Trial by Fire

by Charles E Gannon

  But Elena, too? She was no commando, to put it lightly. And if she had decided to try to help Caine herself, why wouldn’t she at least tell me?

  The answer was so obvious it felt like a slap. Because she knows I would have stopped her just as surely as Uncle Richard would have. And commando or no, she spent a lot of time on pretty risky field assignments. Damn it, I’d bet dollars against donuts that she’s en route to Jakarta, because that’s where Caine will be, if the invaders decide to bring him planetside. And so, if I call Richard—

  Trevor took his finger off his commplex’s datapad, closed the contacts directory. If I give him the chance, Richard will order me to stay close until he can send me on Case Timber Pony. Or, if the invaders decide not to play diplomatic games, and IRIS gets lower on manpower, he’d hold me and my security team in reserve, as his last little trump card. Well, so sorry, Uncle Richard, but that’s not how it’s going to go down. I’ve got a prior commitment to help a young lady. Whether he meant Elena or Opal was unclear, even to him.

  He opened the commplex directory again, found the number he needed, called.

  “How may I help you?” The Central Intelligence Agency never announced itself as such when called, not even on the secure, high-clearance traffic line that Trevor was using.

  “This is Captain Trevor Corcoran, USSF, calling for Duncan Solsohn at extension 2454. My access code is U-uniform, S-sierra, D-delta one zero niner.”

  A pause. A new voice. “Sign is black gull. Four. W-whiskey.”

  “Countersign is low tide. Three. E-echo.”

  “Connecting.” Then another new voice. “Hello?”

  “Duncan, this is Trevor. I’m glad you’re still on the overnight.”

  “Well, I’m glad one of us is glad about it. What’s new, Trevor?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What’s new about that?”

  “Ha. And ha. Listen, I need a complete traffic trace: all messages sent and received, transactions, booking, transport records.”

  “Yeah, ‘complete’ means complete, last I checked. But ‘no’ means ‘no.’ You don’t have anything like the kind of clearance necessary to initiate a request like that.”

  “You might want to review my clearance and security ratings.”

  “Yeah? Well, last I saw, you were just a—Jesus Christ, Trevor, have you started playing golf with God? How the hell did you get—?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Just get on the job, okay? And I need it fast.”

  “How fast?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  “Ugh. And who’s the target?”

  “My sister. Here’s the data you’re going to need—”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CoDevCo security compound, Jakarta, Earth

  Caine swayed in his seat as the CoDevCo shuttle braked sharply. Ground controllers had waved it away from the vertipads atop the twinned towers of the Indonesian Bank Complex and down into the courtyard-turned-landing field.

  “We shall debark quickly,” Eimi said nervously to the cabin in general. “No reason to attract attention.”

  You mean, “attract snipers,” I think, Caine reflected as the vehicle jolted into a quick VTOL landing. He undid his straps. Rather than off-load through the passenger portal at the front, the silent Arat Kur troopers indicated the opening aft bay doors.

  Following Urzueth Ragh, Caine stalked down the ramp into the thick, humid brightness of Jakarta and momentarily flashed back to debarking into similar weather conditions on Delta Pavonis Three. Only a year and a half ago. It feels like a different life.

  Outward-facing gray-suited soldiers flanked the loading ramp as he exited. They were clones: all the same height, all the same face. It was a face he had seen before, staring impassively over Ruap’s shoulder before the Parthenon Dialogs in Greece, and again, with a corporate factor at Nolan Corcoran’s memorial on Mars. These identical faces in Jakarta were every bit as unemotional and alert as those had been. If any of the soldiers noticed his quick scrutiny, they either had orders not to react, or simply didn’t care.

  With the two Hkh’Rkh hulking at the rear of the debarkation line, the shuttle’s passengers made quick progress to a nearby berm-lined enclosure of ballistic brick. As they wound through an anti-blast dogleg in the walls, the shuttle did a quick dust-off from the pad and headed southward. Its jets were shrill as it passed over them, growled and howled where their downwash buffeted against the berm.

  “Now what?” asked Caine when he could hear again.

  “We wait,” Urzueth said simply. “We will be met by vehicles for transport to the heart of the compound.”

  Caine looked out the rear of the three-faced enclosure. There was, at most, an eighty-meter stretch of ground to be crossed. “President Ruap’s government doesn’t seem terribly confident in its ability to maintain order.”

  Eimi shrugged. “These are simply precautions, Mr. Riordan. You have nothing to fear.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. Mr. Ruap and his allies, on the other hand, seem more than a little nervous.”

  Urzueth Ragh might have sounded slightly testy. “Ambassador Riordan, please. These leading comments are becoming tiresome. Most—well, much—of the regular army has remained loyal to the new government. And with the assistance of thousands of armed personnel from CoDevCo’s Optigene Security Division, President Ruap’s ability to protect the country from both foreign and domestic threats is superior than it was before the change in leadership.”

  Caine glanced at the hastily built plasticrete walls that encircled the compound, the heavy weapons mounted high in reinforced sections of the main buildings. He did see regular army uniforms, but not many. And some kinds of uniforms were conspicuously absent. “And the Indonesian special forces? Have they shown the same loyalty?”

  Urzueth remained perfectly still for a moment, then moved to look at Eimi. Who answered the question. “The Kopassus regiments have expressed—divided loyalties. We are taking steps to remedy that trend.”

  Caine tried not to smile. Those last two words tell me the story you are trying to conceal, Ms. Singh. It’s not that the Kopassus regiments simply split. They defected en masse. And that means that regular army defections are probably still ongoing. It’s likely that you’re bleeding your best soldiers into the ranks of the resistance. The career soldiers would be too smart to make their true sentiments known in advance, not when they’re surrounded by political inductees who’ve been instructed to correct any sign of disloyalty with an immediate application of lethal force.

  “However,” Eimi was continuing as three wheeled armored personnel carriers rolled toward them across the ruined lawn, “the Kopassus defections are a minor problem, at most. Our control of all the major cities is secure. The Mass Driver has experienced only a few attacks, all of which were driven off by our Optigene forces operating in conjunction with the exosapient security elements our new partners have loaned us.”

  Good God, can she really believe all that tripe? If Elena had been there, she would have torn apart each one of the CoDevCo flunky’s specious claims with a mix of ironic wit and brutal logic. Whereas Opal would probably have just punched Singh in the nose. Both images made him smile.

  “At any rate,” Singh finished, “CoDevCo welcomes you to its temporary Jakarta headquarters, Mr. Riordan. And here are our rides to a more comfortable environment.”

  The three APCs had finished their approach in a wide arc so that, stopping alongside the group, their rear-loading doors were now easily accessible. One of those doors swung open with an overpressure hiss. Two soldiers in Indonesian duty fatigues hopped out, scanned the area, waved an all-clear into the belly of the vehicle.

  The next two people who emerged were the new Indonesian President, Ruap, and R. J. Astor-Smath. Both of whom were smiling unpleasantly.

  Astor-Smath extended a hand toward Caine, but at such a great distance that it could only be reached if Riordan walked over to take it. “While
not an extraordinary honor, Mr. Riordan, this is an extraordinary treat.”

  “Can’t say it’s either, for me,” Caine answered, looking at the extended hand and then looking away.

  Ruap’s smiled widened. “This must not be the result you expected when you embarrassed me—us—at the Parthenon Dialogs this past April. I suppose you thought we were done when you sent us away like beggars.” He waved a hand around at the cityscape. “But now, we are in control. At last, this planet will have real justice.”

  Caine decided not to mention that he knew enough about Ruap to be quite sure that neither patriotism nor a just redistribution of wealth were his motivations. He had gone to private schools in Switzerland from age ten onward, and rose to his position through the time-honored Indonesian tradition of blatant sinecure for the sons of the wealthy oligarchs who were still the nation’s true rulers. Some, such as the late president, had even been relatively skilled at their jobs. No such accusations of competence had ever been made against Ruap, with one exception: he was rightly said to have a gift for the art of making deals. And he had clearly made one with CoDevCo which not only allowed him to outflank his duly-elected peers in Indonesia, but now put him in a position to dictate terms to the same World Confederation which had spurned his ambitions at the Parthenon Dialogs. Instead of mentioning any of this, Caine simply glanced around at their paramilitary surroundings. “Congratulations on being in control, Mr. Ruap—to the extent that you are.”

  “President Ruap,” the squat man corrected, rising to his toes.

  Astor-Smath waved aside the growing friction. “Mr. Riordan, no new pebble ever falls into a pond which does not also send out a few ripples. That’s all you’re seeing, here in Jakarta: ripples—and the Indonesian waters are growing calmer by the hour.” He paused, turned to Urzueth. “Speaking of Indonesian waters, Esteemed Urzueth Ragh, have you repeated my concerns regarding the subsurface aspects of Java’s maritime security to First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam?”

  Urzueth bobbed. “Yes, Mr. Astor-Smath.”

  “And?”

  Urzueth Ragh bobbed again. “And it has been taken under advisement.”

  Astor-Smath folded his hands and smiled at Urzueth. Caine was fairly sure, from Astor-Smath’s tightly controlled eyes and mouth, that the megacorporate factor would have preferred to eviscerate the Arat Kur on the spot.

  Urzueth bobbed his acknowledgment. “Honored Senior Liaison Astor-Smath, I assure you, we have deliberated upon the matter. We consider the submersible technologies possessed by your human adversaries to be quite inferior to ours, and fairly fragile. I agreed to make your case—again—to our leadership, but beyond that, there is nothing I may do, and so, no reason to persist in this topic. Indeed, we must see to the disposition of Ambassador Riordan.”

  At the word “Ambassador,” Ruap glanced sharply at Urzueth Ragh, then Astor-Smath, who held up a calming hand. “Certainly. Although the, er, ambassador does not seem pleased to be here.”

  Urzueth Ragh cycled through the tail-to-head wobble that was the equivalent of an Arat Kur shrug. “His discomfiture is understandable. He witnessed the arrival of nonhuman military assets.”

  Caine raised his chin. “Which we call ‘an invasion.’ Another problem with translation, evidently.”

  “Oh no,” Astor-Smath contradicted, his smile widening. “The problem is not in Arat Kur translation, but in your understanding, Mr. Riordan. You are not witnessing an invasion at all.”

  Caine raised an eyebrow, glanced meaningfully at a full troop of Hkh’Rkh who stalked past in their predatory stoops, their body armor adding a faint rumbling sound to their progress.

  Astor-Smath’s smile became archly patronizing. “Do not confuse guests—security advisors, consultants, and trainers—with invaders, Mr. Riordan. They came down at our invitation, on our ships. And their leaders recognize us as the means whereby Earth may achieve a legitimate and truly representational government. And so, become members of the Accord.”

  Ruap pressed forward like a dog straining against his leash. “Perhaps you and Admiral Corcoran should not have been so quick to turn us away from the Parthenon Dialogs, hey? Or been so disrespectful? Things might not have come to this.”

  Caine recalled, quite distinctly, that it had been Nolan’s friend Vassily Sukhinin, the Russian proconsul and former admiral, who had truly been disrespectful—contemptuous even—of Ruap and Astor-Smath, prior to the actual Dialogs. But Riordan elected not to point that out. Instead he commented, “I wonder if your own troops are any more convinced by your legal fig leaves and casuistries than I am.”

  “What does it matter?” Ruap countered with a grin. “They will remain loyal. As will the whole nation.”

  Caine stared at the clones and the Indonesian troops cradling their rifles in assault-carries, the multiple doglegged vehicle checkpoint barricades, the hastily constructed walls hemming in the compound, the outward-facing machine-gun positions, the hubcap-sized tilt-rotor ROVs that buzzed in flocks along the perimeter. “Yes, Mr. Ruap, it certainly looks like you enjoy overwhelming loyalty from your citizens as well as your military.”

  Ruap darkened but said nothing. In the far distance, there was a brief tattoo of machine-gun fire. Two of the soldiers turned to glance in the direction from which it had come.

  “Besides,” added Astor-Smath, “Mr. Ruap may rely upon our clones, as well. And they have no conflicting loyalties whatsoever. CoDevCo is their mother, father, and extended family, all in one.”

  “Of course,” observed Caine, “using them to slaughter unruly crowds leaves them nowhere and no one else to turn to, either. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the image of their shared face hasn’t already become a nationwide symbol for governmental ruthlessness and megacorporate treachery.”

  “Still the stirring orator, I see,” smiled Astor-Smath as the gunfire resumed. “Feel free to inspire the lumpen proletariat from within the windowless confines of your cell—I mean, ‘diplomatic apartment.’”

  Ruap pushed closer. “Yes, ‘Ambassador,’ we will make sure that you have a great deal of time to think about what is happening here. And how you and Nolan Corcoran caused it.”

  At the mention of Nolan’s name, Caine lowered his head slightly. If he didn’t have to see Ruap’s face, he might be less tempted to throttle the little turncoat. The renewal of gunfire, somewhat closer, caused three of the Indonesian soldiers to turn protectively outward.

  Ruap had seen Caine lower his head, probably thought he smelled the blood of an emotional wound. “What? Feeling alone without your powerful friend?”

  Caine turned his head away, tilted it lower. He couldn’t see Ruap’s face anymore, but saw his knees shift, his waist bend. Unbelievably, the man who was now the president of Indonesia was going to lean over and resort to petty, public bullying.

  Ruap gloated. “It must be terrible to see all Corcoran’s work—and all his lies—coming undone within a single year of—”

  The gunfire intensified. Caine saw the rest of the soldiers’ boots turn away as they faced toward the sound—and, almost before he realized it, he saw and seized the opportunity which that distraction presented.

  Caine snapped back sideways at the waist and kicked out and up. It was the same kick he had used on the knife-wielding assassin on Barney Deucy, but, without the step-through, it had less power. On the other hand, although Riordan was not flexible enough to reach the head of most opponents, Ruap was short and had bent over.

  Caine’s foot slammed, heel first, into Ruap’s mouth.

  The Indonesian President-for-Life cried out. The guards turned, confused, weapons snapping down as Caine stepped back, hands raised, fingers spread.

  There was the briefest instant of complete quiet, except for the distant gunfire. Then the tumult of contending voices and gestures began:

  Ruap: “Ngentot! You bastard! You will die!”

  Urzueth Ragh: “Ambassador! Desist!”

  Eimi: “Mr. Riordan, do not make us—”
/>
  The larger of the two Hkh’Rkh security advisors from the shuttle stepped aggressively forward, and, in only partially understandable English, growled “Traidtorr!”

  Urzueth Ragh tried to wave the Hkh’Rkh back. He stopped, but did not give ground. The Indonesian troops had their guns trained on Caine while tensely watching Ruap, awaiting a verbal order, even a gesture, as to what they should do next. But Astor-Smath was, in contrast, relaxed and wearing a smile that was uncommonly broad, even amused, as he folded his arms and awaited whatever might happen next.

  Caine chose to turn slowly to face the Hkh’Rkh, hands open and far away from his body. “I am not a traitor. I punished a traitor.”

  The Hkh’Rkh pitched his head back sharply: a negation gesture. “Lie. You struck your leader. To blood. I saw.” The Hkh’Rkh edged closer, his firearm hanging loose in his grip, but the other hand rising, showing impressive claws. Urzueth Ragh’s redoubled remonstrations and gestures went unnoticed.

  Ruap sputtered furiously as he realized that he had lost one of his front teeth, turned to his troops, mouth open to yell what Caine presumed was the last human utterance he would ever hear—

  —but the Indonesian was stilled and restrained by a hand on his arm. Astor-Smath’s eyes, narrow and bright, were watching Caine and the Hkh’Rkh.

  Caine swallowed. He probably hopes the Hkh’Rkh will kill me and save him the diplomatic and public relations headache of ordering it himself. Riordan stepped toward the Hkh’Rkh, arms still out. That surprised the warrior into a moment of indecision, during which Caine asked, “Tell me, Warrior, what do the Hkh’Rkh call a leader who pretends to a higher rank than he actually has?”