Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

Joe shook his head. “Except the pack allotment data is bad. Most of the kits were upgraded after the fleet left Earth. So a lot of them have outdated content descriptions. The only way to get an accurate inventory is by checking each one.”

“Can’t we get by with an estimate, instead of a precise accounting?”

Buckley looked away. “Only if you’re willing to accept a pretty wide margin of error.”

Caine couldn’t tell if he was hearing a tone of frustrated professionalism or innate anal retentiveness. “Joe, for now, take your best guess at the standard contents of the upgraded packs, and flag the result as ‘estimated.’”

Joe looked away, someplace between disappointed and sullen. “Yeah. Okay. Captain.” He started into the hab module.

“Joe?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t get stubborn and do something stupid.”

Joe’s voice was now thoroughly respectful, if no less disappointed. “I won’t, sir. I understand the situation.”

Caine almost believed that he did. “Good night, Joe.”

“Good night, sir.”

Caine sealed the hatch of the hab module behind them, watched Joe slouch away toward his stateroom. Given Yiithrii’ah’aash’s warnings about the dangers of moving around the Slaasriithi ship unescorted, Riordan assured himself that no one was stubborn — or stupid — enough to take that kind of risk just to sort out some cargo. Not even Joe Buckley.

* * *

Joe Buckley was that stupid.

Unfortunately, he was also suspiciously proficient at bypassing electronics. He avoided triggering the exit alarm slaved to the inner airlock door. He anticipated and deactivated the touch-sensitive sensors lining every surface within the airlock itself, did the same with the laser tripwires crisscrossing both the inner and outer hatch coamings, and overrode the lock and disabled the alarm on the outer hatch.

All of which Caine realized in the jarring moment between being awakened by the sound of a repetitive warning tone and the approach of pounding feet. Riordan was already pulling on his duty-suit by the time Ben Hwang, still in shorts and tee shirt, opened his door and panted: “Buckley’s biomonitor in the dispensary just started coding. And he’s not in his cabin.”

Damnit! I should have set a live guard, Caine hammered at himself as he yanked on his shoes and raced past Hwang. “Where does his transponder say he is?”

“He’s off our structure; somewhere on theirs.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake—

Bannor nearly collided with Caine as he charged out of his own stateroom. “What’s up?”

“Buckley. On the Slaasriithi hull. Alone. His biomonitor has spiked.”

“Just great. I’ll assemble a team.”

Caine held Bannor’s considerable bicep a moment. “No. You keep Wu and Tygg back here with you. You’re the CO in my absence, and you keep everyone except my response team here in this module. You pulled the firearms from the security packs?”

“As we discussed on the second day.”

“Excellent. You’re to keep them hidden unless someone tries to leave. Then you use them to enforce the no-trespass rule that Buckley ignored.”

“And now you’re going to ignore it, too? Bad plan, boss.”

“Yes, a bad plan. Problem is that doing nothing could be worse. We don’t know what Buckley has done to set off his biomonitor. He could have damaged the ship, hurt a Slaasriithi. He’s our — he’s my —responsibility. I’ve got to get him back. I’ll take Miles, Trent, Keith, and…and the guy from Peking, the vet who’s an EMT?”

“That would be me,” announced Xue Heng, who came striding up the hall. “I will get a med kit, Captain.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the hatch.”

“Keep your collarcom open, Caine,” Bannor called after him.

“We all will. No way to know what we’re going to run into. Also, get me an earcam. I want you to see what we’re seeing.”

“I’m on it.” Bannor peeled off into the hab mod’s combination dress-out compartment and ship’s locker.

Caine got two steps closer to the commons room when Gaspard’s voice emerged from his outsize quarters. “Captain Riordan, what has happened?” Caine told him. Gaspard nodded. “I will ready a team to follow yours just as soon as—”

“No. You will sit tight. This is a security matter and those are my orders. I’ve already spoken with Major Rulaine, who has instructions in case something happens to me. We discussed contingencies extensively on the trip out here. Now, I’ve got to go.”

Gaspard was still trying to say something, but Caine didn’t have time to listen. According to Ben’s distant, rolling updates, whatever was happening to Buckley was getting more severe. His heart rate was dangerously high and his bloodstream was awash with endorphins and a number of unknown substances.

By the time Riordan reached the commons room, Miles, Trent, and Keith were there. All had guns. Caine shook his head.

“But—” began Miles.

“No. We can’t. It’s not our ship. The Slaasriithi warned us against this. We can’t inflict any damage on them, or their ship, to save Buckley or even ourselves. Besides, guns are likely to exacerbate any misunderstandings that already exist among our hosts.” None of them looked happy as Xue arrived with a medkit and Bannor showed up with an earcam.

Caine snugged the loop of the tiny device over his ear and added, “Look, this is my screwup: it was on me to ensure that this didn’t happen. So although I asked you to report here, this is strictly a volunteer mission.”

Keith looked at the open hatch. “We’re wasting time.”

Trent smiled his big, easy smile. “After you, sir.”

Caine, feeling very much that he did not deserve the loyalty of such fine persons, led the way.

* * *

Halfway to the cargo mod, underneath the sounds of the team’s sprinting progress, Riordan heard other footfalls. He turned. Swift and stealthy, Dora Veriden was following them. Damn it, what’s she doing here? But no time to stop now: her choice, her fate.

As they rounded the second of the corridor’s slight bends, differences in speed began to stretch the group out. Trent — tall, athletic, in his twenties — was outpacing all of them. Miles and Xue, short legs pumping quickly, lost their early lead and started to drop behind, particularly Xue who, although a veteran, was not an active-duty SEAL like O’Garran. Keith had originally outpaced Caine slightly, but age and a heavy, if muscular, build were wearing him down. Meanwhile, Dora Veriden, despite a much later start, had almost caught up to Xue.

Trent looked back. Caine waved him on. The big Kiwi showed his real speed and started pulling far ahead.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” The voice from over Caine’s shoulder was guttural, strained: Dora Veriden.

Caine didn’t waste the breath on responding, saved it to try to keep pace with Trent.

Veriden uttered an annoyed grunt, and, with a surprising burst of speed, pulled ahead of Riordan and started closing on the Kiwi. Good God, is she enhanced? Does Gaspard know? Would he have brought along an illegal—?

Up ahead, Trent sprawled headlong just before the turn that led into the turning yard chamber. Veriden veered toward him — and went down an eyeblink later. They both tried to rise, but a mist seemed to be surging intermittently about them, battering them down. Damn it; what the hell —? “Are you seeing this, Ben? Any guesses?” Caine muttered into his collarcom.

No response. Not even a carrier tone. Probably jammed by the Slaasriithi ship’s on-board electronic countermeasures.

Caine veered toward the right-hand wall, the one that led into the turn, kept running while he tried to make out whatever had hit Trent and Dora. But as far as he could tell, they were unharmed, unmarked, except they were covered in what looked like cobwebs—