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Interlude Four

Alnduul surveyed Olsloov’s bridge crew. The new members he’d picked up since leaving the near-disastrous board of inquiry on Glamqoozht had all settled in quite acceptably. Hardly a surprise: they were all seasoned and disgruntled Custodians, or younglings whose aspirations to become such had been frustrated by the increasingly intrusive Senior Assembly.

The Dornaani’s command circlet sent a tone that manifested inside his ear: Richard Downing was nearing the bridge. Amongst the most punctual of humans, as well as perceptive. The more time spent with him, the more it was obvious why Nolan Corcoran had recruited him as his most trusted adjutant.

The bridge’s main iris valve opened; Alnduul stood, gesturing that the human should join him. “It is good that you came with such alacrity, Mr. Downing. I wished to share this information with you first, that you may consider how best to convey it to your personnel.”

The tall, lean human nodded slowly. “Very well.”

Alnduul led him to the astrographic hologram showing their general region of space. He reached a finger up to touch a small scarlet speck. “Today’s shift has brought us into the system you designate Groombridge 1618. As this is a system that is patrolled by the Collective, Olsloov has received communication updates from the local network. Within that data, we discovered that the beacon I entrusted to Caine Riordan has in fact been activated here.” He touched a tiny stellar dot the color of blood. “This red dwarf star is the one you label as L 1815-5 A. We call it Ygzhush, or ‘Depot.’”

Downing scanned the slowly rotating spray of stars. “Getting there will require quite a long set of transits.” He glanced sideways at Alnduul. “Unless we use a deep-space shift.”

“This is correct.”

“So we could be there in eighteen days? Less?”

“We could and we shall. But we will no longer discover Caine Riordan at that location.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he deployed the beacon four and a half months ago.”

“Is there any indication why he activated the beacon?”

“No, but the data string from the ship he was on is most disturbing.”

The human’s distressingly flexible face formed into what their species called a frown. “Is the ship unsafe?”

“Not structurally. But among the registry and origination codes embedded in its transponder data string, I found an entry I recognize. It could signify that the ship is hazardous. To Caine and his companions, specifically.”

“What do you mean?”

“Each ship’s code includes a unique alphanumeric reference string that indicates all travel and transactions it has undertaken. In this case, the authorization and comm codes of the agent who oversaw the ship’s release, reactivation, readying, and conveyed its provisional title to Hsontlosh matches those of the loji who arranged for Third Arbiter Glayaazh’s new navigator. Just before her vessel was lost.”

Downing’s frown deepened. “You suspect a link? A conspiracy of some kind?”

“I cannot be certain, but I would be foolish to ignore such a strange coincidence.”

“So this Hsontlosh is a probable conspirator?”

“Possibly, but there is no way to know if anyone on the ship itself is an actual source of danger. Rather, the craft itself may be marked for elimination, or has had a latent failure programmed into its shift software. It is just such a failure that led to the mis-shift that killed Glayaazh, according to the preliminary research.

“However, Caine Riordan and his companions are now threatened by an additional, more tangible peril: the region of space into which they now travel.”

“Is system L 1815-5 A dangerous?”

“It is quite safe, but what lies beyond is an entirely different matter. They have almost certainly ventured into the Border Worlds, which are only nominal members of the Collective. We do occasionally patrol them, though.”

“Patrol for what?”

“For loji felons. And Ktor incursions.”

Downing’s brow rose precipitously.

Alnduul waved at the holosphere. “That is why the facility we label Depot was placed in L 1815-5 A.” He extended a long finger into the dance of stars, touching the one in question. “That is the system where this thin, twisting chain of worlds from the Sphere comes into contact with the Collective. If a Ktoran advance is detected along that corridor, the ships at Depot can be manned and sent to intercept. That was, at least, its purpose.”

“That doesn’t explain Caine’s entry into these Border Worlds. Might he be a captive?”

“I doubt it. There is no indication that the beacon was deployed in haste or under adverse conditions. I think this theory is far more likely: the Border Worlds hold clues to Elena Corcoran’s location. She might even have been relocated there, where the black market and lojis have far greater sway.”

Downing shook his head. “Something’s missing. If there’s some conspiracy underlying all this, what is the motivation? What does anyone stand to gain by keeping Caine from reaching Elena?”

“I believe that may be entirely irrelevant to them. Rather, if conspirators are involved, I suspect they are using her to lure Caine Riordan into an area where he can be approached, captured, or eliminated without any trace.” He saw that Downing still did not understand. “Caine Riordan’s actions have made him the epicenter of the Lost Soldiers crisis. When he proved uncooperative, the Arbiters who fear Earth’s potential for rash action may have coalesced into a conspiracy to independently ‘resolve’ that controversy.

“Logically, they would start by gaining the upper hand in the Senior Assembly and the Collective’s other high offices. From that position, they could anonymously aid the political and megacorporate entities within the CTR which mean to destroy the Lost Soldiers and also eliminate Caine, their most knowledgeable and vocal advocate.”

Downing looked skeptical. “That’s a rather tortuous chain of connections and hypotheses.”

“Not when they are considered in the context of what has occurred since Caine Riordan left Glamqoozht. Glayaazh, my dear friend and Caine’s best and most influential advocate, was killed, the timing of which also prevented her from supporting me when I appeared before the board of inquiry. The crisis that prevented the attendance of my ally Elder Custodian Vruthvur seems to have been fabricated. Glayaazh’s death also left the Custodial seat on the Senior Assembly vacant. It is now occupied by the most isolationist of my colleagues, who was formerly the Custodians’ Senior Auditor. That post is now in the hands of Menrelm: a bitter careerist who blames his failure on Earth’s actions and, by association, me and the rest of the interventionist elements of the Custodians.”

Downing was nodding now. “That does sound like the maneuvering that precedes a coup, bloodless or otherwise.”

“I believe it is. Which makes our mission that much more urgent.”

“Because we are running out of time?”

“No. Because in attempting to rescue Elena Corcoran and Caine Riordan, I suspect that we are also seizing the last opportunity to rescue the Collective itself.”

***

Alnduul rose from the couch in which he’d experienced the shift out of Groombridge 1618. “Status?” he asked the bridge crew.

“Nominal,” reported Ssaodralth, the pilot. “Commencing pre-acceleration toward next shift.”

Alnduul let his fingers tumble in the slow sequence of casual acknowledgement, turned as the entry dilated. Trevor Corcoran strode through it, raising his foot high to clear the segments of the iris valve as it was still opening.

Even before Alnduul gestured for the human to join him next to the stellar holosphere, Corcoran’s movements—gait, hands, facial—were characteristic of extreme impatience. They were also quite reminiscent of his father’s.

“We’d save a lot of time if we just shifted from a standing start again,” he complained, arms crossing as he glared at the stars turning slowly in the plot before him.

“At first,” Alnduul agreed, “but if we do so too frequently, we will disable the drive long before we reach our destination.”

“Wherever the hell that is,” Trevor grumbled, looking into the holographic litter of small, distant stars. His expression had become equal parts frustration and worry.

Alnduul looked up at the tall human. “Trevor Corcoran, I understand your desire to make all possible speed. Your family has suffered many losses, and Caine Riordan is now part of it.”

“Well, sort of. Although it’s pretty clear that if fate had allowed him and Elena to be in the same place at the same time for even a few days, he’d be my brother-in-law now.”

“Still, he is the father of your nephew, Connor. And with Elena unlocated and your father’s passing”—Alnduul respectfully allowed his inner lids to close slowly and remain so—“your family is not only scattered but much reduced.”

Corcoran glanced down at Alnduul. “The way you say that . . . it’s as if such feelings are, well, alien to you. Don’t Dornaani have families?”

“Not such as you think of them.” Alnduul waved away the stellar regional view; an almost empty system plot replaced it. Being in deep space, there were only a few rogue planetoids in the display, Olsloov’s unobstructed pre-acceleration path marked by a shining silver line. “We Dornaani experience powerful pairing affinities, as do humans. However, they do not arise from the same relationships or instincts as yours.” He waved his hand listlessly. “I felt a measure of this for your father . . . which is remarkable, since I never met him.”

The human’s eyes had become shiny with emotion. “Well, that stands to reason: my dad was a pretty remarkable man.”

“This I know well.” So very, very well. Alnduul gestured to one of the acceleration couches; its smart surfaces changed into a shape suitable for a human. “Please, secure yourself. We shall begin pre-acceleration within the minute.”

***

Trevor Corcoran helped Colonel Zhigarev into a seat in what passed for Olsloov’s ready room: it was like sitting inside a slightly flattened, oversized egg with furniture that could change shape and lighting that came from, well, nowhere that he could see.

Spaseebo,” Zhigarev said through a grunt. The Russian colonel had become quite adept getting around with only one full leg, but in barely enough centripetal force to keep their magnetic soles close to the deck, sustained movement became difficult for him.

To either side of his chair, the other two of the Three Colonels—Steve Rodermund and Pat Paulsen—made sure he got himself secured properly.

Trevor took a seat next to Commander Carlisle Hansell, who nodded curtly. From the salty old submariner, that was a markedly warm welcome. “Anyone know why Alnduul asked us to meet him here, rather than the bridge?”

“Probably too many of us,” answered Richard Downing as he glide-stepped into the compartment.

Trevor raised an eyebrow that his “uncle” pointedly failed to notice. “Too many of us,” my ass. Probably because of their twenty-second-century familiarity with starship operations, he and Richard had noticed subtle differences prior to and after the shift to L 1815-5 A, or “Depot.” There had been an early call to secure for shift; decompression of all non-habitation spaces; and now the request for the polyglot leadership of the renegade Terrans to report to the ready room. But they still hadn’t deployed the hab pods for rotation at a half-gee equivalent. Nope, something was definitely different about this shift.

The iris valve cycled and Alnduul “skipped” gracefully toward and into the saddle-shaped seat just beyond the threshold. Once settled, he nodded at each human. “Our shift was nominal. We are at the heliopause of the main system and have begun receiving data from the Depot’s control station. It includes all traffic updates from the entire Collective that have been received and recorded here within the last six months.

“I am gratified to report that there are several recent reports of Caine Riordan’s control fob signaling its presence in other star systems. In no case was it activated as an alarm. More troublesome, the systems are quite scattered. They do not constitute a path which we may follow.”

Paulsen held up a hand. “Wait: I thought we had the number for this Hsontlosh’s ship. Why can’t we just follow that?”

Alnduul folded his fingers carefully. “We did find one traffic record for his ship: its departure for BD +52 857. From here, that system is well within its maximum shift range. However, it has been over four months and it was never recorded as arriving there.”

Trevor felt his shoulders tighten. “Do you mean it’s been destroyed?” Christ, no: not Caine, too!

But Alnduul’s hands expanded into a pair of bony-fingered starbursts. “No, that has not occurred. Or at least not during that shift. The ship has been reported in several further systems within those four months, but there is no clear shift-track which links them into a logical progression.”

Downing’s voice was grim and focused. “So: the loji bastard has gone off the grid. How would he do that?”

“We are not certain, but preliminary study of administrative records generated within this system suggest that an unspecified party requested and was granted access to a restricted code that can, among other things, temporarily suspend the function of a special operation ship’s entangled transponder locator.”

“Special operations?” Rodermund muttered. “Doesn’t sound like we’re talking about a civilian ship, anymore.”

“In fact, we are not. Apparently, Hsontlosh either discovered, or knew in advance, that the ship he acquired had originally been a courier. A very old model, of course, and largely considered obsolete. But its transponder is the kind typically reserved for military and covert vessels. And, inasmuch as Depot is the Collective’s primary repository and processing site for such craft, this was a logical place for him to secure the code that allows him to travel with the ship’s transponder silent, except when he initiates communications or conducts transactions.”

“So many parts of his trail are ‘cut out’ from the record,” Downing summarized grimly.

“Yes, but that is only half the difficulty. All those systems which do show him either arriving or departing within the last four months are precisely where we conjectured he was heading: into the Border Worlds and beyond.” He refolded his hands. “There are comparatively few ‘keyholes’ for supraluminal communication in the Border Worlds. There are almost none known in the systems beyond them. So it is entirely possible that he is charting courses to and from systems from which there will be no report of his presence. Not through the Collective’s data network, at least.”

Paulsen sighed. “So, how do we follow him?”

“Given the nature of the worlds in the region to which he has traveled, local cooperation is even more unlikely than timely relays of port traffic or resource exchanges. And given what he may be trying to learn or achieve as he travels, his contacts may actively conceal them.”

“However, if the fob’s alert mode is activated by Caine Riordan, it will attempt to put that signal into the transmission logs of any nearby Dornaani ships. Embedded in the initial exchange of comm protocols—what I believe you call the ‘handshake’—it will be secretly passed along the Collective’s network any place that the first, or any other ‘seeded,’ ship arrives. The fob will also detect the presence of a keyhole and send the alert through that medium as well. So we may eventually compile a fairly complete record of Hsontlosh’s shifts, but they are likely to be reported out of sequence, with alerts from more distant systems arriving before nearer ones.”

Trevor didn’t bother trying to hide his frown. “Just to be clear: this signaling device you gave to Caine: you’re saying it’s about the size of a pocket fob?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so leaving aside a fistful of other technical challenges, how does something that small have enough energy to transmit information over such great distances, to say nothing of how it learns there’s a keyhole in the system?”

Alnduul’s eyelids nictated slowly. “We shall speak of that another time.”

Trevor leaned over to press him on the technology of the fob—just as Olsloov’s emergency klaxon began hoot-moaning.

The report from the bridge came to Alnduul’s control circlet, but he put it on the room’s speakers: “—new location report of Hsontlosh’s ship, Mentor! But it was sent directly to us! We cannot—!”

“Immediate shift to deep space,” Alnduul interrupted firmly. “Send emergency shift warning to all decks. Contingency destination three.” To those in the room, he added, “Secure yourselves. Now.”

Before any of the humans had a chance to ask what was occurring and why it was so dire, Olsloov shuddered and—

—Trevor’s consciousness returned with a jolt so abrupt and fierce that, despite his teeth locked together in a rictus, he nearly vomited. Zhigarev and Rodermund did, in fact, succumb to the savage vertigo and shock.

“Worst damn shift I’ve ever felt,” Trevor gritted out, “and I’ve been on a few really lousy ones. What the hell happened, Alnduul?”

The Dornaani looked unusually pale and mottled. “This was one of the reasons I directed our navigator to re-express near the edge of Depot’s heliopause. As we were talking, a new location report arrived through Depot’s keyhole. Normally, as I was explaining, it would simply be passed along as a hidden message in the normal comms stream. But since our transponder was detected in-system, it was sent directly to us. Via tightbeam.”

“Bloody hell,” Downing muttered. “So not only does the Collective know we’re here, but the lascom that sent us the message was also a finger pointed straight at us.”

“Correct. But that is not all. Until now, we have transited Collective systems safely. Eventually, of course, the transponder records would show that we had traversed many systems without reporting our presence, and the Assembly and Arbiters from my board of inquiry would have realized that I had long since departed Terran space, and logically, had no intention of conveying the Lost Soldiers to them. But now, the data network automatically detailed a tightbeam array to send us the embedded report. And that will come under immediate review.”

Trevor frowned. “And I’m sure the standing shift you just engaged without any warning will have shown up on Depot’s sensors like a nuclear-weapon discharge.”

“That is true, but the damage was already done. We had to shift before their computers could attempt to interrogate Olsloov’s.”

“Where did the new report come from?” Downing asked, wiping his mouth.

“The system you call Psi Tauri.”

“Hang on,” Downing muttered, dribbled bile forgotten, “that’s not even in the Border Worlds, anymore. That’s—”

“We call them the cordoned worlds. They are in a buffer zone.”

“Buffer between what and what?” Commander Hansell snapped.

“The Collective and the Ktoran Sphere. Or, more precisely, the worlds the Ktor do not claim but are known to travel through.”

“That sounds about as serious as serious can get,” Paulsen drawled sardonically.

“I wish that was correct, Colonel,” Alnduul said. Most of his color had yet to return. “But it is far more serious than you know. Or even I, until I saw the identifier string on Hsontlosh’s ship.”

Trevor leaned forward. “What’s on it?”

“What we often put on craft that must work as couriers: navigational enablers for deep-space shift.”

“Wait,” Corcoran snapped, “are you saying it has that technology aboard?”

Downing’s eyes opened wide. “If the Ktor get their hands on that—”

“They could bypass Depot and reach the heart of the Collective in four or five shifts,” Alnduul confirmed, “most of which would never be detected because they would begin and end in deep space.”

“Same with Earth.” Even in his own ears, Trevor’s voice sounded hollow. “The balance of power—and terror—would shift overnight.”

“Yes,” Downing followed, already more thoughtful, “but does Hsontlosh know the ship has deep-space shift capability? Has he used it?”

“He has not had a reason to, but no, we have no evidence that he has,” Alnduul agreed. “Unfortunately, because the record of his shifts is fragmentary, we have no way of knowing if that is because he has disabled his transponder or shifted to deep space. Which, of course, would mean he is not leaving any record of his passage even as he shortens the time it takes to reach Ktor space. Because now, we must assume that to be his destination. Indeed, we dare not assume otherwise.”

“Not given what’s at stake,” Paulsen sighed. Of all the Colonels, he seemed to be the one who’d followed the strategic implications most clearly. “How fast can we get after him?”

“We already have,” Alnduul said in a low, almost dangerous tone. “The destination you heard me give—Contingency Three—puts us on the most direct course for the cordoned worlds. There is, however, a further complication.”

Trevor leaned his forehead into his broad hand. “Damn it. The failing coldcells.”

Alnduul’s fingers drooped slightly: regret and resignation. “Have you had the opportunity to study the report from Thlunroolt and Dr. Franklin?”

Hansell and Paulsen nodded. The remaining two Colonels looked sheepish. Trevor and Downing had nearly memorized the data within the same hour Alnduul had shared it.

“To summarize,” the Dornaani continued, “our researchers have learned enough to detect early signs of impending failures, even before the warning light illuminates. However, this does not tell us much about when they might fail, merely that there are worrisome weaknesses in the system. Not knowing the durability of the components or the redundancy design features, all we know is that they may fail in a day or a decade.

“However, any units which do show warning lights will almost certainly malfunction within four to six months.”

Downing was the first to venture into the cold waters of lifeboat ethics. “What’s the latest tally on cryocells showing warning lights?”

“Just over half of the Ktor units.”

“Good God,” breathed Rodermund.

“I suspect God is going to have very little to do with what comes next,” Hansell muttered bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we are now faced with the grimmest choice a commander ever has to make. Who lives and who dies.”

“Lisle, I hate to admit you’re right, particularly this time, but I can’t see any choice but to give it over to chance. Given Olsloov’s limited capacity and stores, what else can we do? Sure, we can try to save those with busted cells, but after we reach the ship’s limit, what do we do? Just let them die, or save them and accelerate the speed at which we burn through food and life support?”

Paulsen shook his head. “That’s a hell of a debate, right there.”

“We are not going to have that debate,” Downing said firmly. “There is another option. I don’t know if it will be better or worse, but at least it gives those who survive reanimation a chance to live.”

Zhigarev leaned forward. “And what would that be, Downing?”

Trevor, understanding his uncle’s intent, glanced at Alnduul. “We need to find a world where they could survive. Someplace along our route.”

Alnduul folded his hands. “Understand that beyond the border worlds, the Collective has very little information about individual stellar systems. Also, bear this in mind: the path of Hsontlosh’s ship, fragmentary though it is, points directly toward what the Ktor call the Scatters.”

“The Scatters?” Paulsen echoed.

Downing frowned. “According to the debrief of First Officer Ayana Tagawa, late of the Arbitrage, the Scatters are an area where outcast Ktor are exiled.”

Hansell folded his arms, scowling. “How many exiles have been sent there?”

“Enough so that they have laws and traditions governing when and how it is done,” Downing replied with a similar scowl. “When one of their, er, ‘Houses’ is about to lose a war against its peers, but could still inflict catastrophic devastation upon them, that House is given the option to leave the Ktoran Sphere voluntarily.

“It does not get to carry away its wealth, and wherever it chooses to settle in the Sphere’s outback—the Scatters—it has to follow two prohibitions: it may not create supraluminal drives or long-range radios. If it does, the Ktor will reputedly detect that colony and send bloodthirsty volunteers to lay waste to it. No questions asked, no quarter given, no innocents spared.”

Trevor shook his head against the horror Downing had laid out. “Alnduul, you said you had very little information about the worlds in the Scatters. Just how little?”

Alnduul’s fingers swayed listlessly downward. “The only surveys of that region have been automated, and the last was performed five millennia ago, long after the Elders passed. Not all probes returned. Beyond two hundred and fifty light-years from the center of the Collective, the data is quite incomplete and what exists is almost as uncertain.

“Most survey entries only indicate the star’s characteristics, the orbitals of confirmed planets, and whether any are located in what you call the habitable zone. Unfortunately, our surveys were not focused on habitability, but rather on detecting potentially dangerous remains of the war that consumed the Elders and their adversaries.”

“And who were these adversaries?” Rodermund asked.

“That too is a question which must be answered at another time,” Alnduul muttered as he scrolled through the data in question. “No probes were sent beyond four hundred and fifty light-years, so we have no true knowledge of those expanses. However, the stellar compendium still includes data for some systems found in records that predate the Collective. There is one relatively proximal to our probable route. It is just beyond the two-hundred-fifty-light-year limit and still has an intact data string. However, it lacks any code that establishes its origins and provenance.”

“And what does that signify?” Downing asked.

“It could mean that the entire data string is corrupt. Or that it predates the passing of the Elders.”

“Which would make it how old?” Paulsen asked quietly.

Very old,” Alnduul answered.

Trevor was analyzing the roster of the Lost Soldiers whose cryocells were deemed closest to failure. “Which system is it?”

“You call it 55 Tauri,” replied Alnduul. “It is a binary system and has a notation indicating it has at least one planet that, to use your term, has a shirt-sleeve environment. But I must point out that any subsequent sightings of Hsontlosh’s ship could put it much further off our path.”

“A bridge we shall cross when we come to it,” Downing said.

Trevor nodded in agreement. “But there’s at least one bridge that we should probably cross now.”

“Which is?”

“Well, even if it’s a shirt-sleeve world, whoever gets dropped there may discover they’re trying to survive in a very unfriendly environment. That means—God help me—any group left there has to include as many rank and file infantry as you can find.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the situation we were in on Turkh’saar,” Paulsen agreed with a nod. “And I think the Ktor made the same decision, because they left a lot of technical specialists in their cryocells. And they passed that rule along to the Nazis.” He tried to smile. “A lot of the guys still in personal freezers are like the techs who maintained my Phantom: they never had reason to go into the jungle or lived more than a jog away from the PX. Hell, I’m not sure any of them did any field training at all, after basic.”

Zhigarev cleared his throat. “Which is why, as on Turkh’saar, there must also be enough field grade officers.”

Rodermund leaned forward. “He’s right. Otherwise, they could start feeling like they’re being left behind because they’re ‘only’ grunts and shavetails. Gonna need one who’s clearly senior, though. And has the right qualifications.” He glanced at Trevor. “See any likely candidates on that list of imminent cell failures?”

“Yeah, I think I found one,” Trevor said with a sigh. “And damn, he’s gonna think it’s some kind of sick joke. I know I would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s the right guy for the job: major in an airborne infantry unit, has all the right scores and all the right assignments. He’s also part of the last group the Ktor hijacked, so he’s at the upper end of the technological familiarity spectrum. And, yes, he’s in a cryocell that’s already in final failure mode. The only real question is if it will work long enough for us to get him to 55 Tauri.”

“What’s his name?” Paulsen asked with a sad smile on his face.

“That’s where the lousy joke comes in. His last name is Murphy.” Trevor shook his head. “Can you believe it?”

All the Americans shook their heads. The others in the room exchanged uncertain glances.

It was Zhigarev who observed, “This name that you say is funny; it does not make you laugh. Or even smile. Why?”

Trevor sighed. “There’s a joke about bad luck. It’s called Murphy’s Law. It means that no matter what you do, you’re going to get the worst possible outcome.”

Zhigarev nodded. “Da, so this is funny like Russian joke: bitter and dark.” He shook his head in genuine sympathy. “I am sorry for this Major Murphy. But I would not want to travel with him. Ever.”

“Why?” Alnduul wondered innocently.

“Because his name predicts his fate.” The Russian shrugged. “And it will probably continue doing so.”


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