Caines mutiny, p.23
Caine's Mutiny, page 23
part #4 of Caine Riordan Series
The Silent Voice’s explanation, while careful, seemed hobbled more by uncertainty than prevarication, almost as if the missile launch had taken him by surprise, as well. But for now, that was immaterial. Yaargraukh had to make the scions uncomfortable with the scenario, enough so that they would demand more knowledge before taking action. “And are these batteries furnished with multiple missiles per launcher? And, now that we know of its existence, can we access the satellite’s autonomous control system to activate it for our militia’s tactical needs as we—?”
O’akhdruh’s voice sounded brittle. He was feeling weary, cornered, or both. “I am unfamiliar with the details of these systems and have no further information on them.” That answer confirmed that either O’akhdruh was either suspiciously ignorant or lying. “Your questions are valid, but we no longer have the luxury of time to seek answers that are not available to us. We must be comforted by our knowledge that the enemy has encountered these missiles and therefore must expect he will encounter more.”
Yet isn’t it strangely convenient that our one remaining non-geosynchronous satellite just happened to be at that brief part of its orbital track to both detect the approach of the human ships and initiate an attack against them? One glance at O’akhdruh’s smooth and expressionless snout told Yaargraukh that the patriarch had thought the same thing, but was unwilling to reveal or voice it. Such improbably serendipitous help could not be admitted without potentially distracting, and thus derailing, the rush to decisive action that O’akhdruh meant to put in motion before he was placed atop his own pyre. Accordingly, he was determined to eliminate any further obstructions. His sustained stare at Yaargraukh was both a mute testimony to that resolve and a pointed warning.
Studying the increasingly ashen Silent Voice, Yaargraukh understood more, still: that in following this course, O’akhdruh was preserving not only the authority, but the continuity, of his line. When the campaign against Earth commenced, Jrekhalkar had still been too young to go to war. The sire’s second scion had not trained in military matters, not even in the militia; his focus had been the halbardiche and attaining the physical prowess to wield it decisively. It had been the logical course for him. His elder brother had both the birthrank and innate talents to succeed their father as Voice. Accordingly, it fell to Jrekhalkar to be the Fist. Besides, although no one would tell him so, he was roundly considered too rash to go to war unless it was one in which the engagements were ritually limited to melee weapons.
But now, with his Clan’s Sire and First Scion dead, how long would it be before some shrewd scion of another Family baited Jrekhalkar into issuing a Challenge over some trifling slight? And since the Challenged has the right to choose the means whereby the Challenge is settled, Jrekhalkar could be compelled to undertake any one of a number of mental competitions at which he was unlikely to win—and so, lose all his property and all control over the fate of his own family.
But if O’akhdruh was able to emphasize that it had been Jrekhalkar’s sense of communal duty and foresight that had compelled him to awaken, and thus sacrifice, his father in order to acquire the weapons necessary to repel the human invaders of Turkh’saar, he would be a popular and honored leader. Wiser heads among the scions would offer him their counsel out of gratitude and respect, and so protect him from his own rash excesses.
It was a masterful ploy and necessary, since Jrekhalkar had not been allowed to make a name for himself in the invasion of Earth, a lack that the Second Scion obviously felt keenly. After all, a Hkh’Rkh who does not go to his species’ first great interstellar war will not be remembered in the hero-lays of his generation. Unless, that is, he accrued renown and regard as the savior of his race’s one productive colony world: that he alone had met and decisively defeated the humans in battle, and in so doing, redeemed the honor the Hkh’Rkh had lost at Earth.
And so, O’akhdruh had no choice but to hold fast to the claim that this was an invasion, even if he knew it to be otherwise. The grim set of his eyes told Yaargraukh that the evidence placed before him had, in fact, brought the Silent Voice around to the former-Advocate’s own belief: that these humans were at most distaff raiders, and were possibly something even less threatening and more unusual than that.
Jrekhalkar had come to stand beside his sire, who seemed to shrink into more stooped decrepitude. O’akhdruh looked around the circle one final time, his eyes ending upon Yaargraukh, unblinking. “I presume all questions have been asked and that preparation and training may commence.”
With the rest of the scions, Yaargraukh bowed slightly from the waist, his tail in contact with the floor as the ritual show of respect required.
When he looked up, the Silent Voice was doddering back to the side of his eldest’s bier. Almost as an afterthought, he spoke over his palsied right shoulder. “Make haste. You shall be judged by how the days to come reveal your honor and your bravery—or not.”
Filing out with the others, Yaargraukh could not shake the impression that the now truly Silenced Voice had meant that warning especially for him.
Chapter Twenty-One
CLOSE ORBIT, BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
Idrem turned away from the sensors and discovered that Brenlor was nodding. “This was well done, Idrem. We could hardly have created a more disastrous situation for the Aboriginals than if we had been physically present ourselves.”
Idrem elected not to point out that, because of his sensor artistry, they virtually had been there. “The Hkh’Rkh show no signs of doubting that the signals came from one of their own satellites. They are primed to rush headlong into battle.”
Brenlor only leaned forward slightly, but was unable to conceal his eagerness. “What else can we do to push events along faster?”
Idrem considered. What was the best way to show Brenlor how foolish that request was without saying so openly? “As the Progenitors remind us, profound correction is best reserved for profound errors. In this case, the more we intervene, the more the Hkh’Rkh are likely to begin questioning the source of these ‘fortuitous’ relays from their supposed satellite.”
Brenlor started. “You said that the methods you used would ensure that the Hkh’Rkh remained unsuspecting of our interference.”
“And so they will. The relay which our remote-operated orbital vehicle emplaced on their disabled satellite mimics the signals and results they would expect to see from their own platform. However, it might arouse suspicion if we activated the system too frequently, or at times too perfectly convenient to their needs. They would begin to wonder why a supposedly dead satellite not only reawoke when an intruder passed it, but then continued to provide extraordinarily timely updates on their adversaries’ equipment, numbers, and deployment.
“It may, therefore, be best not to overuse this asset, but hold it—along with our other options—in reserve, to be used only when clearly needed.”
“Yes, there is wisdom in that,” Brenlor relented, frowning as if he were a child whose favorite toy had been snatched away. “Just so long as we can reliably monitor the Hkh’Rkh communications.”
“We can, and shall do so most successfully if we remain unobtrusive. We will even have some ability to monitor the Aboriginals’ communications with the Slaasriithi, thanks to the nanosensors we seeded into low orbit months ago. The Terrans have false confidence in the security of their lascom sensors, a conviction of which we should not disabuse them.”
Brenlor’s frown was still present, although diminished. “Unfortunately, the nanosensors are so broadly dispersed that they will only intercept signals occasionally and partially.”
“At first, perhaps, but given time, they will swarm to provide amplified coverage along active comm beam telemetries. We can at least expect to detect any lascom communications that pass through the low and medium orbit regimes of Turkh’saar.”
Brenlor shrugged. “I find it hard to believe that the Aboriginals remain unsuspecting of our ability to tap into their lascoms.”
“Their understanding of the relevant physical theory is extremely rudimentary. They have yet to discern that microgram particles can form a phased array to pick up lascom diffusions, or detect back- or side-scatter from particles that lay along the beam’s trajectory.”
Brenlor pushed against the backrest of the conn, as if trying to shove it away. “And everything else is in readiness?”
Idrem nodded carefully. “Red Lurker is impossible to detect now that we are housed within this shell of a derelict Hkh’Rkh hull. Our railgun is preranged on the anticipated area of engagement. We have firing solutions for all grid coordinates.”
Brenlor frowned. “The flight time of the railgun projectiles concerns me. The Aboriginals still have two landers in a nearby orbital track. They will detect our fires, track back to the source.”
“Be at ease regarding that variable. They will have to bring down all the landers to effect extraction, which will be a political failure if it is not complete. Consequently, the Aboriginals will no longer have any craft in orbit when we commence our intervention. And they will be stuck at the bottom of Turkh’saar’s gravity well.”
Brenlor closed his eyes, breathed out slowly. “Yes, I remember the logic—and your and Nezdeh’s careful repetitions of it. I am merely—eager to begin.” He glanced up, a smile hinting at the left corner of his mouth. “I may not have the patience for statecraft, but I am not unobservant: either of the situations in which we find ourselves, or of the value of my best counselors. Idrem.”
Idrem was not frequently surprised, and having schooled himself to readily mask any reaction with a look of somber reflection, he did not betray his momentary disorientation. “I am honored to be thought of so highly by you, Brenlor Srin Perekmeres.”
Brenlor stood, stretching his limbs. “As well you should be.” The same grin still played at the corners of his mouth. He stared around the bridge at the humans who were crewing Red Lurker. “These Aboriginals have learned their duties well enough.”
“You have been exacting in their drills.”
“Yes.” He stretched again, seemed to be trying to twist out a kink in his neck. “Speaking of drills, we have not refreshed our combat skills since departing the Arbitrage. We should do so.”
“Now?”
Brenlor glanced around the quiet bridge. Nothing had changed in hours, and it was unlikely that anything would for many hours more. “When better? Besides, if I sit here waiting for each uneventful minute to creep into the next, I might be tempted to use one of these Aboriginals for a sparring target.”
Idrem elected to deliver his response in a deadpan. “Brenlor, you know very well that we cannot afford to dispose of a body. Opening the airlock could give away our position.”
Brenlor’s grin finally surfaced; it was both feral and wistful. “Always the cautious one, eh, Idrem? Come, let us go.”
* * *
Idrem twisted sharply, just in time to dodge Brenlor’s long, flying kick. The heavier Ktor shot past the rangier one, heading for the aft bulkhead.
Just before reaching it, the Srin tumbled—like a swimmer executing a racing turn—and pushed off from it, heading back at Idrem.
Who was no longer where he had been. Anticipating the fast reversal, Idrem had used his twist to catch at the wall and tug himself sharply toward the deck and forward. In consequence, as Brenlor came rocketing off the aft bulkhead, reorienting out of his tumble, Idrem was passing under him. He jabbed the practice dagger into the torso that flashed overhead.
The lights in the compartment flashed red. “Mortal,” intoned the hand-to-hand subroutine that was monitoring their practice.
Brenlor’s head jerked around. Idrem saw the Srin’s trademark temper flash hot, before he groomed it back to mere self-annoyance. “You are crafty, Idrem.”
“I am fortunate, my Srin.”
Brenlor stopped himself against the forward bulkhead. “Do not patronize me. Yes, I anger easily, but I am not a child.”
Idrem managed to look somberly thoughtful yet again. It was odd that Brenlor should be so willing to admit personal failings. “A child could not own their anger as you do, Srin.” A refreshing truth. “I did not intend to patronize you.” A flat out lie. “However, while I may have a passable command of the tactics of zero-gee melee, I am distinctly your inferior when it comes to the correct reflexes. So I maintain that, thus far, I have been fortunate.” A careful mix of truth and deference.
“Your tongue is as smooth as a serpent’s, Idrem,” Brenlor said without any detectable heat. “I count that a singular asset to the future of this House. I wonder. When the time comes for us to negotiate with other powers that, like us, do not have a seat in the Sphere’s House-Moot, would you feel it below your station to oversee those conversations?”
Idrem was becoming more accustomed to the sensation of surprise with every passing minute. “Srin Perekmeres, I would be honored. Of course, it will be quite some time before any of the other Houses will be so open in their alliance with us that they would accept direct speech.”
Brenlor pushed off the forward bulkhead casually; it was not a combat move. “Very true. In all likelihood, we will need to identify disaffected Aboriginal groups, black market helots, and of course, Voices of any number of Hkh’Rkh Old Families. I would, of course, be the first to meet with them and would be either their host or honored guest of record. But when discussion was wanted, I presume that they will pass off the details to a subordinate. I will match that move by putting you forward in my place. And in so doing, I will be leading with our best asset.” He paused. “Those who mostly command lesser beings never accrue the same honor as those who devote themselves solely to the exercise of dominion. I would not set you on such a potentially demeaning course without your consent, Idrem.”
“That is most generous and most wise.” And Idrem meant it. He drifted toward his would-be Hegemon. “But for now, the most important consideration is that our House employs every one of its scant assets to its best advantage.”
Brenlor nodded. “Excellent.” Without warning, his slightly bowed legs flexed, hitting the deck at an angle and launching him forward with considerable force. The Srin’s shoulder smashed into Idrem’s diaphragm, driving the wind out of him as it also drove him back. Idrem tried to parry, tumble, but to no avail. Brenlor had dropped his practice knife, had wrapped his arms around Idrem.
Who, forearms pinned to his side and his own practice knife trapped low, could only roll his wrist to score partial hits. “Graze. Graze. Graze,” announced the sepulchral voice of the training subroutine, indicating that while blood was being drawn by the feebly shortened slashings of Idrem’s weapon, they were not landing any hits that degraded his opponent.
As they drifted closer to the wall, Brenlor’s smiling—or was that smirking?—face was close to Idrem’s own. “The match is not over until we so signal,” he observed. Then his eyes widened slightly: the aft-bulkhead was coming up quickly. Brenlor’s grip released slightly, his arms moving, probably to brace against the impact.
Idrem waited for his knife arm to be free, then drew back to slash—
But never landed the disemboweling cut he had intended. Brenlor was not where he was supposed to be. He had pushed off Idrem in such as way that he was now rolling over the top of his subordinate’s head, twisting as he went. Idrem slashed with the knife, cut air, and then, with a sickening certainty particular to the inevitable physics of zero-gee combat, felt himself pulled sideways by his own sudden cutting motion.
Which was clearly what Brenlor had been counting upon. The Srin finished his tumble just as his feet grazed the aft-bulkhead. Nicely timed, Idrem admitted as he tried to pull himself around to face his opponent. But being out of contact with any surface, his ability to change vector was extremely limited. And he only had a second, before—
In fact, he had well less than a second. As soon as Brenlor’s feet had sufficient contact with the bulkhead, the Srin kicked hard. That motion sent him crashing into Idrem’s left side at murderously close range. With a twist like that of a predator using its momentum to bring down prey, he dragged Idrem forward, managed to get behind him. One arm was around Idrem’s throat in a moment, the other slipped into a viselike half-nelson that pushed his windpipe against the opposing forearm. Idrem’s weapon arm was cinched high and sideways, stuck in a useless position, no matter how he thrashed with it.
Brenlor did not speak until they drifted down to the deck. “Mortal,” the automated referee announced.
But Brenlor did not let go. “You are greatly prized by this house, Idrem Perekmeresuum,” he murmured. The words were reassuring; the tone was not. “I presume you realize that.”
“I do.”
“Excellent. I require one simple clarification before we end our chat. Is your loyalty fully and solely to this House?”
“It is. Why would you even ask?”
The forearm came up slightly more snug against his windpipe. “Firstly, I may always ask, because I am not merely the Srin but, soon, the Hegemon. It is my right to ask any question I wish of those in my House, whenever I wish it. And questions which ascertain the loyalty of those around me are the most logical and crucial of all, yes?”
“If their loyalty is in doubt, yes, Srin.”
“Ah, but one can never be too sure, Idrem. Particularly not when it comes to a trusted advisor who is shrewd, keeps his own counsel, rarely displays emotion, and has a gift for shaping a Srin’s moods and decisions with soft and subtle speech. And who has caught the eye of that Srin’s cousin—and second-in-line—as well.”
Ah. So that was it. “Brenlor, if I may—” Idrem moved to exit the choke hold, but the Srin held him firm.
