Chapter Seven
ODYSSEUS
Consuela didn’t meet him at the pool. Didn’t join him for drinks. Was not in sight when he entered the executive refectory—which appeared comparable to a three-star restaurant—and asked for dinner.
“Very well—oh, you are Mr. Riordan, are you not?”
“I am.”
“I have a private alcove reserved for you. Courtesy of Mr. Helger. Would you please follow me?”
The alcove was paneled in the same faux-ebony as Helger’s office. It felt like wood—but with a faint hint of increased surface flexibility. The maître-d’ smiled efficiently. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?”
Cheerful subservience accompanies all entrees. The house special both within and beyond the refectory. “Nothing, thank you.” He reached for a chair himself, forestalling the maître-d’s incipient lunge to help. He had his palmtop out before he sat, reopening the survey files that he was now ready to reassess.
He ran the real-time aerial surveys collected by the USSF. The best of the thermal imaging scans—from a recon VTOL’s FLIR—was partially degraded by the foliage, but the results were still clear: a dozen, maybe fifteen vertically oblong signatures, holding together in pack movement. They had the long, rolling gait of bipeds, not the reach-and-pull movement of quadrupeds at high speed. Mass was indeterminate, but the sensors estimated maximum height to be just under two meters: the right size.
The Navy had landed, looked around, found nothing definitive. In the hollow of a dense thicket of helical tubers, a rating—apparently seeking privacy for a moment of personal relief—discovered some spoor which suggested possible tool use: sharpened sticks, unusually smooth rocks that seemed about hand-sized. There were no anthropologists among that shore party, so they could only guess. The Navy marked the area for subsequent detailed study, posted it as off-limits to the first wave of Commonwealth colonists, and kept an eye out for similar signs in the other regions of Dee Pee Three.
The results of that haphazard monitoring effort were not encouraging. There were one or two possible contacts, but they were recorded by automated sensors: by the time anyone saw the results and dispatched a manned survey unit, the site was cold. Had there been hundreds, even thousands, of the creatures, Dee Pee Three was a big enough world that they could remain unencountered for years, maybe decades.
Dee Pee Three’s size wasn’t the only variable that complicated the search. Despite being further from its star than Earth was from the Sun—1.14 AU—Dee Pee Three was a hotter world. Although fractionally smaller than Earth, greater density gave it greater gravity, which in turn had led to a more dense atmosphere. Along with a slightly greater greenhouse effect, it also had less liquid water: sixty percent surface coverage, and those oceans were not very deep. Only a tiny spot on each pole failed to reach summertime highs above zero degrees Celsius, meaning that the ice-caps “migrated” with the seasons, just as they did on Mars. The net result was a planetary mean of about twenty-four degrees Celsius, almost ten degrees higher than Earth. And much of the deviation from an Earthlike baseline was relatively recent: spectral analysis and other indicators suggested that Delta Pavonis had undergone a small but steady increase in stellar luminosity over the last five to ten thousand years. With the sun lamp set a bit higher, Dee Pee Three’s thermic equilibrium had teetered a bit: there was plentiful evidence of a recent past in which the weather patterns had been milder, the poles had been small but permanent features, and the heat of the tropic zones had been merely punishing, not lethal. Erosion patterns indicated that in the relatively recent geological past there had been a far greater profusion of ground plants in the equatorial plains, which had held the soils in place: now there were deserts of superheated dust, often carried aloft by the cyclones that followed the changes of the seasons.
Caine read this story of a planet wobbling at the edge of meteorological stability and wondered: is this why the local civilization collapsed, why they almost (or completely) died out? Dee Pee Three had achieved a new equilibrium now, but had there been a period of cataclysmic weather effects? Had an epoch of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes driven a fragile young civilization back over the edge of progress, propelled the survivors back into preintelligent primitivism?
The Navy had expressed similar uncertainty about the climate, but not from the standpoint of forensic anthropology: they were concerned with long-term habitability. Therefore, after the early days of the survey—when the first tantalizing hints of unseen bipeds were trickling in—the official emphasis was shifted to meteorological data gathering. The combination of higher average temperature and lower hydrographics still created some ferocious—but fairly localized—weather anomalies. So, in order to avoid colonizing such areas, the assessment and measurement of regional weather and environment got first priority.
Later travelers’ tales had been appended to the official Navy reports. Ruins (but it failed to say which) were first reported by a mixed group of Canadians and Irish who decided to go on a lark and see the off-limits Shangri-La valley for themselves. The apocryphal tale—retold in the clipped, unimaginative diction of Navy reportage—was that the group had started gathering rocks to build a windbreak for a campfire when they realized they were picking up chunks of dressed stone. Caine smiled: what a moment that must have been…
“Did you find your independent excursion illuminating, Mr. Riordan? I’m sure you would have found it more informative—and enjoyable—had you remained with your guide.”
Caine looked up: Helger and a companion. “The guide left the final, very illuminating site off my itinerary.”
“An unfortunate oversight.” Helger sat, signaled for wine, looked to Caine, who shook his head. Helger did not extend the offer to his companion: an immense, square-shouldered man with pale blond hair and pale blue eyes, who sat immobile in trail clothes. He was the only male in the refectory wearing shorts, and who was not recently shaven. He either did not notice, or did not mind, Helger’s failure to offer him wine.
Helger continued his unapologetic apology. “Had you so wanted to see that site, you could have simply requested it.”
“So Ms. Rakir could call ahead and confabulate a closure, or flood the dig site, or report a quarantine? Thanks, no: I felt I was more likely to get a good look if I went on my own.”
“Your suspicions are hardly flattering to me, Mr. Riordan—or consistent with the agreement we made yesterday. Cooperation is a two-way proposition, and one that can only work if we are being open with each other.”
“Oh—you must mean the kind of openness that Ms. Rakir exhibited when she assured me that a couple of half-buried wall remains at the oil field were the only evidence of intelligent habitation.”
“Prior habitation,” Helger corrected. “And I think you must have misunderstood Ms. Rakir—or she was unclear. We would never have claimed such a thing.”
“No? Then why did you leave the main ruins off my itinerary? You presumed that I’d be uninterested? Strange presumption, considering that this is just the kind of violation I was sent to investigate—and which only makes your dismissal of the USSF survey that much more suspect. I think ‘suspect’ is a very charitable term, don’t you?”
Helger was silent as his wine arrived. He sampled it and then dabbed his lips. “We discovered the ruins after our independent survey. But we were quite aware of how it would look. We saw no reason to attract the inevitable accusations and condemnation any earlier than necessary.”
“That’s another strange statement, since the group that inadvertently found the first sign of ruins did so five months before CoDevCo conducted its survey. And, according to their report”—okay, just one lie to see if I’ve guessed correctly—“they didn’t stumble across the rocks near the oilfields first; my report indicates the group was ‘relatively near the river’ when they came across the ‘remains.’ That means that they discovered the main site first.”
Helger sipped his wine. “I fail to see the relevance of these rather insignificant details.”
So the main ruins were the first ones discovered. Hell, the others might just be decoys—for dupes like me. “These insignificant details will interest the Hague, the EU Investigatory Commission, and the Commonwealth, Mr. Helger. They indicate that you knew—before your surveyors arrived—what you really wanted to extract from Dee Pee Three. The survey was a sham to cover up your attempt to prospect for alien artifacts.”
“So you are reneging on your offer of cooperation so soon? My, it didn’t even last one day.”
“Mr. Helger, it didn’t even last one morning, because while Ms. Rakir made sure I was discovering your supposed company secret—the oil wells—you were hustling Ms. Fireau into a VTOL for Downport. So much for my meeting with her—which you yourself scheduled for me.”
“Mr. Riordan, you flatter me with your presumption that I am God, for you seem to assume that I can foresee and prevent any event which would intrude upon the plans we made in good faith. In the case of Ms. Fireau, there was a business emergency in Little Leyden that was best attended to by the manager who had the longest tenure there. So what you are characterizing as conspiracy is merely an unfortunate coincidence.”
“Unfortunate for me—suspiciously convenient for you. I wonder if she will return before I depart, just as I wonder if I will find her in Little Leyden once I’ve returned to Downport.”
Helger’s mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes were crinkled and smug. “Who can say?”
“Who indeed. Besides, when I get back to Downport, I expect to be too busy to look her up.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I’ll be too busy filing reports that will retroactively justify the instructions I am going to relay immediately after dinner tonight.”
Helger seemed amused. “Instructions? What instructions? And to whom?”
“To the Navy—which, if CoDevCo doesn’t immediately cease archeological excavation, will compel the Port Authority to suspend all inbound and outbound movement of cargos, personnel, and communiqués.”
Helger got pale, but then his color returned along with an unpleasant smile. “Mr. Riordan, this bluff is beneath your dignity. No messages get in or out of Shangri-La without my express permission: all external contact is routed through our Office of Communications. And I am not about to authorize any such transmissions.”
“Actually, I think you are.”
Helger’s smile widened and he studied his blood-red wine. “Mr. Riordan, in a place such as this, it is not wise to presume that you know what will happen next. This is a frontier world: anything can happen. And often, the most unusual events go unobserved or unreported. For instance, were you to fail to stroll out the front door of the refectory this evening, who would notice—or miss you?”
There it was: the thinly veiled threat—and with it, the opportunity to riposte. “Actually, some people would miss me—and would be asking you where I was, shortly after I failed to walk out that door.”
Helger was evidently disappointed that his threat had not jarred Caine’s composure. His tone was more brusque: “I don’t think you realize how very alone you are, Mr. Riordan. No one here is obsessed with your whereabouts, or your moment-to-moment safety.”
Caine sipped his water. “I have friends in high places.”
“I know all about your clearance—”
“No, I don’t mean ‘high places’ figuratively; I mean it literally. ‘High’ as in ‘orbital.’” Caine checked his watch. “In fourteen minutes, I’m due to contact Admiral Eli Silverstein on the USS Roosevelt: my daily call-in. He last heard from me when I landed here yesterday, just over sixteen-and-a-half hours ago—and Dee Pee Three’s seventeen-hour day rolls around mighty fast. So if he doesn’t hear from me very soon, twenty Marines are going to be landing, thrusters and rifles hot, in your courtyard. All told, that would be about twenty-nine minutes from now. And the Marines will be—pointedly—interested in whether or not I ever emerged from this refectory.”
Helger had become pale, was no longer smiling. “You are bluffing. You—the Commonwealth—would not dare—”
“Let’s not waste time and words on hypotheticals, Mr. Helger. Why don’t we just sit here for twenty-nine minutes and see what happens next? I’m sure you can wait that long to put a bullet in me.”
Helger’s eyes wavered; had they been equipped with nictating lids, Caine was sure they would have slowly shut at that moment. “Mr. Riordan, you are becoming overly dramatic. I never said anything so overtly threatening.”
Caine forced himself to smile. “Of course not.”
Helger’s smile was no less manufactured. “Perhaps I might be present when you make your call to the admiral, so that I might extend my compliments?”
And to make sure I’m not bluffing. “I would welcome that, Mr. Helger. That way, if you have any questions about my status here—and his prerogatives—you may ask him yourself.”
“Very well. Now, surely you were exaggerating when you threatened to have even our routine landings and launches suspended.”
“Surely, I was not.”
“Preposterous: you haven’t the authority to initiate such an action.”
“Be assured, Mr. Helger: I have the authority, and I will use it. Today, if I must.”
Helger’s hand stopped short of his glass. “Again, you are bluffing.”
“Again, you are wrong. I have no naval rank, but I have access to classified codes which can activate a variety of local contingency orders. I submitted one such code to the admiral the moment I arrived in-system.”
“Odd: the Commonwealth naval routine seems unaltered.”
“And it will remain so—until and unless a certain activating condition is met.”
“And what is the activating condition?”
Caine smiled. “My disappearance or demise.”
“I see.” Helger waved the waiter away restively. “So, if I shut down the dig site, I can keep my oil operation running.”
“For now, yes.” Of course, once I’m no longer in your crosshairs, I’ll recommend the Navy shuts that down, too. But if you lose the oil now, then you’ve got nothing left to lose—and you might once again decide that there’s no reason not to get rid of me—permanently.
“What guarantee do I have that I will be allowed to keep my wells in operation after you leave?”
“Mr. Helger, I do not have the power to make such guarantees. I will assure you of this: if I find no further violations, I will not make any negative recommendations regarding your oil operations.” Not that the Navy’s going to listen to my recommendations, anyway: I already know how Eli Silverstein is going to react. When I leave, and I give him the code authorizing his use of full discretionary powers, Silverstein is going to demand that site control is restored to the legitimate European Union administrators, or he’ll impose a full shutdown.
Helger’s lower lip protruded a bit; he pulled at it. “Very well: it seems I have little choice. Does this mean you are done here?”
“I’m afraid not. I have something else that I need to investigate, although it’s nothing that should concern you directly.”
Helger relaxed a bit; he curved a finger in the direction of the waiter, gestured toward the wine. The waiter dutifully disappeared to fetch and do as he was bid. “And this final investigation is…what?”
“Reports of possibly intelligent creatures in this valley. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
Helger maintained the same nerveless pose, but his face was less relaxed. “I hear the same wild stories that everyone else hears. Local apes, forest men, spirits of the wood: relatives of sasquatch and the yeti, I will wager.”
“You have no evidence of local wildlife that travels in groups, shows any tendency toward tool use?”
“Me? No—but you could consult Mr. Bendixen, here. I brought him along because he is our best field expert and woodsman, and I suspected that you were planning on conducting a search for these fabled creatures. Why else would you have arrived with a backpack instead of luggage, and a rifle instead of golf clubs?”
“Thanks. I might indeed ask Mr. Bendixen a few questions.”
“I suggest you make better use of him than that. He is an excellent guide.”
“Again, thanks—but I had planned on working alone.”
“You might wish to reconsider that plan, Mr. Riordan. You may not be aware of it, but we have our share of dangerous animals here in the valley. One in particular—we call it Pavonosaurus rex—is quite aggressive. More akin to an undersized allosaurus, I am told, but then again, paleontology has never been my strong suit. So do take Mr. Bendixen along: he has had experience with them. Personally.”
Caine looked over at Bendixen: square-banged, square-jawed, square-headed, and sleepy-eyed—but very watchful. Throughout the conversation with Helger, Caine could not recall having seen Bendixen blink or smile or even move. Prominently featured in the front-strap bandoleers that were part of Bendixen’s web-gear were two different kinds of old-fashioned brass cartridges: one kind for shotguns, the other an immense round with a sharply-tapering—or spitzen—bullet. He had a magazine bag that Caine recognized as being for an H&K G-81 assault rifle: caseless ammo, bullpup configuration, extremely high rate of fire. The more primitive tools of his apparently less-than-pacifistic trade included a machete, and a knife: no, two—no, three knives. One of the knives was a very old—almost antique—Spetsnaz all-tool utility blade, another was balanced for throwing, and the third was a kukri: the combat blade made famous by the Gurkhas, who swore that its design made it the optimal weapon for close-quarters combat.
Helger’s second glass of wine had arrived. “Mr. Bendixen is ready to go tomorrow.”
Caine looked at Bendixen again—who looked back without blinking. “No thanks.” Caine was relatively certain that Pavonosaurus rex represented far less threat to his continued existence than did Mr. Bendixen.
“A pity. He is so routinely in the bush—surveying—that I’m sure he would have been of immense help as a guide, as well.”
“I’m sure.” Of course, not bringing Bendixen didn’t neutralize the threat: “accidents” were always possible. “Mr. Helger, actually I would like to make a request of Mr. Bendixen.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that he suspend his field activities for a few days—at least until I’m done with mine.”
Helger feigned perplexity: Bendixen just stared.
“Well, if we were both out in the bush at the same time, we could be a risk to each other. As strange as it sounds, I am particularly worried about being a risk to him.”
Helger laughed. “Really?”
“Well, yes. If our paths were to cross—by accident—I might only see the movement and shoot preemptively, thinking to kill a predator.” Which is what I’d be doing in either case. “So, please follow this directive, Mr. Helger: until I return, I’m requesting—politely—that you suspend sending any personnel into my search area. Which is here.” Caine picked up his palmtop, pulled up the Navy Survey map again, drew a box on it with his stylus: the red rectangle began at the north edge of the main ruins and extended all the way up the floor of the valley. “I’ll be relaying those grid coordinates—and the fact that I should be the only human in that area—to Admiral Silverstein’s ops officer in five minutes. That way, if I go missing for any reason, they’ll know where to look for me. And they’ll know that there couldn’t be any chance of Mr. Bendixen having mistaken me for a Pavonosaurus.”
Helger had not laughed again; he was no longer even smiling. “I see. You seem to fear the errors of humans more than the appetites of large animals.”
“Perhaps I fear the many dangerous appetites of humans more than anything else, Mr. Helger. At any rate, I thank you for seeing to it that I will be working in isolation.”
Now Helger smiled. “Be assured: you will be working in complete isolation. Do be sure to bring enough batteries for your radio.”
Caine nodded: in addition to testing his conventional radio, the time had come to unpack his special equipment from the Navy and give it a trial run. The uplink beacon/communicator—currently folded down into the yellow-stenciled olive-drab canister at the bottom of his A-frame—had been a gift from one Lieutenant Mike Brill, communications officer for the high port naval detachment. Caine had protested the weight and the awkwardness. Brill had insisted that Caine take the system planetside: “You can save your life with a direct link to orbit; remember that every time you’re tempted to bitch about the extra weight.” At that time, Caine had thought Brill’s precautionary insistence to be absurdly melodramatic.
It did not seem so anymore.