Chapter Eleven
OUTER SYSTEM, BD+56 2966
Tygg’s face reddened and his shoulders came forward: he seemed to expand ominously. “‘You guess’ we might have to slaughter other humans? What the hell kind of—?”
Riordan put up a hand. “Look. If those humans are in fact pirates and raiders, it shouldn’t matter to us whether they’re targeting our own civilians or the Hkh’Rkh’s: they have to be stopped. And we should be ready to use the same methods we use when dealing with pirates on Earth and in the Epsilon Indi system. We apprehend if possible, kill if forced to.”
Tygg’s posture was no longer threatening; the fury was out of his voice. “And if they’re not murderers?”
Caine shrugged. “Then why wouldn’t they want to get the hell off Turkh’saar as quickly as possible?”
Tygg stared, then looked away. “None that I can think of.”
“Right. So let’s not put ourselves on the horns of dilemmas that probably don’t exist. Besides, judging from Yiithrii’ah’aash’s posture, I doubt we have the time to worry about anything but commencing the mission.”
The Slaasriithi Prime Ratiocinator shifted slightly, attempting to imitate a more casual human stance; it was arguably the most awkward position that Caine had ever observed in him or any of his species. “You are quite right. A more productive, and essential, use of time would be to become acquainted with the peculiarities of the stellar system in which you will be operating.”
Melissa Sleeman’s question had a hopeful lilt at the end: “You mean, physical peculiarities?”
“No. The system, which you designate as BD+56 2966 in your stellar catalog, is quite conventional. There are five very hot inner planets of reasonable size, several of which are tidally locked to the primary. None have any development or notable features.
“Turkh’saar itself is somewhat colder than your Earth, with extensive polar ice caps. The atmosphere is breathable, but from what little relevant intelligence we extrapolated from the satellites and communications relays captured by our wartime commerce raiders, much of the indigenous biota is either marginally or significantly toxic to humans. Prolonged epidermal contact is not advisable. Consumption is potentially fatal unless the biota in question has been properly treated.”
Sleeman frowned. “Then how can the air be breathable? Some of the spores or pollens would doubtless be inhaled.”
“An excellent conjecture, Dr. Sleeman. However, the dominant reproductive paradigm in the indigenous biota is evidently parthenogenesis, or other asexual modalities. There seems to be little airborne flora.”
“Paradise for hayfever sufferers,” quipped Karam, adopting a bad parody of an advertising voice-over.
“I doubt any of your species would define Turkh’saar as a paradise. Which does, however, touch upon the peculiarities I initially referred to: its awkward status in both Hkh’Rkh and Arat Kur politics.”
Peter nodded. “That is inevitable when a single region’s political control is divided into a codominium.”
“Quite true, Lieutenant Wu. But those complexities are especially problematical in the case of Turkh’saar. It is the only habitable colony world that the Hkh’Rkh can currently reach with their maximum shift range of seven point four light-years. And even once they achieve longer range, their allotted region of space has far fewer green worlds than others.”
Riordan nodded. “Yaargraukh explained that to me when he was our Advocate to First Voice. Given the Hkh’Rkh monomania for expansion, the lack of green worlds makes the Patrijuridicate a political pressure cooker. The Old Families don’t have new room for competition, and the rapidly growing New Families have no place else to go, other than back into servitude.”
“Exactly. Unfortunately, the Hkh’Rkh technological limitations make Turkh’saar a difficult world for development. In political terms, this means that Turkh’saar has ceased to be, to extend Commodore Riordan’s metaphor, a useful release valve for the political and population pressures that are growing on Rkh’yaa. It doesn’t help matters that their cryogenic suspension units have a failure rate of just over four percent.”
Dora’s eyes widened. “Coño! That is not a means of transportation; that is suicide.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash turned toward her. “And yet, they risk it. By the thousands. Nothing demonstrates the pressures within the Patrijuridicate more profoundly, or poignantly, than that statistic.”
“And having to get Arat Kur permission for half of their routine activities must gall a species like theirs,” Bannor observed.
The Slaasriithi’s tendrils pulsed an amplification of the human’s assertion. “That was one of the greatest objections to the codominium model adopted for this system: that if the Hkh’Rkh were compelled to keep their development of Turkh’saar wholly nonmilitarized, they would ultimately find that constraint unbearable.”
Riordan knew the smile on his face was bitter, but did not care. “Well, now I understand why the Arat Kur were willing to ferry the Patrijuridicate’s Warriors to our worlds: so that the Hkh’Rkh could scratch their lebensraum itch someplace else. If they had remained bottled up here, they would have eventually broken the agreement and flooded over the border.”
“This was indeed what the Arat Kur feared. However, the outcome of the war has worsened the situation. What hope the Hkh’Rkh had for additional expansion is gone.”
“Damn,” muttered Tina, “what a nightmare.”
Caine considered his now-lukewarm coffee. Speaking about potential nightmares—“Yiithrii’ah’aash, we need to establish one last thing before we get under way.”
“And what is that, Caine Riordan?”
“If my people are injured, we need a formal guarantee that no Slaasriithi will treat us with anything other than our own medicines, fluids, or biologically based products. This includes placing us back in cold sleep for any reason. And if at all possible, you will summon a qualified human to observe and oversee any interactions you have with our biology.”
“You do not trust us, still.”
Riordan shrugged. “As someone once said, unclear contracts are blueprints for disaster. I’m trying to make sure everything is clear.”
“Yet the basis of your concern is a lack of trust. Which is profoundly ironic. You naturally realize that we may have biological methods of influence that are so subtle, so undetectable, that we could employ them without your ever becoming aware that we had. So logically, if you do not trust us, you cannot fundamentally be sure of your safety even if we overtly agree to the limitations upon which you are insisting.”
Pandora Veriden stuck her hands in the pockets of her duty suit. “Great. So this all boils down to a line from one of the archaic action movies my Grandmama rigged for me to watch as a kid.”
Caine heard the cue, decided to play the straight man. “And what line was that?”
“‘So, do you feel lucky—punk? Well, do ya?’”
Caine shrugged. “I don’t see that we really have any choice. If we’re going to go ahead with the mission, these are the only precautions which we can reasonably take.” He turned back to Yiithrii’ah’aash. “Do you agree to the restrictions on treating us?”
“If you wish, yes. However, it may critically, even fatally, restrict our medical options if you are seriously injured.”
Caine looked around the group; heads were nodding slowly, gravely. “We understand that. Now, where do we go to meet our security forces?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash began moving toward the portal through which he had entered. “I will have them sent in as I depart.”
Dora glanced up suspiciously. “What’s the matter, Ambassador? Not sure they’ll be friendly?”
“No, Ms. Veriden, I am concerned that if I am present for your initial meeting, they might suspect that I am there to censor your comments, that your race’s autonomy has been compromised. So, I shall absent myself.” With a rolling, radial wave of his tendrils, he exited.
A moment later, the portal at the other end of the compartment paged softly.
Caine put down his coffee mug. “Come in.”
The door, evidently computer controlled, took an extra fraction of a second to translate the command. When it opened, half a dozen humans came through, eyeing it suspiciously. Their uniforms were not bloc-standardized but nationally distinct duty suits of different design and color: the norm before the short-lived World Confederation of 2118 and its successor, the Consolidated Terran Republic.
Several of them caught sight of Solsohn. The tallest male in the group—a captain wearing a Canadian uniform with a CSOR insignia—nodded and offered everyone a wide grin. “Well, at least there’s coffee.”
Riordan smiled. “Grab a cup.” He was going to add, “—and a seat,” but there were no chairs in the room. A typical Slaasriithi oversight: being digitigrade, their most common resting positions varied between a legs-locked crouch and a rigid squat, sometimes supported by a piece of furniture that was half box, half bench. “Looks like we’re going to be standing.”
“Yeah,” agreed a short, muscular woman whose Israeli semi-chameleon suit identified her as belonging to the Sayeret Matkal. “The Ostrichimps aren’t much for sitting.”
O’Garran barked out a surprised laugh. “Ostrichimps? Oh, that’s good.”
She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “I just have trouble saying Slaal…er, Slaasir…damn it.” She closed her eyes and concentrated. “Slah-sree-thee.” She opened her eyes. “I must have some mental block on that word.”
“You and me both,” Miles grinned. “What’s your name?”
She glanced at his field patch. “Well, Master Chief, I’m Lieutenant Thon.”
Riordan elected to accelerate the introductions to cover over the awkward silence that threatened to follow in the wake of O’Garran’s equally awkward attempt to fraternize with an officer on sight. “And the rest of you?”
The last officer in the group—spare, dark, long-faced—hung back, smiling. “I’m waiting to see if my friend Peter Wu will recognize me.”
The usually unflappable Wu started in surprise, peered at the speaker, and then rushed forward to shake both of his hands at once. “I wondered what had happened to you after Singapore, Newton. There was so much chaos on Earth, in Indonesia, even once the invasion was over—”
The much taller man smiled slowly. “I was never there. You didn’t hear from me because I was in a cold cell at Delta Pavonis. Have been since 2017.” He turned to Caine, saluted. “You must be Commodore Riordan.”
Caine saluted, saw faces among the newcomers either flush or blanch as they hastened to snap their own salutes. The Canadian captain stammered. “S-sir, we thought—I’m sorry. We were told there were civilians in the command group, and we hadn’t been given—”
Riordan turned the end of his salute into a waving away of concern. “Since we’re not part of a larger unit, we have no reason to wear ranks. So unless you have the power of precognition, Captain—?”
“Captain Bjorn Hasseler, sir.”
“—then you can hardly be blamed for not saluting. Besides, given all the officers in this room, we’d be saluting for days. So let’s keep this an informal gathering.”
“For now,” Solsohn added with a hint of caution.
Riordan remembered Duncan’s warning about being casual with these troops, wondered how justified it was, and waited until the ragged round of introductions had finished. “So is this your whole command staff, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. We were pretty light on senior NCOs; apparently most of them were sent on to the Earth. Sergeant Major Ippolito is our only armorer, Top Sergeant Fanny is the only person we’ve got with quartermaster experience, to say nothing of scrounging.”
Tygg’s eyes and cheeks bulged as he labored to suppress a laugh. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t caught your name the first time”—he almost snickered—“Sergeant Fanny.”
Tina Melah glanced at Tygg, surprised, as Newton Baruch did his best to hide a small grin. “Oh come on, there’s worse names. Like yours, maybe.”
Matthew Fanny sighed. “Ma’am, you sound like a fellow American. If so, then Fanny doesn’t mean what you think it means. Not to an Aussie. Or a Brit.” He jerked a head at the carefully oblivious Newton.
“Then what—?”
Riordan folded his hands. “Tina, in the U.K., a fanny is not one’s, er, backside.”
She stared. “No? Then what is it?”
Caine cleared his throat quietly. “On a woman, it is the—the other side.” A puzzled stare. “The front side. If you take my meaning.”
At first she didn’t. Then, eyes widening, she clearly did; one hand started reflexively toward her groin before she snapped it away.
“Yeah,” Fanny sighed, nodding. “So now that we’ve had that special moment, can we move on?”
Gladly, thought Caine. He nodded toward the sixth member of the group, a slender woman with very dark skin and very green eyes. “I’m not familiar with your uniform or service badges, Chief Warrant Officer Gaudet, but from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re wearing some wings.”
Her smile was small, careful. “Yes, sir. Caricom Defense Forces, originally from Guadeloupe. MOS in transatmospheric transports, sir. I’m the senior pilot.”
Riordan resisted the reflex to raise an eyebrow. A young warrant officer was the senior pilot for the landers that Downing had given them? That was not a good omen. “Chief Gaudet, how many other pilots are there?”
“Two, sir.”
Riordan turned toward Solsohn, who shook his head. “I know; a total of three pilots for three landers. Zero redundancy. I pointed it out to Downing.”
“And?”
“And that was all they had left out at Delta Pavonis. Everything else had been pulled back to Earth to kick the Arat Kur back where they belonged.”
“Okay, but that’s more than a year ago.”
“Roger that, sir, but from what I heard, the big landgrab is stretching everything pretty thin.”
Captain Hasseler shifted slightly. “Beg your pardon, sirs, but—landgrab?”
Riordan nodded. “After we defeated the Arat Kur and arrogated a lot of their shift-capable ships, we chose not to join the Accord just yet. That means we are still not bound by the accords themselves. So we weren’t required to obey the territorial limits that had been established for us. As I understood it from Mr. Downing before we left, the overwhelming sentiment on Earth was to go on a flag-planting spree with most of those Arat Kur ships.”
“Why exosapient ships, sir?” asked Hasya Thon. “Why not our own?”
“Because the Arat Kur have a shift range of about nine point five. That allows us to reach many more systems, much more rapidly. Also, they have portable antimatter production facilities that cut the time required for frontier refueling by a third.”
“The imperialist impulse is alive and well,” Dora commented.
“So is the survival imperative to build a buffer around our home systems,” Bannor retorted in a flat tone.
Caine motioned for silence. “Regardless of the advisability of the initiative, it is not violating the direct rights of any Accord species. We are scrupulously avoiding areas that belong to, or have been expressly reserved for, other races.”
Hasya Thon frowned. “Yes, sir, but these, er, Custodians can hardly be pleased that you are doing this.”
“Doubtless. But compared to the violations perpetrated against us by two member races—the Arat Kur and the Ktor—and one other provisional member—the Hkh’Rkh—our violations are the equivalent of a speeding ticket versus premeditated murder. And since the Custodians and Dornaani failed to protect us when they were supposed to, they have little grounds for complaint. So far, they have not done anything other than lodge protests.”
Duncan nodded. “Pretty weak ones.”
This time, when Duncan spoke, Riordan noticed a slight posture change in several of the half of the new group: was it a shadow of distrust? If so, it wasn’t hard to reason through. They were all from select, even elite units and had missed being included on the most important mission in the history of humanity: the rescue of Earth. Instead, they had awakened to find that an undisclosed international intelligence agency had rounded up their cold cells and sent them off to the ass-end of nowhere with such poorly defined objectives and such thin support that it hardly merited the label of being a “mission.” And Solsohn was left holding the bag without any formal military service or rank to his name, yet assigned as their immediate CO. Riordan understood the officers’ reaction, but also understood that it needed adjustment. Immediately. “Your unit has no name.”
Captain Hasseler looked up quickly, a bit startled. “Uh…that’s correct, sir.”
“A unit has to have a name. So here’s yours: the Cold Guard. Borrowed from the Coldstream Guards. One of the oldest standing units in the collective history of our bloc, and with one hell of a reputation. Gives you a name to live up to.”
Newton Baruch nodded. “And our table of organization, sir?”
“You report directly to Major Solsohn; he reports directly to me.”
Hasya’s voice was not entirely respectful. “Did you say that Mr. Solsohn is a major”—the pause was too long—“…sir?”
Caine hated using her as the example, but she’d put up her head. “If your hearing is impaired, Thon, then get it checked. And you will stow that tone or I’ll bench you. Understood?”
Hasya Thon blinked as if struck. “Sir, yes sir!” She visibly worked at getting out a second, more difficult sentence. “My apologies, Commodore.”
Before she finished, Riordan moved his hard stare over to Captain Hasseler. “Clearance levels make it necessary that Major Solsohn not disclose his prior assignments. As for my team, some of us are cleared to talk about our service records; some are not. You will instruct your personnel to be courteous and respectful if they must go fishing around for unit gossip—which they will.” Riordan allowed the hint of a smile to curve one side of his mouth. “They are soldiers, after all.”
Fanny nodded. “The army marches on beans and scuttlebutt,” he recited in a monotone. Riordan gestured toward his team. “My command staff is charged with overseeing this mission, aspects of which are also above your clearance. Rank comparisons are thus suspended when it comes to us. Master Chief O’Garran may be an NCO, but if necessary, you take orders from him, too.”
Riordan was pretty sure that O’Garran flashed a quick, triumphant grin in Thon’s direction. Caine resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Now, before we give you the final mission brief, any questions?”
Gaudet cleared her throat. “Any mail for us, sir?”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but no.”
The others didn’t even look disappointed. Evidently they had not expected to get any mail or would not have been interested in it if they had. Or were such hard cases that they were unwilling to admit to themselves that they gave a damn about any reality beyond their immediate surroundings. And the rest of the unit was probably in the same boat—or worse. Well, again, no time like the present for finding out.
Caine checked his wristcomp, put down his cup. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Time to muster the Guard.”
* * *
With the Cold Guard loaded upon the three wedge-shaped transports, Riordan was preparing to order Puller’s airlock hatch sealed and to retract the boarding tube when the trooper on anchor watch announced Yiithrii’ah’aash’s arrival. Caine had the Slaasriithi piped on board. Twenty seconds later he was on the bridge; Puller was a very small ship.
Riordan and the rest of his bridge crew stood. “To what do we owe the honor, Ambassador?”
“What honor there is, is mine. I come merely to wish you safety, a swift resolution of your task, and to impart information you might wish to keep among your closest staff.” The Slaasriithi’s speech was somewhat rapid, for him. “We have located a large asteroid behind which we can deploy your landers and our automated tugs. We estimate that it should take you no more than fifteen minutes to mate the tugs to the landers and commence a high-energy transfer to Turkh’saar.”
“Puller will be able to keep up?”
“Caine Riordan, in its new configuration, the Puller could easily outrun the tugs if it had to. You shall be able to maintain excellent speed. We estimate it will be just under thirty-six hours travel to the point where you shall commence planetfall.”
“Have you been able to get a better scan of the near-space conditions around Turkh’saar?”
“Better, yes, but not precise. You will want to continue to improve the data during your approach. What we have been able to determine is that while there are still orbiting masses, they are not emitting any radiant energy and are in vigorous three-axis tumbles.”
“So debris, then.”
“Yes, but various small systems, particularly monitors such as you encountered at Planet Seven, could easily be hidden behind, or seeded in among, that detritus. Once you have ended the human intrusion on Turkh’saar, we shall maneuver in to retrieve you and your craft. From that time onward, speed, not stealth, becomes our most important attribute. We shall pick you up and immediately commence preacceleration. If we move with sufficient alacrity, we should be able to shift to Sigma Draconis and report our findings here—and the end of human raiding on Turkh’saar—before any rival reports can lead to further awkwardnesses and delays in concluding the negotiations.”
“I thank you for the update, Ambassador. However, I’ve been wondering about one other piece of data, something that might impact our operations near or on Turkh’saar.”
“And what is that?”
“The debris elsewhere in the system. Specifically, the amount and diversity of it. On the way back from the gas giant, I had Dr. Sleeman start running real-time analysis of what we were encountering.”
“And what did you find?” There may have been the faintest hint of caution in Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice.
“Well…more than we should have. According to the reports of the forces you sent into this system, the only appreciable infrastructure was for refueling and cargo handling, almost all of which was out at the seventh planet, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Well, the war taught us what Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh infrastructure looks like and what their doctrine instructs they should have in place. But what we found out there”—Riordan waved beyond the bulkhead toward the distant gas giant—“goes way beyond what we would have any reason to suspect. Most of the wreckage should have been tankage, plus a few support modules. Almost all the thrust-capable platforms should have been robotic or remote-operated vehicles.
“We found plenty of that debris. But we found at least as much debris that shouldn’t have been there. Hab mods, mostly stuck in torus clusters; that would have indicated long-duration stations with rotational gravity. We also detected clear outlines of a variety of smaller warcraft and transports: not the type that would be used for refueling, repair, or refinery operations. So I’m wondering: why were they here?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck bobbed once, very slowly. “I have noticed the same types and proportion of wreckage and am perplexed. However, I am not overly concerned. There are other possible explanations. If enemy craft moved through the system after our strikes, it may have been ambushed by automated systems we left behind, creating the debris you mention.”
“Then where are they now? No surviving units?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s neck rotated slightly. “That question occurred to me, also. However, it may be that the enemy forces, despite taking losses, accounted for all our units before shifting on to another destination.” He trailed a limp tendril. “But this is all conjecture. And you must make haste.”
“Indeed we must. Thank you for seeing us off, Ambassador.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash lowered his sensor cluster in regard, then left the bridge with O’Garran escorting him.
Solsohn leaned toward Caine. “I guess we’re not going to get any better answers than those, Commodore,” he murmured.
Still staring after Yiithrii’ah’aash, Riordan shook his head. “No, and if all his guesswork is wrong, then we’ll be getting the real answers in the worst possible way.”
“Which is?”
“On the job. Mr. Tsaami, prepare to cast off.”