s iris valve. He triggered it, pushed into one of the two support seats, nodded to Raskolnikov and Qin, who spared one precious second to nod back at him. “I understand there was gunfire back in the rear airlock, Captain.”

“There was. And three bodies.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?”

“Not yet,” Riordan admitted as he strapped into his new seat. “Except that I don’t believe the setup.”

“The setup?” Qin echoed.

“The way the bodies are set up to make it appear as if they all killed each other. It looks plausible enough forensically, but I don’t buy the scenario. It’s extremely rare that everyone in a gunfight winds up dead. But we’ll figure that out later. If we get the chance.”

Raskolnikov turned a rueful smile back at him. “So you have seen top side of our lifting surface?”

Riordan nodded. “Took some hits from that debris you dodged.”

“Not me. That was Lieutenant Qin. She got us out of that mess.”

“Not entirely,” Qin grumbled. “My apologies, Commander Raskolnikov. I am afraid I have made your job much harder.”

“This?” Raskolnikov smiled broadly as he tilted his head at the pockmarked portside “wing” of the shuttle. It was one of those “so we die? so what?” smiles that Caine had seen on the faces of too many fatalistic Russians over the past two years. “This is not so bad,” Raskolnikov asserted. “We will keep nose up and minimize atmospheric heating on damaged area. You will see: all shall be well.”

And if it isn’t, who’ll be left to call you a bullshitter? But what Caine said was: “How soon before the ride gets rough?”

“Soon, Captain. You should return to seat.”

Caine shook his head. “I need the radio for a minute.”

Both pilots shrugged, scanned their mostly-green system monitors, began checking for ground beacons or automated telemetry feeds guiding them toward approach paths: neither one was showing up on their instruments.

Caine snagged a thin-line headset, activated a secure channel to Puller, scanned the black vault above them. Well away from the Slaasriithi ship, the corvette’s twin, blue-white thrusters brightened — just as its hull seemed to flare. One engine went dark and Puller started to lose way, veering closer to the planet. “Bannor!”

A moment of paralyzing silence was supplanted by static and then an open channel. “Caine? Glad to hear you guys are okay. Heading planetside?”

“Screw the small talk. What the hell are you doing?”

“Helping our hosts, sir.”

“Damn it; you are to go dark, break contact, and run like hell.”

“Sir, with all due respect, mounting a covering attack was within my prerogatives. It ensures that they don’t shoot at you. A logical extension of Mr. Downing’s orders, sir.”

You goddamned barracks-house lawyer. “We’ll argue that some other time. For now, you’ve taken your best shot and given them something to shoot at until Yiithrii’ah’aash got his ship running again. Now, get Puller and your crew out of that battlespace. You’ve already lost one thruster—”

“That’s coming back on line. They didn’t tag us too hard. And now that the Slaasriithi ship is powering up again—”

“Major, before her power comes back, she could take another burst of railgun penetrators to her power plants or engine. Or bridge. And then you’d be stuck facing the attacker on your own.” Riordan dropped his voice. “Bannor, someone has got to live to report this. This shuttle is going down hard and I don’t know how many — if any — of us are going to walk away from it. And remember: this is happening just one system away from the Slaasriithi homeworld.”

Bannor’s reply was not immediate. “Sir, are you thinking that this might be a prelude to a general attack?”

“No. If it was, our first warning would have been an enemy battle cruiser showing up and converting us all into subatomic particles. But it’s equally alarming that someone is playing this kind of hardball deep inside Slaasriithi space for a lesser reason. The Custodians have to be informed, as well as both our government and that of our hosts. And Puller is the only hardened target on this shooting range which just might get out in one piece. You’re small enough and fast enough to hide and survive to tell the tale. So get going. Now.”

“But Downing said—”

“Major Rulaine, you’ve discharged Downing’s orders. Now you’re taking mine. Log it as my responsibility, and contest the order later, if you like, but right now, you go!”

“Yes, sir.”

Caine had never heard Bannor sound glum before. High overhead, the darkened thruster of the Puller flickered back into life as the haze of the atmosphere began increasing, diffusing the twin pinpricks of the corvette’s drives. Within the space of two heartbeats, they vanished.

For the first time since the attack had begun, Riordan had a scant moment to pull back from immediate events and consider the bigger picture. Whoever was behind this attack had infiltrated one or more saboteurs into the legation within twenty-four hours of its being announced and had sent an assault force unthinkably far into Slaasriithi space. The enemy was, by any conceivable measure, incredibly resourceful, bold, and dangerous.

Riordan found he was still looking at the spot of thickening sky where Puller had disappeared. I hope they make it. But if they don’t—Riordan activated the preset comm link for the Slaasriithi ship, asked over his shoulder: “Is the channel for Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship secure?”

“Scrambled and encrypted,” Raskolnikov confirmed. “Your two minutes are up, Captain. Things become interesting, now.”

“Acknowledged,” Riordan replied, activating the link and listening for a reply. As he waited, he glanced out the cockpit.

They had descended far enough that Disparity’s planetary curve had leveled out into a horizon line. The clouds were coming up at them, along with stratified drifts of faint green dust. Yiithrii’ah’aash had mentioned atmospheric spore layers, many of which soaked up and reflected UV, thereby adding to the planet’s surreal green-blue appearance. Auroras flickered high above: BD +02 4076, being at the approximate peak of its nine-year solar activity cycle, was emitting a growing wave of solar particles. Which meant sensor degradation and a better chance for Puller to get away. Conversely, it portended radio problems, possibly an impending blackout—

The channel opened to Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship; it sounded like a stonecutter’s saw accompanied by a chorus of banshees being boiled in oil. “Caine Riordan?”

“Yes, Ambassador. Auroras are degrading our communications, I think.”

“They are. Have you made planetfall? I do not have enough sensor assets available to track your progress.”

“Negative, Ambassador. We are approaching the highest cloud layers. Since this may be our last communication until the solar activity fades, I wanted to confer on a course of action.”

“I agree. In order to ensure your survival on the planet, I recommend—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ambassador, but frankly, I’m more concerned about your survival.”

“That is welcome, Caine Riordan, but we must first see to your safety. It is our responsibility that such dangers have befallen you.”

“Ambassador, with all due respect, that cannot be the first priority for either one of us. We have to ensure that this incursion on your space, and the attempted assassination of the entire legation, is reported with all possible speed. So, first things first: is your ship still capable of making shift?”

“Caine — Captain Riordan: we will not leave you behind. We must exert all efforts to—”

“Ambassador, we’re running out of time. Given that you are arguing against shifting, I deduce that you are still capable of doing so. And you must. As quickly as possible.”

“We have offensive systems aboard our ship which are perfectly capable of—”

“Ambassador, your ship only has dual-purpose lasers that fulfill both offensive and point defense requirements, correct?”

“Correct.” The reply was reluctant.

“So, they don’t have the distance or power of purely offensive systems. And from what I can see, your ship does not have a spinal main weapon, does it?”

“It does not.”

“Then it would be reckless for you to stay and fight. You’ve already suffered significant damage. The next hit could destroy your ability to shift. On the other hand, if you preaccelerate immediately, you will be sure to shift, report, and bring back a rescue mission.”

The two-second pause seemed to last two minutes. “Your logic is unassailable. I shall undertake actions that allow us to shift more promptly than usual.” A new form of static started encroaching on the channel. It was like bagpipes playing through a thickening blanket of white noise.

“Ambassador, your signal is degrading.”

“That is the planetary defense system,” Yiithrii’ah’aash explained. “Since your ship has crossed the security threshold of the planet without being expressly cleared to do so, the defense system has begun to jam all signals.”

“You mean, all legation signals?”

“No: all signals. When the planetary defense system perceives an unauthorized entry, it initiates what you would call a communications ‘lockdown.’ This way, reconnaissance landings cannot relay any intelligence or targeting data to enemies in orbit or beyond.” Yiithrii’ah’aash’s words were beginning to bleed into each other as the signal continued to erode.

“Ambassador, what special methods are you employing to achieve shift more rapidly than usual?”

“We will make for this system’s automated port facilities.”

“They are not here, near Disparity?”

“No. They are in the leading trojan point of the first orbit. We have a solar array there, constantly fabricating antimatter.”

Yes, but if the enemy has learned about it…“Do you have sufficient antimatter for a shift?”

“Yes, although not enough to shift with minimal preacceleration. We would require an extra three days of preacceleration to make up for the partial insufficiency of antimatter.”

“Then that’s what you must do.”

“Caine Riordan, that would delay our return by three additional days. And if these attackers attempt to follow you planetside, that could mean the difference between life and death.”

“It could mean life or death for a lot more people, humans and Slaasriithi alike, if you don’t bypass the automated station. If you travel there, you could discover that the enemy has more ships in-system, possibly waiting to ambush you as you approach the facility. And if they seize its antimatter reserves, they will be able to swiftly refuel whatever ship brought them here, and undertake whatever energy-expensive operations they need to overcome this planet’s defenses. And then exterminate us.” Riordan paused; the channel was degrading even more rapidly. “There’s only one way you can prevent that.”

“How?”

“I presume that your communication net allows you to interface directly with the refueling station’s controls?”

“It does.”

Caine drew a deep breath. “Then here is what you have to do.”

Chapter Thirty-One. IN ORBIT BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

In the portside extremity of Lurker’s holosphere, Nezdeh watched her spread of missiles draw within twenty thousand kilometers of the Slaasriithi ship — and then flare like a string of firecrackers. As she feared, her opponent’s PDF systems had repowered before she could strike her most decisive blow. But, with any luck, the Slaasriithi defenses had been so riveted upon that primary threat that they would be unable to quickly retarget and achieve the more concentrated, intensive fire that was required to spall, and thereby deflect, the railgun projectiles that Nezdeh had sent racing in behind her missiles.

At the starboard extreme of the plot, the three enemy cannonballs approached Lurker in an elongated triangle, the first cannonball leading from the point, the other two back at the base. The first had been lightly damaged by a single laser hit. Its immediate return fire had been surprisingly powerful for such a small craft. However, whether it was the limitations of fitting adequate focusing equipment into such a compact hull, or a consequence of the damage that the cannonball had received from Red Lurker, the enemy beam had been highly diffuse when it struck. A mild shock had trembled through the patrol hunter, and some lower ablative layers had fumed off the hull, but fortunately, that was the extent of the damage.

“She means to bring her laser into more effective range,” Tegrese commented.

“Or to ram us,” Idrem commented over the intercom from his position in engineering.

Nezdeh started. “Explain?”

“Consider the first cannonball’s vector in light of its prior operation and the changing course of the other two cannonballs. Their delta formation is beginning to spread out. I suspect the two rear ones mean to bracket and ultimately move behind us, to force us to evade and so, curtail our rate of closure with our primary target. Ultimately, retargeting our railgun will require that we do not merely change our current heading but tumble the ship.”

“Yes — but ramming?”

“I do not suggest it is the lead cannonball’s primary or preferred attack option, but consider the way it has eschewed evasion since we hit it. Having the measure of us, and of our superior beam weapon, it is now rushing in for the kill. And disabling it will not be enough: if we do not destroy its drives soon, we will have to reduce it to junk to be sure of avoiding a collision that would be catastrophic.”

Nezdeh nodded to no one but herself. That is why their tactical maneuver is so odd. Despite their size, they are not ships; they are drones. And the Slaasriithi are willing to spend them freely in order to destroy us. “I believe you are correct, Idrem. And if you are, we must consider—”

“Nezdeh!” interrupted Sehtrek. “The enemy corvette is under full power again. It is coming about.”

“To resume attacking?”

“No, it is tumbling. Facing to the rear. Its new course would take it behind the planet.”

“Well, that is one less problem,” Tegrese muttered.

Yes, you would see it that way. “No, it has become a larger problem. There are now three ships which can report this attack and we cannot track down all of them. However, we must destroy the human warcraft first.” And we must strike before it swings behind the world’s far, night-cloaked horizon and makes good its escape. “Tegrese, bring all weapons to bear on the Aboriginal corvette. Given her current course and rate of acceleration, we will have one last firing opportunity before the curve of the atmosphere comes between us.”

At well under a light-second, the Lurker’s lasers accessed the new target almost instantly. The railgun’s firing solution lagged significantly behind, given the Aboriginal vessel’s smaller size and greater agility.

“Laser lock on the enemy corvette has been reacquired,” reported Tegrese.

“Confidence of railgun solution?” Nezdeh demanded.

“If we use a maximum dispersion submunition, just over fifty percent.”

“Estimate: will longer aim time increase or decrease confidence?”

“Impossible to calculate; the corvette is undertaking evasive maneuvers.”

Nezdeh frowned. Shoot now? Or wait to improve the railgun’s targeting? The time had come to choose between a bad option—I can probably cripple the craft now—or a worse option: to wait for a slightly better shot might mean missing it entirely. It was no choice at all. “Fire all, immediately.”

At this range, the results were quick in coming. The lasers achieved two hits, one of which was fleeting, at best. Moments later, the viewscreen showed that one, maybe two of the railgun’s flurry of thirty-by-ten centimeter penetrator rods struck the corvette along her ventral surface; small bits of debris fluttered outward from the hull and her drives went dark. She began to tumble slowly as she disappeared over the planetary horizon: a lightless spot disappearing behind an ink-black crescent.

Lying further out from the planet, the Slaasriithi ship was also showing the effect of the penetrator rounds that had followed closely in the wake of the Ktoran missiles. Guttering, oxygen-starved flames flickered about one of the shift-carrier’s main power plants. Gashes in her long, hexagonal cargo sections bled trails of ruin and debris, and several of her combination thermionic-radiator arrays looked like broken windows that opened unto deep space.

Nezdeh leaned back, considered the holosphere. “Tegrese, reacquire laser lock on the lead cannonball. Sehtrek, damage assessment on Slaasriithi ship.”

Sehtrek almost sounded apologetic. “Her power generation has dropped by twenty-five percent, but she is maintaining full thrust.” He paused, looked back at her. “She is tumbling.”

“She is running,” amended Nezdeh with a grim nod. “And why would the Slaasriithi do otherwise? If they can flee and make shift—”

“We must not let them!” Tegrese cried from her station. “They must still break out of orbit. If we resume full acceleration, we can—”

“We can ensure our own destruction at the slim possibility of hers. Look at the plot, Tegrese, and improve your insight. If we resume full acceleration, the cannonballs will have our rear flank. So if we must then constantly tumble — first to attack the shift carrier before us, and then the cannonballs behind us — we will do both jobs poorly. And to what effect? The cannonballs are much faster and nimbler than we are. The shift carrier has the use of her PDF batteries once again. Even if we launched all our missiles in one immense salvo, preceded and followed by as many railgun submunitions as we might launch, we are unlikely to inflict any damage that would prevent her from making shift. And to launch such an attack, we would need to get closer and concentrate fire on her for several minutes, ignoring the cannonballs. Which will be breathing down our necks. We, not the shift carrier, are much more likely to be destroyed by such a strategy.” Nezdeh moved her stern gaze away from Tegrese before it could become a look of contempt. “Do you have a lock on the lead cannonball, yet?”

“Just this moment, Nezdeh.”

“Fire all lasers.”

“Shall I reacquire railgun lock on the enemy shift carrier?”

Nezdeh weighed reflex — to strike at her enemy however, whenever, she might — against reason: not many of this salvo of railgun munitions would avoid the PDF beams that, spalling a fraction of their dense matter upon contact, would thus impart the nudge that would cause the warheads to miss the Slaasriithi by dozens of kilometers. And those few that might get through were increasingly unlikely to inflict decisive damage. “No,” she decided with a sigh. “If we do not have a reasonable chance of rendering the Slaasriithi ship incapable of shift, then we are wasting ammunition. Of which we might have urgent want, later on.”

Ulpreln turned. His voice was careful, respectful. “Can we be so sure that the Slaasriithi ship is still capable of shift? Or that it even has enough antimatter aboard? Or enough fuel for preacceleration after we destroyed two of their tanks?”

“We may be nearly certain of all those things,” Nezdeh answered. “We have no evidence that we inflicted any damage upon their shift drive, so it would be irresponsible to base any plans on such a hope. Next, they have made only one shift since taking on supplies at the meridiate world they last visited. It is inconceivable that they would not have replenished their antimatter stocks there. Lastly, even with the loss of two fuel tanks—”

“Nezdeh,” Tegrese interrupted. “All lasers have struck the closest cannonball. But—”

Nezdeh looked in the plot, glanced at the sensors and then the viewscreen: although trailing debris, and no longer firing, the cannonball was still boring in on them.

Sehtrek was hoarse. “Range closing, bearing constant.”

“Ulpreln, evasive maneuvers! Time until impact?”

Sehtrek had trouble finding his voice. “Ninety seconds.”

Nezdeh wondered at the cannonball’s design, that it could absorb that kind of punishment and still function. “Tegrese, maintain firing.”

“I am. Continuing to degrade target.”

But not fast enough. “Ulpreln, discontinue evasive. Release bearing control to gunnery station. Tegrese—”

She was already yawing the ship hard to starboard to face the oncoming cannonball; they leaned with the maneuver. “Target telemetry constant. Acquiring lock. Seventy percent confidence, seventy-five—”

Nezdeh interrupted. “At eighty-five percent, commence firing. Single penetrator rods, one every three seconds, maximum power.”

“And — firing!”

The tremendous energies being discharged pulsed the deck under their feet like the slow heart of a great beast. In the plot, thin tines of green jetted toward the onrushing orange globe—

The fifth rod struck the cannonball dead center. Nezdeh almost sighed out her relief — then remembered to look in the plot:

Orange specks tumbled toward the green delta that marked the position of Red Lurker. “Brace for impact!” Nezdeh shouted at the same moment that Sehtrek yelled, “Debris still on intercept vector. Secure for—”

Red Lurker shuddered, pitched, then was righted to her prior orientation by her automatic attitude control system.

Nezdeh had managed to stay in her acceleration couch, glanced at the holosphere. “Sehtrek — damage?”

“Not critical. Report follows—”

“No time.” Nezdeh jabbed a finger at the plot: the two remaining cannonballs were now speeding directly toward Red Lurker at a separation of over one hundred and forty degrees and widening quickly. She remembered her war tutor’s wisdom: Evading flanking pursuers is a difficult task that often ends in disaster. “Ulpreln, reverse course, full thrust. Tegrese, acquire aft-facing lock as possible. If you have a shot, take it.”

“I cannot promise hits, Nezdeh.”

“I just want them to take evasive maneuvers and give us more time.”

“They will catch us.” Sehtrek commented. It was not a criticism, just a statement of fact.

“If they are so instructed,” Nezdeh replied, and settled in to watch the pursuit.

At precisely four light-seconds from the planet, the two surviving cannonballs began counterboosting at the same blistering six-gee acceleration they had maintained during their pursuit.

“They’re breaking off?” Tegrese wondered.

“Given the distance, I suspect it is an automated protocol,” Nezdeh observed, hearing the iris valve open behind her. “It is consistent with what we know of the Slaasriithi. They intrinsically focus on defense. Beyond a certain limit, and probably influenced by whether or not they are still taking fire, the intelligence or expert system controlling these cannonballs informs them that the fleeing target is no longer a credible threat. And so the cannonballs break off to resume their orbital defense duties. Otherwise, feints could easily pull them too far off their patrol circuits and leave the planet unprotected.”

The voice from the iris valve was Idrem’s. “And I suspect there is another reason for their constant proximity to the world they defend.”

Nezdeh turned. “What do you conjecture, Idrem?” She had come to love hearing her own voice say his name. It was not a sign of which the Progenitors — or her own Breedmothers — would have approved. But she did not care.

“There is the problem of control range,” Idrem answered. He nodded toward the holosphere. “At four light-seconds, it is reasonable to suspect that the cannonballs’ reaction time to new events is ten seconds. Four seconds to communicate the event to the planetary defense planner, two seconds for that planner to decide upon and transmit a response, and four more seconds for the response to reach the cannonball. All too often,” he concluded, “that would result in a destroyed cannonball. Even assuming they have excellent on-board expert systems, a battlefield is Fate’s laboratory for crafting novel challenges and unexpected conditions. The Slaasriithi will not be sanguine sending these drone-ships beyond the limit of optimal control.”

“Yes, they must be centrally controlled.” Nezdeh called up a holosphere image from earlier in the battle. “Notice how the two cannonballs were held back while our advance upon the Slaasriithi shift carrier increasingly put us on a predictable trajectory. They did not attack until we were as firmly set on our course as a fly is affixed to flypaper.”

Sehtrek leaned back from his console, frowning. “Srina Perekhmeres, I must point out the dire situation in which we now find ourselves.”

“Speak,” she said.

“Arbitrage and the tug did not have time to fully refuel, and have been unable to produce antimatter for want of that fuel, as well as the need to avoid generating high-energy emissions. If the Slaasriithi ship can still effect shift, then they will have carried news of this attack to their homeworld at Beta Aquilae within nine days. Logically, we must assume that within three to four weeks, they will return here with a force over which we shall have — excuse me — no hope of acheiving dominion.”

“This is well spoken, and true besides,” Nezdeh acknowledged with a nod. “What do you recommend?”

Sehtrek folded his hands. “We must send Arbitrage and the tug to the gas giant to commence fueling and antimatter production immediately. If we are very lucky, that will have furnished us with enough antimatter to shift before the enemy relief forces arrive. We must then refuel and produce more antimatter in the next system as quickly as possible and shift again. Otherwise, the enemy ships shall surely expand their search radius faster than we may escape it. And they will have access to various prepositioned caches of fuel and antimatter.” He sighed. “At the best, I consider our chances of survival uncertain.”

Nezdeh nodded. “Your reasoning and your plan are both sound. But they are uninformed by one crucial datum.” Nezdeh activated one of the bridge’s hardware screens; it showed a bright red dot mixed into the sparse trojan point debris preceding the first planet.

“What is that?” Tegrese’s curiosity was childlike, unguarded.

In every regard, she has poor control. “That is an automated base,” Nezdeh said with a disarming smile. “It was identified by sensor operators on board the Arbitrage, shortly before we commenced our attack. Judging from the thermal and radioactive output, it is also an antimatter manufactory. Its stores of fuel and antimatter will not only allow us to expend energy lavishly in resuming our attacks upon the cannonballs and any humans who survived this combat, but will ensure our escape from Slaasriithi space. Within thirty hours, we should have fully loaded—”

Sehtrek’s panel flashed: a prominent new source of emissions — thermal, radioactive, photonic — had just been detected. He glanced at the coordinates, and then at the viewscreen.

In the spinward trojan point of the first orbit, exactly where the small red marker was placed, a tiny white star winked briefly into existence, just off the orange-yellow shoulder of BD +02 4076. The pinprick sized star was gone as quickly as it had flared.

In the holosphere, the marker designating the Slaasriithi’s automated fuel base faded away.

It was Sehtrek’s duty to report the obvious to the suddenly still bridge. “The Slaasriithi base is gone.”

Idrem nodded, no emotion in his face or voice: “Of course.”

“How?” Tegrese asked.

Nezdeh suppressed a sigh. “The Slaasriithi no doubt had remote system commands that allowed them to terminate the flow of power to the magnetic bottles in which the stocks of antimatter were stored. The resulting annihilation would be absolute.”

Idrem checked the mission clock over the central viewscreen. “Judging from the time delay, if the shift carrier sent such a command when she started withdrawing, it would have arrived at the station just in time for us to see its results now.”

Tegrese’s voice was gruff, grim. “This makes things much more difficult.”

“Which was the enemy’s intent, obviously.” Nezdeh turned back to Sehtrek. “We must now follow your plan. However uncertain it is, however close a pursuit it may entail, it is our only remaining option. Arbitrage and the tug will return to the gas giant, and as they go, they will commence converting their current fuel load into antimatter.”

Sehtrek’s shrug looked more like a wince. “It is a slow process, Srina.”

“All the more important that we commence now, even as we shape our new plan.”

“Our new plan?” echoed Tegrese.

“Of course. Before the Arbitrage departs for the gas giant, she must furnish us with sufficient assets to complete the elimination of the Aboriginals. This will mean fighting past the cannonballs, then locating and exterminating our targets on the surface of the planet. Happily, we have an agent in place among the survivors.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” Nezdeh answered, accepting that it was now essential that she reveal herself to be Awakened. To make sure of her claim, she extended her awareness — and immediately sensed the saboteurs’ sole remaining Devolysite dwindling along with the insignificant thickening of time and space that was the planet behind them.

She nodded slowly at the faces ringing her. “Yes. I know.”

Chapter Thirty-Two. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

The battered TOCIO shuttle started down through the bank of clouds that threatened to obscure the coastal river valley toward which they had been descending. The cottony whiteness that swallowed them quickly became an ugly gray. “Heavy weather,” Raskolnikov muttered.

Caine gripped the edge of his seat as a cross current buffeted them, caught a glimpse of the instrument board. Three new orange lights had appeared among the ones monitoring the port side fuselage. “Have we lost airframe integrity?”

“Not yet,” Qin Lijuan said calmly. “However, stress alerts are increasing. No matter how high I keep the nose, those portside breaches are catching air, increasing drag. It does not help that some of the largest debris went in the variable-thruster intake.”

“Hard to keep her flying straight?”

“Yes, but the larger problem is that we are no longer capable of making a vertical landing. Also, the heat shielding there is no longer uniform. Even though the damage is on the dorsal surface, and even though we leveled out into a slow reentry slalom once we descended through the thirty-kilometer mark, there is no way to stop the drag from widening the breaches.”

“My esteemed colleague is saying that our shuttle wants to shake apart and she is not letting it do so.” Raskolnikov punctuated his sardonic synopsis with a wide grin.

Caine mustered a smile. “Thanks: I got that. Any idea how far down this cloud cover goes?”

Raskolnikov, all business again, shook his head. “No. It may go right down — what is your expression? — to the deck. Variable wave sensing suggests it begins to thin out at eight hundred meters, but beyond that, who knows? It might be fog, mist, mixed, raining, or clear.”

“Eight hundred meters?” Caine’s stomach tightened and descended. “That doesn’t give you a lot of time to find a good landing zone.”

“You are right, Captain: it does not. But the river beneath us had many straight stretches.”

“So: a water landing.”

Raskolnikov grinned that crazy grin again. “If we are lucky. Now, Captain, you must return to seat.” He paused. “One at midsection, please.”

Caine nodded. “I’ll make sure the others get out. I’ve memorized the emergency exits, in case the hatches are jammed.”

“Horosho,” Raskolnikov smiled. He glanced over at Qin Lijuan. “Perhaps I shall take it from here, yes?”

Egoless, Lijuan ceded him the controls. Nodding to the two of them, Caine cycled through the iris valve and moved quickly to the midsection of the craft.

He passed Ben Hwang, who opened his mouth to speak—

Caine shook his head, got into a couch across the aisle from Gaspard, who seemed to be concentrating on a deep-breathing exercise, his eyes closed.

As the three jammed windows in the passenger section darkened even more and rain began hammering down on the shuttle, Caine finished belting in — and started when Gaspard’s voice announced, so calm as to be eerie: “For the record, Captain Riordan, I consider this crisis to be the province of security management. I shall not gainsay your orders.”

Caine glanced over at Gaspard. Other than his reclosing lips, the ambassador was completely motionless, as if in a meditative state. “Thank you, Ambassador.” If Gaspard responded, Caine missed it.

His collarcom buzzed. “Riordan here.”

“Captain, this is Qin. You are strapped in?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Please push your seat’s paging button.” Riordan did. “I am activating your seat’s data link. Please put on the viewing monocle you will find in the seat pouch.” Riordan had the small video-display device settled over his ear and in front of his left eye before she had finished the sentence. The small eyepiece flickered, then showed him the ground rushing up swiftly: a jungle cut in two by a meandering ribbon of rain-speckled river. “We will make our final descent soon.”

But in the meantime, you’re trying to preemptively kill me with terror? But Caine understood the real reason the pilots were showing him the view from the nose of the shuttle: “I’ll call out the steps back here.”

“And keep watch for the best way to exit the shuttle. If we are fortunate, there will be an option other than the dorsal hatch.”

“Understood. There are three window covers jammed half-open back here. Can you unfreeze them?”

“We tried several times when we undocked. We have tried at least once a minute since then. We suspect that the sabotage created a power surge which disabled those circuits. However, those windows would only shatter if hit directly. I advise you not to worry about them.” Which was a nice way of saying: if that glass breaks, it will be the very least of your problems. “We will be down within the minute. Please prepare the passengers.”

In the data monocle, the river rose closer; in the distance, it seemed to narrow and bend. “Everyone,” Riordan said loudly. “We are making a water landing.”

“What?” shrieked Nasr. Ben Hwang released a long shuddering sigh — just before the two-toned crash landing alert started blaring.

Caine raised his voice over it. “This vehicle’s tilt-thrusters are disabled, so we are landing runway-style. But we haven’t seen any airfields or received any communications from the ground. Fortunately, we’ve got the best pilots in the business up in the cockpit and they’ve found a good stretch of river to put down on.”

“Are there rafts? Are there life-pre—?”

“You’ll find flotation packs under your seat. They clip on to your duty suits’ shoulder clasps and will autodeploy the moment you hit water. Rafts will too.” I hope. In his left eye, the river loomed large, and then suddenly glistened: the shuttle had passed beyond the shadowing storm clouds. Faint stretches of foggy silt and rocks shone up through the translucent water. This river was shallow: maybe too shallow. The camera crept closer to the rippling water, the strange foliage speeding past on either bank. “Everyone: crash positions. I will count us down. Five meters, four, three—”

Caine didn’t see the long mass of subsurface rock at first; just the rapidly lapping wavelets it threw up as the current skimmed over its flat expanse. His mouth was open to shout a warning to Raskolnikov—

Who obviously saw it. The shuttle banked quickly to the left, rose up to hop over the rock — and inadvertently dipped the leading corner of its left wing into the river.

The sudden drag pulled the shuttle sharply to port. The engines roared as Raskolnikov fought its nose back to centerline, powering it upward. But as the wing pulled out of the water, Caine felt a transverse shiver run from the left side of the fuselage and pass under his seat. He glanced out his half-sealed window in time to see the pock-marked section of the wing buckle and then shred.

Freed of that drag, the shuttle suddenly pulled in the direction of the intact starboard wing, even as it jerked down toward the water. The starboard thruster screamed again; Raskolnikov had pulsed it to recenter the nose. Which dropped swiftly as soon as he eased off the thrust: the vehicle’s ability to glide was wholly gone. Caine had a split-second monocle view of the rushing water leaping up at him—

The impact both threw him forward against the straps and the couch-back in front of him. And then — nothing: a surreal moment as the craft skipped off the river’s surface like a stone. The fiber-optic bow camera sent a static-littered image of the nose rising, then falling again—

Toward a long, flat, wave-crested rock.

The second impact was so hard that Caine’s teeth snapped together painfully, and his whole abdomen spasmed, his viscera jumping forward against his stomach muscles. Several shrieks cut through sounds of shearing metal, splintering composites, shattering glass — all of which was loudest from the bridge and the belly of the shuttle.

Which was still skipping forward along the river, yawing as it went. Sharp jolts hammered up through Caine’s body, as if he was riding a sled down jagged marble stairs. There was a final dull thump — and then, stillness.

“Survival packs out; filter masks on!” Caine shouted. He struggled free of the straps and stepped down into rising water. Shit. “By names; sound off!”

Voices shouted back: “Hwang!” “Betul!” “Gaspard!” “Xue!” “Veriden!” “Hirano!” “Eid!” “Macmillan!” “Salunke!”

The still-intact window showed water lapping along the half-amputated portside lifting surface. The remains of the wing were canted slightly backward; the tail section was in deeper water. Xue splashed forward, glanced at the emergency airlock door just aft of the bridge’s now severely deformed iris valve. Caine nodded: “Go.”

Macmillan, the farthest in the back, calmly announced, “Smoke coming out of the engineering spaces, Captain.”

Caine, who was helping Gaspard to yank his survival pack out of the cubby under his acceleration couch, paused, sniffed. “That’s not a fire. That’s steam.”

“Not so bad then.” Eid smiled hopefully through chattering teeth.

“No, it’s bad,” Dora corrected. “This shuttle is a long-range model. That means a small nuke plant for powering the MAP thrusters.”

Hirano frowned. “But if there is no leak, then—”

Caine gently pushed her toward the airlock Xue had opened; the air pushing in was pungent, thick. “Ms. Hirano, we’re not worried about radiation. If the plant is hot and immersed in water, the temperature differential could cause it to shatter. Violently.”

Hirano Mizuki’s eyes were wide and her gait swift as she went through the forward exit. Ben Hwang, favoring his right side, approached. “Any word from the bridge?”

Caine met his eyes. “I don’t think there is any bridge. Not anymore.” He glanced at the iris-valve. Something had struck the other side hard enough to buckle the overlapping plates in toward the passenger compartment.

Hwang nodded and followed after Hirano.

Macmillan was the last out, carrying two extra packs. “Rations,” he explained. “I could go back to the locker and—”

Looking over the IRIS agent’s shoulder, Riordan saw that the water was waist deep around the shivered door into the aft compartment, and wisps of steam were rising up from it. “No time for that. And you’d parboil yourself.” Caine bringing up the rear, they hurried out the exit.

It was a short jump down into shallows sloping up toward a marshy bank. Which was actually part of a riverhead: a stream meandered out of the frond-and-tube-weed fen in which the shuttle had buried its nose.

Or rather, what was left of its nose. The entire starboard side of the cockpit was in shreds, much of it missing. The port side had been squashed, accordioned up and back against the passenger compartment.

Macmillan put a hand on Caine’s shoulder. “We were lucky to get out. Let’s not stick around to get blown up.”

Nodding, he followed Macmillan and the others up the narrow bank and into the tangle of alien vegetation that it was tempting, but altogether wrong, to call a jungle.

* * *

The column of steam that rose up from the shuttle became thickest approximately thirty minutes after they had put a kilometer between themselves and the wreck. An hour after that, it had shrunk back to its original size. A further thirty minutes reduced it to a wispy curlicue.

Caine turned off his collarcom, gestured for the others to do the same. There was no detectable signal other than the band-spanning white noise, so calling for help was pointless. Besides, preserving the remaining battery power meant retaining the ability to communicate with each other in emergencies, albeit over very short ranges.

“So now what do we do?” asked Nasr Eid.

Riordan stared directly at Nasr. “Now, we protect ourselves and take a fast inventory of our gear.”

As the rest of the group started opening their packs, Hirano Mizuki stared around at the foliage. “Protect ourselves? From what?”

Riordan’s unvoiced reaction—Good grief: civilians! — brought him to a startled mental halt: what had happened to his self-identity as a “civilian”? He wasn’t sure where it had fallen away — and it hadn’t fully. He wasn’t enamored of imposing military discipline or having it imposed upon him. But then again, discipline and its trappings — ranks, protocols, traditions — did not define the difference between a soldier and a civilian. The difference was in outlook. Brilliant civilian researcher Hirano Mizuki stared into the shadowy reaches of alien underbrush and saw no reason for caution. Caine, on the other hand, saw an unguarded perimeter in unexplored terrain that might conceal unknown threats.

Riordan smiled gently at Mizuki. “Ms. Hirano, I hope that there is nothing to fear in this brave new world. And we shall not go looking for any trouble while we’re here. But until we know we are safe, we will take precautions to deal with trouble, should it come looking for us. Am I clear?”

Hirano nodded, opened her pack, started checking its contents. Caine popped open his own, mostly for the theater of it: always obey your own orders.

Arguably they were already wearing their most important piece of gear: multipurpose, reconfigurable duty suits. Each pack contained important enhancements for them: a light raingear attachment, as well as a half parka with a reflective liner. There was a pony tank (he’d have preferred the Commonwealth tank/rebreather combo), as well as a short duration EVA/SCUBA shell that integrated with the exterior of the duty suit. The comestibles satchel contained four days of fifteen-hundred-kilocalorie rations and supplements, three liters of water, and a dubiously diminutive solar still that doubled as a mess kit. The signaling kit included a flasher, a flare, transponder, dye, glow sticks, and various fire-starting options. The medkit was a densely stuffed cornucopia that, once opened, could not be repacked by mere mortals.

Consigned to the bottom of the pack were both its most and least useful components. The most useful was the lightweight but very robust multitool: knife, wire cutter, saw, screwdriver, vise; you name it. The least useful was its larger cousin, the so-called combopioneer tool. Ostensibly combining the features of a mountaineer’s pick, hammer, a sleeve-over hatchet head, attachable shovel blade, and handle extender, it managed to succeed at none of its designated roles, but instead, failed spectacularly at all of them. Furthermore, despite its much ballyhooed nano-bonded composite carbon-fiber construction, it had the strength and durability of an origami butterfly.

Caine’s pack did not contain a firearm, but that was no surprise: only the Commonwealth and Federation packs included one in every kit. One in three of the TOCIO kits provided a break-down rifle which was designed so that both the barrel and receiver fit inside its hollow stock. Included in lieu of the combopioneer tool, the weapon was chambered for the venerable — not to say decrepit or feeble — nine-millimeter parabellum cartridge. A wonderful round in its day, but that “day” had begun in the early twentieth century and had ended by the middle of the next. But evidently, all that overstocked ammunition still had to be used somewhere, and each TOCIO survival rifle provided one such venue of terminal consumption, at a rate of forty rounds per weapon.

All in all, the survival pack contained about fifteen kilograms of gear and four more of garments and footwear, all of it so lightweight and flimsy that it was a wonder any of it held together long enough to be useful. Assuming that it did.

Everyone reported that their kits were complete. Four of the ten had the nine-millimeter break-down rifles. So, slightly better than average. Caine glanced in the direction of the wreck. The last wisps of steam had disappeared.

He rose. “Okay, everyone, we’re heading back to the shuttle. Not because we’re expecting a rescue to team to find us there,” Caine added, seeing the hopeful look in Eid’s eyes, “but to see if it’s safe to salvage more gear. After that, we’ll set a watch and survey our surroundings.”

“Surveying the unknown always entails risk.” They were the first words Gaspard had uttered since the crash.

“That’s true, Ambassador, but total ignorance is an even greater risk. The only thing Yiithrii’ah’aash told us about Disparity is that our filter masks are the only environmental protection we need. We don’t know the length of day, the mean temperatures at this latitude and in this season, or what kind of wildlife we might encounter. However, since we needed markers for this world, it’s a safe bet that some of the wildlife might be unfriendly.

“So, first rule: when we travel, we travel in a secure formation. And everyone is going to take a turn walking point. With two exceptions: Mr. Gaspard and Dr. Hwang.”

Hwang was already glaring at Caine when Gaspard looked up slowly. “It is not right that I do not share in the risk, Captain.”

Damn it, I could come to like you. “Mr. Gaspard, you are ambassador plenipotentiary to the Slaasriithi. You are the package that must be delivered to them, and then back home, safely. That is my primary mission. I will not jeopardize it by putting you on guard duty. And Ben, before you torque up, let me ask you a question: how’s your gut feel?”

Ben’s glare faltered. “It’s — I’m fine.”

“Ben, you are a noble liar. But a liar just the same. You took that landing hard. Judging from the way you’re moving, you may have sustained some internal injuries from rapid deceleration. Or are you saying that’s impossible?”

“I–I cannot tell. But—”

“No buts, Ben. Lieutenant Xue, given your EMT and physician’s assistant certification, you are now the party medic. You will stay by Dr. Hwang’s side for the next twenty-four hours. Should our stoic Nobel laureate experience trauma symptoms that he tries to hide from us, you are to report them to me immediately. Mr. Gaspard, you will remain with them as well, and the three of you will travel at the center of our formation.

“In layman’s terms, we will be traveling in a delta formation. The three persons tasked to keep watch will be armed and occupy the points of a moving triangle. The foot of the triangle will actually be out to our front. Our rearguard occupies the single point behind us. The fourth rifle will be carried by one of the persons at the center of the group. Now, who wants to stand the first patrol?”

Keith pointedly did not take this as a cue to step forward. Good: if you’re too eager to help me, that would blow your cover. “Okay; no volunteers, then. First security detail will be Ms. Salunke on right point, Mr. Macmillan on left point, and Ms. Veriden on rearguard.” Riordan saw Dora roll her eyes. “You have a comment, Ms. Veriden?”

“No. Just wondering if you feel safe with me at the back of the formation.”

Caine frowned. “Elaborate, please.”

“C’mon, when do we talk about the elephant that’s not just in the center of the room, but bursting its walls? We heard the gunshots in the rear section; we see the people who are missing. But no one knows what happened back there; no one saw. Raskolnikov sealed the after-compartments the moment the firing started, kept it locked down until Rulaine called to tell him you were about to come aboard.”

Caine folded his arms. “There were three bodies just inside the aft hatchway: Mizrahi, Dieter, and Danysh. The arrangement of their bodies makes it forensically possible that the murderer was killed by one of his victims. It is also likely that the murderer was the same person who sabotaged the Slaasriithi shift cruiser. During our evacuation, Yiithrii’ah’aash informed me that Oleg Danysh caused the power loss that exposed us to what was obviously a carefully staged ambush.”

“It’s possible that Danysh and the other two killed each other, but it’s not likely,” Veriden insisted, staring hard at Caine.

“No, it’s not,” Riordan agreed, motioning her toward the rear of the gathering group. “But right now, Ms. Veriden, whatever happened on the Slaasriithi ship is not of primary importance. Figuring out how to survive on this world is. Part of that process means traveling safely. So get to your position in the formation. We are moving out.”

* * *

High in the neoaerie of Disparity’s Third Silver Tower, Senior Ratiocinator Mriif’vaal considered the speakers of both the cerdor and convector taxae who had come to deliver their reports in person. Their pheromones were an olfactory cacophony of uncertainty, anxiety, dismay. “The first alert of the alien craft came from the spore-shields, correct?”

“That is correct, Mriif’vaal,” asserted the cerdor, whose individual specialty was in overseeing the data interfaces and transfers between biota and mechanisms. “But the alien craft was not marked as an intruder.”

“Truly? Why not?”

“That is unclear, Mriif’vaal. The high-air spores are too simple to discern anything other than whether an object has been marked with Recognition, or not.”

“Yes, but you only said it was not marked as an intruder. Did it therefore carry the mark of Recognition, or did it somehow pass through the spore-shield without triggering either categorization?”

“I–I do not know, Mriif’vaal. The spore-shield did not dust a Recognition confirmation upon the regional ground biota, but nor did it signal an absence of Recognition marking. I suppose,” the cerdor mused, “that it must have detected a Recognition but did not transmit it.”

“That would be a dangerously uncertain supposition,” Mriif’vaal said mildly. “Besides, there is no precedent for such a mixed result. But let us turn to the reports of the convectorae. What did your foragers encounter, Unsymaajh? Did they observe the descent of the craft?”

The unusually large convector’s neck contracted slightly. “No, Mriif’vaal. They only detected the breaking of the sound barrier as it descended.”

“Did any of them send Affined sloohavs to fly in search of the place it where it came to ground and to sample the spore-change in that locale?”

“There were no sloohavs on hand to summon to that task.”

The cerdor’s eager interjection sounded like an extended chirp. “Would it not be prudent to send a rotoflyer to explore the alien’s projected region of terminal descent?”

Mriif’vaal raised a temporizing tendril. “That is an excellent idea, which we will hold in reserve.” The Senior Ratiocinator smiled within: and which you are eager to enact, given your taxon’s love of complicated machines. “But for now, we shall pursue subtler means of detection and, if deemed prudent, contact. We do not know these aliens’ capabilities or their intentions. Any machines we might deploy, particularly aircraft, will be easily discerned. They are particularly susceptible to detection by orbital sensors.”

Alongside Mriif’vaal, his designated respondent and Third Ratiocinator, Hsaefyrr, stirred from her meditative absorption — and thus, recording — of the discourse. “The defense spheres are no longer actively engaged. Is it likely that hostile or unpermitted objects remain in orbit?”

Mriif’vaal’s tendrils switched once. “The absence of detectable orbital objects only means that nothing anomalous remains within the range of our sensor-cloud or the action range of the defense spheres. This descended craft might have a homing beacon. Its crew could thus establish lascom lock with extraorbital allies and transmit information. Or perhaps the forces which attacked Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship may have seeded the space above us with sensors as undetectable as our own. So, while the current circumstances might signify that we may act without fear of report, they do not guarantee it. We may simply be unable to detect all the elements that might bring us under observation.”

Hsaefyrr swiveled her head toward the bantam cerdor. “Did you detect any radio emissions from the craft?”

“We were uninformed of its initial descent, and so were not attentive to any signaling at that time. Since it made planetfall, we have detected a few transmissions, but all are low power and very short range.”

Mriif’vaal released a few Appreciation pheromones in elderly Hsaefyrr’s direction before resuming his inquiries. “Cerdor, tell me: are any of these radio signals known to us, either in their cyphers or physical characteristics?”

The cerdor emitted a rattle of chagrin. “I regret to say that I have little expertise in such matters. However, I may assure you that the signals are not ours, nor the Arat Kur’s, nor the Hkh’ Rkh’s.”

Mriif’vaal mused a moment. “So it may be that this ship carried the visitors that Yiithrii’ah’aash informed us he was bringing planetside tomorrow. About whose species I have some conjectures. But it is just as likely that this ship was part of the force that attacked them, and whose origins are equally unclear.”

The cerdor’s hip joints flexed anxiously. “Then what shall we do?”

“We shall send three overseers to manage this matter as it unfolds: one cerdor, one convector, and one ratiocinator. The two of you shall fulfill those roles I have thusly designated for your respective taxae. I shall find a suitable midlife ratiocinator within the hour. You shall approach, observe, and report upon the aliens, aided by biota only. You shall make direct contact with me if the ratiocinator and at least one of you two deem it wise. You may employ whatever subtaxae you require to locate and keep track of these arrivals to our planet. In the meantime, our rotoflyers and other relevant mechanisms shall remain ready and preloaded with defense automata. Lastly, we will see to the distribution of spores that alert all our taxae to evacuate the area that lies along the projected route of the aliens’ advance.” Mriif’vaal stared at the luminous holograph which floated before them, offering an unusually precise view of the region in which the alien craft was thought to have descended. “Do you have any sense of their progress, yet?”

“No, but it seems likely they will follow the river downstream,” answered Unsymaajh.

Mriif’vaal bobbed agreeably. “Which will make them easy to find and follow.”

Hsaefyrr’s observation was typically sour. “Which, in turn, will make them easy to kill for any pursuers that might hunt them.”

“Yes,” Mriif’vaal agreed sadly. “This is also true.”

Chapter Thirty-Three. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Caine glanced up at the murky golden star in the teal sky. It didn’t seem to race through the hours much faster than Earth’s did, so in all likelihood, and allowing for the current latitude and season, Disparity’s rotational period was probably not much shorter.

The survivors were moving carefully into and out of the wrecked shuttle, its nose having settled even further into the marshy bank. Higher up the shore, Ben Hwang sat checking for anything of value in the salvage that the team members brought to him, but that didn’t amount to much other than the tools and the sealed rations from extra survival kits. Anything made of fabric had already been inundated with a fine, algaelike slime that had entered wherever the shuttle’s hull had been warped, sprung, or ripped open by the force of the crash.

Macmillan emerged, carrying several packets that had not come from survival kits. “What are those?” Caine called to him.

He shook his head. “Don’t know. Dora found them in the ship’s locker before she headed back into the engineering crawlspace.”

“They look like extra filters for our masks.”

Hwang held up the dripping bag, kept it back from him. “That’s what they were. Who knows what they’ve been saturated with now? Probably some of the fast-growing slime we’ve found on everything else.” He glanced at Dora’s own mask farther up on the bank, picked it up. “I don’t think these are safe to leave around. We just don’t know how quickly the mold and algae can ruin them in this environment.”

Far in the distance, Caine heard what sounded like the hoarse hoot of a foghorn. He turned in the direction of the sound, saw nothing that might have made it. However, looking in the other direction, he noticed a constellation of large, orange water lily analogs that extended all the way to an upriver bend. Beyond that, all visual details were swallowed by the humid haze.

Xue, sitting between his charges, nodded in the same direction. “I heard it earlier, while you were all recovering items from the ship.”

“Mechanical or biological?” Caine wondered aloud.

Hirano Mizuki, whose duty suit was wet up to her small waist, shook her head. “Unquestionably biological.”

“Unquestionably?” Ben repeated.

“Well, almost unquestionably,” she amended testily. “But this call lacks any of the patterns of machine sounds, which tend to repeat or to be comprised of remixed sub-patterns.”

Qwara Betul, who was resting a moment, nodded at Mizuki. “Yes. She is right. Before I became a multimedia recordist, I worked in audio simulation. A machine, even one trying to mimic animals, can only mix, match, and modify what is in its catalog. That sound”—the distant, soft, and sonorous foghorn was back—“is an original utterance, every time. Or it is the best imitation of an animal I have ever heard.”

Caine nodded. “Okay. Well, if you have any guesses about the creature that might be making it, please share them.”

“Of course. Why?”

“Because that sound is coming from downstream. Which is the direction we are ultimately headed.”

Mizuki nodded sagely. “Logical. Rivers tend to lead to social aggregations, whether the species in question is intelligent or not. Of course if we are presently in higher altitudes, rivers will not be so reliably correlated with settlements.”

Caine started making his way toward the shuttle. “Fortunately, from what I saw as we descended, we’re not in a highland floodplain. This quasi-jungle is part of a long carpet of foliage that runs toward the northern shore of a southern continent. The longer we follow a major watercourse, the more likely we are to have the kind of encounters that Ms. Hirano mentioned.”

“And,” added Macmillan, “since we don’t have maps, nav satellites, or any other means of knowing where the blazes we are, following a river at least keeps us from walking in circles without knowing it.”

Caine smiled. “Yeah, there’s that, too.” He side-shuffled down the soggy bank, waded out to the forward hatchway; the water was now knee-level, there. As he ducked in, he almost collided with Nasr Eid, who was lugging more salvaged rations in one of the ruined packs they’d pressed into service as carry-sacks. “Nothing else of value,” he panted, his voice muffled and warped by his filter mask. “Everything is smashed in the back.”

“Where is Ms. Veriden?”

“She is a fish!” Nasr’s voice was admiring and aghast, all at once. “She fitted her duty-suit with the underwater attachments, connected a pony-tank, and dove into the engineering companionway.” He shook his head. “I would not go there. It is dark.”

“Is she using one of the glow-sticks from a signal kit?”

Eid stopped in the exit, looking back at Caine. “Perhaps. Yes. Perhaps she is.” Clearly, the thought had not crossed his mind before.

Caine moved further back along the flooded passenger aisle. Each time he waded through the shuttle, it looked more devastated than before, partly because all the compartments had been yanked open in search of useful objects, and partly because as the shuttle settled, the fuselage’s cracks and split seams were sagging ever-wider.

There was movement in the water at the rear of the passenger compartment; Caine hefted his hatchet-headed combopioneer tool slightly higher.

Dora Veriden’s head popped out of the water with a splash, her dark brown shoulder-length hair plastered to her scalp, neck, cheeks. “Shit,” she announced. “I’m done back there.”

“I recommended against going in the first place.”

“No, Captain; you recommended that you go in my place. Then we compared how many times we’ve each been on, er, underwater operations. Added to the fact that I can fit into tight spaces easier than you can.”

“Evidently, whatever caused you to decide against further dives has not diminished your propensity to argue. Find anything?”

Veriden cut an annoyed glance at Riordan but said nothing; he suspected that even she saw the irony in starting an argument over whether she was argumentative. “The engineering section is pulling itself free of the fuselage. We must have taken a hell of a whack back there. Besides, I think I’ve seen everything there is to see.”

“Any updates, forensically speaking?”

She nodded. “Yeh. I haven’t been able to find the pistols you mentioned, but the after section is a mess: gaps in the bulkheads and the deck where they could have washed out, or they could still be mixed in with the heavier debris. But I got a look at the bodies.” She shook her head. “Between the wound patterns and the tight quarters, I just can’t make a picture of a gunfight that would produce those results. If Danysh was discovered trying to tamper with the engines or the hatchway, then how did he get shot from hip to neck from about a meter’s range? And why would he tamper with the engines at all? That would have killed him, too. And if he was simply trying to close the hatch before you got on, then why did that turn into a gunfight at all? He could have acted like it was all a misunderstanding until the other two let their guard was down. Then he could have shot them. And what the hell was Mizrahi doing with a gun?”

Caine shrugged. “I wish I knew the answer to any of those questions. In large part, because they are exactly the ones I’ve been turning over in my mind since I saw those three bodies. Now, let’s get out of here before—”

“There’s one more thing you should see. And probably only you should see it, for now.” She held something out in her hand. It was a small vial of unusual manufacture, almost as if it were handmade.

“What’s this?” Riordan held it up, saw what looked like a large, cubical tissue sample lumped at the bottom.

“Don’t know,” Veriden admitted. “But it was in Danysh’s pocket.” She waded past Caine, glanced upward as the top of the fuselage groaned faintly. “We’d better get out of here.”

* * *

Ben Hwang, who seemed to be moving more easily, gestured at the collected salvage. “It’s mostly food and combopioneer tools. Have you found any of the inflatable rafts?”

Caine shrugged. “What was left of them. They were stored ventrally, for easy deployment. They didn’t handle that belly landing too well.”

“Maybe we could make use of the plastic, though,” Qwara Betul mused.

Caine nodded. “It’s a good thought, but without those rafts, we’re on foot. That means we’re going to be leaving behind a lot of potentially useful objects. First priority is food and water, and stocking up on it is going to slow us down.”

Hwang nodded. “And, dividing the ration packs ten ways, that still only gives us about five days. Less water, though: a lot of the containers didn’t handle the shaking too well.”

Salunke stared at the rear of the shuttle, where a sizable rent had caused the majority of the on-board flooding. “That hole, back near the ship’s locker. We lost a lot of stores from there.” A few of the darker orange lily pads had drifted up against the aforementioned wound in the hull; the wreck looked like it had thrown off vermilion clots before dying.

“That is probably where the extra food supplies were kept,” Xue agreed.

Dora shook her head. “There’s nothing there. I dove and checked.”

Esiankiki Salunke was still looking at the water and the lily pads. “No. I mean that the ration packs might have fallen out of the shuttle. Into the surrounding water.”

“Which might have any number of dangerous species in it,” Ben Hwang pointed out.

The voice that rose in polite dissent was that of his assistant, Hirano Mizuki. “We have not seen any so far, and we have been wading to and from the shuttle for over an hour. If any local fauna was going to be attracted by our movement, or by what little of our scent enters the water around the cuffs of our duty-suits, I believe it would have appeared by now.”

Dora screwed up her almost elfin features. “Yeah, but even if you’re right about the food being lost through that hole in the fuselage, that means it could have fallen out at any point along the two kilometers over which we bumped and skittered before coming to a stop.”

“I must disagree.” Nasr Eid looked around the impromptu group which had been attracted by the discussion. “If that hole in the fuselage had been inflicted during the initial impacts, the subsequent shocks should have torn off the shuttle’s entire tail, no?” He glanced around the group.

After some delay, Keith Macmillan agreed. “Almost certainly.”

“And either way, it does no harm to look in the shallows around the wreck,” Hirano finished. “Does it, Captain?”

Caine had let the debate continue because he himself was of two minds on the matter. On the one hand, the armpit-deep water into which the tail of the shuttle had sagged was a complete unknown, and in new environments, the unknown was to be presumed hazardous until proven otherwise. On the other hand, moving on foot with only five days of food meant they were not going to get very far on their own rations. And there was simply no way to know and no reason to presume that any of the local flora or fauna was safe for human consumption. They could cut rations, sure, but that would cut their rate of progress. So if there was any reasonable chance of locating some additional food—“Let’s be clear about this: there is one excellent reason not to search the surrounding water for ration packs. All hypothesizing aside, we just don’t know what might be lurking in there.” Hirano seemed ready to pout. “But our ability to survive and keep moving is determined by our caloric intake. So we’ll take the risk to search for the ration packs but on a volunteer basis only.” Caine removed his filter mask, handed it to Ben Hwang: the air smelled of musk, marsh, and loam, with hints of something akin to a mix of cloves and cinnamon. “Who else will go?” Xue started to put up his hand; Caine shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Xue. I appreciate your eagerness, but you are not eligible. You are both anchor watch and, for the time being, Dr. Hwang’s attending physician.”

Macmillan kicked at the lichen streaked shore. “I never have gone swimming on an alien world,” he observed. “Might as well go home being able to say that I did, though.”

Salunke, Hirano, and Betul signaled their willingness also.

“Okay,” said Caine, “let’s go fishing.”

“Let’s hope you’re not the bait,” Veriden muttered from her seat on the bank. Just before she frowned and rose to join them as they waded back into the water.

* * *

Caine slogged up the bank, blowing out water that smelled, perversely, akin to fresh cut grass with a hint of coffee.

Ben Hwang squinted at him. “You realize, of course, that you could be killing yourself. The microbes in that water—”

“May finish me, and the rest of us, more quickly than starvation. Yes. But unless we want to trust in fate and an early rescue, I don’t see that we have much choice.”

Xue, glancing at Hwang, nodded faintly. “I have been having that very debate with the honored doctor from the first time you submerged.”

Hwang huffed diffidently. “I very much hope I am wrong. In the meantime, I thank your for your services, Mr. Xue.” Caine did not hear the tone of polite dismissal, but evidently Xue did. With a shallow nod, he rose, walked the short distance to the line of packs that were being restocked according to the group’s most urgent needs, and set about removing most of the useless elements of each combopioneer set. Even when communicating in English, the Chinese retained subtle social and rhetorical codes which allowed persons of different — or the same — station to send a variety of cues. In this case, Hwang’s message had obviously been: “Please leave me alone with Captain Riordan.”

Caine waited until Xue was fully involved in his task. “What’s up, Ben?”

“You asked me to look at the vial Ms. Veriden ostensibly recovered from Danysh’s body. I did.”

Caine glanced at Gaspard. “Have you shared your findings with the ambassador?”

Gaspard continued to watch the heads of various team members rising and sinking beneath the water at the midpoint of the craft. “This is the first moment that we have had any privacy. Please update us, Doctor.” Having found nothing immediately alongside the jagged gash in the vehicle’s side, the searchers were moving further aft, examining the lily pads before resuming their search.

Hwang nodded, winced as he reached into his pocket. “This is what happened when I tried to take a sample.” He produced the vial. The vaguely cubical, fleshy mass at the bottom had been replaced with a brown ooze. “As soon as I uncapped the container, it deliquesced. With extraordinary speed. Gave off a nasty smell; like rotting patchouli. I recapped the vial as quickly as I could.”

“And did that stop the reaction?”

“Not immediately. It slowed, but continued for as long as there was air left in the container.”

Riordan kept his voice low. “That’s what happened to the organism they took out of Nolan Corcoran’s body during his autopsy, just a little more than a year ago.”

Gaspard started but said nothing.

Hwang nodded. “So I recalled. But you reported that the Dornaani — well, Alnduul — told you that they had put that organism in his body. To help his heart.”

That and possibly other things, as well. “Correct.”

Gaspard stared hard at the slime in the vial. “Are you suggesting that the Dornaani might be behind this sabotage? And the attack?”

Caine shook his head firmly. “No. If the Dornaani wanted us dead — which makes no sense — we’d be dead. Most of our sensors can’t even see their ships if they don’t want to be seen. So whatever attacked the Slaasriithi shift-carrier wasn’t their technology. And Danysh’s security screening indicated that he could not have been contacted by the Dornaani beforehand, so I can’t see how they could possibly be behind his sabotage.”

“So is it just a coincidence, then?” Gaspard wondered. “Or could someone else have the ability to geneer an organism that destroys itself after it has been used?”

“It certainly is a possibility, so we can’t conclusively assign this biotechnology to any one of our neighbors’ flags. We only know that something analogous has been employed by the Dornaani. Ben, do you have any idea how this thing”—Riordan aimed his chin at the vial—“manages to deliquesce so quickly? It was already looking pretty sloppy when Veriden found it.”

“If Veriden ‘found’ it,” Hwang corrected with signal emphasis. “Actually, if one’s xenogenetic science is advanced enough, and one chooses the right organism, it would not be so difficult to build a failsafe switch into its basic biology. You could create a hormone or protein that activates when the creature’s autonomous functions stop. Those hormones could work like triggers to initiate changes in the membranes that protect the life-form from its own digestive juices.” He shrugged. “That’s only one possible method of achieving this outcome.” They both looked into the vial; faint misty wisps rose up from the formless goo.

Gaspard cleared his throat. “The question is, how did Mr. Danysh come to have it in his possession?”

Hwang’s tone was deferential but firm. “I must once again point out, Ambassador, that it is impossible to verify Ms. Veriden’s account of how she came to possess this vial. It is possible that she, not Danysh, was in possession of this vial.”

Gaspard nodded impatiently. “So, lacking any concrete evidence, Captain do you suspect that other saboteurs are involved, or is it possible that Danysh was working alone?”

“Let me answer your last question first, Ambassador. Since we can’t know that Danysh was working alone, then we have to presume he wasn’t—and so we have to remain alert for further sabotage. Beyond that, too many details at the crime scene almost shout ‘set up.’ For instance, those two handguns I discovered along with the bodies: we’re presuming they were the weapons used. Just as we’re presuming that any of those three people used them. It’s entirely possible that there was a fourth person — the real shooter — who killed them all and staged it to look otherwise. And it does make operational sense that there would be a second saboteur, one unknown to Danysh.”

Hwang nodded. “That way, the second agent could kill Danysh and thereby prevent us from acquiring any knowledge about how he crippled the shift-carrier, how he received the orders to do it, or from whom. The other two victims might just have been convenient means of misdirecting us, of allowing us to presume that Danysh had been working alone.”

Whether by spoken or silent consensus, the searchers were now returning, their duty suits soaked. One person remained in the water, as far to the rear of the wreck as the encroaching lily pads allowed: Hirano Mizuki. Of course. Despite her mild demeanor, she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. She wasn’t about to give up on her notion of finding the missing food, not until someone made her do so, Caine realized. He stood up: “Ms. Hirano!” She either could not, or chose not, to hear him.

Riordan walked down to the water’s edge. “Ms. Hirano, you’ve done everything you can. There’s nothing to find.”

She half-turned. “I think I feel something, just down here.” She had made the same claim three times in the past ten minutes. She pointed further aft. “I am going to take one last look.” The others on the shore had stripped out of their duty suits; they’d dry faster that way, and the air was warm.

Caine put his hands on his hips. Although tempted to order her out of the water, he held back. He’d get compliance, but that might also start stratifying this overwhelmingly civilian group into sharply defined leaders and followers, and to disincline spontaneous sharing of ideas while simultaneously stirring up resentment. No reason to go that route until and unless it was absolutely necessary. “Ms. Hirano, we’re going to—”

But she didn’t hear him as she ducked under the water. The vermillion lily pads bobbed in unison with the ripples made as she passed under them in an effort to get further back along the hull. And they continued to bob. Even once the ripples had subsided.

Before he knew why he was doing it, Caine was sprinting into the water: “Ms. Hirano!”

A meter beyond where Hirano had ducked under, her head burst through the lily pads, sending up a spray of water and a piercing scream. The water around her churned in fine, ferocious agitation, as if a pot teeming with minnows had been brought to a sudden boil.

Riordan hardly heard the shouts from the shore—“Mizuki!” “No, Caine!”—as he ploughed through the water, saw red blood on the orange water-lilies. Covering her head and her hands, small wormlike fish writhed and burrowed in desperate, ravenous delight. She flailed to break free of the twitching, clutching water plants, went under—

Just as Caine got close enough to plunge his arm under the surface, and — careful to keep the neckline of his duty-suit out of the water — grab for her. He got a handful of hair and pulled upward as more of the ferocious creatures swarmed out from under the water-lilies with which they evidently had some kind of symbiotic relationship.

Hirano Mizuki came up, shrieking, sputtering, gagging. Riordan felt the flutter of the small fish all along his body, felt them pressing and gnashing at his duty suit. He got an arm under hers, started to haul her toward the shore, felt the first stinging nips breach the legs of his suit. Macmillan, Salunke, and Xue were splashing out to meet him, arms outstretched for Hirano, whose face and neck were still speckled with the quivering, fry-sized carnivores, but it was unclear if they would get her to shore in time. Or if he would, either: Riordan could feel more of the piranhalike minnows sawing through the legs and waist of his suit—

On the far shore, a dim form rose up in the mists, sending a swift, powerful ripple across the river’s central currents. It was five; no, eight; damn, maybe ten meters tall — and it emitted a strident, higher-pitched version of the same hoot the group had heard earlier.

The piranha-minnows immediately sprang off Mizuki Hirano’s savaged flesh and dove deep into the water. Riordan let the rest of the team take her from him, as the strange shape, a gargantuan badger on heavy stilts, hooted again, even more stridently. Riordan felt the insistent rippling of the worm-fish against his duty suit diminish rapidly; the sensation was gone by the time he had reached the knee-depth shallows. The lily pads, their coordinated undulations working like a wave-generation machine, began to back away from the wreck and push out into the downsteam current. As they did, the immense silhouette across the river sunk down and disappeared back into the mists.

As Caine staggered up the bank, Gaspard was there to take his arm and help him up the slight slope. “Mon Dieu, you are mad, brave, or both, Riordan. But heroics are not your place; you cannot lead us to safety if you are dead. What were you thinking?”

Caine stared at Gaspard, shook off his hand. “I was thinking of saving my team member’s life.” And he stalked up the silt to where Hirano Mizuki was screaming in agony.

Chapter Thirty-Four. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWERBD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Unable to move Mizuki, the group had to stay put for the rest of that day. Her screams diminished into sobs by dinner, and then soft moans when she began drifting off to sleep and losing conscious control over the pain. Besides widespread wounds that looked like horribly pulped flesh, one of the piranha-minnows — or, now, pirhannows — had bored partway into her left eye, breaching the sclera.

During the night, they rested in shifts, each armed watch staring out into dark brush that blinked, waved, and rippled with bioluminescence, particularly at dusk and dawn. Just as dim light began brightening the sky, and the presunrise bioluminescence began to subside, Ben Hwang sat down beside Caine. “Ms. Hirano’s eye could become necrotic if it is not removed.”

Sitting only two meters away, Xue leaned toward them and whispered. “How could that be done? Such a surgery would require anesthetics.”

“Or she would need to be restrained,” Hwang murmured.

Caine looked out at the river. The sky was beginning to reflect in it as a light gray-green-blue. “Mr. Xue, can you give us another option?”

“I can attempt to pack the wound in between irrigations, but I am still unable to determine if the blood supply remains intact throughout the sclera.”

“Let’s say you do that. How much warning will you have if you ultimately need to operate?”

“I will know in two days from now, at the most.”

“Okay, then. You will continue to irrigate and change the dressings on the wound while you monitor it.”

Hwang frowned. “It is kind that you wish to preserve her eye, but it might be better to—”

“Ben, I am not just preserving her eye. I’m trying to preserve our morale, too. Holding someone down to exenterate the entire eye without benefit of anesthesia would shake up any group, but civilians more than most. And how long do you figure it would take for her to recover from what will almost certainly have to be a midday surgery, so that Mr. Xue can adequately see what he is doing?” Which is to say, “conduct an intrinsically difficult surgery for which he is totally untrained.”

Xue lowered his eyes. “I would not want to ask Ms. Hirano to become ambulatory for at least three hours.”

Caine nodded. “And that means more lost time. As it is, we lost the end of yesterday. At least now we’ve got our kits repacked and can make some progress. If our enemies come down here to search for us, we’ve already taken a terrible risk by remaining at this site for twenty-two hours. Let’s get moving.” He started reaching for his pack.

Nasr Eid stood quickly. “Captain Riordan, how can we travel safely when there might still be a saboteur among us?”

Caine lifted his pack, settled it on one shoulder. “Mr. Eid, you make an excellent point. But every minute we delay here is a much greater danger. If any enemies are out there to strike at us, the worst thing we can do is remain at the crash site.”

“Yes, but we are traveling as an armed party.” Nasr eyed the rifles waiting to be picked up by the three persons who would be assigned to the first security patrol. “If there is still a saboteur, we are arming them, enabling them to finish their job.”

Riordan shook his head. “Most saboteurs are not suicidal, which is exactly the kind of pathology that attempting a one-versus-nine attack requires. It would also require a world-class assassin to ensure that none of us would escape during their attempt. And if there was such an assassin among us, he or she would have attacked at dusk last night, when most of us were trying to help Ms. Hirano, distribute food, set up perimeter watches, arrange basic challenges and passwords, and dig a privy pit.” Which was why I felt like I needed an additional eye in the back of my head when dusk came on, and why I slept with one open all night long.

“So,” said Mizuki, her voice hoarse and a bit brittle, “you think it unlikely there is still a saboteur amongst us?”

Riordan heard the hopeful, rising note at the end of her question: it was an unconscious plea for him to make at least one of her fears go away. But Caine couldn’t do so, not at the expense of the truth and the vigilance that the group had to maintain. “No, I’m not saying that, Ms. Hirano. But if our spaceside enemies intend to finish us off, then a saboteur’s logical objective is to guide them to us, not mount a solo attack. That’s also the only way for a saboteur to get home, because they’re certainly not leaving Disparity in that”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the ruined shuttle—“or getting out-system without a shift-carrier.”

Caine put his other arm through the pack’s other strap. “We’re moving out. First security patrol is Mr. Macmillan, Ms. Betul, and Mr. Eid on rearguard. Second patrol will be Ms. Salunke, myself, and Ms. Veriden on rearguard. Questions?” There were none.

Wordlessly, the group began following the narrow shore toward the downriver bend.

* * *

Shortly after turning that bend, the river became increasingly constricted between tough volcanic formations which refused to submit to the wear of the water. Instead, its currents had backed up and scalloped out a turbulent pool, framed by basaltic outcroppings which split the outflow into several different watercourses. Judging from what they could see in the distant mists, these various streams all ran between low, rocky ridges, each channel becoming a rock-strewn flume. The one exception was a wide-mouthed outflow which was also the shallowest. Its relatively broad, clear shores were covered with tightly thatched mini-ferns that were the local equivalent of meadow and marsh grass. Various narrow points promised easy fording: swathes of modest white ripples stretched between the two shores. Without even stopping to confer, the group began working around the pool toward the wider, shallower stream.

Caine, who only nine months ago had been leading Indonesian guerillas in the West Java jungles, dropped back a few steps to walk alongside Ben Hwang. “I must be out of shape from shipboard living. I never used to notice the humidity. How are you holding up?”

“About the same. But I’m not so sure that it’s just the humidity we’re feeling. The filter masks significantly dehumidify the air. I’m worried about inhaled microbes.”

Caine frowned. “The filter mask should be even more effective at screening those out.”

Ben nodded. “Yes, assuming we are wearing them all the time.”

Riordan heard the veiled accusation. “I know you think that those of us who went dunking for food rations yesterday were idiots for for taking off our masks. But since you didn’t, how do you explain your own shortness of breath?”

Hwang smiled. “Last night, when I woke up for my half-watch, I saw that three people had removed their masks in their sleep. Then I realized that I had also.”

“They are pretty uncomfortable when you’re trying to rest,” Caine agreed. “I wonder if there’s a way to rig them so they are harder to get off?”

“I’ve been thinking about a modification to the straps that might help with that. I’ll try making the adjustments when we stop for lunch.”

“If we do stop for lunch,” Caine amended.

Hwang glanced at him. “I know that you’re in a hurry to put some distance between us and the wreck, but—”

“Ben, it’s possible that Mizuki is never going to be any stronger than she is right now. Not if her eye infects and requires exenteration. And if our respiratory problems are the onset of a microbe, once again, our ability to make progress is never going to be any better than it is right now. So today, we eat on the move. Because we can.” Caine picked up the pace again, heading for the rocks that stretched across the one narrow watercourse that lay between them and the wider, shallower one that was their ultimate objective.

* * *

Not knowing what other dangers might lurk in the shallow water or beyond the far margins of the shore, Caine kept the group to the center of the riverbank, which turned into an impromptu walking tour of the disparate flora and fauna that might have inspired Disparity’s name. The plants varied from cactus-analogs with feeler-laden twigs instead of needles, brain coral spongiforms that could open into four equal parts and lure in a variety of quickly flitting creatures, and a thick tangle of black-maroon ground cover that resembled brittle, self-climbing kelp. These plants and their permutations tended to occur together, either in clumps, or as extensive, shore-lining swards.

The other, wholly distinct class of flora was more reminiscent of terrestrial forms, and the further they moved downriver, the more of it Caine noticed, particularly along the water’s edge. The most dramatic exemplar was what the group came to call bumbershoots. Their tops, vaguely reminiscent of palms, were immense, pouting petals: in the daytime, the tree resembled a ridiculously tall umbrella. The tops of the petals were a dark, rich violet, whereas the undersides shone as if they had been brushed with a thin coating of silver-gold. But as the first day’s march came to an end and the light began to fade, these petal-fronds drooped until they lay flat against the bole of the tree, which was comprised of an immense cluster of millimeter-gauged tubules with an almost lacquered exterior. Around the bumbershoot was an entirely different form of ground cover: the tiny spatulate fern-grass that they had seen near the crash site. Beneath that, almost invisible, was a substrata of ground-following fungi and lichen.

It was among these plants that the group witnessed much of the second night’s bioluminescent light show, which winked and flashed as creatures occulted the glowing foliage during their silent dashes through it. Caine started keeping count and timing the eclipses of three particularly bright plants. By dawn, he had concluded that either there was quite a bit of nocturnal fauna roving about, or that, if it was sparse, it was also quite hyperactive. He mentioned it to Hwang.

The biologist nodded slowly. “There is, of course, another explanation.”

“Several. We could be attracting curiosity because we’re different. Or some of the local wildlife is shadowing us before they decide to attack.”

Ben nodded. “I’ll pass that word, if you like.”

Caine considered. It might panic a few of the team, but the others were shaping up well enough that the possibility of an impending encounter might give them the extra edge of alertness they needed to detect and foil an ambush. It would also give everyone a bit of an adrenal boost and help them march a little faster and a little longer. “Thanks, Ben. By the way, how are you holding up?”

Hwang rubbed the right side of his torso, just a few centimeters lower than the pectoral. “Sore, but no more sharp pains. Xue and I agree that I’m healing from whatever internal dance my viscera did during the crash.”

“Has he looked at Mizuki yet this morning?”

Ben nodded. “So far, so good. That means we probably don’t need to worry about trauma-induced necrosis. But an infection could bring us back to the same point.”

“So we keep irrigating and using the disinfectant from the medkits.”

“Yes, but at this rate, we’re not going to have much left if anyone else needs treatment.”

“Necessary risk. We can’t afford to have Mizuki slow down, and I’m not going to leave her or anyone else behind. So we use the resources we have to keep going now.” Caine rose. “Ready to move?”

Ben smiled as he rose. “Not really, but let’s go.”

* * *

About an hour further into their march, the large stream split into two meandering courses, and the foliage became more dense, largely because of a profusion of trees that were more akin to immense bushes with high ground clearance. Their broad leaves, each a collage of green and orange, rose into a domed canopy that reached as high as fifteen meters, crowning the plant like the head of an immense mushroom sagging down to conceal its own stalk. The smaller, younger specimens did not have rounded canopies; their foliage was akin to a broad cone—

A cone.

Riordan dropped back to where Ben was helping Mizuki; her compromised depth perception made her susceptible to falls. “Ben, look: cone trees. The same species we saw on Adumbratus.”

Ben dashed Caine’s momentary hope that he had been the first to notice them. “Yes. It’s clear now that we are on a battle line. Walking right along it, in fact.”

“You mean, the battle line between the different biota.”

“Yes. The self-climbing kelp and related plants are clearly the native species. The others, including the cone trees, have been introduced by the Slaasriithi.”

Caine felt a quick pulse of hope. “Which they must watch over. To track the changes that they are trying to induce.”

“True, but they might not visit here more than once or twice a year. If that. As Yiithrii’ah’aash pointed out, they are not in a rush to effect change.”

They were drawing close to a copse of cone trees that had tall bumbershoots mixed among them. Mizuki looked up along their trunks, murmured, “Fascinating. And elegant.”

Caine looked, saw how the underside of the palmate fronds sent back whatever light was reflected upward by the leaves of the cone trees. “You mean the way the bumbershoots make sure that the cone trees get all the light they can, even bouncing back what they don’t capture on first exposure?”

Mizuki’s good eye rotated toward Riordan. “You are a quick study, Captain, but I was referring to the bumbershoot’s trunk.”

“The trunk?” Caine echoed. He had gone from feeling botanically perceptive to utterly stupid in the space of a single second.

“Look closely: do you see how it shines? That is water, from condensation, which trickles down and feeds the ground around the cone tree. Which, because of its own dense canopy, catches almost all the light that falls upon it, yet sheds almost all the water.”

Gaspard, who had drifted closer to them as they walked, shook his head. “And how is that elegant? It sounds quite the contrary. The cone trees would be strangling themselves out of existence if the bumbershoots didn’t supply them with water.”

“But that is not coincidence, Mr. Ambassador,” Mizuki retorted. She pointed at one of the largest cone trees, located near the center of the copse. Its impressive wide-spreading canopy sheltered low thickets of ferns, mosses and fluffy crabgrass nestled between the roots that radiated out from its gnarled trunk. Day-glo yellow lichens were growing up into the lower shoots of the tree, and apparently, beginning to strangle it. “What do you see?” Mizuki asked.

“Lichen choking a bush imitating a tree,” Gaspard replied.

Hwang smiled. “Yes, to our eyes. But the undergrowth that’s killing off the tree is all exogenous, is part of the new biota.”

“Yes. So now I see fratricide, as well.”

Caine understood. “The canopy of the cone trees kills off the indigenous ground cover by cutting off the light and water. While it’s doing so, it still gets the water that runs down the trunk of the bumbershoot overnight. The bigger the cone tree grows, the more free space it’s making for its related flora to start seeding under it.”

“Which those plants pay back by destroying the cone tree that gave them life,” Gaspard concluded ironically.

“No,” Caine contradicted, gathering confidence from Ben’s encouraging stare. “By dying, the cone tree becomes the compost for the next stage of Slaasriithi plant life. Its canopy has outlived its purpose once the soil under it will receive the new plants.”

Gaspard raised one eyebrow, lifted the other when Hwang nodded. “Exactly. What we are looking at is not permanent flora, but a collection of plants which are orchestrated to convert the indigenous biome into the new, exogenous biome. In larger copses, I have noticed a smaller subvariety of the cone tree; they are more widely spaced and not so thickly leafed. And although they are shorter, I suspect that they are actually the permanent form of the species. These large ones”—he gestured toward the mushroom-shaped tree which now had small bioluminescent seed-pods shining like lanterns high up in the underside of its canopy—“they are the advance guard of their species. They exist only so that they may die in the fight to expand their biome.”

Mizuki waved a hand which followed the borders of the two warring biota as they roved back and forth across the two streams. “They are locked in a slow-motion struggle for dominance.”

Just like we seem to be, ever since we discovered we’re not alone in the cosmos, Riordan reflected as he resumed his position behind the point-walkers, Macmillan and Betul.

Chapter Thirty-Five. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

As the day wore on, Disparity’s flora continued to command Riordan’s attention — not because of what it displayed, but rather, because of what it might conceal.

Disparity’s foliage was worse than the Javanese jungle. Here, the mists and humidity not only reduced visibility, but often painted halos around the numerous reflective surfaces. The supersaturated air also grayed-out objects very rapidly, obscuring even nearby silhouettes or terrain features. In short, Disparity conspired to reduce the visual acuity upon which effective security watches depended: an unnerving factor that soon evolved into a dangerous one.

Caine had just come off point when Macmillan held up a large, thick hand and crouched. The entire team took a knee; those without rifles hefted their axe-headed combotools. Caine crept a few steps closer to the burly IRIS operative. “Report.”

“Movement there.” Macmillan jerked his now red-furred chin at the narrow band of low land that separated the stream’s split courses; they had taken to calling it the median. “I think something from the far bank forded over to the median when our line of sight was blocked a hundred meters back.”

Riordan nodded. “Whatever they are, they’re paralleling us, using cover to get closer.” He scanned ahead and behind. “But if they are predators, and they have any brains whatsoever, they won’t charge at us from the median. If they can, they’re going to get across the river and approach our opposite flank before they attack us.”

Macmillan glanced at the gentle wooded slope behind them. “You mean, they’ll either get ahead or behind us by crossing the near stream when we can’t see them, and then press us so that our backs are to the water?”

Caine nodded. “Where they’d plan to run us down along the shore or in the shallows.”

Qwara Betul had drifted in far enough from the right point position to overhear. She hefted her rifle anxiously. “So what do we do?” She claimed to be a good shot, and Caine believed her, but hitting stationary targets on a range was a lot different than hitting moving creatures in combat. Particularly when the creatures wanted to kill you.

“We’re changing formation.” He waved Dora forward; she arrived with startling speed.

Before he could update her, she nodded. “I thought I saw something over to our left, just as Macmillan called for a halt. I’ve been checking the slope to our right. I don’t think anything has made it across and worked behind us, yet.”

Damn, she’s good. “And we’ve got to keep it that way. The three of you on watch are going to walk beside the stream. The rest of us are going to push away from the water a little bit, higher up the slope. That means we’re giving up the delta formation. We’ll be moving as two columns; the unarmed folks up higher on the bank, you three down closer to the water. That way, if the creatures try to cross the stream either in front of us or behind us, we’ve got a better chance of seeing them. And putting a bullet into one of them.”

Betul’s eyes widened. “Will that not just anger them?”

Macmillan looked thoughtful. “These aren’t big critters, Qwara. Pretty light-footed from the way they move, and their haunches don’t make a long flash when they pass between the fronds.” He shook his head. “Besides, most predators run from the sound of a gun. And if one goes down, the others tend to flee.”

“Sharks don’t,” Dora argued. “They don’t give a damn about what happens to other sharks. If they aren’t hurt, they don’t run. And the creatures here may not be any smarter.”

“Maybe not, but fish don’t work as cooperative hunters.” Caine pointed across the stream. “The group trailing us does. So, the same bonds that make the group work together can be used to collectively scare them into running.” Theoretically.

Dora shrugged. “Hell, it’s our best shot, anyhow.” She turned and scooted back, shooing the unarmed persons at the center of the delta up the slope and into a column paralleling the tree line. Macmillan started to move toward the point position on the stream-hugging patrol column, saw that Riordan wasn’t moving. “What about you, Captain?”

Caine rubbed his chin. “I’m going to play free safety in the center, between your column and the upslope group. Can’t really be an effective commander from back there.” He gestured toward the jungle to their right, where the first bioluminescent lures and attractors were warming to the approach of dusk. “We’d better get going, see if we can find a defensible rock outcropping or something similar before nightfall.”

Macmillan shrugged. “You’re the boss, boss,” he said, but Caine could read the real meaning in Keith’s tone easily enough: please don’t be stupid and get yourself killed.

* * *

The lower the sun sank, the more frequently the group saw movement. But their change in formation seemed to discourage the creatures paralleling them. They kept their distance, which probably signified that if the humans were considered prey, they were not deemed unaware nor easily frightened prey.

As more of the bioluminescent plants began speckling the undergrowth with orange, yellow, magenta, and indigo glows, the movement of the trackers became easier to follow. Although it was impossible to make out a flashing flank or leg, swift occultations of the glowing dots in the underbrush revealed the direction and speed of the creatures’ movements. Most of them had now crossed the far stream and were on the median. A few minutes after Keith Macmillan quietly reported he didn’t have enough visibility left to reliably hit a target at forty meters, the river’s northerly course bent slightly to the west and the narrow band of salmon and teal sky that had been visible between the trees on either bank suddenly widened.

“Watercourses rejoin up ahead,” he reported. “The median runs out.”

“Any rock formations?”

“Not that I can see from he — yes. About one hundred meters beyond where the river comes together again. There’s an angled bluff that juts into the current. Naked rock. If we get to the top of it, we’ll be in a defensible position.”

Caine stopped, scanned the terrain. The creatures knew this land, which meant that they knew they were coming to the end of the easily fordable part of the river and were coming to the end of the median, too. Which meant that they were running out of areas where there was enough cover to screen a crossing. In fact, they had already run out of opportunities for crossing the stream ahead of the group, as shown by the widening space between the trees downriver. Which meant they only had one option left: “Keith, double-time forward!”

“Forward?”

“Yes: watch for critters trying to cut you off from that bluff. Ambassador,” he called over his shoulder, “everyone in the upslope column runs after Macmillan. If he stops to shoot, you go past him. Lead our people up the rocky bluff you’re going to see in a few meters. Dora,” he shouted, moving to the rear. “Form up on Qwara, and watch the stream behind—”

Up ahead, Macmillan’s rifle spat three times as something started splashing across a rocky shallow where the streams began to reconverge. Whatever it was went down, thrashed, went down again. As it struggled, it made a sound like a soprano screaming over a fast rattle of deep-toned castanets. Another of the creatures, a thin-limbed and nimble quadruped with a heavy body, was sprinting past its feebly kicking packmate. Two more shots from Macmillan’s nine-millimeter had no effect. The animal started up the shallows toward the now sprinting group — then Macmillan’s weapon fired twice again, rapidly.

The creature, a bulldog body perched on whippet legs, spun away from the impact of a hit. Its broad, blunt head tossed — upward jutting fangs flashed as its jaws snapped irritably — and then it charged back into the water, fleeing for the median and the far stream beyond it.

Behind, Dora was approaching Betul — just as the median vomited out a handful of the same creatures, splashing across the shallow water. Dora shouldered her rifle, fired twice — the second bullet elicited a brief castanet-shriek — and then she ran. Caine sprinted toward Betul, who had drilled on what to do in this situation: aim, fire twice herself, turn, and run past Dora, who would then repeat the process. A simple leapfrog retreat. Riordan should have been retreating as well, but hung back to make sure that nothing went wrong. Because when even the simplest maneuvers had to be executed in combat—

This day was no exception. Betul fired once, tried again: nothing. But Riordan had heard the incomplete cycling of the bolt, knew what had happened: “Jam! Cycle the action, Qwara!”

Qwara Betul was either too terrified, too surprised, or too unfamiliar with the terms to react quickly enough. Instead, she tried firing again, to no avail.

Caine ran past her. “Just run. Now!” He brandished his combo-axe at the scattered creatures just coming up the shore, and shouted at them. But the words of his shout were also a signal: “Dora! Cover fire!”

The creatures stopped for a moment.

“Dora!”

But she was gone, was too fast. And the creatures were edging forward.

Damn it: if they charge Qwara now—

Riordan yelled at the ugly predators again: no words, just an animal howl. They froze in midstride; Caine jumped into the stream and made for the end of the median, finding the footing on the rocks swift, but dangerous. If he slipped or tripped just once — but he didn’t and evidently, that was the last direction the creatures had expected their prey to go.

The barrel-chested predators spent a moment in indecision, and then the largest ones went after the main group: more meat in that direction. A trio of smaller specimens, probably having learned that they did not get much of the kill when they competed with their bigger pack mates, veered after Riordan.

Who was already charging up the far shore. Far behind, he heard his name being shouted: no time for that now. He just hoped that Qwara had been able to use the momentary distraction to break out of her panic and run like hell. Riordan scanned the median: there wasn’t even a tree large enough for him to climb. He could always try his risky backup plan: to push out into the reunited currents of the river and swim over to the rocky outcropping—

But beyond the further, narrower stream, he spotted the distinctive shape of a large cone tree, alone among indigenous vegetation. It almost came down to the water’s edge, and was cinched close against a rock face on the downstream side. The clearance under the lower margin of its canopy was less than a meter.

Riordan’s decision was as much instinct as tactical insight: under that tree, his rear flank was protected by a sheer rock face. Along the rest of its perimeter, enemies would have to hunker down to get at him and so, lose their speed and leaping advantages. He sprinted into the stream on the other side of the median, discovered the light was failing.

As he waded through the midcourse currents and heard the creatures skitter to a stop on the bank he’d just left, his collarcom paged. Again, no time. With one hand clutching the pseudo-axe and the other out before him to maintain balance, Riordan sloshed through the accelerating, groin-deep current. Behind him, the predators jumped into the water and started picking their comparatively hesitant way after him.

Caine came up on the far shore, raced along the dark ribbon of muddy silt that led all the way to the cone tree. It would be close; he had a decent head start and had gained on them during the crossing, but once on the shore they were much faster. As he neared the tree’s canopy, he saw hints of light under it, hoped he wasn’t jumping from a frying pan into a fire, and, hearing the pattering of speedy pursuers behind him, dove forward at an angle. His sideways roll carried him under the lowest branches and sent him banging over a washboard of crisscrossing roots.

The first of his three pursuers fetched up outside the canopy, ducked its head under to get a look—

Riordan, axe cocked as he came up from his roll, swung hard.

The creature saw the movement, flinched its head back, scream-clattered as a glancing blow tore a divot out of a cartilaginous flap that might have been an ear. Furious, ravening, the other two angled apart with the innate tactical insight of all predators; any prey can be brought down if it can be flanked. Caine cocked the axe back again, wondered how long this could go on—

A monstrous, outraged foghorn roar froze him and the predators midaction: a savage tableau illuminated by pink and violet seedpod-lanterns now brightening in the cone tree’s undercanopy. A great rush of water swept under its low boughs from the direction of the riverbank, where something large, terribly large, was rising up, torrents of water pouring off the sides of its shadowy bulk, obscured by the leaves of the tree.

The predators inched back, muted castanet-clatters vying with shrill warbles and yelps as they made a show of standing their ground. But the foghorn-hooting — the same made by the dimly seen gargantua which had ended the pirhannows’ attack upon Hirano — sounded again, and a broad, spatulate foot thudded down into the shore-silt so hard that gouts of the sandy black sludge sprayed under the tree and toward the predators.

All of which promptly ran, making sounds akin to fighting tomcats as, scalded by terror, they leaped off into the underbrush.

The foot in the silt remained planted there for a long moment, then, wavering, turned, moved back out toward the water. But the creature did not seem to be leaving. Instead, it seemed to be brushing along the riverside periphery of the cone tree’s canopy, searching—

With a blast of musk and mist, two immense legs forced open a gap in the cone tree’s shoots and branches. The legs bent and with one surprisingly deft dipping motion, the blunt body of the river-striding behemoth was crouching under the ten-meter canopy of the tree. Its head, not much more than a trough-jawed protrusion of its body, swiveled toward Caine, a pair of round, wide eyes both above and below the gaping maw. Jaw-lining light sensors pulsed and bulged in his direction as well. The gigantic animal staggered toward him, a grumble rising up out of its gut like a chorus of bears waking up from hibernation.

Riordan, panting, looked up at the creature, hefted his ax ironically, and wondered: so does he stomp me or bite me?

Chapter Thirty-Six. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

The water-strider stared down at Caine, leaned slightly closer. Riordan watched the extraordinarily wide mouth of the creature, held the futile axe ready, but did not move it.

The water-strider snuffled at him, then blew out a great, surprisingly sweet, breath — a mélange of lilies and ginger — and swayed unevenly away.

Caine forgot his fear as the creature’s unsteadiness caught his attention: is it weak or—?

And then Riordan noticed that the ground around the creature was not just wet from its steadily dripping pelt; there was a faintly iridescent maroon spattering that did not readily mix with the water. Caine traced it, found that it was streaming down one of the water-strider’s immense, bowed legs, which was quivering. Riordan looked more closely—

Pirhannows, by the scores, had worked themselves into the creature’s short fur. And now that he knew what to look for, Riordan saw them everywhere, writhing along the water-strider’s belly, around its mouth, up near its haunches, and at a few points on the strange, almost antennalike protrusions that lay along its back to either side of its spine.

The water-strider took two more staggering steps away from Caine, revealing the pulverized remains of several orange water lilies stuck to its far flank. The strider crouched low and slowly slid on to its side, where it preceded to roll fretfully to and fro, apparently trying to cake dirt on its innumerable wounds.

Unfortunately, the soil under the cone tree was too sparse and too dry to stick. The protuberant roots gave the strider surfaces against which it could squash a few tormentors, but the main infestations were not concentrated where the rolling routinely crushed them. Some did fall off, though—

Caine leaped closer to the water-strider and smashed a handful of the pirhannows into mush with the back of the axe head. The sight, and the smell, was not unlike stamping on corpse-bloated maggots.

The water-strider started, stopped its rolling, focused all four eyes on Caine, snuffled lightly — then seemed to catch the whiff of its dead tormentors. It stopped, stared at Caine again, and then began rubbing its broad flat face along the roots that radiated out from the trunk of the cone tree. A dozen of the worm-fish were scraped off, still squirming. The strider leaned back its head — and out of pure instinct, Caine pulped them with the back of the axe. Savagely. He didn’t know if it was for Mizuki, or out of gratitude for being twice-saved by water-striders, or something more primal. Or possibly, he wondered, standing back, this is an example of the Slaasriithi process of Affining one species to another. But despite the chilling implications of that possibility, Caine Riordan realized that there was simply no arguing that he had become, well, fond, of this powerful yet gentle creature.

Riordan resumed his strange partnership with the water-strider, lethally grooming the pirhannows from its pelt for another fifteen minutes. By then, the remaining wormlike tormentors were located in anatomical regions that the creature could not reach, and which Caine had no way of approaching without seeming like a new threat. The water-strider looked at him — it recalled the patient, steady stare of a grateful horse or dog — and rolled its mass a bit further away, the margins of its mouth not only caked with its own blood, but dry and cracked.

Caine rocked back upon his buttocks, sat, reflected on the surreal circumstances in which he found himself — and, for the first time, heard his collarcom paging steadily. Clearly, Gaspard had used his command-level authority to unlock the devices. Riordan tapped it. “Riordan.”

“Captain Riordan! We had given you up for — never mind. We are delighted that you have answered. But where are you?”

“I believe I’m directly across the river from you, Ambassador. Can you see a large cone tree on the opposite bank, the only one for hundreds of meters in either direction?” As they spoke, dusk was making its final surrender to night.

“I do not see—” Eager exclamations behind him suggested that others had better awareness of their surroundings. “Ah — yes, yes. Your position is known. But—”

“Ambassador, first things first: is everyone all right?”

“Happily, and improbably, yes. Ms. Veriden and Ms. Betul covered our retreat up the rocky outcropping by greeting our pursuers with a flurry of bullets. One was killed, two were wounded. That was enough to convince them to flee. But you have found shelter? Even though we saw you pursued? And you are safe?”

Caine stared at the water-strider; it may have been sleeping fitfully. That, or it was an awfully noisy breather. “Frankly, Ambassador, I doubt I’ve been safer since I stepped foot on this planet.”

“I am confused, Captain: how could you be—?”

“Ambassador, it would take far too long to explain. For now, let’s concentrate on arranging the safest way for me to rejoin you tomorrow. Have Mr. Xue and Ms. Veriden make their way over here to escort me back one hour after dawn. They should both be armed with rifles. After last night, if those predators are still in the area, they will hightail it the other direction if they take more fire. Other than that, I think we should save the batteries of our collarcoms.”

“Very well, Captain. You seem to lead a charmed existence.”

Caine looked at the strider. “A very unusual one, at least. Good night, Ambassador. Signal me when Xue and Veriden leave tomorrow.”

“Very well. Bon nuit, Captain.”

“Likewise.” Riordan turned off the collarcom.

* * *

The water-strider fell into a restless slumber, judging from its phlegmy susurrations, but its bleeding increased steadily. Riordan wondered if — following the apparent intent of the water-strider — he might have more success at making mud to cake its wounds. But the pirhannows had pulped the large animal’s hide in so many places that it was difficult to discern the worst sources of the bleeding.

The other problem — beyond Riordan’s innate reluctance to touch the large creature without its express toleration for such contact — was the lack of mud or suitable soil. Caine searched around the sub-biome that existed beneath the cone tree’s canopy, but the ground cover was thick and the dirt somewhat sandy: it crumbled when he tried to pick it up.

So maybe the answer was to make one’s own mud, or, better yet, to bring it in from the shore that crept right up to the margins of the tree. Armed with one of the tree’s large, spatulate leaves, Riordan moved through the arch the strider had used to enter under the canopy—

And recoiled: the riverside shallows were choked with orange lily pads. Well, that answered why the gargantua had not returned to its natural environment after confronting the predators. It had probably been run ashore by this immense colony of lily pads and its attendant swarms of pirhannows. Which also made it impossible to get enough river water to make mud. Walking back into the microecology under the canopy, and into what seemed like a growing mélange of sickly-sweet scents, Riordan looked for other sources of water.

The search was made easier by the bioluminescent clusters that were nestled in the high reaches of the undercanopy. One of the clusters, a helix of puffballs interlaced by tubules filled with a lighter-than-air gas, had detached from its bud and was descending in a slow spiral. As the glowing lavender and violet lei rotated and the play of light changed, Riordan noticed a glistening, sloped root that ran in under the canopy from outside.

As Caine guessed, the root emanated from the cone tree’s invariable botanical partner, an adjacent bumbershoot. Early evening condensation was accumulating on its bole, which sent the runoff trickling down microgrooves that ran onto this angled root. It’s a tiny natural aqueduct, Caine realized, tracing how the runoff spread slowly throughout the microecology huddled beneath the cone tree and was further distributed by the capillary actions of ground mosses and day-glo lichens. Along with a thick, mown-grass smell, the flow increased as he watched. With any luck, there would be enough water to make a mud plaster for the water-strider. But even if he was able to create a serviceable mass of the slop, he was still confronted by the initial, troublesome questions: where should he apply it? And was that really what the water-strider had been trying to accomplish? All of which begged the question: would the water-strider allow him to do so? One way to find out.

Riordan approached the behemoth carefully. After two complete orbits of its side-slumped form, he remained uncertain about where to treat it. Almost a quarter of the its body and legs were covered in bloody bore-holes, and no spot seemed any worse or better than another. Ultimately, Caine’s attempt at veterinary assessment yielded only one useful result: a better understanding of the water-strider’s physiology.

In addition to the four eyes that bracketed its wide mouth like corner-points on a rectangle, the creature was dotted with a vast array of light sensors that had no eyelids, no irises, no protective bone ridges. They were simple, possibly expendable, and probably essential to the animal’s safety. Whereas terrestrial herbivores tended toward opposed ocular arrangements — one eye on each side of the head, often furnished with fish-eyed lenses — to increase the total field of vision and hence watchfulness, this creature had evolved a different solution to the same challenge: more eyes. The quality of vision was probably vastly inferior, but the increased awareness was likely to be a good trade; the long-legged quadruped had a lot of potential blind spots. Audial sensing seemed to be more rudimentary, probably because the water-strider spent much of its time submerged: two small bony tufts at the front of its membranous backsails answered for ears.

Its four primary eyes still closed, the creature uttered a sharp, startled snort-hoot that sent Caine back upon his haunches. The water-strider was suddenly awake, its many eyes open and roving fitfully. It worked its mouth; the dried edges cracked anew and bled freely. Several of what looked like feelers split away, fell off in gory clumps. Ignoring Riordan, the strider worked its legs feebly against the ground, trying to push its body in the direction of the water running in from the neighboring bumbershoot’s root-aqueduct. After several heavy shoves, the creature gave up and seemed to deflate, a low, rolling groan coming out of its dorsal respiration ducts.

Caine rose, went over to where the runoff was now audibly trickling along the root: maybe not enough to make mud, but certainly enough to drink. Riordan harvested one of the cone-trees’ spatulate leaves, curved it into a crude basin, and pushed it against the current of water washing close along the surface of the bumbershoot’s root. Slowly, like holding a cup beneath a dripping faucet, the hollow of the leaf began to fill. As it did, Riordan noticed that, in addition to the cloying scents being emitted by the cone-tree, the runoff was strongly aromatic as well. Probably from airborne spores and pollens that stuck to the wet bumbershoot and were then carried along by the runoff, which apparently seeded as well as irrigated the area under the cone tree.

It took ten minutes for Riordan to collect the one-and-a-half liters of water he carried back to the water-strider, moving cautiously as he reentered its field of vision. The creature’s eyes focused, swiveled towards him — it was unnerving to be the center of attention for four eyes — and the behemoth snuffled tentatively. Then eagerly. Its tongue — an immense, blue-gray anaconda covered with slowly waving polyps — slipped outward, moved toward the water like a blind man’s arm extending toward an expected door handle.

Caine brought the water closer, shielding it with his body so that the strider’s tongue wouldn’t slap at the leaf and inadvertently knock it apart. The strider’s tongue retracted, Riordan brought the water to the edge of its mouth and the animal drank, partly slurping at it, partly allowing the human pour it in.

When the water was done, the tongue explored the leaf carefully, being equally careful not to touch its human bearer. The strider sighed: a deep, bellows grumble of relief and comfort. Riordan almost reached out to pat the great stricken beast, thought the better of it, and instead returned to the root-aqueduct for another leaf-full of water.

Caine became quite adept at the process over the ensuing hour. Five more times he gathered the runoff; five more times the strider consumed it. By the end, they had it down to a cooperative pour-slurp-pour routine that wasted a minimal amount of water.

But when Caine returned with the seventh leaf-full, the water-strider closed its eyes and turned its body so that its wide face nestled into the soft mosses and lichens of the ground cover. It emitted a long sigh and was still. Well, if the poor critter can get some rest despite all those wounds— Caine crept away, trying to ignore the queasiness brought on by the growing riot of aromas under the cone tree. It was easy to imagine that he was locked in a closet with thousands of scented candles, each one different, each overpowering odor vying with all the others.

Resolved to get some sleep himself, Riordan found a soft, rootless patch of ground a few meters away from where the glowing puff-lantern had finally landed, near the edge of the canopy. As he watched, a small, scurrying creature edged under the leaves and tore it apart, devouring the tubules and puffballs before darting away again. Caine smiled: so that was how the cone trees’ oppressive canopies managed not to prevent their own repopulation. Their fragrant, glowing fruit baited in small raiders who also worked as seed dispersers. Keeping an equal distance from the edge of the canopy, and the hulking mass of the water-strider, Riordan lay down on the soft spot he had found. If he could just rest a bit—

Riordan awoke from a sound sleep, startled by the strider’s sounds of distress. The hoarse elephantine bleating increased, along with a thick odor that cut through the cone tree’s own olfactory chaos: it was the strider’s musk, but amplified. Caine moved quickly to where the creature’s head was still mostly embedded in the moss. Its eyes were roving blindly. It snuffled when he came closer: not an aggressive sound, but one of recognition, maybe need. Riordan jumped away to get more water, returned with less than a liter. The water-strider closed its eyes allowed him to pour a little in between the great grinding ridges that were its version of teeth, and then stopped, as if something was confusing it. It lifted its head slightly, quaking, and two of its eyes opened, focusing on Riordan as it inched toward him. Caine anticipated that it was going to vomit on him, but instead, it released a great, musk-reeking breath: a surprisingly sweet smell that was part grassland breeze and part old leather.

When the creature had finished that unusually long exhalation, it laid its head down close to Caine, who knew death signs, even alien ones, when he saw them. Taking a chance, he moved closer to it, which the water-strider rewarded by shifting its head to rub three times against his knee. Then it breathed out and was still.

It was impossible to tell exactly when the water-strider died. There was no death rictus or dramatic eye-rolling or sudden gush of fluids. But sometime over the next half hour, the breathing became faint, then undetectable, and then was no more.

Caine stared at the great, gentle beast, wondered if their mutual accord had simply been the artifact of a mortally wounded animal’s desperate toleration, or whether it was indicative of a genuine congeniality intrinsic to water-striders. Whichever it had been, the rest of the night passed in melancholy silence, lit faintly by the violet and fuchsia puff-lanterns.

* * *

After having goggled wordlessly at the fallen water-strider, Veriden and Xue reclaimed Riordan shortly after dawn and the group set out into the early morning mists. They made good time, but despite his filter mask, Caine found it slightly harder to breathe.

Just before midday, and just as Riordan was preparing to take his turn walking patrol on the left point, Dora Veriden pointed out into the river. “Could be more trouble.”

The group followed her gesture and saw three humps in the strong central current, paralleling them. Xue and Salunke raised their rifles—

“No,” said Caine. “Don’t fire. I don’t think they’ll harm us.” He walked down to the river’s edge, washed his hands, and then washed his arms. Behind him, the group stirred restively. They probably think I’ve gone nuts. But unless I’m much mistaken, I am truly a “marked” man.

“Er, Captain—?” began Gaspard.

“Let’s just wait a moment,” Riordan urged.

The group was already quiet, but became utterly silent when one of the humps rose out of the water: a smaller strider, only about seven meters in height. Its two back-faring bat-wings rose slightly and a soft bass tone stretched out over the rushing current toward them.

Caine stood. After a few moments, the other two humps rose up into similarly-sized striders and, together, they began approaching the shore. They waded forward slowly, cautiously, but also gently, their long, gangling legs moving through the currents with ease, barely raising any bubbles as they came.

As they entered the shallows, towering higher and higher over the group, Riordan heard Keith Macmillan swallow and mutter, “And now what do we do?”

“And now,” Caine answered, turning toward his fellow IRIS operative with a smile, “we travel with an escort.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven. CLOSE ORBIT BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Bannor Rulaine ate the last bite of his cold tilapia burger sans bun and wished they could heat food whenever they wanted to. But life on the stricken UCS Puller made unscheduled cooking a death sentence.

“Enjoying every last bit of faux beef, eh?” “Tygg” Robin asked as he entered their shared compartment.

“Am I ever.” Bannor chewed and decided several things: that raw fish was arguably better than cold cooked fish; that the beef stock in which they marinated the tilapia really didn’t work worth a damn as a flavoring agent; and that although none of them were going to starve to death as they tumbled ass-over-elbow around Disparity, gustatory boredom might do them in just as well. “Any news?”

“Yeh. Morgan’s ready to give the damage assessment.”

“Good. I’m coming.” What Bannor did not add is that he was not sure why, after yesterday’s eight man-hours of EVA hull survey, it had taken design whiz Morgan Lymbery a whole day to decide he was ready to report the obvious. Rulaine followed Tygg to the bridge.

When Bannor entered, there were respectful nods, but no salutes or stands to attention. Rulaine had followed Riordan’s example when maintaining discipline amongst this mixed crew: respect for the rank, yes, but no formalities. Hell, as it was, there were more officers — Bannor, Tygg, Wu, and ostensibly Karam — than there were enlisted personnel. And both of the enlisted men were high-ranked NCOs, one of whom had served longer than everyone but Bannor.

Rulaine turned to Morgan. “Mr. Lymbery, I hear you have the final word for us.”

“I do,” said the bantam Englishman. Following their current precaution of minimizing power use, Lymbery brought out hard-copy blueprints of the Wolfe-class corvette. “We took two significant hits on the starboard side, both from railgun submunitions. We took another hit from a laser on our stern, and another on our dorsal surface.

“The dorsal laser hit was at a shallow angle of incidence, and therefore did nothing beyond leaving some heat-scoring on the hull. The second one seemed like it was going to be harmless at first: the beam itself did not breach the hull, but did generate internal heat spalling. The fragments narrowly missed the portside MAP thruster’s reactor.”

“Okay, but I worry when I hear about hits that ‘seem’ harmless,” Karam grumbled.

“I’ll come back to it,” Morgan promised glumly. “Moving on. One of the two penetrator hits was a nonevent; it clipped off a secondary sensor mast. The other penetrator did the damage that Mssrs. Rulaine and Robin spent most of yesterday surveying. The submunition impacted us on a trajectory that was almost parallel with our keel, so it cut a short trough along our ventral hull before it penetrated and skewered all our portside fuel baffles. As it exited the hull, it sent some high-speed debris forward into our ladar masts and our secondary avionics suite. We can trim the remaining stubs of the masts to normalize airflow, but those systems are now heavily compromised, meaning significant reductions in both range and acuity. And obviously, we’re going to have to make some hull repairs before this craft can conduct atmospheric reentry or flight.”

“Mr. Lymbery,” Peter Wu intruded.

“Yes?”

“We are very far from any repair facility, sir.”

“I didn’t say we needed a repair facility; I said we needed to make repairs. Not the same thing. I’ll explain later. Now, about that harmless-looking laser hit on our stern. The larger fragments from the spalling took out a control board and a coolant conduit. The former was redundant and we had spares to replace the latter. Even so, we had to shut down, and Mr. Friel would be dead if he hadn’t been wearing a duty suit with both a hazardous environment shell and armored liner: he was right on the edge of the spalling’s ejecta pattern.”

Phil Friel, leaning against the portside observation window, turned a little more pale than usual. “Damn it all, that’s twice now. Hardly fair, I’d say.”

“‘Twice now’?” Melissa Sleeman echoed.

Phil shrugged. “I was in the first echelon under Halifax at the Battle of Earth. I was on a corvette like this one, playing bait-the-battlewagon with the Arat Kur when one of their UV lasers opened us up like a rusty sardine can. Lost two friends that day because they were standing half a meter closer to the preheating cores that got vented. And the plasma that half-vaporized them gave me a good scare and a lasting scar.”

Lymbery waited to be sure that the exchange was over. “We were lucky in terms of our crew — Mr. Friel missed being hit by mere centimeters — but not in terms of the effects on our machinery. We did not initially detect the damage done by the smaller, needle-sized fragments. They riddled the coolant supply distributor adjacent to the conduit. Makeshift repairs are possible. It’s a simple job for the hand-welder in the ship’s locker, but since we do not dare bring the engines back on line, we have no way to test if the repairs will hold. Which I rather doubt.”

And so there it was again: more problems arising from the possibility that they were still being observed. In this case, because Puller had to keep her reactors and drives dark, there was no way to assess the durability of the repairs. “So let’s assume the repairs don’t hold. What happens?”

Lymbery held up one bird-thin hand. “That depends upon how and when the failure occurs. If the distributor goes completely pear-shaped, the thruster will shut down automatically. You could override, but in that case, you shall blow out the drive in minutes, perhaps seconds. It depends entirely upon your operating temperature and the amount of residual coolant in the system at the time. Luck of the draw, I’m afraid.

“If the line is compromised but still functioning, one might extend the operating time by pumping smaller amounts of coolant through it at lower pressure. The engine heat will build, but the decreased coolant flow reduces stress on the distributor and also reduces the rate of leakage, since the contents are not under as much pressure. You get a drip, not a spray, if you take my meaning. Finally, I have had a few ideas about how to best repair the hull damage.”

Bannor crossed his arms, leaned back. This was going to be very good, very insane, or both. Having spent a few weeks around Lymbery, he was willing to wager on “both.”

The Englishman steepled his fingers and began emitting a stream of nongrammatical phrases: he sounded more like a victim of adult aphasia than a genius. “We scout around for rusty bits throughout the hull. Or rig a catalyzer. To create ferrous oxide, of course. The hand grinder should work. And also Ms. Sleeman’s biosample centrifuge. But how much aluminium do we have on hand?”

Eight of the other nine persons aboard Puller stared blankly at each other. But Melissa Sleeman’s face was curving to accommodate a slow, crafty smile. “Thermite,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Lymbery replied, looking about the group in as much confusion as they were looking at him. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Bannor unfolded his arms, putting the pieces together now, but saw that most of the others were no closer to seeing where the mad genius Englishman was trying to lead them. “Maybe it’s not quite as obvious as it seems, Mr. Lymbery. Why don’t you break it down for us?”

While Lymbery was still frowning and blinking in consternation — Rulaine could almost see a thought bubble above his head that read, “surely I made it all perfectly clear”—Melissa launched into the explanation. “Thermite burns at twenty-five hundred degrees centigrade and is a welding compound that doesn’t require an oxidizer. If we can rig a work cover over the damaged section of Puller’s belly, we can use thermite to repair the hull. It won’t be pretty or precise, but it will get the job done.”

“Yes — but where do we get the thermite?” asked Trent Howarth, who had to bend at the waist to fit into the hatchway where he was floating.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Thermite is just a mixture of rust and aluminum. So we scavenge rust from around the ship, or make it by reverse-catalyzing iron into ferrous oxide. Then we collect whatever aluminum we can find.”

“Plenty in the kitchen,” Wu offered. His culinary skills had elevated him to lord of the galley for those thirty minutes per orbit when they could risk enough power output for him to cook.

“Right,” Sleeman picked up. “So you grind down the rust and the aluminum into powders. Then you use the mini-centrifuge in my bio sampling kit to separate the grain size of the powders into the tolerances you need, and then you make the final mix.”

“Um, can’t we just use the hand-welder in the ship’s locker for this job?” Howarth looked hopefully around the group.

“Impossible,” Lymbery pronounced. “Working temperature insufficient. Fuel too limited. Unsuitable for vacuum operations.”

Peter Wu put up a finger. “What about an arc-welder? We certainly have enough electricity.”

Sleeman shook her head. “We’d have to fashion an arc-welder that will hold up in hard, EVA conditions. Also, the job would take much longer and we can’t afford to run the welder for more than thirty minutes per orbit. Not if we want to be sure we stay hidden.”

Which brought them all back face-to-face with the single most crucial uncertainty in their day-to-day existence; after a moment’s silence, Tina Melah wondered aloud, “Are we really so sure that we are being watched?”

Rulaine shrugged. “Ms. Melah, we could get a definitive answer to that question quickly enough: we could power up our drives, charge our capacitors, illuminate our active arrays, and wait to see what happens. If nothing, great. But if there’s still someone out there to see it, their ship will also be the last thing we ever see — as they come charging in to polish us off. That’s why we’re using only solar cells to recharge our batteries, and that’s why we keep our power generation to a few hundred watts during the thirty minutes we spend in the safe zone of our orbit.”

Howarth scratched his head. “So, if someone might still be out there”—he waved widely at space in general—“what makes any spot of our orbit ‘safe’?”

Karam took up the explanation; his experience had led them to adopt their near-absolute doggo running conditions. “Reason one: the attackers came out of the rocks in the leading trojan point. Probably retreated back there as well. And no, the Slaasriithi shift carrier didn’t eliminate them, because if Yiithrii’ah’aash had accomplished that, his first order of business would have been to rescue us and then go looking for the shuttle, and the other half of the legation, on Disparity.

“But instead, he hightailed it out of the battlespace, pushing straight into preacceleration. We can still see him burning for shift as hard as he can, every time we come around to that part of our orbit that has us directly opposed to the sun. Which is why I suspect that area of space is clear: if our attackers followed Yiithrii’ah’aash, we’d have seen their exhausts. And there’s no cover for them to exploit out in that direction; no moon, no trojan asteroids, nothing.

“Reason two: that part of our orbit also takes us through latitudes where there are a lot of auroras. If we have to give off any electromagnetic emissions at all, I want us to be backdropped, or better yet foregrounded, by those pretty shimmering ribbons of charged particles. I’ll take any interference I can get, right now.”

Phil Friel nodded. “So, that’s when we’ll do our thermite welding: in intervals, whenever we pass through the safe zone.”

Rulaine nodded. “Yes.”

“How soon do we start? Mr. Tsaami mentioned that we’ll begin to deorbit in two weeks. Maybe less.”

Bannor didn’t stop nodding. “The sooner we start the repairs, the better. Because if our attackers are still out there, they’ll need to move pretty soon themselves.”

Karam nodded. “Yeah, they’ve got their own countdown clock ticking. Specifically, when Yiithrii’ah’aash eventually shifts out-system and his taillights wink out, it will be less than two weeks before they wink back in. Along with a whole lot of his friends from Beta Aquilae.”

“It makes me wonder what our enemies are waiting for.” Wu’s mutter was as dark as it was low.

Rulaine shrugged. “They may be repairing damage to their own ship. And they have to figure out their next move.”

“Such as, coming in and wiping us out?” O’Garran proposed sardonically.

“If it was that easy for them, they’d have already done it,” Karam retorted.

Bannor nodded. “The game has changed. They’ve lost the element of surprise and have a lot more unknowns to deal with. Like this ship: we look to be dead in space, no one left alive, but they can’t be sure. Same with the shuttle: it could have been lost with all hands, but it’s just as likely that some survivors made it to the ground and are looking for help while hiding as best they can. And the attackers probably didn’t destroy all the Slaasriithi defense spheres.

“So the bad guys have got a lot of work left to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. They have the same operational countdown on Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship that we do. Except for us, when that clock runs out, the cavalry comes over the hill and we’re saved. For them, it means ‘game over.’”

Tina Melah rose. “So we’d better get on the repairs right away.”

“You just can’t wait to get your hands on some thermite,” Phil murmured at her with a small smile.

She returned a wide grin.

Rulaine leaned forward, holding himself in place with three fingers he had hooked under the rim of the sensor console. “Before we get to work, you should be aware of the different tactical scenarios we might face and our planned responses to each one.”

The growing buzz of side conversations stilled.

“The happiest scenario is the one in which it turns out that the attackers are gone, the Slaasriithi come back, the rest of the legation is rescued, and we go on as before. A variant of that scenario is that the Slaasriithi come back, which is what triggers our hidden attackers into action again. In that scenario, we have to be ready to help fight them, or to run like hell.”

“Or to help retrieve the rest of the legation,” Trent added.

“No,” Rulaine countered immediately. “That’s not an option for this ship.” He held up a hand in response to the suddenly erect spines and opening mouths. “I’ll come back to that point. The next scenario is that nothing happens until we are about to deorbit. In that event, we wait until we’re in our safe window and boost outward from the planet.” He rode over the top of the growing frowns. “But the final scenario is the one that’s most likely and that I’m most worried about: that our attackers resume their operations before either of those conditions are met. Now, if they come in supported by whatever shift carrier brought them here, we have no choice but to run. Again. Captain’s orders, actually. But if the attackers only bring the same small ship they used the first time, and if they bypass us to search the planet, that will force us to descend and try to help the rest of the legation.”

Melissa Sleeman started. “Major, that — I’m sorry. That’s crazy. No matter the scenario, we should be heading planetside to find the rest of the legation as soon as we can.”

Rulaine leaned back. “And then what?”

Sleeman blinked. “Why, we boost back up to orbit, or find whoever’s in charge on Disparity, or—”

But Karam was shaking his head. “That won’t happen.” Seeing the growing outrage on her face, he rephrased: “That can’t happen.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

It was Phil Friel who answered her. “The hull damage. Specifically, the gouge that damned penetrator rod carved into our belly.”

“But we — you — can weld that, right?” Rulaine had never heard Melissa sound confused before this moment.

This time Tina answered. “Oh, we can weld it. And it will hold air and be fine for spaceside operations. But reentry? Phew.” She shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Unfortunately, that’s only half the problem,” Karam sighed. “I might—might—be able to get this bird down. Mostly because she’s a solid military hull, tough as nails, and has plenty of redundancy. But even if we go in turned turtle, it’s a one-way trip. If we go down, we’re not getting back up without full repairs.”

Morgan Lymbery nodded. “It is due to the coolant line damage,” he explained. “During routine descents, and even more so during ascents, the engines are frequently at maximum thrust. But with a damaged craft, the pilot”—he nodded respectfully at Karam—“will have to push the engines and power plants beyond their rated limits.

“Puller’s hull damage and compromised aerodynamics ruin her airflow characteristics. That requires compensatory and corrective thrust. Each time Mr. Tsaami applies that extra thrust, we will be living on borrowed time, hoping the coolant pressures don’t cause the distributor to finally give out.” He threw up one hopeless hand. “Once that happens, we’re done. We’d be lucky to get to the ground in one piece before the engine dies. Or explodes.”

The bridge was silent for several long seconds before Peter Wu cleared his throat. “I grew up speaking English as well as Mandarin, but”—he turned toward Karam—“what do you mean by saying that the ship would descend while it was ‘turned turtle’?”

Karam smiled ruefully. “‘Turned turtle’ means ‘on your back.’” When he saw confused, and some disbelieving, looks around the bridge, he explicated. “That belly weld won’t take the brunt of reentry superheating. If it splits, or even flakes a bit, the underplating will burn through in less than a minute and we’ll come apart like a model airplane hit with a sledgehammer.” Several of the surrounding faces grew pale. “But our dorsal surface is pretty much pristine. So we’ll go in on our backs.”

Whereas many others looked pale, Phil Friel looked intrigued. “Can it take that? I thought that there were special alloys layered into the ventral surface to absorb and diffuse reentry heat.”

The answer came from Lymbery. “Not to worry, lad. Puller is up to the task.”

“With respect, Mr. Lymbery, why are you so sure?” Friel smiled. “You didn’t design this ship too, did you?”

Lymbery did not smile. “No, I didn’t. I was merely the independent inspector who signed off on the design.”

Friel’s mouth made a round, soundless, “Oh.”

Rulaine smothered his own incipient grin and, pulling against his finger-hold on the sensor console, tugged himself back into a fully upright position. “So we can fix this ship, but not like new. If we head planetside, it’s a one-way trip. And we only take that trip if it looks like the bad guys have decided to go hunting our friends. Then, we’re the equalizers.”

“If we make it down alive,” Karam grumbled.

“Always the optimist,” drawled Tina Melah.

“Bah humbug,” Karam replied. “I’ll have you know that I am optimist enough to have already run multiple computer simulations of how to get Puller out of her three-axis tumble when the time comes for us to straighten out and get moving.”

“Is our tumble really that bad?” asked Melissa Sleeman, who’d spent most of her days manning the passive sensors, both those observing the planet beneath them and the dangerous vastness of space behind them.

Tygg leaned toward her; she leaned towards him. “Have you looked out a window?” he asked gently.

She frowned slightly. “No.”

“Don’t,” he urged her.

“Make you puke, fer sure,” Tina added.

Bannor nodded at Karam’s piloting console. “How long from the time you start firing the attitude control thrusters until we’re out of the tumble?”

“Thirty-one seconds.”

“That’s impossible. No one could do that.” O’Garran’s blunt assertion bordered on truculence.

“Watch your tongue, Stretch,” Karam countered. “And I didn’t say I was doing it.” He patted the console. “The computer will handle it. I ran the sims until I got it optimized, then recorded the sequence. When it comes time for us to move, I hit the right button and the show begins. But, fair warning: be strapped in. And try not to eat anything heavy beforehand; correcting this tumble in thirty seconds means a lot of hard thrusting along sharply opposed vectors. It will not be a pleasant ride.”

“Damn,” answered O’Garran with nod and a frown. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Yeah,” Trent agreed. “But why wait? If you did it now, it would make the welders’ EVAs a lot less disorienting, wouldn’t it?”

Karam nodded. “Yes. But it would also get us killed.” He pointed out beyond the bulkhead. “Remember all that talk about the bad people who might be out there? The ones who’ve already tried to kill us?”

Trent shrugged. “Yeah, but we know they’re not running active sensors, so they can’t know what our tumble-pattern is, not enough to determine that it’s changed.”

Karam sighed, his eyes were shuttered. “Listen, greenhorn. A lot of space combat is nothing but our computers and sensors dueling with their computers and sensors. But there’s also a common-sense side. First, anyone watching us from a passive posture will measure our reflected light: how much, which wavelengths, and most important, when do we shine and how long? Variations in the first two variables can be altered by other elements: the position and angle of the ship relative to the sun, a solar flare, or if any dust is moving in or out of the radiant path from the primary to Disparity.

“But any alteration in the latter two variables — the timing of our reflection — tells them that we’ve changed our tumble. And that means they’ll come after us. So we stay as we are until we’re ready to fire up the engines.”

“Can’t happen soon enough,” O’Garran opined brusquely, turned to Bannor to look for the “dismissed” nod.

“Actually,” Rulaine commented, “we need every calm minute we can get, Miles.”

“That may be, Major, but I doubt those minutes are being very friendly to the captain and the others. I’m just worried that Disparity might be finishing the job that the enemy started. Sir.”

Bannor nodded sadly. O’Garran was correct in all but one particular. The force that had brought all this misery to pass wasn’t simply “the enemy,” wasn’t simply “the threat force.” They were assassins.

And I am going to send them all to hell.

Chapter Thirty-Eight. SPINWARD TROJANS, BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”) and CLOSE ORBIT, V 1581 FOUR

Nezdeh purposely seated herself next to Sehtrek, which put her directly across the table from Idrem. She did not want to manage the distraction of sitting alongside Idrem, or the possibility that she might absentmindedly reach out toward him. This is one of the reasons the Progenitors warn that romantic love is the seed of all weakness. It creates reflexes that we must control, and that, therefore, distract us from optimizing the realization of our individual will to dominion. “Let us begin,” she said.

Sehtrek raised an eyebrow. “Shall we not wait for the others, Nezdeh?”

“I have not informed others of this discussion. It would not be prudent to pull them away from their stations.” Which was, she knew, a pretext so threadbare that Sehtrek would see straight through it to her real reason: to eliminate the ultimately unproductive output of the lesser intellects among her crew. But that could not be admitted openly. To do so would be to imply that Sehtrek, an Intendant who was not even designated for Elevation, was more intelligent and capable than many of Nezdeh’s fellow Evolved.

Tegrese chose that moment to enter the small briefing and ready room. “So, here you are.” She sat. “I was told by Ulpreln that he suspected there was a meeting in progress.”

Nezdeh looked at her.

Tegrese returned the stare. Her puzzlement transformed into a frown. “I am off duty,” she explained.

Of course you are. And of course this had to be the one time you did not sleep or mate or train during your off-hours. She repressed a sigh. “I saw no reason to disturb you. And you need not remain.”

Tegrese shrugged. “But I shall do so. I am eager to learn of our next steps.”

“This is to be a quick meeting. There will be little time for any input.”

Tegrese’s frown was short-lived. “Understandable.”

Nezdeh turned to Sehtrek. “You have accumulated one hundred hours of data on the planet and the objects orbiting it. What recommendations do you make?”

“That we make a carefully timed ground attack within the week, presuming that there are no further changes to the battlespace.”

“There have already been changes?” Tegrese had not been at the table for a minute and was already beginning to burden the process. Nezdeh glanced at Idrem, who was attempting to suppress — a smile? Yes, there was an amusing irony to Tegrese’s arrival, Nezdeh allowed, despite the annoyance.

Sehtrek touched his beltcom. Between the silver spider-leg tines of its holographic projector, a representation of the Slaasriithi planet rotated, three small dots keeping pace at equidistant points along a shared orbit. “A new defense sphere was launched. It occupies the same orbital spot as the one we destroyed four days ago.”

“Meaning there could be more.”

“Almost certainly so, Idrem. Although I am surprised that it took them this long to launch a replacement.”

Nezdeh shook her head. “The Slaasriithi are not at all dominion-oriented and, so far as we can determine, do not have wars. This far within their domain, a prompt defense replenishment system may be an afterthought. But they are not stupid; if they have more defense spheres in their local inventory, we must expect that they will now be ready to deploy them more rapidly.”

Sehtrek nodded. “Agreed. Which means that the harder of the two targets we must engage are the Aboriginals who landed on the planet. We must penetrate the cannonball defense, find the targets, neutralize them, and then return to orbit.”

Idrem nodded. “Brenlor sent us a tight-beam update half an hour ago. He estimates that the additional landers we require for the assault will arrive here in eight days.”

“The sooner the better. The Slaasriithi shift carrier is probably no more than four days away from making shift. Consequently, a response force from Beta Aquilae could arrive here within two weeks. We need to have concluded our operations and be well into our preacceleration phase by then.”

Tegrese gestured at the cannonballs orbiting the image of the planet. “It would be helpful to have the Arbitrage’s navigational laser array on hand when we confront the cannonballs again. It would make short work of them, even at extreme range.”

Sehtrek nodded patiently. “Helpful, yes, but the enemy sensors, of which there seem to be an almost inexhaustible number, would detect the approach of Arbitrage days before we could include it in an attack. That would prompt the Slaasriithi to launch more cannonballs, or undertake different strategies that could complicate our primary objective: to find and eliminate the planetside Aboriginals.”

Nezdeh steepled her fingers. “So, we will watch the cannonballs’ orbital patterns, crack a hole in those defenses using Lurker’s firepower, and then send one of our landers through that hole to locate and neutralize the Aboriginals on the surface.”

Idrem’s eyes drifted to a yellow triangle that was closer to the image of the planet, looping around it in an uneven, wobbling orbit. “So, when do you envision eliminating the other Aboriginal craft?”

Sehtrek had evidently thought the question to be addressed to him. “I do not know that we must, Idrem. It has shown no power output and its orbit continues to decay. As an added precaution, I have projected attack times during which it would be on the other side of the planet, should it retain some combat capability.”

Idrem folded his arms. “Although it shows no power that we can discern at this range, the ship in question — a Commonwealth Wolfe-class corvette — has reasonable capacitors.”

“Capacitors are useless without a working power plant,” Tegrese asserted. “There is never even residual heat to suggest that they powered up while out of the field of our sensors.”

Idrem stared at her near-insolence. “Most versions of the Wolfe-class are fitted with retractable solar panels. They can maintain minimal power by recharging the ship’s batteries.”

“As it might be doing now,” Nezdeh concluded.

“Or it may simply be the lifeless wreck it seems to be.” Tegrese’s comment doubled Nezdeh’s annoyance.

Idrem intervened. “We know the craft was significantly damaged. Time will help us further determine its status. And if their orbit decays to the point where they start entering the atmosphere, they are finished, even if there are survivors aboard.”

Nezdeh nodded her agreement. “Happily, we need not confirm the status of the Aboriginal craft before we commence our operations. Once we have removed a cannonball to open a landing window, Red Lurker will continue to track both the remaining two cannonballs and the Aboriginal wreck whenever their orbit puts them within sight of our sensors. If the wreck attempts to challenge Lurker in any way, we will be able to destroy it, even from our standoff position.”

Tegrese shrugged. “If you are so fearful of it, then why not strike now and eliminate this troublesome variable?”

Sehtrek’s tone was careful and very patient as he pointed out what should have been obvious. “The present range of engagement is far too great for us to be assured of success, and a renewed attack may bring more cannonballs after us. At any rate, it would not only reveal our presence but our position, depriving us of the surprise we need for our planetary assault.”

“Very well. But what of the ground target? Isn’t it possible that the shuttle crashed? That all the Aboriginals are dead?” Tegrese was asking the questions Nezdeh had feared she’d ask: questions that she, Idrem, and Sehtrek had already considered and answered.

“There are survivors. My Reifications confirm that there is at least one Devolysite still extant on the surface. Furthermore, our sensors showed no thermal blooms consistent with either a catastrophic reentry or a crash.”

“So,” said Tegrese with a sardonic smile as she leaned away from the table. “The impossible task of eliminating the escaped Aboriginals is now merely improbable.” She became serious. “We shall need many of the frozen clones, and all four of the Arbitrage’s landers, if we are to—”

Idrem shook his head. “That will not answer our needs. Firstly, several of the Arbitrage’s landers have been converted into refueling auxiliaries. Secondly, any clones which are still in cryogenic suspension will be of no use. They take too long to revivify and longer to indoctrinate to our dominion. The Slaasriithi response from Beta Aquilae will be here before they are ready.”

Tegrese seemed almost abashed. “Then what are your plans?”

“We shall dedicate all our revivified clones to the project, who are currently aboard one of the two landers that are en route to us. The other one, a paramilitary version, will be our landing and assault craft.”

Tegrese nodded, seemed to be searching for some worthwhile point to raise. “Will the other cannonballs not simply follow our lander planetside and destroy it?”

Sehtrek pulled up a holographic report on what they knew about the cannonballs. “I do not have complete technical intelligence on the devices, but their shape and performance indicates that they are intended for extraatmospheric work. Without wings, all their flight must be powered. So, given their very limited atmospheric duration compared to craft with lifting surfaces, it seems unlikely that they would descend to pursue our lander.”

Tegrese finally asked Nezdeh a pertinent question: “So, given the planetary communications blackout, how will you find the Aboriginals?”

“Our agent has a Devolysite that will deliquesce when I send the appropriate Reified command. As it dies, it emits a strong return wave through the Reification, which shall guide our initial point of descent. Its deliquescence also signals our saboteur to begin providing us with terminal guidance, that we may more narrowly locate the Aboriginals and kill them.”

Sehtrek nodded at Nezdeh’s synopsis. “Is there anything else we need to consider?”

“We will need patience,” she answered. She considered Tegrese from the corner of her eye. A great deal of patience.

* * *

Tlerek Srin Shethkador allowed the iris valve to remain open for several seconds before he entered the isolation cell in Ferocious Monolith’s brig. It had already been determined that the subject was susceptible to the will-eroding power of fearful anticipation. So it would be now.

The Aboriginal woman was sitting well away from the door. But since the cell was round, there was no corner in which to shelter her back and gain some sense of defensibility, of security. Her clothes were still wet from the hourly drenchings of cold water he had ordered. Every sixty minutes, one autarchon entered to hold her down, another brought in a container of cold water which he poured over her slowly. Then they left, never having said a word, never having met her eyes. She was an object they were watering: nothing more.

Shethkador stared at her slim, shivering legs. Some Aboriginals — they were rare, but they existed — were able to immediately discern the true purpose of such treatment: to unnerve and defocus the subject by demonstrating that they were alone, helpless, and of no urgent interest to their captors. Questions and direct engagement sent a message to most subjects that they were important, and that was a form of power, a slender bit of nourishment for their own aspirations to regain dominion. The rare captives who were able to distance themselves from their fears intrinsically understood that there was no act of cooperation or placation that would serve to appease or please their captors, because their captors desired neither. The captor-captive relationship was not, ultimately, social: it was simply manipulation exercised by the dominant to extract compliance from the subordinate.

So taught the Progenitors; Tlerek silently recited, such is the truth of the universe. To which this sodden Aboriginal female was as senseless and deaf as the rocks floating around them, here in the trailing trojan point of the fourth planet out from V 1581.

She looked up; her shivering redoubled. Shethkador was pleased. In his youth, he had spent some effort perfecting the disinterested stare with which he regarded her now. “Stand,” he said.

She did, slowly. The reluctance with which she complied was not indicative of defiance, but uncertainty over what actions might displease him. Excellent. “You may ask questions, now,” he told her.

“Where am—?”

“When you are given the privilege to speak to me, you are to address me as Fearsome Srin. If you fail, you shall be immediately punished. If you fail repeatedly, you shall be terminated. Now, try again.”

“Fearsome Srin, where am I?”

“Aboard my ship. What do you last remember?”

She frowned. “I was being sedated for cryogenic sleep procedures on Jam.”

“What is Jam?”

“That’s what we call the second planet in V 1581.”

“You call it ‘Jam’? As in, a sweetened fruit spread?”

“No, as in a traffic jam.” When she saw that Shethkador’s expression did not change, she tried a different approach. “Like a big guy trying to crawl in a small space; he gets jammed, stuck—”

“So the name refers to all the fleet traffic that is passing through the orbital facilities there. Continue.”

She nodded with tolerable deference. “My partner and I were able to get away from our original ship in Sigma Draconis Two and stow away on the Changeling, just after we did the job for you.”

“You did a job for me?”

She blinked, fearful. “Yes. You — you’re a representative of CoDevCo, right? Fearsome Srin?”

Now it becomes clear. “I am not a member of the Colonial Development Combine. I, along with others, compelled that megacorporation to do our bidding during the recent invasion of Earth.”

The Aboriginal was now too confused to remember to be fearful. “You compelled CoDevCo to—?”

“Attend,” Shethkador ordered. “The Colonial Development Combine was suborned by Ktor to facilitate our invasion of Earth. CoDevCo may have retained your services as a confidential agent and saboteur, but it was ultimately acting at our behest.”

“But the Ktor are — are creatures with pseudopods, that live in liquid methane, or—”

“Female, assess me; do you see any pseudopods?”

“No.”

“That is because there are none. The description of our appearance was a ruse, so that no other power would be aware that we, too, are humans. However, our breed last dwelt upon Earth over twenty millennia ago, before the harvesting.”

The woman’s face was expressionless: Shethkador knew the symptoms of information excess when he saw them. “This is of no concern. You were hired as servitors of the legitimate leaders of the Ktor. But those who ordered you to change the cold cells you delivered to the Slaasriithi ship were impostors.”

“How do you know about—?”

Shethkador crossed the distance between them in a single long step and swung the back of his hand against the side of her face. It was a mild blow, compared to what he was capable of, but it spun her head, sent her against the wall. She slid down, stunned, and then started to weep. “When you address me directly, you use my title.” He waited. “What is my title?”

She choked out the words. “Fearsome. Srin.”

“Correct. Now: you must provide every detail of what you were to do after you switched the cold cells.”

“Yes; I — yes, Fearsome Srin.” She waited for his dismissive nod of approval before continuing. “Our employers arranged for a purser’s assistant on Changeling to sneak us on board. After it shifted here, we debarked as soon as we could and took on identities as ordinary dock workers.”

“So that you would not attract attention?”

“Yes, Fearsome Srin. Also, anyone looking for us would presume that we were trying to get out of Arat Kur space as quickly as possible and would concentrate their search on the shift-carrier.”

“So it was your intent to remain in your unassuming roles until you believed that you were no longer being sought?”

“Actually, Fearsome Srin, our employers told us to await a coded signal which meant that they had completed fabricating two new identities for us. Which they did six days after we arrived at Jam, Fearsome Srin.”

Shethkador did the math. The Arbitrage had still been in-system, then. So someone aboard her had purloined the false identities for them and was also the source of their “employer’s signal.” “And I presume your employers instructed you to travel onward in cryogenic stasis, since officials would not rouse you to confirm your identity.” Ingenious, and just what I would have done.

She nodded. “Yes, Fearsome Srin, but — what happened? Why am I here? Did you seize the ship that was carrying our cold cells to Earth?”

Aboriginals: always presuming that ends are attained by battle, rather than deception — or a knife in the back. “We used tight-beam relay to contact our own servitors in orbit at Jam and instructed them to do to your cryocells what you did to the cryocells bound for the Slaasriithi ship: they made a switch. Once your cells had been removed from the waiting list of pending cold-freight, they were shipped out by small craft to the gas giant in orbit four. Your cryocells were set adrift in a vacuum-rated cargo container. We waited for an auspicious moment and sent a stealthed patrol hunter to reclaim you.”

She looked around. “Where is Manuel, the man I worked with, Fearsome Srin?”

“He was extraneous.”

She shivered; she may have held back a sob. “We — I didn’t mean to fail. We did what we were asked to do. We had no way of knowing it was not authorized.”

“That is true. It is also irrelevant. But we could not allow you to remain among your own kind. Upon returning to Earth, the counterintelligence agencies would have apprehended you.”

“So,” she shuddered, clutching her arms tightly, “are you going to kill me?”

Such an amateur; as if I would not have done so already, had that been my intent. “I should,” Shethkador lied, and let the pause draw on, “but no: you may prove valuable as bait.”

She blinked. “As bait?”

“Of course. Whoever hijacked our assets and acted without authorization must be located and punished. So far, the pawns have been easy enough to eliminate. We found and executed the person on my ship who sent you your initial messages in Sigma Draconis. We uncovered the parties that hired him and shall have them soon enough, too. But they did not have enough power or information to undertake this ambitious scheme on their own. To that end, I will ensure that news of your capture and interrogation ‘slips out,’ and so, touches a wider circle of ears than it should. And then we shall see what responses those rumors generate.”

“I do not understand: what kind of responses do you expect them to generate, Fearsome Srin?”

“Attempts against your life, of course.”

She blanched.

“Surely you understood this is what I meant by keeping you as ‘bait.’ We shall also intimate that you are not the mere informant you seem to be but are one of our most prized, deep-cover Aboriginal agents. Our adversaries will not know, or be able to retroactively ascertain, the truth of this claim. Earth was chaotic enough prior to the invasion and our networks there are now in utter disarray. So, in order for the guilty parties to be sure that they have concealed their involvement, they will have no choice but to kill you. If they can.”

“But you won’t let them — will you, Fearsome Srin?”

“I will prevent it.” Which, for the moment, was true. But Shethkador could anticipate many reasons for changing his mind later on, not the least of which was to prevent his enemies from discovering how very little the Aboriginal female actually knew. Indeed, the only way to perpetuate their uncertainty would be to allow his adversaries to assassinate her and thereby eliminate their only hope of determining what she did and did not reveal to him.

“And, Fearsome Srin, what assurance do I have that you’ll keep that promise?”

He smiled. “That is an amusingly ironic question, coming from someone who has not only broken her oath of service, but has become a meretricious traitor.” He turned to exit, but stopped on the threshold of the iris valve. “Your people have a customary good night wish: ‘pleasant dreams.’”

As the portal squealed shut behind him, he discovered Olsirkos Shethkador-vah waiting just beyond the entry to the brig. Tlerek motioned that he should walk alongside. “Has the patrol hunter finished its survey of the gas giant?”

“Yes, Fearsome Srin. Doom Herald just submitted its tightbeam report.”

“And?”

“As you suspected, Red Lurker did not leave a camouflaged data cache at either of the covert drop sites. Also, there was sign of a combat just above the gas giant’s exosphere: light debris, including parts of a communication mast and a length of refueling hose. All Aboriginal.”

“Of course. No sign of debris consistent with Red Lurker, I presume.”

“None, Srin Shethkador.”

“Have our collaborators on the second planet relayed the logs of the port authority’s preshift communications with the Arbitrage?”

“The logs show no irregular reports, Honored Srin. However, several days after refueling, the Arbitrage’s transmission characteristics altered slightly. It was presumed to be the result of changes in the gas giant’s magnetosphere and local ionization.”

Shethkador shook his head. “But that was not what caused the discrepancy. Those postrefueling messages had to be sent by Red Lurker’s array, since the debris found by Doom Herald included pieces of the Aboriginal ship’s communications mast.”

“So the crew of Red Lurker commandeered the Arbitrage and used it to shift out of the system.”

“It is the logical conclusion from the evidence before us.”

They had arrived in the commander’s oversight compartment, just off the bridge. One of the two holographs on display was a rendering of the local stellar group. Olsirkos stared into it. “But where would they go? None of these destinations are useful to them, assuming, as we must, that whoever is now in control of Lurker was also behind switching the cryocells that were delivered to the Slaasriithi shift carrier.”

“That, too, is a logical conclusion.”

Olsirkos seemed to be grinding his molars. “But how is the hijacking of an Aboriginal shift-carrier that can barely reach Sigma Draconis useful to a group that has introduced saboteurs or confidential agents into the Terran legation to Beta Aquilae?”

“That is an excellent question. But there may be other elements in play, Olsirkos, and assets of which we have no knowledge. After all, the Srina who we must now presume to be in command of Red Lurker carries one of the last viable genelines of House Perekmeres.”

“A dead house, Honored Srin.”

“Yes, it is dead — now. But for many decades prior to its Extirpation, House Perekmeres supported our observation of human space in their guise as the Custodians’ assistants. It is possible they cached assets in this region of space, and that knowledge of them was snuffed out of existence along with the geneline. Except, perhaps, for a few clever Evolved, who formulated plans to reunite here, far away from the direct oversight of the Great Houses and the Autarchs.”

Olsirkos reexamined the star chart. “If that is true, then their shift range could be much greater than that of the Arbitrage.”

“Exactly. And with such range, they might hope to intercept the legation on its way to Beta Aquilae, or, failing that, on its return. Either way, it is such an inspired and insanely bold ploy that it is all but unthinkable. As is their hijacking of Aboriginals we suborned during our infiltration of Earth’s megacorporations and governments. Brilliant. But they could not have done so without the aid of a sponsor.”

Olsirkos nodded. “These Perekmeres dogs knew which persons in Aboriginal cold cells were our suborned agents. They had the confirmation codes that identified them as legitimate authorities. They probably knew of collaborators aboard the Arbitrage.”

“Yes, megacorporate collaborators who were suborned at my orders.” Shethkador took a moment to ensure that the annoyance did not manifest outwardly. “A scattered remnant of an Extirpated House does not have access to such secrets. They had a sponsor with access to the relevant intelligence, inventories, and code-words.”

“Meaning that one of the other Houses—”

“Has elected to support the resurgence of House Perekmeres covertly, or has at least promised to do so. I suspect the sponsor ultimately intends to dispose of these renegades to eliminate any evidence that this plot was orchestrated at a higher level. But I suspect that the Perekmeres’ expect that.”

“But who among the Houses would wish to undermine our operations here?”

“Whoever is not happy with them.”

“Or with House Shethkador,” Olsirkos ventured.

Tlerek nodded approval at Olsirkos’ insight, frowned at its content, and thought, All too likely.

Chapter Thirty-Nine. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Five days after the water-striders began paralleling the group — or, as Hwang quipped, “following Captain Riordan like tame ponies”—Caine pulled wearily to the top of the first significant slope they’d encountered since commencing their downriver trek. The trees parted, revealing that the river’s course straightened as it followed along the floor of a shallow valley. The flanking hills ultimately rose up into higher peaks, which pinched the river tightly between them in the far distance. Beyond which, if Riordan recalled his brief glimpses from the shuttle’s cockpit, it was only a short march to the shores of a long inlet that led ultimately to the southern reaches of Disparity’s equatorial seas.

Salunke, a few meters ahead, shaded her eyes, then pointed toward the peak-lined gateway through which the valley had to squeeze. “There, do you see it?”

Caine, vision blurry from the effort of the sustained march, squinted, saw a vertical spark of metal down near the base of the nearest left-hand peak. “What is it?” he panted.

Nasr Eid’s voice was excited. “It is a silver object, a tower of some kind.”

The rest of the group moved to his vantage point. An eager conversational buzz rose up. The decision to head downriver, conceded to be the best path in the absence of other information but never embraced with particular confidence, was suddenly hailed as just short of oracular in its insight. Riordan started to chuckle, but coughed instead.

Macmillan drew close, glanced down. “How are you holding up?”

Caine, head hanging as he caught his breath, nodded.

“You don’t look, or sound, so good,” the Scotsman added.

“Might be bronchitis,” Riordan offered, straightening.

Xue shook his head as he passed. “That is not bronchitis, Captain. It sounds more akin to asthma.”

“I’m not asthmatic.”

Xue shrugged. “No undiagnosed adult is ever asthmatic. Until they are.”

“Yes, well — let’s just keep focused on making progress.”

Xue paused, scanning Riordan’s face. “We will make no progress if you collapse, Captain. We should rest.”

Riordan’s first impulse was to insist that he was fine, damn it, but that would be a lie. The shortness of breath he’d experienced the day after the crash had seemed to improve at first, but was now growing steadily. If he lied about it, he’d not only set a bad example, but be seen as unreasonable, as requiring forced rest. And if anyone started to force a leader to do anything, it usually spelled doom to their authority. But if I slow down the very people I am honor-bound to save, then what the hell am I—?

Dora Veriden had drifted forward, out of her rearguard position. Macmillan frowned. “Hey, if you’re up here, who’s watching our—?”

Caine waved him to silence, looked at Dora. “Something?”

She nodded faintly. “Our new friends are back. And as shy as ever.”

Macmillan lifted his rifle slightly. “Where?”

“Other side of the river this time. At about our eight o’clock. But there are more of them now. I think.”

Gaspard strolled over. “A problem?”

Macmillan nodded tightly. “The same beasties that started following us three days ago. Same sounds, same motions.”

“And you remain convinced that they are not the same creatures that chased us at the end of the second full day on planet?” He looked directly at Riordan.

“I remain doubtful, Ambassador. We haven’t seen them or any of their tracks, so it’s impossible to assert anything definitively. But they keep greater distance and they move differently.”

Veriden nodded. “These critters are not as fast as that pack of predators when they’re moving in a straight line. But what they lack in speed they make up for with agility.”

The ambassador nodded at Dora’s confirmation but never took his eyes off Riordan. “Very well, but what do you propose to do about them, Captain?”

Etienne Gaspard had greatly improved as a human being in Riordan’s eyes, but sometimes the diplomat still said things that made him sound like an utter prig. “Well, since they’re not coming forward to be recognized, I propose we just spend a few moments ignoring them and taking in the view.”

Gaspard raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think—?”

“He means,” Dora muttered into her employer’s ear, “that right now, we should allow most of our group to rest — and stay the hell out of our way.”

Riordan couldn’t repress a smile: Veriden was a pain in the ass, but she was an extremely competent and insightful pain in the ass. “Meanwhile, Mr. Macmillan and Ms. Veriden will drift toward the forest behind us, because they are bored bored bored by all our chatter.”

“Right,” said Veriden and loped back off toward the rear of the column, looking pretty bored already.

Macmillan’s brow beetled, then rose. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I’m turribly, turribly bored.”

“Off you go, Keith. I’ll give you two the signal when one of them has come close enough for you to flank it and get a good look.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Macmillan wandered off, angling to the front of the column.

“Now, Ambassador, why don’t you join me over here, where we have a great view of the valley?”

Gaspard did. They gazed at the many shades of green and no small amount of orange, violet, yellow, and black. After half a minute, the ambassador commented, almost casually, “Your breathing is becoming worse, Captain.”

“I am fi—”

“Spare me your brave denials. A blind man could see it with a cane. The question is, what are we to do about it?”

“Frankly, Ambassador, we have bigger problems than my respiratory infection. We are down to our last food and water. Two days from now, most everyone in this party is going to be staggering around from the lack of both. In five days, all but a few of us will be immobile. Once we solve the food and water problem, then we can worry about my ability to keep up.”

Gaspard nodded tightly. “I cannot argue the logic of that, but—”

“Ambassador.” Riordan waited for Gaspard to make eye contact. “I’m going to keep doing my job. I’m going to get us to safety.”

Gaspard glanced away, then nodded.

Riordan looked out over the valley, keeping an ear and an eye on the situation developing behind them. Veriden and Macmillan were drifting further apart, and closer to the tree-line.

As the river descended toward the valley, it was marked by intermittent but gentle rapids. Each bank’s flood margin had become meadows dotted with rushes resembling uptwisting orange helixes. Among those bright, motionless spirals flitted examples of the region’s most common animal: a wiry creature that recalled a flying squirrel crossed with a newt. They pursued and ate various insects that hovered near the boundary between the exogenous species and their indigenous rivals.

Most species of the two biota did not interact; they ignored each other if they came close to their own borders and rarely crossed over. But in a few noteworthy cases, the rivalry became competition and ultimately violence. In the past few days, Riordan had seen a smaller variety of the predators he’d fended off circling a multieyed arboreal marsupial that was vaguely reminiscent of the Slaasriithi themselves. Hissing, clattering, screeching, the two species marked their respective territories until, as if by mutual agreement, they rushed together in a sudden tangle of bodies and flashing teeth — and then sped apart just as fast, neither appearing any worse for the wear.

Having now witnessed many similar scenes, Riordan understood why Yiithrii’ah’aash insisted that the story of the Slaasriithi had to be seen, not read. The legation would have certainly understood logical explanations of what they were witnessing: slow-motion terraforming that replaced the human tactic of supplantation with cooption. But they would not have realized that they were also witnessing the core truths of the Slaasriithi in action. This terraforming was not driven by economics or grand strategy or population pressures. It was an affirmation: of life, of death, of limitless time, of integration with a reality that transcended any one species or epoch. Consequently, there were no endless committee meetings over budgetary or procedural problems, there was no desperate concern about maintaining the political will to see projects to completion, there was no perpetual need to reinform, reexcite and reassure a voting populace that today’s path was, indeed, the right path. And above all, there was no conflation of the Slaasriithi’s objectives with the egos of those who were charged with attaining them over the course of decades, centuries, even millennia.

Riordan, relaxing from the exertions of the trail, enjoyed a slightly deeper breath and stared out across the increasingly misty valley: a planet so superficially similar to the green worlds of the Consolidated Terran Republic, yet strikingly different from its monocellular foundations up to its most complex organisms.

Some of which were apparently still tracking them. Riordan glanced over his shoulder, saw that Veriden had retraced the last one hundred meters covered by the group. Macmillan had made equivalent progress in the other direction. That separation would be sufficient for an effective flanking move. Riordan turned to Gaspard. “Ambassador, if you will be so good to run toward the woods when I do so—”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You mean, toward the animals following us?”

“That is exactly what I mean. Trackers as cautious as these will tend to scatter if confronted swiftly and by surprise. And if Keith or Dora manages to bring one or two down, that will dissuade these creatures even further.”

Gaspard stared wide-eyed into the foliage. “But I—”

“Etienne: this is not a matter for debate. Just do it—now!”

Veriden and Macmillan reacted to Riordan’s shout by turning and sprinting straight into the tree line. Caine and Gaspard, closer to where the group had halted, and further from the foliage, were longer in reaching its shadowy outer fringes. By which time, Macmillan was shouting:

“I’ve flushed them; they’re heading your way.”

“Dora?” yelled Caine through wracking gasps for air.

No report came from her.

But up ahead in the bush and in the trees, there was a surprising amount of motion. Most of it was withdrawing toward the taller, inland stands of bumbershoots and cone trees, but there was also some crisscrossing confusion as creatures fled from one human flanker, only to find themselves confronted by the other. Through a gap between two sapling-sized ferns, Caine saw one of these trapped creatures leap from the ground into the lower branches of a frond-tree, its long-limbed torso a blur of motion — and Riordan stopped, paralyzed by a memory:

Delta Pavonis Three. He was suddenly reliving the first moment he encountered the regressed Slaasriithi of that planet, glimpsed their gibbonlike leaps into the trees— Those motions were the same as these motions, right here—

“Macmillan, Veriden, stop! Stay where you are! Don’t move! And for Christ’s sake, don’t shoot!”

“What?” Macmillan shouted back at Caine; he sounded slightly annoyed.

“Why?” cried Veriden; she sounded downright pissed.

“These aren’t animals.”

“Then what are they?” asked Macmillan.

But Veriden had obviously had an epiphany of her own. “Shit,” she said.

Deeper in the forest and overhead, the sounds — a panicked rout in the face of an unexpected charge — diminished, the noises quieting more rapidly than could be explained by dwindling into the distance.

“Now what?” Veriden hissed from almost fifteen meters away.

“Now we wait,” Caine answered with no more volume than was necessary.

Chapter Forty. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Akin to Riordan’s initial encounter with the regressed Slaasriithi on Delta Pavonis Three, the passage of time seemed impossibly dilatory. And when Veriden shifted impatiently, Riordan was gratified to see Gaspard make a savage gesture of cessation in her direction.

A faint movement stirred in the bush, well ahead of Caine.

“Something coming,” Macmillan muttered.

Riordan nodded. “Let it come. Lower your rifle. And stay where you are.” Caine was about to suggest that the Scotsman should also try to relax when a great wave of calm flowed through not just his mind, but his body — which Riordan reflexively resisted, much the same way he would shake off drowsiness when driving at night.

“It is not necessary that you use friendship spores on us,” he said calmly into the underbrush ahead.

The brush parted. A Slaasriithi of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s general physiology and size appeared. Its pelt was somewhat darker, it wore a backpack, and its finger-tendrils were festooned with numerous control rings akin to those the legation had seen used on the shift-carrier. “I believe you mean amity spores,” said a pleasant but machine-generated voice from the Slaasriithi’s backpack, “although the meaning is similar. However, I did not project amity spores upon you. That would compromise your freedom of action and will.”

“Then what did you use?”

“A combination of relief and rapport spores.”

“Rapport sounds as though it might influence one’s will, as well,” Gaspard pointed out as Veriden and Macmillan drew closer.

“It does not. It maximizes”—the computer-generated voice uttered a set of meaningless twitters and squawks—“between species which otherwise lack a shared medium of communication. Such as our two species.”

“Yiithrii’ah’aash seems to understand us just fine without a magic box.” Veriden’s voice was sharp, cautious.

“Yiithrii’ah’aash? Is he the Prime Ratiocinator who directs the actions of the Tidal-Drift”—more unintelligible squeaks and yowls from the backpack—“to-Shore-of-Stars?”

“Eh?” grunted Macmillan.

Caine understood. “Is that the name of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s shift-carrier?”

“Yes. I am not well informed in the matter of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s mission here or your identities, other than that you are humans who have been invited to travel on to our homeworld.”

“And that someone is trying to kill us all.”

“Yes. This also we have deduced.”

“Have deduced?” Veriden shouted. “What, wasn’t it obvious enough when ships are getting blown to pieces right over your heads?”

The Slaasriithi seemed to start backwards slightly. “Your tone is one of agitation. I am unsure what I have—”

“It has been a very trying time for us,” Caine interrupted. “Several of us who crashed in our shuttle were killed, several others wounded.”

The Slaasriithi’s tetrahedral head turned slightly, as if he might be considering Caine more closely. “You are not well, either.”

Caine waved off the concern. “It’s nothing. We have more immediate concerns. We are running out of both food and water. I am sorry to ask for help even before we have exchanged names and learned more of each other, but it is imperative that we see to the needs of our group.”

“The water in the river is safe for your species to drink—”

— which we would have discovered, out of desperation, in the next few days—

“—but the matter of food that is both palatable and nourishing will require the labor of several taxae. To initiate that process, I must coordinate with my partners. Will it alarm you if I bring them here to join us?”

“Not at all,” Gaspard jumped in eagerly. “We have hoped to meet you, to meet anyone. How fortunate that you have found us at last!”

“In actuality,” the Slaasriithi responded slowly, “we have been following your movements for three days now. I just arrived yesterday, however.”

“For three days—?” Gaspard blinked rapidly. “Then why did you not offer help? Why did we have to beat the bushes to discover you? This is most inconsiderate.”

The Slaasriithi reeled in its neck a bit. “We were instructed only to observe and, when feasible, report. But that has been difficult, due to the OverWatchling’s general elimination of broadcast signals.”

“OverWatchling?” Macmillan echoed.

“A planetary, uh, guardian?” Caine guessed. “But not actually part of a taxon?”

The Slaasriithi turned towards him. “Yes, it is as you say. It has been coordinating all activities.”

“Are there no ratiocinatorae on Disparity to temper this OverWatchling’s actions, then?” Gaspard pressed.

The Slaasriithi’s “head” hovered a bit more erect. “I am a ratiocinator, but even Seniors of my taxon rarely, if ever, challenge the instincts of an OverWatchling.”

Gaspard considered that. “May we know your name, ratiocinator?”

“I am W’th’vaathi. Allow me to summon the others who speak for their taxae, here.”

“Please do.”

W’th’vaathi slid swiftly and noiselessly back into the brush.

Riordan turned to Macmillan. “Go back to the group, tell them what’s going on, and that they should sit tight. This is not, I repeat not, a threat scenario.”

Moments after Keith had left, the brush parted more widely; two other Slaasriithi were with W’th’vaathi, both wearing similar backpacks. One was slightly taller, but proportionally similar in build. The other was considerably smaller and had rings on its toe-analogs as well as its fingers. It was of lighter build, but had a proportionally longer neck. The sensor cluster capping it jerked to attention. “Humans,” a slightly different voice announced from its backpack. It was, from the tone, a self-confirmation, not an attempt to summon their attention. “I am Thnessfiirm. I have the honor of speaking for the cerdorae, here.”

Gaspard frowned in an apparent effort to focus his recollections. “Cerdorae,” the ambassador mused. Then, turning to W’th’vaathi, “That taxon is the one that is machine- or device-focused in their activities, correct?”

“You might see it that way, yes.”

“And so he is that taxon’s local spokesman?”

“In a manner of speaking,” W’th’vaathi allowed, “but Thnessfiirm is not, to use your term, a spokesman. He is a she. As I am. Technically.”

“‘Technically’?” Dora’s tough-as-nails demeanor lapsed just long enough for her to sound completely baffled.

“Distinctions of gender, or sex, are mostly meaningless to us. We adopt the sexed pronoun appropriate to our last reproductive role, since any of us may perform any of the roles.”

Gaspard and Dora looked at Caine, who looked at both of them. “That’s, um, a new concept for us,” he confessed.

“We presumed that it might be. And the Slaasriithi to my right is Unsymaajh.”

The largest of the Slaasriithi bobbed. “I have the honor of speaking for all convectorae. The smallest and fleetest of my taxic family have been watching you for the past several days. You will appreciate, I hope, that, lacking any concrete information of what transpired in space, we had no way to be certain that you were the guests of Yiithrii’ah’aash, rather than those who attacked him. We are glad to learn that you are friends and that our paths may be joined, now.”

“So are we,” Riordan affirmed as Macmillan returned. “And speaking of joining our paths, we should resume our journey and get as far away from the wreckage of our shuttle as possible. And if that silver object at the north end of the valley is a construct of yours, it would be best to—”

“I regret interrupting.” W’th’vaathi had risen up again; her hip joints seemed tense. “However, you must abandon your current path. The Silver Tower you have seen is not the place that Yiithrii’ah’aash and Disparity’s Prime Ratiocinator, T’suu’shvah, determined that you should be received and housed.”

Riordan paused. Was W’th’vaathi reluctant to continue on to this Silver Tower because that might attract hostile attention to it, or was she simply determined to follow the letter of the law? “W’th’vaathi, but is our current path not the best one?”

W’th’vaathi’s pause was halting, puzzled. “We should not travel there because it is not where you are to be received.” W’th’vaathi said it slowly, as if she presumed that Riordan had not heard what she said the first time.

Okay, so W’th’vaathi just doesn’t like, or isn’t accustomed to, thinking outside the box. “But there’s no reason we shouldn’t go there, then?”

W’th’vaathi paused again, but this time, as though she was having to consider an entirely new concept. “No. But it lacks adequate preparation.”

Gaspard leaned into that explanation. “Adequate preparation?”

“We have not sent appropriate provisions or furnishings there. Nor have Yiithrii’ah’aash’s picked taxae spokespersons convened there. Also, is it not a likely site for the attackers to destroy, if they penetrate our defenses?”

“It might be,” Caine admitted. “But is it not fortified, or equipped with defenses of its own? Is it not a comparatively safe place?”

W’th’vaathi thought again, but more briefly. “It is, but we find that safety in such situations is better achieved by being difficult to find, rather than hard to destroy.”

“Normally, I would agree, W’th’vaathi. But I fear that there is no way that we can be made as difficult to find as you would be on your own.”

“Indeed? Why do you so conjecture?”

“Sensors will pick us out,” Macmillan asserted with confidence. “If the attackers come after us, their sensors would easily discriminate our thermals and outlines from yours. Our own arrays could manage that, and the enemy technology seems to be well ahead of ours.”

W’th’vaathi considered this new information carefully. “It seems, then, that we must go to the Silver Tower. It is one of three such places on Disparity, a place where our spokespersons convene and where we store artifactures.”

Veriden frowned at the strange word that had emerged from W’th’vaathi’s backpack. “‘Artifactures’? I think your translator needs a programming update.”

W’th’vaathi’s tendrils made a wavelike motion that Caine read as easy agreement. “It may be as you say. Our translating artif — no, I perceive now: our translators are what you would call ‘complex machines,’ not merely ‘tools.’ So: these translating machines were last updated before the most recent Convocation. I suspect they are deficient in many of the nuances of your various languages. Specifically, we label all nonliving creations as ‘artifactures.’ This is a crude approximation of our actual term, which contains more embedded allusions than may be conveniently referenced during a conversation.”

“So, you store all your machines — and tools and gadgets — in the silver towers?” Dora seemed all at once surprised and doubtful.

“All those we deem complex. We keep unpowered tools and very simple machines, such as vises and gliders and winches, in our arboria, but nothing that would be efficacious in defense.”

Upon hearing the word “defense,” Caine nodded. “But the Silver Towers are equipped with defense technologies?”

“Some,” W’th’vaathi answered tentatively.

“Yes,” asserted Thnessfiirm. “They are mostly of a remote-operated nature. And the towers have reinforced subterranean layers. They provide shelter and are constructed so that occupants may withdraw from the structure without being observed.”

Well, the cerdorae certainly seem to be the go-to taxon for military needs. Caine nodded. “Then the Silver Tower is precisely where we must go.”

W’th’vaathi’s long neck wobbled from side to side. Her tone was uncertain. “It is not in our nature to give visitors access to our complex machines. I have instructions to observe and to render aid. But bringing you to a Silver Tower that has not been adequately prepared—”

Or do you mean, “adequately sanitized?”

“—contravenes prior guidelines.”

“Can’t your Senior Ratiocinators be contacted to vouch for us, to confirm that it is safe to bring us to this closest Silver Tower?”

“We cannot contact them directly. The OverWatchling prevents all long-range communication during any incident where invaders may be in or near orbit.”

“Then how the hell do you coordinate counterattacks, ambushes, supply disruption, jamming, observation?” Keith Macmillan’s voice was relatively calm, but his face was becoming a bright red.

Thnessfiirm seemed to have the best implicit sense of the humans’ frustrations with Slaasriithi defensive preparations and infrastructure. “You will understand that the circumstances occasioned by your arrival are unknown to us, except as mentioned in the chronicles of our distant past.”

“We do understand,” Riordan assured the smaller Slaasriithi, cutting a sharp look at Keith. “But those of us who are charged with ensuring the safety of our group find it worrying that we will not have access to, er, complex machines with which to protect ourselves.”

“I comprehend their worry and share it,” W’th’vaathi asserted. “And I am decided: your party is other than we thought it to be. And it is not credible that you are attackers masquerading as victims. This was a possibility which my taxon’s seniors warned me to guard against, but I am satisfied that you are not dissembling. We shall travel to the Third Silver Tower. On the way there, your need of food can be answered by the efforts of the convectorae. However,” she looked at Caine directly, “your illness is a more difficult matter. Did you spend any extended time sheltering under one of these trees?” She gestured to a cone tree.

“I did.”

“Was the olfactory experience not…aversive?”

“Yes, but the predators that had me ringed in were even more aversive.”

Riordan had the sense of a dire silence as the Slaasriithi looked at each other with unseen eyes. “We comprehend. We will make all haste. We shall invite these water-striders to summon others of their kind and we shall go downriver as swiftly as we may.”

“Um, we were expecting help from those complex machines you mentioned,” Veriden intruded brusquely.

W’th’vaathi’s tendril-fingers drooped. “I regret to say that the Third Silver Tower lacks many of the assets of our other two. It is equipped to receive and launch our cargo craft, but they are all hypervelocity ballistic systems. They are unable to land without special facilities. Besides, they would attract the attention of your attackers.”

“Do you know if the attackers are still near Disparity?”

“We suspect so. There is no indication that they have left the system.”

Macmillan now sounded distinctly annoyed. “Then why haven’t you hunted them down, chased them off?”

“I reemphasize that Disparity is a transitioning colony world. We have no such defense-in-depth, and cannot risk losing more of our assets.”

Gaspard threw up his hands. “But this system is adjacent to your homeworld.”

W’th’vaathi’s sensor cluster fixed on him. If the Slaasriithi had been a human, Riordan had the impression she would simply have shrugged and asked, “And what’s your point?”

The ratiocinator’s silence seemed to increase Gaspard’s exasperation. “How can you not have more developed defenses at such a close approach, such a key access point, to your homeworld?”

“Why should we?”

“Mon Dieu, because this might be the system from which an invader would stage an attack to destroy your homeworld!”

“But the destruction of any race’s homeworld is directly prohibited by the Twenty-First Accord. And there are many defenses at the system you call Beta Aquilae. But even if it was to succumb to an attacker, we would simply shift our emphasis to a new homeworld.”

Caine goggled. “A new homeworld? Can’t there only be one?”

“Yes. One at a time.”

“No, no. I mean, how can you come from more than one world?”

“Ah. You have confused the word ‘homeworld’ with ‘world of origin.’ They are explicitly not the same.”

“Not to you, perhaps.”

“I commend you to consider that you should not consider these terms synonymous, either, and that other races use these as we do, rather than in the context you have presumed.”

Wait: so when the Dornaani, or other races, refer to their “homeworlds,” they do not mean—?

But W’th’vaathi was expanding upon her comment. “Once a race has been changing biospheres for millennia, the planet of its origin becomes more a matter of curiosity than urgent information. Now, we must resume the journey at once. The others of Unsymaajh’s subtaxae shall forage for your nutritive needs as we travel, and any newly summoned water-striders should join us before midday.”

As they walked out of the trees and met the stares of the rest of the survivors, W’th’vaathi stopped and studied the three water-striders waiting patiently in the river. She turned to Riordan. “The convector subtaxae who have observed you reported that you had been traveling with the water-striders. Were they in error?”

Caine shook his head. “No.” He gestured toward the striders. “They’ve been keeping us safe for the past several days.”

Unsymaajh’s head moved forward slightly, as if he were trying to get a better look at something between Riordan’s eyes. “They have been keeping you safe? How?”

“By escorting us downriver.”

Unsymaajh and W’th’vaathi exchanged glances with their undetectable eyes. W’th’vaathi turned back to Riordan. “Did you not summon them?”

Caine looked at the rest of the group, who were all looking at him: every human face was a study in perplexity. “Did I summon them?” Caine repeated, feeling stupid. “No: I don’t know how to do that. They just — showed up.”

Another set of looks were exchanged among the Slaasriithi, more of whom were drifting toward the shore, and toward the humans, all the time. “So,” W’th’vaathi said slowly, “Yiithrii’ah’aash did not brief you on the flora and fauna that our race brought to this world, even though you are so strongly marked — and with the musk of the water-striders most strongly of all?”

Riordan shook his head. “No. Besides, that marking wasn’t conferred by Yiithrii’ah’aash. A water-strider did that, just before it died.” W’th’vaathi folded her tendril-fingers patiently, and settled into a hip-stabilized crouch. The expectation of hearing the story behind the death of the water-strider was obvious. Caine imparted an extremely truncated version.

At the end, W’th’vaathi extended her neck a little further and said, “Come.”

Riordan followed her down to the water. W’th’vaathi turned. “Wade toward the largest of the water-striders. You have nothing to fear. Truly.”

Caine moved out into the water, and, after a few steps, the largest of the water-striders seemed to be bending its — well, its “knees”—to get a better look at him. The further out Caine waded, the further down the water-strider bent, its legs spreading sideways and its joints allowing the heavy body to lower toward the river. For a moment, it resembled a four-legged mammalian tarantula, the joints of its legs higher than the trunk of its body.

By the time Caine had waded hip-deep into the current, he was only a few meters from the creature, which was almost eyeball-to-eyeball with him. And in those alien eyes, Caine read — what? Nothing? Perplexity? Curiosity? Or even — expectation?

“She is waiting,” W’th’vaathi called from the shore, as one of the water-strider’s legs began stretching out, lowering into the water at a more gentle angle.

“For what?”

“For you to take your place.”

Caine hated feeling stupid and he’d spent most of the last five minutes doing exactly that. “To take my place where?”

“Upon her back.”

“You mean, we’re supposed to—ride them?”

“Of course.” W’th’vaathi’s reply was mild, too mild to conceal a hint of ironic amusement.

Or so Caine told himself.

Chapter Forty-One. SOUTHERN EXTENTS OF THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

By the time noon was past, the group had made as much progress downriver as they normally made in a full day. Also, Riordan no longer felt like one of the water-striders was standing on his chest every time he inhaled.

W’th’vaathi, who had not noticed how Ben Hwang and Caine surreptitiously arranged to be on the same water-strider as she, remarked, “Your respiration seems less labored, Caine Riordan.”

Riordan smiled. “Yes, thanks to you and the water-striders.”

“It is a great misfortune that you were unable to obey your instincts to leave the area under what you call the cone tree. You may have become more deeply infested with the defense spores than we believed possible.”

Caine tried to remain calm. Being super-saturated with defense spores did not sound particularly promising.

“Without your filter masks,” W’th’vaathi continued, “you would be affected. However, even with them, you would eventually succumb. Uptake also occurs through mucous membranes, albeit more gradually.”

Great. In addition to my eyes, I have a vented suit, courtesy of those damn pirhannows. “Can I be cured?” Caine asked when he was sure he could keep his voice level and calm.

“Yes,” W’th’vaathi replied. “But my knowledge in such matters is incomplete. I was not even aware of these defense spores until Senior Ratiocinator Mriif’vaal informed me about them.”

Ben Hwang was frowning deeply. “W’th’vaathi, did Mriif’vaal happen to mention whether these defense spores would impact all biota that are not Slaasriithi in origin?”

“They do not. For instance, they do not affect the indigenous biota of Disparity. If they did, we could not build symbiotic relationships and ecological synergies with it.”

Ben nodded. “Of course. But that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m talking about, well, unwelcome xenobiologies.”

“I do not know. Why do you inquire?”

Caine saw the implications as Ben replied. “Well, it’s somewhat peculiar that, even before we arrived here, both Yiithrii’ah’aash and Mriif’vaal knew that these spores would be dangerous to humans. And evidently they also knew that you possess an antidote or cure for afflicted humans. I find that curious.”

W’th’vaathi’s “head” turned toward Ben, wobbled a bit as the water-strider moved into slightly shallower water and cast about for better footing. “Yes. That is curious.”

“It makes me wonder if you’ve had human visitors before,” Caine speculated in a casual tone that, he realized, was probably lost on the Slaasriithi.

“I believe so,” W’th’vaathi affirmed. “Of course, you have been long known as a protected species, watched over by the Custodians of the Accord. But it seems you must have been known before that, even before we started receiving your broadcast signals more than a century ago.”

“What makes you think that?”

W’th’vaathi’s neck wiggled a bit. “Because there is no mention of your ever being ‘discovered’ or ‘assessed’ by the Custodians, as were the Hkh’Rkh, and even the Arat Kur. From the earliest Custodial records, knowledge of your homeworld and the systems reserved for your expansion have always existed. Logically, our species may have had earlier contact. At that time, perhaps it was deemed prudent to create spores that are particularly inimical to your biochemistry. Otherwise, how would our Senior Ratiocinatorae know to preemptively provide for your safety during your visit, and indicate that there was a cure in the event of an accidental exposure?”

“How indeed?” murmured Ben Hwang with a quick glance at Riordan. Once again, getting a better picture of what had been going on in this particular stellar cluster twenty millennia ago rose up as a significant, even urgent, intelligence objective. “Tell me, how do the spores work?”

“There are many different spores: a novitor or hortator would be able to provide a comprehensive explanation. My understanding is that when human secretions are detected in our environment, the small but persistent production of defense spores is triggered to enter a hyper-production stage. Some of the defense spores cause our fauna to avoid humans, some will agitate suitable species to attack, instead. But the most common variety of spores simply lodge in your mucous membranes and generate a pronounced histaminic response, as well as respiratory swelling. The sequelae include decreased cognitive clarity and mobility, thereby rendering the subject—”

“—extremely tractable,” finished Hwang.

“You perceive, then.”

“All too completely,” Hwang murmured.

“And what of you, Caine Riordan? Do you understand how very profoundly you were marked by the dying water-strider, and why?”

“I probably don’t fully understand either,” Caine confessed.

“Then I shall elucidate. The water-strider marked you more deeply and broadly than is typical outside the limits of its own species. To simplify, it marked you with powerful rapport and affinity spores when it last breathed upon you. When it rubbed you, it saturated you with compliance pheromones. That is why the water-striders are waiting to aid you.”

“And it imparted these gifts because I was kind to it when it died?”

“That is part of it, certainly, but there is something else: you have been marked before. That other mark is deep and strong, but it is also unfamiliar. I believe it is very old.”

“Yes. It happened about two years ago.”

“I do not mean that the marking occurred long ago. I mean that the marker itself is unfamiliar to today’s taxae. It seems ancient, even primal. It is — most striking.”

Ben nodded slowly. “So, you feel it yourself.”

“Yes. It is peculiar to find glimmers and scents of our unrecorded past wafting about an xenosapient such as yourself, Caine Riordan. It elicits many questions.”

I’ll bet it does. Caine was wondering whether he should let the topic slide when a flapping sound and a rising shadow distracted him. The water-strider upon which he was riding had raised the two membranous fins that had been lying folded to either side of its back-perched passengers. “Is everything all right?”

W’th’vaathi’s bifurcated prehensile tail flicked dismissively. “Our herd has detected the presence of another, downstream. Although none of us are masters of water-strider communications, I presume it is alerting the others that our approach is not a challenge or a purposive territorial encroachment.” Her tone changed. “Or they could be sending premating signals.”

“Mating signals?” Caine suddenly wanted to be off the water-strider’s back, far away from having to witness, let alone dodge, the amorous frolics of these ungainly giants.

W’th’vaathi may have been amused: one of her tails shimmied irregularly. “Allow me to be more precise. They might be exchanging expressions of interest and receptivity. For later.”

From further back on the creature’s back, Macmillan snorted. “Hey, baby, here’s my number. Call me.” If W’th’vaathi understood Macmillan’s truly alien quip, she gave no sign of it.

Caine glanced at the two ribbed and leathery fins rising up on either side; fully extended, they were more akin to long, triangular pennants. “These extensions must serve a purpose other than imparting mating signals. Stability while swimming, perhaps?”

W’th’vaathi’s head swayed gently from side-to-side: a gesture that Riordan had come to associate with tentative agreement. “Fossil records suggest that this may have been their original purpose. But that was probably before their large flippers elongated and evolved into legs. However, the force of evolution does not waste useful resources. Study the tips of the spines which raise and spread the fins.”

Caine did so and noticed that the spines protruded beyond the membrane of the fins and did not end in tapering points, but were angle-cut, akin to the nub of a quill pen. It took several moments of scrutiny before Riordan realized what he was looking at: “Are those breathing tubes?”

“Yes. When a water-strider submerges and seals the row of large respiration ducts on either side of its spine, the fins function as snorkels.”

Hwang nodded. “So, the fins’ courtship use is secondary. Tell me: do fin differences signal sex differences?”

W’th’vaathi turned from her position just behind the head of the water-strider. “As with us, and many other species that we brought to the stars, the water-striders are not gendered or sexed as is your species. Rather, among striders, there are two different reproductory variants, the impregnator and the depositor.”

“Those sound like the same things,” Macmillan murmured.

“In your heterosexual dyads, yes, but not among this species. The impregnator chooses which of the depositors it shall fertilize, as well as the kind of offspring: either a depositor or, far more rarely, another impregnator. In this way, the herd’s fertile and dominant impregnator determines the demographics of the herd, and even its genetic characteristics.”

“So why are the impregnated water-striders called depositors?” Hwang asked, hanging on to a fistful of their mount’s fur as it dipped back out into the deeper water.

“Because they do not retain the fertilized egg. It is immediately passed back to the impregnator and embeds in its womb.”

Macmillan stared. “So the impregnator is also the…the mother?”

W’th’vaathi’s left tail-half flicked once. “As I mentioned, terrestrial sexual dyadism offers few productive analogs for understanding water-strider reproduction. Caretaking and postbirth nutrition are the province of the depositor which was impregnated, not the impregnator. Also, any attempt to apply the sex-associated dominance and behavior templates common among your planet’s social mammals will be quite futile. For instance, genetic selection is not established through external forces, such as you biota’s male aggression contests, but by the impregnator’s detection of desired traits in a depositor’s pheromones.”

Riordan nodded, seeing the paradigm of Slaasriithi consensuality reprised in the water-striders. “So the evolutionary rule is not survival of the fittest, but selection of the fittest, according to the changing needs of the herd.”

W’th’vaathi’s tendrils straightened with a pop. “An apt adaptation of one of your own axioms, if I am not mistaken. And, as you may perceive, not wholly inapplicable to we Slaasriithi. Water-strider reproduction resembles ours in many particulars.”

“Och, here we go,” Keith exclaimed, “the alien ‘birds and bees’ talk. Damn, how I wish I’d stayed home in Dundee.” Caine raised an eyebrow at Macmillan who simply shrugged and smiled.

W’th’vaathi had, once again, shown no understanding of the big Scotsman’s comments. “These words baffle me, although we know of your terrestrial bee and admire many of its features.”

Ben glared at Keith who smiled sweetly in return. “Mr. Macmillan was using an idiom that refers to the — the details of mating.”

“I understand. Although I must offer an initial correction; one could not characterize any stage of Slaasriithi reproduction as mating. What humans refer to as sex — and the consequent emotional phenomena you label longing, romance, and passion — are anathema to us. Our reproductory process is partly instinctual, and partly guided by Senior Ratiocinatorae, much the way that a water-strider impregnator determines which depositor shall be fertilized.”

Hwang stared dubiously at W’th’vaathi. “So you have a womb?”

“No, not presently. As I mentioned, all Slaasriithi are capable of all reproductory roles. The ratiocinator that guides the process will, itself, not receive a quickened egg. However, in conjunction with communally informed instinct, it determines the demographic mix that shall arise from a gathering of Slaasriithi who are to be quickened.”

“And how does the ratiocinator accomplish that?”

W’th’vaathi’s tendrils swayed in time with the rolling gait of the water-strider. “Pheromonic emissions from the entire community determine what proportion of each caste should be quickened, which is achieved in a communal pool. Each individual who is to become gravid both releases and receives genetic material from all the others.”

Caine tried to rise above the bizarre images W’th’vaathi’s description was prompting. “Then how do the taxae remain, er, coherent subspecies? Doesn’t the free exchange of”—the mind reels—“genetic material create hybrids?”

“This is, again, an expectation that would be logical in your genetic template, but not ours. Fragments of each Slaasriithi subspecies are present in every individual’s genome, regardless of their taxon. Therefore, all taxae are repositories of genetic diversity for all taxae.

“Once the genetic exchange is complete, the ratiocinator releases a second pheromone that triggers the chemical process which determines how each pregravid Slaasriithi’s host gamete will select and become receptive to the various genetic material that surrounds it. In this way, the community maximizes genetic diversity while also producing demographic outcomes optimal to its changing needs.”

“But then…you have no families?” Macmillan’s voice had become serious, now. Haunted, even.

“Not such as you mean. Our young are far more self-sufficient upon birth; the genomes of the respective taxae prespecialize its members for their predetermined tasks and predilections. Consequently, the genetic complexity that enables humanity’s variability and versatility is not necessary. Our young aggregate in groups maintained by older and less mobile members of their taxae, who control them through pheromones and redirection.”

“It all sounds very…logical.” Ben’s nod was emphatic, but his voice was carefully controlled.

“Logic is often overrated, Doctor,” Macmillan countered quickly. His face was pale and his freckles stood out more profoundly than before. “And do these, eh, OverWatchlings also oversee your breeding, prodding the ratiocinators here and there, where needed? That would be logical too. Why let anyone make a choice for themselves?”

Riordan turned toward the Scotsman, who matched stares at first, but then looked away, jaw muscles bunching. What’s got into you, Keith?

If W’th’vaathi had detected Macmillan’s sarcasm, he nonetheless elected to treat the question as serious. “I have failed to make clear the role of the OverWatchlings. They are not, strictly speaking, intelligent. To use the closest terrestrial analog, imagine a queen bee who sleeps until the nest is disturbed. Awakened, she instinctively sets about sending pheromone commands to alert and marshal the hive’s defenses.”

“Given its reactions so far,” Macmillan grumbled, “Disparity’s OverWatchling doesn’t seem very versatile. Or bright.”

“If by ‘bright’ you mean perspicacious, this is a non sequitur. The OverWatchling does not yet have enough experience for that assessment to be made. But it is quite ignorant.”

“Because it hasn’t dealt with crises before?” Caine asked.

“In part. But being new, it has also benefited from very few Absorptions.”

Riordan heard the emphasis. “What are Absorptions?”

“The primary way the OverWatchling learns and how we pass on knowledge to subsequent generations.”

Ben Hwang’s deepening frown opened into something approaching alarm. “You mean you absorb each other’s thoughts? But how? Yiithrii’ah’aash explicitly indicated on several occasions that the Slaasriithi are not a hive mind.”

“And so we are not, Doctor Hwang. But this does not prevent us from passing on our life experiences when we expire. As does your own brain, ours chemically encodes and stores our life’s many lessons and discoveries. The most dramatic of these are passed along at the time of our demise.”

“Physically?”

“Yes. Strong emotional or cognitive reactions are not only retained in our active memory, but in crystalline structures produced by that part of our brain which is located in our trunk.”

The concepts were so novel, and came in such a cascade, that Caine could already feel them slipping away. “Wait. So firstly, your major, uh, life events, are recorded in crystal form? And that’s stored in your brain — which is actually not all in one place?”

“Correct. The decentralization of our brain was evolutionarily essential, given our arboreal origins and the smaller sensor and reaction clusters which you have identified as our ‘heads.’”

Hwang nodded. “Of course. Your head, er, sensor cluster was too small to develop a large enough brain for cognition. But once that seat of protointelligence was sited in the trunk of your body, the neurological lag time was too long for it to coordinate your arboreal acrobatics. So your brain evolved along a distributed processing model. Your conscious decisions are sited in your ‘body-brain,’ but your physical coordination is at least partially sited in your sensor-cluster.”

“Yes.”

Caine resisted the impulse to shake his head. “All right, but let’s get back to these, er, memory crystals. When you die, how do they get transferred?”

“They are released from the brain stem and become encysted near the top of our spine. When the cyst ruptures, it releases the crystals in a liquid medium which we call Past Water, for it is how we pass along the collective insights and taxon-specific knowledge of our species.”

Too weird: cerebral kidney stones with a purpose. “So the OverWatchling is somehow, uh, upgraded by exposing it to Past Water?”

“Yes. Crystals with fundamentally similar encoding do not get absorbed by other members of a taxon, and so, are passed on to the OverWatchling. It does not so much understand the data as its behaviors are shaped by it, much as the way you would train a dog to perform certain tasks or tricks.” W’th’vaathi’s neck shimmied slightly. “But since there have been few crises on Disparity, our Senior Ratiocinatorae have had little to add to the defense instincts of the OverWatchling. This partly explains what you perceive to be its tepid response to the current threats.”

“There’s another reason?”

“Yes. The recent war depleted Disparity’s defense systems. When our ships were dispatched to conduct raids along the border between the Arat Kur and the Hkh’Rkh, they expanded their stocks of defense spheres and related systems by appropriating one or two from every planet they passed on their way to engaging the enemy. Those depletions have not yet been restituted.”

“So that’s why you don’t have much defensive gear to help us on the ground here, either?” Macmillan sounded like he was trying to come up with an excuse for the Slaasriithi insufficiencies of the moment.

“No, our engagements with the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh were limited to space. Ground systems were not required. We have not released any ground systems because this situation has not yet evolved to that point where the OverWatchling deems it necessary to set aside our primary constraint protocol.”

Caine frowned. “And what, exactly, is that protocol?”

W’th’vaathi’s tendril-toes writhed slightly. “It is deemed unwise to send advanced technology into an environment where aggressive species are involved, and in which it is possible that we might lose control over the machines in question. We consider this protocol particularly urgent to maintain in regard to your species, Captain.”

Riordan kept his voice calm. “Are we deemed less reliable than other species?”

“No, Captain. We simply acknowledge that humanity is extremely inquisitive, and thus, by examining our machines, it may acquire technical insights that do not arise from its own experimental efforts. This could be highly destabilizing.”

It is also the history of our race, W’th’vaathi. Stealing loot was never more than a penny-ante pickup game for chumps. The big players have always known that the big stakes are in stealing information. “I suspect that destabilization is normative for us, then.”

W’th’vaathi considered that for a moment. “That may be true. But it would be irresponsible for us to act differently. It is not our place to be a change-agent in the evolution of your race.”

If only I could believe that you felt that way about influencing us biologically, as well. “So is that why you are reluctant to incorporate much technology into your environment? To ensure that it doesn’t destabilize you, too?”

“Correct. For our species, complex machinery distracts, and ultimately conditions, individuals away from the processes and temporality of a natural environment. We are not reluctant to employ technology. We use it freely and gladly where natural processes offer no reasonable alternative. Space travel is one example. Rapid long-range communications is another.”

W’th’vaathi’s tendrils drifted lazily in the wind. “Each evolutionary path has its advantages. We have many worlds, and balance in each. But now we live in an age where military capability is needed. In that domain, we have no skill and little appropriate technology. The price of living in unvarying peace and balance is that, in the face of war and chaos, one is ill-suited to answer the challenges they pose.”

Riordan nodded respectfully. “You are uncommonly honest.”

“If one would be in harmony with one’s environment, one must be. We do not have your varying belief systems, no theories which attempt to promote some of our characteristics or traits above others.” She reflected a moment. “Of course, if your species was any less contentious and turbulent, you would not be the soldiers you are, and so, would not be the pivotal species of this moment.”

After several seconds passed, W’th’vaathi obviously sensed the humans’ dumbfounded silence. “Surely, you have seen that, in the wake of the late war, you are nothing less than the fulcrum point which shall determine the tilt of subsequent interstellar events. Even though you are not a very advanced race, humans are the great variable.”

“Why do you believe that?” Riordan asked.

“The versatility and innovation of your species determines what you may accomplish, how swiftly you may change and act. That, not the starting differences in technological or biological mastery, will shape the course of imminent events. Surely, you have seen this.”

Without a further word, W’th’vaathi turned to study the shining ribbon of river ahead.