Interlude Two
As the turbulent striped-agate dot of Zeta Tucanae VI faded in the aft viewer, Melissa Sleeman leaned against Tygg Robin’s arm to watch it disappear. The sizable bicep of that arm was still tense. “Relax, Christopher,” she murmured. “A standing-shift is the best strategy, the best way to avoid detection.”
“Odd thing to say about a terawatt-level discharge of energy,” her husband muttered. “If any of the newly arrived ships on the other side of the star move to a point where they’re no longer blinded by the corona, they’ll see our shift clear as day. And then we’re all just meat pies on the roo-bar.”
Melissa pushed closer. “Alnduul’s disposable microsats have been watching that approach for days. There has been no new traffic since the last shift-carrier came in almost five weeks ago. The only sensors that are in a position to see it are the ones around Dustbelt, but Alnduul has kept the gas giant between us.
“But, if he had chosen a standard shift, Olsloov would have been running her fusion thrusters for at least a week of pre-acceleration, leaving a particle trail as well. And in the end, that shift would have been almost as noticeable as the one we’ll make in a few hours. This way, once the shift’s radiant signature is gone, there will be nothing left to detect.”
Tygg put an arm around her waist, smiled sideways. “How is it you always manage to explain things in a way that makes me feel less anxious?”
She hugged him. “Because I love you.”
He stared down at her. “No, that’s why you do it. I asked how?”
Her smile became mischievous. “Well, three doctorates in the sciences and forty more points of IQ probably has something to do with that.”
He sighed and hugged her back. “Yeh, probably does.”
***
When Richard Downing emerged from his shared stateroom, Alnduul was waiting just beyond the iris valve, three of his new Dornaani crew arrayed behind him. “The last of your equipment will soon be secured. Are you ready to inspect it?”
Downing nodded and they began drift-walking toward the dorsal half-bay that was the only access to the cargo module stuffed with the materiel from Dustbelt.
After a dozen steps, Alnduul added, “We are also ready to commence final boost to deorbit the impactor.”
Again, Downing nodded.
Two more steps. “Are you certain that destroying your group’s facility on the third planet will convince pursuers that all of you have met a violent end?”
Downing wondered if, at any point in their evolution, the Dornaani had rubbed their hands in anxiety, because Alnduul made it sound like it must—or at least, should—have been one of their most common activities. Richard smiled. “Certainty is a commodity in perpetually short supply. But whoever finds the ruins of our base is unlikely to be accompanied by a forensics team, so their discoveries will be limited to debris. Accordingly, we left just enough useless Lost Soldier equipment so that a determined investigation would find some rubbish that they might be able to date back to twentieth-century Earth, but no more than that.
“They will certainly determine that the site was destroyed by the small asteroid you’re ready to deorbit. And in sweeping the impact zone, they are likely to discover that it had been meticulously swept for any other, incriminating objects before it struck.”
As Alnduul preceded Downing up the vertical tube that led to the expanded storage area, his voice was one of carefully controlled perplexity. “But whichever of your adversaries finds the aftermath will know that they did not conduct the attack. So will they not then seek those who are responsible for it? For logically, they will suspect Earth’s other blocs, and seek to discover whose operatives were responsible, and so seek and accuse those who possess the evidence that was removed.”
“They would certainly be tempted to do exactly that, but they will be reluctant to do so.”
“Why?”
“Because they fear uncovering a plot that would be quite counterproductive to their own ends.”
“Propose such an outcome.”
They reached the top of the tube as Downing explained. “The worst-case scenario would be if they discovered that the Ktor took matters into their own hands. Specifically, that the Sphere still has agents in the megacorporations, which located the Lost Soldiers and passed that intel back to their masters. Whose ships then came over the border and steered a small asteroid into a fiery descent that burned away all their worries, right down to the bedrock. Perhaps they sanitized the site beforehand, or perhaps the impact really did wipe away almost all the evidence.
“Second scenario: that the destruction of the Lost Soldier base was carried out by one of the other blocs, but as a black flag operation. Yes, the Developing World Coalition is the most likely, but other culprits are possible. After all, every bloc is worried about what will occur if it is openly revealed that the Lost Soldiers were hijacked by the Ktor: public outrage that pushes Earth into a war it cannot win. So it is conceivable that even those blocs sympathetic to the Lost Soldiers might decide to eliminate them, but then point fingers at the DWC. It’s almost comical to think of it: the consuls sitting around the table, all looking surprised . . . because all of them are. Essentially, we’re the ones behind the false flag operation.”
Alnduul waited for his three new crew members to catch up before moving toward the entry to the cargo access bulkhead. “I see how the ripples run even further, Richard Downing. If the Developing World Coalition mounts an investigation to prove themselves innocent and succeeds, they cannot know in advance that the evidence which exonerates them will not also ineluctably implicate the Ktor. And so, that is yet another pathway to war and another reason for them not to investigate what happened on Zeta Tucanae III.”
Alnduul’s mouth twisted. “So, your opponents will logically strive to deflect any discovery or focus upon what transpired here, lest public fears and suspicions lead to the outcome they are trying to prevent: war with the Ktor.”
Downing nodded. “That’s our hope: to achieve what is effectively a stalemate. Which, for us, is a strategic victory.”
Alnduul had stopped at the access doors. “You speak as if you are intimately familiar with the plight of your adversaries.”
“Nature of intelligence work, old boy,” Downing muttered with a smile.
After one lid nictated in response to being called ‘old boy,’ Alnduul’s fingers drooped. “I am not speaking in generalities or in relation to our current circumstances. I refer to the conundrums which, from the outset, undermined your ability to effect a just outcome for the Lost Soldiers.”
Downing frowned. “Not sure I know what you’re getting at.”
“Truly? I see this parallel: you must have been tempted to ask either me or the Custodians in general to provide asylum for the Lost Soldiers so long as they remained in cryogenic stasis. But on reflection, you realized that you could not do so, not only because they are undeniable evidence of the Ktoran violations of your planet’s autonomy, but stark proof that the Custodians themselves failed to prevent those violations and then, failed to make good their assurances to protect Earth against invasion.
“Perhaps if that had been the limit of the quandaries, you might still have made your request. However, by then you knew or had reasoned that doing so would initiate a cascade of events which would preclude the very outcome you desired.”
In response to Downing’s blank stare, the Dornaani explicated. “Your request for us to conceal the Lost Soldiers would have led to questions about how and why the Custodians failed. The insufficiency of those answers would in turn have revealed that it was the Arbiters who forbade us the Custodians to act as they had not only promised, but were obliged to by the Accords. So, it would have been revealed that the very core of the Collective had actively undermined the very order it had brought about.
“We Dornaani would be shown to have violated the Accord by obstructing the Custodians. So the Collective had only one ethical path: to vote for its own suspension from the Accord. Which, if it did, would have left only one full member in good standing: the Slaasriithi, the most ineffectual of all the species. And so, division and war would follow among the races.” All his fingers trailed limply. “Or as would have been more likely, the Collective would have worked to suppress all evidence and accusations against it, showing itself to be so corrupt that the Accord would lose all respect and validity. And again, division and war would follow among the races.”
Alnduul’s sad eyes regarded Richard. “So, you eschewed action because your initial intent—to secure legal asylum for the Lost Soldiers—would have led to the dissolution of all order and any hope of peace. And still, the Lost Soldiers would have remained literally and figuratively frozen in place: hostages to the endless debates and eventual unraveling of the Accord itself.”
He blinked, as if that were sufficient to both initiate and complete a dramatic change of subject. “Are you ready to see the cargo’s lading, now?”
Downing was too stunned to speak for a moment. “Y-yes, I am.”
Alnduul was gesturing one of his crew forward to lead the way into the cavernous hold when Trevor Corcoran’s voice called up from the bottom of the access tube. “There’s a new wrinkle before we can put the new cargo module in deep freeze, Uncle Richard. Seems some of the Lost Soldiers are requesting that particular representatives address their various concerns to ‘the brass.’” Trevor emerged from the tube. “Problem is, those representatives are still in cold sleep.”
“Then why have you come to me, lad? I am hardly—”
“Richard.”
Downing stopped; Trevor was giving him “the stare.” The stare that meant he wasn’t in the mood for any of his godfather’s evasions or ingenuous protestations. Tygg Robin was still the de jure CO, but with Downing and Trevor soon to be joined by the recently reanimated Three Colonels of the Lost Soldiers, the two-dozen conscious Lost Soldiers now considered those five officers to be “the brass.” Or they would be as soon as the colonels had fully recovered. “And what does Captain Robin have to say about this?”
“To quote him: ‘That’s brilliant, mate!’”
Hardly a surprise; Tygg Robin was—by aptitude, inclination, and preference—an in-the-muck type of soldier. Probably the only reason he’d ever been willing to become an officer was because the only thing he liked less than being in charge was being subordinate to “bleeding whackers.” “Very well, we’ll get to it after the tour.”
“Tour?”
By way of answer, one of Alnduul’s new crew opened the cargo doors.
Century-old vehicles, conexes, and crates were stacked and lashed from deck to overhead. And at the far end was a gridwork holding what Downing still thought of as high-tech sarcophagi: coldcells. Except not all of them operated on the principles of cryogenic stasis; there were Ktoran symbiopods in that mix, most of which defied ready analysis or understanding. Only one thing was certain: a lot of the units had newly illuminated warning lights. What that meant, and what they should do, was unknown, even to the Dornaani: the Ktor hadn’t included instruction manuals.
Trevor came to stand next to his uncle, released a low whistle. “That is a hell of a lot of gear. Thank God for your loaders, Alnduul.” He glanced back at Olsloov’s new crew members, two of whom had controlled the cargobots that had worked the miracle of loading and securing all the gear in forty-eight hours. “Your crew certainly can get jobs done, Alnduul. Which, I’ll admit, is a relief.”
“A relief, Captain Corcoran? Did you have reason to suspect that my crew is incompetent?”
“No! Not at all! But, well, Tygg and others had the impression that you might be shorthanded on Olsloov.”
“They are correct. I was. But on the way here, I stopped in a system to which I shall not soon return. It is overseen by a very old friend, who happened to have quite a number of retired Custodians on hand, most of whom were growing restless. As was he. It was a very congenial coincidence.”
“Which system is that?”
“You know it as BD +66 582. We call it Rooaioo’q. While there, I received permission to requisition the shift-barge in which to carry your personnel and equipment.”
Trevor squinted. “A shift barge? What’s that?”
“You are standing in it.”
“This is a ship?”
“Not as you mean it, Captain. It has one significant distinction from typical cargo barges: it is fitted with a system that interfaces with the shift-grid of a starship. Together, they expand and modulate the expression of the incipient event horizon to accommodate the combined shape of the ship and barge.”
Trevor’s eyebrows had raised throughout the explanation. “That’s a pretty neat trick.”
Downing nodded, smiled knowingly. “It is. It’s even better that Alnduul was able to trick the Collective into parting with it.”
Trevor glanced between his uncle and the Dornaani. “And when was someone going to read me in on this?”
Alnduul’s eyes widened in distress. “Be assured: there was no intent to exclude you, Captain Corcoran.”
Downing cleared his throat softly. “Alnduul?”
“Yes?”
“Trevor was joking.”
The Dornaani’s lamprey-mouth rotated slightly: ironic amusement. “It is often difficult to discern the cues that distinguish your species’ sarcasm from ironic levity. I will happily share the story of how I came into possession of the shift-barge.” He gestured that they should venture into it, pointing to the hex-grid securing system built into the deck.
“After assuring the officials at my board of inquiry that I would bring you over the border, I subsequently asserted that extracting the Lost Soldiers themselves was not sufficient. Safety required that all traces of the Lost Soldiers had to disappear. Therefore, it was necessary to remove all their gear as well.
“Although the board agreed, there was some negotiation required in order to get the barge. The negotiation became an annoyance, in which I perceived a strange opportunity.
“I became increasingly adamant in all my efforts to secure it. I harried depot administrators, sent daily updates to the board, repeatedly sent communiqués to all concerned. All to underscore that, without the barge, I might not be able to accomplish a full exfiltration. Not only did I make myself enough of a nuisance to have my request for this craft swiftly approved, but the board is now thoroughly exasperated by—and therefore, convinced of—my ardor to complete the task.”
Trevor frowned. “I get everything except why it was necessary to exasperate the board to get them to trust you.”
Downing glanced at Alnduul, who was already looking at him. Downing nodded. Trevor frowned, looked between them suspiciously. Richard smiled. Well, he had the scent of it now. anyway.
“The importance of that point,” Alnduul explained slowly, “is that the board and their ostensibly discreet watchers now expect nothing other than eager compliance. If the ships that no doubt shadowed me to the border notice that I am somewhat late returning, they will not immediately be alarmed. Therefore, we have more time before I am deemed missing and the board’s judgment on me reverses. Ferociously.”
Trevor stopped in the middle of the deck. “Hold on: what’s this about your going missing?”
Alnduul folded one hand of sticklike fingers over the other. “Captain Corcoran, although the Collective is eager for me to retrieve you and the Lost Soldiers, that does not ensure that they will be equally eager to defend you from the Ktor.”
“Are you saying the Ktor would invade the Collective? Just to get to us?”
“No. I am speaking of whether the Collective has the political fortitude to resist pressure from the Ktoran Sphere to provide them with proof—living proof—that you have in fact been removed from the CTR and are firmly under our control. Note the word: our control.”
Trevor’s frown was now studied, serious. “Duly noted. Go on.”
“It is not out of the realm of possibility that they would hand your group over, in part or whole, to the Ktor to satisfy the Sphere’s demands for verification. Some of the Arbiters would wish that. Some would fight against it. But given the apathy I have witnessed recently, and the erosion of the Senior Assembly’s sense of duty and justice, I will not balance your lives upon that uncertain inflection point.”
“So what do you propose we do?”
“We chart our own course.”
Trevor blinked. “You mean, go rogue?”
Alnduul folded his hands. “I would frame my answer in the form of your own group’s innovative responses to the current scenario. Unless I am mistaken, when Bannor Rulaine’s group returned to the Collective with me, he carried a transferrable letter of marque to confer upon Caine Riordan. Is that correct?”
Downing nodded. “It is.”
“I found this action not only informative, but inspiring.” Alnduul crossed his hands “A letter of marque is a fascinating convention. We Dornaani have no analog for it. As I understand it, the letter grants the holder extraordinary freedom of action, which can entail both significant risk and opportunity.
“This seems particularly true when the polity that issued the letter of marque is in the throes of either political or military internecine strife. In such conditions, the holders could easily find themselves carrying out actions ordered by one side, but decried by the other. They could thus become a convenient scapegoat.
“On the other hand, if the holder is judicious and foresightful, he or she may undertake independent operations that the restored nation might retroactively recognize as extremely beneficial. Indeed, the privateer’s deeds might even help ensure that domestic power remains in legitimate hands. In such cases, the victorious faction is often eager to validate those actions, retroactively declaring them as having been in compliance with their orders.
“I suspect Caine Riordan understood this dimension of a letter of marque when he demanded your group receive one when presented with the initial quandary of how best to ensure the safety of the Lost Soldiers.” Alnduul turned his unblinking eyes upon Trevor. “In recent weeks, I have found myself frequently reflecting upon the enviable flexibility afforded by such letters of marque, particularly as conditions in the Collective continue to change and become more . . . factious.”
Trevor nodded slowly. “Just as the CTR is too divided to enforce its promises to us, your Collective is too divided to live up to theirs.”
Alnduul’s eyelids nictated very slowly. “In times such as these, it is difficult to retain freedom of action as well as a reasonable hope of avoiding the stigmatic label of ‘traitor.’ In the long run, I see only one possibility whereby I may hope to achieve both: to chart an independent course.”
Trevor’s smile was wondering, wide, and very bright. “Alnduul, you are one ballsy bastard.”
“If I understand your idiom, I think the appropriate response is, ‘thank you.’” He put his hand to his control circlet. “My trainees tell me we are nearing the point where we will engage the shift drive.” Before turning to lead them out, he glanced back at the wall of cryosleeping soldiers who’d been stolen from Earth’s twentieth century. “Those are my greatest worry.”
“You mean, how much power the cryocells require?”
“No, that they could fail any month or week, possibly any day, and we may have no warning.” He regarded the two of them with wide, unblinking, pupilless eyes. “I believe it wise that you have agreed to reanimate those whom the others consider important representatives of their interests, persons they trust regardless of station or rank.”
“Why?” asked Downing.
His nephew turned and pointed at the wall of coldcells behind them. “Because even though we’re saving them from Earth doesn’t change the fact that if they don’t have a voice, we’re just hijacking them.”
“To bring them to where they can live,” Downing protested.
Trevor shrugged. “Or to send them to a different death. Me? If I couldn’t speak for myself, I’d want someone to do it for me.” He looked at Downing. “How about you?”
For the first time in a very long time, Richard Downing did not stop to weigh the consequences of a decision. “Right,” he said, chin up. “That’s what we’ll do, just as soon as the Three Colonels are recovered. Now, Alnduul, I believe you have a ship to shift.”