“And according to your report, Kirkwood was attempting to extort highly classified information.”
“Absolutely.”
“So how does that not add up to the following scenario: she tries to extort information from you, she fails, and her handlers kills both of you to cover up their identity and interest in those particular secrets?”
Caine nodded. “I agree it looks that way, Admiral, but I’ve got information that problematizes the hypothesis.”
“Which is?”
“Personal knowledge of Heather Kirkwood. Would she take a tip from a shady source in order to get what she wants? She wouldn’t bat a lash, doing that. Would she actually, or at least threaten to, endanger old friends of mine if she thought it might get me to cooperate? Sadly, yes. And would she selectively reveal the time and place I was going to emerge from the Pearl to ensure that the local press and activist groups would be there to generate a more provocative scenario and story? Unquestionably. But here’s where the hypothesis breaks down: Heather wasn’t a killer.”
Perduro shrugged. “So you say. I’m not convinced. And from what Ensign Brahen told me, you might have been at the top of Kirkwood’s death list, if she had one.”
Caine shook his head. “Heather Kirkwood was ambitious, vain, selfish, and couldn’t stop trying to outdo everyone at everything—particularly the people she was closest to. But she hadn’t the stomach for murder and frankly, had every reason not to be involved, directly or indirectly, in any attempt to kill me.”
Trevor glanced at him, frowning. “Why?”
“Because she did not stand to gain anything by my death. Quite the opposite. If she was in any way connected to an event in which I was killed, she’d come under investigation simply because of our prior contact. And here’s a cardinal rule in the journalism business: you can report news only so long as you don’t become news. So if she was ever implicated, even tangentially, in the murder of a politically significant former lover, that could have ended her career. Even if she was ultimately exonerated.”
“So again, we’ve got no leads,” sighed Trevor, “just another closed room mystery. Just like Alexandria.”
Perduro’s gestures became sharp, testy. “Yes, and it’s rife with the same kind of logical gaps. How did they know that either of you had gone to the still-secret Convocation? And, beyond that, how did they know that you had returned to human space? How did the assassin’s handlers know which maglev car Caine was in? How did they have Kirkwood’s private car ready to follow it into the first station? And how did they manage—on that short notice—to override our supposedly unhackable maglev traffic-control software to get another car to follow, and then ram Caine’s car?”
Trevor frowned. “Well, this time, at least you’ve got one survivor you can interrogate: the religious fanatic.”
“Except it turns out he’s not a religious fanatic,” Perduro snapped.
Caine stared. “What—ma’am?”
“The man who attacked you had no known affiliations with the local extremist sects. None of them know him. In fact, the ‘fanatic’ has no identity that we can determine.”
Now it was Trevor’s turn. “What?”
“He is a nonperson, as far as the ID system is concerned. And here at the Pearl, we maintain a very up-to-date registry.”
Trevor was frowning now. “Have you interrogated him, Admiral?”
“We wanted to.”
Caine heard the frustrated tone. “Admiral, what do you mean ‘we wanted to’?”
“I mean he was found dead in his cell fifteen minutes before you walked in here.”
“And let me guess. The probable cause of death was a heart attack?”
“No, Commander. This time, it was a stroke. Massive. He was dead within a minute. There was no response to either immediate CPR or more heroic methods.”
Trevor leaned back. “Ma’am, as you say, these are just the kinds of mysteries that seem to accumulate around the attempts on Commander Riordan’s life.”
Riordan shook his head. “Except that there’s an even larger mystery that hasn’t been mentioned yet.”
Perduro turned toward Caine. “And what mystery is that?”
Caine looked at Perduro uncertainly. Even though she was asking about a piece of data she’d overlooked, she still might resent having it “explained” to her. Riordan considered how best to ease into the topic—
However, Trevor’s patience was exhausted after two seconds. “Well, what are you waiting for, Caine? A drum roll?”
“I don’t need a drum, but it would sure be handy to have a crystal ball like the one the opposition is using. Because there’s no other way to explain how they got all the press here in time to meet me coming out of the Pearl.”
Perduro made a face. “The presence of the press can be explained by a simple intel leak. No one needed a crystal ball to predict your movements.”
Caine spread his hands. “Admiral, Trevor, I know enough about the journalism field to be familiar with its basic workings. And here are some facts about field reporters. They are not lurking everywhere, just waiting to pop up with a palmcom set to record. They are assigned to, or string as freelancers in, high-activity news zones. Which Barney Deucy is not. However, they can also be found in locales where an editor has sent them, on the hunch that a newsworthy situation is brewing there.”
“Like a special task force,” supplied Trevor.
“Exactly. Now here’s the hitch. I did some checking while we were waiting to outbrief you, Admiral, and it seems the journalists who mobbed me at the first monorail station only arrived here eight days ago. Now, doing the reverse math of how long it took them to travel to Barney Deucy after they shifted in, that means they left Earth about four days before that. Of course, before they could shift out from Earth, they had to preaccelerate for at least thirty-three days—”
Perduro’s face became even more pale than it had been when they entered: her eyes opened wide as the calendar implications drove in upon her. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that means most of the surplus reporters here today got their marching orders to come to Barney Deucy at least forty-five days ago. At a minimum.”
“But—” started Trevor. And then he stopped, his own eyes widening.
Caine nodded. “We hadn’t even shifted out to get to the Convocation yet. In fact, their travel had to start just a few days after Nolan’s memorial, about fifty days ago, to be here for today’s freelancer feeding frenzy. And fifty days ago, we had no idea how the Convocation would turn out, or that we’d only be there for a few days, or that Downing, Trevor, and I would detour here, instead of returning directly to Earth, as the rest of the delegates did.”
“So someone knew what we were planning before it was planned?” Trevor’s voice climbed to a surprisingly high pitch on the last word.
Caine shrugged. “That’s why I’m half-convinced they have a crystal ball, Trevor.”
“Either that,” muttered Perduro, “or whoever is behind all these closed room mysteries can send information faster than the speed of light.”
Caine nodded. “Or can shift between the stars much faster and much farther than we can, and slip that information to human collaborators.”
“What a reassuring set of alternatives,” grumbled Trevor.
“Isn’t it, though?” Perduro’s voice was almost as rough and deep as the ex-SEAL’s. “I’ll code this into a report and send it out to the Prometheus ahead of you. She—and your cutter—are due to get to her Earth-optimized shift point in about three weeks, but you never know what might happen between now and then.” She stood. “And I think I’d better run a general defense drill.”
“A drill, ma’am?” asked Caine.
“Yes, Commander. I believe Mr. Downing told you he put us on Defcon Three. We’ve kept it from the civilian sector, as per orders, but I wish we didn’t have to. People don’t react well to news of an unexpected threat if you spring it on them at the last second.”
Trevor�
�s grin was wry. “Must be darn hard to prepare people to deal with exosapient invaders you don’t have permission to talk about yet, Admiral.”
“Trevor, get out of here before you make my brain hurt any worse than it already does. Now, have both of you filled out your resignations from active duty?”
Caine and Trevor produced the carefully folded papers, handed them to Perduro.
Who scanned them with a scowl. “Damn idiotic charade, this. I hope Downing knows what he’s doing. I promote you yesterday, and pack you off into the Reserves today? Insane.”
Caine shrugged. “As I understand it, his primary reason is so that, coming back as civilians, we can slip in under the press’s radar. At least they won’t have any immediate knowledge that I’m part of the Navy, now.”
Perduro shook her head, put out her hand. “Commander, Captain. I hereby accept and duly record your departures from active service. It’s been a pleasure having you here, gentlemen.” Releasing Trevor’s hand, she suddenly looked her full age. “After today’s events, and what it implies about our undisclosed adversary’s ability to run rings around us on the calendar, I’m seriously considering moving this facility to Defcon Two on my own initiative. And I think you gentlemen should move up your departure time to catch the Prometheus, just in case she has to fuse a little extra deuterium to get out of town ahead of schedule.”
Caine nodded at the ominous implications of that precaution. “And when do you recommend we depart, Admiral?”
“Five minutes ago, Commander. Get the hell out of my sight, grab your gear, and Godspeed to you both.”
Chapter Five
Outbound from Barnard’s Star 2 C
Fifty minutes later, while settling into the accommodations on the modular cutter that was set to sternchase and catch the Prometheus before her shift, Caine finished folding the dress uniform he had worn precisely one time: yesterday, when he had been commissioned in the Space Force. He stared at the silver oak leaf on the jacket’s shoulder. God damn, how the hell did I get through four weeks of combined basic and OCS? And zero-gee ops and logistics? And combat simulators and live-fire range time whenever I wasn’t up to my eyeballs in refresher calculus and space physics? Between the trip-hammer pace and never more than five hours of sleep a night, it had become an absurdist comedy by week three. And then, with a salute and a step back, it was all over. Mustered out into the Reserves. As if it had never happened at all.
From the other side of the cramped cabin, Trevor’s voice was wry. “Thinking great thoughts?”
“Hell, just thinking. I forgot what that feels like.”
Trevor emitted a short laugh. “Yeah, they kept you busy. Kept shifting gears between brain-work and body-work, too. Although that can help.”
“Why?”
Trevor didn’t look up, kept entering security codes into their shared commplex. He was determined to finish changing the habmod’s registry from military to civilian/diplomatic before the cutter got underway. “When I went into the Teams, the hardest thing about hell-week was that it was almost all physical. They just kept hammering at you, at the same strengths or weaknesses. Half the battle for me was finding a way to cope with the monotony.” Trevor turned away from the commplex. Now when the module arrived at Earth, it would not indicate its passengers were military personnel. “Fortunately, I had a very colorful instructor.”
“Colorful?”
“Stosh Witkowski. Never cusses, but he has a rare talent for inventing the most elegant insults that I have ever heard. And of course, I got a particularly rich share of his attention.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Trevor looked at Caine as if he was yet another new species of exosapient. “I was an officer, an Annapolis legacy, and the child of a celebrity father.” The last word threatened to catch in his throat; Trevor rose and exited their stateroom briskly, waved for Caine to follow. “Let’s get something to eat before they make us strap in.”
Caine followed Trevor into the small galley that was opposite the module’s combination entry hatch/docking ring. The small observation port—still unsealed—offered a memorable view: framed by the top-and-bottom gridwork of the cutter’s module-laden trusses, the system’s second gas giant loomed as a great black arc, backlit by the dim red glow of the occulted Barnard’s Star. A blood-washed white dot winked near the shoulder of the dark planetary curve.
Trevor nodded at the speck. “Say goodbye to The Pearl. They’ll be shutting the viewport any minute now.”
“Why?”
“Meteorology detected a flare, just as we came on board. Nothing too rough, but in addition to the rads kicked off by the gas giant, you’ll want more than a layer of sunscreen between you and the Great Out There.”
“Has The Pearl changed much since the last time you were here?”
“Does a ’Force base ever change?”
Caine snagged a cube of water, unfolded the integral straw. “You tell me. It seemed—well, almost deserted.”
Trevor nodded, perching on the countertop across from Caine in the excessively cozy space. “Yeah, and I had expected the opposite. Given all the traffic that’s been through here, and all the carriers and combat craft that the rosters say are in-system, I was sure the place would be overflowing, not a ghost town.”
Caine looked at him directly. “Galley scuttlebutt says that it’s because almost all the combat hulls are already deployed and double-crewed. Waiting.”
Trevor sipped his water, waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, the Defcon Three that no one mentions and everyone knows about. Great cover-up, too: lots of threadbare bullshit about ‘routine maneuvers.’ Meanwhile, it’s common knowledge that assets are being dispersed to undisclosed groupment points or are shifting out-system to the ‘training reserve’ at Ross 154. Some secret.”
“And all that precautionary activity wouldn’t clear the bleachers?”
“Not like this, no. It wasn’t just the lack of shipside ratings cycling through the base. It was the constant reduction of dirtside techs. Do you know that there were fifteen hundred cryocelled maintenance and construction personnel sent back on the last carrier that went out?”
“Are replacements on the way?”
Trevor shook his head. “I went down to the slips, asked around. Nada.”
“So what do you think the brass is up to, and why aren’t they telling us?”
“They’re not telling us because we’re not in the need-to-know loop.” Trevor grinned ruefully. “And since no one here is aware that we’re IRIS operatives, no one is aware that we have the clearance to hear the secrets they’re not going to tell us, anyway. On the up side, we also never had to use those goofy, Odyssey-based code names my father hung on us.”
“Admiral Perduro knows about our clearance levels.”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure she’s fully in the loop herself. Look how she reacted to your commissioning orders: an official posting to Naval Intelligence but with a track for unrestricted line promotions. I don’t think she saw that coming, judging from the way she frowned when she read it out to you.”
Caine nodded. “I think you’re right. Downing cut the orders; she just cut the ribbon.”
“Thereby authorizing you to wreak havoc amongst genuine military personnel.”
“Smile when you say that, Captain.”
“I was.”
“Didn’t look like it.”
“I was smiling inside.”
“Uh huh.”
Trevor did smile now. “Look, nothing against you, Caine, but Uncle Richard seems to be making this stuff up as he goes along. My promotion, your commission and ‘training,’ our immediate conversion to reserve status: this is so nonregulation, that I’m past being surprised. For all I know, he might try to appoint someone as Grand Fez-Wearing Poo-Bah of the God-Emperor’s Armada. What he’s been doing with ranks and titles and clearances—hell, it’s just not done.”
“Well, maybe not, but Downing had sign-offs from the president and the J
oint Chiefs.”
“Yeah, but just because it comes from so high up the chain of command that no one dares question it doesn’t mean that it’s in trim with the regs. And I’m telling you, based on eighteen years of first-hand experience, that it is all non-reg. Sooner or later, someone’s going to insist upon an explanation.”
Caine nodded, watched as the incandescent crimson edge of the planet’s terminator rotated into view. “Yeah, there are a whole lot of explanations that would be pretty welcome right now.”
Trevor glanced at Caine. “You mean, explanations for all the attacks on you?”
“Yeah, and on your dad and Tarasenko. And Elena’s abduction on Mars. Every time I try to make sense of the incidents, the unanswered questions come hammering down like I’m hatless in a hailstorm.”
Trevor smiled ruefully. “Judging from your tone of voice, you’re getting pelted by those questions right now.”
“Not all of them, but there’s one incident that has started to trouble me more than the others,” Caine admitted.
“Which one?”
“Remember those two Russians who broke into my room on Mars and tried to kill me? That attack just doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Trevor’s voice was mildly incredulous. “You mean, it makes less sense than the others?”
Caine nodded. “Yeah. Actually, almost all the others were conducted by faceless assassins, people who—like the guy today—don’t officially exist. But the Russian I killed on Mars not only had an identity, he was part of their consulate’s security force. And Russians, Trevor? Russians? That makes almost as little sense as my living through the attack.”
“You mean because the second guy left you alive when you were out cold?”
“Damned right. What the hell was that about? He had at least three minutes to kill me while I was senseless on the floor, before the police showed up. But all he does is cut my left arm?” Caine stared at the now almost-invisible four-inch scar, and shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah, well, at least you’ll be able to get some updates on the investigation, now that we’re heading back to Earth—”
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