Gaspard, finding some ground on which he was comfortable, leaned into Caine’s comment. “Go on, Mr. Riordan.”
“The Slaasriithi are a conduit into the deeper history of this part of space and of the exosapient races we’ve discovered within it. They might be able to answer key strategic questions, such as: why are so many intelligent races contained in a one hundred light year diameter sphere? Why is there no Convocation record of making contact with other intelligences beyond that range? Why are so many green worlds readily inhabitable by the majority of the races of the Accord?”
Gaspard’s eyebrows had risen high on his forehead. “I understand that these are crucial questions, but they speak more to cosmology than strategy, non?”
“Not entirely,” Riordan responded. “Getting those answers helps us understand the larger political and astrographic environment in which we’re operating.”
“Have we not had analysts studying these ramifications?”
“Mr. Gaspard, as I understand it, every single analyst we have has been working overtime for the past year and then at triple-speed when we were invaded. This is really the first opportunity we’ve had to lean back and look at the bigger picture. There have been too many impending catastrophes to spend time pondering the deepest implications of the marble and granite bones of the twenty-thousand-year-old human ruin—and conundrum—we found on Delta Pavonis Three.”
Gaspard nodded. “Yes, I have thought this too. Even now, too many strategists and statespersons are flushed with the euphoria of victory and the relief of deliverance. They are not speculating upon the mysteries behind us, only upon the possibilities before us.”
Caine nodded. Well, Gaspard had frequently been an asshole, but he was proving to be a fairly insightful asshole. “Mr. Gaspard, I couldn’t have said that better myself.”
Gaspard frowned, considered. “No, you probably could not have.”
So he’s not just an asshole: he’s a total asshole. Aloud: “I just hope the Slaasriithi are going to be as productive as we’d like them to be in answering these questions.”
Downing leaned forward. “Why do you think they wouldn’t be?”
Caine shrugged. “I don’t mean they’d be uncooperative, but so far, their self-representation suggests that they might not record or even think of history the way we do.”
Gaspard shook his head. “History is history. How can it be different?”
Ben Hwang folded his hands as he took up the explanation. “The Slaasriithi are polytaxic. The integration and interaction between their different subspecies—or, more properly, taxae—may either necessitate a tendency toward what we would think of as self-effacing consensualism. There are hints, in the primer they relayed to us, that in their society, pride of self and cult of personality are not merely morally egregious but might be considered dangerous psychopathologies.”
“What you are suggesting, then,” Gaspard summarized over steepled fingers, “is that they might not keep a history, but merely a chronicle of the past events.”
Downing nodded. “I think that’s possible.”
Gaspard gaze slid away from Downing, settled upon Caine. “And you concur with that conclusion?”
“Frankly, I don’t know enough to concur or demur, Mr. Gaspard.”
“Yet it was you who brought up the possible limits of their historical perspective. Do you doubt your own assertion?”
“Mr. Gaspard, I presented a possibility, not an assertion. As for doubts—well, we’ve spoken to a grand total of one Slaasriithi, and we have their primer.” Caine shrugged. “I know it’s human nature to want to draw conclusions, but I distrust straight line projections when we only have two data points.”
Gaspard nodded sharply. “I quite agree. All these hypotheses follow logically from the data we do have, but we do not have very much. Well, when the time comes for me to be awakened, I will ask you to apprise me of any new information you have acquired from our Slaasriithi hosts.”
Caine frowned. “You intend to travel in cold sleep?”
“Of course I do.”
“Mr. Consul,” Downing began cautiously—Caine could not tell if he was being cautious about arousing Gaspard’s temper or his own—“it was presumed that you would logically wish to spend all available time preparing for your meeting with the Slaasriithi.”
Gaspard stared at Downing. “I am pained to point out that there is nothing logical about that presumption at all, Monsieur Downing. Here, instead, is what is logical: that this mission, too, may be cancelled. And if it is, I much prefer not having burdened my mind with yet another encyclopedia of facts that I shall never use, and having lost a further four months of my waking life needlessly committing them to memory. After all, if the Slaasriithi decide to strictly enforce their statement to Mr. Riordan, that we must ‘meet them to understand them,’ they may not even allow us access to their vessel or provide us with additional preparatory materials during our journey to their homeworld. In which case, I would have remained awake for the singularly productive pleasure of spending those months staring at the dull walls of one of our habitation modules. Of course, I insist on being awakened should we face a crisis or emergency.”
Caine smiled. Well, you clearly don’t know much about the real practicalities of cold sleep. Not if you think being roused for an unfoldimg crisis is a good idea. Awakening cold sleepers into a crisis is like dragging a boozehound out of bed to rescue his family when he’s only two hours into sleeping off a binge. Accelerated reanims are more trouble than they’re worth.
Sukhinin’s voice interrupted with a toneless imperative: “Ambassador Gaspard, for that is your primary title for the duration of this assignment, let us be clear on one further matter. Although you are our senior envoy and a consul of the Republic, do not presume that you may issue orders to Captain Riordan in all matters.”
Caine’s surprised sputter did not allow him to get out the question before Gaspard did: “Captain Riordan?”
Sukhinin stared at Gaspard, then glanced at the other faces ringing the table. “Was I unclear?”
Downing leaned forward. “Ambassador, it is necessary that we send along a person of appropriate rank, both to advise you on the military ramifications of any agreements you might make with the Slaasriithi, and as your legation’s security and intelligence overseer. Riordan’s former rank of commander was deemed insufficient for this role. He is thereby being promoted to captain, although that is as much in recognition of his actions in the recent war as it is an administrative necessity.”
Caine looked from Downing to Sukhinin. “Thanks. I think.”
Sukhinin fixed him with a look that said, You poor young fellow, and held up a hand to stop Gaspard’s imminent protestations. “This is not open to debate or discussion,” Vassily declared. “Firstly, although you are a consul, and so carry plenipotentiary powers for entering into treaties with the Slaasriithi, you have been a politician, not an ambassador, up until this point in time. Nyet?”
“I trained as a diplomat, in the most prestigious—”
“I was at the Parthenon Dialogues with you, gospodin Gaspard, and so have heard of your credentials from the Sorbonne. From your own lips. Repeatedly. But in point of fact, while you have served on numerous international councils and commissions, you have never worked as an ambassador between two human nations, nor have you ever been on a first contact mission. Correct?”
Gaspard had no ready response.
Sukhinin ploughed ahead ruthlessly. “Even more marked is your lack of specialization in military and intelligence matters. In short, Captain Riordan has exactly the experience and skills to assist you in assessing the full implications of any agreements you might make with the Slaasriithi. Actually, if I had the authority to promote him further, I would: protocol implies that a flag officer should be charged with these responsibilities. The rank above captain—commodore—at least occupies a grey zone between command and flag ranks.”
“So, Riordan may contravene my
orders?”
Downing shook his head. “No, you have different spheres of authority. In matters pertaining to the security of the delegation and its operations, he makes the final decisions, although he must solicit and consider your input. Conversely, in diplomatic activities, you hold full authority, although, once again, Captain Riordan is obligated to offer his opinion on the military implications of your decisions, and you are obligated to take those into consideration.”
Gaspard stared at Caine. “Well then, Captain, I shall look forward to your military assessment of whatever information is conveyed to us by the Slaasriithi—or not—during my slumbers.” He rose. “I shall be preparing for relocation to the Slaasriithi shift-carrier and the commencement of my cryogenic suspension. As I understand it, you will make the final arrangements for the transfer of my staff, who are already in cold sleep. Good day.” Gaspard was out the door without a glance behind or even a nod of farewell.
Gray Rinehart looked at Downing. “So, does Caine get combat pay while traveling with that jackass?”
Downing sighed, smiled ruefully at Riordan. “If there was any justice in this universe, he would.”
Chapter Twelve
In close orbit; V 1581 Four
Kozakowski had rolled back the blast covers on the Arbitrage’s portside bridge windows to watch the intruder approach. It was no longer obscured by the wispy edges of V 1581 IV’s cream-and-ochre atmosphere. “My god, they must mean to ram us.”
Ayana shook her head and glanced over Kozakowski’s round shoulders at the brilliant blue exhaust flares of the intruder. “No, Mr. Kozakowski, but they do not mean to give us much time to prepare or fire at them.”
“As if we had anything left to fire,” Jorge Velho amended. He finished activating the automated anti-intruder systems, then turned to the intercom, collecting himself to give an order that he never wanted, and never thought he’d need, to give: “All hands, this is the captain. The intruder is confirmed to be on an intercept course, with the evident intent of boarding us. They do not respond to hails. All security teams: confirm your readiness with the XO and secure for vacuum operations.”
“Vacuum operations?” echoed Kozakowski.
“Yes,” confirmed Ayana. “Although contested boardings are extremely rare, one of the most common tactics by a boarder is to create conditions of explosive or at least dislocating decompression. That is why we have sealed the bulkheads communicating with the hull-proximal sections and reduced them to zero point two atmospheres. Fortunately, even though we’ve cut rotation, we still have some gravity, due to the proximity of the gas giant beneath us. Combat in true zero-gee is extremely unforgiving to the untrained.”
Kozakowski nodded. “Some of my crew is trained for both low- and zero-gee operations. Let them help.”
Velho did not turn to look at Kozakowski. Yes, your crew was trained by the same megacorporation which sold us out to invaders just half a year ago. And with you in charge of that crew, we might have the same mysterious “difficulties” that kept us from getting the drones released from the auto-deployable module in time. What should have been a twenty-second operation took over a minute—which was too long. But instead, Velho said: “Mr. Kozakowski, we have taken heavy damage to a number of key systems, systems with which your personnel have far greater expertise. We are going to need that expertise if, after this action, we hope to effect repairs. By holding back those experts, that reduces your available crew complement to twenty. Those remaining twenty are currently manning the essential systems in engineering and staffing damage control parties.
“Conversely, most of my prize crew are reasonably proficient with weapons and anti-boarding tactics, and more than a hundred are defending the EVA ingress points in the engineering and cargo oversight modules. In short, we have the right assets in the right places.” Which also means I don’t have to worry about any megacorporate turncoats shooting my people in their backs.
“And if you really want to help,” Piet muttered, “you could just decant a few dozen of those clone-soldiers riding in the freezer section.”
Kozakowski did not deign to face the pilot as he rebutted. “CoDevCo’s Optigene clones are not superhuman. Just like anyone else, they cannot be roused straight from cold sleep into operations. The biochemical reanimation requirements take forty-eight hours alone. It would require another thirty-six to forty-eight hours for full restoration of autonomic and voluntary muscular function, and perhaps yet another day for full mental function. I hope it is enough that I have granted you full access to their equipment lockers. And I am still willing to take my place among the defenders, even if you do not permit any of my crew to accompany me.”
Jorge considered the offer: it was too measured to be fully convincing. So, Kozakowski, the first time you’re eager to help us is when you could be killed doing so? Or rather, so you can sabotage our defensive preparations and curry favor with your true masters? Or am I just being overly suspicious? “No, Mr. Kozakowski, as the original master of the ship, I think it important that you remain here on the bridge.” Velho picked up one of the autoshotguns that had been liberated from the Optigene clones’ combat stores. “I will oversee the defenses personally.” As if I really know what the hell I’m doing. This was not part of the job description when the government came looking for civilian prize crews. “Now, before I go, let’s see if we can give our attackers at least one nasty surprise. Is Mr. Vindar off Deal Two?”
“Yes, sir. Remote piloting protocols are engaged.”
“Are the thrusters still hot?”
“Enough for one good burst, sir.”
Kozakowski looked from one face to the other among the three bridge crew.
Jorge suppressed a smile at the CoDevCo factotum’s perplexity. “Piet, do you have the controls routed through to your board?”
“Aye, sir.”
Jorge eyeballed the trajectory of the intruder in relation to where Deal Two was dangling, only half in its docking cradle. “She might not come out of the clamps cleanly,” he warned.
Piet shrugged. “We knew that from the moment we came up with this hare-brained scheme. But it’s the only shot we have, Jorge.”
“It is as you say, my friend. And we will let your instruments and eyes determine when to—”
“Engaging now!” Piet interrupted.
He triggered Deal Two’s emergency umbilical release, slammed the thrust relays on his remote operations board to maximum, yanked the tanker’s flight controls up and then savagely over.
In the screens, Deal Two’s thrusters blasted out a glowing wave of plasma. They propelled her up out of the docking cradles and then, gimballing, began to swing her in a scalded-cat hop toward the oncoming intruder—
But something unexpected was trailing behind Deal Two as Piet tried to effect his own, unorthodox ramming attempt: the tanker-tender’s umbilical was still attached to the Arbitrage, probably due to the prior damage—
Although the resistance only caused a mild jerk and delay in Deal Two’s half-Immelman attempt at smashing itself into the oncoming ship, that was time enough for the attackers to react. Two of the low, black, lusterless mini-domes near the prow of the enemy ship spun in the direction of the tanker—
—which was abruptly ripped end to end by invisible, criss-crossing beams which left glowing slices along Deal Two’s fuselage. One of those beams triggered an explosion which converted the whole boat into a tumbling storm of debris. The intruder jinked slightly to avoid a spinning, savaged bay door, and kept coming on.
No one said anything. Jorge Velho hefted the autoshotgun, reflected that he hoped his experience with semiautomatic sporting versions on his uncle’s sugar and silviculture plantation near Belém would stand him in good stead. “Ms. Tagawa has the con. And she will assume command in the event that I am—incapacitated.”
Ayana started. “Captain Velho, as the XO, I am expendable and should be—”
“Ms. Tagawa, the matter is not open to discussion. Ignoring
my command prerogative for a moment, it is quite obvious that you are more familiar with the best protocols to employ in this scenario.” You seem to be much more familiar with them. Indeed, suspiciously so…“Arbitrage needs that expertise, whether in escaping, or negotiating a settlement with the intruders.” He told himself that only a tiny part of his motivation stemmed from male protective instincts that had been drilled into his genome through uncounted millennia. “Piet, keep a firm hand on the tiller.”
“Aye, sir,” said the South African ruefully.
Velho exited the bridge, pointedly resisting the urge to glance back.
At Ayana.
* * *
Nezdeh watched the external monitors as Ulpreln counted off the last ten meters to the Arbitrage. “Ten, nine…”
“Slow us.”
“Obeyed. Eight, seven.” The pause lengthened. “Six. And…”
“Now: final retroboost.”
“Boosting—and we are at relative-velocity all-stop, Nezdeh.”
“Still no countermeasures deployed by the target?”
Sehtrek glanced up. “None observable, Srina Perekmeres.”
She nodded. Action: at last. “Primary EVA team?”
“We are ready.”
“Commence assault.”
“Complying.”
In the external monitors, Nezdeh watched the main EVA hatch, just aft of midship, open. A line of spacesuited figures emerged. Organized as three separate teams, they traversed the four remaining meters to a double-sized EVA portal in the Arbitrage’s hull: a small access bay for loading ship’s stores. Each team’s lead figure used active maneuver jets to reach the Aboriginal ship, towing three more figures behind. As two of the team leaders produced tools consistent with forced ingress procedures, the third team leader floated to the side, weapon ready.
“Secondary EVA team?”
Brenlor’s impatience was audible. “Here. And still waiting.”
Nezdeh almost rolled her eyes. And you shall continue to do so. For one more minute.
Raising Caine - eARC Page 11
