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Chapter One

ODYSSEUS

Caine Riordan felt himself floating back up to awareness through fragments of many dreams. It seemed as though, in the midst of this waking, he had eaten, gone back to sleep, had conversations, other dreams, more meals, then finally…

Awake. But why was he already sitting, and why was he ringed by spotlights? Where—?

A voice—speaking in an English accent—asked: “Are the lights too bright? I can dim them, if you wish.”

Caine nodded, squinted, seeking the source of the voice.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Odd question. Caine thought back: he was on the lunar suborbital ferry to Perry City—and then nothing. As though someone had snipped a filmstrip in the middle of a scene. First he was there, and then he was here. And between the two—nothing.

Abruptly, Caine no longer saw the still-blinding lights: finding no memories to fill that blank space, his awareness exploded inward, like a multitude of rushing hands, scrabbling in a dark closet. But instead of touching something tangible, they only encountered more yawning darkness, into which he was falling, falling, falling…

Caine felt a cool hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was seeing again, looking into dark brown eyes in a thin face, skin the color of seared wheat. Male, early middle-aged but lean, and seamed enough to look older, brown hair receding from either side of a widow’s peak. The eyes were patient, concerned. “Steady now. Tell me: what do you remember?”

“I remember heading to Perry City. But after that—” Caine felt a snap-frost of panic coat his body. “What the hell has happened to me? Have I been in an accident?”

Downing retrieved a folder from a black, wire-frame table that Caine only now distinguished against the darkness. “You were taken into—let’s call it protective custody.”

“Protective custody? Why? And what kind of protective custody would cause me to black out, or—” Or lose my muscle tone, Caine suddenly realized, seeing his wrists and arms for the first time: my God, I must have lost five kilos. More. How long have I—?

Long-face-brown-eyes nodded at Caine’s sudden fixation with his limbs. “In your case, Mr. Riordan, protective custody meant being placed in cryogenic suspension.”

Terror pulsed from the rear of Caine’s skull, across his back, and out into his arms and legs. “How long have I been in cold sleep?”

The crow’s feet bracketing the dark brown eyes bunched in a wince. “Thirteen years: it is now 2118.”

Caine shook off that doubt, willed himself not to shudder again, wasn’t entirely successful. “Why was I cryogenically suspended? That’s a risky process—or it was thirteen years ago.”

“By comparison to today, yes. But the risk to you was a great deal less serious than the threat you posed to us.”

“I posed a threat to you?”

“Your investigations for the Independent Interplanetary News Network jeopardized crucial national interests.”

That’s right: I was on my way to Luna to conduct research. Aloud: “And so you decided to ‘sedate’ me before I could step off the shuttle?”

“Oh, no. You debarked safely on Luna and were quite active for just under one hundred hours.”

“Then why don’t I remember any of those one hundred hours?”

Mr. Long-face-brown-eyes tilted his head apologetically. “Side effect of the cold sleep, I’m afraid.”

“Hold on. Cold sleep only disrupts memories that haven’t been fixed in the brain by a natural sleep cycle. So at most, I should have lost twenty-four hours. But I’ve lost more than four days. What caused the extra memory loss? And what happened during that time?”

“I wish I knew, but my superiors didn’t share that information with me. I’ll look into it when I get access to the full records, back on Earth.”

But for now, how utterly convenient for you. With no memories of those one hundred crucial hours, Caine had no way of knowing if Long-face-brown-eyes was telling the truth or not. So did I give them grounds to put me on ice? Or is that just a shrewd lie, an attempt to make me feel responsible for my own condition? A hot wave of resentment shriveled Caine’s uncertainties: either way, he was the one who had lost thirteen years, not his captors. “And you are…?”

Caine was gratified to see the other man blink, but Long-face-brown-eyes recovered quickly: “I am Richard Downing.”

“And who do you work for? Why are you here?”

“I handle special projects for the government.”

“Which government? That accent doesn’t come from Mobile, Maine, or the Midwest.”

“Quite right, but I do work for the American government, and I’m here to help you get reoriented. And to prepare you.”

Caine didn’t like the sound of that. “Prepare me for what?”

“Let’s just say I’m here to prepare you to investigate the biggest story of your life.”

“Then you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m an analyst, not a reporter.”

Downing shrugged. “That’s not how it appeared to us when you came to Perry with your IINN credentials.”

“Look: that was a one-time deal so I could get to the Moon and finish my research on lunar budget cover-ups. IINN read about my suspicions in Time, asked me to write an exclusive feature on whatever I found—and I could hardly say ‘no’ to top rates and all expenses paid. Hell, I just wish I could remember what I found.”

Downing smiled. “You found that the visible Commonwealth development on Luna barely accounted for half of the new expenditures.”

“I already knew that. My guess was that a lot of government craft weren’t actually completing their listed Luna-Earth runs—”

“But, instead, were going from Tycho up to Perry City at the north pole, and then to the Far Side.” Downing nodded. “So you went on a little walk-about and discovered that our cometary ice-mining cover story was a sham.”

“So it was a cover-up for some other operation.”

“Yes. As you also guessed, we were manufacturing antimatter, using the twenty-four/seven solar power available at Perry.”

“So once I got some solid evidence, you cryoed me: surest way of keeping me silent.”

“Logical, but no; we approached you and explained the situation. And you agreed to sit on the story.”

“Then why the hell did you coldcell me?”

“You were not put in suspension by us, but by Taiwanese security operatives that were—well, ‘loaned’ to us. They saw you preparing to enter my superior’s suite, surmised that you had lied when you agreed to sit on the story, and were instead attempting to steal evidentiary documents. They stunned you, tried to contact us directly, couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Downing sighed. “Security blackout; we were on the Far Side. Only communiqués of national urgency.”

“So they didn’t know what to do with me.”

“Well, we learned later that some wanted to kill you.”

“Kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Christ sakes—kill me over an antimatter plant?”

“No. Over what it was built to enable, which you had started hypothesizing shortly after your arrival.”

Which put those hypotheses in Caine’s one-hundred-hour dead zone, along with the other lost memories of his time on the Moon. But a vague recollection—perhaps a wild guess from his prelunar investigations—teased a conjecture into existence. Antimatter: gram for gram the most potent energy source known. Not good for weapons, since its containment requirements make it much harder to work with than radioactives. So why would anyone need all that antimatter in one place, at one time—?

Caine blurted it out before he confirmed his thinking. “Interstellar travel: you were creating the power supply for a starship.”

Downing smiled. “Yes.”

“And did it work?”

Downing leaned back, considered the windowless walls. “Rather. We are currently in the Junction system. Technically, it’s still listed as Lacaille 8760. But only astrographers use that label, now.”

Caine had to focus—hard—in order to stay on track: “Okay: so now that interstellar travel is public knowledge, I’m free to go, right?” But even as he asked it, Caine knew there had to be a catch: otherwise, why take him light-years away from Earth before waking him up?

Downing shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Ultimately, it was not the interstellar travel we had to keep a secret. It was the mere fact that you were coldcelled at all. Even after interstellar travel—and colonies—became commonplace, we still couldn’t reanimate you.”

Caine understood. “Because then people would want to know who had the authority to put me in a deep freeze and get everyone to think I was missing, presumed dead, for thirteen years.”

Downing nodded.

“Well, since you woke me up, you’re obviously ready to answer the question if it comes from me: so, on whose authority did you coldcell me?”

Downing seemed to retract into himself for a moment: whatever was about to come out was apparently kept deep within. “I am—call it the executive officer—for the Institute of Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Security. IRIS, for short. Officially, it is a civilian think tank housed at the Naval War College.”

“And unofficially?”

Downing resisted the same retractile reflex he’d combated a moment earlier. “The Institute covertly coordinates the actions of, and analyzes data gathered by, the world’s various intelligence services.”

Caine stared, then shook his head. “No, I don’t buy that: intelligence organizations would never cooperate that closely.”

“Not knowingly. Which is why IRIS exists: to provide an invisible intelligence locus that is aware of, and able to coordinate responses to, our new global crisis.”

“How can something be a ‘global’ crisis if only your handful of analysts are even aware of it?”

“If something endangers the whole world, then it’s a global crisis—regardless of whether one or one million persons are aware of the danger.”

“Okay, so what the hell caused this secret global crisis?”

Downing frowned. “Our first interstellar missions were extremely circumspect. And so we asked ourselves: if there’s anyone else out here, wouldn’t they explore the same way? Accordingly, we started watching for subtle signs—”

“And now you’ve found something. Out here. And that’s your new secret.”

“Yes. We’ve received reports that point to the possibility of past exosapience on Delta Pavonis Three. But we can’t investigate it with any of our contacts in the military or intelligence services, not without drawing attention to both the site and the Institute. So we need you to go there—on your own—and report back on what you find.”

Caine considered this rather surreal scheme and quickly arrived at three possible alternatives. Firstly, he might be hallucinating—in which case he had nothing to lose if he agreed to go looking for exosapients.

If, on the other hand, he was not hallucinating, Downing could be either lying or telling the truth—but whichever it was, he and whoever he worked for were serious enough to abduct and coldcell Caine for a very long time. So if Caine refused to cooperate, Downing might decide he was a liability that had to be eliminated. Meaning that Caine had to appear to cooperate, if only to buy enough time to escape.

Or, lastly, it was possible that Downing was telling the truth—in which case there was so much at stake that Caine could not, in good conscience, refuse. So all logical roads seemed to lead to cooperation, albeit by very different paths.

But damn it, Caine didn’t like being impressed labor, and he didn’t have to make Downing’s job easy. So his answer took the form of a grudging mutter: “I’ll think about it.”

However, that attempt at gruff defiance came out pathetically slurred: “Althinka bowt.”

Caine started, stared at Downing—and discovered the tall Englishman was becoming a dark gray silhouette, shrinking against the burgeoning, burning lights. “Whu—wuzhapn me?” Caine mumbled.

And then the world contracted, sank, and he plummeted down into the black hole that it became.

MENTOR

Downing checked the monitors attached to Caine’s chair as two orderlies eased the tall, unconscious American into a gurney.

“How is he?” asked Nolan Corcoran’s voice from speakers hidden behind baffles in the debriefing chamber’s matte black walls.

Downing nodded toward the concealed observation booth. “Passed out. Again. But he’s doing better than yesterday. Pupil dilation and contraction rates are back to normal. So are his EEG and the levels of his acetylcholine, serotonin, potassium, and endorphins. I daresay he’ll remember most of today’s conversation.”

“Did he recall any of yesterday’s session?”

“No, nor of the two days before that. Riordan’s brain chemistries were too imbalanced to form true memories. Until now, that is. Huzzah and hooray.”

“All good news, so why the bitter tone, Richard?”

Downing dismissed the orderlies with a wave. “I’m bitter because there’s simply no indication that he had any intention of leaking the story on the Far Side anti-matter plant.” Downing stalked back into the spartan observation room”So whatever Riordan was doing outside your suite thirteen years ago, Nolan, it wasn’t to break in and steal secrets.”

“No,” Nolan said quietly, “probably not.”

“So essentially, we’re now sending a perfectly innocent man on a clandestine mission to the far reaches of interstellar space.” Downing sat and crossed his arms. “Besides, Riordan’s not suited for covert operations. And I do not mean his skills: I mean his character.”

Corcoran, avoiding Downing’s eyes, scanned the day’s bio data. “What’s wrong with Caine’s character?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it—and that’s the problem. He made a career out of speaking truth to power—and getting fired for doing so. In short, he’s too straight an arrow for this line of work. And we can’t change that.” And damn it, we shouldn’t even try. It’s bad enough that we have to lie for a living; we’ve no right to corrupt Riordan, too.

But Nolan was shaking his head. “You’re wrong, Rich; he’ll get the job done. Besides, there are two shifts left before you reach Delta Pavonis: seventy days, almost. That is plenty of training time.”

“With all due respect, Admiral, that is hogwash. That might be a lot of training time for an operative who already has the right background: military, counterintelligence, even police work. But an author and analyst?”

Nolan nodded. “Yes, he’s an author—and a big part of his success was that when he analyzed military or space policy, he got his hands dirty. He went and learned the ropes himself. He’s gone through Basic and part of ROTC, and was on site in some pretty dangerous situations, like the Pretoria Quarantine. And as for dealing with shady characters—well, he’s had an arm’s-length relationship with the press for ten years, so we know he can think on his feet and smell hidden agendas a mile off.” Nolan glanced out the observation panel at the limp body lying on the gurney; Riordan’s auburn hair was lank with sweat, his half-lidded green eyes as inert as those of a corpse. “Caine will do just fine.”

Downing grunted, picked up his dataslate from the booth’s control panel. “Nolan, there’s one last thing you might want to consider: a straight arrow like Riordan might veer from his initial trajectory if he begins to doubt the integrity of the bowmen who launched him.”

Corcoran nodded. “I’ve considered it. Anything else?”

Downing shrugged. “No. I’ll be heading off to dinner, then. Coming, Nolan?”

The retired admiral did not look away from Riordan when he replied. “Thanks, Rich. I’m not hungry yet. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Downing nodded. “Bright and early.” He entered the security code for the debriefing chamber’s exit. It hissed open.

But as Downing stepped into the corridor beyond, he heard a faint sound behind him: Corcoran had left the observer’s booth, was already next to Riordan’s gurney. And, just as the security door closed, Downing noticed that Nolan had abandoned his customary military bearing. He looked more like a troubled father standing beside the bed of a desperately ill child.

But as Downing stepped into the corridor beyond, he heard a faint sound behind him: Corcoran had left the observer’s booth, was already next to Riordan’s gurney. And, just as the security door closed, Downing noticed that Nolan had abandoned his customary military bearing. He looked more like a troubled father standing beside the bed of a desperately ill child.

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