Caine managed not to blink at Astor-Smath’s unexpected phrasing. Riordan suppressed his first genuine pulse of fear since landing in Jakarta. He turned toward Urzueth. “I do not understand, Esteemed Administrator. I was assured by Darzhee Kut that I was to retain my status as a diplomat and remain attached directly to the retinue of First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam.”
Urzueth Ragh seemed to fidget. “And so you are, Caine Riordan. But your fellow humans intuited our uncertainty over how best to provide for you, and so volunteered their services to ensure that your stay was optimally comfortable and secure. They will see to your housing, your feeding, your comfort, and your transport to and from our own compound in what was this nation’s presidential palace.”
“It is kind that you thought to make me comfortable in this manner, Urzueth Ragh, but I would much rather remain in the company of the Arat Kur. These humans are not my friends.”
“No, but they are our partners, and they have given promises for your safety and comfort. Which you have abused by striking your host. You should be grateful for their forgiveness.” Urzueth Ragh let the tone of remonstrance, and a single pedantically raised claw, sag. “Besides, the matter was arranged directly with First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam himself. I am powerless to alter it. So the matter is settled.”
Riordan looked about the enclosure. Two Hkh’Rkh guards, two Arat Kur in combat armor, and half a dozen Indonesian soldiers. All ringed by clones. If he attempted to flee, he wouldn’t live long enough to take a second step.
Astor-Smath stepped forward and smiled. “I am happy to have you in our facilities, Mr. Riordan.” His smiled broadened into a primal display of teeth. “More happy than I can say.”
* * *
Astor-Smath’s entourage, minus the Hkh’Rkh, was waiting in the communications center to which they had all relocated when Caine returned from his sudden, escorted visit to the restroom. Astor-Smath turned to him, the same maddening smile on his face. “Quite finished, Mr. Riordan?”
Urzueth Ragh raised a desultory claw. “Ambassador Riordan had much need of what you call ‘restrooms’ during his stay with us.”
Ruap’s voice was dismissive. “Not surprising. I always heard that fear loosens the sphincters of cowards.”
Caine pretended disinterest in the gibe. That same sphincter is also “loosened” by my need to study the only room where I might have enough privacy to figure out a plan of escape, asshole.
Urzueth was offering further explanation. “Ambassador Riordan was almost killed during an explosive decompression incident while attending the Convocation. If I am not mistaken, it is not uncommon for humans to suffer this kind of intestinal—affliction—amongst other sequelae of such an event.”
Ruap made a disgusted noise. Astor-Smath checked his watch. “Three minutes,” he announced.
Urzueth Ragh made a gesture to the two Arat Kur guards. They powered down their combat armor, opened the hatchlike helmets.
Caine frowned. “What happens in three minutes?”
“You’ll see,” smiled Astor-Smath.
“Along with the rest of the world,” added Ruap bitterly.
Urzueth looked up at Caine. “I will explain. Slightly more than two days ago, we—the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh—sent new terms for capitulation to your governments. In three minutes, the fifty-hour response deadline will have elapsed. If we have not received a reply by then, our leadership has determined that, rather than initiate further communications, we will deploy a nonlethal means of demonstrating that your governments may not ignore us.”
Caine noted the precautions that were being taken: computers were unplugged, batteries were removed from palmcomps, and a whole bank of hall lights went dark. “You’re going to launch an EMP strike. You have weapons that can generate a heavy pulse without an accompanying nuclear detonation.”
“We shall. We do. The pulse is not as strong as the kind generated by a nuclear weapon, of course, so it will not affect shielded systems.”
But most civilian systems aren’t shielded, not even in hospitals, or on planes, or in skyscrapers, or at communication nodes, or…The list was endless.
As Riordan observed the ongoing preparations of his warders, he also found himself only peripherally observed. He palmed a fifty rupiah coin he had spotted on a nearby desk. Not like anyone would miss it, given its almost incalculably small purchasing power. But both his instincts and his training disposed him to see any object as a potential tool. And a humble coin could, in the next several minutes, prove to be an important, if imperfect, substitute for a screwdriver.
“Are we ready then?” Eimi asked, scanning the room with her trademark tentative smile. “We should leave as soon as—”
“I’m sorry, I have to use the bathroom,” Caine interjected quietly. “Again.”
“Well, that might be another embarrassment you’ll have to suffer today, Riordan,” Ruap snapped, dabbing at the hole in his smile with red-stained handkerchief. “I hope you—”
Urzueth Ragh lifted a claw. “President Ruap, sir. I apologize, but I cannot countenance this. And until I relinquish custody of Mr. Riordan to you officially, I must point out that his well-being and comfort is my personal responsibility. I may not, in good conscience, allow a situation to develop where the ambassador is compelled to soil himself.” He turned to Caine. “You may once again use the eliminatio—er, the ‘bathroom,’ attended by an escort. Who will remain outside, as before.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Caine said with a nod. “Thank you, Urzueth.”
Who made a brief bob and gestured for one of his Arat Kur guards to accompany Riordan.
“No!” objected Ruap. “He must be guarded by humans, as well!”
“As you wish,” agreed Urzueth in a tone that bordered on exasperation.
Ruap made a gesture to the sergeant in command of the Indonesian troops. The NCO smiled, nodded at the scrawniest of his men. “Djoko, you go guard the bule ambassador. Make sure he doesn’t fall in.” Laughter followed the small man over to where Caine waited. Once there, Djoko stared at the Arat Kur guard, at Caine, then pitched his head in the direction of the restroom.
The three of them left the rest of the group to complete their preparations.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gunung Sawal mass driver compound, Central Java, Earth
Graagkhruud put his hand to his ear. “First Voice, Jakarta reports the airspace is secure.”
“Time?”
Graagkhruud checked his armguard. “Oh seven fifty-nine hours, local, First Voice.”
“First Fist, contact GHQ and pass the word to ground all airborne platforms and power down all electronics, except hardened radios. We will send them an all clear in a few minutes. And summon the troop-leader to my side.”
“At once, First Voice.” First Fist began passing the orders, motioned over the troop-leader, pointed to First Voice. To Darzhee Kut, the summoned Hkh’Rkh seemed to grow in size: its barrel chest expanded, the slope of his species’ natural posture disappeared.
First Voice evidently heard him approach. Without turning, he asked, “Troop Leader, how are you called?”
“Vrryngraar, of the Clan Skelekd’sh.”
“Your clan is of the moiety of the Family Haanash, is it not?”
“My Clan does hunt in the lands of the Family Haanash, First Voice of the First Family. We are their vassals.”
“You speak of the old ways in the old words. This is good. Remit your duties as troop leader to your second, Vrryngraar. You shall replace Kra Rragkryzh in my retinue after the human uprising is crushed. Until then, you are to lead my one of my elite hunter-killer Honor Troops, which I shall use to teach the humans of Jakarta the posture of submission. You will take command and commence your counterinsurgency duties immediately upon our arrival in the presidential compound.”
“I hear and obey, my Overlord N’Erkversh, First Voice of the First Family.” The Hkh’Rkh immediately loped away, calling to one of his troop.
First Voice looked after him, spoke to the other Hkh’Rkh of his retinue. “Remove Kra Rragkryzh’s body to our shuttle.” He kept one calar claw suspended momentarily, and then finished, “Gently.” When the body was being moved, he swiveled his head slightly toward the rear. “Speaker Kut.”
Darzhee Kut edged slightly closer to the Hkh’Rkh leader. “Yes, First Voice of the First Family?”
“Tell me, are your people usually punctual?”
“Most assuredly so.”
“So they will not extend the deadline?”
“No, First Voice. Hu’urs Khraam gave the humans fifty hours in which to respond. That expires at oh eight hundred, local time.”
“Good, for my patience is at an end.”
Darzhee Kut heard a confirmation and a warning tone in his audio-insert. “So too is our wait. The attack is being launched now.”
Annapolis, Earth
Trevor’s commplex toned then peeped shrilly. The caller’s number was suppressed. Langley, for sure.
“Hi, Duncan. What’ve you got?”
“A lot. What do you want first?”
“The weirdest shit you’ve found.”
“Okay. First, the State Department was notified just half an hour ago that Elena Corinne Corcoran has received immediate clearance for travel to Beijing.”
“What? How could she even get there, with ships overbooked since—?”
“Weirder shit, still. She has a berth reserved in her name on board a government—as in Chinese government—high-speed hull: Baltimore to Shanghai via transfer at the Panama Canal. That was just posted ten minutes ago.”
“And how the hell did all this—?”
“I’m not done. Phone records for her palmcom: nothing unusual until about 6:40. Then it’s like a cheap spy novel. Call to the Chinese Consulate. Return call from them four minutes later. Call to Beijing, World Confederation Provisional offices. Return call six minutes later. Call to a secure land line in China that we can’t trace and probably would start a war if we tried. Which means she was talking with Someone Big. Possibly Ching himself. Seven-minute conversation. And about ten minutes after that, all the travel plans and clearances start blizzarding across the State Department’s night watch desk. Which called in the Deputy Secretary to verify it.”
Who the hell did Elena know in the Chinese government? Had she struck up and maintained an exchange with Ching when, after Dad’s death, he had called the family with his personal condolences? Or was Elena just trading on name recognition, relying upon the strong implications that Dad and Ching had crafted some pretty high-power agreements before the Parthenon Dialogs—and that they had grown to admire each other in the process? Or maybe both?
“Hey, Trevor, we’re not done.”
“Oh. Sorry, Duncan. What else?”
“Here’s the real kicker. Just thirty-four minutes ago, her palmcom was—”
The line went dead.
Alexandria, Earth
For the fourth time, Downing waited for Elena to answer her palmcom. And waited. Then—after almost a full minute—he was greeted by the innocuous intonations of a prerecorded message. “Hello. We’re sorry, but the individual you are trying to reach has discontinued service and has not registered any forwarding information. We regret any inconvenience this might cause you—”
There was a brief flash like distant heat lightning, hardly bright enough to be noticed over Papillon’s subdued lighting.
“—and we hope—”
The line went dead.
So did Downing’s palmcom and his watch. The espresso machine guttered to a halt. The faux art nouveau clock over the bar stopped ticking. The light winked out on the cash register a split second before the overheads flicked off. Downing stood, knowing what he would—and did—hear next. There were several crashes in the street, cars suddenly drifting without control, carrying drivers who had forgotten the government’s warning when the Arat Kur had first arrived in orbit: know where your handbrake is and how to use it. And there would be no active passenger protection devices deploying to save their lives. Here or in New York or Berlin or Tokyo or Beijing. He only hoped that the bloc leaders had listened to the intel warnings, or had seen it coming themselves, and stopped the trains a few minutes before the deadline had run out.
The waiter came to stand next to Downing and, for the first time, failed to offer him more water. “Some kind of power failure, huh?”
Downing shook his head. “No. Some kind of attack. EM pulse bombs. Probably a few miles up.”
“What? I didn’t hear anything—”
“You wouldn’t.” Downing hoped his smile wasn’t as sadly patronizing as it felt. “These bombs don’t really explode. They send out a wave of electromagnetic energy that overloads electrical systems, particularly if they’re unshielded, operating at the time of detonation, or are connected to a large active power grid.”
“You mean—?” The waiter dug frantically in the pocket of his black slacks, produced his own palmcom. “You mean—? Oh, man, they fried it. The bastards fried my ’com. That’s just—just wrong. How am I going to get things done? How am I gonna call my friends?”
Downing looked at the outraged young man and tried not to smile. You don’t know the half of it yet, Sunshine. Just wait until you try to get the train home, cook some dinner, and turn up the heat.
Downing turned and looked back out the window, saw a hint of fire growing at the nexus of a three-car collision two intersections away and noticed a few flakes of snow starting to drift down. I hope it’s not a cold winter. But either way, it’s going to be the coldest you’ve ever lived through, Sunshine.
Downing went to the door, got his coat while the staff stood gaping down the street and into the darkness around them. At least it wasn’t going to take too long to get to San Diego by secure government train now.
Because, for the next few days at least, there wasn’t going to be a lot of rail traffic in the way.
CoDevCo security compound, Jakarta, Earth
Beyond the closed bathroom door, Djoko could hear the bule Riordan groaning faintly. Shit, I get all the lousiest jobs. He turned and looked at his fellow guard. The Arat Kur—or Roach, as people were calling them—rotated his eyes in his head to look back up at Djoko. Disgusting. He banged on the door. “Hurry up! We’ve got to—”
All the lights went out. The steady hum of the air-conditioners faded.
Shit.
From far down the corridor—the men’s room had been quite a walk—Djoko heard his sergeant yell. “Hey, get a move on!”
“I can’t! The bule is still in there.”
“Well, make him come out. We’re going outside. Can’t see to put the batteries back in our palmcomps. Hurry up!”
“I’m hurrying!” Djoko yelled back, and then muttered, “Anda keparat.”
Beyond the door, the toilet flushed and then the tap started running. Djoko was grateful that both of them still functioned. He had been unsure if any of the running water in the high-tech complex would work without electricity. Well, any minute now, the bule will come out and we can—
Beyond the door, the bule ambassador cried out: a yell of inarticulate pain.
The Roach’s eyes rotated up swiftly toward Djoko. “Human needs help?” came out of its translator, accompanied by the faint chittering of its natural “voice.”
Djoko felt himself start to sweat, probably more from nerves than the subtly rising heat and humidity in the dark hallway. What was he supposed to do? No one had given him any orders about what steps to take if—
The toilet flushed again and the bule was now either choking or coughing. Then he groaned hoarsely. “I think—I need help. I’m bleeding—I need—” There was no further speech, but a moment later, Djoko heard a heavy, limp thud beyond the door.
The Roach started, its eyes rotating toward Djoko. “You help!”
“I don’t know—”
“You help,” it chittered/spoke again. “I notify leaders.
” The oversized bug spun about and skittered quickly back down the corridor.
Djoko looked after it for a second, annoyed to take orders from an alien cockroach, then listened. Still no sound—but the water, which was still running, had started to seep out from under the door. Ah, shit—He did not know what he could do to help, but his sergeant would flay him skinless if he stood outside and did nothing. He pushed open the door.
Almost complete darkness, except for a tiny spindle of light coming from higher up on the far wall, just above his head. He approached, feeling for the bule ambassador with his feet, wondered what the light was coming from. “Ambassdur?” he asked in uncertain English—just as he discovered what the light was.
The bule had removed the grate covering the air duct into the room. Two screws lay just inside the exposed ventilation shaft. An escape? Except, now that Djoko looked carefully, the duct was too small for even him to fit into, much less a bule that was easily six foot tall—
To his credit, Djoko, figured out that the grate removal was a ruse the same instant he felt a sharp, hard-edged blow along the side of his head. In the dark, he scrabbled at the sink to remain upright—just before a hand grabbed his hair and slammed his forehead straight down into the edge of the sink.
* * *
Caine felt the small soldier’s body go limp. But in the dark, uncertain of how badly injured the man was, or whether he was actually stunned or feigning it, Riordan took no chances. Dropping the blood-slick grate, Caine once again slammed the poor fellow’s forehead into the sink before letting the body sink to the wet, water-running floor.
Not much time for stumbling around in the dark. First, grab his rifle. Damn, he must have slung it while waiting and, didn’t unsling it before coming in. And the sling is tangled around his—damn, what sort of contorted position did he fall into? Shit! Let’s see, if I move his arm—no, that’s a leg—out of the way—
Caine reared up. No time. You’ve got to run. Finding a way out will be hard enough. And a gun won’t be that helpful. But wasting time trying to untangle it could get you caught. So get the hell out of here. Now. Caine was out the door before the thought was finished.
Trial by Fire - eARC Page 27
