Fire With Fire-eARC

by Charles E Gannon

  Downing nodded slowly. “I see your point. And yes, I suspect things are going to go pear-shaped sooner rather than later. But not in the way you mean, Major. I only know this: the more rank you have, the more orders you can give, and the easier it is to requisition, commandeer, or just plain nick what you need. And that could become very important in the coming months.”

  Opal shrugged. “So—I’m a major. New pay grade.” She laughed. “My salary has just jumped from nothing to next-to-nothing. What will I spend it all on?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Here.”

  Downing pushed another black box toward her, along with a rather well-stuffed envelope. “The contents of the box, you know. The envelope is current—plus back—pay.”

  Opal opened the envelope, removed its contents: various bills of various colors. “What the hell is this? Monopoly money?”

  “Universal Economic Credits. Thirty-two thousand, one hundred ten of them, to be exact.”

  “Great. What the hell are they?”

  Trevor leaned towards her, still grinning. “Don’t worry: they’re for real.”

  “Okay, so I’ve got a fistful of somethings. Now, why don’t you tell an old-timer like me what I really want to know: what’s it worth in dollars, please?”

  “The credit’s value—which is, very roughly, an average of the c-dollar and the euro—is about one-point-one c-dollars. So you have about thirty-five thousand, three hundred dollars.”

  Opal looked down. “Well, this funny-money looks a lot more serious now.” She thumbed through it, looked at Downing. “Damn. Is this back pay for the whole fifty years I spent as a popsicle?”

  “No.”

  “So this is just for the time since you thawed me out?”

  “Correct.”

  Opal seemed to run the numbers mentally. “Okay, not that I’m eager to be poor again, but that jump in pay grade makes me at least a full bird colonel.”

  Downing looked her directly in the eye. “As I’ve already said, you are on special duty. This is special pay.”

  Downing frowned when the commplex’s handset started chirping: an external call. He picked it up: his frown transmogrified into an expressionless mask that brought Trevor to his feet. “Yes. I see. Do it quietly. Yes, I want the whole squad. I will be on site in”—he checked his watch—“six minutes. Update me as you learn more.”

  Downing was up beside Trevor in a single motion. “There’s been another—incident. Major, you come with me. Trevor, you are acting site CO.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Not sure. There was a fire alarm—and some irregularities—in the suite that the Major shares with Mr. Riordan.”

  Opal’s voice was so tightly controlled that it conveyed more panic than a scream. “Where’s Caine?”

  “No word on that yet. He’s probably fine.”

  Opal did not blink. “Or he could be dead.”

  Downing moved toward the door. “We should hurry.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  TELEMACHUS

  Trevor watched the small gathering in the ecumenical chapel rise and approach the side room in which he was waiting. For them, it’s all about what Nolan Corcoran had said, or what he did, or what he stood for. All that is fine. And all that will be forgotten. But this endures: he was my Dad, and I loved him, and I didn’t say it enough. And now I never can.

  Except he couldn’t afford to feel that, not now. Officially, he was here as one of the major mourners: the grieving son. In actuality, he was working: coordinating the activities of his meager security staff while keeping an eye out for the incipient signs of yet another incident. He angled toward Elena, who had emerged from the chapel and quickly became the focus for a spontaneous receiving line. He slipped in behind her, nodded for Rulaine—Downing’s green beanie—to rotate into a position that could cover the area he’d vacated.

  Trevor leaned toward Elena’s ear. “How are you holding up?”

  Elena was looking intently at the chapel doorway, where Caine was emerging—walking with a limp and his left arm in a softcast and sling. “I’m fine, Trev. I’ve done my own mourning for Dad.”

  He followed her eyes; she was looking at Caine, all right. She wasn’t blinking. “You know his story?”

  “I’m sorry: who are you talking about?”

  “Him. The guy you’re looking at. Riordan.”

  “The one who was attacked last night?”

  “Yup, that’s him. He was with Dad—at the end—you know.”

  “I thought I heard that.”

  Trevor leaned back to look at his sister. “El, you must know who he is. He’s the guy from the Parthenon Dialogs. You know—exosapients on Delta Pavonis? That’s him.”

  “Yeah—I guess I just wasn’t thinking about that.” She looked away—as if it were a considerable effort—and smiled at her brother.

  “Oh? And what were you thinking about, Sis?”

  “How people connected to Dad seem to be targeted. Maybe Dad was himself.”

  “We’ll find out at the meeting with Richard, right after we wrap up here. Seems they’ve got the final coroner’s report.”

  Trevor saw Opal edge into the reception hall behind Caine. I wonder if she’ll see me looking at her—

  Elena turned back to him during a short lull in the commiserating handshakes. “You’re staring, Trev.”

  “Uh…oh. Yeah.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her? Oh, she’s his—” And the words staggered to a stop in his head and his mouth: I haven’t lied to my sister since I was a bratty younger brother. But Richard had been very clear regarding the confidentiality of Opal’s real job.

  “His what?” Elena’s head was tilted to one side, the way it did when she was on the scent of a secret—or knew that she was being snowed.

  “She’s his friend. And she works for Richard. Security. Seems she and Riordan have a lot in common, though.”

  “How so?” Elena’s voice sounded strangely flat.

  “They’re both reanimated sleepers. He was down for fourteen years, all told.”

  Now her voice sounded careful, as if she were weighing every word. “That must have been very hard on him—losing so much time that way.”

  “More than you know. He hardly remembers a thing from the last few days of his old life. Shame. Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “You know him?” She had turned to face him.

  “Well, yeah—sort of. I babysat him on a sub for a couple of weeks.” He looked at her. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  She was already looking back at Riordan. “No. You didn’t. And what about the girl—I mean, the woman?”

  “She was in cold storage for fifty years. What she remembers no longer exists. She’s entirely alone in the world.”

  Elena turned back towards him. “Uh-oh.”

  “What do you mean ‘uh-oh’?”

  Elena smiled. “I mean, I know that tone of voice. Trevor, look at her. She and Riordan are—well, it looks like they’re more than friends.” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry—I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.” He checked his watch; 1258 hours, local. Which meant that, any minute now—

  A medium-sized, nondescript man in black fatigues slipped into the room sideways. He scanned faces, stopped when he saw Trevor, nodded once. Trevor leaned toward Elena’s ear. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Trevor, the guests—”

  “Are all trying to talk to you because you’re the pretty one—and none of them knew Dad personally, so I’d be happy to stop playing charades. Besides, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  She nodded, scanned down the dwindling line. Caine was toward the end.

  Trevor walked back to the position he had originally occupied. Rulaine saw him approach, moved toward the other side of the hall.

  The nondescript man met Trevor at the exact point Rulaine had vacated. “How’s it going, boss?”


  “All quiet. What’s the word, Stosh?”

  “Lot of shack chat. By the way, is it true?”

  “About what?”

  “That I’ve got to stand a little straighter when I salute you?”

  “Like you ever salute me.”

  “Hey—I salute you. Sometimes. Sir.”

  “Yeah—but I mean without that big shit-eating grin.”

  “Well, it’s just hard not to remember you blowing chow during the last run of hell week.”

  “Oh, you just loved that.”

  “Made you the grunt you are today, Commander.”

  “You’re a sadist, Chief.”

  “Masochist, too—since I asked to serve under you. Figured you’d want to return the favor to your old instructor.”

  “Right now, I just want my old instructor to clue me in on the shack chat.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Hardly know where to start.”

  “The most unusual stuff first.”

  “That’s just it, sir: it’s all unusual.”

  Trevor looked over at the man who had nearly busted him out of his SEAL training: Chief Petty Officer Stanislaus Witkowski was nearly fifty, unflappable, and renowned for his extraordinary capacity for understatement. “It’s all unusual?”

  “Seems so to me.” He nodded in the direction of the receiving line. “For instance, take what happened to that guy last night.”

  “Riordan?”

  “Yep. Something funky about that whole deal.”

  “Well, sure: someone tried to off him in his room. And then tried to make it look like arson.”

  Stosh shook his head. “Not what I mean, boss. First off, do you know that Riordan apparently tagged one of the bad guys with a knife?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Turns out the blood the cops found on the floor wasn’t Riordan’s.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Stosh grabbed a canapé off a passing tray. “From a friend in base security. We’ve bent our elbows on the same bar a few times. He’s Force Recon, so I have to keep telling him how he’s really supposed to do his job.”

  “Okay, so how does your leatherneck beer-buddy know anything about the blood on the floor of Riordan’s apartment? How does he even know that anything happened to Riordan?”

  “Well, that’s where the serious weirdness kicks in. Seems that when the bad guys broke into Riordan’s apartment, the alert didn’t go to the police first. It went straight to the duty officer in the State Department’s Marine contingent.”

  “What? How?”

  “My jarhead pal didn’t know. But out he goes on the call. They get to the suite and there’s already one guy he knows—a ‘translator’—on site, checking Riordan’s vitals.”

  “Some translator.”

  “Yeah, I’d say his spook-cover is pretty much blown. Anyway, they’re mopping the blood up off the floor and the translator grabs a Marine to evac Riordan to the base hospital. But so far as my pal can see, Riordan’s not wounded.”

  “They sent him to the base hospital?”

  “Yeah. Now, as he’s being ferried off, the police arrive and start arguing procedure and maintaining a pristine forensic site and etcetera etcetera etcetera. Result: jurisdictional tug of war. The locals are grabbing what they can, just as the station chief shows up from the State Department, claiming precedence due to matters of national security. That three-way clusterfuck goes on until your pal Downing shows up. A few words with each of the contenders and all is calm.”

  “So the blood—?”

  “So some of the blood has already been taken off site by the locals. They type it: A negative. But when I spoke to the orderly who was present when they admitted Riordan to the base hospital, he was O positive.”

  “Wait: I don’t get it. If the hospital blood-typed Riordan, he had to be wounded, right?”

  “Nope: no sign of a wound. But they already knew Riordan’s blood type at the hospital. Before he ever arrived.”

  Trevor frowned. “Is he in an armed-service database?”

  “Nope. I told you it was weird. Seems our non-bleeding Mr. Riordan was nonetheless rushed into surgery a few minutes after he arrived. And that’s where my buddy’s story loses sight of Riordan.”

  “But that’s not the end of it?”

  “Nope. I’ve got another pal in the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We argue the merits of bourbon and vodka occasionally.”

  “And he figures into this—how?”

  “Well, late last night, my pal Sasha comes hang-dogging into the Red Planet Lounge, looking like he’d lost his best buddy.”

  “What had happened?”

  “Well—he’d lost his best buddy. Turns out his good friend was reportedly knifed near the dives around the passport and quarantine control zones. Or at least, that’s what the bigwigs in the Russian Embassy told Sasha.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Sasha’s deceased buddy was reportedly alone when he was attacked, so there were no witnesses. And when Sasha tried to track down more information about it, he ran into a wall: his pal’s murder had been called in by ‘an anonymous local tip.’ So Sasha got really curious, and tried to get a look at the forensics report of the crime site: nada. No cooperation: just a lot of locked jaws and unfriendly eyes, both from the intel guys in the Foreign Ministry and the watch sergeant in the local precinct. But because Sasha is the senior NCO in the Ministry’s security contingent, he has access to all the medical records of his team.”

  “And?”

  “And his pal, the one supposedly knifed in an alley, had a very interesting blood-type.”

  “Let me guess: A negative.”

  “Bingo: same type as on the floor in Riordan’s suite. Doesn’t prove anything, but—”

  “Yeah: ‘but.’” What the hell was going on? Why would the Russians have sent someone after Caine? That made less than no sense—unless these Russians were moonlighting, were being paid to do it by someone other than their superiors.

  “Commander, even if the Russians were involved somehow, there’s something I can’t figure.”

  “What’s that, Stosh?”

  “Well—the outcome. They bust in on Riordan and through some miracle, he takes one out. But that means there must have been at least two intruders. Otherwise, who removed the body of the first guy that Riordan tagged? But if there were two attackers, the second guy should have been able to grease Riordan and then remove his buddy’s body. But our guys find Riordan still alive, just unconscious. It doesn’t add up.”

  “No, it doesn’t, Chief. You’ve got more?”

  “Yeah—but not on this.”

  “What on?”

  Witkowski looked down, moved one foot slowly toward the other and away again. “Boss, some of this—well, some of this is about your Dad. Sort of.”

  Trevor frowned. “Go ahead, Chief.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, one of the ratings who was on liberty last night was new to the team—just got in a few days ago. In fact, he arrived on the ship that your pal Downing came in on.”

  “So he’s just in from Earth.”

  “No, sir, that’s the weird part. He was stationed out in the asteroids at a secure site. And although Downing came in from Earth, he changed ships along the way. And conducted a little business beforehand.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, it gets pretty thirdhand, here. But here’s how it seemed to go down.

  “Our newbie from the asteroids pulled special duty as security on board a Navy transport. It was carrying a replacement crew for a patrol boat that was approaching Mars with a government clipper in tow. A day before the rendezvous, our newbie is standing a comm watch when the transport makes contact with the patrol boat. It turns out the guy minding the secure lasercom on the patrol boat is his buddy from Basic. Said buddy shares some interesting scuttlebutt about the clipper’s departure from low Earth orbit. Turns out that rather than heading straight for Mars, the clipper went way up
out of the ecliptic and picked up a small package—less than a cubic meter. Downing was the only one who knew the coordinates, and later, he cryoed the whole crew just before docking with the patrol boat.”

  “Ooooo. Cloak and dagger. Frozen men tell no tales.”

  “It gets better. Before our newbie from the asteroids signs off, his buddy proposes they share a meal during the crew swap. So the next day, the Navy transport makes rendezvous with the patrol boat. But before the crew swap, the transport sends its medical officer and the replacement XO aboard the patrol boat. About an hour goes by. Then comes the green light for the crew swap. Our newbie expects to find his friend waiting for him. What he finds is Downing, the XO, and the medical officer.”

  “Just them?”

  “They were the only ones he saw—awake, that is. Seems that the crew of the patrol boat—including our newbie’s pal—were all put into cryogenic suspension by the CMO and XO before the swap. Just like the clipper’s crew. Meaning that Downing built a one-hundred-percent info firewall around his activities from the time he left Earth.

  “Then all the cryocells—from both the clipper and the patrol boat—were transferred to the Navy transport. Which was also given new orders.”

  “Not back to the asteroid belt?”

  “Nope: a deep-space rendezvous with the next outbound shift carrier. And if I was a betting man—and I have been known to indulge in that vice—I’d take decent odds that both cryoed crews are already outsystem, the whole bunch of them in some popsicle holding yard at Alpha Centauri. Or beyond.”

  Jesus H. Christ: what the hell was Uncle Richard up to? “You mentioned something about my father?”

  “Yeah. When they were moving the cryocells, they moved some cargo, too. One item was a coffin for space burial. Our new guy—given his EVA rating—was sent to check out its seal integrity. He recognized the occupant: it was your father. In full dress whites.”

  Trevor’s first reflex was one of the most useful he had acquired during more than a decade of active service: to put on a poker face when his mind became a roiling chaos of conflicting ideas and emotions. What the hell was going on? His father had wanted to be buried around another star, if possible, but his own instructions had precluded that: after Parthenon, the outbound cargo priorities became absolutely rigid. But Dad’s body was now outward bound for Alpha Centauri—and without consulting his family? What the hell was Richard playing at?