Marque of Caine

by Charles E Gannon

  For one brief moment, Downing felt nauseous, but that sensation was quickly displaced by genuine relief. Hold on, have I been hoping for this? Trying to cover the surprise at his own reaction, he muttered. “Then I suppose I’d better pack my bags.”

  Weber shook his head. “I’m sorry, Director, but as with Riordan, we have to assume you are being watched. So, no preparations. Within the hour, a location will be relayed to your wristlink. Go there. You’ll get each subsequent step only minutes ahead of its necessary execution.”

  “And if I run into trouble?”

  “You won’t. Besides, you’ll have help from your traveling companions.”

  Weber waved his wristlink in the direction of the interactive whiteboard dominating the north wall of his windowless office. It slid aside. Three men, one in a wheelchair, looked up from linked dataslates. The tallest of them—white haired, late fifties—straightened. “Adding a few last bells and whistles to the shell game we’ll be playing with our cryocells, sir. It will be months before anyone notices the shift in inventory.” He glanced at Downing, smiled broadly. “Director, we’ve never met, but I’m a big fan.”

  Downing almost sputtered in surprise. “Are you? Well, that’s very kind. I suppose.” He turned to Weber, tried to modulate his voice so that he sounded surprised, rather than alarmed: “These are my…my traveling companions?”

  The tall white-haired one was not in bad shape, but had passed the age for field operations. The fellow in the wheelchair was in his twenties and quite fit, but, unless the wheelchair was a cover, it meant that he was one of the few individuals whose body refused to sync with smart prosthetics. The third was in his late thirties and carrying just enough extra weight to make him an operational liability in circumstances where speed, rather than wide shoulders and a broad chest, would be crucial to success.

  If Weber noticed Downing’s concern, he gave no sign of it. “You won’t see them, of course, but they’ll be nearby. Larry—er, Mr. Southard—will be reanimated occasionally to maintain ops oversight and make any needed corrections to your itinerary.” The white-haired one nodded, still smiling. “Mr. Ryan Zimmerman”—Weber nodded to the young man in the wheelchair—“is, to put it succinctly, an all-purpose computer guru. And Angus Smith is to electronics what Ryan is to computers.”

  Downing glanced at the burly man. “I must ask, your last name is Smith? Truly?”

  Angus may have smiled behind his beard. “Truly.”

  Downing cocked an eyebrow at Weber. “First genuine Smith I’ve met in this line of work.”

  Weber grinned faintly. “Me, too.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me where we’re heading?”

  “No, sir,” Southard answered. “Opsec. And we’re not all going to the same place, at first.”

  “So, that’s the shell game you were talking about, seeding us into military cold ‘banks.’ Mixing us in with normative redeployment traffic, I wager.”

  Larry smiled. “You’d win that bet. Given our taps into the service databases, we’ll just look like four more grunts being shuttled around in refrigerators. The folks trying to tail us won’t start out looking for that. Once they do, they’ll have to show sufficient cause for access to those records: more delay. By that time, we’ll be at our destination.”

  Downing nodded, saw the three men afresh. Not merely as fellow fugitives, but as humans about to cut all ties with everything they knew and loved. “I’m very grateful, chaps. I can’t begin to guess the sacrifices you’re making, to leave Earth behind, but—”

  “Don’t bother yourself about that,” Ryan said sharply. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore.”

  Angus nodded. “Pretty much that way for all of us.” He nodded toward Weber. “That’s part of why we were chosen. If this day ever came, we don’t have baggage.” He stepped forward, extended a furry paw toward Weber. “It’s been a great ride. And a genuine privilege, sir.”

  Weber had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Likewise, Angus. And the same goes to all of you gentlemen. One day, when these witch hunts are behind us, I’ll send word that you can come in out of the cold. But until then…”

  Zimmerman nodded. “We’ll make our way in the world—well, worlds—Captain. No reason to worry about us.”

  Larry nodded, led the others back into the small room, touched a wall control. The smartboard sealed the opening.

  Weber, still looking at the blank surface, murmured, “I suspect it will be hardest on you, Director. You have a wife, a daughter.”

  Downing put on his best ironic smile. “Captain, you need to keep your intel current. I had a wife. My daughter has been well and properly poisoned against me. And given what is likely to come”—he gestured toward the reporters frozen in the posture of wolves about to take down prey—“leaving is the best thing I can do for them.” He put out his hand toward Weber. “Well, I suppose this is—”

  The big man shook his head. “One favor, if I may.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Kyle Seaver. What do you think of him?”

  Downing thought. “Never had reason to get a complete dossier. Before the war, he was studying to go into the entertainment side of the sim business. Enlisted the day after his father was killed in an elevator free-fall during the Arat Kur EMP strike.”

  “Sir,” Weber repeated patiently, “what you think of Seaver?”

  Ah, that kind of assessment. “Solid fellow. Could have used him in IRIS. Doesn’t make waves, doesn’t miss a trick. Mother was Nolan Corcoran’s much younger sister, you know.” Downing paused, reflected. “Actually, if you recruit Seaver, I wonder if you might give him a small side assignment.”

  Weber smiled. “I will neither confirm nor deny, now or later, that any such person reports to me. Nor can I confirm or deny any assignments that might be given to him.”

  Downing smiled back. “If you can, do have Seaver, well, watch over Connor Corcoran.”

  Weber frowned “Do you believe Riordan’s son is on someone’s target list?”

  Downing nodded. “Might be. More superstition than logic, mind you. But some of our adversaries… Well, their motives have occasionally been as mysterious as their methods.”

  “I understand, Director Downing. But as I said, no promises.” And Weber winked.

  Downing smiled. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”

  Weber shook his head. “Actually, sir, you won’t. You’ll get a message on your wristlink. Just do what it says.” He stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, sir. And Godspeed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  MAY 2124

  WASHINGTON, D.C., EARTH

  In the same drab Arlington office complex, Kyle Seaver held the elevator door open for Lorraine Phalon. “Such chivalry,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

  “Just trying to get on the boss’s good side, get a bigger raise.”

  Now Phalon did laugh. She was neither Kyle’s boss nor in position to give him a raise. “Manual,” she instructed. The elevator’s previously blank display illuminated, showing virtual buttons. She pushed “B2” and the elevator headed briskly for the subbasement.

  The doors opened moments later, revealing a single security guard in a gaudy rent-a-cop uniform. She was chewing her gum loudly and looked bored. But when the guard saw who it was, she dropped the act and rose into parade rest. “Commander.”

  “At ease. Are we expected?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am.”

  Phalon and Seaver went through the only door, where they found a waiting room furnished with dull paintings. After two minutes, they were buzzed in.

  After navigating a dogleg in a short corridor, the real nature of the facility became evident. They went through a battery of scans conducted by men and women who were well-armed and looked like they’d be pretty deadly even if they weren’t. After passing the print, retinal, and DNA checks, Phalon and Seaver were ushered into a long, plain hallway. There were no numbers on the doors. Either you knew where y
ou were going or you didn’t belong there. Phalon crooked a finger at Seaver, led him to the left.

  “We can talk business, again,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Do you have anything more on the surgical records of Downing’s past operatives?”

  He caught up, paced her. “No, Commander. But there’s something else you should know about Trevor Corcoran. The witch-hunters aren’t going to bypass him this time.”

  “Why not? He wasn’t at Turkh’saar, never had anything to do with the Lost Soldiers or Riordan’s disappearance.”

  “No, ma’am, but he and Riordan were the only two humans captured during the Arat Kur sneak attack at Barnard’s Star II C. So until two years ago, the only person who’d logged more hours with the Arat Kur was Caine Riordan. And some of what they saw and heard is now becoming highly sensitive.”

  “Mr. Seaver, I prefer my information without a side helping of suspense.”

  Seaver sounded apologetic. “Yes, ma’am. Trevor Corcoran had a ringside seat to the frictions that not only existed between the Hkh’Rkh and their Arat Kur hosts, but among the Hkh’Rkh themselves.”

  Phalon bit her lip. “So the Procedural Compliance Directorate will lasso him as a resource to help the Interbloc Working Group decode recent events in the Patrijuridicate.”

  Seaver nodded. “But ultimately, that will just be window dressing to conceal their real motivation: to use Corcoran’s reputation as leverage over his godfather, Richard Downing.”

  Phalon frowned. “And how would they do that? Corcoran is squeaky clean.”

  Seaver shrugged. “Once the Directorate is authorized to get a look at his full dossier, they’re going to find confidential after-action reports from his early career. Specifically, from surgical strikes conducted in countries that are now major members of the Developing World Coalition.”

  “Yeah, well, that was then and this is now.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but with respect, the news venues won’t care. Which means the Directorate can threaten a public pillorying of Corcoran unless Downing explains how Riordan left so quickly. And that will lead them to Weber and ODINS and rejuvenate their efforts to, er, ‘find,’ the Lost Soldiers.”

  Phalon nodded. “Good catch. Get in touch with Trevor, tell him that if he’s approached by either the Procedural Compliance Directorate or Interbloc Working Group, he is to deny or disavow and then report to us ASAP.”

  “Yes, Commander.” They stopped before a large black door. Seaver’s eyes widened. “Is this it?”

  “This is it,” she confirmed as the door opened. A man in street clothes stepped out before they could enter. “It’s an honor to meet you, Commander Phalon. Mr. Seaver, if you would please follow me.”

  Phalon made to fall in behind them. The man stopped, shook his head. “Just Seaver, Commander.”

  She let slip an ironic smile. “You do know I’ve been inside before, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But at that time, things were less…complicated.”

  So it’s come to this. She nodded. “So now protecting yourselves means keeping me out?”

  “We’re not just protecting ourselves, Commander. We’re protecting you, too.”

  “Is that so?”

  The man, whom she had never seen at ODINS before, folded his hands. “Let’s presume that our office comes under investigation for some unforeseeable reason.” He almost smiled. “The more contact we’ve had with you, the more likely you’ll get swept up in that investigation. And the more likely those investigators will then push their inquiry to the levels above you.”

  So you’re not really protecting me. You’re protecting Silverstein, Rinehart, Sukhinin. Everyone, all the way up the tree. Which was, of course, the smart move.

  Phalon shrugged. “Yes, well…I was just dropping Mr. Seaver off.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the man. “I hope we’ll meet again.” Which sounded an awful lot like, “Goodbye forever.”

  As the door closed behind Seaver, another door opened: the one by which people exited ODINS. Richard Downing emerged, saw her. He smiled. “Hello, Commander Phalon.”

  Well, well. Just the guy I need to talk to. Probably here to get his own one-way ticket off Earth. “Hello, Director Downing. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time. Lieutenant Seaver recently turned up some very interesting information.”

  Downing stopped in front of her, shrugged. “I’m sure Mr. Seaver turns up interesting information every day. Why don’t you tell me about it as we head to the elevators?”

  “Happy to, sir.” They started, very slowly, to their joint destination. “Mr. Seaver has been conducting some precautionary background research into the operatives you employed during the final weeks of the invasion.”

  “Old news, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, sir, mostly. Except in the case of Major Opal Patrone, whose medical records were gutted by redactions that date from months before the invasion. That led Seaver to wonder if they were motivated by something other than her classified contact with exosapients.”

  “Oh? And what does Mr. Seaver propose as the actual reason for the redactions?”

  “Ongoing operational security, sir. Specifically, he suspects that Major Patrone was not just Riordan’s bodyguard, but that she, too, had been equipped with a scrambler to bring down the Arat Kur’s C4I network.”

  Downing smiled faintly.

  “Seaver speculates that there had to be contingency plans in case Riordan never got in range of the enemy’s systems. So he went back through the records of your other operatives and discovered a number of surgical events—staged opportunities—similar to the one used to implant the Dornaani scrambler in Commodore Riordan’s arm when he was ostensibly attacked on Mars.

  “Specifically, it appears that Trevor Corcoran was also fitted with a virus transmitter during his treatment for a fracture on Barney Deucy. Opal Patrone’s was evidently implanted during an interruption of her cold sleep while returning from Convocation.”

  Downing nodded. “Mr. Seaver is to be congratulated. Of course, we knew that the redactions themselves might attract undue attention. But given what we had to conceal…well, it was Hobson’s choice from the start.”

  So Seaver was right! “I will pass your kudos along to Mr. Seaver. However, my immediate concern is that the Directorate’s witch-hunters will eventually piece together the same information and come to the same conclusions. If they do so just as Trevor’s past service record in DWC countries comes to light, they’ll use that against him. Or more likely, against you. And if, as I suspect, you are in the process of expediting your own exit scenario…”

  Downing stopped. “They’ll only have Trevor left. And they’ll crucify him.”

  “Sir, it could go further than that. The authorities could compel him to undergo surgery to have the implant remov—”

  “No!” It was the first time Phalon had ever heard an edge of desperation in Downing’s voice. “That would kill him. Only the Dornaani can remove an implant safely. In Caine’s case, the procedure was performed during the same operation in which their surgeons repaired the injuries to his spine and liver.”

  Phalon felt her brow heating. “Director Downing, given the danger, was it wise to allow Trevor and the others to remain unaware of their implants?”

  Downing shook his head sharply. “Commander, we’ve all been under intense scrutiny since before the war. If I had tried, and failed, to inform Trevor or the others surreptitiously, leadership would have insisted upon removal. I’d have been killing my own godson. That’s why I intended to warn him to leave Earth soon after I did, to take an extended holiday until they’re finished ranting about me.”

  Downing raised a palm to his forehead. Phalon had a fleeting impression that he might faint. “But now I’m…I’m out of time, Commander. There’s no safe way to tell him about the implant or even get a message to him.”

  “Then I’ll be your courier, Mr. Downing.”

  “You? You’ll get him a message?”
>
  “All things considered”—and given what all of you did for all of us—“I think it’s the least I can do. So if you have the time to come with me…”

  Downing checked his wristlink. “I do. Just barely.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  MAY 2124

  WASHINGTON, D.C., EARTH

  Seaver took the indicated chair in Captain Weber’s office. He tried to radiate cool, collected competence while his head whirled with all he had just been told and shown. But still, why me?

  Weber tossed out the answer to Kyle’s silent query. “Mr. Seaver, you are both an extraordinary opportunity and an extraordinary risk for us. The risk is obvious: you are young, not widely experienced, and have drifted into your current line of work rather than seeking it out. However, that is also a large part of what makes you an opportunity. Your connection to ODINS will not be anticipated by the watchdogs tasked to detect an organization like ours.”

  He smiled. “I get it, sir. They’ll never expect that spooks like you would put any trust in a kid like me.”

  “Exactly,” Weber replied flatly, crushing Kyle’s hope that his self-deprecating comment would earn a few brownie points or at least a smile. “But you present an even more unusual advantage. And no, it’s not the fine head on your shoulders; it’s good, but there are others that are comparable.”

  Jeez, just drop my ego down the toilet while you’re at it.

  “Rather, your job already requires that you contact individuals with whom we, too, must coordinate: Director Sukhinin, Assistant Director Rinehart, and Admiral Silverstein.”

  “So recruiting me as a liaison to IRIS’s uncompromised gatekeepers doesn’t trigger any alarm bells. Sir.”