Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

Alnduul gestured toward the exit with his tapering hand. “Now, I must wish you all safe travels. Mr. Downing, your party of three shall proceed to your embarkation point. The rest of you must enter your cold cells immediately.” His image faded.

  “Fine,” spat Le Mule. “Let’s get it over with.” He was gone in a rush of resentful, gangly limbs.

  Opal looked at Caine—whose eyes were unsteady, as if he still found it difficult to focus on distant objects. Although they hadn’t yet engaged in public embraces, this was a logical moment for that breakthrough. But Downing saw that Caine’s unsteadiness caused Opal to pause—and just that quickly, the moment slipped away: they waved awkwardly to each other, instead.

  As Trevor helped Riordan into the corridor, Opal turned quickly to Downing. “I thought—”

  “Orders change, Major Patrone. But in this case, the change is only temporary. Don’t worry: Caine will be well guarded.”

  It was obvious from Opal’s shiny, angry eyes, that her official duty to protect Caine was not the primary source of her distress.

  Not at all.

  ODYSSEUS

  Trevor was the last to enter the podlike compartment in the same Dornaani ship that had fetched them from Earth, and Caine noticed a box under his arm. Seeing the look, Trevor explained: “Elena caught up with me and gave me this, along with the strangest—”

  Alnduul’s voice seemed to emanate from every surface in the chamber. “Please settle yourselves comfortably.” The section of the pod they were facing—it seemed wrong to think of it as a bulkhead, somehow—slid aside, revealing the local starfield. “Forgive the malfunction, but your chamber seems to be defaulting into the external display mode. It is not safe to delay our departure long enough to correct it, but if the external view bothers you, we could easily—”

  “No, no,” Downing interrupted, “this is fine.” And indeed it was: given the choice between looking at a blank wall or observing the operation of an exosapient starship, no intelligence officer would ever choose the former. And besides, Caine could tell that Downing wasn’t buying Alnduul’s excuse any more than he was: this wasn’t a malfunction; it was a gift.

  Trevor was looking around the peripheries of the featureless seats for straps, buckles, restraints. “Uh, Alnduul,” he asked, “just how many gees of acceleration will we experien—?”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Commander Corcoran. Just settle back. We are about to begin our journey.”

  Caine exchanged glances with the other two, leaned back as he had been told, found himself wondering what their sleeping accommodations would be like, and if the food would be varied enough to—

  The hull vibrated faintly and Caine felt the equivalent of mental palpitations—as though his consciousness was shuddering, teetering at the edge of blackness. The next instant, the sensation and vibration were past. Odd, he thought, what kind of preacceleration thrust system would—?

  Then he looked out the gallery window and saw that the starfield had changed. Not slightly; entirely. And it was motionless.

  It was Trevor who spoke first. “Did we just—?”

  Then the Dornaani ship came about—the new star field wheeling slowly past—and revealed the murky sphere that was Barnard’s Star II’s roiling hydrogen-and-ammonia atmosphere.

  Caine heard Downing release his caught breath, heard Trevor gulp—a constricted sound—and found he could not put two thoughts together. The implications of what he had seen—instantaneous travel over a distance of sixteen light-years—were still rushing in at him.

  It was Trevor who spoke first. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “if Wasserman was here, he sure would feel better about our siding with the Dornaani.”

  Caine nodded, spoke to the ceiling. “Alnduul?”

  “Yes, Mr. Riordan?”

  “That was most impressive.”

  “We cannot do it often. It is very expensive and requires us to overhaul what you would call our shift drive.”

  What we would call your shift drive? Meaning that it isn’t actually a shift drive? Hmmm . . . but for now: “Even with that limitation, I find it puzzling that the Custodians or the Dornaani Collective feel that any other power poses a threat to them. With a fleet of ships capable of a sixteen-light-year shift from a standing start, and able to make a pinpoint transit to within—” Caine glanced at the gas giant, assessed, guessed “—five planetary diameters of a world, I would expect you to be invincible.”

  “Yes, one might readily infer that from our technological capabilities.”

  But if such vastly superior technology was still not decisive, then—“So the vulnerability of the Dornaani does not arise from a deficiency in equipment, but will?”

  “I am, of course, not allowed to respond to that conjecture directly. However, it is a most elegant hypothesis.”

  “Elegant?” echoed Trevor. “Elegant how?”

  Downing nodded. “It is elegant in that it resolves many apparent contradictions and also meshes with much of what we saw at the Convocation. The Dornaani do not lack power: they lack the commitment for decisive action.” Downing looked up. “Except you, Alnduul. And, I am guessing, the Custodians in general?”

  “Again, I cannot comment.”

  Caine frowned. “Maybe not, but given the duties of the Custodians, I would speculate that only the most—er, proactive members of your species would pursue such a career.”

  “Another highly stimulating conjecture on which I may offer no comment. However, I may mention this: we Custodians have had much occasion to monitor and learn of the peoples of Earth. And many of us were struck by the similarity between the oath of service that a new Custodian must take and a human axiom, attributed to the Irish philosopher Edmund Burke.”

  “And what is that axiom?”

  “‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’”

  Trevor smiled, Downing blew out a great sigh. Caine just nodded. “Thank you, Alnduul.”

  “Why do you thank me, Mr. Riordan?”

  “For sharing that with us. And for being who you are.”

  After a pause, Alnduul responded, “And who else would I be?” The tone was wry, yet strangely serious, too. When he spoke again, it was with his customary inflection. “We have arrived unobserved, despite your automated surveillance satellites. And yes, Mr. Downing, I am including the small nonmetallic devices mixed in with the debris of the rings. You will experience a gee of acceleration now: we shall have you at your destination shortly.”

  * * *

  Within the hour, their destination appeared just beyond the terminator of the gas giant: a small white disk that housed the naval base that humans called the Pearl. Wreathed in a thick, white, infamously noxious atmosphere, the world itself was the third satellite of its parent planet, and hence designated C, making it Barnard’s Star 2 C. Or “Barney Deucy,” in service slang. Angling up from it were several sleek silver slivers.

  Trevor pitched his chin at them. “Welcoming committee. With weapons hot, I’ll bet.”

  “That assumption is incorrect, Commander. We transmitted the codes Mr. Downing furnished to us when he boarded. I believe your craft will rendezvous with you in approximately thirty minutes.”

  Trevor frowned, looked askance at the ceiling. “Don’t you mean, ‘rendezvous with us’?”

  “No, Commander, I do not.” There was a distant rumble—and suddenly, the starfield seemed to shift a bit. “We have detached your pod for autonomous operations; it will now maneuver to the rendezvous. As soon as you have transferred to your own craft, and your pressurized cargo containers have been deployed for pick-up, this module will automatically return to our ship. It has been a pleasure meeting all of you.”

  Caine smiled at the ceiling. “I hope our paths cross soon again.”

  “It is difficult to foresee the circumstances which might permit that. And yet, stranger things have occurred.” There was a long pause, so long that at first they thought Alnduul had departed without his cust
omary salutation. “There is a datum I believe you should all have—but particularly you, Commander Corcoran.”

  Trevor started, looked up. “Me?”

  “Yes. It concerns your father.”

  “Uh . . . yes?”

  Caine heard the hesitation in Alnduul’s voice: he’s breaking rules; he’s not supposed to reveal this.

  Alnduul’s voice was slow, deliberate. “The organism you found in your father’s chest was not the cause of his death at Sounion.”

  Trevor gaped. “What? But—how do you know that?”

  “Because we introduced the organism into his body to assist him. It did not malfunction.”

  “You—?”

  “Enlightenment unto you all, gentlemen.”

  Trevor turned red. “Damn it, you had better enlighten me some more, you—”

  But the almost inaudible carrier signal was gone: Alnduul had departed.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  MENTOR

  Debarking from the Russlavic Federation shuttle inside one of the Pearl’s subsurface hangars, Caine found himself mere meters away from military hardware he’d only read—and written—about. Downing impatiently gestured for him to catch up, leading them towards a bank of gray, yellow-stenciled elevators beyond the security scanning pad. “I am scheduled to brief and be debriefed in ten minutes,” he tossed over his shoulder, “then back up here to catch a clipper to the outbound shift-carrier Borodino. If I miss it, I’ll have a thirty-day wait.”

  Personnel in Federation gray-green and Commonwealth blue-black mobbed the three of them with scanners, sniffers, and snoopers, reprising a similar dance of detection that had swirled around the trio when they had first transferred to the shuttle just over an hour ago.

  Downing went to the smallest elevator, ran his security fob over the sensor. The door opened and, hand extended, he urged Caine and Trevor to enter.

  Caine stepped forward—and stopped. For the briefest moment, he felt—what? A profoundly sharpened awareness of his surroundings: edges seemed more crisp, sounds more clipped. Time itself seemed to narrow down into a tunnel of many rings, rather than a pervasive, shapeless flow. Yet it all felt more like a premonition than an experience, as if these sensations were important only because they presaged the moment to come—

  Caine backed away from the open elevator. “No,” he said.

  Trevor blinked, then stared. “Caine, are you—are you okay? Problems from the decompression, again?”

  “No. I—I think we should use the stairs.”

  Downing, still holding the elevator open, was studying him: Caine could feel the assessing gaze. “It’s six flights down, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. But the exercise will do us good.”

  “Caine, are you quite—?”

  Caine, feeling foolish, shook his head and yanked open the door to the staircase. Maybe Trevor was right; maybe it was all some after-effect of having nearly been vacced a few hours ago.

  But it sure hadn’t felt that way.

  He started down the stairs.

  CIRCE

  The tall man, who wore his sunglasses even in this dim room, made a gesture of annoyance and leaned back. To his left, a small cube with one open side emitted vapors and a pungent, musky stench. Near his right hand, a bowl of olives stood forgotten.

  “This is most inconvenient,” he murmured.

  His assistant, unsure if the utterance had been meant for him, or was simply his superior thinking out loud, asked, “You mean, that Riordan chose not to enter the elevator?”

  The man paused as if mildly surprised to rediscover that he was not alone in the room. “No. It is not his failure to enter that troubles me. It was his reason.”

  The assistant looked at the screen: the three men—Riordan, Downing, Corcoran—had disappeared into the staircase. “But how could you possibly know why he—?”

  “I know,” said the man sharply. “How I know does not concern you. But you should report to your superiors that, in Riordan’s case, my abilities will be less efficacious now.”

  “Mr. Astor-Smath will want to know why.”

  The other man sneered. “And so the quizzical dog tasks his master to tutor him in cosmology. Very well, relate this: your employer has now had me exert my abilities many times in Riordan’s immediate vicinity. Consequently, Riordan is starting to detect the onset of the Reifications.”

  “Reifications? What do you mean? Is that what you call your—?”

  “You are familiar with the principle of quantum entanglement or—perhaps more suitable to your perception—Einstein’s ‘spooky action at a distance’?”

  “Yes, of course.” The assistant overcame the impulse to cross his fingers as he answered.

  “Very well. Now imagine what might be achieved if it was possible to impose a limited amount of order on that statistically-predictable chaos for just one moment, and in a small volume of space.”

  “So you can focus—I mean, ‘reify’—the phenomena of quantum entanglement to produce a desired outcome?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “But how—?”

  “For now, all you need to understand is that when a person has been proximal to numerous Reifications, that person may begin to have the ability to detect their onset. A crude analogy would be how some animals know when they are approaching a magnetic field.”

  “Is that because the Reification manifests as a wave front, or a—?”

  “Silence. You now know enough to explain why Riordan could be harder to kill.”

  “But surely, the occasional accommodations you have provided for Mr. Astor-Smath have not affected—”

  “‘Occasional,’ you say? Let me remind you of just how ‘occasional’ the Reifications have been.” The tall man flicked olive pits off the table with his long-nailed finger to punctuate each incident: “First there was the sustained influence required to ensure that the second engineer on board the Tyne would carry out his suicidal sabotage of its engines. Then there was the disabling of the enemy’s security systems and independent power plant in Alexandria. And let us not forget the need to compel the attackers to wear the self-destruct vests provided by your employer. Then, in the space of three days, two Reifications were required to kill Nolan Corcoran and Arvid Tarasenko. I have also learned, within the hour, that my colleagues failed to assassinate Riordan with a technical malfunction at the Convocation Station. And now, he avoided the elevator which would have dropped him to his death—along with two other troublesome adversaries. You call this battery of requested accommodations occasional?”

  The assistant shrugged. “Well, it was necessary: your success rate has not been as high as you guaranteed. But be assured that Mr. Astor-Smath has been happy to overlook that.”

  The man turned his shaded eyes upon his smaller assistant. “You are certainly not implying that these failures were in any way my fault.”

  “Oh no, no; I was just—”

  “Your employer has involved me in actions that were routinely inelegant, rash, and unprofessional. Had your employer been less intemperate, he would have fared far better, and Riordan would not be sensing the Reifications. Indeed, he would be dead.”

  “Is there any way to distract Riordan during future attempts? To ensure that he misses the warning signs of—?”

  “The only warning you should be interested in,” said the tall man quietly, “is the one I am giving you now: cease your inquiries regarding the nature of Reification.”

  “My apologies,” answered the assistant, whose anxiety compelled him to babble on. “I do not understand why Riordan is still important to us, anyway. He revealed all his crucial information at the Parthenon Dialogues: he is no longer worth killing.”

  The tall man smiled. “You could not be more wrong.”

  “Then what dangerous secrets does he still know?”

  “Riordan knows things—or will—that he does not yet know he knows.”

  “What?” said the assistant.


  But the tall man with the sunglasses had rediscovered the olives and evidently, forgotten about the presence—and possibly the existence—of his assistant.

  MENTOR

  Downing emerged from his debriefing and motioned for Caine and Trevor to follow him into a nearby conference room. Upon entering, he flipped on the white-noise generators and ran his RF detector around the room’s perimeter.

  “Clean?” asked Trevor, setting down the box he had brought on board the Dornaani ship.

  Downing nodded, motioned them to seats. Well, there’s no use beating around the bush. “Caine, I have an Executive Order to induct you into the United States Space Force.”

  “Induct me?” Riordan’s smile was bemused rather than sardonic. “I wasn’t aware there was a draft in effect.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Meaning that you don’t actually have compulsory powers in this matter.”

  “Caine, don’t make me—”

  “Richard, I’m going to save us all the embarrassment of letting you finish that sentence. My answer is this: ‘I serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States of America.’ Now, where do I sign?”

  Just like that. Caine had agreed without a flinch or a blink. Just like that. “Caine, I didn’t expect—”

  “Richard, our relationship—such as it is—has no bearing on this moment. The threats to our world—to our species—are no longer hypothetical, but real. And when my country—in the person of the President, no less—asks me to serve, I say ‘yes.’ Without delay. Now, where are the papers?”

  “I’ll give them to you later. For now, let’s go through what’s going to happen once you sign them. Firstly, you will immediately commence twenty-nine days of combined Advanced Basic and OCS training.”

  Trevor smiled. “Are we making ‘four-week wonders’ now, Uncle Richard?”

  “I’m not joking, Trev. He will complete the course in twenty-nine days—”