Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

“ Thank you?” Well, there’s a first time for everything.

“But I will learn the details of our situation with the rest of the group.”

Caine felt the others looking at him. They had discussed the various surprises, all unpleasant, that Gaspard might spring upon them when he was reanimated, but this had not been among the expectations. “Ambassador,” Caine said slowly, “perhaps I was not clear. There are a few official conjectures, based on classified analysis, which cannot be shared with the group. Only I, you, Dr. Hwang, and Major Rulaine have sufficient clearance levels to access them.”

Gaspard seemed entirely unimpressed by this information. “Are these speculations of a biological or political nature?”

Riordan shook his head. “When dealing with first contact, the line between physical differences and social differences from human norm is often murky. Behavior follows biology the way form follows function.”

Gaspard smiled, nodded. “I keep forgetting you were a writer. An excellent point excellently presented. But I deduce that these speculations are essentially strategic in nature, and that their purpose is to inform my objectives when we come to the stage of negotiation, yes?”

“Well, yes.”

“Very well. Then I shall hear these after the unclassified briefing materials have been shared with the rest of the legation. Now, let us rouse the others.”

Two days later, once Riordan and the rest of the legation had gathered for their first collective meal in the overcrowded main room, Gaspard rose to formally announce where they were bound and why: a necessity, since many of the legation’s members had been loaded into their cryocells before leaving Earth. Expecting to be roused for either the counterattack on or policing of Sigma Draconis, they were startled to find those scenarios already outdated. Adapting to the new one took a little getting used to.

After being handed some notes by his administrative assistant Dieter, Gaspard segued into introducing Morgan Lymbery, who had originally been sent along to seek out and investigate technologies that the Arat Kur might not have risked bringing to Earth. His naval designs had made him the war’s least known and most decisive innovator, and Gaspard apparently wanted the gathering to understand that they had a genuine, if unfamiliar, celebrity in their midst.

Caine had taken a seat to the side of the impromptu head table, an unobtrusive spot from which to survey the entirety of the legation. Some predictable professional affinities were already emerging. Karam had made the acquaintance of the mission’s two other designated pilots: Qin Lijuan, a much-decorated Chinese sloop jockey who had been one of the few to survive the Second Battle of Jupiter, and a Russian veteran by the improbable name of Raskolnikov who was renowned for his ability to fly without instruments in the most adverse conditions. Another such pairing had occurred in the form of NCO bonding between ex-tunnel rat chief Miles O’Garran and towering Kiwi master sergeant Trent Howarth, who was as uniformly amiable as he was silent.

Gaspard finished eulogizing the increasingly uncomfortable Morgan Lymbery and introduced another member of the senior staff, the multiply-accomplished Dr. Melissa Sleeman.

As Gaspard began his overwrought panegyrics, Bannor found a chair next to Caine’s. SAAS Lieutenant Christopher “Tygg” Robin trailed after, eventually perching on a footrest, his knees almost as high as his chin. He looked like a naughty adult who’d been punished with a “time-out.”

“Hello, Caine,” Tygg whispered. “Glad to catch up with you finally. So why isn’t Trevor on this mission? Is he back home minding—?”

A sharp look may have shot from Bannor to Tygg. Who abruptly shut up.

Caine frowned. “Is Trevor ‘at home minding’ what?”

“Minding the store?” finished Tygg, almost smoothly. “I figured Mr. Downing might make him chief overseer of IRIS’ strike teams.”

The response was reasonable, but it still had the sound of a hasty invention to replace whatever the Aussie had planned to ask before Bannor shot him the look. “You sure that’s the question you meant to ask, Tygg?”

But Tygg’s eyes were no longer on Caine; they were focused over and past his shoulder. “Who’s that?” he muttered.

Caine turned. Gaspard was concluding Sleeman’s introduction. “That’s Melissa Sleeman. The Wasserman replacement.”

Bannor raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I didn’t read that in the dossier.”

“It’s there between the lines.” Caine dug around for the last chunks of meat in his almost empty bowl of excellent lamb madras. “When the Earthside brain trust realized they had to call Wasserman back home, they started casting around for another all-purpose scientific genius. That’s who they came up with.”

“Well, she sure is easier on the eyes,” Bannor commented quietly. “Probably more useful to a mission like this one, too.”

Caine nodded. “She might not have Wasserman’s depth of insight, but she’s less narrowly focused — a genuine broad-spectrum expert.” He noticed that Tygg was still staring at Sleeman, whose features were a dramatic blend of her Indonesian, Dutch, Canadian, and Sierra Leonian heritage. “Lieutenant Robin, you seem very impressed by Dr. Sleeman’s, er, credentials.”

Tygg nodded. He might or might not have heard what Caine had said.

Bannor pointed across the room with a flick of his eyes. “Well, there’s a familiar face.”

Caine did not recognize anyone. “Who? The big guy hunkered over his curry?”

Bannor nodded. “Yeah. Keith Macmillan. One of the Commonwealth strikers who was providing security for Downing’s classified forward ops center in Perth at the end of the war. Saw him there after we rotated out of Jakarta.”

Caine shrugged. “News to me. I have no idea about what happened after Shethkador shot me in the back with his bogus mechanical arm.”

“Didn’t Downing catch you up on what followed?”

Caine shook his head. “Nope. When they yanked me out of cold sleep in Sigma Draconis, I had one night to get myself briefed on why the Arat Kur weren’t talking to us and why we might have to slaughter them all with a plague. A day later, the Ktor showed up. No time for small talk.”

“Ah. Right.” Bannor returned his attention to his curry. And he avoided Caine’s inquisitive gaze.

Caine kept looking at him, and Bannor kept on not noticing. Now what the hell was that about? That’s more chatty than Bannor has been since, well, since I’ve known him. Why is he—?

Gaspard gestured toward Riordan. “And there, to my distant right, is Caine Riordan, now Captain Riordan, who needs no introduction. He is my deputy on this mission and in charge of security. So, if you are not feeling secure, I commend you to his services.” The weak witticism received a few equally weak laughs, but Gaspard was obviously eager to move on. Caine simply smiled, waved, and went back to his meal. No reason to extend the formalities. He’d already been in touch with half of the new team members. He’d get to the other half tomorrow.

Gaspard began to enumerate Ben Hwang’s many scientific achievements, which was probably unnecessary, since the high points of his career both before and after his Nobel prize were common knowledge.

Tygg leaned over toward Caine. “Hsst. You’ve got an admirer.”

Riordan, surprised, glanced up just in time to see Dora Veriden looking away from him, quite bored. “That’s Ms. Veriden, Gaspard’s private security.”

“More like bodyguard,” grumbled Bannor.