“Leader, the targets must have used this as a staging area. Note their packs.”
“Yes,” Jesel replied but wasn’t really listening. This entire attack had gone miserably awry. There were still at least three or four Aboriginals unaccounted for. At the clearing there were signs that one had run further west. That could have been the one that had crippled Macmillan or a different one. Two of the humans that had skirmished with them during their approach and Pyrrhic assault had been silenced, but their bodies had not been located. There was no way of knowing if other humans had been on hand for what he had to assume was the complete annihilation of Pehthrum’s river-side flanking attack. The only reasonable option was to return to the shuttle and risk nap-of-earth flight to scan for fleeing Aboriginal biosigns. Since they were no longer packed in among Slaasriithi signatures, they could now be hunted down one by one. It might be dangerous to stay that long, but if he returned with so profound a failure to report—
The first impact was so sharp and forceful that Jesel was on the ground even before he was aware he’d been hit. He rolled over, grasping for his weapon, saw a red crater of mashed grey snakes where the left side of his abdomen had been. He tried to control the blood flow, tried to make sense of what was happening.
He watched three of his clones go down: one round into each center of mass. So: a counterattack by professionals. Incapacitating each and then—
The last two clones, the ones that had been inspecting the dead water-strider, bounded deeper into the bush. Cowards, he wished he could shout after them, but he had to conserve his strength, focus his senses.
The fire was coming from the south edge of the clearing. He brought up his rifle, switched the propellant feed to fifty percent, the rate of fire to two hundred rounds per minute, swung it toward the bushes—
And fell back heavily, his neck and head riddled by eight millimeter Colt Browning jacketed expanders.
* * *
Bannor Rulaine rose up, hand-motioned Peter Wu to circle around the clearing while staying within the tree line. Now to get the two clones who had—
A short stutter of gunfire from yet another eight millimeter CoBro sent Bannor diving into the loam. It was usually a friendly sound, but today, that didn’t prove anything.
However, the small, limping silhouette that emerged from the northwest edge of the glade near the survival kits confirmed everything that Bannor could have hoped for: Miles O’Garran.
“Are we clear?” Rulaine asked, keeping his prone position, but crabbing around until he was covering the southeast end of the glade. Always watch your back was an axiom by which he lived, and had survived.
“Far as I know,” answered Dora Veriden, who emerged behind O’Garran.
Wu leaned out of the brush. “Bad landing?” he asked the pint-sized SEAL.
“I’ve had worse,” O’Garran replied. “Can’t remember when, though.”
Bannor rose up on one knee. “We’re going to have hell of a time finding everyone.”
“If anyone else is left,” Wu amended faintly.
“Yeah, there’s that.”
“Look, guys, let’s save our own lives first.” Dora threw a hand up toward the sky. “This can’t be all of them. I’m pretty sure some beat feet back toward their shuttle.”
“They did.” Bannor felt a smile bending his mouth, a smile that his first DI had told him would terrify any human under the age of fourteen. “They aren’t going anywhere.”
Dora’s smile wasn’t any more heart-warming. “Oh. Good. And by the way,” she added, glancing at the dead Ktor, “lucky timing.”
“Not luck,” Wu corrected. “First we heard a shot, much further inland.” He pointed west. “We were heading there when this area started sounding like New Year’s in Taipei. We just followed the sound of trouble.”
But Veriden was no longer listening; she was pacing around the glade, searching, frowning. “Where’s Riordan?”
Wu crossed the clearing to the northeast corner. “He was here?” He looked, saw the discarded filter mask.
Veriden looked up. “Yeah, I think—”
Wu saw a faint impression in the ground cover, a spatter of vomit, and, looking more closely, a faint trail of broken or bent ferns that led out of the clearing and straight toward—
Wu stood up sharply. “Everyone. We are going to need some help.”
“Help doing what?” Rulaine asked.
“Lifting this dead water-strider.”
* * *
Nezdeh Srina Shethkador already knew what Zurur Deosketer would report: “Still no reply on the lascom from the strike team.”
Nezdeh leaned back in her command chair, watched the two new cannonballs race to fill the orbital gap above the assault zone. Jesel’s shuttle had signaled a safe landing three and a half hours ago. Fifteen minutes later, her sensors had picked out the thermal flare of the supposedly destroyed human corvette, performing what might well have been a suicidal maneuver that brought it briefly over the same zone. And then they had waited. And waited.
Nezdeh suppressed a sigh, turned toward Idrem, who was no longer at gunnery. He was here for counsel and, though she dared not even admit it to herself, for comfort. “Jesel has failed.”
“It seems so.”
“It was wise that we did not equip them with any of our technology. It would have fallen into the Aboriginals’ hands.”
Idrem nodded carefully. “The Terrans have been denied access to any conclusively incriminating evidence or advanced knowledge.”
“You are guarded in your words, Idrem.”
“I am hesitant to consider our exposure fully controlled. There are two corpses planetside whose genelines were on the threshold of Elevation. Their genetics will yield much to sustained examination.”
Nezdeh frowned. “Agreed. But what options do we have? We could fire a missile spread in an attempt to obliterate that evidence, but that presumes that the Slaasriithi do not have unrevealed planetary defense batteries, in addition to their drone ships. We might achieve nothing other than blatantly bombarding their world.”
“This is true.” Idrem nodded. “And I concur that the Slaasriithi, while reluctant to deploy offensive systems, seem quite ready to commit their defensive technologies. I suspect we do not have enough missiles to saturate the assault zone and eliminate the spoor of Jesel’s assault team.”
“So you agree that we must live with the marginal exposure that has occurred?”
Tegrese Hreteyarkus interrupted from her station at Gunnery. “We do have one nuclear weapon,” she pointed out.
Nezdeh and Idrem exchanged surprised, then carefully neutral glances. Nezdeh turned toward Tegrese. “We are in a system adjacent to the Slaasriithi homeworld. We have trodden a terribly fine line between plausible deniability and overt responsibility for the attacks here. And you would have us ‘correct’ the faint evidence of our possible presence with a nuclear weapon?”
Tegrese looked away, her jaw bunching. “I merely mentioned the option.”
Nezdeh turned away, did not want Tegrese to see what might be in her eyes at this moment: the ruthless calculation behind her unbidden thought, She might have to be liquidated; she is worse than the males of this House. And she is only of a subsidiary gene line. Nezdeh shifted her attention to the holosphere. “Ulpreln.”
“Yes, Nezdeh.”
“Plot a rendezvous with the Arbitrage. We are done here.”
PART FIVE
October 2120–February 2121
Chapter Fifty-One
The Third Silver Tower; BD +02 4076 Two (“Disparity”)
Ben Hwang leaned away from where Caine Riordan lay among, and in some cases fused with, a bewildering array of biots, all presided over by two small but efficient medical monitors . He stepped away from the living bed in which his friend was held, shook his head as the transparent osmotic membrane-dome lowered back down and sealed seamlessly into the rim of the cushion.
Etienne Gaspard hovered near the entry o
f the room. “Well, Dr. Hwang?”
Hwang shook his head. “I can’t tell much. I’m not a medical doctor, and I’ve only had a day to absorb the details on half of what they’re using to keep him alive. And they won’t explain the other half. ‘Culturally destabilizing technology,’ they call it.”
“Yes, yes, but will he recover?” Gaspard stepped closer, glancing up into the soaring, asymmetrical ceiling that was typical of the chambers within the Third Silver Tower. Seeing it the first time, Hwang had wondered if the Gaudí had been coached by the Slaasriithi when he was building La Sagrada Família. At any rate, Hwang didn’t want to answer Gaspard’s question.
“Doctor, will Riordan recover; yes or no?”
Hwang turned to look the ambassador in the eyes. “Etienne, he’s dying. There’s too much compromised tissue, too little respiratory capacity. I wish I had the skill, the knowledge, to help him—but I don’t.”
Gaspard nodded curtly. “Then I shall talk to those who do. Forcibly.” He turned on his heel, stalked toward the exit.
Hwang stared after him.
* * *
The Silver Towers, while the cognitive hive of Slaasriithi life, were also renowned for their serenity, their simplicity. The Towers were objects, yes. They depended upon, and functioned as, machines, yes. But that was why such pains had been taken to create them as artifacts that invoked ancient feelings of safety and repose. They soared up beyond where predators might threaten, presenting adamantine walls to the world while, within, their chambers strove gracefully upward toward the sky.
But serenity was in short supply in the Third Silver Tower, Mriif’vaal reflected sadly as he entered the neoaerie. From the moment that Yiithrii’ah’aash’s shift-carrier had been attacked in orbit, and the human survivors had landed in the reaches overseen by the Tower, its many halls and chambers had been in comparative turmoil. Calls for urgent decisions on urgent matters—a rarity in themselves—had flooded in at an increasing rate. And then in the last forty-eight hours—
Another orbital attack. An atmospheric intrusion. Requests for help and consequent protocol challenges. Consultations with the First Silver Tower. Responses and debates. Transfers of equipment and authority. Bloody battle. And now a collection of bedraggled and bruised humans, their eyes furtive and cautious, dwelling within the Third Silver Tower like so many truant predators, uncertain of what they should trust, if anything. It was most unsettling, Mriif’vaal admitted wearily.
But when the neoaerie’s spore-transfer ducts wafted the approach of W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm, he signaled his receptivity. They, of all Slaasriithi, were the most knowledgeable about the humans and had the most right to make inquiries or reports, given the harrowing days they had just lived through.
To Mriif’vaal’s right, Hsaefyrr gestured subtly with one tendril tip when the pair appeared in the entrance. “Note the cerdor, Thnessfiirm. She appears distressed.”
Mriif’vaal allowed that “distressed” was a charitable description. Thnessfiirm evinced more than the typical quick motions and eager activity of her taxon; she seemed ready to tremble. Her sensor cluster did not merely move swiftly, but abruptly; gone was the smooth steadiness of a neurologically healthy cerdor. Her neck skin was haggard and her pelt beginning to tuft, in patches. Mriif’vaal grieved her obvious distress, greeted the two with a greater measure of affinity and empathy spores as they arrived at the Ratiocinator’s Ring and sat.
“I am most gratified to see you, W’th’vaathi and Thnessfiirm. I trust you are recovering from your ordeal.”
W’th’vaathi’s sensor cluster angled briefly toward Thnessfiirm. “I do not believe I may call my experience of the last days an ordeal, Senior Ratiocinator. Not in comparison to my companion.”
If Thnessfiirm had any reaction to, or had even registered, the conversation thus far, she gave no indication of it. She seemed intent on gazing up into the soaring heights of the neoaerie.
W’th’vaathi settled into the framed stool that Slaasriithi preferred as chairs. “Mriif’vaal, I have a—a difficulty to report.”
Mriif’vaal’s tendrils were a soothing current of invitation. “Please do so.”
“I speak without preamble, though much might be wanted. In short, the human ambassador Gaspard has learned that we have a cure for Caine Riordan’s condition.”
Mriif’vaal peripherally noticed Hsaefyrr’s sensor cluster rotate toward W’th’vaathi and remain focused there. “And how did the human ambassador learn of this?”
“I alluded to it in a conversation, Senior Ratiocinator. During the final leg of our journey here, he asked if we had cures for Caine Riordan’s affliction. I answered that we did. He specifically followed by asking if we were certain that our cures would be sufficient to deal with a condition as severe and advanced as Captain Riordan’s.”
Mriif’vaal resisted the impulse to retract his sensor cluster sharply. “And you answered in the affirmative?”
“Not precisely, but I assured him that there were several different therapies we could apply, and that our records indicated that the strongest of them was efficacious against the spores which afflicted Riordan. Even unto the last hours of a human’s life.”
Mriif’vaal closed his many eyes. W’th’vaathi was skilled and a fast-learner. However, the skill of dissembling—even in so small a degree as prudently keeping one’s silence, or electing not to share crucial information—was always difficult for Slaasriithi to acquire, no matter their taxon, no matter their role. “This places us in a difficult position,” he admitted to W’th’vaathi.
W’th’vaathi’s voice was surprisingly firm in reply. “With all due regard, Senior Ratiocinator, we are complicit. The humans requested, on multiple occasions, stronger and faster intervention on our part. And we did nothing.”
Mriif’vaal waved two tendrils in temporizing agreement. “There are always casualties, even amongst the most deserving, when contention erupts, W’th’vaathi. It is one of the great truths which has driven our evolution away from the conflicts you witnessed in these past days.”
“Yes, but I wonder if Yiithrii’ah’aash will feel similarly. They were our guests here, invited explicitly to this planet. Although their misfortunes may illuminate and underscore the benefits of our evolutionary path, that does not absolve us from having failed to intervene in a timely fashion.” She paused. “I presume you are also aware of how strongly, and uniquely, Caine Riordan is marked.”
Mriif’vaal was quiet. “And the human ambassador is also aware of Riordan’s atypical marking?”
“Yes, and it has emboldened him. He is adamant that we save the captain or, to quote Mr. Gaspard, ‘the relations between our two species may be strained to such a point where they cannot be productively pursued at this time.’ He also wondered how Yiithrii’ah’aash would react if he were to learn that we had not used every resource to save Riordan’s life.”
As well he might wonder. As must we all.
Mriif’vaal was startled out of his thoughts by Thnessfiirm’s sudden interjection; there was no spore-warning that she had even intended to speak. “Caine Riordan is a brave being. His ways may not be ours, but he sought to minimize harm to all of us. He did not fight to kill, not as a predator; he fought to protect, to preserve. I—I wish I had his instincts for that.”
And now the source of Thnessfiirm’s misery and distress was clear. It was the age-old risk that accompanied all contact between Slaasriithi and other species. Our natural empathy is perturbed when we Affine ourselves to creatures whose ways are praiseworthy, yet not our own. It can tear us in two, if we are not careful. “Thnessfiirm, I assure you: the conduct of Caine Riordan is known to us and shall weigh greatly upon our decision in this matter, as it would upon any boon these humans would ask of us.”
Hsaefyrr’s age-thready voice was aimed down at W’th’vaathi, but was canted for Mriif’vaal’s benefit as well. “However, the request for this cure is not so simple as it sounds. It involves matters of ancient an
d grave consequence.”
W’th’vaathi’s neck oscillated once. “I do not understand.”
“At this point, that is as it should be.” Hsaefyrr settled back, buzzing faintly. Then, more quietly to Mriif’vaal. “We must, I think, compare our thoughts on this matter.”
Mriif’vaal let his tendrils interlace slowly, carefully. “I think you are correct, old friend. For I fear we have a more difficult conversation before us.”
Hsaefyrr’s respiration slits widened in surprise for a moment. “I am ever your friend and mentor, Mriif’vaal, but if you refer to a conversation involving the First Silver Tower—”
“—I do—”
“Then that is one conversation I am not eager to undertake with you. Or in your stead.”
“Of course not.” Mriif’vaal sent a light dusting of affinity and amusement at his old friend. “You are too sane to wish such a thing upon yourself, Hsaefyrr.”
* * *
Outside the room that seemed part ICU and part laboratory, Bannor Rulaine sat with folded hands, staring at the living membrane which covered Caine’s body. With the setting of the sun, the membrane had phased from transparent to dimly translucent. He hadn’t heard Pandora Veriden approach, started when she sat next to him.
After a full minute, she muttered. “You can’t stay here forever, you know.”
“Just watch me.”
Her sigh was an audial monument to exasperation. “Jeez, what is it with you military guys? You don’t have to stand watch over him, and being here isn’t going to determine whether Riordan lives or— Look; you weren’t even supposed to make it down to the planet. That was an insane stunt. Saved all our asses, yes, but insane nonetheless. You did everything you could. Now give it, and yourself, a rest.”
Rulaine was not angry when he turned toward her, hoped that lack of animus was clear in his voice and his eyes, because he wasn’t sure how she’d hear his words. “Ms. Veriden, you just don’t get it. Despite all your training, you were never military—or raised around that ethos—so you’ll allow my conjecture that you just don’t understand what makes us tick.”
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