Charles Gannon - Raising Caine

Sukhinin folded his hands. His tone was low and respectful: a sure sign that a circumspect criticism was forthcoming. “So Mr. Wu’s inability to report this matter promptly is an operational — er, slip — that shall want redressing, yes?”

Downing’s smile was pinched. “Yes, Vassily. I’ll get fleet security to change the protocols.”

Caine pointed into the holotank. “You’re not the only one making changes. Look.”

The red mote denoting the Ktoran intruder had now begun to spawn a small swarm of ruby pinpricks.

“Drones.” Sukhinin drew in a long breath, then: “Perhaps they have come to fight, after all.”

“I don’t know,” murmured Downing as he rubbed a finger meditatively across his lower lip. “I still think the odds are so heavily stacked against them that—”

The alert-status lights flashed anew and the klaxons emitted a rapid, three-pulse warning.

Sukhinin, who was not intimately familiar with Commonwealth shipboard procedures during general quarters, started. “ Shto ? What is this? We are not already at battle-stations?”

Downing frowned. “We are. This is a special alert, reserved to call attention to an additional, unexpected development or threat.”

Caine saw two of the flatscreens over the holotank brighten. He stared, then pointed. “You mean something like that?” The two older men glanced up.

A dim, fragmentary shape — part flattened ellipse, part droop-winged delta — stood out, ghostlike, against the darkened half of the larger of Sigma Draconis’ two moons.

“Yes,” Downing said quietly, “I mean something like that.”

A fleetwide sitrep erupted from the room’s speakers: “Unidentified bogey at one-hundred-twelve kiloklicks, bearing 175 by 13, relative ecliptic. Assumed to be hostile. All helms: commence defensive evolution Echo Whiskey Seven Niner in sixty seconds measured from my mark. And…mark. All remote CICs are to activate InPic telepresence systems and prepare for—”

Asked over the torrent of orders, Sukhinin’s questions came out as dry-throated croaks: “What ship is that, and where did it come from?”

But as more of the mystery ship came into view, its outline now picked out by a ladar scan, Caine realized that he’d seen that shape before. In fact, it was identical to that of the first exosapient spacecraft that human eyes had ever beheld—

“That’s a Dornaani ship, not Ktoran,” Caine shouted. “Tell our people to stand down. It’s here to aid us, not attack us.”

Downing squinted at the image. “Yes, it’s rather like the one that carried us to meet our exosapient neighbors at Convocation. But still, it could be a trap. The Ktor are no doubt aware we are familiar with that Dornaani design, might logically use it to fool us, if only briefly, into thinking—”

“Then don’t trust your eyes,” Caine interrupted. “Get Admiral Silverstein or Admiral Halifax — or whoever you can reach — to run a spectroscopic check on that ship’s hull materials. And to analyze the drive emissions, while they’re at it. Lemuel Wasserman ran those same scans the first time we saw that ship, said that both yielded distinctive results. So if the comparison produces a match—”

Caine fell silent: Downing, convinced, had turned away, was already busy trying to get in touch with the fleet’s commanders.

Sukhinin looked over. He smiled faintly. “You are starting to sound like a genuine naval officer. So perhaps you were not sleeping during the classes they rushed you through at Barnard’s Star Two-C.”

Caine tried to smile, but couldn’t. He remembered the classrooms he had occupied for as many as twelve hours a day at the joint Commonwealth and Federation naval base — The Pearl — located beneath the uninhabitable surface of Barney Deucy. “I had great instructors,” was all he could say. Because the classrooms and instructors and the Pearl itself were just so much floating detritus now, the residual spoor of the surprise attack with which the Arat Kur had commenced their war upon humanity.

Downing looked up. “Analysis of the new ship’s hull is ongoing. There is no thrust signature, so no help there. The vessel is now emitting the transponder code reserved for the Accord’s Custodian vessels, although that proves nothing.”

“Well,” temporized Caine, “it does prove one of three things.”

Sukhinin’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And what would those be?”

Caine shrugged. “One, that it’s a Custodian ship. Or two, that the Ktor are emulating a Custodial vessel, which is so severe a violation of the Accords that they must be planning to renounce their membership, anyway. Or third, that someone else is trying to run a false-flag operation.”

Sukhinin glanced at Downing and added a shrug of his own. “Caine has a point. Well, three of them.”

“Probably so,” conceded Downing. “But new sensor data is pointing to the first alternative. Hull results match those from the Dornaani ship. Fleet sensor ops are still trying to puzzle out how it was lurking there the whole time and we didn’t see it.”

Caine remembered some of what Lemuel Wasserman had remarked about the initial readings he got from the Dornaani ship. “Wasserman speculated that their hull was made out of material that had variable physical properties, controllable by the operator. At first, our radar couldn’t register it. Attempts to get an active scan outline came back like a froth of random noise. But then all of a sudden, our readings cleared up. As if the Dornaani had hit the ‘off’ switch on a variable stealth device.”

Downing was nodding. “That’s what fleet is reporting now: the same ‘fade in’ effect, only much, much quicker. So, unless the Ktor have the same capabilities and have built a Q-ship that matches the Dornaani design, meter for meter and curve for curve, I rather suspect that our newcomers are—”

The room’s speakers reactivated, filled the room with a carrier tone. “Mr. Downing?” The accent could have belonged to a BBC newsreader.

“Yes?”

“This is Commander Mark Lucas, Royal Naval Intelligence aboard HMS Trafalgar , contacting you at the instruction of Admiral Lord Halifax, who sends his compliments. We are receiving signals from the Dornaani Custodial ship Olsloov . The Dornaani indicate that they are about to initiate a communiqué in which we may not participate, but in which we might have a keen interest.”

“Thank you, Commander. If I parse that correctly, our Custodian friends are inviting us to eavesdrop on a conversation they are about to have with the Ktoran intruders.”

“That’s the gist of it, sir. But I repeat: access is not being offered for our command staff, not even Admiral Lord Halifax. Just you . And Commander Riordan.”

“And Consul Sukhinin?”

An extended pause. “Yes, sir: the Custodians are pleased to approve Consul Sukhinin, as well.”

“Excellent. By the way, did the Custodian communicating with you identify him- or herself?”

“Yes, sir. The Dornaani’s name is Alnduul, Senior Mentor of the Custodians’ Terran Oversight Group.” A pause. “Is that significant, Mr. Downing?”

Downing turned toward Caine with a broad smile. Riordan reflected that it was probably a match for the one he felt growing on his own face. So, Alnduul is still in the vicinity. Thank God.

The British naval intelligence officer cleared his throat. “Mr. Downing? Did you read me? Am I to infer that this ‘Alnduul’ is a friend?”

“Sorry, Commander. Yes, I did read you. And yes, Alnduul is most assuredly a friend.”

About the best damned one we have among the exosapients , Caine added silently. Maybe the only one we have.