“Where are you going?”
“To tell Tarasenko’s assistant that his boss needs medical help—now.”
“Caine, I can’t let you do that. Don’t make me order you—”
“Richard, now it’s your memory that’s faulty: I’ve stopped taking your orders. Remember?” He opened the door.
Downing was surprised by a sudden, dizzying panic so intense that his vision blurred. “But you can’t leave—”
“Oh no? Why?”
Downing reached for an answer, had none. “I’m in this alone, now.”
“Richard, you always have been. Nolan, Tarasenko, you—each trapped in your own private bubble of secrets and uncertainties. Maybe that’s the nature of organizations—and relationships—built on lies.” And he was out the door before Downing could find a suitable reply—because, Richard realized, there was no such reply to be found.
CIRCE
The tall man leaned away from the binoculars and breathed again. Robin Astor-Smath wondered what would happen next.
The man removed his two fingers from the small black cube, used his other hand to replace his sunglasses.
“Well?” Robin said in a higher pitch than he had intended.
“Well what?”
“What happens now? When do you—?”
“It is over; it is done.”
Astor-Smath blinked. “Over? How?”
“That does not concern you.” The man backed away from the window, which was half-filled with the bright white façade of the northern side of the Capitol Building. Behind him, the dome rose up over his short-cropped hair like the top half of a guillotined egg.
Astor-Smath looked at the box: what was it? A communication device? A remote control for some weapon planted in the Capitol Building? If so, its appearance was quite odd: no external marks of any kind. Not even any seams suggesting manufacture—but now, an odd smell was emanating from it, a troubling smell that was akin to a shudder-inducing mix of musk, carrion, and patchouli—and something else that he could not place.
The man shook the two fingers that he had placed in the box—much as if he had scalded them—and closed the container, none too gently.
“Naturally, we take your word for the successful completion of—”
“You will have independent verification soon enough.” The man picked up the box and put it in his pocket. “I believe I hear sirens.”
If he did, then either his ears were extraordinary, or Astor-Smath’s were in need of retesting. “Excellent, most excellent. However, this is hardly what I—we—expected. Your methods—”
“Are my concern alone. You requested an accommodation; it has been provided.”
Astor-Smath cleared his throat—and heard, faintly, a single approaching siren. “Well, regardless of your methods, you have done us a great service today.” The tall man moved away from the window: if he was listening, he seemed unaffected by Astor-Smath’s words. Robin tried a little harder. “This marks a major step forward in our cooperative agreement, and you have also struck a significant blow against the agents of national sovereignty, who stand in the way of—”
“How gratifying. I would welcome another dish of olives.”
Then the tall man sat down in the shadowed corner. He did not speak again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CALYPSO
Opal saw Caine emerge from the Capitol’s West Face at a brisk walk that carried him straight to the descending flight of stairs at the southern end of the portico. At the same moment, a small horde of medtechs started charging up the staircase on the northern side. The EMTs were accompanied by a smattering of suit-and-sunglass security types who were about as unobtrusive as a flock of condors in a day-care center.
Caine fast-foot-shuffled down the second, lower flight of stairs, headed straight toward Opal but didn’t show any sign of stopping near her. She took her cue, fell in beside him. “What’s the excitement?”
He smiled—too brightly and cinematically for comfort—and said nothing, only looked past her at the taxis on First Street, scanning from one to the next.
What the hell is he looking for? His favorite brand? “Caine—”
He peered down to where First Street emerged from the Maryland Avenue traffic circle. He snapped straighter, flung up a hand: “Taxi!”
A cab—one of the few driven by a human—swerved to the curb. Caine scanned its interior—and driver—quickly: What the hell is he looking for? It seemed an odd choice: a dilapidated gypsy cab, and a primitive one at that, without any comm or call number stenciled on the side, just the rather battered legend, “Sim’s Taxi Service.”
The window edged down unevenly. Caine’s question sounded strange, even to her: “Who are you?”
The driver started. Too surprised to come up with a retort, or a lie, his response was gruff: “I’m Sim. Who wants to know?”
“A high-tipping fare.”
Sim’s eyebrows went up. “Glad to hear it.” He reached over the back seat toward the rear door.
“Not so fast. You own and operate this cab yourself?”
“Do you think I’d be out here if I had anyone to do it for me?”
“Are you subscribed to a dispatching service, or a fare-share cooperative?”
“What, and go bankrupt between the fees and the percentages I have to share out? Listen, buddy, I just barely get by as it is.”
“Then you’re taking us to Reagan International.”
“Suborbital or orbital terminal?”
“Orbital. And if you get us there in thirty-five minutes, there’s a fifty dollar tip in it.”
“Luggage?”
“No luggage.”
“Then hop in.”
Caine pulled open the door. Opal stepped forward, paused, started to look back up the stairs of the Capitol Building—
Caine put a hand on her arm: it was not gentle. “Don’t look back. Get in.”
* * *
She waited until they had crossed the Potomac and then toggled the privacy screen. After it was done grinding and groaning closed, she turned to Caine. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Caine was removing his collarcom. “I’m taking a trip.”
The first person singular pronoun left a burning feeling along Opal’s brow. Okay: keep it relaxed: don’t give yourself away. She looked around the soiled interior of the cab. “Well, you’ve certainly picked some first-class transportation for this leg of your journey.”
He did not smile: at first, she wasn’t even sure he had heard. However, as he began fishing around in his pants pocket, he finally replied, as if in afterthought: “Actually, this cab is exactly what I need. It’s not automated, so there’s no commlink. It’s self-owned, so no central dispatcher. And he’s not connected to any of the gypsy cooperative services. So the only way Downing—or anyone else—can find me is to trace the signal of my phone.” Which he had now extracted from his pocket.
She decided to ignore the first-person-singular pronouns with which Caine continued to frame his responses. “So it’s the same plan as yesterday: we travel incognito as much as possible?”
He checked that the privacy panel was still up, scanned the corners of the rear compartment quickly—looking for fiber-optic snoopers? Here?—and then jammed his hand down into the gap where the rear cushion abutted with the seat cushion. He pulled the seat away from the backrest: a lint-and-litter crevasse yawned at them. He pushed the phone and collarcom down into it as far as they would go.
She chose to arch her left eyebrow. “I understand ditching the phone, and letting them chase it around D.C., but the collarcom?”
He dusted off his hands. “I got the collarcom from Downing. Which means I got it from IRIS. For all I know, they have a transponder chip in it.”
She nodded. Act cheery, but not overly interested or concerned. “So, where are we going?”
“I’m going to Mars.”
Mars? “What? Why?”
He looked out the window a
t a spaceplane lumbering aloft. He watched it disappear into the low-hanging haze before he answered: “Tarasenko is dead.”
“Dead? While you were in there?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Good question. An apparent heart attack.”
“‘Apparent’?”
He looked sideways at her. “Doesn’t it make you a little bit suspicious, Tarasenko dying of a heart attack—just two days after Nolan?”
“Well, both of them were getting on in years—”
“Yeah, but both of them received superior medical care, got a reasonable amount of exercise, were not engaged in any strenuous activity at the time of their death—and were the two key power brokers for IRIS.”
“But how could an assassin—?”
“I don’t know how, but I’ve learned that just because I don’t know how something might be done, doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
“So why Mars?”
“Because that’s the best way to put some distance between myself and IRIS. Tarasenko’s death is going to send Downing—and IRIS—into a twenty-four-hour tailspin, at least. By then, I want to be well beyond easy reach. That’s why I’m climbing straight onto the first spaceplane I can catch, and then taking the LEO shuttle out to Highport.”
“And just how are you going to pay for that?”
“My book royalties have been accumulating for almost fourteen years. And while we were over the Atlantic, my agency was holding a fast, invite-only auction for publishers who wanted the right of first refusal on my Dee Pee Three diaries.”
Huh. Caine sure works fast. And so quietly that I never suspected it. “So: onward to Mars. And once you get there—what?”
Opal had the distinct impression that this was the first time she had ever heard Caine utter ideas as they came to him, without prior assessment and editing. “I’m not sure. I’ll just be happy if I can keep away from anyone associated with IRIS.”
Then get the hell away from me, you poor guy. Aloud: “Sounds prudent, but you could probably get lost in the sauce more easily by staying Earthside. More room to run, more places to hide.”
“Maybe, but Mars is a much longer reach for Downing. And right now, he’s short of trustworthy manpower, so he’s not going to want to strand an operative out there.”
“Caine, before you go running off to another planet, I’ve gotta ask: why are you so sure that Richard will still want to keep tabs on you? Maybe he’ll just let you go. Maybe you don’t have to run so far. Maybe you don’t have to run at all.”
“Maybe—but it sure didn’t sound that way back in Tarasenko’s office. I think Downing wants to pull me deeper into IRIS.”
“But that just doesn’t make any sense. Downing knows that you don’t want to be an agent, and now you’ve made yourself too high-profile for him to use, anyway. So why would he try to keep you as a resource?” Yeah, thought Opal, with a sense of ominous realization, why does Richard want to keep Caine in the game so badly? Why does Caine still need to be watched?
Riordan had obviously been thinking similar thoughts. “You’re right, of course: Downing shouldn’t have any further use for me—not after today.” His tone became jocular. “Unless, that is, he expects to find some more exosapients that need to be ‘contacted.’” But Caine’s initially sardonic tone faded over the course of his quip: indeed, he looked very thoughtful as he finished.
“That’s a pretty unlikely scenario, Caine—keeping you around as an escort for the little green men who might land and say, ‘Take me to your leader.’”
Caine smiled, but was still thinking—hard. At last he looked up. “I don’t like running away from my home—it’s wrong and it pisses me off. But damn it, on Earth, or one light-second away on the Moon, Downing’s got all the advantages. So right now, I need distance.”
“That’s not exactly a sophisticated plan, Caine.”
“No, it’s not. But that’s what happens when the other guy holds almost all the cards: things get really simple, because you’ve got so few options. In this case, it’s just like Sun Tzu says: a weak force must go where its adversaries have the least power. And for me, that means Mars.”
Okay, so there’s no stopping him. Let’s see if I can hitch a ride, instead. “So: Mars. Quite the hotspot, I hear.”
Caine’s smile was more relaxed, now. “Yeah, it’s not exactly a Mecca for fun-seekers, but I just want a place where I can gather more information on those one hundred lost hours, and keep my head down while I do it.”
“Why keep your head down?”
“Downing may not be the only person monitoring web traffic for inquiries into the background of one Caine Riordan. The opposition may be looking for that, too.”
“‘Opposition’? Wasn’t the working assumption that, with Parthenon behind us, you’re safe?”
“I can’t afford to subscribe to that assumption—because if I do, and I’m wrong, then I’m dead.”
Opal had to admit that Caine’s conclusion was unassailably commonsensical. “Sounds like a pretty lonely life you’re making for yourself.”
Caine nodded, looked at her slowly, almost cautiously. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, that’s for sure.”
Careful now, Opal: don’t scare him off. “Oh, I don’t know: it doesn’t sound all that bad. Sometimes a bit of enforced peace and quiet is just what a person needs. Hell, since Downing gave me my honorable discharge, all I can think about is diving under a rock somewhere and trying to figure out this new world at my own pace. Maybe planet Earth has always been a madhouse, but it seems more so now.”
Caine nodded, looked forward again. After a long pause, he said: “Mars is a lot less chaotic than Earth or Luna. Not too big, not too busy.”
“See? So how bad does Mars sound when you describe it that way?”
He looked at her. “Come with me?”
She wanted to smile but stomped down on that reflex. Careful: if you say “yes” too quickly, he might become suspicious, might start wondering if this isn’t happening just a bit too easily. “Well, no offense, but I’m not in the habit of being anyone’s traveling companion.”
“Okay—then how about being my bodyguard?”
Oh, Christ: he’s offering me the job I’m already doing. “Do you really think you need a bodyguard?”
“Maybe; I don’t know. And that’s the whole problem: I don’t know much of anything just yet. I don’t even know who I can trust.” He turned to her, and after a moment, he smiled. “Except you. I trust you.”
Damn it, this just isn’t right: “Are you sure you want me tagging along?” Say “no”—for your own good.
“If you want to come, that would be, well—wonderful.” Then his eyebrows raised a little, and the corners of his eyes crinkled, the way they did when he became jocular. The cab swerved across two lanes of traffic and up onto the exit ramp for the spaceport, just as he leaned towards her. Almost nose to nose at that moment, there was mock conspiracy in his hushed voice as he asked: “Because I can trust you—can’t I?”
She looked him in the eye—and realized that, asked so directly, she could not lie to him. She also realized that, alone in the world as she was, and as he was, she could not leave him, either. And if, one day, being loyal to him meant disobeying Downing’s orders? That was merely illegal—but it sure as hell didn’t feel wrong. On the contrary: it felt—
“Right,” she breathed out through her own sudden, surprised smile, “you can trust me.” And, still smiling, leaning back to see his whole face more clearly, she realized:
You can trust me. More than you know.
BOOK TWO
CONVOCATION
PART FOUR
Mars and Deep Space
September, 2119
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MENTOR
Richard Downing waited patiently while the lieutenant—big, wide-eyed, and increasingly florid—shouted at him.
“No, sir, I don’t have to recognize your author
ity. And to hell with your cosmic clearance level. We’ve been on patrol in the Belt for six months now, bypassed twice for rotation off this god-forsaken boat. I’ve got a wife and kids back in Syrtis City, a mother dying on Earth—”
Downing closed his eyes. “Lieutenant Weuve—”
“—and now you just want me and my whole crew to obligingly pop ourselves into the emergency cryocells with no explanation why, and no guarantee of when—or if—we’ll wake up in this century? Not on your life—sir.”
“Lieutenant, I’m sorry—but this is a matter of national security. Actually, it’s a matter of global security: I’m here at the express orders of the World Confederation.”
“I don’t care if you’re here to announce the Second Coming, Downing. Neither I, nor my men, are hopping into the meatlockers on your say-so. I want more verification.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t accommodate that request. This must remain an entirely compartmentalized operation. No external communications, not even by encrypted lascom.”
“Then you’re out of luck, Mr. Downing.”
“Then I am afraid I must relieve you of your command, Lieutenant.”
Weuve’s shock became a smile, then a smirk. “Oh, really? Didn’t see you bring a Marine detachment on board with you from the other ship.”
“That’s because they are also, along with the rest of that crew, in cold sleep now. Besides, I don’t need any Marines.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“I think I can handle this myself.”
Weuve’s eyes went wide again, then narrowed. “Mr. Downing, I think you’ve seriously overestimated your authority and your combat power on this hull. Mister Rulaine,”—the lieutenant hooked a finger in the direction of his security chief—“please take Mr. Downing into custody and place him in the brig.”
Rulaine—tall, spare, silent—produced his NeoCoBro liquid-propellant sidearm. “Are you sure you want to do this, Lieutenant?”
Fire with Fire, Second Edition Page 26