Chapter Thirty-Three
Riordan let the crossbow sag in one hand as the dustkine herd moved off into the trackless western waste. The sighting had excited the trogs, who anticipated that, after four days, they might finally get a taste of something other than lichen.
Not that anyone considered fresh dustkine a delicacy. It was hard on most palates and even harder on the human gut without special preparation. But neither of those factors entered into the consideration of whether or not they should bring one down. There was only one variable that mattered: how long it would take.
According to Bey, who’d had far more experience hunting dustkine than any of the city-born trogs, they would be fortunate to run one to ground within half a day. On the flat expanses of the wastes, pursuit was difficult and cutting out even the weakest member of a herd was harder still. Then there was the matter of hitting it with enough arrows and quarrels to cripple it, all while chasing off any others that might double back to defend it.
Assuming it could be finished off quickly with axes, there was still the matter of butchering the kill, probably in the dark. And the smell of fresh blood had a way of bringing all sorts of unwanted and dangerous visitors from all points of the compass. All in all, they’d encountered this herd too late in the day and the need was simply not great enough, yet. They still had at least fifteen days of food remaining.
What could not be calculated was the likelihood they were being followed, but the unspoken consensus was to assume that they were. When their notional pursuers had started after them and how fast they were moving were unknowable, but Ulchakh and Bey offered similar counsel: the distance of the pursuit was less important than the weather. Specifically, would the spring rains wipe away their tracks? They could only hope so.
That was why, on the third day of their northward trek, they actually welcomed the gale force winds and battering sheets of rain that the locals considered typical of vernal storms. However, if trackers were persistent, that might only mean a delay until they ranged outward and found where the trail began again.
Which was the other reason why they had to forego pursuing the dustkine: the spoor of the kill and butchery. Had the game been smaller, the bones and remains could have been carried to the river and swiftly consigned to its depths. But the sheer mass of slain dustkine didn’t merely produce a far-reaching scent, but left behind massive amounts of bone, fibrous hide, and slimy viscera that only x’qao seemed capable of digesting. Even if a group spent the hours required to haul that revolting mess to the river, there was no way to disguise the death-reeking furrows left by dragging it. In short, one could not remove all the spoor, and not all of it would be eaten or carried off by the creatures of the wastes.
“Hard to see all that meat walking off over the horizon,” Bannor muttered from over Caine’s shoulder.
Riordan nodded. It seemed that the Green Beret was never too far away, these days. Probably watching to see if I go nuts after the hovel.
Which was, to be fair, a reasonable concern. And it would be just as reasonable for Bannor to deny why he was keeping close tabs on Caine’s emotional and mental state. But each episode of worried attention was another reminder of why the Crewe was so concerned and careful.
Because I’m not like them. I’m not a soldier. I’m just a civilian who’s learned to act like one. Sort of. And it hardly mattered that Tagawa and Veriden were technically covert operatives. From what Caine had gleaned, their training and missions had been every bit as grueling and bloody as that of the soldiers.
Riordan removed the quarrel and eased the string forward on his crossbow: at least out on the wastes, you saw your enemies coming way ahead of time. “Another week, and we’ll know if we can try our hand at hunting. Assuming that Ulchakh stops being cagey about who or what might be behind us.”
Bannor nodded. “Yes, his enigmatic act is getting a little bit tiresome. Think he knows something we don’t?”
Caine shrugged. “He might. Or just suspects something very strongly. But if it has any bearing on how long we can go without getting more food, I wish he’d share it sooner rather than later.”
Rulaine’s eyes pinched tight. Caine couldn’t tell if he was squinting against the bright dust-glare or the contingency plan they’d settled upon in the event of insufficient rations. “Having second thoughts about running out of rations before we get to Khorkrag?”
Riordan shook his head. “It’s a hell of a lot easier than the decision that had to be made in Forkus.” Which was objectively true. After having to order executions in that blood-drenched charnel house, planning for a terminal food shortage was almost easy. If they ever got to the point where they only had three days of local rations left, they’d cut the trogs loose. Some of them might survive, particularly if they kept following Bey. Although, truth be told, Caine would have preferred including Ulchakh and Bey in the second part of the plan: to dip into the Dornaani rations in an effort to push on to Khorkrag and into the eastern wadi country that lay south of Achgabab. Not revealing that second food supply to the trogs had meant entering an ethical grey zone, but it was nothing like the infernal moral blackness of the executions—no, the massacre—he’d ordered in Forkus.
As if to make matters worse, after just four days of traveling and living alongside trogs, Riordan had come to realize that they weren’t the abject brutes that the h’achgai liked to claim and Tasvar had occasionally suggested. Caine admitted that they’d probably never shed the cardinal lesson of life they’d learned among the x’qao in Forkus: that kindness is weakness. However, they already responded to firm, fair leadership as well or better than they had to the rageful threats of predatory overlords.
Yaargraukh, at the head of their formation, raised one massive arm and waved it forward; he and the advance element had resumed moving north along the river’s high-water bank. That term had taken a little getting used to, but it was decidedly more accurate than high-water mark, because the riverine dynamics actually cut separate tiers into the land that adjoined them.
As Riordan ambled back into the van, Bannor hung back, glancing back at the rearguard. “Will Eku be all right, back there?”
Caine shrugged. “He has to be.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“Better today. Or so he says.”
Bannor nodded. “Well, at least he’s doing better than that kajh with the infected leg wound. He’s costing us five klicks a day. At least.”
Riordan sighed. “Might not be costing us any time at all, soon.”
“Newton thinks it’s that serious?”
“Yes, and he was only confirming what Ta’rel predicted two days ago.”
“Do we spend the antibiotics to save the kajh or roll the dice?”
Caine shook his head. “Newton ran a chemical assay on the wound drainage. Not exactly like our bacteria, and it reproduces even more quickly. According to Ta’rel, either the kajh will fight it off by tomorrow morning or he’s not going to make it. From what the grat’r could communicate, the healing paste he gave Yaargraukh would probably beat the infection easily.” Riordan glanced at his friend. “You and Yaargraukh came to know each other pretty well during your contract in EpsIndi. Do you think there’s any chance he might be, well, mistaken about how fast that unguent worked?”
Bannor shook his head. “One thing I know about that Hkh’Rkh is that he won’t lie, or even exaggerate. Which you know, too.”
Riordan nodded. “I do . . . but I’m as baffled as he is. Nothing should heal a wound that quickly.”
Bannor nodded. “Nothing we know about, anyway.” He spat in the dust. “More ignorance. Hell, maybe wounds here are as different as the infections. About which: I take it that Eku’s wounds didn’t infect?”
“They did, but not with the same germ. And one of the trogs knew how to clean and sterilize it.”
Bannor looked over. “Let me guess: Bey, again?”
Riordan shrugged. “Eku says she probably saved his life. By the time the ones who took him captive handed him off, he was feeling pretty miserable.”
“Could he be exaggerating? His remote biosigns never looked that bad.”
Caine considered. “It’s possible. But it may also be how the infections in this place kill. According to Newton, the one that the kajh is fighting is from a variety of strains that don’t even cause fevers or septicemia. They go directly after the nervous system.”
“Hence, little warning and fewer biosigns until the very sudden bitter end?”
“That’s the current guess.”
“Eku tell you anything else about his trip to Forkus?”
“Wasn’t a lot to tell. They saw his ’chute, chased him for days. After they caught him, they didn’t realize he was signaling to us, but beat him pretty savagely when they discovered that he’d been doing something behind their back. They tried to take the suit off as well, but he screamed when they tried to yank the sleeve off his broken arm and found they couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“He’d tasked the Dornaani reactive hardening to work as a splint, but they never gave him the chance to reverse it.”
“My God! So they were trying to yank his arm out of the equivalent of a soft-cast?”
Riordan nodded. “Which is how his arm was broken again and why he’s in such pain.”
Bannor shook his head. “Poor guy. I hate to ask, but did he let anything sensitive slip out? Such as where we’re from?”
“No. Probably because they couldn’t communicate enough to question him. And because they’d probably never have thought to ask a question like that.”
Rulaine expelled his breath as a low, grateful whistle. “Thank God they didn’t, because if he had given that up, we’d have been in real trouble.”
“We may still be. I doubt Hwe’tsara, or whoever was coming to scoop him up, is going to let this go with a shrug.”
Bannor sighed. “Yeah, we’ve got to assume that they weren’t just interested in his gear, or even his technical knowledge. A real power player is going to want to know where he came from. And his rescue, which was a case of massive overkill, is going to be very interesting to anyone whose primary job is intelligence gathering. They are going to ask why we went to such extreme lengths and expended so many assets to retrieve him before he could fall into their hands. Which will only confirm them in their determination to learn where he’s from and what he knows.”
Riordan nodded. “And they won’t rest easy until they know how to keep his world from coming to this one, and how they can get to and plunder his.” He sighed. “I guess we’d better get used to sleeping with one eye open and looking over our shoulder with the other.”
Bannor smiled. “You mean, assuming we don’t want to wind up with bags over our heads and spend the rest of our lives in the local equivalent of a subterranean ‘debriefing facility’? Because we’re prime targets now. Probably will be for the rest of our lives.”
“You know that sounds paranoid, right?”
“Yeah. But maybe it’s like some of the Lost Soldiers say: It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.” Rulaine’s sardonic smile faded. “I was also wondering if Eku said anything about Hsontlosh’s files?”
Caine nodded. “Yes. He’s finished. He’ll tell us what he found tonight.”
Rulaine was watching him from the corner of his eye. “Are you ready for that?”
Riordan made sure his voice was quiet and level. “I’m ready for it to be over.”
Bannor looked north, changed to a matter-of-fact tone that indicated he was leaving the unspoken topic—Elena’s fate—behind. “Best we start looking for a defensible campsite.”
Riordan pointed. “Up ahead, north-by-northeast. Scoped it earlier. High ground, near a dry wadi. I figure we set our watch on the crest, everyone sleeps in the lee.”
Bannor glanced at him. “See, you’re already better than a freshly minted second lieutenant.”
“Huh. That’s not saying much.”
“And you’re even getting the hang of the trademark sarcasm. I’ll go forward and have Yaargraukh pick up the pace.”
***
Eku struggled to finish reporting what he’d found among Hsontlosh’s hidden and encrypted files, but his words were already slurring. He’d had difficulty adjusting to the hard marching that began well before dawn and pressed well past dusk.
Craig Girten reached out a hand to steady him. “About done with the Fireside, yeah, Eku?”
The factotum nodded, glanced over at Riordan. “I am sorry, Commodore. There is not much more to tell, but I must leave it until tomorrow’s . . . er, chat.” It still took Eku a moment to remember the nickname Girten had given their private after-dinner jawboning sessions: Fireside Chats. Initially, no one had picked up on its reference to the second Roosevelt’s wartime radio messages, but it seemed apt enough. The greatest benefit of both was not the information shared, but the daily contact that fostered a sense of community.
Riordan nodded. “Get some rest, Eku. I’ll be over to stand the first watch for you.”
Murmuring thanks, the factotum rose with Craig’s aid and made off for the campsite in the lee of the small, knob-shaped rise that was the night’s watch post.
Riordan made himself smile. “So, we’re going to run this like any other strategy session. We all heard the same things. What were your thoughts? Floor is open.”
Uncomfortable glances went around the group. Even the typically unflappable Yaargraukh’s eyes tucked in slightly. Craig returned, took one look at their faces, and sat quickly.
Dora started the conversation with a sigh. “Boss, granted that you’re, well, the boss . . . but is this really a strategy matter?”
Riordan nodded. “Absolutely.”
“But, this is about Elena,” Bannor said quietly. He was one of the few people in the Crewe who’d actually met her.
“All the more reason to treat this as a strategy session,” Riordan countered. “Look: why do we have these conversations?”
Tagawa bowed her head slightly. “Because you value us and our opinions. And because, as you have said, no single perspective can escape the subjectivity of the one who holds it. So, as a group, our many perspectives ensure greater objectivity.”
He felt his smile become genuine; his intents almost sounded spiritual when Ayana expressed them. “So it is because this matter is personal for me that I’ve never had greater need of your viewpoints to check against my own. It’s too likely I heard what I wanted to, or what I feared most, because I’m so invested in the outcome. So: Eku’s report. What did you hear?”
Ayana looked Riordan in the eyes. “I shall start with the most obvious. Hsontlosh knew that Elena herself would not have been of interest to the Ktor once the various Dornaani specialists proclaimed her medical condition irreversible. That is why, in his later exchanges with other black-market entities in the Collective’s fringe and border systems, he explicitly states that she is now simply a lure.”
“You mean, to keep drawing us toward Ktor space.”
“More specifically, into the Scatters. His entries indicate that he was convinced that if he delivered you to the Ktor, his dubious reputation among other lojis as a willing tool of the Collective would have inverted. He had good reason to expect that he would be transformed from a near pariah to an object of admiration, even envy.”
Riordan nodded. “Could some of his files be deliberate forgeries, meant to mislead any unauthorized readers?”
Duncan shook his head. “I think Eku established their provenance, Commodore. Particularly regarding the way the entries reveal gradual changes in Hsontlosh’s own thinking. A grifter won’t create a long, nuanced, written charade unless it’s necessary to his con. And it’s clear Hsontlosh never meant those documents to be seen.”
Craig frowned. “Hsontlosh seemed to change his mind about a lot of things, along the way. Which do you mean?”
Duncan shrugged. “He started out believing she was still alive, because the first Collective documentation he got hold of asserted that Elena had not yet, er, passed. But they never again mentioned her, or the status of her medical coldcell, after Kutkh inserted her into Virtua.
“So when Hsontlosh learned that Kutkh no longer had her medcell, he tried to find it. Which went nowhere fast. And his black-market pals confirmed that she hadn’t been reconnected to a Virtua node. Without that, her chances of survival were, well . . . zero.”
Ayana nodded. “His coconspirators among the Arbiters communicated that they had come to the same conclusions.”
Dora sighed. “Which Hsontlosh later confirmed by tracking down her medical cell through its registration code. That’s why he made that one detour while he was dragging us through the border worlds: to visit its last known location.” She shook her head. “Sold for parts, no questions asked.”
Duncan shrugged. “At each of those dead ends, his doubt increased, step by deductive step, until he couldn’t even imagine a scenario in which she was still alive.”
Riordan had promised himself that he wouldn’t ask questions which were partial to the outcome he desperately wanted, but he couldn’t hold back. “But then how did she speak to me in Virtua when Kutkh linked us, put us in the same place?”
Ayana’s eyes were sad as she asked, “But Commodore, were you in the same place? As you explained it, Kutkh claimed that you had to speak to Elena while she was dreaming, that anything more direct would rouse her out of Virtua and so, cause her death.”
Riordan nodded, his mouth very dry.
“So I must ask,” Tagawa continued almost reluctantly, “if consciousness can be coded into terms that Virtua recognizes, is it not also likely that samples from a consciousness could be saved, compiled, and edited?”
Riordan nodded again, tried to swallow, couldn’t. He’d wondered, and feared, the same thing: that his fog-shrouded conversation with Elena was just a cunning use of Virtua’s smoke and mirrors. Speaking to her as she dreamed, avoiding mention of specific memories for fear of throwing her out of Virtua: the contact was so tightly constrained that later, he wondered if he’d spoken not to her, but a construct. Which Eku’s report made that conclusion far more likely.
Or . . . inescapable?
Caine pulled himself back from that brink. “Which puts us face-to-face with the real elephant in the room: is recarnation even possible? Can a person’s mind be transferred into a clone that’s been brought to maturity without awakening it?”
Newton shook his head sharply. “Let us leave aside whether such an empty vessel can be created at all. The most pertinent of Dornaani experts—those deeply versed in Virtua—have invariably concluded that it cannot be done. Although the activity and memories of a living being may be coded for projection into Virtua, there is no evidence for the reverse: using data from Virtua to transfer a consciousness into an un-patterned brain. Eku’s metaphor was as apt as it was elegant: one can capture a grainy image of a painting and it will be recognizable. But there is no way to recapture the lost detail if one tries to convert that grainy image back into an exacting recreation of the canvas.
“This was yet another significant change in Hsontlosh’ thinking. In the course of his researches, he became familiar with both sides of the machine-mind transfer debate and increasingly aligned himself with its skeptics. By the end, he expressed deep contempt for its proponents, referring to their theories as, as . . . I cannot recall the passage Eku quoted.”
Peter recited it: “‘A myth worshipped by those who cling to the futile hope that they might cheat death.’”
Newton nodded. “And Eku’s own practical summation proves as much; specifically, that if such a procedure existed, dying Dornaani would have used it frequently. But instead, there is no indication that it has ever been attempted.”
Riordan’s anticipation of an answer in the negative hadn’t made it any easier to hear. But it made his last, inevitable question even harder to ask. “So now that we’ve finished reviewing Eku’s evidence, can any of you imagine a scenario in which Elena isn’t dead?”
Yaargraukh shifted slightly. “Caine Riordan, from the beginning, Hsontlosh’s scheme never depended upon Elena Corcoran being alive. And as it progressed, he discerned that its only weakness was that she might actually be found alive.” The big Hkh’Rkh’s neck-and-head hung in a slight curve. “Hsontlosh would surely have taken steps to . . . to remove that risk.”
Dora wrung her hands as she added to Yaargraukh’s conclusion. “Elena was more than a risk, Caine; she was evidence. State’s evidence. And not just enough to hang that bastard loji, but all his coconspirators. Some of whom are Arbiters of the whole damn Collective.” She shook her head. “And you know what happens to evidence like that. Particularly in outer space where there are plenty of planets where things burn up on reentry. Real easily.”
Several faces showed shock at Veriden’s frankness, but Riordan was oddly relieved by it. He turned to the one person who hadn’t responded to Eku’s report. “Craig, what do you think?”
Girten stared at his calloused hands. “When I was growing up, mobsters threw guns in rivers because even the dumbest of them knew that if there was no murder weapon, they couldn’t be tied to a crime. But they also knew that it was even better if there was no body to find.” He waved at the unfamiliar stars overhead. “So I was thinking the same thing as Dora: that it’s almost too easy to get rid of evidence, here. Every star and every planet is like an incinerator that can burn up damn near anything without leaving a trace . . . just like poor Liebman.
“I have one other thought, sir. But it isn’t easy to say. And I’m sure it’s harder to hear.”
“Still, I’ll hear it.”
“Well, in a universe where anything can be incinerated almost anywhere you go, how far do you chase after something that might be hidden, but is more likely to have been, well, burnt right out of existence? A person could search forever and never know for sure.” He snuffled a bit. “Two of my high school pals were aboard a ship that went down just a few weeks after the Nip—er, Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Never learned what happened, because they were never found. Sometimes, that’s just the way it is. And you’ve got no choice but to get on with your life, despite the hole in your heart.”
Caine didn’t remember standing, but he was nodding at the group and turning to leave when he said, “I’m going to swap into first watch. Thank you, everyone.”
***
Riordan concentrated on the sparse nighttime sounds and maintaining an even pace as he walked back to camp.
Without making a noise, Bannor was walking alongside him. “How are you doing?”
Caine couldn’t force a smile to his face. “Second time you’ve asked today.”
“Sometimes friends do that.”
Riordan nodded, looked straight ahead. “So what do you think?”
Bannor sighed. “Caine, you had two questions to ask tonight, but only asked us one: Is it reasonable to think Elena’s alive? And you got your answer: No, not really. No one could even imagine a scenario in which it was possible. All you can say is that no one has seen her body.
“Maybe you need to hang on to that. Maybe it keeps you going. Or maybe it could prove a dangerous distraction.” Bannor shrugged. “Only you can know that. And only time will tell.”
“And my second, unasked question?”
Rulaine shrugged. “It’s the one Craig brought up: Is it reasonable to act as if she’s still out there? I’ll answer with a question of my own: What could we do if she is?”
He gestured upward as Girten had. “Caine, look at that sky: thousands upon thousands of stars, not one of which we recognize. With a real computer, the right sensors, and enough time, we might figure out where we are. But even then, there’s no guarantee that we could get home. And if we did, we still wouldn’t have come one millimeter closer to knowing what happened to Elena . . . and the odds say we never would.”
“So I just can’t see how believing she’s alive will achieve anything except reliving the misery of reopening that wound every single day.”
They’d arrived at the campsite. Up on the small knob of rock sheltering it, Katie Somers and Bey surveyed the surrounding darkness. “I can take Katie’s spot for you,” Bannor muttered.
“No,” Caine said, “I told Craig I’d do it. I’m fine.”
Bannor raised a dubious eyebrow, then nodded and headed toward his place in the sleeping circle.
Riordan stared up at the watch post, wished he was already there.
Wished he could stay up there all night long.
That way, he wouldn’t have to close his eyes on the last day he’d believed that Elena Corcoran was still alive somewhere, looking up at the same stars he was.