Trial by Fire: Chapter Seven

Washington D.C., Earth

    Richard Downing entered the office he had shared with Nolan Corcoran for more than a decade, and stared wistfully at the couch in the waiting room. Sleep would be very welcome and would come all too easily. He had been planetside less than six hours and had already briefed the POTUS, the Joint Chiefs, and the intelligence agencies. And only now could his real work begin.

    Once in the conference room, he activated the commplex, told it to place a call, dropped into a chair, and rubbed his face so he would appear alert and fresh. Well, alert. Mostly.

    The commplex checked Downing’s identity and then indicated that the requested individual was on the line. “Mr. Rulaine,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I trust you’ve found your early retirement from the Special Forces relaxing?”

    “Yes, sir. A little too relaxing.”

    “Well, we’ll remedy that soon enough. Now, about your team: their medical discharges went through without a problem?”

    “Yes sir, although the clerk did eyeball the five of us pretty strangely.”

    Downing imagined the scene: the five men–a Green Beret (Rulaine himself), three SEALs (Jacob Winfield, Stanislaus Witkowski, and Carlos Cruz) and a bear of a Secret Service agent (Matthew Barr)–clustered around a desk to “medical out” of their respective services. “Medical cause, sir?” the clerk would have asked. “Unspecified,” Bannor Rulaine would have answered in the flat baritone that was his all-business voice. And that first question would have been the last that the clerk asked the five of them.

    “And you are satisfied with the authenticity of the fictional security firm that is now retaining your services?”

    Bannor nodded. “Yes sir. Incorporation papers, contact data, client lists, transactions, all perfectly legit, even if scrutinized by a Congressional subcommittee. And by the way, I would like to convey the group’s collective thanks for the very generous employment terms.”

    Which you will earn many times over, you poor sods. “You are all very welcome. I’m short on time, Captain, so let’s review the OpOrds. My system will require a real-time biometric security check, so please activate your video pickup.”

    “Will do, sir.” The screen on Downing’s commplex faded up from black, revealing Bannor Rulaine’s thinning sandy hair and calm hazel eyes. Downing nodded a greeting, watched the OpOrd file upload begin, and reviewed Rulaine’s hardcopy record, located out of the commplex’s visual field.

    According to his atypical dossier, Bannor Rulaine had gone to Dartmouth–gone, but never graduated. He found information imparted by drill instructors vastly preferable to that offered by professors. Instead of flunking out of the Fort Benning School for Wayward Boys, he had exceeded its expectations. His first posting had been to OCS, with more than a few of his trainers grumbling that the brass always ruined the best soldiers they produced by adorning their shoulders with shiny metal bars instead of honest fabric stripes.

    Rulaine was already scanning the ops file. “So all five of us are to drop out of sight as soon as we’ve picked up the equipment here in Baltimore.”

    “Yes, all of which is ‘defective’ Army issue. It is fully functional, of course.”

    “Of course. What are you giving us, sir?”

    “The lot. Everything you could want, except EVA gear; that’s as scarce as hen’s teeth right now. The cache–enough to support two fire teams for a month of extensive operations–has been sealed in a secure commercial container, waiting for you on the docks.”

    Bannor nodded, then frowned. “Sir, I know I shouldn’t ask, but I have to anyway. Why all the cloak-and-dagger maneuvering?”

    “A fair question. Here’s the frank answer: if there is a war scare, every official asset—material or human–could get commandeered. So I am precautionarily setting aside some cells of independent operatives–prepositioned and presupplied–that cannot be usurped by higher authorities later on.”

    “I read you five by five, sir. Logically, you’ll want us to drop out of sight until you need us, so I presume you’ve set aside a specific location?”

    “Yes. Caribbean. Lesser Antilles. Nevis, just south of St. Kitts. Friends of mine have a house there, and I think your men will enjoy a little time in a tropical paradise.”

    “Well, sure. Sir.”

    “They are to stay current on their dive ops and zero-gee equivalency qualifications. They are also to get to know the local rental agencies for VTOLs. And they will need to become friendly with the crew of the open-water vehicle ferry attached to the Season’s Classic resort property–and must prepare an ops plan for the possible seizure of that vessel.”

    “Why, sir?”

    “Because it may also become necessary for you to commandeer some VTOLs. In that event, you’ll need the ferry’s deck space to carry them if you have to move to your area of operations by sea.”

    “So if the balloon goes up, we close to target by surface craft, and then VTOL off the deck?”

    “Best if you beach the ferry first, but yes, that’s the plan.”

    “And what’s our target?”

    “That’s the great unknown. That’s why we’re keeping your men in ready reserve on an island.”

    Rulaine’s grin was lopsided. “That’s the typical life of a soldier, Mr. Downing: hurry up and wait.”

    “‘Fraid so. The Nevis address is at the end of Appendix B. It is a summer home, and the owners–friends of mine who have Langley connections–have agreed to let your group ‘look after it’ in their absence. No close contact with the locals, though.”

    “Right. We’re there because we’re a bunch of dive junkies. And if someone asks us if we know the owner, or his friend Richard Downing, we just answer ‘who?’ And we send you a picture of whoever did the asking.”

    “Good lad. Enjoy your stay in the Caribbean. Good speaking to you.”

    “And you, sir. We’ll be awaiting your signal.”

    “Or Captain Corcoran’s. He will be your direct CO, so you may get your final activation orders from him.”

    “Roger that, sir, and good luck.”

    “You, too, Captain.” The link dissolved.

    Before the light had fully faded from the screen, there was a knock on the door. Downing sighed. Chatting with Rulaine had been easy, even relaxing. But the rest of the day’s agenda was devoted to an official briefing with other members of the delegation that had accompanied Downing to the Accord’s Convocation, and who, for different reasons, now brought headache-generating issues with them. Young genius physicist Lemuel Wasserman was significantly more abrasive than sandpaper. Biologist Ben Hwang and cyber whiz Sanjay Thandla were usually even-tempered, but Lemuel was completely capable of setting either one of them off. Major Opal Patrone had been compelled to leave behind her security charge–and paramour–Caine Riordan and clearly loathed Downing as the architect of that separation. Elena Corcoran–Nolan’s daughter and Richard’s god-child–still believed herself the only person in the room who knew that, fourteen years ago, Caine had fallen in love with her and fathered her son Connor–all in the one hundred hours that Nolan had erased from Riordan’s memory. Erased, that is, until those memories had been restored a month ago on Barney Deucy. But Elena didn’t know that, and didn’t know that Downing and her brother Trevor had learned that ticklish secret, too.

    All of which was sure to be complicated by the intellectual posturings and airs of the most insufferable French diplomat Richard had ever met: an old-school, Sorbonne-style wanker named–

    “It is Etienne Gaspard, Monsieur Downing,” announced a voice beyond the door, “along with, er, others.”

    “Please come in, Mr. Gaspard. And do bring the ‘others’ in with you.”

    Gaspard was the first through the door. Lemuel Wasserman was right behind him, his eyes already boring ferociously into the Frenchman’s back. To Downing’s knowledge, the two had never met each other, but it was entirely possible that Gaspard’s suave, aloof superiority could have run afoul of Wasserman’s blunt and vitriolic arrogance in the few moments they had been waiting together.

    Opal Patrone, Ben Hwang, and Sanjay Thandla filed in, and lastly, at a slightly greater distance, Elena. And now that Downing knew what to look for, he realized that Elena had always put a little extra space between herself and Opal, but had been friendly and gracious, even while doing so. Her ethics allowed her no other course. Since Opal was thoroughly unaware of Elena’s prior connection to Caine, animus was both patently unfair and utterly illogical. And so far as Elena knew, Caine still had no recollection of their own whirlwind lunar romance. But, eventually, Caine would return, and then the matter would have to be addressed and settled, one way or the other. Richard devoutly hoped he would be in another city–preferably another state–when it was.

    “It seems you have been quite busy since the Parthenon Dialogs, Mr. Downing.”

    Gaspard’s almost truculent comment startled Downing out of the contemplative haze into which he had fallen. “You are referring to our visit to the Convocation last month, I take it?”

    “I am referring to everything, Mr. Downing. There are your trips to Mars, to the Convocation, then Barnard’s Star. You have had your hands very full from the moment Admiral Corcoran died. Or so it seems to me.”

    Downing nodded diffidently, schooled his features to calm agreement as he watched Gaspard’s face for any sign that the diplomat was probing after the possibility that Nolan’s death had put some burden–some unseen and unnamed mantel of responsibility–upon Richard’s neck. Specifically, had Gaspard heard whispers of a secret organization named IRIS, and was he snooping around to get confirmation that Downing was now its director?

    But Downing saw no hint of incisive purpose in Gaspard’s face, and so, felt safe enough to indulge in a genuine smile. “Yes, Mr. Gaspard. It has been a busy time. For everyone in this room. Yourself, not least of all, as I understand it.”

    Gaspard’s eyes rolled in exasperation. “Oui, vraiment. But my seventy- and eighty-hour weeks have not come with the exciting novelties that arise from unprecedented contact with exosapients. Mine has been the same dull routine of politics; only the names have changed.”

    “The names of the politicians?” asked Opal.

    “Unfortunately, no. The same collection of cut-throats, crooks, and incompetents are still steering our planet’s various ships of state. But the names of everything else–agencies, treaty organizations, even the blocs themselves–are in flux. I spend half my time just trying to discern which new names go with which old institutions. It is utter madness.”

    And you spend the other half of your time exercising your considerable gift for hyperbole, Downing added silently. Aloud: “Nevertheless, you and the rest of the Confederation Consuls are to be congratulated. From what I hear, the transition to global coordination–at least on military and industrial matters–seems to be progressing nicely.”

    Gaspard snorted. “Simple lies for simpletons. The ‘transition’ is a maelstrom of endless, petty bickering. Do not believe the optimistic analysts or headlines, Mr. Downing.”

    “Well, it’s a good thing you know the global state of play better than the rest of the world’s experts,” drawled Wasserman.

    Gaspard looked down his lengthy nose at Wasserman. “You may discover, Doctor, that my cynicism, which you presently elect to insult, shall later prove to be an asset for which you are grateful. To be more specific: I do not ‘know better.’ I am merely unwilling to be swayed by what I wish to be true. And since the issue at hand is nothing less than the fate of our planet, I contend it is ludicrous to assess the actual state of our readiness with the same rosy optimism that children adopt when anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas.”

    Downing raised a hand. “For now, let’s ignore the political merits of morale-building PR versus pitiless rationalism. We are here for one reason only: to brief you, Mr. Gaspard.”

    “Just so. I require your detailed impressions of what occurred at the Convocation, with particular attention to what you learned about the other species of the Accord, and why you believe the meeting ended so disastrously.” Gaspard’s eyes narrowed as he indulged in a thin, unpleasant smile. “I would hear from Dr. Wasserman, first.”

    Downing intervened, seeing that Gaspard was spoiling for a fight. “I think a round-robin debrief will not only be faster, but develop a better pool of knowledge for you, Mr. Gaspard, particularly if you’d start by telling us what information you already have.”

 

---

 

    Gaspard sniffed, turned away from Wasserman. “Only the basics. That there were five other species present–the Arat Kur, the Ktor, the Hkh’Rkh, the Slaasriithi, and the Dornaani. That the first three of those were not friendly, and that the Arat Kur were decidedly hostile. That the Dornaani are charged with being Custodians, a kind of overseer/peacekeeper duty, as I understand it. And the three unfriendly races–but again, particularly the Arat Kur–were laboring to exploit every possible procedural irregularity to ensure that Earth was denied membership in the Accord. However, their ultimate purpose for doing so remained obscure.”

    Elena shifted in her seat. “Mr. Gaspard, having been present for those exchanges, I have to report that their reasons seemed anything but obscure. The Arat Kur, aided by the backroom machinations of the Ktor and the intemperate behavior of the Hkh’Rkh, were pushing us all toward war. And there’s an excellent chance that they will succeed. If they haven’t already.”

    Gaspard tilted his head. “I seem to recall reading that the pretext upon which the Arat Kur based the majority of their procedural disruptions was the matter of our settlement of the 70 Ophiuchi system, no?”

    “That is correct,” Downing said. “The Arat Kur claimed this was a violation of the Fifteenth Accord, which requires that all members of the Accord remain within their approved pathways of expansion. However, since we had commenced settlement of that system before we were first contacted eighteen weeks ago, the failure was not ours.”

    “Which the Arat Kur accepted, no?”

    “Yes, they accepted it. But they also wanted the Accord to order us out of the system.”

    “But the Accord had no authority to do so,” objected Gaspard. “It may not dictate territorial policy to a species that has not been confirmed as a member of the Accord.”

    Elena spoke over steepled fingers. “Of course, all these juridical details may become moot.”

    Gaspard lifted his patrician chin. “How?”

    “The Arat Kur may decide to forcibly evict us, regardless of the Accords. Which they suggested were not worthy of continued compliance, when the Custodians revealed the location of their homeworld to be Sigma Draconis. Of course, that may have been precisely the casus belli that the Arat Kur wanted. Throughout the proceedings, they were indirectly daring the Custodians to cross that line.”

    “And there’s another clue that they were spoiling for a fight,” added Ben Hwang. “Whereas every other species allowed some cultural exchange, the Arat Kur refused to share any information about themselves. They gave us no clues as to their physiology, their biosphere, their interstellar distribution, or their civilization.”

    At the word “civilization,” Richard saw Elena frown. “El,” he prompted, “what is it? What have you deduced about the Arat Kur?”

    Elena shrugged. “I don’t have facts, only a hypothesis.” Silence and six pair of eyes invited her to amplify. “I believe the Arat Kur are primarily a subterranean species.”

    Gaspard leaned forward. “Why do you think this, Ms. Corcoran?”

    “Because of their idioms. The Dornaani translation technology is extremely sophisticated. Most pertinently, it uses semantic equivalences where it must, but transliterates axioms and colloquialisms that would make sense to the listener. Consider these two expressions from the remarks of the Arat Kur leader Hu’urs Khraam, who stepped in for their senior ambassador Zirsoo Kh’n when the political breach between the Arat Kur and the Custodians became imminent. Listen: ‘Your words dig tunnels in sand,’ and ‘your ultimatum leaves us no middle course: you force us to either scuttle back or shatter bedrock.’ In addition, consider the title of their polity–the Wholenest–and their apparent tendencies toward conservatism, bureaucratic proceduralism, and caution.”

    Gaspard leaned his chin upon his palm. “And why would these be traits of a subterranean species?”

    “Not just any subterranean species, but one which has achieved sapience. Consider the challenges they’d face in terms of population control, waste management, construction, water and food distribution. They can’t just fold up their tents and seek a better life over the next ridgeline. Indeed, they may not even have a word that combines the concept of being a ‘nomad’ with ‘sapience.’ All the particulars of a subterranean race’s existence would be dependent upon careful, logical, premeditated action.”

    Ben Hwang was nodding slowly. “And they would tend to perceive anything less than that as irresponsible, impulsive, childish.”

    “Or, possibly, insane.”

    Lemuel grinned wickedly. “Won’t they have fun with the Hkh’Rkh if they become allies.”

    Hwang frowned. “Just because the two species are dissimilar doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be an effective team. Each has what the other lacks; although Hkh’Rkh don’t evince the discipline and planning of the Arat Kur, they certainly seem to make up for it in daring and decisiveness.”

    Gaspard leaned back. “If correct, your theories suggest key features of the Arat Kurs’ basic psychology. That is crucial strategic data.”

    “Sure.” Opal stared into space as if she were thinking through the military and operational practicalities. “They’d probably be comfortable for long stays in space. No claustrophobia. Probably have comparatively poor eyesight: invariant light conditions and no need to scan a horizon. However, other senses might be enhanced. Also, I’ll bet they tend to build downward on the z axis, not upward, like us tree-dwellers. And I’d lay odds that their evolution did not include an aquatic phase, at least not as recently as ours. In fact, they might be highly hydrophobic. Underground, water becomes a real threat. Hit it while digging and you’ll kill hundreds, thousands. That also means they’re less likely to be seafaring at an early a point in their social evolution, therefore slower to spread to other landmasses. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they can’t swim, or maybe can’t even float–”

    Gaspard beamed. “Excellent. This is precisely what I came to hear: useful extrapolative information about a potential foe. It may all be hypothetical, but it is infinitely more than we had when I walked into this room.”

    “While we are on the topic of the Arat Kur,” murmured Thandla, “I have another piece of information I think you will appreciate.”

    The group looked at him, surprised–Gaspard most of all. “Dr. Thandla, have your research efforts been shifted to the Arat Kur? I was told that you were working on decoding the ‘child’s primer’ that the Slaasriithi gave us as a means of becoming acquainted with their race.”

    Sanjay’s answering grin was very broad. “Oh no, you are quite right. I am working on the Slaasriithi primer.”

    “So what does that have to do with the Arat Kur?”

    “Everything. You see, the Slaasriithi also used the primer to pass us encoded information about the Arat Kur.”

    Downing sat upright. “How much information, Dr. Thandla?”

    Thandla looked sideways at Downing. “It is nothing like a dossier, Mr. Downing. It is far simpler than that, almost a puzzle, if you like. Indeed, I only thought to look for it after Ms. Corcoran noticed the Slaasriithi ambassador’s marked emphasis upon the importance of the primer’s supplementary information.”

    Downing nodded. “And that is where you found the puzzle?”

    “Correct. It is subtle. And quite tricky. Which I think was entirely intentional.”

    Gaspard peered over folded hands. “What do you mean?”

    “I believe the data was hidden not only to protect the Slaasriithi from being accused of sharing information pertaining to another species. I think their message was also a test. If we did not take the time or were not clever enough to ‘win’ at that game–well, that served their purposes, too.”

    Elena smiled faintly. “So being able to find and decode the hidden message also meant that we were worthy of it.”

    Thandla nodded. “Yes, and this is what I found: a single graphic comprised of multiple overlays.” An insanely irregular 3-D polygon appeared on the room’s main display. It looked vaguely like a cubistic python digesting a pig.

    Hwang frowned. “What is that? Arat Kur genetics?”

    Thandla smiled. “No, it’s–”

    “Hot damn!” Lemuel Wasserman’s tone was triumphant. “That’s a 3-D map of interstellar space. Specifically, of the limits of Arat Kur space, judging from the buildup Sanjay’s given us. Which means that all the angles in that geodesic solid must be centered on stars, and all the connecting lines between each pair of angles must be proportional to the distances between the corresponding stars in Arat Kur space.”

    Downing frowned. “But if you don’t know the distances–”

    Lemuel shook his head and rode right over the top of Downing and Thandla’s attempt to resume his explanation. “You don’t need to know the distances. As long as the proportions are precise, that shape is like a fingerprint. And we know that, somewhere in there, is Sigma Draconis.”

    Thandla smiled. “Just so. And here’s the next layer of the puzzle.” Now, at each of the polygon’s articulating points and intersections, a bright marker winked into being. Similar bright markers faded in from the darkness within the interior of the shape. Then, the lines joining all those star-points that were relatively close to each other illuminated slightly. Thandla pointed to an orange-yellow point near the jaw of the python. “That’s Sigma Draconis. The angles of incidence and the ratio of the distances to each of the adjoining stars is a precise match.”

    Downing folded his hands to keep an eager quiver from becoming evident. “And you know what else those bright lines tell us.”

    Wasserman grunted as he started racing through calculations on his palmcomp. “Their maximum shift range. Which will be a value somewhere between the longest illuminated line and the shortest nonilluminated line. Which will be a pretty small numerical range.”

    “That conjecture assumes they can’t conduct deep space refueling from prepositioned caches,” Hwang pointed out.

    “True,” Lemuel agreed, still hunched over his palmcomp, “but that’s a reasonable assumption.”

    “Why?”

    “Well, first off, the Slaasriithi would anticipate that question, right? So they’d build a clue into the graphic that some of these lines were not ‘one-shift transits.’ Maybe put some kind of special marker at the midpoint, where the two shifts would be joined end to end. Secondly, we know that both Slaasriithi and Arat Kur technology are an order of magnitude behind the Dornaani and Ktor. So I think we can project that the Arat Kur shift drive, like ours, depends on stellar gravity wells to function as navigational bookends for each shift. You need to start at one star and end at the other.”

    Gaspard had folded his hands. “Mr. Wasserman, it is strategically crucial that we do not underestimate the Arat Kur. But your extrapolation–that they are unable to shift to deep space because we cannot–seems based upon a dangerous presupposition regarding the essential parity of their technology and our own.”

    Wasserman’s smile was wolfish. “Wrong–because even the Ktor, who are the second oldest members of the Accord and have had FTL capability for millennia, apparently, can’t pull off deep-space shifts, either.”

    Downing blinked. “How can you be sure, Lemuel?”

    Wasserman shrugged. “Simple logic. The Dornaani have assured us that they can prevent the Ktor from entering our space. But if the Ktor did have the capacity for deep space navigation, then they could get around the Dornaani by going from one prepositioned deep space fuel cache to another, and show up unannounced in our back yard. And if they did that, then we’d know the Dornaani are liars and wouldn’t support their interests anymore. So, if the Ktoran technology can’t handle deep space shift navigation, then we can be sure as hell that the less advanced races–like the Arat Kur–can’t pull it off, either.”

    Downing was determined not to let his admiration for Wasserman’s swift deduction show in his face. “So what can you tell us about their shift range?”

    “I’ve run all the stellar pairs that are joined by shift-lines. No distance is greater than nine point five light-years.”

    “And what is the shortest distance between any two stars that are not joined by a shift-line?”

    “Nine point seven. So their maximum shift range is someplace between nine point five and nine point seven light-years. And that confirms our suspicions that they’re operating at something like our level of technical ability. At least within the same order of magnitude.”

    “Equally important,” Downing mused, “it allows us to predict their preferred strategic option.”

    “What do you mean by that?” Gaspard asked.

    “I am referring to the places they are most likely to attack first.”

    “And given that shift range, what do you project as their most likely path of attack?”

    “They’d start with Barnard’s Star.”

    “And then?”

    Downing shrugged. “Why, Earth. Of course.”