Trial by Fire - eARC

by Charles E Gannon

  “Yes, Eimi. You’re done for the day. And don’t worry about this foolish little uprising. It’s a tantrum, not a war. Leave whenever you wish.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Astor-Smath.” Eimi Singh rubbed one long, slender arm with the opposite long, slender hand. “But I did not choose to pay the premium for a reserved room in the bank complex. I only have my own apartment.” She looked beyond the walls toward the streets of Jakarta. “In the city.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know,” Astor-Smath lied.

  Eimi nodded, looked away, did not move.

  “I can see you’re scared,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can stay at my apartment, here in the complex.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t—”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t be an inconvenience. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Eimi leaned forward, eyes bright. “Really? Thank you, Mr. Astor-Smath, thank you so much. It is very frightening out there, today. I am sure you are right about the uprising just being a nuisance—but it worries me. I suppose I’m a little foolish about such things.”

  “That’s quite all right, Eimi. Now show our guest in.”

  “Yes, Mr. Astor-Smath.” She turned and fairly skipped from the room, grateful and relieved.

  Astor-Smath watched her go, noticed the high, boyish buttocks. Later tonight, they would indeed work something out. Astor-Smath was quite familiar with this kind of subtly needy girl-child. In his experience, they were invariably uncertain about their identity, wearing their sexuality in a fashion at once conspicuous and unsure, believing that they were still poised on the brink of discovering themselves like a confused chrysalis-in-waiting. But in actuality they were ingenuous rabbits, awaiting the power and surety of a predator’s jaws. That is the meaning, the definition, that they were truly waiting for. And he, Astor-Smath, who had defined so many such lives in just that way, gladly anticipated giving Eimi the gift of self-knowledge that came to all prey animals eventually: that they lived to become the fodder of predators.

  Astor-Smath tried to reimmerse himself in the spreadsheet he had been studying, but could not. Knowing who would soon come through the door, he found it difficult to concentrate. He wasn’t sure whether it was the importance or the enigma of the relationship which unsettled him more, but he couldn’t feign his usual sang froid, not even to himself. He rose, went to the antique mahogany credenza to reclaim the package he had put by a week ago, in the anticipation of his visitor’s next appearance.

  When he turned around, the tall man was there, a briefcase hanging in his grasp. He had not made a sound and he was already five meters into Astor-Smath’s cavernous, marble-floored office. Beneath the man’s ubiquitous rimless sunglasses, his mouth was slightly bent. A hint of a smile. Perhaps.

  Astor-Smath came around his desk, one hand extended, one hand cradling the package, trying to find a smile that was broad and ingratiating yet not obsequious. “My friend, if you had let me know you were coming—”

  “Circumstances made that impossible, Mr. Astor-Smath.” The visitor looked down, first at Astor-Smath’s extended hand, then at the proffered package. “What is that?” he asked, his sunglasses reflecting the plain brown wrapper.

  “A gift.” Astor-Smath pushed it toward the man, detected—as he always did—a faintly musky and yet medicinal smell about him.

  The man did not look down at the package he now cradled under one arm. “What kind of gift?”

  “Olives. Of course.”

  The man finally smiled. It signaled pleasure, but Astor-Smath found it oddly devoid of gratitude. Putting down his briefcase, the man had extracted a plain ceramic jar from the bag. “Greek, black?”

  “Spanish, green.”

  “Ahh. Just as good.” He put the ceramic jar back in the bag. “And I come with something for you, as well.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?” Astor-Smath managed to keep his voice calm, his eyes half-lidded, his libido in check. Despite the desertion of his clones, was the uprising now quelled, the occupation secure? Enough so that Earth’s new masters would start announcing governorships?

  But the tall man’s response disabused him of that brief fantasy. “I have with me a recording of a most interesting conversation.”

  “Oh? Show it to me.”

  “I shall.”

  The tall man aimed his palmcomp at the five-meter screen of Astor-Smath’s commplex, pressed a stud. The sudden, grainy picture revealed an Arat Kur speaking with a human. Astor-Smath was unable to distinguish one Arat Kur from another, but he recognized the human immediately: Caine Riordan. Who, nodding, continued an apparently ongoing conversation. “And so you plan to attack Indonesia. May I ask why?”

  The Arat Kur’s claws rose, signaling imminent elucidation. “Is it not obvious? It is at a great enough remove from your major powers that they will not feel so directly threatened and thus might listen long enough to hear our terms for withdrawal. For I assure you, Caine Riordan, that we do not wish to remain on your planet.”

  Riordan seemed blandly skeptical. “There are many places more remote from the great powers of my world than Indonesia. Why there?”

  “Can you not guess?”

  “The mass driver.”

  “It was a surety that you would see this. Many nations have labored long and spent dearly to build this extraordinary device. And they will not wish us to harm it. Similarly, they will avoid harming it themselves.”

  “So it is a hostage.”

  “In a manner of speaking. We have no wish to take living hostages.”

  “Just a monetarily valuable one.”

  “True. Although we were surprised that it was built in so vulnerable a location. We would have expected it to be sited in a region under direct control of a nation which financed it. From our perspective, it is not merely unprotected. It is a veritable gift for us and for the megacorporations who we shall appoint as our partners and indigenous overseers.”

  For a sliver of a second, Caine’s eyes widened by a millimeter, and then the disinterested gaze was back.

  The tall man stopped the video. “This is a most troubling recording, Mr. Astor-Smath.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It is completely unacceptable that Darzhee Kut, or any Arat Kur of his rank and caste, could become aware that CoDevCo’s assistance was secured far in advance of the invasion.”

  “Then speak to the Arat Kur. That is their tape, their debriefing.”

  “I have spoken to the Arat Kur. In fact, Darzhee Kut was not informed of CoDevCo’s longstanding collaboration at all. He, and a startling number of his peers, simply deduced it from the fragmentary facts that were not purged from the documents provided to those Arat Kur who had second-tier clearance ratings.”

  Astor-Smath walked back to his desk, waved dismissively before picking up his glass of water and sipping at it. “You may say what you mean. We both know I was the intelligence conduit for that part of our operations.”

  “Yes. I also took the liberty of examining the internal memos you sent apprising your superiors of our evolving arrangements. Again, you showed a profoundly cavalier attitude toward the secrecy protocols we agreed upon.”

  Astor-Smath didn’t like the direction the discussion was taking. “And how did you access those records? Another of your Reifications, perhaps?”

  “As I have taken pains to explain several times now, Reification is not the sorcery you seem to think it is. I cannot defy the laws of physics, cannot summon things to me at my merest whim. I can no more telelocate a memo or image to myself than you can.”

  “Then how did you get access to this information, and to this tape?”

  “By simply speaking to one of your superiors at CoDevCo. Who was quite happy to assist. You have been very sloppy, Mr. Astor-Smath. It is going to require a great deal of work to clean up the mess you have made.”

  Enough was enough. “What do you mean?” He waved at Riordan’s face where it was frozen on the screen. “Thi
s one comment, uttered on a video our adversaries will never see, is hardly a mess.”

  “It is, and in more ways than you might guess, Mr. Astor-Smath. But either way, you shared an extremely sensitive detail, one which violated the strict reporting and secrecy protocols which we established at the outset of our relationship. Likewise, I repeatedly warned you of the inelegance of the Reifications you have instructed me to perform. The numerous improbable attacks on Riordan, the inexplicable mechanical failures, the suspicious heart attacks that killed Corcoran and Tarasenko. They were all too direct.”

  Astor Smath spread his hands in a contentious appeal. “No one can affix blame for any of those deeds to you or to me. Your concerns are groundless.”

  The other man’s jaw worked in stiff, controlled frustration. “Your ears function, but you cannot hear. Yours were the impatient, grasping, idiotically direct stratagems of a child who can only think one move ahead. Consequently, it invited the scrutiny of those adversaries who were the most prudent and suspicious, who posed the greatest threat to our joint operations. And to my continued anonymity. Which may not be compromised.”

  Astor-Smath felt the need to put his back square against the solid bulk of his teak desk. “You are the one who is behaving like a child, starting at imaginary shadows and worries. In the wake of the Arat Kur victory, this can all be sanitized quite easily. Not that it needs to be, regardless of the outcome. There is not one piece of definitive evidence that links me to the Arat Kur or you prior to the invasion. And as concerns your safety, my secretary tells me that you are traveling with luggage, so you will not even be here much longer, will you?”

  “No. I will be far away.”

  “So. Even if the Arat Kur were to lose, and there was an investigation, your departure ensures that it can only come to a dead end.”

  “What an apt phrase.”

  The man with the sunglasses moved so quickly that Astor-Smath could not be sure if he had pulled something out of his pocket to wave about, or was jerking his arm up and down in the throes of some strange, spasmodic stroke. Astor-Smath moved forward to investigate, possibly help.

  —and was distracted by a sudden catch in his throat; he was unable to swallow. He suddenly felt lightheaded, reached for a chair, missed, fell on his back, breathed in. Liquid went down into his lungs. He coughed, was confused—and then terrified—when the air he’d expelled carried up a thin shower of red droplets.

  The man’s sunglassed face loomed over him. “It will not be long.” He reached down, his hand disappearing someplace just under Astor-Smath’s narrowing field of vision, and tugged. Astor-Smath’s throat suddenly filled with what felt like spinning shards of broken glass and razors. He screamed.

  Except he couldn’t. As if at the end of a long tunnel, he saw the man hold up a strange implement, a hybrid between an overlong ice-pick and a throwing dagger, which was dripping blood. As the man wiped it on Astor-Smath’s shirt, he commented, “You are fortunate that I am so proficient throwing the esem’shthrek; you will not be long in dying. This kind of neck wound paralyzes the victim but is almost entirely painless.” He rose. “You should have followed my instructions. Precisely.” He removed a coffee-thermos from his briefcase, uncapped it. The thick reek of avgas was immediately clear even to Astor-Smath’s failing senses. The man dashed the contents about the room, paused, splashed the last of it directly on Astor-Smath’s suit. He leaned forward, studied Astor-Smath’s almost frozen face. “As I promised, little pain from the wound.” He leaned back, found and picked up Astor-Smath’s lighter, flicked it, watched the flame climb higher as he thumbed the butane choke to the full open position. “However, I can make no such promises about the avgas.” He took two steps back, smiled, tossed the burning lighter directly upon Astor-Smath’s chest.

  Then he turned and left.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Flagship USS Lincoln, Sierra Echelon, RTF 1, cislunar space

  Lieutenant Brill, senior Comms officer aboard the USS Lincoln, turned toward Ira Silverstein. “Admiral, I have Admiral Lord Halifax on priority lascom one. Says he’d like to speak to you ‘as soon as it’s convenient.’”

  Ira smiled. That was Halifax’s mannerly way of saying “ASAP.” “Pipe him direct to me, Mr. Brill.”

  Usually, Admiral Lord Thomas Halifax began his conversations in that animated Oxbridge manner that made it easy to believe you were about to go punting on the River Cam rather than wading into battle. This time, he sounded apologetic. “Ira, I know you’re not particularly keen about the InPic system that was installed last year, but we might need it for this engagement. If we get a few nasty surprises, or lose our comm links, there might not be enough time for thorough sitreps. So, I’d like you to be InPic in my Combat Information Center on Trafalgar for as long as possible. Just in case things get a bit dodgy.”

  Which really meant “in case my flagship and I get vaporized, you need to have seen everything I’ve done, and every decision I’ve made, so you can carry the ball forward.” Ira swallowed. “Okay, Admiral. I will be going InPic within the minute.”

  “Good show, Ira.” Halifax’s tone became subtly conspiratorial. “I must say, I’m no fan of InPic, either. Seems vaguely voyeuristic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it, Tom.” Like hell I haven’t. “Ruth, have the remote telepresence techs link us with Trafalgar.”

  “Already done, sir. They are ready to put you In the Picture, Admiral Silverstein. We are also receiving Trafalgar’s C4I five-by-five on encrypted redundant lascoms. Time to wear the crown, sir.”

  “Very well. Tom, I’m told we’re ready.”

  Halifax’s tone became jocular. “Then hurry to your box seat, Ira. Curtain’s going up.” His private channel snicked off.

  Ira reached behind him for the crown: a framework headpiece that included multipoint speakers and a 3-D monocle. “Ruth, I want Commander Clute wearing one of these in the auxiliary bridge.”

  “Yes, sir. Mind telling me why?”

  “Because I want to be ready to toss this damned personal theater away at a moment’s notice if I need to. But if I do, I need my senior tactical officer to stay In the Picture. I’ll want a detailed report of anything I missed, presuming I don’t have the time to sit through a playback.”

  “Seth—er, Commander Clute—reports he’s already strapping on the crown, sir.”

  “Very good. I say three times, XO, that, as per the InPic Command Augmentation Protocol, you have the con for routine operations.”

  “I say three times, Admiral, I have the con for routine ops.”

  Ira sighed, held the InPic crown at arm’s length. Putting it on would put him in two worlds at once: on the bridge of his own ship, and on the bridge of Halifax’s Trafalgar. Problem was, Ira didn’t like being in two worlds at once. In point of fact, he loathed it. His boyhood dream, and adult training, had focused on the command of a ship. A single ship. The one he felt under his feet. To lose complete awareness of that hull was anathema.

  He had argued long and hard against expanding the use of InPic so that ranking officers of a joint command or dispersed task force could see, hear, and if necessary, remotely control activity on the bridge of another ship. He had foreseen and forestalled the abuses that could have resulted from rear echelon officers using their “remote telepresence” to tell line commanders how to do their jobs.

  But Ira had been forced to concede that in some scenarios, such as this one, InPic conferred immense advantages. As RTF 1 engaged the Arat Kur boosting up out of Earth’s gravity well, he needed a full and immediate understanding of what Halifax’s first echelon was achieving, what it was not achieving, and what had produced its successes and failures, respectively. And if, God forbid, something happened to Tom Halifax and the HMS Trafalgar, then Ira would be in a position to direct the first echelon so that its ongoing combat operations would dovetail with the evolving strategy for Ira’s own second echelon.

  And it was almost unavoidab
le that the battle plans would evolve significantly over the course of the engagement. Given the challenges of dealing with a largely unknown enemy that possessed at least marginally superior technology, the admirals of RTF 1 had kept their strategy fairly straightforward. The first, or “Foxtrot,” echelon was led by Halifax and was the second largest. It had left its carriers behind with Ira’s bigger second, or “Sierra,” echelon for safekeeping because Foxtrot had to be drone-, FOCAL- and cruiser-heavy. Given its twofold mission objective, this particular concentration of ship classes was essential. The cruisers were required to put serious hurt on the Arat Kur, and the drones and FOCALs were needed to scatter the enemy by threatening him from widely separated points of the battlesphere. It was also anticipated that Halifax’s command would take the heaviest casualties. They were first in and committed to trading killing blows wherever possible, even if it meant sacrificing ships at worse than one-to-one odds to achieve it. His echelon was also a guinea pig. The other two echelons would be watching to learn what they could about their enigmatic adversaries.

  In contrast, Ira’s Sierra Echelon required the greatest operational flexibility, needing to be able to adapt to both the battlefield results and the enemy’s unknown capabilities and doctrine. If the Arat Kur had been significantly weakened by Halifax, it was Silverstein’s job to capitalize on that weakness by slowing to match vectors and hammer them harder, and to keep hammering until Tango Echelon under Vasarsky arrived to add its weight to the effort. If, however, the Arat Kur were still in relatively good formation and only moderately damaged after engaging Foxtrot Echelon, Sierra Echelon was to achieve what Foxtrot had not: the disruption and attrition of the enemy fleet, so that Vasarsky’s Tango Echelon could deliver a coup de grace.

  Behind him, Altasso’s voice sounded vaguely teasing. “Sir, the technicians have assured me that the InPic crown will only work if the user actually places it on his or her head.”

  Ira cut his eyes at her, made his voice a growl so that he wouldn’t succumb to his urge to smile. “Tend your duties, Commander”—and he put on the InPic headpiece, sliding the 3-D monocle into place with a click.