Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

Olsirkos fought down his color once again. “You mistake our role in your late conflict with the Arat Kur and the Hkh’Rkh. We were not their allies. We merely shared common interests and provided advisors. Furthermore, the forces you claim to be invaders were invited planetside by humans — by leaders of some of your most powerful megacorporations, if the reports are accurate.”

“The reports are accurate, but evidently incomplete. The megacorporations have no standing before the Accord, and no power to speak for the people of Earth or the broader Terran Republic. And besides, I don’t recall anyone inviting the Arat Kur and Hkh’Rkh to mount their initial sneak attack upon our naval base at Barnard’s Star. As to the matter of whether or not you were their allies, I can only report that they claim you were.”

“Yes, the endless war of words.” Olsirkos smiled. “We have not declared war upon Earth, and only had advisors present, but you list us along with the actual invaders, who then attempt to embroil us in the hostilities by claiming an alliance that does not exist. Ask them to produce any such official documents or treaties to which we were party with them. You will find none.”

And why am I not surprised in the least? “Whatever circumstances are claimed by our respective governments, Tlerek Srin Shethkador committed several crimes while upon Earth — and since, while in our custody.”

“Ah, you are referring to his attacks upon yourself and others?”

“Others?” Damn, I wish I had the time to— “Those are among the charges, yes.”

“And perhaps they were valid. But they ceased to matter when your World Confederation accepted him as our official representative and ambassador, who then traveled to this system with your fleet. As I understand it, any alleged transgressions he may have committed before that appointment were, of necessity, pardoned. He could hardly be both a felon and an ambassador, after all.” Olsirkos’ smile was that of a man twisting a knife in an old enemy’s heart or, in this case, twisting the robotic arm Shethkador had fired into Caine’s back in Jakarta.

“This,” Caine commented after a sigh, “has been a diverting conversation, but it grows tiresome. I take it you wish to have the Srin returned promptly?” He waggled the papers in his hand.

Olsirkos’ smile faded. “Yes, I do.” Without allowing his gaze to drift from Caine’s eyes, he snapped an order at a gray-suited crewman to his left. “You, autarchon, fetch the documents.”

The gray-suited figure swung around, his eyes avoiding both Caine’s and Olsirkos’, took the papers gently but firmly from Riordan’s hands and transferred them to his superior with a slight bow of his head and bend at his waist.

“Return to your post,” Olsirkos muttered as he glanced down at the sheaf of documents and then held it back over his shoulder. “Intendant Hekarem, see that these are in order.”

One of the nearby officers fairly leaped forward, took the papers out of Olsirkos Shethkador-vah’s hand with an excess of care, and retreated to peruse them.

Caine returned Olsirkos’ stare and discovered that he did not have to feign boredom anymore. The dominance duel that had started as riveting had become repetitive, then pointless, and now, childish. But damn it, I can’t look away if he doesn’t do so first, so I guess I just have to—

Olsirkos looked past Caine toward O’Garran. His smile transformed into a smirk. “Pitiful,” he said.

Oh, no. Little Guy, don’t you dare—

Miles “Little Guy” O’Garran’s retaliatory inquiry was quiet, controlled, and full of rage. “Would you care to clarify?”

Damn it, O’Garran, I told you: we’re not here to start a war; we’re here to end one. Caine cleared his throat for Olsirkos’ attention. “It may not be inconsiderate to openly comment upon a stranger in Ktoran culture,” Caine observed in a neutral voice. “It is considered offensive in ours.”

“Oh, I am familiar enough with your cultures. But you are on our ship, and we will not put our conventions aside for your comfort.”

“I was not asking you to.” Caine reflected that this first contact — with another branch of humanity — was, in every conceivable way, by far the most unpleasant one he’d ever experienced. “I was simply explaining my companion’s reaction.”

“Yes. I am aware. Frankly, I was not staring, but examining your servitor. I find it most amusing that you elect to bring the inferiorities of your culture wherever you go. Whether out of blindness or perverse pride, I cannot discern.”

“The inferiorities of our culture?”

“But of course.” Olsirkos gestured toward O’Garran as if he were a disappointing show dog. “The physical insufficiencies of this servitor alone prove my point. We would never tolerate a genetic deficiency that is so obvious, and so easily corrected. And if we did, we would never make such a specimen a warrior.”

O’Garran made no sound, which worried Caine more than if he had. “You know,” Riordan said with a mirthless smile, “we have a saying on Earth about combat capability: that it’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” And then, over his shoulder: “Sorry, Miles; no offense intended.”

Caine could hear the grin in Little Guy’s response. “Absolutely none taken, sir. And oo-rah.”

Olsirkos matched Caine’s stare, smiled when he saw he was not going to win that dominance contest. “Yes, I have heard that inane axiom. All other physical parameters being equal, size is decisive.”

“Oh, you must mean as demonstrated by the Hkh’Rkh, who average almost two and a half meters? But I wonder if the example of the Hkh’Rkh adequately supports your implication that Chief O’Garran is an inferior warfighter. Indeed, the accuracy of that claim could have been assessed during the recent fighting in Jakarta.” Riordan shrugged. “But it would be difficult to gather the relevant Hkh’Rkhs’ opinions on that matter.”

“Why so?”

“Because they’re all dead. Chief O’Garran was not in a position to take any prisoners that day.”

Olsirkos blinked. And Caine responded with a widened smile. Gotcha, asshole. “May I presume that our credentials have been verified and that the initial pleasantries are over?”

“They are indeed over.” Olsirkos’ stare, now openly hostile, reminded Caine of a chained attack dog straining at its collar. “The papers are in order. Return the Srin at once.”

Caine folded his hands. “This will go more quickly if you observe proper diplomatic, or even military, etiquette. Such as: since we’re not under your command, you will secure our cooperation by making requests, not by giving orders.” And while your enraged eyeballs try to jump right out of your head, I will ignore you and survey my surroundings patiently — and so, observe what I can for the technical intelligence people.

Affecting disinterested waiting, Riordan could not change the angle of his head too dramatically. He had, at most, one hundred forty degrees of frontal exposure that he could take in, and could not be noticed looking in any one place or at any one object too long.

The most striking item was the crew itself. Its physiognomies and demographics were markedly distinct from any human ship Caine had ever seen or heard about, in any era. The majority of the gray-uniformed drones, one of whom Olsirkos had labeled an “autarchon,” were not merely thin, but spindly: probably born, bred, and employed in zero or partial gee. Their tasks — running various ship’s systems — were logical extensions of that hypothesis: they were performing duties they’d learned growing up on a space station, a moon, or a ship.