“Incoming!”
“It’s inside the umbrella—!”
“Reacquire—”
Darzhee was sure he was dead as the rocket bore straight in upon them. There was a jarring report, falling debris, the smell of cordite—and he was aware that he, and everyone else on the veranda was still alive and unhurt, except for one of First Voice’s personal guards. The large Hkh’Rkh staggered back a step, raising a suddenly clumsy claw to his chest. He had been transfixed by a thin spine of metal, evidently a grid-arm from a sensor array. The Hkh’Rkh looked down at it somberly—and fell over, blood torrenting out his mouth and the exit wound in his back. He had almost completely exsanguinated by the time the first of the other huscarles had reached his twitching body.
The group of them started at Graagkhruud’s sharp command, “Leave him. He is finished. Guard and attend to your suzerain. This is not over.”
“Shall we not avenge Kra Rragkryzh?”
Graagkhruud stared at the body. “How? And be not overconfident in presuming to take vengeance so easily. We live because we were not the target.”
Darzhee Kut cycled his focal lenses. “Not the—?”
Astor-Smath nodded, pointed back over their heads. Darzhee spun, looked: the targeting array on top of the building was gone, the mast sheared off and blackened just beneath where the sweep armature had been. Astor-Smath was already giving orders to recalibrate the remaining two targeting arrays to create a smaller, but heavily overlapped umbrella of coverage for the center of the compound.
Graagkhruud growled. “You should release the bunker PDFs to autonomous fire and intercept, with priority for terminal defense.”
Astor-Smath nodded, passed that along.
Darzhee Kut looked around, felt unusually confused and more useless than any other time that he could recall. “What happened?” he asked.
Yaargraukh heard. “The humans were not trying to destroy the ROV or us. They probably didn’t even know we were here. They were after the main targeting arrays.”
“Why?”
“Because they want to learn how to overwhelm our systems, how to saturate them.”
Graagkhruud’s assent was a chesty rumble. “And they have learned one way to do so.”
“That rocket: there was one which curved in its flight—”
First Voice spoke. “I saw that, too. Very sophisticated. It tested the programming of the intercept computers.”
Astor-Smath cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Speak to the Arat Kur technicians. I predict they will tell you that their system automatically prioritizes missiles which head directly toward the high-value targets within the defense umbrella: hangars, warehouses, construction depots, barracks, command and control centers. But that missile approached, veered, appeared to have malfunctioned, moved past us—but then had powerful boosters which allowed it to angle back in just after the humans launched their final, largest salvo. While our targeting computers were busy acquiring, then dismissing, and then reprioritizing that apparently malfunctioning missile as a target, the computers became backlogged with the sudden wave of new targets. It was only a delay of one hundredth of a second, but that delay allowed the missile to slip inside the engagement perimeter. And it removed our array.”
“Which proves what?”
“Which proves, Speaker Kut,” said First Voice, turning toward him, crest rising, “that if the humans could have done that two more times, we would no longer have central arrays, only the smaller tactical intercept radars integral to each of the PDF units. Inferior targeting and computing capabilities, minimal coordination, unacceptable duplication of effort. In short, the insurgents would have started scoring many more hits.” He looked out at the slopes of Gunung Sawal. “Too many.”
Graagkhruud signaled Response Team One, which had gone prone at the start of the attack, to resume their advance. Darzhee Kut moved closer to Yaargraukh, who now leaned upon the handrail. “What do you think they will find?”
He wobbled his neck uncertainly. “Probably some abandoned missile racks. Judging from the fire-and-forget missiles the humans included in their barrage, several scorched trash cans, as well. They use them as disposable launch holders for the more sophisticated missiles that have integral or remote guidance packages. Sometimes our patrols find dead bodies; sometimes they find their own death. And before many more days have passed, they will encounter infiltrators from the more advanced nations. I’m sure they are here now. Probably organizing insurgency groups such as this one.”
Graagkhruud snorted. “So far, its seems otherwise. We do get occasional reports—and corpses—of Indonesian military personnel who are leading these insurgents. But there have only been three confirmed incidents of them being led by foreign cadre elements. One Chinese, one Australian, one American.”
Yaargraukh’s tongue snaked out and back again. “Be patient; there will be more.”
Darzhee Kut found it strange to be taking the side of Graagkhruud. “I am sure you are right in this, Advocate, but even if a few of them do run our blockade of this island, what can they do? Because we have remained within a limited number of cantonments and garrisons, we are all but impregnable. Our recon and combat drones, ROVs, and microsensors allow us to detect all threats long before they close with us. Our PDF systems intercept their missiles long before they reach us. And our orbital fire support immediately interdicts anyone foolish enough to fire such weapons at us.”
Yaargraukh turned to face Darzhee Kut. “That all sounds most reassuring. Certainly more reassuring than what we witnessed five minutes ago.”
Graagkhruud’s eyes swiveled sideways in their protuberant sockets at Yaargraukh. “We have sufficient control, Advocate.”
“I wonder,” commented Astor-Smath. “Either way, I intend to take no chances.” He spoke into his collarcom, “Recall the refuse sweepers.”
Graagkhruud rose up. “No. They will continue.”
“They might be killed,” Astor-Smath pointed out diffidently.
“Then their blood will be on the claws of their own kind.”
“Even so, First Fist, you cannot afford to have a massacre on your hands.”
“Astor-Smath speaks truth.” Darzhee Kut turned to First Voice. “Your wisdom is most wanted at this moment, First Voice of the First Family.”
The aged Hkh’Rkh stared after the loping backs of the receding response team. Without turning, he spoke. “Advocate?”
“I agree with Speaker Kut, First Voice. The humans would consider such an event to be a massacre of innocents.”
Graagkhruud growled. “It would be their own fault.” He glanced at Astor-Smath. “It would be an attack by humans, upon humans, who were themselves impressed by humans. Surely they will not blame us for their own—”
“With respect, I must interrupt,” Yaargraukh huffed, “for time is short and the First Voice has asked for my judgment in this. The humans would not be surprised at the killing of insurgents. They understand that armed resistance invites death. But impressed civilians forced to serve our troops by clearing these fields, then taken under fire and killed? The average human will consider these people martyrs, regardless of the details of who technically compelled their service. For every one you kill this way, ten will swear a blood oath of vengeance and take arms against us. Maybe more.”
“They will not. They will learn submission.”
“With respect, First Fist, most of them will not. Their history teaches clear lessons on this topic.”
“Yes. It teaches that the human generals lack the resolve to carry out punishments against insurgents inflexibly and invariably. It is their own weakness that makes this sound strategy a failure in their hands.”
Yaargraukh’s reply was calm. “I commend you to the annals of the German occupation of the Balkans under the Nazi regime, or the Japanese occupation of China and Southeast Asia during the same period. Consider also the tribal conflicts of less than a century ago in Africa. In each case, th
e conquerors showed no mercy. In each case, they carried out just such ruthless reprisals as the ones you suggest. And in each case, the occupied peoples mounted bitter and dedicated insurgencies. The humans will not submit: they will live to dine on our entrails, or will die trying.”
“Enough.” First Voice stood higher. “I am decided.” He turned to Astor-Smath. “Recall your humans. Our combat operations must have utter political and ethical clarity. At least for now.”
“Very well. With your leave, I must depart to oversee an unusual security matter in Jakarta.”
First Voice checked his armlet. “Then you should make haste in your departure. You have twenty minutes left.”
Astor-Smath smiled and bowed. “And before those twenty minutes have elapsed, I will be safely on the ground in our metro-center compound. Until we meet again.” He turned and headed for the same high-speed VTOL which had brought him.
Darzhee Kut looked up at First Voice. “What happens in twenty minutes?”
“In twenty minutes, Speaker Kut, the humans will discover what happens if they choose to ignore our new terms for peace.”
Chapter Twenty
Alexandria, Earth
Downing sipped at the last drops of water in his glass, sighed, checked his watch: 1940 hours and still no sign of Elena. He looked around the mostly empty restaurant. Despite Elena’s claim to the contrary, Papillon was not only quiet, but almost abandoned. His table was one of only three that were occupied. Right. This has gone on long enough. Downing pulled out his palmcom, hit the all-address option, selected voice-only connection.
The multitone pattern on the carrier signal indicated that Elena was being sought on all her data-contact lines. It continued its repetitious cycling of notes. Downing expected her answering message to take over after ten seconds, but it didn’t. After ten more seconds, he hung up and stared at the palmcom, checked that he had indeed selected the contact matrix for Elena Corcoran. He had. But no answer.
Well, perhaps it was time to call the other Corcoran. If anyone knew what was delaying Elena, it would be her brother.
Trevor answered his vox-link the second ring. “Hello, Uncle Richard. How can I help you?”
Trevor’s voice was not quite as flat and cold as it had been when he left the office. But it wasn’t much warmer, either. “Sorry to disturb, Trevor, but do you have any inkling of where your sister is?”
“She’s probably shopping. She called from a sporting goods store about two hours ago.”
“Still trying to find something for Connor?”
“Yes. Without much success.” Trevor’s tone shifted from cool to suspicious. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing that I know of, but she’s rather late meeting me for dinner. Must dash now.”
Trevor disconnected without waiting for a “goodbye” or offering one himself. Richard sighed, looked at his palmcom. So where in bloody hell is Elena? He chose her contact matrix again, waited to hear the connection go through.
Annapolis, Earth
Trevor stared at his commplex after disconnecting. What the hell was that all about? And why is Elena meeting Richard for dinner when she told me she’s coming by here with Connor later?
He leaned back and frowned at the commplex. In times past, when she had just been a civilian, interacting with civilians, and doing safe civilian things, Elena had been at the greatest risk when she had been with Trevor or their father. They were the guys who had the clearances, and had performed the deeds, that might attract the malign interest of any number of unsavory folks.
But now that she, too, had become snagged into the clandestine webs of IRIS, and was carrying confidential, defense-critical information between her ears that was possessed by less than two hundred persons—well, it was no longer permissible to simply wave off strange behavior as some misunderstanding or anomaly. Now, it was only prudent to ensure that atypical communication did not also signal an atypical situation in the making.
Well, Trevor decided, I can sit here trying to figure it all out myself, or I can take the short cut. He called up his commplex’s contact list, chose Elena’s home commplex, pressed for a connection, and widened the video pickup to maximum.
Two buzzes and the screen brightened. The face that looked out at him caused a hard, aching knot to rise into his throat. At thirteen, Elena’s son Connor was the spitting image of the pictures of Nolan at the same age. Trevor cleared his throat, smiled past the lump there, “Hey, Connor. I thought you had a game tonight.”
“I did, but they canceled it.”
“Why?”
“Beats me. Pretty weird. We were suited up and on the sidelines, but that was as far as it got.”
“Well, that stinks. Although I have to admit, it’s the first time I was ever glad I couldn’t get to one of your games.”
“I don’t know how you get to any of them, Uncle Trevor. You’ve got a long ride in from Annapolis.”
“Yeah, well, I hate to miss ’em. And given how many games your Mom and I both had to miss earlier this year, I know she must have been just as disappointed as you were when they canceled today’s. By the way, is she around?”
Connor frowned. “No. She wasn’t at the game either.”
Huh? “Why? Where is she?”
“I wish I knew, Uncle Trev.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I had to get a ride home with Dave Sklar and his dad, ’cause Mom never showed. When I got inside, I found a note from her, telling me I was going to be staying with Grandma.”
What the hell? “Why? Where’s your Mom going?”
“I don’t know; she didn’t say. Her note only said that she had to travel on business, she loved me, and she’d be back as soon as she could. I don’t think she’ll be gone long. She only packed a single piece of carry-on luggage.”
Trevor kept the frown off his face; no reason to frighten Connor. He was a pretty resilient kid, but he was still only thirteen. “So, what time did you get home?”
“About an hour ago.”
Trevor did the math. Two hours ago, Elena had called him from shopping. She had sounded exasperated, nothing more. But over the course of the next hour, she had evidently gone home, arranged for their mother to take care of Connor, written him a note, and packed for travel. And now she wasn’t taking calls from Richard, whom she had asked to meet for dinner. A dinner which was scheduled at almost exactly the same time she had said she’d pick up Connor from his game and drive out to Trevor’s townhouse. What the hell was going on?
“Listen, Connor,” Trevor said easily, “don’t worry. I’m sure everything’s all right. I’ll find out what’s going on and give you a shout, okay?”
“Okay, Uncle Trev. See ya.”
“Not if I see you first.” The response satisfied the corny farewell ritual that they both cherished. “’Bye, Connor.”
As soon as the connection closed, Trevor hit the commplex data string for Elena’s palmcomm and the rest of her contact-matrix. No answers on any network and no location information. However, just as he gave up, his own incoming data tracker toned twice. A text-only message had arrived.
He called it up. Strange timing. It was from Elena, but had been posted an hour ago. An hour’s wait? What was—? Then he saw that she had put a one-hour delay on the delivery time.
Dear Trev:
Not much time; must run. I’ll be out of touch for a while, but don’t worry. Family business.
Look in on Connor. He’ll be at Mom’s.
Love, El
“Family business?” There was no family business. Just the unfinished business of Nolan Corcoran and IRIS, which always seemed to involve Caine and Richard and exosapients and skullduggery. And Opal. Yes, he could call Opal. She might know something. Besides, it was an excuse to call her.
He did, but after ten seconds of paging and receiving neither an answer nor a locator grid result, Opal’s automated message came on. He disconnected. Something has gone very wrong. Gotta call
Uncle Richard—and he stopped as his finger hovered over the “connect” button on the commplex’s dynamic datapad.
But what would trigger Elena and Opal to go incommunicado and at exactly the same time? What might link their actions?
Well, that was easy—sort of. Caine.
Trevor sat up straight. After hearing about Case Timber Pony, they don’t want to be able to get instructions or orders that they can’t, or shouldn’t, refuse to follow. Opal, being Caine’s guardian angel as well as girlfriend, and still unaware of Elena’s connection with him, had probably decided to find Caine on her own. Which is better than waiting for that harebrained rescue mission Uncle Richard was cooking up, the one that would probably get everyone killed.
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. In my case, Richard will want to keep me 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.”
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