Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

“And we wish to ally with such creatures?”

“Most urgently, I believe.”

“I require confirmation of that assertion.”

“If Yiithrii’ah’aash were here to provide it, I would never have contacted you myself. Consequently, your request for confirmation is, with apologies, illogical.” Not to say specious.

The answer was very long in coming. “That is true.” As Mriif’vaal waited, it felt as though the world breathed in and out deeply. Then: “Your counsel is prudent. I shall comply.”

* * *

Caine started awake, started again when he discovered Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster focused on him, only a meter away. It drew back. “I did not mean to frighten you, Caine Riordan. My apologies.”

“I wasn’t frightened. Not exactly.” Caine was suddenly and acutely conscious of still being in shorts and a tee shirt, the only recuperation clothing he had. Upon recovering consciousness two days ago, he had awakened to find himself lying stark naked in a strange amalgam of a bed, a couch, and an oversized sponge that smelled vaguely like citrus and bergamot. The Slaasriithi had been startled by his attempt to cover himself. His sudden, urgent motions without (for them) ready explanation led them to conclude he might be having a seizure of some sort. When Riordan groggily asked them for a hospital gown, much buzzing and sibilant speech ensued. After thirty minutes, they brought him an otherwise featureless black slate, which, when activated, displayed any number of gowns: wedding, formal, debutante ball. The attempt to find clothing had gone downhill from there, largely because the Slaasriithi, being unconcerned with personal coverings of any kind and quite unfamiliar with human sociology, presumed that all Earth garb was fundamentally a form of signification. To them, the concept of “modesty” was as foreign as the term “nudity” was redundant.

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster regarded him steadily. “I am most gratified and glad that your health returns to you. And to those of your fellows who were wounded.”

Caine nodded; Gaspard, the only human the Slaasriithi had permitted to see Riordan so far, had summarized the aftermath of the battle at the river. Eid had indeed fled to safety. Salunke had been knocked senseless when the explosion of a rifle grenade had blown down a rotting tree which fell upon her. Prior health concerns were also resolving: the wounds inflicted upon Hirano by the pirhannows were healing nicely, and it was speculated that she would not lose her eye. Hwang’s internal injuries had not been so severe that they were beyond the ability of his own body to heal.

But Trent Howarth was dead. No one knew what had happened, but the speed of his exit from Puller was reasonably suspected of having compromised his HALO rig. Qwara and Xue had been buried and Riordan himself had been excavated from beneath the bulk of the slain water-strider that had, it seemed, sacrificed itself to conceal him from the Ktor and the clones. The loss of Macmillan was not mentioned. Caine suspected that many simply wrote him off as one of the enemy dead. Riordan was of the opinion that he, too, was a fallen fellow-traveler; the only difference was that he had been a casualty from the time he had left Earth, his soul torn asunder when forced to choose between his daughter’s life and the fate of his planet. Caine wondered if he himself would have fared any better against that most terrible weapon of all: one’s own greatest loves turned against each other.

Gaspard had made many vicariously proud noises about the extraordinary underdog outcome of the engagement beside the river, pointing to the scant losses among the humans and the Slaasriithi. But Caine’s memories kept showing him very different pictures: Unsymaajh toppling from his downward swoop, Qwara pitching backward with only a fragment of her head remaining, Xue’s limp collapse, or the imagined bird’s-eye view of Trent falling, falling, falling. And unbidden, Keith Macmillan’s tortured face rose up as well.

Gaspard eventually noticed that his references to the “wondrous deliverance” Riordan had effected for the legation did not seem to cheer the recipient of those panegyrics. But when the ambassador inquired if something was amiss, Caine deflected the inquiry, citing exhaustion. During his command of insurgents in Indonesia, Riordan had learned not to share regrets and remorse except with select persons, in private places, and after some time had passed. And Etienne Gaspard was never going to be such a person, despite how well he had ultimately risen to the challenges of their disastrous journey.

Riordan’s reveries ended abruptly when Yiithrii’ah’aash shifted in his framed stool. “You are uncharacteristically silent, Caine Riordan. Do your require more rest? Should I return later?”

“No, no. I was just…thinking. I had not been informed that you were coming today, although Ambassador Gaspard informed me that you shifted in-system three days after our engagement with the — with our enemies.”

“With the Ktor,” Yiithrii’ah’aash corrected.

Caine was silent, considered: Yiithrii’ah’aash’s identification of the Ktor as their attackers — and as humans — was not a probe, not a conjecture to elicit either confirmation or denial. It was uttered as a statement of fact. So it didn’t seem as though that extremely classified piece of information was so classified anymore. Indeed, maybe it never had been for the Slaasriithi. “How long have you known? About the Ktor, I mean.”

“‘Know’ is too strong a word. We suspected, some of us strongly. We Slaasriithi were not alone in this. We intuit that similar suspicions reside in the Dornaani Collective, particularly amongst the Custodians.”

“Then why has the issue not been raised?”

“The Accord is an organization that rightly connects the assurance of privacy to the assurance of peace. Races that presume no rights to impede upon each other tend to be able to coexist.”

“But if it turns out that one of them is a liar, that same coexistence can splinter in a second. With grave consequences.”

Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster inclined slightly. “This is also true. As some of us have pointed out. However, over time, many Slaasriithi who suspected the true identity of the Ktor became hopeful that they had been mistaken, or that the Ktor had changed. It is difficult to imagine how so warlike and aggressive a subspecies could endure for so long without evolving into a less self-destructive social organism. But perhaps the more powerful inclination against seeking direct evidence of their biology arose from our own societies’ desire for tranquility. The question of Ktoran identity was a very unnerving topic, and full of dire consequences if it was revealed that they had misrepresented their nature, as has now occurred, here on Disparity. However, we did not foresee that the confirmation would take such a brutal shape, or how quickly it would follow the conclusion of the recent war. Yet perhaps this has been, as your idiom has it, a blessing in disguise.”

Riordan nodded. “But your suspicions of the true identity of the Ktor were hardly something you could ever fully forget.”

“Why do you say so, Caine Riordan?”

“Because, during the journey with W’th’vaathi, we had a conversation which indicated that your defense spores were tailor-made to work upon human biochemistry. That, in turn, suggests that we were among your most dangerous enemies in the distant past.

“But Earth wasn’t launching attacks against other species twenty millennia ago; it was still busy inventing fire. So the human threat which prompted you to devise these spores must have come from elsewhere. And then, when you joined the Dornaani in their Accord, there was already one other member race. A race that was both reclusive and secretive, but also aggressive, and for which no prior record existed: the Ktor. So you had to wonder: ‘is the Ktor claim that they are ammonia-based worms inside big metal tanks just a masquerade?’”