Chapter Six
OUTER SYSTEM, BD+56 2966
“Rise and shine, Commodore.”
Caine Riordan swam up through cross-currents of dreams, memory-fragments, and a repetitive nightmare of checking the holoplot for a one more Arat Kur drone, the one that always seemed ready to emerge from behind wreckage that there hadn’t been time to check, that was too close to intercept, that was sure to cripple Puller and pave the way for the other killbots to swarm in and—
“Commodore, are you all right?”
Riordan sat up quickly, noticed that the hair on his forearms was slicked down with sweat. “I’m fine.” He blinked, looked for the source of the vaguely familiar voice.
Duncan Solsohn. With that same congenial smile on his face. Which was probably an accurate reflection of his general disposition; it was too easy a grin to be a sham. But Solsohn was also a creature sent to do Downing’s bidding, to be his watchdog, maybe even his button-man, if push came to shove.
Solsohn gestured for Riordan to lay back. “Take it easy, sir.”
That was when Caine realized that he was in a bunk instead of on Puller’s bridge. Disoriented panic pulled his mind in several directions. “Where am I? What’s happening? Is the crew—is Puller—?”
“You’re back on Shore-of-Stars. Puller made the preplotted rendezvous just fine, although the two Slaasriithi technical experts were the only ones aboard who were still awake by the time you reached us.”
Riordan nodded, part acknowledgement and part thanks. He leaned back, looked around his stateroom in the hab module. Who would have ever thought this small, austere compartment would ever look like “home?” “How long have I been out?”
Solsohn handed him a glass of water. “The better part of two days. You guys looked like hell when they brought you in. Had to hook you up to IVs to get more carbs, protein, and electrolytes into you.”
Caine started, glanced at the other man. “Were those our IVs, and our personnel, or—?”
Solsohn smiled. “All from Mother Earth. I figured you guys wouldn’t want to have the Slaasriithi messing around with your biochemistry.”
Riordan relaxed again. Well, not any more than they already might have. But what he said was, “Thanks. So you were our angel of medical mercy?”
“Well, I had help. The Slaasriithi provided the hands—well, tendril-clusters or whatever they call them. I provided guidance and watchful eyes. And not just in here.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were fiddling around with Puller again, shortly after you came back.”
“Yeah, we took a few hits. Nothing major, though.”
“That’s not what they were fiddling with. Seems like their technical advisors reported that the wiring wasn’t sufficient to handle some of the peak loads of the systems they put in to replace the original hardware.”
Caine nodded. “The laser they put in was pretty energetic.”
“Well, Commodore, I guess that’s why our hosts decided to put in some auxiliary power couplings to manage power overflow.”
“Got it. And ‘Caine’ is a lot less of a mouthful than ‘commodore.’”
“Kind of you to offer that first-name basis, sir, but I don’t think it’s a good idea on this mission.”
Riordan held Solsohn’s gaze. “Why?”
“Look, sir; you’re the commodore, so you’re going to call me whatever the hell you want. But I don’t think the security forces Mr. Downing sent with us are going to be comfortable with the kind of informality you permit among your team-members. Most of these troops don’t even want to be part of a unit, let alone an unofficial family.” He considered. “On the other hand, that might be just what they’re looking for. Hard to tell, at this point.”
“Mr. Solsohn, that was about the most cryptic and convoluted explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“Sorry, sir. Details, then. You remember that Mr. Downing had attached a short section of security to us for the mission?”
“They were scheduled to make rendezvous with Shore-of-Stars half a day after we entered cryogenic suspension.”
“Right. But they didn’t. Mr. Downing found some better security assets closer by. Twice the number and far better trained. About five squads of worth of seasoned troops, a lot of them from tier three units and better.”
“Get to the bad part, Mr. Solsohn.”
“Like I said sir, they’re not a unit, sir. They are a—a classification category.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Commodore, I’m pretty sure you know that the best Commonwealth and Federation troops were sent out to Delta Pavonis before the war, to counterattack the anticipated invasion of Earth.” Solsohn punctuated his last comment with a small, respectful nod. He, too, was a member of the Institute of Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Security, the covert organization that had used Caine as an unwitting weapon in the final defeat of the invaders. “What you might not know is that some of the troops in cold sleep did not return to Earth with Relief Task Force One. It was decided that a small reserve had to be held back as a hedge against failure and as a means of staffing a variety of post-defeat contingency operations.”
Riordan nodded. “Insurgency. Cadre for resistance. Security for a diaspora to further systems.”
“Exactly. But that reserve force had to have some special characteristics. They had to be good working alone or in small numbers. They had to be tough as nails and deadly as hell, because there were never going to be a lot of them. And they had to be willing to stay on the job for—well, for a very long time.”
Solsohn’s tone changed, became more careful, perhaps regretful. “That’s where the classification category comes in, Commodore. You see, when these troops signed up for that tour of duty, they checked a box accepting what was termed ‘open-ended cryogenic deployment.’ Checking that box got them triple combat pay for the length of their tour and a ticket into the future, destination and duration unknown.”
Riordan leaned back. “So they didn’t know when or where they would wake up.”
Duncan nodded. “The only thing they knew was that, whenever they defrosted and stopped puking glycerin, they’d be in the shit again.”
Riordan stared. “Damn. What kind of people take a job like that?”
Duncan shrugged. “All kinds. But all of them knew it was a one way trip, as far as their lives back in The World were concerned. The few that had families or spouses or significant others have almost all been dear-johned or dear-janed by now. Most of the others volunteered for the job because they had no families to miss them. Or they had families who wouldn’t miss them. If you get my drift.”
“So none of them are even from the same unit?”
“They don’t know each other at all. Records indicate that two of them were boots at the same time in the same camp. Another two went through B.U.D.S right after each other, so they were probably tortured by the same instructors.” Solsohn sighed. “The only thing they have in common is that these are boys and girls who didn’t care when, or if, they were going to see home again.”
Riordan leaned back, trying not to feel nauseous. “So are you telling me Downing sent us out here with a bunch of—literally—suicide squads?”
“No. More like the French Foreign Legion. They’re not looking to cash it all in; they just don’t care about leaving it all behind. Their files tell a lot of sad stories, if you read between the lines.”
Riordan nodded but thought. Yes, and they have one other thing in common. No one will miss them. If they learn or see something they shouldn’t, if they have to disappear, who will look for them? That was more likely to motivate Downing’s superiors than anything else: a force with no loose ends, from which any surviving operators could be shuffled quietly off to some isolated safe house for people who had seen or heard too much.
Riordan drained the glass of water, sat up straight. “Thank you for the update, Mr. Solsohn.”
“My pleasure, sir. I was wondering if I could trouble you to return the favor.”
“You’d like me to brief you? On what?”
“Well, I could use a little perspective on the Slaasriithi, sir. Since you didn’t have the opportunity to brief Mr. Downing before we left, he couldn’t brief me.”
“Fair enough.” But still a problem; Downing is cleared to hear everything I learn or suspect during a first contact. Hell, it’s his job to know all of that. But Duncan? “Mr. Solsohn, it would help if you tell me a bit about yourself, first. Starting with your role in IRIS.”
“Yes, sir. Until shipping out with you, I was part of the cell responsible for downstreaming crucial IRIS field operations to the Central Intelligence Agency. During the war, I worked the other side of the street. I tapped Agency data to collect the pre-strike intel we sent up the pipe to IRIS’s braintrust at the Naval War College.”
So, Solsohn had extremely high clearance and had been entrusted with slipping IRIS’s operational mandates into the hit-lists that the Agency was farming out to its strikers: mostly SOG operators, probably. No doubt Duncan had handled a lot of politically radioactive—and in some cases, bloodstained—documents in his career. Which had not been very long, apparently. “How old are you, Solsohn?”
“Thirty-six, sir.”
“Married?”
“Was, sir. When I got tapped for IRIS, things got…complicated.”
Riordan nodded slowly, kept his eyes on his empty water glass. That was either the most understated and poignant truth I’ve heard since Downing reanimated me three years ago, or Solsohn is an expert at playing on heartstrings while looking and sounding like a choir boy. Because everyone who gets snagged in IRIS’s web seems to have a sad tale just like his. “And your significant other: did she or he know about your new…work?”
“‘She,’ sir. She didn’t know exactly what I was doing, but she knew my job description had changed and that I wasn’t in a position to take early retirement. And I wasn’t disposed to, either.”
“What do you mean?”
Solsohn looked up. “Sir, why did you say ‘yes’ when they defrosted you and asked you to help? And why have you kept saying yes?”
Riordan couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “I take your meaning.”
Duncan shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the pained expression that had crept onto it. “I got married to a talented, beautiful woman, started planning a life that allowed us to split the year between our respective homes—St. Louis for me, Copenhagen for her—and then along comes a mission that can’t be disclosed to anyone. And which sounds so insane that, if you did blurt it out, they’d lock you up in a loony-bin. ‘Aliens might be out there! Gotta get prepared!’” He shook his head once more, sharply. “And some of the stuff we had to do along the way—” He fell silent.
“Like what?” Might as well get a look at the nastier parts of Solsohn’s resume.
Duncan looked down, shifted in his seat. “My family—we fish and shoot. I wasn’t a big fan of standing in cold boots, in colder streams, waiting for trout that went after everyone’s lures but mine. But I was pretty good at the shooting.”
Solsohn looked up. “None of that counted for anything when I joined the Agency as an analyst; those were not the skills they were asking me to bring to the game. They always had plenty of ex-military people on tap for the wet-work, the field expediting, the strikes. But when Mr. Downing tapped me for IRIS…well, my clearance had new implications. Implications that put me in the field. There always has to be someone on very sensitive ops who knows what the real objectives are, but there weren’t a lot of strikers with that kind of clearance. But if you go into the field without training, without a skill that gives you a solid reason for being there as an operator, they know you’re the company watchdog, the suit-in-commando-clothing who probably needs babysitting—and so you’re ignored whenever and wherever possible. And that couldn’t happen. So IRIS trained me. For the field.”
Riordan nodded. “Sniper?”
“Yeah. And comms and backup pilot. Dad used to rent a plane when we flew to Idaho for the fishing and hunting, so I knew my way around a cockpit and a radio. Toughest stuff was the endurance training. Damn, I was only twenty-eight at the time, but I’d been piloting a desk too long, even back then.”
If the story was a fabrication, then Solsohn had missed a career as the preeminent method actor of his era. If it was not, then Solsohn’s story was not entirely unlike his own. Of course, that’s exactly the way Downing would play it: choose someone who was a kindred spirit so that I’ll be a little bit more sympathetic, a little easier to manipulate. There was only one way to get some preemptive control over that possibility. “Let’s cut to the chase; you’re Downing’s eyes and ears here too, aren’t you?”
Duncan blinked, then leaned back and laughed. “Well, that didn’t take you very long. Yeah, I’m afraid I am.” A congenial smile. “Sorry.”
Well, if Downing has chosen Duncan Solsohn for his ability to be amiable and disarming, he had certainly chosen well. But at least the issue was on the table, now, and Solsohn knew that Caine was on the lookout for being managed or massaged by IRIS’s overseer-in-place. “Well, I guess you have the clearance, so what do you want to know about the Slaasriithi?”
Duncan scratched his head. “Well, to be honest, pretty much everything. But since we’re short on time, I’ll settle for this: how the hell does their social order work? Do they have a caste system, like the Arat Kur?”
Caine shook his head. “No. Stranger than that. They’re polytaxic.” Having anticipated Solsohn’s bewildered look, Riordan continued without pause. “They’re one species, but comprised of numerous subspecies. Each subspecies, or taxon, serves a set of predetermined functions, for which their physiotype and temperament is optimally suited.”
“And Yiithrii’ah’aash is a…a leader?”
“Yes, and more. He belongs to the ratiocinator taxon, the least numerous of the seven taxae. He’s also a Prime Ratiocinator, which is kind of a cross between a senator, ambassador plenipotentiary, policy advisor and colonial field manager. The Slaasriithi don’t run things the way we do.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. And they organize information so differently that I can’t always figure out what they’re getting at.”
Riordan nodded. “Since they grow up in task-defined groups from birth, information streams are tailored with the anticipation of prespecialization. There are no real generalists among them.” Well, not anymore.
“And no soldiers either, from what I can tell.”
“That is correct.” And that’s where your “need to know” clearance runs out, Mr. Solsohn. I doubt more than fifty people are aware that we are also helping the Slaasriithi reclaim a lost taxon—the indagatorae—who were once their species’ pioneers and jacks-of-all-trades.
Duncan rose. “Well, that makes things clearer. Sort of. Don’t understand them any better, but at least I understand why I don’t.” He checked his wristcomp. “Sorry to rush you, sir, but we’re needed on Shore-of-Stars’s bridge.”
Riordan was suddenly aware he was only wearing underpants. “How did Yiithrii’ah’aash even know I’d be awake?”
“He didn’t, Commodore. I’ve been waiting here for an hour. Or more. I was to bring you aboard the Slaasriithi ship as soon as you awoke.”
Caine threw off the sheets, looked for and found his duty suit. “What’s the rush?”
“Wish I knew, sir.”
Riordan started climbing into the unipiece garment he’d worn on Puller, smelled the sickly mix of fear-sweat and glycol, cast it aside, pulled another suit out of the compartment’s narrow locker. Only when he kicked one foot into a pants leg and felt no imbalance from coriolis effect did he realize that the gravity equivalent he felt was not coming from rotation: they were under thrust. A lot of it. “What are we pulling, half a gee constant?”
“Closer to a full gee, sir. Been boosting for almost three hours now.”
So the Slaasriithi really are in a rush. “They’re not exactly staying inconspicuous that way.”
“No, sir, doesn’t seem so.” Seeing that Riordan was about to close the locker after slipping on his regulation footwear, Duncan shook his head. “Sorry, Commodore, but Yiithrii’ah’aash requested that you report with your gear. All of it.”
Riordan stared. “That sounds ominous, Mr. Solsohn.”
This time, Solsohn’s smile was clearly forced. “Yes, sir. It does.”