Raising Caine

Chapter Fifty-One. THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Ben Hwang leaned away from where Caine Riordan lay among, and in some cases fused with, a bewildering array of biots, all presided over by two small but efficient medical monitors. He stepped away from the living bed in which his friend was held, shook his head as the transparent osmotic membrane-dome lowered back down and sealed seamlessly into the rim of the cushion.

Etienne Gaspard hovered near the entry of the room. “Well, Dr. Hwang?”

Hwang shook his head. “I can’t tell much. I’m not a medical doctor, and I’ve only had a day to absorb the details on half of what they’re using to keep him alive. And they won’t explain the other half. ‘Culturally destabilizing technology,’ they call it.”

“Yes, yes, but will he recover?” Gaspard stepped closer, glancing up into the soaring, asymmetrical ceiling that was typical of the chambers within the Third Silver Tower. Seeing it the first time, Hwang had wondered if Gaudí had been coached by the Slaasriithi when he was building La Sagrada Família. At any rate, Hwang didn’t want to answer Gaspard’s question.

“Doctor, will Riordan recover; yes or no?”

Hwang turned to look the ambassador in the eyes. “Etienne, he’s dying. There’s too much compromised tissue, too little respiratory capacity. I wish I had the skill, the knowledge, to help him — but I don’t.”

Gaspard nodded curtly. “Then I shall talk to those who do. Forcibly.” He turned on his heel, stalked toward the exit.

Hwang stared after him.

* * *

The Silver Towers, the cognitive hive of Slaasriithi life, were also renowned for their serenity, their simplicity. The Towers were objects, yes. They depended upon, and functioned as, machines, yes. But that was why such pains had been taken to create them as artifacts that invoked ancient feelings of safety and repose. They soared up beyond where predators might threaten, presenting adamantine walls to the world while, within, their chambers strove gracefully upward toward the sky.

But serenity was in short supply in the Third Silver Tower, Mriif’vaal reflected sadly as he entered the neoaerie. From the moment that Yiithrii’ah’aash’s shift-carrier had been attacked in orbit, and the human survivors had landed in the reaches overseen by the Tower, its many halls and chambers had been in comparative turmoil. Calls for urgent decisions on urgent matters — a rarity in themselves — had flooded in at an increasing rate. And then in the last forty-eight hours—

Another orbital attack. An atmospheric intrusion. Requests for help and consequent protocol challenges. Consultations with the First Silver Tower. Responses and debates. Transfers of equipment and authority. Bloody battle. And now a collection of bedraggled and bruised humans, their eyes furtive and cautious, dwelling within the Third Silver Tower like so many truant predators, uncertain of what they should trust, if anything. It was most unsettling, Mriif’vaal admitted wearily.

But when the neoaerie’s spore-transfer ducts wafted the approach of W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm, he signaled his receptivity. They, of all Slaasriithi, were the most knowledgeable about the humans and had the most right to make inquiries or reports, given the harrowing days they had just lived through.

To Mriif’vaal’s right, Hsaefyrr gestured subtly with one tendril tip when the pair appeared in the entrance. “Note the cerdor, Thnessfiirm. She appears distressed.”

Mriif’vaal allowed that “distressed” was a charitable description. Thnessfiirm evinced more than the typical quick motions and eager activity of her taxon; she seemed ready to tremble. Her sensor cluster did not merely move swiftly, but abruptly; gone was the smooth steadiness of a neurologically healthy cerdor. Her neck skin was haggard and her pelt beginning to tuft, in patches. Mriif’vaal grieved her obvious distress, greeted the two with a greater measure of affinity and empathy spores as they arrived at the Ratiocinator’s Ring and sat.

“I am most gratified to see you, W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm. I trust you are recovering from your ordeal.”

W’th’vaathi’s sensor cluster angled briefly toward Thnessfiirm. “I do not believe I may call my experience of the last days an ordeal, Senior Ratiocinator. Not in comparison to my companion.”

If Thnessfiirm had any reaction to, or had even registered, the conversation thus far, she gave no indication of it. She seemed intent on gazing up into the soaring heights of the neoaerie.

W’th’vaathi settled into the framed stool that Slaasriithi preferred as chairs. “Mriif’vaal, I have a — a difficulty to report.”

Mriif’vaal’s tendrils were a soothing current of invitation. “Please do so.”

“I speak without preamble, though much might be wanted. In short, the human ambassador Gaspard has learned that we have a cure for Caine Riordan’s condition.”

Mriif’vaal peripherally noticed Hsaefyrr’s sensor cluster rotate toward W’th’vaathi and remain focused there. “And how did the human ambassador learn of this?”

“I alluded to it in a conversation, Senior Ratiocinator. During the final leg of our journey here, he asked me to confirm my earlier assurance that we had cures for Caine Riordan’s affliction. I answered that we did. He specifically followed by asking if we were certain that our cures would be sufficient to deal with a condition as severe and advanced as Captain Riordan’s.”

Mriif’vaal resisted the impulse to retract his sensor cluster sharply. “And you answered in the affirmative?”

“Not precisely, but I assured him that there were several different therapies we could apply, and that our records indicated that the strongest of them was efficacious against the spores which afflicted Riordan. Even unto the last hours of a human’s life.”

Mriif’vaal closed his many eyes. W’th’vaathi was skilled and a fast learner. However, the skill of dissembling — even in so small a degree as prudently keeping one’s silence, or electing not to share crucial information — was always difficult for Slaasriithi to acquire, no matter their taxon, no matter their role. “This places us in a difficult position,” he admitted to W’th’vaathi.

W’th’vaathi’s voice was surprisingly firm in reply. “With all due regard, Senior Ratiocinator, we are complicit. The humans requested, on multiple occasions, stronger and faster intervention on our part. And we did nothing.”

Mriif’vaal waved two tendrils in temporizing agreement. “There are always casualties, even amongst the most deserving, when contention erupts, W’th’vaathi. It is one of the great truths which has driven our evolution away from the conflicts you witnessed in these past days.”

“Yes, but I wonder if Yiithrii’ah’aash will feel similarly. The humans were our guests here, invited explicitly to this planet. Although their misfortunes may illuminate and underscore the benefits of our evolutionary path, that does not absolve us from having failed to intervene in a timely fashion.” She paused. “I presume you are also aware of how strongly, and uniquely, Caine Riordan is marked.”

Mriif’vaal was quiet. “And the human ambassador is also aware of Riordan’s atypical marking?”

“Yes, and it has emboldened him. He is adamant that we save the captain or, to quote Mr. Gaspard, ‘the relations between our two species may be strained to such a point where they cannot be productively pursued at this time.’ He also wondered how Yiithrii’ah’aash would react if he were to learn that we had not used every resource to save Riordan’s life.”

As well he might wonder. As must we all.

Mriif’vaal was startled out of his thoughts by Thnessfiirm’s sudden interjection; there was no spore-warning that she had even intended to speak. “Caine Riordan is a brave being. His ways may not be ours, but he sought to minimize harm to all of us. He did not fight to kill, not as a predator; he fought to protect, to preserve. I–I wish I had his instincts for that.”

And now the source of Thnessfiirm’s misery and distress was clear. It was the age-old risk that accompanied all contact between Slaasriithi and other species. Our natural empathy is perturbed when we Affine ourselves to creatures whose ways are praiseworthy, yet not our own. It can tear us in two, if we are not careful. “Thnessfiirm, I assure you: the conduct of Caine Riordan is known to us and shall weigh greatly upon our decision in this matter, as it would upon any boon these humans would ask of us.”

Hsaefyrr’s age-thready voice was aimed down at W’th’vaathi, but was canted for Mriif’vaal’s benefit as well. “However, the request for this cure is not so simple as it sounds. It involves matters of ancient and grave consequence.”

W’th’vaathi’s neck oscillated once. “I do not understand.”

“At this point, that is as it should be.” Hsaefyrr settled back, buzzing faintly. Then, more quietly to Mriif’vaal. “We must, I think, compare our thoughts on this matter.”

Mriif’vaal let his tendrils interlace slowly, carefully. “I think you are correct, old friend. For I fear we have a more difficult conversation before us.”

Hsaefyrr’s respiration slits widened in surprise for a moment. “I am ever your friend and mentor, Mriif’vaal, but if you refer to a conversation involving the First Silver Tower—”

“—I do—”

“Then that is one conversation I am not eager to undertake with you. Or in your stead.”

“Of course not.” Mriif’vaal sent a light dusting of affinity and amusement at his old friend. “You are too sane to wish such a thing upon yourself, Hsaefyrr.”

* * *

Outside the room that seemed part ICU and part laboratory, Bannor Rulaine sat with folded hands, staring at the living membrane which covered Caine’s body. With the setting of the sun, the membrane had phased from transparent to dimly translucent. He hadn’t heard Pandora Veriden approach, started when she sat next to him.

After a full minute, she muttered. “You can’t stay here forever, you know.”

“Just watch me.”

Her sigh was an audial monument to exasperation. “Jeez, what is it with you military guys? You don’t have to stand watch over him, and being here isn’t going to determine whether Riordan lives or— Look; you weren’t even supposed to make it down to the planet. That was an insane stunt. Saved all our asses, yes, but insane nonetheless. You did everything you could. Now give it, and yourself, a rest.”

Rulaine was not angry when he turned toward her, hoped that lack of animus was clear in his voice and his eyes, because he wasn’t sure how she’d hear his words. “Ms. Veriden, you just don’t get it. Despite all your training, you were never military — or raised around that ethos — so you’ll allow my conjecture that you just don’t understand what makes us tick.”

“Sure I do; duty and honor. Responsibility. In another minute, you’re going to be telling me that it doesn’t matter that the corvette was stuck in orbit; that Riordan’s safety was your assignment and that you failed. End of story.”

“And it pretty much does come to that, Ms. Veriden. But it doesn’t stop there. In fact, that doesn’t even begin to touch the surface. That’s the recruiting slogan, the ad jingle; that’s not our life. And that’s the part a civilian, even a civilian combat veteran, is not likely to understand because the only way you get to know it is to live it.

“Look: I like Caine. A lot. But that’s not why I’m here. I’d be here even if I hated his guts. I’ve sat this kind of, well, vigil, I guess you’d call it, more than a few times before. There’s always one of the team there. So your brother or sister doesn’t wake up alone. Or face the dark alone. They might not know you’re there, but you know. That’s what matters. And when everyone in a unit is committed that way, then, when the shit starts hitting the fan and you look around the hole or the hooch or the bunker and you see the fear of death in everyone else’s eyes, you can still hold on to something: each other. It’s the knowledge that we will not break. That our bond is stronger than the death facing us. It has to be, otherwise all hope is lost.”

Rulaine leaned back against the smooth, metallic wall of the Third Silver Tower. “You see, Ms. Veriden, it’s not just about honor and fellowship and brotherhood. It’s about survival, too. You tend the bonds that keep you strong, and not just for yourself or your fallen friend, but for the morale, the sense of unity, that binds the whole unit.” He folded his hands, leaned forward, stared at the oval fusion of machine and plant that held Riordan. “And you tend them most, well, punctiliously, at times like this.”

Veriden physically started when Rulaine used the word “punctiliously.” “You’re not just a grunt, are you, Major?”

Bannor shook his head. “Ms. Veriden, that question is wrong in so many ways, including the mere asking of it, that I don’t know where to begin.”

She frowned. “Yeah. I guess that was pretty shitty. Sorry. Didn’t mean it that way.”

Rulaine resisted the urge to ask, “Then just how did you mean it?” and instead speculated that Dora Veriden probably had a long history of putting her foot in her mouth. She did not have a winning way with people and seemed uninterested in improving the related skill sets. Of course, she was a solo operator, so maybe that lack of reliance upon, or even toleration of, other people was a professional advantage. She wouldn’t have been the first field agent whose specialization had been driven by inborn predispositions and personality traits. He turned toward her. “So did you come to keep me company?” As if.

She actually seemed a bit abashed. “No. I’ve got some news.”

“Oh?”

“Thanks to our forensics fan Peter Wu, Ben Hwang found some weird critter in a hermetic cell sealed inside Macmillan’s right boot. Turned to goo the moment he breached the little chamber.”

Bannor nodded. “Like the one you found on Danysh’s body, after the shuttle crashed?”

“Just like that one. Hwang tried to get it into a sealed container, evacuate the air. Didn’t do it in time; after an hour, it was paste. Just like the other one.”

“What else?”

“We found one live clone. We’re delaying the debrief until you give input.”

“No more wounded? Just one alive and the rest dead? That’s pretty peculiar.”

Veriden shook her head. “Not so peculiar when they kill their own. Seven or eight were maimed or incapacitated by the rockets; a few by gunfire. All stabbed in the heart. Real professional, too.”

Bannor nodded. Professionals, indeed. He would have liked to tell Veriden that the moment O’Garran saw the corpses of the two enemy leaders — one by the shuttle, the other in the clearing — he’d identified them as Ktor. But Veriden wasn’t cleared to know that the Ktor were humans, yet. And might never have that clearance. But the charade of Ktor being subzero, ammonia-based worms was beginning to wear perilously thin. “Debriefing that clone should be very revealing,” Bannor observed.

“Should be,” Veriden observed with a nod, “as well as tracking down all the serial numbers on all the equipment. But we already know what ship he, and that armored shuttle, were from: the Arbitrage.”

Rulaine frowned. “Isn’t the Arbitrage a CoDevCo shift-carrier? Their newest?”

Veriden nodded. “It is. Which is going to make questioning the clone all that much more interesting.”

A long silence passed. The distant hum of the medical monitors at Riordan’s bedside — or would that be podside? — was the only sound.

Veriden sighed, leaned forward so her head was parallel with Rulaine’s. “That’s all the news I’ve got to report.”

“Thanks.”

More silence. Then: “Okay, aren’t you going to ask me?”

Here it comes. “Ask you what?”

She sounded gratifyingly annoyed. “Ask me when I became a part of IRIS? Shit, when I dropped that little secret on you just before we left the clearing you barely blinked.”

“Were you hoping I’d go slack-jawed or do something equally melodramatic?”

“Damn it, you’re a hard case.” She moved to leave.

“There is one thing I’d like to know.”

She stayed put. “Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell me at the start? Why didn’t you tell any of us?”

Pandora sighed, leaned back. “Because I was only supposed to tell Riordan. Well, Downing, too — I was recruited after he’d left Earth — but who knew things would happen so quickly? Or that I’d wake up inside Slaasriithi space, instead of at Sigma Draconis?”

“Yeah, well, since the rules of the game had changed, and we traveled together for a few weeks, don’t you think you might have been able to slip it in somewhere along the way?”

“No, because the whole damn mission was so irregular and last-second that there was no way to separate the crazy stuff going on from the hinky stuff.”

“What ‘hinky stuff’?”

“Hinky stuff like the way I woke up, checked the legation records, and discovered that the secure EU shuttle that was supposed to transfer all our cold cells to Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship had last second ‘engine trouble.’ Hinky like there was a TOCIO shuttle that just happened to have been cleared for operations and was on call, but without any particular flight order pending. Hinky that most of the personnel who staffed the legation were transferred as corpsicles, so there was no way for Downing to eyeball and debrief them, or to see if they acted in the flesh as they were written on paper. And then we lost Buckley, which might or might not have been a result of his being a saboteur, or running afoul of one.”

“So, now I understand why you chased after the response team Caine led to rescue Buckley: to protect Riordan. But at least Buckley doesn’t seem to be part of the conspiracy.”

“Yeah, as it turns out. But that’s hindsight. So, to answer your question about why I didn’t announce my credentials: after all that, and not having a crystal ball, I figured I’d better play it cool.”

“And not tell Caine. Or anyone else.”

“Precisely. Look: Riordan’s okay, I guess, but he’s not a pro. If I had just sidled up to him and said, ‘Hey, I’m on your side,’ and showed him my credentials, he might not have even believed me. Actually, that would have been the most professional thing he could have done, because he’s not experienced enough to pick out a genuine solo operator from a crowd. Don’t give me that look, Rulaine. Yeah, I know Caine’s got good instincts. But he’s been pretty lucky, too. Given his lack of training, he could have been dead three or four times if he didn’t think quickly on his feet.”

“Thinking quickly is a skill in itself.” Bannor offered the rebuttal more out of loyalty to Riordan than conviction in its accuracy.

“Well, yeah, sure, it is. But that skill wasn’t the one Riordan had to have if I was going to tip my hand and tell him I was on his team. Because if he had believed me, then he would probably have given me away to the real traitors in the group.”

“How so?”

“By changing the way he behaved toward me.”

“In what way?”

“See? This is what I mean: you’re a professional field operator, but you still don’t get it because you’re just a striker. My world is different. And here’s how Riordan would have messed up my world: if I had revealed my identity, he’d probably become careless in ways he wouldn’t realize. He’d start showing an unwonted trust in me, casual speech, relaxed body language, all that. If an enemy pro had infiltrated our team, he or she would spot those changes, and so, would have sniffed me out. Or Caine would have been too careful, would start distancing himself from me — and again, a rival pro would have sensed that overcompensatory reaction and I’d be fingered. So my motto in these cases — better safe than sorry — meant not revealing who I was.”

Rulaine nodded slowly. “Okay, I get it. But I have to tell you: between that strategy and your, well, winning ways around people, I was half-convinced you were our traitor.”

She nodded back. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Sure. Figure it out, genius: I wanted to be the one that no one trusts. I wanted any spoken or unspoken suspicion centered on me. Because if it was, then everyone else isn’t so worried about someone watching them — including the real traitor. Humans, even pros in my field, tend to have that blind spot; they presume that someone who is under scrutiny is too worried about proving their own innocence to be watching anyone else. Problem was, Macmillan didn’t give me much to go on. Probably the only thing he ever did that would have incriminated him I wasn’t on hand to see.”

“Which was?”

“When he sabotaged Riordan’s filter mask. I’m guessing he did that right after we crashed. During our salvage work, we had to take off our masks to keep them from getting soaked. I’ll bet in all the activity, and then the confusion after Hirano was attacked by those pirhannows, he had plenty of opportunity to take care of Riordan’s mask. It was a shrewd plan: let Caine sicken by degrees, weaken the group by taking out our leader — who we’re not likely to leave behind — and freeze us in place. But the water-striders ruined it. Suddenly we had mobility independent of effort. But Macmillan never tipped his hand after that.”

“Where’d you learn your fieldcraft?”

“Officially? I spent some weeks in training with the DGSE at Noisy-le-Sec, but mostly at the School of Hard Knocks.”

“Starting in early childhood, if Mr. Gaspard is correct.”

“He is, although the bastard has no right to talk about it.”

“It doesn’t sound as though you like your employer very much. Well, your ostensible employer.”

“Oh, he’s my real employer, all right. I took his coin and I took IRIS’ and didn’t much mind; I deserved them both, and more besides. But no, why should I like him? He’s a prissy classist manbitch who thinks the world was better off when everyone who doesn’t share his complexion was safely under the administration of colonial masters.”

“Gaspard?”

“Sure. Part of the postwar wave of NeoImperialists.”

Rulaine scratched his head. “I’m not even sure what that refers to.”

“That’s because you were on the counterinvasion fleet to Sigma Draconis. Those of us who lagged behind, even by a few weeks, got an earful of rhetoric about how humanity could no longer afford the inequities and inefficiencies which had plagued humankind for so long. So what’s their answer? Any country that they felt couldn’t pull its weight or hadn’t been able to create an orderly government was essentially put on probation.”

“Probation?”

“Yeah; as in, ‘fix your shit or we’re coming in and fixing it for you.’ Coño, if that’s how it was going to be, why the hell did the Western powers ever leave their colonies? They lost almost two centuries of fun oppressing, raping, and exploiting.” Her terribly bright smile was as bitter and vitriolic as Bannor had ever seen on a human face.

He shrugged. “Then what’s your answer? If we do get into another scrap with our new interstellar neighbors, and that seems likely, then how do we get everyone mobilized, working toward the common goal of speciate survival?”

“I don’t know, but you sure as shit don’t accomplish it by taking away some of your own peoples’ national sovereignty!”

Rulaine sighed. “Gaspard is a pragmatist. And he probably has a better sense than we do about how much time we have to get our house in order before the wolf comes sniffing around the door again.”

“Yeah, well, it took centuries to make this mess. Only seems fair that it would take centuries to unmake it.”

Bannor nodded. “I get that. But what if we don’t have centuries?”

“Look, I’m not saying I’ve got the answers. But the five blocs are going about this all wrong, and they’re not losing a lot of sleep over it, either. The only thing they’ve all been able to agree on is that they should take the unproductive nations out behind the shed and whup them. Yeah, just like old times.”

“So, you hate the nation-states. Surprised you’re not working for the megacorporations.”

“Them?” Bannor thought Dora might have expectorated along with her utterance of that word. “Look: nations screw up like people do; sometimes they mean well, sometimes they’re selfish or delusional bitches on a spree, and sometimes they just plain make mistakes. But the megacorporations don’t make mistakes; if they do damage, it’s because they like the cost-to-benefit ratios, dead innocents notwithstanding. Nations are bulls in the global china shop; corporations are sharks.”

“Yeah, but what about the—?”

Veriden rose. “Rulaine, I didn’t come here to debate politics, the world, and everything. I came to make a report, explain why I didn’t let anyone know I was IRIS, and try to get along. But as you’ve pointed out, I don’t do that very well.” She looked over her shoulder at Caine. “I hope he pulls through. But there doesn’t seem much chance of it now.” She turned and padded away, dwindling down the long hallway that was shaped by walls which swept up into high and impenetrable shadows.

Chapter Fifty-Two. THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Mriif’vaal approached the Rapport Sphere and thought: Twice in the same week; this is unprecedented in the annals of Disparity. Woe that I should live in such times.

He touched the outer layer of the sphere. The transparent membrane began allowing his tendrils to move through it. Moving very slowly, his whole body passed to the other side of the barrier much as oxygen passed through it by osmosis.

Between the osmotic Outer Sphere, and the hard, hermetic Inner Sphere, the air was thick: an overpressure environment that ensured that none of the spores and pheromones within the Inner Sphere would escape when the seam into it was opened. Mriif’vaal sighed, stared at the swirling vapors on the other side of the hard, clear surface. Those many airborne transmitters and receptors of meaning were not to be braved by the unprepared. The unrestricted sensory wave that perfused both the body and mind of any Slaasriithi that entered was powerful, paralyzing to the untrained.

Mriif’vaal did not welcome his imminent contact with the OverWatchling’s mind. He did not know any ratiocinator that did. And none of the other taxae had contact with it at all. Indeed, it was probably wrong to even think of the OverWatchling as having a mind. It was more akin to a highly detailed awareness. It deduced, but hardly reasoned; it learned, but was rarely capable of generalizing lessons learned within one domain of knowledge to any other; and while it was capable of change, it was disposed to resist it, in the interest of maintaining the stability of the polytaxic order and the synergies of macroevolution.

But this was not what made the consciousness of the OverWatchling such a ubiquitous source of discomfort among ratiocinatorae; it was the unsettling impression that its awareness could have been a mind, but had not been allowed to become one. This invariably led any perspicacious ratiocinator to wonder what dark path of inducement had produced this biomechanical hybrid, this being that was not a being. It did not help matters that the source of the OverWatchlings was not shared with the whole of the Slaasriithi polytaxon, not even with all Senior Ratiocinatorae. It was only known to those Prime Ratiocinatorae whose domains of responsibility transcended the boundaries of an individual world and extended into the interconnections between planets, star systems, and species. It was they who delivered new OverWatchlings to planets that had been sufficiently bioformed to warrant one. They did not divulge where the OverWatchlings originated, or how their biological and mechanical parts were, ultimately, fused. None of which helped diminish the disquiet that other ratiocinatorae felt when in contact with the awareness of these pseudosophonts. Mriif’vaal splayed his tendrils wide across the Inner Sphere. A seam opened where none had been evident; he entered the pungent miasma.

Moments after he had seated himself, Mriif’vaal smelled a change in the pheromones; Disparity’s newly reactivated satellite grid had linked this chamber of the Third Silver Tower to that one which housed the OverWatchling beneath the First Silver Tower. The room’s audio converter and playback systems activated, but they were rarely significant in communicating with the OverWatchling. Having no mouth, no real body, it could communicate quantitatively through data streams or, when qualitative comparisons or discussions were required, through remote manipulation of the organic emissions within the Inner Chamber. Given the nature of this particular contact, the latter would predominate, or possibly be the sole vector of exchange.

“I am aware of your situation, Senior Ratiocinator Mriif’vaal,” was the verbal equivalent of what the OverWatchling conveyed, albeit over the period of half a minute: it took considerable time for the Inner Sphere’s changed spores to perfuse Mriif’vaal’s receptors, then stimulate electrochemical changes the same way that sights and sounds produced meaning in one’s brain. And in referring to “this situation,” the OverWatchling transmitted meaning that went far beyond that simple word, but invoked a signification-matrix that encompassed all the relevant reports, data, lists, and analyses that were resident in its awareness. Resident, but mostly inert, since its prior experience had not prepared it for such a complicated and nuanced situation as the one it now faced.

“I requested this communing to alert you to the significance of the impending demise of the human named Caine Riordan.”

“Your reason for contact is included in my awareness of the situation. But I do not perceive why a single being’s impending demise warrants this concern.”

“You are aware of the role of the human, of the tacit assurances we provided him and his group for their safety on Disparity, and of his possible further significance to Yiithrii’ah’aash’s mission?”

“The ratiocinatorae have relayed these data points, but I do not understand the implicit connection between a single being and these greater significances.”

Mriif’vaal breathed deeply: it had already been five minutes, and the OverWatchling’s inability to perceive the social and cultural ramifications of the matter promised that it would take much, much longer. “I shall explain. Firstly, you may recall that we counseled you regarding the importance of individual human lives when they first crashed upon this world.”

“I am aware of the content of our prior contact.”

Aware of it in the sense of being an immense but uncomprehending recording device. “What we were not aware of at that time was that this particular being, Caine Riordan, was already Affined to us by an old mark — an unthinkably old mark. We are uncertain of the origin of this mark, but believe it may be connected to the profound sense of importance and urgency that Yiithrii’ah’aash imparted to us about this mission.”

“I have much data that was initially relayed from Yiithrii’ah’aash’s ship, the Tidal-Drift-Instaurator-to-Shore-of-Stars. There is no record of any human passenger bearing such a mark.”

“I cannot account for that discrepancy,” Mriif’vaal sent wearily. “It may be that Yiithrii’ah’aash did not wish to call attention to this factor in our communications. It may be that he was unaware of just how old, or just how powerful, this marking was upon Caine Riordan. Conceivably, it did not fully express itself until the human was fully in our environment. That would not be uncommon; many marks sleep until touched by microbiota they recognize and only demonstrate their full intensity when fully awakened thereby. It could have been so here on Disparity.”

The OverWatchling did not respond for a long time; Mriif’vaal estimated it to be a delay of ten minutes. “What may be done? Given this new data, I would have agreed to many of your initial suggestions for action, or for release of assets, which I refused. But the past is past and may not be changed.”

“True.” Mriif’vaal took his time, allowed his body to replenish its pheromones and spore sacs to make his next message particularly clear and forceful. “But you may still change the future, may change the unfortunate course of events that has resulted from the recent past you now regret.”

“I do not understand.”

Mriif’vaal felt the OverWatchling’s growing willingness to alter protocols and precedents, and so, proceeded carefully, like a tracker attempting not to startle skittish game. “There are other old marks, spores, and antidotes. They are resident in your awareness. You may summon the Emitters to produce them. And they are precisely what Caine Riordan needs to survive, for he is dying not from the wounds inflicted by his own kind, but from our own defensive spores. Which, as we communicated to you before, could have been suspended. But that was not done.”

“To do so would have deviated from protocol.” This time, the OverWatching’s reply was evasive, less resolute.

“Clearly,” Mriif’vaal agreed. “But we must weigh that deviation against other concerns. I shall enumerate these concerns. If we allow this human to die when it is known that we may preserve his life, how will this particular group of humans Affine with us? Indeed, given their nonpolytaxic origins and perceptions of life and death, why should they? These beings fought to survive and indirectly defend the sovereignty of our planet. How will we explain to them and the rest of their species that Caine Riordan, an ancient-marked envoy, must be allowed to die — and not from wounds inflicted in the battle, but because of our unwillingness to correct an ailment caused by our own spores? If you would salvage this situation, if you would preserve the chance of an alliance between our races, then you must cure him.” Mriif’vaal realized as he released the last fervent wash of pheromones that he might have pushed too hard.

The OverWatchling’s reply was not brusque, but it was more firm than the prior ones. “What you ask is without precedent. The antidote to which you refer, the prime theriac, has not been used in millennia and there are many injunctions against doing so.”

Carefully now. “Those injunctions arose from vastly different exigencies than the ones which face us now. They pertain to wars fought in the distant past, wars in which our antagonists were not true humans, but, rather, a malign subspecies derived from them. But these humans, the ones who were invited to Disparity, are the originals of their breed. Their genecode predates that of the self-warped subspecies that tormented us, and which recent intelligence suggests is one and the same as the exosapients who have masqueraded as the Ktor.” Mriif’vaal paused, let the OverWatchling process these concepts. Then he circled back to the key assertion. “If the Slaasriithi polytaxon would be Affined to these natural humans of Earth, we must preserve the life of this being whom we ourselves have unwittingly brought to the edge of death. If we do not bear the responsibility of action to undo such a mistake, why would his kind believe or trust us in any other particular?”

The OverWatchling was slow in responding. Clearly, the arguments were wearing upon its inclination to remain in compliance with normative protocols. “I still do not perceive the urgency you presume to reside in the life of this single being. Is it not his fate, even desire, to devote his existence — including the surrender of it — to the welfare of his taxon?”

“No. That is not how humans have evolved, either biologically or socially. Because they are not polytaxic, their priorities are radically different. The importance we put upon the collective, they put upon the individual.”

“And we wish to ally with such creatures?”

“Most urgently, I believe.”

“I require confirmation of that assertion.”

“If Yiithrii’ah’aash were here to provide it, I would never have contacted you myself. Consequently, your request for confirmation is, with apologies, illogical.” Not to say specious.

The answer was very long in coming. “That is true.” As Mriif’vaal waited, it felt as though the world breathed in and out deeply. Then: “Your counsel is prudent. I shall comply.”

* * *

Caine started awake, started again when he discovered Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster focused on him, only a meter away. It drew back. “I did not mean to frighten you, Caine Riordan. My apologies.”

“I wasn’t frightened. Not exactly.” Caine was suddenly and acutely conscious of still being in shorts and a tee shirt, the only recuperation clothing he had. Upon recovering consciousness two days ago, he had awakened to find himself lying stark naked in a strange amalgam of a bed, a couch, and an oversized sponge that smelled vaguely like citrus and bergamot. The Slaasriithi had been startled by his attempt to cover himself. His sudden, urgent motions without (for them) ready explanation led them to conclude he might be having a seizure of some sort. When Riordan groggily asked them for a hospital gown, much buzzing and sibilant speech ensued. After thirty minutes, they brought him an otherwise featureless black slate, which, when activated, displayed any number of gowns: wedding, formal, debutante ball. The attempt to find clothing had gone downhill from there, largely because the Slaasriithi, being unconcerned with personal coverings of any kind and quite unfamiliar with human sociology, presumed that all Earth garb was fundamentally a form of signification. To them, the concept of “modesty” was as foreign as the term “nudity” was redundant.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster regarded him steadily. “I am most gratified and glad that your health returns to you. And to those of your fellows who were wounded.”

Caine nodded; Gaspard, the only human the Slaasriithi had permitted to see Riordan so far, had summarized the aftermath of the battle at the river. Eid had indeed fled to safety. Salunke had been knocked senseless when the explosion of a rifle grenade had blown down a rotting tree which fell upon her. Prior health concerns were also resolving: the wounds inflicted upon Hirano by the pirhannows were healing nicely, and it was speculated that she would not lose her eye. Hwang’s internal injuries had not been so severe that they were beyond the ability of his own body to heal.

But Trent Howarth was dead. No one knew what had happened, but the speed of his exit from Puller was reasonably suspected of having compromised his HALO rig. Qwara and Xue had been buried and Riordan himself had been excavated from beneath the bulk of the slain water-strider that had, it seemed, sacrificed itself to conceal him from the Ktor and the clones. The loss of Macmillan was not mentioned. Caine suspected that many simply wrote him off as one of the enemy dead. Riordan was of the opinion that he, too, was a fallen fellow-traveler; the only difference was that he had been a casualty from the time he had left Earth, his soul torn asunder when forced to choose between his daughter’s life and the fate of his planet. Caine wondered if he himself would have fared any better against that most terrible weapon of all: one’s own greatest loves turned against each other.

Gaspard had made many vicariously proud noises about the extraordinary underdog outcome of the engagement beside the river, pointing to the scant losses among the humans and the Slaasriithi. But Caine’s memories kept showing him very different pictures: Unsymaajh toppling from his downward swoop, Qwara pitching backward with only a fragment of her head remaining, Xue’s limp collapse, or the imagined bird’s-eye view of Trent falling, falling, falling. And unbidden, Keith Macmillan’s tortured face rose up as well.

Gaspard eventually noticed that his references to the “wondrous deliverance” Riordan had effected for the legation did not seem to cheer the recipient of those panegyrics. But when the ambassador inquired if something was amiss, Caine deflected the inquiry, citing exhaustion. During his command of insurgents in Indonesia, Riordan had learned not to share regrets and remorse except with select persons, in private places, and after some time had passed. And Etienne Gaspard was never going to be such a person, despite how well he had ultimately risen to the challenges of their disastrous journey.

Riordan’s reveries ended abruptly when Yiithrii’ah’aash shifted in his framed stool. “You are uncharacteristically silent, Caine Riordan. Do your require more rest? Should I return later?”

“No, no. I was just…thinking. I had not been informed that you were coming today, although Ambassador Gaspard informed me that you shifted in-system three days after our engagement with the — with our enemies.”

“With the Ktor,” Yiithrii’ah’aash corrected.

Caine was silent, considered: Yiithrii’ah’aash’s identification of the Ktor as their attackers — and as humans — was not a probe, not a conjecture to elicit either confirmation or denial. It was uttered as a statement of fact. So it didn’t seem as though that extremely classified piece of information was so classified anymore. Indeed, maybe it never had been for the Slaasriithi. “How long have you known? About the Ktor, I mean.”

“‘Know’ is too strong a word. We suspected, some of us strongly. We Slaasriithi were not alone in this. We intuit that similar suspicions reside in the Dornaani Collective, particularly amongst the Custodians.”

“Then why has the issue not been raised?”

“The Accord is an organization that rightly connects the assurance of privacy to the assurance of peace. Races that presume no rights to impede upon each other tend to be able to coexist.”

“But if it turns out that one of them is a liar, that same coexistence can splinter in a second. With grave consequences.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster inclined slightly. “This is also true. As some of us have pointed out. However, over time, many Slaasriithi who suspected the true identity of the Ktor became hopeful that they had been mistaken, or that the Ktor had changed. It is difficult to imagine how so warlike and aggressive a subspecies could endure for so long without evolving into a less self-destructive social organism. But perhaps the more powerful inclination against seeking direct evidence of their biology arose from our own societies’ desire for tranquility. The question of Ktoran identity was a very unnerving topic, and full of dire consequences if it was revealed that they had misrepresented their nature, as has now occurred, here on Disparity. However, we did not foresee that the confirmation would take such a brutal shape, or how quickly it would follow the conclusion of the recent war. Yet perhaps this has been, as your idiom has it, a blessing in disguise.”

Riordan nodded. “But your suspicions of the true identity of the Ktor were hardly something you could ever fully forget.”

“Why do you say so, Caine Riordan?”

“Because, during the journey with W’th’vaathi, we had a conversation which indicated that your defense spores were tailor-made to work upon human biochemistry. That, in turn, suggests that we were among your most dangerous enemies in the distant past.

“But Earth wasn’t launching attacks against other species twenty millennia ago; it was still busy inventing fire. So the human threat which prompted you to devise these spores must have come from elsewhere. And then, when you joined the Dornaani in their Accord, there was already one other member race. A race that was both reclusive and secretive, but also aggressive, and for which no prior record existed: the Ktor. So you had to wonder: ‘is the Ktor claim that they are ammonia-based worms inside big metal tanks just a masquerade?’”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tone puzzled Riordan; the Slaasriithi inflections did not resemble those of humans, and this was one he had not heard before. “This is indeed what some of us wondered.”

Riordan sighed. “And now two humans have continued that fine tradition of treachery and aggression. Danysh sabotaged your ship and almost killed you along with us. Macmillan enabled a raid against the surface of a world that is, in interstellar terms, right next door to your home system. I’m half expecting you to tell me that our visit to Beta Aquilae, and this whole diplomatic envoy, has been called off after what my species has done to yours. Again.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash raised a tendril. “You misperceive. Our only concern is with your compromised subspecies, the Ktor.”

Caine frowned. “Compromised?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils waved, one following the other slowly. “The Ktor are not natural, not entirely.”

“In what way? And how can you tell?”

“Many of our biota can ‘taste’ other genecodes, particularly the difference between those which arise from mechanistic genetic alteration, and those which arise from natural evolution or inducement. The latter leaves no genetic detritus, to put the matter crudely. However, the former process — mechanistic alteration — restructures genes through externally forced or crudely imposed addition, removal, or modification of target codes.” Yiithrii’ah’aash may have read Riordan’s frown as incomprehension. “Let us put it this way: natural processes change genetics the way a hand smooths a clay pot on a turning wheel. Mechanistic processes are the blows of hammers, the cuts of knives, the gnawings of nanites. Many of our biota can, for lack of a better description, smell or taste the ragged code left by these artificial processes.”

Riordan suppressed a host of questions that this revelation stimulated about the Ktor, as well as about the genetic research opportunities that might arise through a partnership with the Slaasriithi. “I’m glad that you distinguish between us and the Ktor, Yiithrii’ah’aash, but the fact remains that two of my people brought war and death to Disparity. And the Ktor were using our clones and our equipment.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash oscillated his neck lazily: the equivalent of a shrug. “These statements are true, but they are also unimportant.” Perhaps perceiving the surprised expression on Riordan’s face, Yiithrii’ah’aash held up several didactic tendrils. “If I were to take a dead branch from the forest, and slay my clutch-sibling with it, may I then blame the forest for committing the murder? The forest only provided the object I used. The hand and the will that wielded it show us the culprit. The same holds true of what transpired on Disparity: it was not your doing. The Ktor were the hand and the will behind the treachery and the murder. They simply found the weak and the vulnerable among you and corrupted them to use as their tools.”

“Then isn’t human corruptibility at least partly to blame?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck wobbled diffidently once again. “Any social creature that is not part of a polytaxon is ultimately corruptible. The survival imperative of disparate individuals is particularly acute and so the values of self-preservation and selfhood may overpower any instinct toward communal preservation and group identity. Conversely, the inevitable outcome of our polytaxic evolution is that the group is more important than the individual; this makes the Slaasriithi unique among the races of the Accord. On the other hand, while human individualism is not unique, its extraordinary intensity also makes your species the most readily corruptible.”

Riordan was tempted to shake his head in dismay. “Then why not presume that we will eventually become just like the Ktor?”

“Because although the countervailing communal impulses of altruism and empathy may not be as strong in your society as in ours, those impulses nonetheless remain intact and uncompromised. However, this balance between egoism and altruism was disrupted by whatever mechanistic modification was used to alter your genecode into that of the Ktor. Possibly this disruption was an unintended artifact of the modification. It is no less likely that it was one of the explicit objectives of the process. However, undamaged, that dynamic tension between love of self and love of others is the guarantor of your social equilibrium.”

Caine leaned back. “I confess I never associated these issues with ‘love.’”

“Indeed? No other word or concept in your species is so powerful, so universal, and yet so variform. Its ends and objects are neither simple nor consistent. Yet your dogged embrace of what you love is ultimately the source of the greatest power, the greatest virtue, of your species.”

“And what is that virtue?”

“It is compounded of two traits. Because your evolution emphasized the importance and survival of the individual, you make new decisions and take new actions with extraordinary rapidity and autonomy. But because your reflex to love transcends self-interest, so do your survival instincts and imperatives. Were this not so, how could you have saved your legation? You and your group, far away from the counsel of the rest of your species, innately employed a mix of individual and collective actions to respond quickly and innovatively to great dangers and obstacles.”

“The Ktor did the same.”

“True. But if both history and current implications are reliable, their sole motivation was self-interest. They are like viruses; they are self-interested and self-perpetuating engines unencumbered by extraneous concerns, least of all love. You are perpetually active engines as well, but it is in your nature to turn that power to many purposes. And in the record we have of your recent centuries, of the wars you have fought and the social changes you have wrought, we see the unremitting influence of the dynamic equilibrium — and struggle — between self-interest and altruism.” Yiithrii’ah’aash leaned forward. “You are not the Ktor. We know this. Possibly better than you do.”

Riordan inclined his head. “You are very generous in your opinion of us.”

“It is not generosity to understand the characteristics of a species. Perhaps, in the future, if you wish to alter your own innate proclivities to further distance yourself from the possibility of becoming similar to the Ktor, we may be able to help. We would certainly be able to reduce the possibility that you might inadvertently propagate the expression of negative traits within your genecode. Conversely, we could assist you in any attempts to amplify the positive traits.”

Caine kept himself from shuddering. Social conditioning on the genetic level, courtesy of the Slaasriithi? No thank you.

Yiithrii’ah’aash had not noticed Riordan’s reaction, but kept speaking. “And insofar as an apology is concerned, if either of us owes one to the other, it is we, the Slaasriithi, who must apologize to your legation.”

Riordan waved away Yiithrii’ah’aash’s concern. “We did not accept your invitation on the presumption that there would be no hazards on the journey. You protected us as well as you could—”

“That is not what prompts my apology, although our failure to ensure your safety also warrants one.”

Caine’s hand stopped in midwave. “Go on.”

“We told you that the only way to know us was to visit our worlds, that in experiencing how we spread biota, and with what results, you would come to understand us.”

Riordan frowned. “And you have done just that. What you have shown us has imparted far more insight than anything we could have gleaned from reading files and data packets.”

“Yes. But there was another reason for our insistence upon that method of acculturation, one we could not initially reveal.”

Caine felt a cool chill on his back, a sensation he’d come to associate with those moments in first contact when, invariably, a crucial and often dangerous new wrinkle insinuates itself into the budding relationship. “And what is this reason?”

“We wanted to watch you.”

“Well, that only stands to reason. You wouldn’t want to allow just any bunch of—”

“You misperceive, Caine Riordan. We wanted to watch you. I mean the singular pronoun.”

Caine stopped. “Oh.” Then: “Why?”

“Because our contact with your people is not just motivated by our desire to open normal diplomatic relations. We have another crucial objective, and we needed to be certain — beyond any doubt — that when the time came to reveal it, that we could do so to an individual who had demonstrated powerful affinity with our species, without the benefit of any of our pheromones or spores. When we learned of your travels on Delta Pavonis Three, it raised our interest and hopes. When I met you briefly at Sigma Draconis, it confirmed much, not only because of the easy amity of our discourse, but because of the mark you bear. It meant that you had been touched by, and Affined to, a lost branch of our family tree, a fallen branch. But now, also a crucial branch. This was the other reason we were eager to mount this mission so quickly; not only did we fear the machinations of the Ktor—”

Well, you certainly called that correctly.

“—we also realized that, with you, we had a fleeting opportunity to reveal our needs to the liaison we sought. And we were aware that it might be years, or longer, before so promising a candidate as yourself arose again.” Yiithrii’ah’aash seemed to become distracted. “Besides, time is short. Which is quite ironic: our current urgency arises not from the events of this moment, but from those of past, and largely forgotten, epochs.”

Riordan held up a pausing hand. “Forgotten by you, perhaps. But for us, that past is a blank. So if you want my help, you’ll have to explain how events from those lost epochs are creating urgent problems now.”

“I took the liberty of disturbing your rest, Caine Riordan, so that I might unfold that paradox,” Yiithrii’ah’aash answered. “Because until you know its origins, you cannot fully comprehend why we wish you to be our liaison. Nor can you fully understand why we exhorted your legation to meet us.” He paused. “Or rather, to save us.”

Chapter Fifty-Three. THE THIRD SILVER TOWER BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

Wait: to save them? Damn, what’s that about? “You have my full attention, Yiithrii’ah’aash.”

The Slaasriithi ambassador sat very straight. Riordan had the impression that he was preparing to strive for absolute precision and clarity in what he said, that he was possessed by a terrible need to impart this information correctly. “Long ago, my species lost something: the ability to defend itself against aggressors who were too large or fast or bold for us to ameliorate, and then constrain, with our various strategies of inducement.

“However, as your own people have begun to conjecture given the age of the ruins you found on Delta Pavonis Three, our people were in the stars before we lost that ability. Our races — yours and mine, certainly — were transplanted, much as we transplant biota to different worlds to achieve different ends. We have no concrete knowledge of that earlier epoch, or of what those ends were, but we conjecture that we were, in your vernacular, the preferred terraformers of that time.”

Caine discovered he was squinting. “And what was humanity’s function?”

“We can make even fewer conjectures about that, and those we have must wait for a later conversation. But be assured that it was not simply to be blood-drenched killers such as the Ktor. What evidence we do have suggests that the Ktor were a later aberration. You might call them the flawed result of a weapons development program.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck seemed to sag. “Sadly, what you uncovered on Delta Pavonis Three suggests that the Ktor were used to eliminate the enemies of one side in the great conflagration which ended that distant arc of history. Specifically, we believe that the human ruins you discovered belonged to the Ktor, who had been sent to exterminate us. And almost did so. Indeed, given the devolved subtaxon you encountered, the Ktor so damaged our population that it was unable to remain fully polytaxic; it regressed to a much earlier, simpler state. That is why you observed no discrete taxae there.

“I see you are eager to ask questions about this war, what caused it, what followed. It is in the nature of the way you narrativize the past to ask such questions. I must disappoint you. I have no such information. I doubt any of my species do. But this much is manifestly evident: the Ktor did not exterminate all Slaasriithi, everywhere.” He gestured around him at the high ceilings of the Third Silver Tower. “I do not know when we devised the defense spores that almost killed you, Caine Riordan. It might have been during that war. It might have been later, as a means of making our remaining planets too difficult and costly to invade. But the spores do date from those days.

“Our historical record, such as it is, commences well after that war ended. We found ourselves alone in a silent universe. Never overly concerned with machinery, we did not find our loss of technological acumen terribly distressing. Rather, we pursued our efforts to build harmony between our polytaxon and the biota with which we shared the biosphere of what we call our homeworld. In time, of course, we reexpanded to other systems — by slower-than-light craft, at first — and often discovered worlds which still had vestiges of our earlier bioforming. There was much work, and much purpose, and we throve, although the pace of our ‘thriving’ is very different from humanity’s.

“Well before the Dornaani recontacted us, we had progressed to the point where our synergistic balances had become so refined, so stable, that there were no longer any new regions to explore quickly, no crises that needed swift address, no species that required prompt suppression. In short, we had achieved the harmony we had sought. All the notes in the symphony of our many biospheres were in tune and consonant with the leitmotif we had heard and now, had created.”

Riordan rested his chin in his hand. “Why do I suspect that there is a problem in this paradise?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice was rueful but also gently agreeable. “Because you are the liaison, Caine Riordan; because you see the stories of other beings not from the outside, but from the inside. We have many words for this trait and its subtle shadings and variations. In your language, the closest term is ‘empathy,’ but that only touches the surface of a far more complicated matrix of phenomena. But to return to the problem in this paradise:

“Because conflicts, crises, and exploration had become uncommon, my species found itself confronted with a problem it had never faced: the existence of a taxon which had outlived its function. We called the members of this taxon the indagatorae, which comes closest to your term ‘explorers.’ That taxon had descended from our earliest days; they were our scouts, guards, trail-blazers. They were unique among us in that they sought challenge and uncertainty, conditions that the other taxae wished to avoid. They preferred rootless solitude or small groups over fixed communities. Furthermore, for the indagatorae to have optimal chances of survival and success, they required a trait that was also unique to their taxae: a pronounced self-preservation instinct that prompted them to be more innovative and more decisive than any other taxon when faced with a crisis.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck waggled slightly; his limbs drooped somewhat. Was it the onset of melancholy? “So here is the problem you foresaw in our paradise. In essence, the indagatorae had done their job too well. All Slaasriithi now dwelt in biospheres which held no threats, in which there were no undiscovered countries, and in which the only crises were natural disasters for which we had developed excellent contingency plans. The indagatorae’s innovation and boldness was no longer needful or pertinent, except in rare rescue operations.”

Riordan nodded. “But you still had a taxon with an acute self-preservation instinct and whose focus was as much, or more, upon the individual as upon the community.”

“Perceiving this problem, and what it portends, is why we hope you shall consent to be our liaison. As you no doubt conjecture, we reduced the indagatorae over time. It was not difficult. The demographic balance of our breeding is driven by chemistries more than cognitive determination, and the almost vanished need for the abilities of this taxon had already made it the smallest of our taxae. And, having had no contact with any other intelligent races for many millennia, we believed that the past wars had very possibly wiped out all the others. Meanwhile, the indagatorae were constantly disrupting our polytaxic harmonies, always pushing for faster solutions, deviations from protocols and norms, seeking challenges where the community sought tranquility.”

“And so they dwindled and were gone.”

“Just so. But recent events have swelled the number of voices which, as a few always had, caution that no species should willingly divest itself of any skills, that no state of existence is so permanent that once-useful traits may be said to have outlived their usefulness.”

“A point that no doubt became more pertinent at the last Convocation.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash emitted a weary hum. “We had noted the increasing Ktor aggressiveness for some time, but the events of the past two years exceeded our worst projections. Now, the wisdom of the most senior ratiocinatorae is that although the indagator did become a disruptive element of our polytaxon, it still had a purpose. And this purpose did not reside solely, or even primarily, in the utilitarian skills it possessed. Rather, the nature of the indagator itself was a reminder of what we are in toto: a harmony among all things, because all things do have their place. In the case of the indagatorae, the variables they introduced into our existence were, ultimately, more beneficial to the long-term health of our polytaxon than they were disruptive to its smaller, short-lived particularities. The indagatorae may problematize the overarching strategies whereby we hope to achieve a universal synergy among all biota, but they are also a reminder that surprise, serendipity, and chance are powers that ineluctably shape us — and require special management — over time.”

Riordan nodded. “So you are going to reintroduce the indagatorae.”

“That is our intent. But we need you in order to do it.”

Caine leaned back. “I don’t understand.”

“It has been at least ten millennia since the indagatorae walked amongst us. The genome for that taxae has been heavily compromised. It was repressed whenever it attempted to naturally reexpress in our communities. What is left of its coding is inconsistent, incomplete: insufficient.”

“So you can’t reintroduce the indagator?”

“Not by ourselves, no.”

Caine shook his head. “I don’t understand. How can I help? What do you need?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash spoke slowly, carefully. “We must have access to the original genome, to a genecode which was not altered by our repeated and forceful suppression of the indagator.”

Caine frowned — and then understood. “The beings I met on Delta Pavonis Three, the devolved versions of your species: although they are regressed, they still carry that genome.”

“Precisely. Indeed, I suspect that their population is heavily shaped by the genecodes particular to the indagator taxon. It is unlikely any other taxon could survive in isolation for so long.”

Caine nodded. “And you need me to get permission to acquire a sample and—”

Yiithrii’ah’aash was buzzing softly but steadily. When Caine grew silent, Yiithrii’ah’aash said, “No. That would not be sufficient. We cannot know if every cell, or any cell, in one Pavonian’s body or blood would carry the entirety of the code we require. It may only reside in what you would call stem cells, or in the nuclei of other specialized cell types. And only our experts will be able to make that determination.”

Finally Caine understood what Yiithrii’ah’aash was asking of him. “You need me to take you to Delta Pavonis Three to meet, and abscond with, one or more Pavonians.”

“Not abscond,” Yiithrii’ah’aash insisted. “We would not compel compliance. But we will not need to. The mark they placed upon you tells me that. They will still recognize rapport spores; they will understand.”

“Okay,” Caine allowed, “but what if they don’t understand? As you said, Ambassador, the Pavonians may be ‘of’ you, but they are not Slaasriithi anymore. So the way I look at it, that makes them free agents. Even if it’s best that they cooperate with you, they’re under no obligation to do so. And I won’t support any attempts to coerce or compel their compliance.”

“And I will never ask you to, Caine Riordan, because we are in absolute accord on this point: the Pavonians must be free to choose their own path. However, the mark on you tells me that they will hear our call and will come with us.”

“All of them?”

“Only if they so wish. But eventually, I believe they all shall. However, I suspect that we will not be able to tarry to determine this during our first visit.”

Caine mentally checked how this scenario would impact the clockwork gears of humanity’s own political machinery. Yiithrii’ah’aash was right about not tarrying: Earth needed Slaasriithi technical assistance as quickly and as profoundly as the Slaasriithi needed the return of their indagatorae. But doing so promptly was going to involve a territorial violation, no way around it.

Trying to process a formal request for access was a nonstarter. It would take months, maybe years, to be cleared by the fledgling Terran Republic’s inchoate and still-decentralized bureaucratic and diplomatic services. The upside of the violation was that, once the deed was done, the resulting agreement might provide an easy way to send most or all of the Pavonians to a good home, leaving DeePeeThree wide open for unrestricted human settlement. That would make everyone happy — eventually. But in the meantime…

“Yiithrii’ah’aash, you are aware that if we do this, it will be without any official permission or knowledge. In short, I will be violating the laws of my own government.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash bobbed slowly. “I have examined the ramifications of what I ask. That is why I only ask it now, after you have seen us in our worlds: peaceful, productive, and woefully incapable of protecting ourselves. Or of being truly useful allies to you. To change that, we must reintroduce the indagator. And to accomplish that, we must act in stealth and in violation of your laws.” He rose slowly, stiffly; was it a formal gesture of some sort, perhaps a supplication? “I would not ask this of you if there was any other way for our need to be met, or if the consequences were not so great. For both our peoples. And so I ask: would you do us the honor of consenting to be our Liaison with humanity?”

Caine stared at the tubes running into his arms, many without the benefit of needles or other mechanical interfaces. What had made this mission — a deep contact — different from a first contact was that the strangest and most unexpected challenges were those that percolated within oneself, not in exchanges with the exosapients. In this case, the questions and consequences spawned by Yiithrii’ah’aash’s request were so immense, and so intertwined with humanity’s uncertain and rapidly unfolding future, that it was impossible to separate and dissect them all discretely. At some point, the person on the spot just had to go with their gut feelings and choose a path.

“I will be your Liaison,” Caine answered. He felt a little giddy, a little as if he were trying to walk a tightrope at a very high altitude. “Now what?”

“Now,” Yiithrii’ah’aash answered slowly, “I believe we must converse with Ambassador Gaspard.”

* * *

Not quite two hours later, Gaspard stared after Yiithrii’ah’aash’s receding form, rubbing his chin meditatively.

“Well?” asked Riordan. “Will you support it?”

The ambassador quirked a smile. “Was my decision ever truly in doubt, Captain?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it still is. Nothing’s settled until you agree to the mission explicitly. And on the record.”

A single short laugh escaped from Gaspard’s thin-lipped mouth. “You have become cautious of administrators and bureaucrats, Monsieur Riordan: good for you. So, yes: I explicitly and formally agree to the mission Yiithrii’ah’aash asks you to undertake to Delta Pavonis Three, and release the legation staff you require for that purpose. Of course, you understand that my approval is still but a legal fig leaf. I do not explicitly have the power to agree to a covert foreign entry into our space. Even permission to overtly receive their ship into one of our systems would require final confirmation and scheduling, although it is within my powers as a plenipotentiary ambassador to agree to it.”

Riordan nodded carefully. “Yes, but you are still giving your consent. Which means you are instructing me to carry out this mission. If anyone is displeased, they will be coming after your hide, Etienne, no matter how much you protest, rightly, that it was my idea.”

“I will claim derangement,” Gaspard waved airily, “brought on by the stress of our ordeals upon Disparity and so forth.” The ambassador smiled. Caine found that he was starting to like this man that he had originally dismissed as a nuisance and a popinjay. “Seriously, Captain, I have my reservations about what Yiithrii’ah’aash has requested. The same ones you have voiced, in fact. Since we were unable to detect the marking the Pavonians had impressed upon you, it only stands to reason that the Slaasriithi could deposit more subtle markers, or perhaps biochemical agents, upon any of us or in any of the planetary environments with which they come into contact.”

The ambassador sighed, leaned back in his chair. “But ironically, it is this very fact which decides me in favor of bypassing the appropriate quarantine and assessment protocols upon which our bureaucrats would insist. Not because they are unduly worried by such exposures: their concerns over surreptitious xenobiological intrusion could hardly be more justified than in this case. But by the time they arrive at an independent means of detecting the microorganisms or diffuse organic traces in question, this political moment will be long past.”

“Which is why you showed only mild enthusiasm for Yiithrii’ah’aash’s offer of providing the technology for detecting their markings.”

“Vraiment. So the estimable Yiithrii’ah’aash provides us with the detection systems and biological guidelines he promised: what of it? How do we know that these are truly the only ones we require? Can we trust that he will not withhold those which are necessary to screen for agents and organics to which we have not yet been exposed, or have not yet detected? No, our quarantine administrators would rightly insist upon developing the machinery and protocols themselves. And that could require years, even decades.” Gaspard cut the air with a decisive hand. “Non; we must cement this alliance now. And what the quarantine administrators do not know — and which has no traction upon their science, only upon this political moment — is that if the Slaasriithi had wished to make us plague carriers of one form or another, they have had months of opportunity to do so. Which we knew at the outset. And the only mitigating factor that would protect the entirety of the legation from an extended, or even lifelong, quarantine was the measure of genuine good will and mutual enlightened benefit that the Slaasriithi’s own actions portended. This was the barometer we were forced to trust from the very beginning.”

“In short, if the Slaasriithi really need us, then they aren’t trying to poison us on the sly.”

“Exactly so. And perhaps Yiithrii’ah’aash anticipated these very reservations. Perhaps that was why he insisted that we see their biospheres, their way of life, and their biological imperatives: so that we might understand the full significance of this mission he sends you upon now. For it is clear that without this indagator added back into their polytaxon, they lack not only the skills to protect themselves adequately, they lack the instincts.”

Riordan nodded. “Those were my assessments, too.” He sighed, leaned back into a posture not too different from Gaspard’s own. “But even with your authority behind me, this mission is still going to be a tricky dance. I don’t actually possess your authority personally, and I’m likely to be trying to bluff and bluster my way past colonial and military authorities. Particularly at Delta Pavonis.”

Gaspard shook his head. “It may not be as difficult as you expect, Captain. I have official prerogatives of which you have not been made aware.” Etienne obviously enjoyed the surprised look that Riordan was unable to suppress. “Oh, yes, not even you know all the provisions and entitlements of my appointment as the ambassador plenipotentiary to the Slaasriithi. For instance, I am able to confer upon you a limited measure of that plenipotentiality: you have a measure of authority equal to my own if you are tasked to carry out initiatives that I authorize but for which I cannot be present. So, in instructing you to undertake this mission, you will enjoy my power and authority in matters directly pertaining to its execution.”

“I could see no small amount of debate arising over the question of whether any given action ‘directly pertains’ to the execution of my mission.”

“Naturally; that is the nature of diplomacy and diplomats. We dwell in a world where there is no black, no white; we navigate among shades of gray. However, I have been conferred broad powers — and the latitude to employ them — in order to secure an alliance with the Slaasriithi by the end of this journey. Furthermore, I am fully within my rights to transfer that aegis of authority to you for this special mission. So you may exercise the same broad latitude of action, and expect the same congenial interpretations of your prerogatives and authority.”

Riordan smiled. “That’s nice to know. It will be even nicer having a document that spells it all out for anyone who might be less than fully cooperative.”

“With which I shall provide you, of course. I shall also provide you with a means of being on more equal footing with most of the civilian and military authorities that you are likely to encounter. Monsieurs Sukhinin and Downing solicited and received a special writ from Admiral Lord Halifax on the day of our departure. It was to be employed in the event that I was killed, incapacitated, or that I was compelled to have you pursue legation business on what they term ‘detached duty.’” Gaspard removed an envelope from the breast pocket within the liner of his duty suit, handed it to Riordan.

Who, frowning, opened it and discovered papers assigning him a brevet rank of commodore “for the duration of any detached duty to which he has been duly and officially assigned by Ambassador Plenipotentiary Etienne Gaspard, Consul of the Consolidated Terran Republic, in the furtherance of the objectives of the first legation to the Slaasriithi.” Caine stared at the paper, the signatures and seals for a very long time. “This is wrong.”

Gaspard glanced at him. “I beg your pardon? Everything is in order; I made certain of it.”

Riordan shook his head. “No, I’m not referring to the legality of the document. I mean I’ve been boosted up the ranks far too quickly. Even if this is just a diplomatic convenience to give me necessary authority, I don’t have the command experience or training to warrant this.”

Gaspard frowned, folded his hands, thought for several very long seconds. “I am not eager to share this with you, Monsieur Riordan — it is not my way — but I must be frank: I consider your concerns largely unfounded. Firstly, I have worked with many flag rank officers who have never seen combat at all — or worse yet, with others who have commanded contingents with dire results. You, on the other hand, have distinguished yourself on this mission, and earlier, in the battles for both Barnard’s Star and Earth itself. Have you commanded large warships? No, but neither have most of those so-called admirals.”

Gaspard’s frown deepened. “But that is merely the formal part of my argument. I must add my personal observation as well, and it is this: your innate abilities will more than compensate for the unevenness of your professional preparation. I do not pretend to be an expert on military matters, but as a diplomat, one of my most important skills is to be able to assess the character and capabilities of the individuals around me. Yours are beyond reproach; you are, as the American expression has it, the right person for this job, Captain — no: Commodore—Riordan.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out if you’re right.” Riordan shook his head. “But I’ll never be much of a diplomat.”

Gaspard’s smile widened. “So you keep claiming, in blatant disregard of all the evidence to the contrary. What you mean to say is that you do not wish to be a diplomat and that you have never claimed that as your career. But it has apparently chosen you. With enviable clarity, it would seem to me.”

Riordan discovered that he was smiling slightly. “If I didn’t know better,” he commented, “I’d say that sounds like a compliment.”

“I suppose it does.” Gaspard almost smiled back. “Come; we must inform the others of what roles they will play when the legation is divided.”

Chapter Fifty-Four. THE THIRD SILVER TOWER and OUTER SYSTEM BD +02 4076 TWO (“DISPARITY”)

After Gaspard left the room with the members of the legation who were continuing on to Beta Aquilae, Riordan sat in silence, letting the others absorb all that they’d been told. The entirety of the surviving security contingent — Bannor, Tygg, Peter Wu, and Miles O’Garran — had received the news with the disinterested detachment of professional soldiers. So much of their life had been defined by getting unceremoniously shipped from one strange place to another that it hardly made any impression on them now.

Karam Tsaami didn’t react much differently. He’d been piloting in different systems for almost ten years. Probably the only way in which this was a change from his accustomed routine was that he was going to keep seeing a lot of the same faces: in his line of work, that had been a rarity.

Tina Melah and Phil Friel sat close together and had actually smiled upon hearing the news; anything that kept them together was apparently fine by them. Melissa Sleeman’s exchange of glances with Tygg strongly suggested that, although their mutual attraction might be at an earlier stage of development, it was every bit as strong.

The only person who looked at all ill-at-ease was also the only person whom Caine had been surprised to be named to his team, and apparently at her express request, Pandora Veriden. Her arms crossed, she furtively looked at the others, her frown contrasting oddly with the surprised expression on her face. Riordan had the distinct impression that the source of her surprise was herself, or more specifically, that she had asked for this posting. She certainly could have elected to continue her lucrative contract as Etienne’s personal security expert, and Riordan suspected that if Downing were here, he would have been of the opinion that she should continue on in that role.

But she had chosen otherwise once Yiithrii’ah’aash had assured Gaspard and Caine, repeatedly and effusively, that the legation would not be exposed to further risk. A Slaasriithi shift-carrier designed for war—Unassailable Aerie—had arrived to carry them to Beta Aquilae. And several security ROVs that seemed to be almost as autonomous as robots now followed the remaining legation personnel everywhere, their sensors alert, the crowns of their small pop-turrets just barely visible.

Karam was the first to speak. “Morgan’s not coming with us? He could be pretty handy if we run into any trouble — and if he can keep from shitting his shorts.”

Despite her hard-assed self, Dora giggled. Positively giggled.

Riordan smiled. “No: he can’t be spared. Part of the deal we worked out with Yiithrii’ah’aash is that Morgan gets to look at a variety of shipboard systems while traveling with them, and later on as well. Including their shift-drive.”

“Which seems to have better than a one-light-year range advantage over the Arat Kur drive,” Bannor murmured with a satisfied nod.

“Exactly. With all the technical intelligence we got from the Arat Kur, and now the Slaasriithi, we’ll be a lot closer to achieving parity with the Ktor.”

Dora folded her arms again. “Exactly what is our end of this deal you worked out with the Slaasriithi? And why do I think it has to do with our heading to Delta Pavonis Three?”

Riordan shook his head. “I’d like to be able to answer that, Dora, but I can’t.”

Neither Dora’s face, nor her eyes, moved. “You can’t answer, or you won’t answer?”

Riordan just smiled.

Dora nodded. “Yeah. I thought so. Okay, no surprises. So how do we get there?”

“Yiithrii’ah’aash is taking us. We bring all our gear, the armored shuttle the Ktor left behind, all their gear, the clone for continued debriefing, and they repair Puller on the way. According to your specifications, Karam. Morgan’s going over the finer points of our engineering and our weapon systems with them right now, but I don’t expect any problems; our technology is embarrassingly basic compared to theirs.”

Tina’s face had contracted into a vinegary frown. “Why are we taking the clone equipment with us? Hardly seems to be worth the space.”

“Well, firstly, it’s all evidence. And we’re taking everything of forensic value back with us, including the bodies.” And particularly the two mostly-intact Ktor. We didn’t get a chance to harvest any usable DNA from Shethkador, but now we’ve got sources that can’t invoke diplomatic privilege and immunity. “But secondly, in a pinch, we might have want of their gear. Any gear, for that matter.”

“What, us? Hell, you’re a commodore now. Bannor’s a major. We should be able to whistle up whatever we need, I figure!”

Phil smiled, slipped a hand in Tina’s. “And how are we going to do that? Just dock Puller wherever we please and draw from any installation’s stores? We won’t have business being in any system we pass through. They won’t have any record of Puller on any inbound carrier’s manifest. And if they did have any record of us, they’re not going to be rolling out the welcome mat; they’re going to hit the alarm button, because we’ll be about fifty light-years away from our last reported position. And if they were to ask us how we got there—”

Her eyes opened wide. “God, yes: we won’t have arrived in a human shift carrier.”

Karam leaned back, scowling. “Hell, considering just how far under the radar this mission will have to run, our side won’t have any indication that any shift-carrier arrived in the system at all. Given what I’ve seen of Slaasriithi shift precision, they’re going to be coming in behind gas giants, run slow and silent while they take on fuel, and then begin preacceleration for the next shift.”

Riordan nodded. “That’s the expectation. The Slaasriithi are also loaning us some of their technology and technical specialists to help make our job a little easier, but we won’t get a chance to look inside their machinery. Their technical specialists are also duennas for their high-tech toys.”

“What kind of toys?” Sleeman asked eagerly.

“We’ll have a few of those high-speed drone-fighters we saw in orbit: ‘cannonballs,’ according to the apt Ktoran slang. And a few of the autonomous munitions platforms like the one we used at the river battle, but larger.”

Dora leaned far back in her chair. “All weaponry. Why do I not like the sound of that and what it implies about our mission for Yiithrii’ah’aash?”

Riordan shrugged. “With any luck at all, we’ll have no reason to use it as anything other than insurance or leverage. But if we do, then we let the Slaasriithi ROVs both dish out and take the heat instead of us.”

O’Garran nodded. “I like the sound of that.”

Karam scratched his left ear. “There’s something I don’t like the sound of: the length of the trip.”

Caine nodded. “Yeah, it’s long.”

“How long?” Dora asked quickly.

“Six shifts to get back into human space at 70 Ophiuchi. Another three shifts to our, uh, final destination.”

Veriden rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like I don’t know it’s Delta Pavonis.”

Caine smiled but ignored her. “All told, we’ll be lucky to get there by the second week of February.”

“That’s another four goddamned months!” Tina Melah cried.

“It is,” Caine agreed. “And you’ll be spending them in cold-sleep, just like you did on the way out here.”

Melissa’s eyes were wide with interest. “Can the Slaasriithi cold cells be adjusted to handle us?”

Caine shrugged. “They seem to think so, but we’re not going to find out. Since our best medical tests and scanners haven’t been able to detect their organics in our bloodstreams, we’re not about to take the risk of giving them our whole body to infuse. So we’ll rig the long-duration escape pods on Puller for the job.”

Dora folded her arms again. “They’re quad pods. That leaves two of us without a berth.”

“There’s a medical cold-cell in sick bay; that will provide for a ninth person.”

“There are ten of us,” Dora persisted.

Riordan smiled. “So we’ll draw straws. In the meantime, I’ll brief you on what I know of our mission during the preacceleration toward our first shift. That way, when everyone is awakened, we’ll be ready for an update and can hit the ground running. And once we’re done, we should be able to get back home to Earth a lot faster than before.”

Tygg frowned. “How?”

“Just before we left Sigma Draconis, I heard talk about the Republic setting up an express service using one or two of the captured Arat Kur shift carriers. With their greater range and reduced turnaround time, travel back to Earth should be reduced from six shifts to four, and only twelve weeks, total.”

“That’s still a long time,” Dora complained, “even from Delta Pavonis.”

Riordan just nodded: every day was a long time when you hadn’t seen your soulmate in nine months and hadn’t seen your son in — well, forever. “It will be good to get home,” he sighed. “We’ve been away too long.” He hung his head and laughed. “As I count it, I now owe my son Connor fourteen birthday presents. And his mother a proper proposal.”

Noticing the sudden silence, Caine looked up, discovered an oddly changed scene. Bannor, Tygg, Peter, Miles, and Karam were staring at the floor, faces wooden; the rest were staring at them, baffled.

“What is it with you guys?” Dora leaned forward. “Did someone die?”

Rulaine looked up, quick and hard. “Shut up.”

Dora blinked, frowned, opened her mouth.

“Just shut up, Dora.” He turned to Caine — who, seeing Bannor’s eyes, had the sudden sense that he might vomit: he’d seen eyes like that before. At funeral homes and intensive care wards.

“What is it?” Riordan asked. “What haven’t I been told?”

“Look,” started Bannor, hands opening into an appeal. “I didn’t know — none of us did — that you didn’t know about it. Not at first, and then—”

“That I didn’t know about what, goddamn it?” Riordan held his voice level, wasn’t sure if he’d be able to manage that measure of self-control again.

“Caine, if you go back to Earth, you won’t find her — Elena — there.”

Riordan’s thoughts spun off on their own, uncertain, inchoate. “Not on Earth? Why?”

Bannor opened his mouth, then looked away. Peter Wu took up the tale. “Commodore, back in Jakarta, after we took the Arat Kur headquarters, how much do you recall right after Shethkador shot you in the back with his environmental suit’s manipulator arm?”

Riordan frowned. “I–I don’t remember much. I remember falling. I remember most of you were there. I remember Elena screaming, her brother Trevor trying to call in a med-team. I remember feeling that arm sticking out of my back…”

The arm that was no longer attached to Shethkador’s faux environmental suit when Caine had confronted him again at Sigma Draconis, where the Ktor was still masquerading as a cold-planet entity calling itself Apt-Counsel-of-Lenses, and where—

— Apt-Counsel rolled closer to the platform. Caine watched for the angle of the manipulator arm, saw that it had not been replaced. And saw that the other arm was missing as well: a prudent precaution…

But what if the other arm hadn’t been removed as a prudent precaution? What if—?

“Shethkador shot Elena with the other arm a moment after you fell in Jakarta.” It was Rulaine’s voice again: bitter, tight, hating every word. “She was turning when he shot her. It hit her in the spleen, and a piece of the arm lodged in her spine. The two of you were assessed; our docs thought they might be able to save you, tried, had to ice you so that the Dornaani could work their medical magic later on.

“But they didn’t spend one second wondering if they could save Elena; she would have been dead within the hour. The Dornaani offered to mend her if they could, and our docs turned her over to them. They put her in one of their own ICU cold cells and took her away. At first, we thought Downing must have told you when they woke you up. We never guessed—”

“No, the son of a bitch never told me. Of course, he never tells me anything, never commits to anything.” Riordan didn’t remember getting to his feet. “But that’s going to change next time I meet him. Or he won’t walk away from that meeting.”

Riordan wasn’t paying attention to his tone of voice, wasn’t even bothering to choose his words. When he looked around the room again, he had paced halfway across the ring of chairs. The other nine were sitting up very straight; O’Garran had grown pale, Dora looked like she was ready to run, Tina’s eyes were wide.

Tygg’s voice rose behind him. “Caine, I was with Trevor when they took Elena away. Downing was right to do it. There wasn’t any other choice.”

“Maybe not. But he could have left me on Earth to be with her, to take care of Connor. And he sure as shit had the choice to tell me about it when they yanked me out of my cold cell.”

Rulaine’s voice dragged like a lame dog, moving in a direction it had to go, but wanted very badly not to. “I’m not sure Downing really had a choice then, either, Caine.”

“Why? Was he under some kind of gag order?”

“He didn’t have to be under any order, Caine. He simply had to read the strategic tea leaves.”

Riordan turned. “What sort of bullshit are you talking, Bannor?”

“No bullshit; straight, hard facts, Caine. Come on, think it through. First of all, they needed you at Sigma Draconis. Downing knew that, and he was right. If it hadn’t been for you, would we have found out that the Ktor were human? More to the point, would we have learned it in time to keep that bastard Shethkador from tricking us into bombing the Arat Kur out of existence? You were the linchpin that day, Caine; your presence was the indispensable variable.”

“Bullshit.”

“You can say ‘bullshit’ all you want, and wear that combination of real and false modesty all day long, but you know I’m telling the truth. You smelled the lie that Shethkador was peddling; you pieced it together. That was the moment we stepped back from xenocide, Caine — and not a moment before. And you’re going to tell me Downing wasn’t right to have you there? But he had to have you in that room undistracted by the knowledge that your lover was frozen on death’s doorstep light-years away, and your son was a veritable orphan.” Bannor, seeing Riordan paralyzed by the terrible truth of his words, stopped abruptly, hung his head to stare at his tightly clasped hands.

It was Phil Friel who broke the silence with a sigh. “And within twenty-four hours, you were meeting with Yiithrii’ah’aash. And within another four, we were being scraped together into this legation. So when was Downing supposed to tell you, Caine? Was there ever a reasonable moment, a moment when you didn’t need all your attention and faculties, both for yourself and for the mission?” He paused. “I don’t know Downing, but withholding this information doesn’t sound like something he chose to do: it sounds like something he had to do. And then the rush of events did the rest.”

Riordan did not remember returning to his seat, was not sure how long he’d been sitting there before he looked up and said, through a tight, parched throat, “I’d like to be alone.” And then he was lost again: lost in one image after another of Elena, occasionally interspersed with the one photo he’d ever seen of his son Connor.

Out of the silence, as if happening at the other end of a long tunnel, he vaguely heard a chair leg scrape on the floor, then Dora’s voice. “Hey, you.”

It was Karam who answered. “Me?”

“You see anyone else sitting where I’m looking? Let’s go get dinner. And don’t get any ideas. I’m just hungry, is all.”

Karam must have risen and left with her. At some point the others did as well.

Riordan didn’t see or hear them leave; all he could see was Elena.

* * *

Mriif’vaal accompanied Yiithrii’ah’aash to the flight operations section of the Third Silver Tower. They approached the waiting shuttle in silence. Yiithrii’ah’aash sent forth a thin wave front of amity pheromones, and turned to board and begin his journey back to the Tidal-Drift-Instaurator-to-Shore-of-Stars and, ultimately, human space.

“Yiithrii’ah’aash, a question, if I may.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash turned back toward Mriif’vaal. “Of course. You have been most silent today, and I have not wanted to distract you from your thoughts.”

“They are not thoughts so much as they are concerns. Anxieties, even.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s interlaced his tendrils, made sure that his posture was relaxed. “Please share these with me; perhaps I may help.”

“My gratitude, Yiithrii’ah’aash. The events surrounding the humans, and particularly Caine Riordan — I am not sure I understand all the consequences of the choice we made to preserve his life by applying the ancient theriac.”

Ah: Mriif’vaal is both subtle and wise. He will be an excellent Prime Ratiocinator, when his day comes. “What consequences do you fear or foresee?”

“My reservations are not specific, but general.”

“Please elucidate.”

“Gladly, Yiithrii’ah’aash. I have never before encountered so many safeguards against the use of any resource that is at our disposal, and so many limiting protocols for its application. Even our employment of nuclear weapons has fewer, or at least less narrow, constraints. And yet, the danger one would presume to necessitate such extreme precautions is nowhere evident in the action of the theriac itself.”

Clever. Excellent. But I may not fully satisfy your curiosity, and so apologize for the lie of omission that I must now employ. “The consequences of the theriac are difficult to foresee; they may take different forms, it is said. However, we created these potential problems by acting hastily in bringing the humans to us.” That we had no good alternative to that haste is a separate matter. “What I commend to your further consideration is this: what problems we may have made for ourselves, and for Caine Riordan, by raising him from near-death with the theriac are in the future. Obversely, we had to act to solve urgent problems that beset us in the present. And Caine Riordan was, and remains, the key to their solution. In short, there was no choice. Besides, Mriif’vaal, beyond his utility to our purposes, Caine is also a great friend to our species and will prove even more so in the years to come, I foresee.”

Mriif’vaal buzzed faintly. “And you are fond of him.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck wiggled. “And I am fond of him. But beyond any personal feeling in the matter, there is the need for our two species to be Affined. A powerful need.” Yiithrii’ah’aash paused, let that pause alter the tenor of the conversation as he resumed with a casual, almost speculative tone. “I, and others, have been contemplating how the humans both problematize and adorn our macroscopic perspective of the universe, and how that points toward a long-term solution to our current problems. In contemplating the humans, I find myself unfurling tendrils of logic into the fibers of the cosmos as it is revealed to us through our challenges.”

“And what does this reflection show you?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash was silent for a second, elected to answer Mriif’vaal’s question with one of his own. “It is odd, is it not, how each of the sapient species in this region of space has a special talent?”

“I am not sure I perceive your meaning.”

“It is as though the way our own species has distributed our need for different skills over our taxae and subtaxae recalls and resonates with the cosmos’ own distribution of special talents and abilities among the other species we have encountered.” He sent a final wave of affinity pheromones at Mriif’vaal. “You might contemplate this, in quiet moments.”

Not daring to say more, Yiithrii’ah’aash dipped his neck in farewell, turned and boarded the waiting shuttle.

Chapter Fifty-Five. DEEP SPACE and BD +02 4076 and SIGMA DRACONIS

Brenlor glanced at Ayana Tagawa, the only Aboriginal who was still on the bridge of the Arbitrage. “Your shift-plot is sufficient. Leave us.”

The small Asian female nodded her way into a reasonable bow that never did become fully submissive, Nezdeh noted. She is the best of them and the most dangerous. And having lost one of our two Intendants and two near-Evolved, we need her even more than before. That does not bode well.

Arbitrage’s preacceleration burn caused them all to lean slightly toward the aft bulkhead; in eight hours they would terminate thrust and engage the shift drive to the system designated as G-22-26. But after that…Brenlor had not announced their subsequent course, which made Nezdeh nervous. His decisions had improved recently, but he had closeted himself over the matter of their further destinations and ultimate objective. Thus shielded from counsel, Brenlor would decide their fate. Possibly disastrously.

Brenlor Srin Perekmeres crossed his arms, leaned over the star-plot, shrank its scale to show more stars in the same volume. “Our mission to disrupt the establishment of an alliance between the Aboriginals and the Slaasriithi has failed. While our loss of Terran equipment and clones is negligible, we shall continue to feel the loss of our own team members. However, we still have a way to achieve our primary objective: to undermine any postwar stability between the various powers. We must ensure that the Aboriginals’ recovery from the war is problematic and that they are unable to fully capitalize upon both the spoils of their victory over the Arat Kur and the benefits of any alliance with the Slaasriithi. And in so doing, we shall implicate House Shethkador as providing woefully insufficient leadership in this area of space.”

So we will achieve the same ends with far fewer means — including the inestimable advantage of surprise? This, thought Nezdeh, should prove most interesting.

“Firstly, our defeat in this system provides our foes with no decisive forensic evidence, so it is unlikely to register with the Autarchs as more than a nuisance. Because Jesel and Suzruzh were not the product of optimized genelines, we left no definitive genetics. The Catalysites were expended and hence, deliquesced. We did not lose any of our own technology on their mission. In summary, any accusation against the Ktoran Sphere will be circumstantial and unsubstantiatable. The incident will become at most a cavil, not a decisive argument, against us, either within the Sphere or the Accord. Indeed, all the evidence we left behind is of Aboriginal origin.”

Idrem nodded, folded his own arms. “Yes, but the Aboriginals still lack the shift range, to say nothing of the astrographic charts, to make their way to this system. So the question will be asked: how did they get there?”

“To which every responsible party must presently answer: ‘Who knows?’ Every power of the Accord will deny involvement, especially our own Sphere. And so, discord is sown. Let them concoct whatever hypothetical plots they wish. It shall not point back to the Ktoran Sphere or our patrons.”

Sehtrek rubbed his chin. “And yet, Srin Shethkador, the Autarchs and the Hegemons will all know—know—who did this.”

Brenlor smiled. “Yes, they will know. And part of what they will know is that Shethkador failed. We stole a ship of his in order to commandeer the Arbitrage, and although he was charged with calming the postwar waters, they instead roiled and frothed due to his inability to establish full dominion.”

Idrem nodded. Nezdeh could tell that he was impressed with Brenlor’s growth as a schemer. “That is so. But despite insufficient evidence, the other powers of the Accord will also know.”

“Of course they will…and what could be better for generating the suspicions and tensions that are the precursors to the resumption of war? The humans will point incessantly to the impossibility of their involvement. The Slaasriithi must already conjecture it was us, the Arat Kur will be cast into greater turmoil, and the Hkh’Rkh will not care. But the greatest impact will be among the Aboriginals themselves, who will be torn between concealing or revealing the implicating clones and landers and guns we left behind.”

“Yes, which could ultimately align the still disparate and factious nations of the Aboriginals strongly against us.”

“Perhaps, but only if they have the luxury of time, of clarity, in which to consider the relevant facts. However, we shall ensure that the reports of what occurred here will be thoroughly mixed with new, more perplexing and distressing reports.”

“And your plan can sow this profound confusion?”

Brenlor nodded, leaned away from the plot. For the first time his posture suggested hesitation. “I know of a project, a false flag operation left in sleeper mode, that was established by the next to last Hegemon of House Perekmeres. It was developed intermittently, opportunistically, starting approximately two centuries ago. It fell by the wayside a century later and was all but forgotten. Indeed, it was not referenced in any of the records that were arrogated during our Extirpation. When our House died, so did all the memories of this project. Except for mine.”

“And you know of it how?” Tegrese asked.

Brenlor stared at her. “My father was one of those few who had overseen the project. And if all the pieces of this hidden ploy remain where they were deposited, it only requires my touch to set it in motion and thereby draw the Aboriginals into another disastrous war. In the bargain, we shall assure the Ktoran Sphere of the continued alliance of the Hkh’Rkh and gain access to badly needed resources. In the meantime, as we make our journey, we may reanimate the many UnDreamers of the Arbitrage and train them properly.” He leaned back. “It will be risky, but it can be done. And it is so bold that none will look for it.”

Sehtrek stared at the star plot. “So how do we get to the place where these assets were deposited?”

“With our tug, it is but four shifts before we stand on the threshold of our final destination. From G-22-26, we proceed to HU Delphini, thence to AC+17 534–105, further to EQ Pegasi, and on to our penultimate destination G 130-4.”

Nezdeh almost rolled her eyes. Enough drama, or caution, Brenlor: “And what is the ultimate destination?”

“BD +56 2966, to use the designation given on the Aboriginal charts.”

Nezdeh started. “That is the location of the Hkh’Rhh colony world, Turkh’saar. It is also the system directly adjacent to their homeworld.” She managed to suppress “Are you mad?”

Brenlor’s leonine smile did not put her at ease. “I told you it would be too bold to be predicted.”

“That is…one way of putting it.”

He leaned across the table; there was both a threat and an appeal in his voice, his eyes. “Think of it this way, Nezdeh: where, in all of known space, may we go now? If we go to our patrons they will dispose of us themselves. We are too weak, we hold no leverage, and we are certain to become an embarrassment. We are otherwise friendless. But the Hkh’Rkh are the most rudimentary race technologically and eager for allies who prefer direct, vigorous action as they do. Allies like us. Specifically, like House Perekmeres.

“If we train our Aboriginals well enough to win one easy engagement on the behalf of the Hkh’Rkh, we shall see the seeds of war germinate in the fertile field my father prepared for us on Turkh’saar, seeds that will be brought by the Terrans themselves.”

Nezdeh crossed her arms. “And how can we be sure that the Terrans will sow these seeds?”

“When I activate the sleeper cell on Turkh’saar, the Terrans will have to send an uninvited envoy to ensure that the diplomatic consequences do not spiral out of hand. And when they do, we shall be there to serendipitously catch them in the act: to repel invaders of Hkh’Rkh space.” He leaned back. “We shall have defended the property and the honor of the Hkh’Rkh, and they, by their codes, shall owe us an honor-debt for doing so in their absence — or for succeeding where their outclassed forces could not. Suddenly we, not the failed Shethkador and his Autarchal lackeys, will have the greatest influence over the Hkh’Rkh’s loyalty, and with that, we will become a force to be reckoned with, even if neither the Autarchs nor the Hegemons wish us to be so.”

Idrem frowned. “The resulting war will be absolute, uncontainable.”

“Of course it shall. And that war will ultimately return us to power. The Ktoran Sphere will be forced to exert its dominion aggressively in order to preserve its hold on its Hkh’Rkh allies. And the Hegemons will not be able to touch us without triggering an honor-war with those same indispensable allies.” He turned to Nezdeh. “What is your opinion, Srina Perekmeres?”

“I think it just might succeed,” she admitted. I also think it might get us all killed, but I can’t think of a better plan at the moment. “Now, tell us more about this false-flag sleeper cell—”

* * *

Caine Riordan checked the medical cryocell’s readings. After three days, Bannor’s core temperature had been reduced to three-quarters of a degree centigrade, with blood substitute infusions at nominal levels. The glycol perfusion was deemed complete and internal sensors at full function. He nodded at his pale, unconscious friend and closed the long lid of the white oblong, adorned with blue and green status lights.

Behind Riordan, Yiithrii’ah’aash commented, “I hope it will not annoy you that I offer, one final time, the option of spending this journey in one of our cryogenic suspension units. It is fully adaptable to your species in every regard.”

Caine smiled. I’m sure it is, which is precisely what worries me. You know our biology too damned well and could manipulate it too damned easily. “I appreciate the offer, Yiithrii’ah’aash, but a good commander always watches over his troops. Particularly when they are especially vulnerable.” He smiled.

Yiithrii’ah’aash may have read Riordan’s expression. “I perceive. We intended nothing by offering you the use of our modified cold cells, but at least this way, there can be no questions.”

Riordan leaned back against Bannor’s high-tech sarcophagus. “And you and I will have plenty of time to converse, maybe to forge the kind of bonds that should exist between allied species.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils were a wave falling in slow motion. “Would that I could participate as you intend, but I follow the instructions of others even as you do. It is incumbent upon me to sleep through these many weeks as well. But I shall be awakened periodically to assess our situation and review our navigational choices, and then again in the preacceleration phase before our last shift to Delta Pavonis itself. Perhaps on those occasions, we may begin the exchange you envision.”

“I’d like that. So the Ktoran ship shifted out-system?”

“Over a day ago.” Seeing the surprised look on Riordan’s face, he explained. “I did not wish to bother you as you prepared your friends for their suspension. You were especially solicitous of them.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my responsibility.”

“You also have a responsibility to yourself, Caine Riordan. I have consulted with those of my crew who are monitoring your caloric intake. It is insufficient.”

Riordan grinned crookedly. “I mean no slight, Yiithrii’ah’aash, but your cuisine is not, er, the most appetizing.”

“It is as I warned you. We simply do not have enough of your accustomed viands, and it was reported to me that your group did not find our genetically matched foodstuffs agreeable.”

Riordan rubbed his stomach. “You heard right.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash began walking toward the forward hatchway that would lead him back into his own ship. “What shall you do during this long journey, Caine Riordan?”

Caine glanced at Puller’s bridge stations as they passed that compartment. “I didn’t start out as a military officer or a diplomat, Yiithrii’ah’aash. I fell into it, pretty much by accident. But now that I am a captain — hell, a bloody commodore — and a diplomat, there are some skills I should acquire and hone. It’s only book and simulator knowledge, of course. But it’s the best — and the least — I can do. A good combat commander tries to prepare as much as possible.”

“You are a defense analyst. And you have fought. Do you not know enough already?”

Riordan smiled: it was a question that only a near-pacifist with no speciate concept of a military could ask. “Yiithrii’ah’aash, I know just enough about being a naval officer to be aware that I know almost nothing. I have reasonable familiarity with the various services, their various missions, but now I need depth, genuine expertise.” Riordan sighed, thought of all the reading and sims ahead of him. “It’s ridiculous that I’m going to try to teach myself. People with a lifetime of experience should be the ones imparting the knowledge. They’re the ones who know where all the fine-sounding theory breaks down and the messy reality begins. But I can only work with what I’ve got. So I’ll learn what I can, keep my limitations in mind, and do my best when the time comes. Or die trying.”

“One may only train so much, Caine Riordan. All creatures require rest or reflection.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to rest. And as concerns reflection”—passing his ready room, he saw the photo of Connor’s young teenaged face, recognizably a fusion of his own and Elena’s—“I have a lot of letters to write. A lifetime’s worth, you might say.” Three more steps brought them to the forward hatch. Riordan raised his hand in farewell. “I look forward to talking when you awaken, Yiithrii’ah’aash.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash was evidently staring at Caine, then glanced back to the photo of Connor, flanked by one of Elena. “I look forward to our conversations as well, Caine Riordan. Until then, be well. And, if you can, be at peace.”

The hatch closed automatically while Caine was still considering Yiithrii’ah’aash’s parting words. Or would that be his parting benediction? He glanced back at the photos the Slaasriithi had noticed, wondered how often the exosapient had glimpsed him staring at them. Being at peace was a whole lot easier when your loved ones were close, safe, healthy, cared for. A common trait among all species, I’ll bet, Caine reflected. Maybe that will be our first topic of conversation.

Or maybe it will be about the limits of responsibility for others and their loved ones. Riordan reached inside his duty-suit, slid a photograph out of an inner pocket: Keith Macmillan’s little girl, Katie. Found on Macmillan’s person, it was much-seamed and marked by the slowly erosive oils of fingertips. And who shall save you now, little Katie, with a front tooth missing and a smile as wide as the Scottish highland skies? Riordan started to replace the photograph but stopped: no. You’re going to put it next to Connor’s. You’re going to look at those laughing eyes of hers every day. And you’re going to ask yourself: what must be done?

Caine felt his stomach sink; he’d come close to putting the picture with the rest of the forensic materials, the evidence, several times, but had always held back. Held back from conveniently filing away that smile and those eyes and letting the cruel events set in motion by the Ktor run their tragic course. No, he decided, no; you stay with me, Katie. And teach me about the limits of our responsibilities to others, to the innocent. If there are any limits.

Caine dogged the hatch, leaned into his stateroom, and affixed Katie’s photo between those of Elena and Connor. He touched their faces and then moved with a lengthening stride toward the bridge simulators. He had a lot of catching up to do.

And only four months in which to do it.

* * *

Tlerek Srin Shethkador wanted to ignore the privacy chimes but could not afford to do so. It was the unpleasant duty of a captain to respond to the summons of any who had sufficient rank to consult with him directly. He suppressed a sigh. “Enter.”

Olsirkos entered in a rush, bowed his obeisance. “Word has arrived at the Convocation station located at EV Lacertae. The internecine friction among the Hkh’Rkh is reaching dangerous levels.”

“Is a cause attributed?”

“Reportedly, there is an incursion of Aboriginal raiders in their codominium system with the Arat Kur at BD +56 2966.”

Shethkador frowned. “That is absurd. The Aboriginals have no way to reach that system. And if they could, such an act would be folly. It is in the Aboriginals’ interests to encourage calm relations and secure an extended peace for both reconstruction and technological upgrades. They are not behind this madness.”

“Your wisdom guides my opinions, Potent Srin. But if it is not the Aboriginals, then who could it be?”

“That, Olsirkos, is a most interesting question. And one to which you shall find the answer.”

“Me, Fearsome Srin?”

“Yes, you. The shift-destroyer Will-Breaker is due within the week. You shall take command of her and surreptitiously investigate what is transpiring in that system, especially its main world, Turkh’saar.”

“Of course, Fearsome Srin. But what of maintaining a watch for the renegade Perekmeres who absconded with Red Lurker and the Aboriginal shift-carrier Arbitrage?”

“That is part of why I must remain here at Sigma Draconis. That, and to be on hand for the postsurrender talks that the Autarchs have instructed me to request. But I would not at all be surprised if, in the course of investigating the current insanity arising on Turkh’saar, you come across the spoor of these Perekmeres curs.”

“You think that they may be behind this disturbance, Honored Srin?”

“Possibly. There is a smell of desperation about this ‘raiding,’ and the renegades of an Extirpated House would certainly bear that reek, themselves. Besides, they might correctly perceive that a precipitous plunge into another war with the Aboriginals and their allies could be parlayed into a rise in their fortunes.”

“If I find evidence of the Perekmeres’ involvement, shall I seek them out and destroy them, Srin Shethkador?”

“Your primary task is to observe and report, Olsirkos.” The Progenitors only know that the subtleties of statecraft are not within the compass of your abilities. “Then I shall determine how we shall respond. But presently, I have a most unpleasant task to attend to.”

“Further analysis of the peace treaty between the Aboriginals and the Arat Kur?”

“Worse. I must update the Autarchs on the situation here. Give word to ready the Sensorium. I will Contact the Autarchs by Reification within the hour. Now leave me. There is much work to be done if these Aboriginals are not to get out of hand.”

Chapter Fifty-Six. APPROACHING ORBIT and SHANGRI LA SUBCONTINENT DELTA PAVONIS THREE

Commodore Steven Cameron, skipper of the Commonwealth cruiser Valiant, acting C-in-C for the Delta Pavonis system — and therefore, its glorified traffic control supervisor — frowned when his comm officer, Lieutenant Stephanie Souders, turned to him with a deep frown. She handed him the transponder code, tail number, and supplementary Commonwealth identifiers relayed by the incoming Wolfe-class corvette. He stared at the unfamiliar data strings. “What the hell is this? Or more to the point, who the hell is this?”

“I wish I could tell you, Skipper,” Souders replied with crossed arms. “Not on the list of craft that have entered Delta Pavonis. Ever.”

“Bloody hell,” Cameron muttered. And right at the end of his duty shift. Almost as if someone had planned it that way. Which gave him pause: was it possible that someone had planned it that way? Bollocks, I’m starting at shadows now. “Raise this, eh, UCS Puller, Lieutenant. Let’s hear their story.”

“Better be a good one,” Souders grumbled. “Line is open, sir.”

“UCS Puller, this is Commodore Steven Cameron, acting CINCPAV and captain of the UCS Valiant. Please confirm identity, and report mission and status.”

The flat screen brightened and revealed a vaguely familiar face sitting at the center of a patched-up bridge; Puller had evidently seen some action in the late war. “This is Commodore Caine Riordan, temporarily in command of UCS Puller on detached duty. Special operations. Relaying ops codes and authorizations now.”

Souders turned towards Cameron, eyebrows raised, and tilted her head at the supplementary screen where the new data and codes were scrolling in. Cameron put on his best poker face. “Commodore Riordan—” and then he knew why he recognized the face. “Commodore, are you the same Caine Riordan who presented at the Parthenon Dialogs last year?”

Riordan’s expression was a fusion of a smile and a grimace. “Guilty as charged.”

“A pleasure to meet you, si — Commodore. But your OpOrds are, well, most irregular. And incomplete.”

Riordan’s smile was amiable. “They sure are, Commodore Cameron. Wish I could share it all with you, but I can’t. Here’s the classification level for the redacted components of the op, and my own, er, non-Naval clearance level.” He nodded to someone off screen.

Souders’ frown deepened. “Commodore,” she muttered, “I don’t even recognize his code.”

“I do,” Cameron replied.

“What is it?”

“I was told that if I ever see this code and this classification level, I have one relevant directive: not to ask a damn thing about it. Run it through the black box; if it checks out, he’s got all the authority he needs to do whatever he wants.”

Souders waited for the secure cypher check to finish. “Comes back green, sir.”

Cameron nodded, glanced up at Riordan. “Sorry about the delay, Commodore. Protocols.”

Riordan’s smile was broad, easy. “I fully understand, Commodore. Do I have permission to initiate descent to the Shangri La subcontinent on DeePeeThree?”

“You do, but before you dip your nose into the cloud-tops, I wonder if you could give me a broad picture of what to expect?”

Riordan raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Cameron leaned back. “Commodore, you’re about to head dirtside to the same place where you made first contact. You might say, to the source of all the troubles we’ve had since then. And from what I understand of your last visit, the Colonial Development Combine was not particularly enamored of you when you left.”

Riordan’s smile became rueful. “You have a talent for understatement, Commodore Cameron.”

“So I’ve been told. What I’m asking is: should I be prepared for a firestorm on Shangri La or elsewhere?”

Riordan steepled his fingers. “That is an excellent question. I wish I had an excellent answer. Part of why we’re going in unannounced is because we don’t really know what we’re going to find. Sure, we get groundside reports, but those are from civilian observers who could be very, very bribable. That’s why the cloak-and-dagger approach, Commodore.”

“Which raises another question: just how did you get here at all? I’ve no record of Puller, or any Wolfe-class corvette, deploying here.”

“That’s because we were containerized for security purposes before shift, then were cut loose in our container shortly after we were carried in-system.”

“Carried in-system by what carrier, Commodore?”

Riordan smiled. “Wish I could tell you.”

“Does that mean you can’t or you won’t tell me?”

“Both, actually. As you can see, various elements of our full orders are classified, including our assignment to this detached duty. Fleet didn’t want any CoDevCo stooges inside our ranks to be able to pass along a warning that we’re about to show up to run a compliance check here. So everything pertaining to our reassignment and transport to this system was kept under wraps. But frankly, I couldn’t tell you who gave us the ride even if I was allowed to. Naval ops boxed us up, let us sit, and then some shift-carrier came and picked us up. It never identified itself. We were handled by an intelligence cell, not the skipper of the ship, and those folks didn’t share out any info. Once we got here, we were told to lay doggo until our secure mission clock ran down. That happened three days ago. And here we are.”

Cameron frowned. “That’s a lot of skullduggery for a visit to a corporate compound.”

“Sure is. On the other hand, site intel suggests CoDevCo may have resumed hunting down the locals — who are soon to be recategorized, definitively, as exosapients. And you know what that means.”

Cameron nodded. “Murder charges. Very well, Mr. — er, Commodore Riordan. Down you go, and we’ll keep a channel open. I imagine they might not take very kindly to your visit, and we’d be all too happy to lend a hand if you need it.”

“I just might, Commodore Cameron. Thanks, and we’ll keep you posted.”

The line closed. Souders frowned at the screen. “He’ll ‘keep us posted’ in a pig’s ass.” She looked ready to spit. “I think I believe just slightly less than half of everything he said, sir. And I don’t care who he is.”

“That’s as may be,” Cameron temporized, “but his clearance code and authorization string checks out as legit. You think those are false?”

Souders’ frown deepened. “No,” she admitted finally. “I just don’t like being lied to by people with big ranks and bigger clearance ratings.”

Then you’ve chosen the wrong line of work, Steph. “Keep that channel open, Lieutenant. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of Commodore Riordan on this matter.”

“Hell,” Souders sighed, “I suspect that was just the opening act.”

* * *

“It must feel strange, being back here.” Bannor Rulaine ran his targeting binoculars over the CoDevCo complex a kilometer away.

Riordan, waiting for word that Puller was in position, shrugged. “That’s not what’s on my mind right now.”

“No? Seeing the locals again, maybe?”

Riordan shook his head. “No. Lying. I had to lie to Commodore Cameron to get us down here.”

“Well, you knew that was coming.”

Riordan shouldered his liquimix battle rifle, jacked it into the HUD on his helmet, watched it pick out targets based on thermal signatures and silhouette analysis. “Knowing you’ll have to lie is different than doing it. I’m not saying there was any choice; not saying the stakes aren’t high enough. Just saying it disgusts me, particularly when I have to do it to someone wearing the same uniform.”

“Yes,” Bannor agreed. “That’s the worst.” He raised his head slightly. “The stragglers are starting to run back into the compound, now.”

Caine nodded, swept his scope over the familiar facility. Almost two and a half years ago, he had walked those dusty lanes, dined in that refectory, swum in that executive pool. It was all a bit shabby now. After the Parthenon Dialogues, the then-World Confederation had suspended all operations other than petrochemical prospecting with vertical drilling. The Hague had also tried to mount an investigation into the willful extermination of the local population of Pavonians, now known to be regressed Slaasriithi, but was stymied by procedural challenges. Then the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh had invaded and everything other than speciate autonomy, and possibly survival, was set aside. Now, as some semblance of calm was returning, there had been inquiries into whether CoDevCo’s Site One facility had remained in compliance with the suspension order. No direct answer to the question was ever received. However, much verbiage about soliciting advice of counsel before vouchsafing a reply was sent in its place. Which, Riordan was sure, meant that the moment CoDevCo had no longer been under direct official oversight, they had returned to their rapacious ways.

Close passes by Puller confirmed it. Digging around the archaeological site reminiscent of a half-sized Acropolis had clearly resumed, and thermal sensors showed a number of small teams up near the hidden valley that was the preferred refuge of the Pavonians. Whether CoDevCo’s henchmen had resumed hunting them to extinction or were simply containing them was unclear, but it was an absolute violation of the restrictions that had been placed upon their activities.

As Puller had swung around to make its initial approach, missiles had swarmed up out of the jungle at her. Melissa Sleeman had knocked them all down. She had become a pretty fair hand running the lasers in the point-defense fire mode.

Karam had lowered Puller on its vertifans, dropped off the Slaasriithi autonomous munitions platform, and fired a few beams into the bushes. That had sent the SAM teams scurrying back toward base, where they were finally arriving. And where CoDevCo was likely to either make a last stand or capitulate. But Riordan couldn’t give them much time to make up their minds about which; they would have already earmarked any incriminating evidence for speedy elimination.

Bannor ran through a radio check. “Everyone’s ready for the show to begin, Commodore,” he reported. “Time to provide some pretext for pacification.”

Riordan leaned towards his own collarcom. “Melissa, shift over to the ROV controls.”

“Got it.”

“Advance the Slaasriithi AMP to waypoint two and hold position.”

“Acknowledged. And Commodore?”

“Yes, Melissa?”

“Is Tygg there with you?”

Riordan suppressed a smile while Bannor rolled his eyes. “No, he’s about three hundred meters to our left, Melissa.”

“Oh. Well, tell him to be careful. Please.”

“Will do. Stand ready to activate the PA system we’ve rigged on the AMP.” Riordan leaned down over his CoBro eight-millimeter’s scope. Site One was relatively quiet; the fleeing SAM teams had repositioned themselves around the central marshalling area where a defunct fountain stood bleaching in the unrelenting yellow-amber sun. There were two prepared positions flanking the open ground, which had already been there when Riordan was an unwanted guest at the facility. Their relatively basic rocket launchers — tripod-mounted, with simple guidance packages — had been swiveled around to guard the main approach. Perfect. Just enough illegal ordnance to crucify CoDevCo in court, but not enough to really be a bother today.

Caine’s collarcom crackled. “Commodore?”

“Yes, Melissa?”

“The AMP has now reached waypoint two.”

“Good. Advance to waypoint three and hold.”

“Do you want me to activate the PA system yet?”

“No, but I’ll be calling for it soon. Riordan out.”

“And there’s our spider-monster, right on time,” Bannor announced.

Sure enough, the much heavier, hexapedal Slaasriithi autonomous munitions platform emerged from the tree line and advanced toward the marshalling ground at a leisurely pace.

From the windows of the refectory, one of the more solidly built structures, small arms barked like a pack of warning dogs. The AMP showed no effect and did not stop. Riordan saw hints of what might have been loading and target tracking movements in the two defensive berms flanking the open ground, but none of the hurried motions consistent with an imminent attack.

The AMP came to a stop just the other side of the fountain.

Riordan leaned his mouth towards his collarcom. “PA, please, Melissa. And please activate the AMP’s PDF system.”

“You are live on the mic, Commodore. PDF coming up.” The back of the radially symmetric automated weapons platform segmented, extruded a pintle-mounted tube, resealed around it. “PDF coil gun is armed and ready. Go ahead, sir.”

Bannor grinned at him. “Show time.”

Riordan nodded, did not smile; he’d seen evidence of too many atrocities against the Pavonians to feel anything other than the heat of an anger he’d had to suppress but which had never guttered out. “This is Commodore Caine Riordan of the United Commonwealths and Allied States, acting on behalf of the Consolidated Terran Republic. You are hereby ordered to lay down your weapons, quit your positions, and present yourself for detention until such time as your individual culpability may be determined in the matter of any and all violations of Emergency Action Order 12509-C, issued by the World Confederation and transferred by political supersedence to the appropriate administrative agencies of the CTR.”

A single shot rang out from the refectory, spanged harmlessly off one of the AMP’s legs.

Riordan did not pause at all. “Failure to follow these instructions will be taken as an indication of continued hostile intent. You have thirty seconds to signal your intent to comply.”

A rocket sped at the AMP from the left-hand berm; the PDF tube swung toward it with eye-defying speed, hissed briefly. The rocket detonated halfway between the berm and the Slaasriithi ROV, the explosion shattering half of the facing windows in the refectory.

“Seems like a pretty clear signal to me,” Tygg drawled over the open channel.

“Hold your fire, everyone. We’re going to give them the full thirty seconds.”

“Why?” O’Garran sounded both eager and annoyed. He was well out on the right flank.

“Because we can afford to do so,” Riordan answered, “and because we need to take the high road on this right up until we engage.”

“Prudent,” affirmed Wu, who was working through the jungle around to the rear of the compound, ready to laser-tag any runners with changed-phase pulses so that Puller’s sensors had immediate targeting discrimination between potential hostiles and noncombatants.

“Thirty seconds have elapsed…now,” Bannor announced.

As if to confirm that timing, muzzle flashes from half a dozen small arms glittered along the shattered line of the refectory’s windows. The rounds rang off the smooth legs of the AMP.

“PA off,” Riordan ordered. “Melissa, is Phil on Puller’s railgun?”

“Standing by,” Phil answered.

“Okay. You keep standing by until I call for you. Peter, are you in position?”

“In position.”

“I want you to paint the motor pool so we’ve got overlapping impact points. Melissa, you send each paint-point to the AMP’s targeting computer.”

Wu was silent for three seconds. “Done.”

“I have the target-points,” Melissa confirmed.

“Excellent. Slave and fire the AMP’s full inventory of HE missiles to those target points.”

“Commodore, please say again: all HE missiles?”

“Yes, Melissa: all HE missiles. Is our Slaasriithi technical advisor perturbed?”

“No, sir. The question was mine.”

Of course it was yours. You’re a human; you’re used to fighting, to holding weapons in reserve, to keeping your options open. Our exosapient technical advisor is a wiz with machinery, but the pace and exigencies of combat overload and disorient him. Which is just what we need if we’re going to make the AMP truly useful to us…“In the event of counterfire, miniature antipersonnel heat-seekers are to be expended one per attacker. Engage.”

For a moment, it looked as if the AMP had exploded: the plumes of a dozen tactical rockets hid it in a roiling cloud of smoke. But as the exhaust cleared and the rockets arced sharply over Site One’s long, low administrative complex, the AMP stood revealed once again, half of its solid body — the part that had held the rockets — now an open framework.

Assault rifles stuttered at it from the refectory; the platform fired a MAPH at each flashing muzzle. Each fell silent.

The rockets hit the motor pool in a long, ragged roar followed immediately by an upward rush of smoke and debris. An instant later, the left berm launched a rocket, which the AMP’s back-mounted PDF knocked down easily. “Keep the PDF focused on that berm, Melissa,” Riordan ordered.

Her voice was as alarmed as Bannor Rulaine’s sudden sideways glance: “But, sir—”

“Just do it. I haven’t forgotten about the rockets in the other berm.”

The CoDevCo mercenaries indicated that their memory was similarly unimpeded: two rockets launched from the right-hand berm, hit the AMP, staggering it. One leg seemed to be unresponsive.

“Sir—?” began Melissa.

“Caine—?” began Bannor.

He ignored them. “Tygg, Miles; paint each berm. Phil, do you have target lock for the railgun?”

“I do.”

“Good,” replied Caine as another rocket rushed at the AMP. “Light ’em up.”

As the last rocket blew two legs off the crippled ROV and sent it cartwheeling away, two flaming bolts shot over their heads, ripping through the sound barrier with an earsplitting crash. Both went into the left-hand berm, which literally flew apart. Another rush of thunder and flame; the right-hand berm vanished in a second cyclone of dirt, bodies, torn machinery.

“Karam, do you have an eye on your sensors?”

“Precisely one eye on them, Commodore.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“No combat effectives bearing upon the marshalling ground. Panicked civvies streaming out the back, dodging the inferno that used to be the motor pool, scattering into the jungle. Sure hope they don’t meet any pavonosaurs out there.”

“We’ll make sure they don’t.”

“You’re a killjoy. Sir.”

“So true. Condition of the main complex?”

“Just some superficial blast damage, Commodore. All their records and dirty little local-killing secrets should still be in pristine condition when you get to them.”

“No. Commodore Cameron is going to get first access and credit for the operation. If he wants it. We were just here to expedite, unless he’s worried about taking heat for the op and wants to keep his hands clean.” For which I could not blame him one bit. “Tygg, O’Garran, close on the compound; Major Rulaine and I will provide a base of fire to cover your advance if any hostiles show up again.” Although I’d say what little loyalty is bought with mercenary coin has long since been expended. “Karam, when Tygg and Little Guy give you an all-clear, I want you on site in one minute to scoop up that disabled AMP.”

“Aye, aye, Commodore. I’ve clued Tina in; she’s ready in the bay with a robot stevedore.”

“Excellent. I’ll keep this channel open. Riordan out.”

Bannor Rulaine, looking down the scope of his own liquimix battle rifle, alert for any thermal signatures or movement, did not look at Caine when he asked, “Why did you put that AMP out as a Judas Goat?”

“Well, the Slaasriithi Great Ring forbade Yiithrii’ah’aash from giving us any functional weapons to look at, remember? But when I pressed him, he admitted they hadn’t said anything about us collecting any trash they left behind.” Caine nodded at the stricken AMP. “So I figure we’ll just do a good deed and clean up their trash.”

Rulaine smiled. “Which our miltech brain trust will dissect and get messy drooling over. Commodore, I hope you never choose to become a statesman.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re just sneaky enough to be good at it.”

“Maybe,” answered Caine, “but today, I was only interested in one thing: getting us access to every weapon available, given the years to come.”

Bannor heard the implication. “So despite the Arat Kur surrender, you don’t think we’re going to have ‘peace in our time’?”

Riordan just watched Puller swing in on fans and open its bay, ready to scoop up the battered AMP like a mechanical bird retrieving an injured fledgling into its own body.

* * *

Sixty kilometers north of the mini-Acropolis that had been the first mute evidence of other intelligences in the universe, Riordan’s team stood watch for the return of Yiithrii’ah’aash and his assistants. Despite repeated warnings about the dangers posed by pavonosaurs, the Slaasriithi had elected to search for the locals on their own. The presence of humans, Yiithrii’ah’aash explained, would only complicate what could yet prove to be a very simple matter.

Caine was part of the external anchor watch when Karam called him with news that Commodore Cameron was on the line. “Patch him through.”

“Commodores, you are both on; the line is encrypted and private.”

Encrypted and private? Hmmm—“Commodore Cameron, glad to hear from you.”

“Just Steve, please, Commodore Riordan.”

“Then it’s Caine, Steve. What can I do for you?”

“Firstly, I wanted to update you on what we found at Site One.”

“Incriminating evidence?”

“The mother lode. Apparently, the clever fellow they had running the show when you visited, Helger, was summoned home when it was anticipated that Shangri La was going into a deep freeze as far as profit-making was concerned. The drongo who took over was nowhere near so shrewd about what information he kept and what he didn’t. We have full records of ‘secure’ communications and cypher keys from CoDevCo’s top brass, instructing a resumption of Site One’s campaign of ‘indigenous wildlife elimination,’ in which the locals are definitively listed. And this after they were designated a protected species by the Hague, pending a scientific measurement of their sapience. CoDevCo has screwed itself well and good, Caine.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving pack of jackals,” Caine observed. “But you wouldn’t need a cypher on this line to tell me that. What’s coming down the path towards me, Steve?”

There was a short silence. “You must have majored in reading between the lines, Riordan. But you’re right. You’ve got a situation inbound.”

“Big trouble or little trouble?”

“Might not be trouble at all. Or it might be worse trouble than I can imagine. Only you’d know.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because the trouble asked about you by name. Seemed to expect he’d find you here.”

Ah. “So you got a call from Richard Downing.”

“I did. Seems he came in-system two days ago, behind the further gas giant, had the codes to override our remote sensors out there. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Richard can do a lot of things that don’t seem possible. What else?”

“Asked about you, what your mission was, showed me credentials even more extraordinary than yours. A lot more extraordinary. And he’s on his way to see you.”

“When?”

“About twenty minutes from now. He’s putting down at Site One. Good luck, Caine.”

The line went dead. Twenty minutes before I have to deal with Richard Downing? Well, that just makes my day.

Karam’s voice was back. “Caine, group coming in from the west. Traveling tight, casual pace. Looks like Yiithrii’ah’aash, his party, maybe three others.”

“Okay. Alert the rest of the watch; we don’t want any friendly fire foul-ups. And spin up the fans; we’ve got a date back at Site One.”

* * *

When Downing emerged from the dust kicked up by the vertifans of his shuttle, Caine and Yiithrii’ah’aash were waiting for him. Alone. Downing motioned for his security escort to stay back, resumed his approach.

“Richard,” Caine called to him. “I’d like you to finally meet Prime Ratiocinator Yiithrii’ah’aash of the Slaasriithi Great Ring, with whom I believe you coordinated our legation’s journey to Beta Aquilae.”

Downing started to put out his hand, was about to pull it back, hesitated again when Yiithrii’ah’aash extended his tendrils. “I have become accustomed to your ways, Mr. Downing, and am pleased to make your personal acquaintance. You obviously received our message.”

“In fact, Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, I was already in transit when it arrived, but was able to divert here to Delta Pavonis.” He glanced at the worn ramp leading up into Puller. “I take it you have found what you came for?”

“Indeed. It is gratifying to find such swift rapport with our distant kin despite the passage of so much time. We feared that the estrangement would be greater, that perhaps their pheromones had become hopelessly recidivistic. But the markings upon Caine Riordan gave us countervailing hope. After all, if the mark impressed upon him here was still recognizable — and powerfully so — to us, we had reason to conjecture that ours might still be recognizable to them.”

He waved at Puller. “Three of the locals you call Pavonians have consented to come with us. It is a brave thing they do; their people have not ventured beyond this valley for many generations. However, their myth tells them that we are all from the stars, and they wish to see the home of the biota that gave rise to them. They shall be honored among us and, if it is not objectionable to you, we shall return to repatriate any others that might wish it, once our respective governments have agreed to the conditions under which that might occur.”

“I am sure that can be arranged swiftly, Ambassador,” Downing affirmed with a nod. “We have no desire to keep you and your distant relatives apart any longer than absolutely necessary.”

The Slaasriithi’s neck dipped very low and remained so for several seconds before he raised it and spoke again. “Ultimately, we have humanity’s curiosity to thank for our reunification. Naturally, all intelligence arises from curiosity, from exploring novel solutions to problems. But only humanity avidly, even restlessly, seeks out so many challenges and mysteries. For you, nothing calls more strongly than the unknown, or so it seems.”

“Thank you,” said Caine, unsure of what else to say. “But it’s a shame that your reunion must take place under the likely shadow of war.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck wiggled slightly. “I suspect we would not have realized our need of the indagatorae until such a threat arose, so there may be an unavoidable connection between the approach of strife and our desire to reembrace our lost taxon. Which we shall now undertake to restore.”

“But it will require some time to breed sufficient numbers of indagatorae, won’t it?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster focused on Caine. “‘Sufficient numbers?’ I am uncertain what you mean.”

Downing stepped in. “Enough to field an army or expand your naval formations.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash stared at them for a long time. “I am sorry; you misperceive. We do not need the indagatorae to breed an army. As you say, that would take too long and we lack the requisite skills to train such forces in time, or at all.”

Riordan felt adrift. “Then why do you need the indagatorae?”

Yiithrii’ah’aash waved tendrils to take in everything around him. “To act as our liaisons to those members of the macrocommunity who are soldiers already. That is, the indagatorae will be our liaisons to humanity.”

Caine had stepped backward before he realized he had done so. “You mean, you consider us part of your community? And that our role is to be your soldiers?”

“All things are part of the community of life. And all have their roles.”

And our role is to die for you? Wait just a goddamned minute— But Caine remembered that he was a diplomat, and that the Slaasriithi would be unlikely to see the situation in those terms. “Assuming we are even willing to take up that role, there is a further complication: you Slaasriithi shape your community without consulting all its members. Without anything like a referendum.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash did not blink. “That is true,” he said.

“And you presume we would be willing to be enter into that kind of relationship?”

“Caine Riordan, I have clearly alarmed you. Be calmed: we presume nothing. But we have observed, with great clarity, just how deficient we are in warfare. The speed with which your species is willing to destroy assets in order to achieve objectives — such as the way you prevailed upon me to destroy Disparity’s antimatter depot to hamper the efforts of the Ktor — is utterly alien to us. We acknowledge our limitations. But we also see areas where we may make fair and balanced contributions in exchange. We may assist you in accelerating the speed with which your green and brown worlds become self-sufficient. We have technological capabilities which may be selectively shared. We may construct various defensive and sensor systems and ROVs that shall aid your forces, or allow you to secure vast areas without wasting precious personnel to do so. These contributions are merely the treetops of a deep forest of possibilities, and we shall explore all of them together.”

“That sounds like a reasonable starting point,” Downing answered, sending a warning glance at Caine.

Who could only think: my God, with friends like these, who needs enemies? Unless we can trust them…but how would we ever know for sure? And no matter what Yiithrii’ah’aash says, we’d be doing all the fighting, even while wondering: who’s really driving the bus? What if our “allies” are subtly changing our genome to make us more tractable, more willing to blend ourselves into a panspeciate polytaxic order?

Of course, that was the human perspective. Caine could readily imagine an identical Slaasriithi perspective that was not intentionally malign or insidious, but was simply an outgrowth of their evolutionary successes. Just as humans evolved toward political unity to accrue collective power, the Slaasriithi were simply following the well-established groove of their own paradigm: that polytaxism is the natural means of expanding safety and stability for all species. For them, it deductively followed that all species should be linked in a figurative or even literal polytaxon.

But, as true as that might be for the Slaasriithi, Riordan doubted that it would ever be a good fit for humanity. And more so, he could not foresee any benefit so great that the mothers and fathers of Terra should be asked to accept that only their offspring would pay for the collective good in blood.

But these thoughts were not suitable for what was still a careful, diplomatic exchange, so Riordan replied with a harmlessly oblique truth: “I think the perspective you articulate will be the starting place for many enlightening discussions.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster remained fixed upon him. “I understand you are troubled, Caine Riordan. You have my assurance of this: we Slaasriithi understand the limits of cooperative relationships. Biota which are not both happy with a symbiosis are not symbiots for long. As we move forward together, we will always seek, and endeavor to productively address, the reservations of your species. Nothing else would be stable. Nothing else would be wise or prudent.” He shifted his attention toward Downing. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Downing. I perceive you have separate matters to discuss with the commodore. I shall take my leave.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven. SITE ONE DELTA PAVONIS THREE

Downing motioned toward a folding table that Commodore Cameron’s teams had set up to process the CoDevCo employees into detention groups. “Mind if we sit?”

Caine shook his head, pulled out a chair, let Downing settle into his own before he declared, “Let’s not play charades, Richard. Just tell me why you’re out here. You told Yiithrii’ah’aash that you were already on the move, but were able to ‘divert’ to Delta Pavonis. But every time you’re on the move, you seem to be coming to find me. So, let’s get that out in the open and dealt with: what do you need from me, Richard?” Because after we finish our business, we’ve got some personal matters to settle.

Richard looked down at his folded hands. “Well, it just so happens we have a situation—”

Caine threw his head back and laughed. “Downing, you are too much. I haven’t even finished this mission, and you’ve come out here to send me on another?”

“This isn’t my doing, Caine. You were asked for by name.”

“Oh? By whom?”

“By the New Families of the Hkh’Rkh. Specifically, by Yaargraukh.”

Caine straightened. “Yaargraukh survived Jakarta?” The two-and-a-half meter Hkh’Rkh, a pipsqueak for his species, had been a confidante, a being of great honor, a friend.

Downing nodded. “He survived and was repatriated. His circumstances are difficult, since the Hkh’Rkh leadership that brought him on the campaign was decimated. Their First Fist was killed in Indonesia and First Voice remains missing. With no one to vouch for Yaargraukh, or his version of the events in Jakarta, he was returned — ignominiously, I believe — to his home on a colony world in a system they share with the Arat Kur. Turkh’saar, they call it.”

“I appreciate the news, but I don’t see what—”

“Caine, the situation developing on Turkh’saar could have extremely serious repercussions for the Consolidated Terran Republic and possibly the peace. Yaargraukh has asked that we send you to help.” Downing leaned forward. “You two always understood each other, had a bond from the first time you met. I don’t think he fully trusts any other human to be impartial, given what’s happening in his home system.”

“And what is happening there?”

“According to him, offworld raiders have been striking at various targets on Turkh’saar, and they’re leaving scorched earth behind.”

Riordan frowned. “Well, that’s definitely a bad situation, but why do they want to get humans involved in their own internal affairs?”

“Because,” replied Richard, producing his palmtop, “the affair in question is not purely internal. This is part of what the Hkh’Rkh defenders recorded from the raiders’ own tactical channels — just before they swooped in and destroyed another town.” Downing activated the playback function, put the palmtop on the table between them. Sinuous music began rising, uncoiling from it: primitive drums savagely split apart a plaintive guitar solo, leaving a rift through which a seductively menacing voice flowed. Its words were dark, enigmatic.

Riordan started, stared at Downing. “That’s — that’s twentieth-century rock. Early in the movement. I think it’s — uh, it’s—”

“‘Paint it Black’ by a group called the Rolling Stones. Original recording, the archivists at Langley tell me.”

Riordan shook his head. “Okay, but — but what do you want me to do about it?”

“I, and Yaargraukh, want you to go to Turkh’saar and find out why humans playing twentieth-century rock music over their tactical channels are attacking the Hkh’Rkh — and how that’s even possible, since we can’t reach that area of space yet. And it’s got to be handled right away, because this has landed in the Hkh’Rkhs’ political powderkeg like a lit firecracker. With First Voice still missing on Earth amid accusations that he is secretly being held by us, this incident has whipped up their hardliners into a xenophobic frenzy, convinced them that we have sent a raiding team into their space.”

Caine stared at the palmtop. “But to achieve what?”

Downing shrugged. “They haven’t offered any coherent hypotheses about that, but they also don’t seem to care. Their internal debates — about just how duplicitous we really are, how to respond to this incursion, and who is to succeed First Voice — are primed to tear them apart. According to Yaargraukh, there is increasing talk of a multisided civil war.”

Riordan nodded. “Which could propel them just that much deeper into the Ktoran camp.”

“Exactly.”

“And how do I get to Turkh’saar to investigate this?”

“I plan on asking Yiithrii’ah’aash. Since I will cut some official corners to retroactively ‘allow’ his trip here, he might return the favor by conveying you to the system in question: BD +56 2966. The Slaasriithi conducted a fair amount of commerce raiding against the Hkh’Rkh during the war. Consequently they have both the shift range and the local familiarity to deliver you where you need to go.”

“Operational assets?”

“I’ve brought some personnel who can accompany you. Not a lot, I’m afraid. Clearance for this operation rather limited the selection pool.”

Caine turned, stared back up at Puller, saw a few faces looking down at them from the bridge windows. “And what about the crew who came out here with me?”

“Them? Well, I should think they’ll be happy to go home.”

“Yeah? Will they?” Caine opened his collarcom, his eyes on Downing’s. “Hey everyone, I need you to listen to a situation that’s come up. Richard, tell them what you just told me.”

“Caine, if I do that—”

“Richard, since they are already intelligence risks because of what we saw during our trip into Slaasriithi space, how much more hot water can they get into by hearing about current events on Turkh’saar?”

Downing returned Riordan’s stare, then shrugged and told the whole tale again.

There was a long silence, broken by Miles O’Garran: “Man, that is some serious shit.”

Caine couldn’t help but grin. “Yes, it is. And here’s why I had Mr. Downing share it with you: you’ve got a choice to make. Either you go straight back to Earth or you go straight back out into the field to investigate this very serious shit. I have no idea what we’ll find there or if we’ll make it back. Frankly, I’m not sure of anything about this mission; my ignorance is absolute. But you all know what going back to Earth could mean: extended debriefs, protective custody, God knows how many years living in secure facilities, safe houses, whatever. You’ve seen, and you know, too much to be allowed out in general circulation. Or am I exaggerating, Richard?”

“Caine, I would not impose that kind of cloistering on any of your—”

“I’m not talking about you, Richard. I’m talking about the people you answer to, who can trump any assurances you might give us. On a whim. Am I exaggerating what they are likely to do?”

Downing looked away. “No.”

Caine turned and stared up at the nine faces now crowded against the bridge windows, spoke into his collarcom. “I can’t guarantee you anything except that whatever we face, we face together. And maybe, when we come back, we can cut a deal to stay out of a facility for people who know too much. If, on the other hand, you want to go back to Earth, I can get Richard to promise you, with one hand on his heart and the other on the Bible, that you won’t wind up in one of those ultra-secluded country clubs. But how much that promise is worth — well, you’ll have to make that decision for yourself. I realize you might need some time to think about it, so there’s no ru—”

“We’re coming with you.” It was Karam. “We’re not stupid; we know how this would go down.”

Bannor’s voice went over the top of Tsaami’s. “We all make a pretty good team. We think it best if we keep it that way, if that’s all right with you. Commodore.”

Caine felt a tightness behind his eyes, nodded at them, turned back to Downing. “They’re coming along for the ride.”

Downing was gazing steadily at Riordan. “So I hear. They seem a fine group, Caine.”

“They are. Every damned one of them.” He realized his collarcom was still on, slapped it off. “So are we done with business?”

“We are.”

“Then I’ve got some personal questions to—”

Downing suddenly looked nervous. And tortured. “Caine, about Elena, about what happened—”

“Richard. This is not a prelude to recriminations.” Riordan swallowed; it felt like there was a baseball in his throat. “I get it; I get what happened. I thought about it a lot on the way out here. You didn’t really have any—”

“No, Caine. No. Enough is enough. My culpability goes deeper than you know and I’d rather have you angry — homicidally furious — at me, than live with this any longer.” Downing’s eyes were suddenly red-rimmed, almost rheumy. “Elena should never have been in Jakarta; she should never have been involved in any of this. For bloody Christ’s sake, she’s my godchild; I held her on my knee. She called me Uncle Richard as soon as she could talk.”

“Richard, I know you must feel—”

“You know what I feel? Really?” Downing jabbed a finger at Caine. “You have every right to hate me, to despise what I’ve done and how I’ve failed her. But don’t tell me you know what I feel, Riordan. Added all together, you’ve known Elena Corcoran a few weeks. I knew her for almost her entire life. If I had one meal with her, I have had, literally, a thousand. She babysat my daughter, took her around with Connor sometimes when they were both small — and when she was still devastated by losing you, though none of us knew anything about that at the time.” His face contorted, grew red. “And this, this, is the life to which I led her? Boxed up somewhere in a Dornaani medical facility, hovering in a twilight between life and death?” He looked at Caine, furious and pleading. “Why was she ever inducted into IRIS? Why was she a member of the delegation to the Convocation? Why was she in Jakarta? Why was she part of the team who entered the Arat Kur headquarters with you? Why was she anywhere in range of that murdering bastard Shethkador? Because of me, goddamn it. Because of me.” He averted his head, his teeth clenched, his whole body leaning sharply away as if he was trying to get out of it, somehow. “God, I could use a drink.”

Caine nodded, then stopped. Come to think of it, Richard’s desperation didn’t look merely emotional, but tinged with need, dependence. And was he putting on weight, the kind of waste-flab that comes from drinking too much?

But there wasn’t the time or the opportunity to surreptitiously look for other signs of a man who might be descending into a bottle. There was just enough time for Caine to say the words that had to be said, no matter how much he didn’t want to utter them, but which Downing needed to hear: “Richard, you were just the accomplice. It was her own father who performed the deeds, who got her tangled up in IRIS, albeit indirectly. Who put her through all the misery. You weren’t in a position to stop it. Ever.”

Downing was only half listening. “This is a dirty game, a dirty life, Caine. I’m sorry I got you into it, into all the lies and manipulation and secrets. I’m sorry I ever—”

“Listen,” Riordan said sharply, which got Downing’s attention. Which had been Riordan’s intent: he needed to steer Downing away from the edge of what might become a self-destructive precipice of grief. “Listen,” Caine repeated, “long before any battles were joined, we were at war. But only you and Nolan Corcoran and a handful of others knew it. And you had to get us ready, had to prepare all of humanity. Without us knowing you were doing so. We had to be ready to fight species that were more advanced and expansive than we were. That didn’t give you two any margin for error. And if you and Nolan made mistakes along the way — well, hindsight is twenty-twenty, but real-time is a bitch. The bottom line is, we’re all still alive to complain about it. And maybe patch together a few pieces of our normal lives.” He reached into the front pocket of his duty suit. “Here. I want you to take this back to Earth. It’s for Connor.”

Downing, his eyes still haunted but his face no longer contorted, took the data chip. “What is it?”

“A collection of letters. I wrote one every day of the journey from Disparity to here. Some recordings as well; anything to give him a sense of who I am.”

Downing turned it around in his fingers. “Did you — did you know we were going to send you right out again?”

Riordan shrugged. “I didn’t know. But like I told you, it always seems to happen that way. I just presumed that nothing would really be that different this time. And see? It wasn’t.” He exhaled. “So, Elena’s in a Dornaani facility?”

Downing nodded. “On their homeworld, according to Alnduul.”

“Her recuperation seems to be taking a long time.”

Downing raised a hand, let it fall. “Too bloody long, if you ask me. But I haven’t been in direct touch with Alnduul for six months now, and none of the Dornaani I come into contact with have any knowledge of Elena. I’m not even sure her transfer was approved by the Dornaani Collective. Or the Custodians. Alnduul may just have done it on his own authority. May have been skinned alive for it, too.”

Riordan closed his eyes, asked the next awful question. “Who’s taking care of Connor?”

“Trevor mostly, but Connor spends a lot of time with my family. We — we’re doing the best we can by him. But it’s hard. He’s a tough lad, but with his mother dozens of light-years away in the care of exosapients—” He raised his hand in an appeal to the skies. Let it fall again.

And Caine thought: I’ve got to get home. Now. But Riordan pushed that gut-reflex down with a principled riposte: No: you’ve got to take care of business, first. And while you do, you’ve got to get enough leverage to make sure that those nine human beings on board the corvette don’t pay for their loyalty to you by spending half of their natural lives as gagged canaries in semi-gilded security cages. Caine could not meet Downing’s eyes. “Tell Connor I’m coming home as soon as I can. I promise.”

“I will, Caine. You have my word on it.”

“Good. I’d like to have your word on one more thing, Richard.”

Downing immediately became wary. “And what is that?”

“Since you received Yiithrii’ah’aash’s message about what happened on Disparity, you know about Keith Macmillan, right?”

Downing looked, and sounded, like he was swallowing glass. “I do.”

“He has a daughter. Katie.”

“I know. I pulled his dossier.”

“So you know about the quid pro quo that the Ktor used to turn him: his cooperation in exchange for her life.”

Richard’s eyes were hard, unblinking. “They are right bastards.”

Caine wasn’t sure whether Downing was referring to the Ktor, their megacorporate lackeys, or both. And didn’t care, at the moment. “If my guess is right, they didn’t give Katie a full cure; Dora overheard one of the Ktor say as much. And frankly, that’s exactly what I’d expect of them: to let the disease come back, clean up all their loose ends.”

“I agree. And it’s an awful situation. But what do you want me to do?”

Caine leaned forward. “I want you to use your authority, your power, to make it right.”

Downing leaned away sharply. “Caine, assuming that I could get permission to—”

“Fuck permission. You’ve got the leads you need. Macmillan was approached in a hospital waiting room. That gives you a place and a face. And that face is sure to be all over the security cameras. I suspect that face didn’t arrive at the hospital by public transport, so that face is also connected to a vehicle. You track down that vehicle, and that face. You grab that face from whatever well-appointed apartment or sybaritic retreat it happens to be occupying and you put a bag over it. And you take that bag off when you have that face in a cold, well-lit room and you squeeze that mother-fucker for everything he knows. Someplace, there is a connection between that face — that malicious bastard — and whatever cure he slipped into Katie. I’ll even bet there are still some samples out there, just waiting to be used to turn some other desperate parent into a traitor. So you find that face, and that drug, and you save that poor girl’s life.”

“Caine, what you’re asking — I can’t just—”

“Richard, I will not listen to your bullshit. Not this time. This is a little girl who was a victim of our enemies. The timing makes it a near-certainty that they bred the cancer that was in her. And then they turned her father against everything else he loved to save her. You will do this, you will save that girl, or I will hold you — I will hold our side — responsible. Do you understand?” When Downing hesitated, Riordan lifted his hand to the table. He deposited its contents — a holstered CoBro liquimix sidearm — immediately to his right. “I asked: do you understand?”

Downing leaned even further away, eyes wide. “Bloody hell, Caine, what’s come over—?”

“I am going to ask this. One. More. Time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I—”

“No buts, Richard. And no excuses or backsliding or consulting with your superiors. If you don’t save her, then I will — and then I become your worst problem. Your worst problem. Do the right thing and — who knows? — we might actually become real friends. But I’m giving you a choice, right here, and right now: you can obey your precious rules and regulations and intelligence protocols and let Keith’s little girl die, or you can stand up for basic human compassion and loyalty, and resolve not to allow these monsters to screw with our children.” Caine felt his face grow suddenly hot. “With our children, for fuck’s sake.” Riordan rose so swiftly that his chair fell over. He spun and stalked away. If Downing called after him, he wasn’t aware of it.

Because all he could hear, again and again, was what Dora had told him about Macmillan’s death, about what the Ktor commander on Disparity had said: “Family is our strength, but it is your weakness.” Riordan walked through the dust and postcombat debris littering the marshalling area of Site One, and thought: and you Ktor actually believe that, too. Because part of the price you’ve paid for all your enhancements is love. But that love — and the loyalty it breeds — is not just our best virtue:

It is the weapon I will use to destroy you.