She nodded, her lips an unflinching line. “So,” she almost whispered, “Zeta Tucanae.”
He nodded back. “Once there, go to a place called Theresa King’s Outfitting and Overnight. Post an ad—just a handbill—looking for work as a combination translator and assistant office manager. The second Tuesday after you put it up, go to a bar about a block away called Charny’s, just after local sundown. Go there again the following Tuesday, same time. If no one shows on your second visit, it means my people have been compromised, are gone, or were never there. Or you’ve got a tail, so they’re not going to show.” He met and held her gaze. “That’s all the information I have.”
Her smile was small but genuine. “I quite understand, Commodore. Basic operational security. We cannot reveal what we do not know.”
He nodded. “You know the drill better than I do. I just hope this helps.”
She stood. “It is a destination and a chance to preserve both my honor and my life.” She bowed slightly and held it. “Thank you, Commodore Riordan.”
He rose and returned her bow. She dipped slightly lower, then turned and headed for the exit. She didn’t seem to be rushing—her individual motions appeared almost casual—but she was gone with remarkable speed.
Riordan waited thirty seconds and then strolled toward the darkened windows and the vehicle that Phalon surely had waiting just outside.
Chapter Eight
JULY 2123
WASHINGTON D.C., EARTH
“If you would please take your seat, Commodore Riordan.” The Marine held it out for him.
Before Caine could sit, the Asian woman behind the table on the other side of the room uttered a sharp correction. “Our visitor is to be addressed as ‘Mister’ Riordan. He is here as a private citizen.”
Lorraine Phalon strode in at the end of her admonishment, a tall, lean man in USSF blue following her. “Ms. Yan, Commodore Riordan is still a reserve officer of the USSF. It is proper and fitting that service persons, as well as any others who wish to do so, address him by his rank.” She sat. The man in the service dress blues, by far the youngest in the room, sat beside her.
Riordan glanced past Lorraine at the young fellow and whispered, “Who’s the new guy?”
“Lieutenant Kyle Seaver. Intelligence liaison. Between JAG and IRIS.”
“And the woman who gave me such a warm welcome?”
“That’s Yan Xiayou, Director of the Procedural Compliance Directorate. The older man next to her is Dalir Sadozai, currently the Associate Director. But he’s had a lot of different positions.”
“Where?”
“Any place the DWC needs a hard-liner.”
The youngest person at the opposing table adjusted his collar-mic. “Good morning, Commod—Mister Riordan. I am Enis Turan of the Procedural Compliance Directorate. I am responsible for assessing possible security risks posed by your possible travel to the Dornaani Collective. Specifically, we are concerned that information regarding the existence and disposition of the expatriate group known colloquially as the Lost Soldiers could be shared with Dornaani individuals, thereby compromising the strategic interests of the Consolidated Terran Republic.”
Riordan frowned. “Compromise how?”
“Two years ago, the Ktor ambassador Tlerek Srin Shethkador asserted that if it was revealed that the Ktoran Sphere had kidnapped the Lost Soldiers from Earth, the political fallout would result in the Ktor being ejected from the Accord. If that occurred, they were resolved to immediately declare war on us.”
Riordan leaned forward. “Mr. Turan, since you have obviously read my testimony about that confidential meeting, you know that one of the five people there was the ranking Dornaani on site: Alnduul, a Senior Mentor of the Custodians. So you can be sure the Dornaani Collective is already fully informed about the Lost Soldiers and what is at stake if their true identity becomes common knowledge.”
Sadozai brushed gently at his mustache. “Yes, but Mr. Turan’s statement includes the possibility of your revealing something the Dornaani would not already know: the current disposition of the Lost Soldiers. Which is to say, their present location.”
Phalon’s tone was measured. “Which the Lost Soldiers did not share with Commodore Riordan. As per the commodore’s testimony the last time he was being grilled in this room.”
Yan nodded. “Be that as it may, Commander, Mr. Riordan’s changed circumstances require that we revisit the existing agreement with him. Specifically: when Mr. Riordan emerged from hiding, his knowledge of the Lost Soldiers emerged with him. This is too great a risk to go unaddressed.”
“Okay,” Riordan said with a shrug, “what do you need me to do?”
Sadozai shrugged. “To reveal the location of the Lost Soldiers. Of course.”
“Even if I had that information, why would I share it now?” Riordan glared at the three faces across from him. “Both at Turkh’saar, and then later in this very room, your own representatives refused to guarantee the Lost Soldiers’ safety.” Caine paused, considered. “So, let’s try this again. Will you now agree, on the record, to guarantee the safety and fair treatment of the Lost Soldiers, and all the other personnel who were under my command on Turkh’saar? And, if they must be remanded to administrative custody, do you promise that their condition shall be independently monitored to ensure that those guarantees are being met?” Riordan stared at them and waited.
But instead of their eyes, he saw Elena’s. Becoming more and more distant.
Sadozai waved away Riordan’s questions with a lazy backhand. “Since you evidently perceive us as your adversaries, how can we trust you, Mr. Riordan? How can we approve your travel to the Collective? You might leave timed press releases behind, revealing the existence of the Lost Soldiers and so, single-handedly initiate the cascade leading to war.”
Kyle Seaver leaned forward. “It is strange that you are the one talking about trust, Mr. Sadozai. After all, whoever attempted to ensure that Commodore Riordan never left Nevis has the same objective you do: to make sure he cannot leak the location of the Lost Soldiers.”
Seaver ignored Sadozai’s suddenly bristling mustache. “Of course, even though the assassination attempt failed, it’s still likely to achieve the intended result: to keep the commodore from reaching the Dornaani. Because his required presence at inevitable and innumerable hearings—like this one—is very likely to make him miss the rendezvous.”
Caine worked very hard not to smile while everyone else sat in stunned silence. Thank God Seaver’s on my side.
Phalon folded her hands and spoke to a spot on the wall behind the three representatives of the Procedural Compliance Directorate. “Lieutenant Seaver’s analysis obligates me to initiate an investigation of every agency and organization which had advance knowledge of Commodore Riordan’s departure from Nevis and his pending travel to the Collective.”
Yan’s riposte was heated. “A breach of security within IRIS is an IRIS matter.”
Phalon nodded calmly. “Normally, yes, but in this case, the part of IRIS that handles internal affairs is under suspicion itself: namely, your own Directorate, Ms. Yan. Consequently, I’ll be reporting directly to Director Vassily Sukhinin of IRIS, whose regard for the commodore is, I presume, well known to you.”
Yan reddened. Sadozai went pale. Turan, nervously noting the uncertain silence of the other two, asked, “Could this investigation be…avoided, somehow?”
Phalon shook her head. “No. Attempted murder requires an investigation. However, it can be mounted in a less immediate, and less aggressive, manner. Indeed, if the primary witness—the commodore himself—should happen to be traveling in the Dornaani Collective, the investigation would be severely delayed.”
Riordan watched the combative look on Yan’s face transmogrify to resignation. And checkmate.
Yan ordered her notes, folded her hands, and stated, “This board can find no immediate reason to deny Mr. Riordan the opportunity to travel to the Dornaani Collective as a private individ
ual. However, since he has remained uncooperative in addressing the security and intelligence concerns of this board, and that of various political entities—”
—translation: “the Developing World Coalition”—
“—it will also be necessary for him to be interviewed and approved by the Interbloc Working Group on Exosapient Interaction.”
Phalon’s jaw stiffened. “And how long will that process take?”
Yan’s smile was wan. “Who can say?”
Riordan leaned forward. “I think I can. Specifically, if I reveal the location of the Lost Soldiers now, the process will take less than a day. However, if I don’t give you what you want, the process will drag on for as long as it takes to keep me from reaching the Dornaani in time.”
Yan looked uncomfortable. “It would certainly streamline the process were you to agree to our one request.”
Seaver tapped his dataslate meditatively. “So because Commodore Riordan does not give you information that he doesn’t even possess, you are going to procedurally stymie his ability to travel?”
“If he will not cooperate, the Interbloc Working Group is likely to do that, yes,” she replied.
Riordan leaned forward. “Director Yan, which scenario do you like less: me being the first human to visit the Dornaani, or getting absolutely no useful intel on them? Intel which might finally provide us with an adequate strategic snapshot of this area of space, since Dornaani are the only ones who can tell us what was going on in this stellar cluster twenty thousand years ago. They are the only ones who might be able to explain the unfathomable preponderance of genetic compatibility and even conformity that we have encountered on the majority of green worlds. They are the ones whose technology shows us, and gives hints at the pathways to, the capabilities humanity might achieve in the years and centuries to come. And lastly, they are the only ones who could, and yet don’t, autocratically lord it over all the species in known space—but why? And more importantly, what might cause them to change their minds?”
Riordan opened his hands in appeal. “This is not just about my going to the Collective to find Elena Corcoran. This is about getting answers and intelligence we desperately need. As a species. Don’t you want that information, so that we can adequately prepare for our next contact with the Dornaani? Don’t you want to respond to their first gesture since the war, pave the way for an exchange of envoys, then delegations, and finally, consulates and embassies?”
Turan looked inquiringly at Yan, who pointedly did not return his gaze; her eyes were locked with Caine’s. After several seconds they faltered; he imagined he might have seen a hint of regret in them. She answered in a low voice. “What you and I want is not the only consideration, here, Mr. Riordan. But be assured: I will send the Interbloc Working Group your assessment regarding the consequences of blocking your travel.”
Seaver smiled mirthlessly. “Which the Working Group will doubtless ignore until after the commodore has missed the window for contact.”
Yan waved a listless hand. “There are no perfect answers. These are the only ones I am able to offer you.” She rose. “The Interbloc Working Group will give Mr. Riordan’s replies and perspectives due consideration and will notify you when they are ready to commence their hearings.” She nodded briefly and led the other two out of the room.
Riordan smiled crookedly at Phalon and Seaver. “That seemed to go well.”
Phalon’s response was a faint frown. “Actually, it might have gone too well.”
“Is that possible?” Riordan wondered.
Seaver nodded. “Dalir got nervous and pushed too hard on the Lost Soldiers.”
Riordan nodded. “He knows that someone in his bloc is still looking for them. He may even be a part of the operation, himself.”
Seaver smiled ruefully. “Either way, he tipped his hand and now we know that he knows. Which means that, before the end of the day, Sadozai is going to be on a plane to somewhere we can’t subpoena him and threaten to pursue an embarrassing line of questions. Which has given us enough leverage to stare down the Working Group.”
Phalon nodded, yanked the door open. “Now, they’re likely to sequester you again, Commodore. As soon as they can set a date for the first hearing.”
Riordan shrugged. “Any guess how long the Working Group can tie me up?”
Seaver’s eyes and voice became grim. “Too long.”
Chapter Nine
JULY 2123
WASHINGTON D.C., EARTH
Richard Downing closed the cover of the transcripts. The hardcopy-only distribution signified how highly classified it was: sharing electronic documents virtually guaranteed that they would eventually fall into the wrong hands.
He poured another glass of seltzer, longed to add a touch of gin. Just a touch—
He grabbed the still-effervescing drink, downed it in a swallow so long that his esophagus cramped. He slammed the glass down, resisted the urge to bat it across the room, just to see and hear it smash. Two months now, and it still wasn’t any easier to stay sober. He wondered if it ever would be.
Downing pushed the transcripts away. Pretty much what he’d expected. IRIS’s new, externally imposed Inquisitors had thought to cow Caine and Phalon. But, aided by Seaver, they had turned the tables. Unfortunately, according to the scuttlebutt, the Interbloc Working Group on Exosapient Interaction wasn’t going to risk more of the same. They were going to stall, not engage.
There would be days, even weeks, between each meeting. And every one would seem to bring Riordan a little closer to reaching the Dornaani and Elena. But then new wrinkles would emerge to erode the progress: a carefully timed dance of one step forward, one step back. Which Caine probably expected, being the smart chap he was.
Downing almost shook his head. Caine, Caine. If you’d been just a little smarter, you’d have prevented others from learning just how smart you really are. Or unlearned your reflex to put yourself at risk for a friend, or a comrade. Damn it, Riordan, when will you learn to think of yourself first?
Richard’s mind rounded on him: And when will you not, Downing? The guilty thought lingered like the aftertaste of bile. The old counterarguments and rationalizations rose up: his job necessitated what he did, necessitated putting the welfare of humanity ahead of every other consideration. Once again, he felt the terrible power, and the terrible truth, of those reasons.
But in the course of his doing that duty, Richard Downing had fallen from the high ground of necessary action into the gutter of simple expedience, had tumbled from principled prudence into a blind mania for risk avoidance. Because someplace on that slippery slope, a place well behind him now, he had failed to notice when the exigencies and reasons for his work devolved into mere validations.
Downing discovered he was staring at the cover of the transcripts again, or rather, at its simple label: “Caine Riordan.” And for the fifth time that day, he thought: If I’m willing to break rules, I can probably turn this around. Despite being stripped of all day-to-day operational authority within IRIS, Richard still had his clearance, his rank, his access. If he played all those cards in the correct sequence, and quickly enough, there was a reasonable chance he could lower the official hurdles long enough for Riordan to jump over them all.
And don’t I have to do that, with Elena’s life at stake? Don’t I owe that much to Connor, and to the memory of her father, my best friend?
He looked at the folder. Of course, if I do this, I will burn. Literally, perhaps. But I owe this to them. And to Caine.
He angrily rebutted the morally bankrupt mantras that he’d memorized, that rose up now like wizened misers intent on decrying personal feelings for an intelligence asset. So what if I never explicitly guaranteed Riordan my loyalty? Does that really matter? After all, when does a person really become our friend: the first time we say it openly, or the day we realize and acknowledge it in our heart?
The day he met Caine, back in September 2105, was one of those days. Downing had known—immediate
ly, illogically, unreasonably—that here was a person with whom he fit. Riordan was the kind of bloke you could rely on, who’d forgive you your failings as you’d forgive his, and who you hoped you’d be sharing a pint with when you weren’t good for anything more than doddering up to the pub and back again…
The rapid tone of the commplex startled Downing out of his memory. Cautious, he accepted only the audio component of the secure call.
“Mr. Downing?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Kyle Seaver, intel liaison to Commander Phalon.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve just been reading the transcripts. Thank you for, er, ‘facilitating’ their delivery.”
“Happy to oblige, sir. I’m calling to tell you that Director Sukhinin has greenlighted your request to meet with The Patch.”
“Thank you, and please thank Vassily. And, Lieutenant Seaver?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I have another favor to ask of you.”
“On behalf of Commodore Riordan, sir?”
“I suppose one could put it that way. I have need of some special transportation…”
* * *
Caine Riordan pulled his shirt back down, resealed the tabless smart collar. As the doctor watched her commplex chew through the results of his physical, Riordan glanced at the faded walls. “Looks like it’s time for a new coat of paint, Dr. Brolley,” he observed.
She laughed. “At Walter Reed, that’s always true someplace. At least it’s not as bad as it was when they tore down half the facility in the 2050s. And if you don’t start calling me Christa, I’m going start calling you Commodore again.”
Riordan raised his hands in surrender. “You win, Christa.”
“That’s better,” she said agreeably, and then frowned at her screen. “This can’t be right.”
Caine raised an eyebrow. “What can’t be right?”
Although her words were addressed to Riordan, the majority of her attention remained on her commplex’s display. “Glitch in the system, I guess. The data is formatted correctly, but definitely off. Hmmm…no system warning, either.” She aimed her voice at the pickup. “Q-command, reboot.”
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