“Elena.” She usually made him feel nervous, excited, perplexed—but now, he could not feel anything. Would have felt guilty, had he felt anything. “Elena,” he said again.
She rose and approached him slowly, the way people do with stray animals that might either bolt or attack. When she got next to him, she squatted down.
For a long time they were silent, looking at the floor, then each other, then out the door. Out the door where Opal’s body lay unseen, hidden from view by the doorframe. To Caine, it felt like that corpse was stretched across the packed dirt between him and Elena.
Whose knotted hands clenched as she exhaled forcefully. “Caine, I don’t know what to do, what to say. I shouldn’t say anything, not here, not now. But—”
Caine nodded. “But we might not be alive in five minutes.” He looked up as a flight of missiles roared overhead, fell and blasted in the city south of them.
She closed her eyes, looked away, nodded. “Whatever we don’t say now might never get said. And it’s not just about us. If only one of us lives, gets back to Connor—”
Caine matched her nod, looked down at his blood-stained hands. There was no good place to start, so he began with the question that had puzzled him the most. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier—on Mars, or at the Convocation—about us? About how we fell in love on the Moon?”
She kept looking past the torn doorway into the rain. It was a long time before she spoke. “How could I? By the time they woke you, brought you back after thirteen years and reintroduced you at Parthenon, you were already involved with—with Opal. And I didn’t know how or if to approach you at all, because I had never been able to find out why you disappeared, what had really happened to you. So after Parthenon and Dad’s death, I searched to see if there was any new information about where you’d been up until then. But I didn’t want to push too hard, since it was pretty mysterious, the way you had just popped back into the world again. And the lack of information told me that my suspicion about why you disappeared fourteen years ago was correct. It wasn’t because you had fled from me, from us. No. Something had happened to you. Something strange, dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Caine, you were a writer and analyst who had left a well-marked trail. Which came to a sudden and abrupt end the same day you didn’t show up for dinner and the rest of our life together. By the time I recovered from that and started trying to find out more about you and what you were doing, I discovered that most of the data was no longer available. And what information still existed about you was suspiciously general. It was as if someone had conducted a thorough campaign to profoundly diminish any trace of you, but without erasing all record of your existence. Probably because complete erasure would have attracted attention all by itself.
“And who was I to attempt to learn about you from people you knew personally? I wasn’t family, I had no rights. Our relationship was so sudden and so short, that you had probably never mentioned me to anyone. And given who I was, I could hardly make those inquiries without attracting all the wrong kind of attention.”
Caine agreed with a slow, shallow nod. “Because you figured that if someone had erased so much about me, they’d be watching for anyone who came looking for that lost data.”
“Exactly. And what if one of those watchers learned that it was Nolan Corcoran’s daughter who had come looking? If you were alive somewhere, that was the kind of connection which could have endangered not only my father, and me, and you, but Connor.”
Connor. Caine closed his eyes. “Does Connor know?”
“That you’re his father? No.”
“What have you told him?”
“That I met a man who I loved, but couldn’t remain with. I couldn’t say more than that for the same reason I couldn’t ask too many questions about your disappearance. It was too full of dangerous unknowns.”
Caine put out his hand toward Elena. She took it slowly. “There are so many other things to say, to ask,” he said hoarsely. “But today is…” His hand and his voice fell away as his eyes slipped back toward the front door, out toward the dying rain.
“I know,” Elena said, “I know. But after today, we’ll have time. All the time we need.”
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
Darzhee Kut closed with Urzueth to keep his words down to a faint chittering. “We must not destroy the fleet. If we use the devices of the Final Directive—either the ones in our ships, or those in our bodies—it will trigger the very apocalypse they were meant to prevent.”
“Darzhee Kut, granted that Hu’urs Khraam made you Delegate Pro Tem with his dying breath—but you have slipped into sun-time?”
“No. I see with well-shaded eyes, Urzueth Ragh. Think of what our Final Directive means. We are convinced that the humans must not be allowed to learn what we know of their past, their proclivities. They must not discover that we broke the Twenty-first Accord and invaded their homeworld not to correct a border dispute, but to arrest their species’ growth, to preempt their ability to lay waste to our Homenest—again. If we now use the Final Directive, the humans will be confronted by a mystery. That we had obviously planned, from the outset, to destroy even ourselves to deny them any access to our technology, our culture, but most especially, our history. It is wrong—terribly, perfectly wrong—to believe that such an act of self-destruction will bring greater safety to the Wholenest. Do you not see the danger, the greater danger, that will arise if we carry it out?”
Urzueth Ragh seemed ready to reject the line of reasoning, then stopped. Darzhee Kut could feel him thinking, expanding the game board of the scenario, opening areas in which he had not yet thought to play. Darzhee Kut felt and saw him make the fateful move to full comprehension. “Ah. They will not rest until they have solved the mystery. And so they will find out about their past, anyway. Perhaps more surely.”
“Precisely. Some of them, such as Riordan, have come to know us and our behavior well enough to rightly expect that we might, under the current circumstances, peacefully and tractably surrender, and that we are not intrinsically deceitful. But if we carry out the Final Directive, they will have an act that sharply contradicts both those expectations, and in which hundreds of them will die along with us.”
Urzueth hummed agreement. “Which will only amplify the rage they feel over our sneak attack upon their homeworld. They will think us a race of oath-breakers and will thus feel justified in doing whatever they will and can to our kind.”
“All too likely. But worse, there will be the few, the thinking few, who will not react as the many, but will instead curl into their shells of reflection and wonder. Why did the Arat Kur do these things? Why did they attack us by surprise? Why were they willing to break the Twenty-first Accord and so attract the wrath of the Dornaani? How were they ready to destroy themselves in such complete unison when they were defeated? And why did they have suicide cysts where we could not readily find them?”
“That presumes they will know to look for the suicide cysts.”
“But they are sure to do so, Urzueth. How could we effect such widespread self-destruction without them? And once they have discovered the cysts, they will have a mystery so profound that defies any reasonable explanation. The humans might hum to themselves that they can conceive of reasons for why we broke the Twenty-first Accord and attacked. They can even understand why individuals of our species might choose suicide over the possibility of abuse, even torture, on a lost battlefield. But premeditated, simultaneous, and universal self-destruction? And with no radios to coordinate it? And even among those of us for whom surrender will, in all probability, be safe?”
Urzueth Ragh buzzed slowly, meditatively. “They will see the preparation, and so discern that we had determined from the beginning that, if we were defeated, we needed to conceal something from them—even at the expense of all our lives and equipment.
Darzhee Kut bobbed. “Just so. They will eventually debrief survivors here or elsewhere who
could reveal what we must now keep hidden. For if the humans learn that we knew of them in prior millennia, when their birthright was to burrow the dark between the suns just as we did…”
“…then they will ask why their legacy did not stay among those stars.” Urzueth clicked his mandibles. “Whereas if we do not employ the Final Directive, then they will have no reason to ask such questions.”
Darzhee Kut harmonized. “If our actions fit what they expect, they will be without impetus to seek for the unexpected in us. Our resignation to surrender and negotiation will fulfill that expectation. Conversely, our self-destruction would be a goad to them, a deed that they will seek to understand, and in so doing, almost certainly learn the full truth of their past. Under the present circumstances, they could easily become more dangerous than we imagined. They will see themselves as the one silently, secretly oppressed species among the stars, long kept from knowledge of themselves, and now invaded to preempt the resumption of their birthright. Like nestlings just discovering the idea of justice and having it violated, how will they act? What will they do to oath-breakers and skulkers such as us?”
Urzueth emitted a faint, ululating two-toned whistle in a minor key. “First Rock-Mother,” he prayed/blasphemed. “We will have given rise to the very thing we strove to prevent.”
Darzhee Kut harmonized and watched him closely.
Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,” approaching Indonesia, Earth
“Mr. Downing, update from OPCOM.”
Good. The more we know, the better we can negotiate. “Synopsis, please.”
“Admiral Silverstein reports that the enemy flotilla which engaged Rescue Task Force One is dead in space. He has multiple nuke-pumped X-ray laser missiles targeted on every shift-capable hull and capital ship. He will soon be handing control over to Rear Admiral Vasarsky’s Tango Echelon. He has also detached enough Gordon-class sloops to control the drones we now have covering the Arat Kurs’ orbital flotilla. Initial boarding operations are underway in both areas of engagement. He hopes they will be concluded by the time Tango Echelon arrives.”
“Then Silverstein is slingshotting out after Halifax?”
“Yes, sir, but he hardly needs to. Admiral Schubert’s first report indicates that the Arat Kur belt fleet is almost one hundred percent incapacitated. The few hulls still capable of maneuver were overwhelmed by the first wave of drones and high-yield ordnance and were destroyed. However, it is unclear if Schubert’s own boarding teams will be able to safely commandeer the remaining enemy hulls. Time to intercept is long enough that the Arat Kur might be able to regain control, necessitating their destruction.”
Downing couldn’t quite be comfortable with the report. Case Timber Pony and Case Leo Gap had worked too well, had been too seamless in their synergistic timing and effect. Innumerable contingency plans had been drawn up for dealing with high, partial, even low levels of success, but there had been no time to spend contemplating such a speedy and complete triumph. Something had to be amiss, about to go wrong…
“I also have reports via fiber-com in Jakarta that a mix of indigenous insurgents, infiltration teams, and tunnel rats have entered the presidential compound and provisionally secured the enemy headquarters.”
Already? If anything, the successes threatened to get out of hand, were occurring too quickly. “Do we have reliable units inbound on their HQ?”
“Yes, sir. Pathfinder elements dedicated to that target are the Twenty-second SAS, B squadron, and A platoon of the Spetsnaz Sixteenth Brigade. Both are hitching rides with A company of Second battalion, First Air Cav.”
“Their ETA?”
“Ten minutes.”
Downing looked down at his watch, did the math. That was too soon, now, given the change in plans these rapid successes necessitated. “Tell those units to orbit the compound and secure the surrounding airspace. They are to delay final approach and landing until we arrive to lead them in.”
“Sir?”
“Relay those orders, Lieutenant. I don’t want the arrival of possibly overeager elite troops to fuel the confidence—and vengeance—of resistance fighters. That could turn a nice, calm surrender into a slaughter. We will lead our elite formations in and set the tone as diplomatic, not military. Make sure they understand that. And tell the pilot we need to move up our ETA to Jakarta as much as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alnduul swayed gently toward him as the high-speed command VTOL bucked with a sudden surge of acceleration. “Are you quite sure that this change is safe, Mr. Downing?”
“You mean the speed of our approach?”
Alnduul’s outer lids nictated slowly. “I mean our direct entry into an unsecured combat zone.”
Downing felt a brief spasm of contempt for the Dornaani Custodian, pushed it off with a shrug. “There is some risk involved. That is the nature of war, after all.”
Downing felt as though the large, dark pupilless eyes were dissecting his words, his intents, his psyche. Then they blinked. “So it is. My apologies, Mr. Downing.”
“Your apologies? For what? For asking about the degree of risk?”
“For forgetting what it feels like.”
Downing felt his eyebrows rise. “It must be nice to live in a world where that’s something you can forget.”
“Nice? Perhaps. But worrisome, also.”
“Worrisome?”
But Alnduul had turned to look out the small window to his right, the blue and white of sky and clouds a roiling concave moiré reflected upon his eyes. Downing waited, but the Dornaani did not speak again.
Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth
“Have you contacted our ships yet?”
“We have not, Darzhee Kut.”
Urzueth Ragh moved closer to him, hummed his query softly. “I do not understand. If you are determined to keep the fleet from scuttling itself, why are you so eager to contact them with news of Hu’urs Khraam’s death?”
“Because if they hear of our capitulation without also learning that the Final Directive is rescinded, the ship masters will presume it is in effect and destroy their ships.”
Urzueth’s answering buzz was anxious. “It may occur anyhow, Darzhee Kut. If our rock-siblings are boarded before they can restore their systems, they are likely to destroy themselves, probably with humans aboard. And soon, down here, they will start finding some of our fully isolated troopers becoming sluggish, sick. And you know what they will find.”
Darzhee Kut nodded. “Within forty-eight hours, all their potential prisoners will die of a noncontagious virus that first renders them unconscious and then kills them by producing fatal toxins out of body tissue.”
“And because we have no way of reaching all of them, thousands will die within the same day or two. The humans will, as you say, realize that it is not a disease at all, but a suicide method. So let us reconsider. Why not be safe and destroy the ships, as well? If we cannot prevent the humans from discovering our planetside force’s commitment to suicide, then we might as well destroy the concrete answers the humans might find on our spacecraft.”
Darzhee Kut snapped his claws. “No. If we can keep the planetside casualties to a minimum, we can explain that the troopers who killed themselves simply feared capture and torture. We must spend all our energies striving to contact our units. To that end, ask the humans to find Riordan and bring him back here.”
“Why?”
“Because he will help us, and the humans still have radios. We can use those to contact our rock-siblings. If we can prevent even half of our units and ships from following the Final Directive, the suicides of the remainder may appear to be more an aberration than a plan.”
Urzueth Ragh’s antenna snapped erect as he spun away. “I shall inquire after Riordan with all speed.”
“Delegate Kut.” It was the first time anyone had ever addressed him with that honorific; it was thrilling and horrible at the same time.
“Yes, Communications Master T’yeen?�
�
“I have the ship Greatvein.”
“Who is on the channel? Fleetmaster R’sudkaat?”
“No, Delegate Kut. As you requested, Senior Sensor Master Tuxae Skhaas.”
“Excellent. Tuxae Skhaas?”
“Yes, Speak—Delegate Kut.”
“I must first sing a song of mourning. Hu’urs Khraam’s voice no longer echoes in the rocknest.”
There was a very long pause. “We are ill-fated to be alive to hear such notes, Delegate Kut.” The sorrow in Tuxae’s voice was deep and genuine.
“I have a very new song for your antennae alone, Tuxae Skhaas.”
“I listen, ready to harmonize, Delegate Kut. But your radio has very limited range, and the path of our orbit will soon carry us beyond each other’s reach.”
“So I will be frank. We must not scuttle the fleet.”
“We—have I heard you correctly, Delegate Kut?”
“You must unlearn the hymn we all sang together when we left Homenest. And you must teach this new atonality to all the other ships that you can reach: we must not follow the Final Directive.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Presidential Palace compound, Jakarta, Earth
“Trev?”
“Hmm?” Trevor Corcoran kept his eye on the scope of the Remington M167 he had retrieved from Gavin’s body. Almost eight minutes since I’ve seen a Sloth, but I’m in no rush. Six bagged and counting. And that last one—Stosh would have been proud of that shot: four hundred eighty meters if it was a centimeter. Single round, center of mass. The bastard went down like a poleaxed ox. Welcome to Earth, motherfucker.
“Trevor.” Tygg’s voice was subtly more insistent.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“A report, Captain.”
Yeah, that’s right. I’m a captain now. Probably will keep my rank after this shindig. Glories and medals, too. O, be still my beating heart—
“Heart.” “Heart” made him think of Opal, which made him stop thinking. When he opened his eyes, he found the view down the scope alien, strange, as if he had never seen it before. “Okay. Okay.” He blinked, felt like he was coming out of a general anesthetic. “What’s the sitrep?”
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