Marque of Caine

by Charles E Gannon

  “As I said, you do have a fine head on your shoulders.” He waved in the quiet man who’d walked two steps behind them throughout Kyle’s introductory tour. “This is Ed Peña. He is our on-site security chief and the person who has the most frequent contact with the outside world. Memorize his face. If you ever meet him again, you can be certain that we have a crisis.”

  “Well, except when I see him here.”

  Weber frowned. “Perhaps that fine head is getting weary. You will not see me, nor the inside of these offices, ever again. That is how we remain beneath the radar of those who are looking for us. Contact procedures will be explained before you leave. Do you have any questions?”

  “Just one, sir. During my tour, you mentioned that you’d like me to ‘keep an eye’ on Connor Corcoran. Why?”

  “Because too many members of his nuclear family have been targets for assassination.”

  Seaver sat up. “Sir, I know the DWC isn’t fond of Riordan or anyone who was connected with IRIS. But…assassination?”

  Weber gestured to Peña, who tapped the room’s smartboard. Diagrams of a space battle appeared. “This is the most recent attempt on Riordan, mounted just as he was about to enter Dornaani space.”

  Seaver realized he had been gawking at the screen. “Jesus!” he breathed. “That system is outside our borders. It’s not even part of the land grab.”

  Weber frowned at Seaver’s profanity, but nodded. “Yes. How do you know?”

  “I remember most of what I read.”

  “Interesting. Go on, Ed.”

  Peña didn’t even nod. “The investigation into who ambushed Riordan and Down-Under has been a dead end. The combat drones are Arat Kur models we arrogated from the roaches at the end of the war. But during this battle they were controlled by human milspec systems.”

  He snapped the display off. “If the Dornaani hadn’t ridden in like the cavalry, we’d have lost a lot more than two people and a refueling shuttle. The captain, Schoeffel, couldn’t afford the time or the risk to search for the ship that brought in the drones. So all we had were serial numbers from the wreckage to backtrack them to one of our research labs.”

  Seaver nodded. “Where you found a person of interest who made the drones disappear from the lab’s inventory the same day they performed their own vanishing act. And who is now in places unknown, either with a suitcase full of credits or a bullet in the back of their head.”

  Weber nodded. “One final caveat. Whoever sent Riordan’s assassins could also be unwitting pawns of the Ktor. You need not look so surprised, Mr. Seaver. You know better than to believe the media assurances that our counterintelligence services have apprehended all the megacorporate executives suborned by our enemies.”

  “So are those the players you want me to watch most closely when it comes to Connor Corcoran’s safety, Captain Weber?”

  “For now. There will be others.”

  “When do I start?”

  “You already have.”

  * * *

  Trevor entered the Bosun’s Chair, not entirely convinced that he should have left his sidearm at home. The call for the meet was untraceable and had come from a burner wristlink.

  He squinted into the subdued lighting, took a step inside…

  Abruptly, a woman rose from one of the booths opposite the bar. She was dressed in service dress blues. Not an uncommon sight in Annapolis, but also no guarantee she was actual Navy. She marched straight at him…

  …at which point Trevor recognized her as Caine’s counsel during the Turkh’saar hearings: Lorraine Phalon.

  Before he could wave or utter a greeting, she had brushed past him toward the door, snapping, “Excuse me.” Then, over her shoulder, “You’re welcome to my seat.”

  And then she was gone, her walk instantly more casual when she reached the sidewalk.

  Trevor slid into the booth she’d vacated and discovered three cocktail napkins laid in a row. An eager busboy arrived, leaned forward to sweep them away. “No,” Trevor said, “those are mine.”

  The busboy glanced doubtfully at the napkins, shrugged, and moved on to the next table. Trevor put his shoulder against the wall so that, as he turned the napkins over, they could not be seen by anyone to his rear or flanks.

  Phalon’s handsome script on the first explained the other two: they were copies of a message from Richard Downing. Damned melodramatic, Trevor thought.

  Trevor turned over the second napkin and instantly realized that what he had dismissed as melodrama was actually a desperate attempt at secrecy.

  A list of bullet points laid out a startling new reality. Downing was fleeing the Procedural Compliance Directorate’s witch-hunters, they’d be coming for Trevor next, no one involved with IRIS during the invasion was safe, careers and lives were being overturned and frozen.

  Downing resorted to another bullet-point list to explain why official resistance to the witch hunt was unlikely. In summary, its immediate objective was not to destroy or ruin, just fix its targets in place. Consequently, every investigatory initiative could be made to sound routine, even dull. The majority of politicos would not realize that the ultimate aim was the removal of reliable personnel so that, once the process was over, a very different intel apparatus could grow into the organizational vacuum.

  The third napkin presented Richard’s flatly declared intent to leave. Probably for good. To help Caine retrieve Elena. And lastly, if Trevor wanted to follow, he could do so by looking in the classified ads.

  That final line was not just a hasty bit of advice. It reprised a lesson Downing had imparted to Trevor about using classified and want ads for passing intel. It was old school but reliable, his godfather had proselytized a year before the invasion, a fourth glass of holiday cheer in his unsteady hand.

  It was also the last time they had really talked, Trevor reflected. At least until after the war, after Opal was dead, after Elena was gone. After everything had gone to hell.

  Trevor crumpled the napkins in his large, corded hand, jammed them in his coat pocket, and flinched as his palmtop paged. He fished it out of the same pocket, tapped in his security code, frowned when a blizzard of promotions started scrolling past.

  What the—? This can’t be. My account is totally blocked from—

  And then he realized: he was looking at classified ads. He remembered Richard’s voice, even the words, from that yuletide exchange. “Want ads, lad. They’re your best friend for receiving and sending precoded messages. Properly constructed, no computer can detect them, no algorithm unpack them.” He had smiled, put a finger against his nose. “No matter how our work may change, my boy, this much will always be true: if you absolutely must hide something, hide it in plain sight.”

  Trevor scanned the ads. Mostly furniture, vehicle leasing, and travel offers, several of which were offworld. But as he skimmed one for Epsilon Indi, a phrase jumped out at him from the otherwise predictable and tiresome copy:

  Stuck working the same dull job? Seeing the same scenery? Living the same boring existence, day after day? Well, look up to the stars. Because the start of a better life could be right up there, hiding in plain sight!

  “Hiding in plain sight?” No. It can’t be a message.

  But it was. As Trevor combed through the ad, he found phrases of particular significance to him and Uncle Richard:

  So come to NovOz, where we’re waiting for you with smiles, shrimps on the barbie, and a big glass of chablis!

  “Shrimps on the barbie” had been Uncle Richard’s call to dinner at the occasional Corcoran-Downing cookouts, howled in an awful Aussie accent. To which Trevor’s mom Patrice had always added, “and a big glass of chablis!”

  Trevor discovered he was choking back tears, not for what the war had done to his relationship with Richard, but for simpler days. Happier days. Days when Dad still got to cookouts. Days when he’d still been alive.

  Okay, so Richard is passing through Epsilon Indi. Logically then, when Trevor got to Epsilon Indi,
he’d find an ad in the NovOz colony with another phrase from shared memory. The ad would cycle, of course, through automated variations—enough changes to elude any bots trained to look for simple repeats. But every version would point to the next destination, where Trevor would discover yet another ad with a family reference—a pet name, a memorable event—that would guide him onward to the next system, and the next ad and ultimately on to…

  To where? And to what? God only knew. But hell, it was a path forward.

  And that was all that Trevor Corcoran ever asked for.

  PART THREE

  Collective Space

  June 2124

  SOMNIA

  Somnia vana

  (Empty [delusional] dreams)

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  JUNE 2124

  ISSQLIIN, BD +76 351

  Unable to sleep prior to the shift out from HD 2401 A, Caine Riordan’s eyes were fixed on the small, bright disk in the aft view: in actuality, the huge orange star they were about to leave behind.

  The heavy gee forces cut out. His limbs started to drift upward.

  “Preacceleration complete,” announced Ssaodralth from the pilot’s couch.

  “Shift drive ready,” Irzhresht put in from navigation.

  Alnduul leaned back into his cocoon couch, prompting Riordan to do the same. “Commence transit.”

  The universe rushed away, pulling Riordan after it. He had a fleeting impression of being sucked down a drain…and then his perception was abruptly normal again, as if he’d blacked out for the sliver of time separating the two sensations. He wasn’t aware of any post-transit vertigo until he sat forward. Even then, it was only a fraction of that which followed human shifts.

  After the world stopped its faint wobbling, Caine checked the holosphere. BD +76 351, another main sequence K-class star, floated at the center of the display. Three potential courses were already linking the tiny likeness of Olsloov to the second planet: a green world that Dornaani characters labeled as Issqliin. “‘Old park?’” Riordan translated doubtfully.

  “Park of Antiquities,” Irzhresht corrected flatly.

  “However, a reasonable effort at translation,” Ssaodralth added as he chose the second of the three approach vectors and engaged thrust.

  Alnduul expanded the navplot’s field of view until it also displayed the closest gas giant, two orbits further out. “Computer, inquiry,” he said, waving his hand in the air, a ghostly fingertip alighting upon the large planet. “Antimatter supply?”

  “None,” replied the computer. “Bunkers depleted.”

  “Refurbishment cycle?”

  “Automated fueling facility is nonfunctional. Report and repair request has been relayed.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two thousand one hundred forty-six days.”

  If Alnduul noticed Riordan’s surprised stare, he gave no indication. His finger moved to the Mars-sized planet just sunward of Issqliin. “Secondary antimatter facility: status report.”

  “Also inoperative, as per last report. Solar arrays have sustained additional damage. Storage rings now unsafe.”

  Alnduul leaned back into his couch. “We will have to produce our own antimatter. Again.”

  Riordan rose into the gee forces. “That’s four times since we left Rooaioo’q. Isn’t this, well, odd?”

  “We deferred fueling at HD 2401 because Olsloov no longer qualifies for priority service. We would have waited almost three months.”

  “Okay. And the other three systems where we came up dry?”

  “Malfunctions, similar to this one.” Alnduul let a finger droop. “It is increasingly more commonplace, particularly in less trafficked systems.”

  “But this system has easily accessed volatiles, multiple facilities.”

  Alnduul lifted his head. “Computer, time since last shift in or out of this system?”

  “Three hundred and twelve days.”

  Riordan glanced at green-blue marble orbiting the primary star. “So this system has been abandoned? Even though Issqliin is a green world?”

  Alnduul raised a finger. “For a while yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was heavily terraformed. Being at the outer edge of the habitable zone, Issqliin was one of the first worlds we improved during our reexpansion. The average planetary temperature was increased five degrees centigrade by several centuries of carbon dioxide generation. This vastly reduced the polar caps, producing larger oceans and significantly increased habitable tidal shelves. It became an ideal world for establishing what you think of as a combined nature preserve and theme park.”

  “A theme park for what?”

  Alnduul looked at him. “For our original way of life, such as you saw on Rooaioo’q. At the time, Issqliin was the superior planet for that project.”

  Riordan did not have a command tip on his finger, so he reached into the holosphere itself, touched the image of Issqliin, spread his hand. The view of the planet enlarged. Ice caps covered half of it. “It’s backsliding. Why?”

  Alnduul waved a lazy hand at the other planets in the navplot. “For the same reason there are no antimatter supplies: neglect. Our terraforming is rarely self-sustaining. In the case of Issqliin, its gravity cannot permanently retain the thicker atmosphere it was given, resulting in a diminished greenhouse effect.”

  Riordan folded his hands. “You said that Issqliin is a product of Dornaani terraforming. Is there another type?”

  Alnduul blinked slowly. “That is an excellent question to ask of the one who waits on Issqliin.”

  “And who is that?”

  “The Caretaker. Let us contact him.”

  * * *

  After an hour of unanswered radio messages, Alnduul tried a different approach. “Olsloov sending to Issqliin port authority auton. The Caretaker of record, Uinzleej, is not responding, may be deceased. Require priority override for emergency refueling. Custodian authorization code is being relayed now. Commencing planetfall in twenty-four minu—”

  A voice—raspy with disuse?—interrupted sharply. “Olsloov. Delay descent. This is Uinzleej. There are no longer any refueling facilities planetside. Divert.”

  “Uinzleej, I am pleased to hear your voice. My mentor has spoken highly of you.”

  “Eh? Who is your mentor, Custodian?”

  “Thlunroolt.” There was no immediate reaction. “Of Rooaioo’q.”

  “Him. Yes. You should have said so immediately. And you are…?”

  “Alnduul.”

  “Senior Mentor Alnduul, in charge of the Earth Oversight Group?”

  “I am he.”

  “Then I repent my terseness. I am not accustomed to visitors. Or company.” It sounded as though Uinzleej had also lost any ready facility with normal conversation. “So, you are not here simply to refuel. What brings you to my park?”

  “The hope that you will share a small measure of your unique knowledge.”

  “What knowledge? Why do you need it?”

  “Actually, it is my friend who needs it. I will allow him to explain.” Alnduul gestured toward the nearest audio pickup.

  Before Riordan could jump in, Uinzleej was sputtering irritably. “What friend? What is so important that—?”

  “Uinzleej, my name is Caine Riordan. Thank you for allowing us to intrude upon your preserve and your privacy.”

  The Caretaker, whose voice suggested considerable age, fell silent. Then, “You are human.”

  “I am.”

  “And you have two names.”

  “I do.”

  “Hmm. Things have changed. You must be quite remarkable, if Alnduul calls you a friend. Speak quickly. I am busy but I will take the time to hear your request.”

  You’re busy? Riordan glanced at the image of Issqliin turning slowly, lightless and forlorn. A faint network of transit lines that met in urban nexi were almost completely lost amidst the encroaching greens and reds of the local vegetation. “A Senior Arbiter instructed me to ex
pand my understanding of Dornaani history if I wish to find my mate, who is located in one of your systems.”

  “I perceive no logical connection between increasing your knowledge of local history and improving the chances of locating your mate.”

  “I shall clarify. Given my mate’s dire medical condition, finding her will largely depend upon determining which systems might have the technologies and expertise to preserve her. But in order to do that, I must better understand the history of several of your most esoteric, and, er, unsanctioned technologies.”

  “I presume that your mate’s present injuries were incurred during her work as a factotum?”

  “As a what?”

  The longest pause yet. “A factotum. One of the humans we breed and retain for interacting with your race.”

  Riordan stared at Alnduul, whose inner lids nictated twice as he spoke toward the audio pickup. “No, the human’s mate is not a factotum.”

  A shorter pause. “So, she too is a native of Earth. What has befallen her?”

  Riordan told him, ending with, “To discover where her body is being housed, I am told it is essential to acquire an understanding of virtuality’s origins and its operation.”

  “Its origins, yes. But beyond that, it is not the technology you need to understand. You must understand, to the extent you are able, the mind and the purpose of those who built it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That would require too much time to explain. Indeed, your request is entirely too time consuming. Unless…”

  Alnduul made encouraging finger-trailing gestures at Riordan while Uinzleej paused.

  “…unless you agree to assist me with a study of historical value.”

  Damn it, back to being a lab rat. “What does this study involve?” Visions of vivisection flitted through Caine’s glum imagination.

  “You must complete a simple task. Alone, and without any modern implements.”

  Alnduul’s eyelids seemed to tighten. “Uinzleej, as a Custodian, I am responsible for the safety of Caine Riordan during—”

  “Yes, and being a Custodian, you may be compelled to report whatever you hear or observe. I will not tolerate that.”