Trial by Fire - eARC (64 page)

Which continued in its dull orbit for seven more years.

But then, on January 12, 2120, Lieutenant Commander Ruth Altasso, turning away from Admiral Ira Silverstein, entered the Mousetrap code into the command computer on board the battle cruiser
USS Lincoln
. The
Lincoln
’s tightbeam commo array sent a single phased laser pulse to another derelict satellite in a fast polar orbit. Inside that dead object, new innards, also emplaced in 2113, fully awakened after their seven-year doze and performed their one function. A high-power omnidirectional broadcast of a set of routinely updated target parameters and a single command that, as understood by CellStar IV and its many derelict cousins, was simply “awaken.”

The new machinery in CellStar IV illuminated and sought to fulfill its purpose. It scanned the recently updated targeting parameters that had been sent by the triggering satellite, activated its sensors, and looked for a match. Sure enough, a new high-priority target—an enemy drone—was in very close range. It polled the secure frequencies for any priority overrides indicating that some other Mousetrap had sprung upon this as its target and, finding none, launched.

The missile that ripped out of CellStar IV’s frame, and thereby discorporated it, was almost all fuel and guidance. It aimed itself at the Arat Kur drone, which crowded gees to elude it.

But the little human missile was built for sprinting, and although the drone could have ultimately outpaced and left it far behind, it did not have enough of a thrust-spike to break away from the speedy, stern-chasing missile.

Which died doing what it had been created to do: destroy an enemy craft. As did the dozens of other Mousetrap missiles in the course of the next five minutes.

Presidential Palace, Jakarta, Earth

Darzhee Kut felt the wiggling sensation in his abdomen subside. “You are sure the first of the two submarine missiles went south of us?”

“Quite sure,” confirmed Urzueth Ragh. “It is following a very shallow arc and will hit soon. At least we were able to destroy the launching submarine with orbital munitions.”

“And the other launch?”

“Possibly converging on the same general target area. However, we could not intercept that submarine. It was too deep.”

“How deep?”

“It must have launched from almost two hundred meters and then dove immediately.”

Darzhee Kut looked at Yaargraukh, who had just returned to report that his logistical tasks were completed. “I am no expert in military technology, but—”

Yaargraukh bob-nodded. “Your conjecture is quite right. We will not be able to reliably interdict submarines that can fire from that depth. Lasers are essentially useless against submerged targets. And a kinetic warhead is insufficient: the projectile expends its kill-decisive energy in the first one hundred meters of immersion. Besides, the rail-gun response time is much longer. After target acquisition, the warheads must be fired and make their descent. During which time the human submarine is diving, and probably leaving behind decoys which it can remotely activate if we send down a smart munition.”

Urzueth’s voice buzzed with anxiety. “So what shall we do?”

“Continue to shoot down their other missiles and make submarines our new priority targets.”

Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “Can we not trust to the PDF systems to ward off their missiles?”

“That depends upon how many missiles make their terminal approach at the same instant, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam.” Urzueth Ragh waved a claw at the contact-cluttered map of Java.

“It also depends upon the range at which they launch,” added Yaargraukh. “Our concern for submarines was primarily due to the short flight times of their missiles. And those estimates presumed all our PDF systems to be functional. We are not in that enviable position now.”

Graagkhruud pitched his combined neck-head sharply. “Well, what of the special airphibian attack craft you Arat Kur designed for this purpose? Use them to drive off these submarines.”

Urzueth Ragh folded his claws together. “We can no longer do that, First Fist.”

“Why in rotting meat not?”

“Do you not recall? When our CAP missions were overtaxed, we withdrew our airphibian craft from submersible operations.”

“Well, if they came out of the water, can’t they go back in?”

“Not as they are currently configured. They are now airborne, carrying ordnance loads on external racks. They cannot make immediate transition to marine operations.”

“Well, land them and—”

“Apologies, First Fist, but you may recall that Surabaja airfield is inoperable and Soekarno and the other Jakartan fields are backlogged rearming ground-support aircraft and servicing interceptors to send out against the approaching human air vehicles. Which will arrive in less than half an hour, if they hold their present course and speed—”

On the map of Java, the white line tracing the progress of the first submarine-launched missile bloomed into a red globe, two hundred kilometers east-southeast of Jakarta.

A nuclear device had landed in Indonesia.

A moment later, the white line denoting the second missile stopped over Jakarta, then vanished. Darzhee Kut held his breath as Urzueth made his report. “The two submarine missiles each discharged three independent warheads. The red globe indicates that the missile which flew inland made a ground or low airburst strike. The missile launched at Jakarta does not appear on the display because it airbursted high. It deployed three one-megaton warheads.”

“An EMP strike,” Caine Riordan commented, confirming what most of then had already conjectured.

“So it appears. This eliminated almost half of our remaining PDF arrays. The missile that went inland deployed three independent, high-speed two-hundred-kiloton devices, which detonated in an overlapping trefoil pattern.”

First Voice stepped toward the map, toward the fading red ball. “Where is that?” His voice sounded like he already knew the answer.

Hu’urs Khraam closed his lids and settled into his couch. “We have been fools.”

“It can’t be—” started Darzhee Kut.

“It’s the mass driver.”

Darzhee, like the rest of them, all turned to look at Caine.

Graagkhruud took a long step toward the human, claws ready. “You knew—?”

“Of course I didn’t know,” Caine replied calmly. Darzhee Kut admired Riordan’s ability to sit unmoving before the rush of the immense predator. “But it’s obvious now, isn’t it?”

First Voice sounded careful, wary of stepping into a trap made of words. “What is obvious, Riordan?”

“That the mass driver didn’t matter. The object you were so convinced you were holding hostage? And that we
will
drop a nuke on our own land, our own people.”

Yaargraukh’s tongue came out briefly.

“There is humor in this, Advocate?”

“Not the kind that elicits laughter, First Voice, but that shows us our own folly. They planned this from the first, my suzerain.”

“Planned what?” asked Graagkhruud.

But First Voice was nodding. “Yaargraukh is right. This is akin to the human trickery at Barnard’s Star. There, we fought and saw the outcome we expected. Here, we studied Earth for a target and found the mass driver on the kind of island we wanted and yet distant from the great powers. It was the perfect choice.”

“Too perfect,” agreed Hu’urs Khraam. “It was bait in a trap. Now we feel the jaws of the trap closing about us. Did you know of this ruse, Riordan?”

“No.”

Graagkhruud looked around at the calm faces that listened to the human. “And you believe him? Stab this creature and it will bleed lies. It is made up of them.”

First Voice waved him down. “Be still, First Fist. Riordan’s case is not so clear as you would draw it. And if he knew of this ruse, why did he return here several days ago—to commit suicide?”

“But—”

“And how could he know where he would be housed, upon his arrival planetside? His species’ megacorporate traitors might have chosen to hold him at their mass driver facility. Had they done so, what would have become of him in this last minute?”

Graagkhruud, rumbling unpleasantly, turned his attention to the map of Java.

Hu’urs Khraam rose from his couch. “We must reassess our situation.”

CoDevCo security compound, Jakarta, Earth

“Mr. Astor-Smath?”

“Yes, Eimi?”

“You have a visitor.”

Astor-Smath stubbed out his cigarette, pushed the ashtray and lighter off to one side, and looked up from his spreadsheets long enough to inspect his assistant’s waifish lines. “Is the visitor expected?”

“He says he does not have an appointment, but that he is always expected. And sir, I think he has either traveled to get here, or is leaving immediately after speaking with you: he has his luggage with him.”

Ah. Him. “Show our guest in, Eimi. And you may leave for lunch now. Better yet, take the rest of the day.”

“You mean I should—leave, Mr. Astor-Smath?” She glanced about nervously: even here, in the fortified bowels of CoDevCo’s Indonesian Bank complex, the sound and vibration of rippling explosions were discernible.

“Yes, Eimi. You’re done for the day. And don’t worry about this foolish little uprising. It’s a tantrum, not a war. Leave whenever you wish.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Astor-Smath.” Eimi Singh rubbed one long, slender arm with the opposite long, slender hand. “But I did not choose to pay the premium for a reserved room in the bank complex. I only have my own apartment.” She looked beyond the walls toward the streets of Jakarta. “In the city.”

“Oh? I didn’t know,” Astor-Smath lied.

Eimi nodded, looked away, did not move.

“I can see you’re scared,” he said. “Don’t worry. You can stay at my apartment, here in the complex.”

“Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t—”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be an inconvenience. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Eimi leaned forward, eyes bright. “Really? Thank you, Mr. Astor-Smath, thank you so much. It is very frightening out there, today. I am sure you are right about the uprising just being a nuisance—but it worries me. I suppose I’m a little foolish about such things.”

“That’s quite all right, Eimi. Now show our guest in.”

“Yes, Mr. Astor-Smath.” She turned and fairly skipped from the room, grateful and relieved.

Astor-Smath watched her go, noticed the high, boyish buttocks. Later tonight, they would indeed work something out. Astor-Smath was quite familiar with this kind of subtly needy girl-child. In his experience, they were invariably uncertain about their identity, wearing their sexuality in a fashion at once conspicuous and unsure, believing that they were still poised on the brink of discovering themselves like a confused chrysalis-in-waiting. But in actuality they were ingenuous rabbits, awaiting the power and surety of a predator’s jaws. That is the meaning, the definition, that they were truly waiting for. And he, Astor-Smath, who had defined so many such lives in just that way, gladly anticipated giving Eimi the gift of self-knowledge that came to all prey animals eventually: that they lived to become the fodder of predators.

Astor-Smath tried to reimmerse himself in the spreadsheet he had been studying, but could not. Knowing who would soon come through the door, he found it difficult to concentrate. He wasn’t sure whether it was the importance or the enigma of the relationship which unsettled him more, but he couldn’t feign his usual
sang froid
, not even to himself. He rose, went to the antique mahogany credenza to reclaim the package he had put by a week ago, in the anticipation of his visitor’s next appearance.

When he turned around, the tall man was there, a briefcase hanging in his grasp. He had not made a sound and he was already five meters into Astor-Smath’s cavernous, marble-floored office. Beneath the man’s ubiquitous rimless sunglasses, his mouth was slightly bent. A hint of a smile. Perhaps.

Astor-Smath came around his desk, one hand extended, one hand cradling the package, trying to find a smile that was broad and ingratiating yet not obsequious. “My friend, if you had let me know you were coming—”

“Circumstances made that impossible, Mr. Astor-Smath.” The visitor looked down, first at Astor-Smath’s extended hand, then at the proffered package. “What is that?” he asked, his sunglasses reflecting the plain brown wrapper.

“A gift.” Astor-Smath pushed it toward the man, detected—as he always did—a faintly musky and yet medicinal smell about him.

The man did not look down at the package he now cradled under one arm. “What kind of gift?”

“Olives. Of course.”

The man finally smiled. It signaled pleasure, but Astor-Smath found it oddly devoid of gratitude. Putting down his briefcase, the man had extracted a plain ceramic jar from the bag. “Greek, black?”

“Spanish, green.”

“Ahh. Just as good.” He put the ceramic jar back in the bag. “And I come with something for you, as well.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Astor-Smath managed to keep his voice calm, his eyes half-lidded, his libido in check. Despite the desertion of his clones, was the uprising now quelled, the occupation secure? Enough so that Earth’s new masters would start announcing governorships?

But the tall man’s response disabused him of that brief fantasy. “I have with me a recording of a most interesting conversation.”

“Oh? Show it to me.”

“I shall.”

The tall man aimed his palmcomp at the five-meter screen of Astor-Smath’s commplex, pressed a stud. The sudden, grainy picture revealed an Arat Kur speaking with a human. Astor-Smath was unable to distinguish one Arat Kur from another, but he recognized the human immediately: Caine Riordan. Who, nodding, continued an apparently ongoing conversation. “And so you plan to attack Indonesia. May I ask why?”

The Arat Kur’s claws rose, signaling imminent elucidation. “Is it not obvious? It is at a great enough remove from your major powers that they will not feel so directly threatened and thus might listen long enough to hear our terms for withdrawal. For I assure you, Caine Riordan, that we do not wish to remain on your planet.”

Riordan seemed blandly skeptical. “There are many places more remote from the great powers of my world than Indonesia. Why there?”