Fire with Fire(2)

“Nothing,” answered Corcoran. “Nothing of importance, at any rate.”

Chen almost started in surprise, managed not to glance down at the bag he was holding.

Downing shook his head again. “I’ll make arrangements to have Riordan’s cold cell shipped to our holding facility in—”

“No, Rich. The Taiwanese will have to transfer Caine from their cryogenic system to ours, first. We can’t take receipt of a foreign cryocell: too likely that someone will ask an awkward question.”

Downing nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll set up the exchange paperwork now.” He moved off to send the necessary orders.

When Downing was well out of earshot, Corcoran looked down at the cold cell again and spoke to Chen in a very low tone. “Because your cryogenic technology is so different from ours, I imagine Mr. Riordan will experience a difficult reanimation.”

“Oh no, Admiral,” Chen corrected in a voice that was both deferential and enthusiastic. “This cryocell utilizes Taiwan’s improved pre-toxification system. It is vastly superior to our current models. Memory loss has been reduced to the same level as your ‘slow freeze’ technology. Indeed, recent studies—”

Corcoran looked up from the cold cell, his eyes unblinking. “I said, Mr. Chen, that this will be a difficult reanimation. In fact, it will be very difficult, and I’m sure the memory loss will be even worse than with your older models.” Corcoran still did not blink. “Do I make myself clear?”

Chen had come to the conclusion that Western commanders were not particularly good at fixing underlings with stern, even terrifying, stares. Now, looking into Nolan Corcoran’s blue eyes, he suddenly found himself revising his opinion. “Y-yes, Admiral. Mr. Riordan’s reanimation will be most difficult. Singularly difficult.”

But Corcoran was staring down at the cryocell again. The look on his face puzzled Chen: was it guilt, regret, resolve—or all three?

Chen turned to his security detachment. “Flag Mr. Riordan for ‘augmented’ reanimation prior to transfer back to the US authorities.”

“What kind of augmentation?” asked Chen’s adjutant, taking Riordan’s bag when his superior held it out toward him.

“Short term memory suppression. Chemical and electroconvulsive.”

“How intensive?”

Chen fixed his underling with a baleful stare of his own. “Do you really have to ask?”





PART ONE

Approaching heliopause,

Junction system (Lacaille 8760)

March–April, 2118





Chapter One

ODYSSEUS

Caine Riordan felt himself floating back up to awareness through fragments of many dreams. It seemed as though, in the midst of this waking, he had eaten, gone back to sleep, had conversations, other dreams, more meals, then finally . . .

Awake. But why was he already sitting, and why was he ringed by spotlights? Where—?

A voice—speaking in an English accent—asked: “Are the lights too bright? I can dim them, if you wish.”

Caine nodded, squinted, seeking the source of the voice.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Odd question. Caine thought back: he was on the lunar suborbital ferry to Perry City—and then nothing. As though someone had snipped a filmstrip in the middle of a scene. First he was there, and then he was here. And between the two—nothing.

Abruptly, Caine no longer saw the still-blinding lights: finding no memories to fill that blank space, his awareness exploded inward, like a multitude of rushing hands, scrabbling in a dark closet. But instead of touching something tangible, they only encountered more yawning darkness, into which he was falling, falling, falling . . .

Caine felt a cool hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was seeing again, looking into dark brown eyes in a thin face, skin the color of seared wheat. Male, early middle-aged but lean, and seamed enough to look older, brown hair receding from either side of a widow’s peak. The eyes were patient, concerned. “Steady now. Tell me: what do you remember?”

“I remember heading to Perry City. But after that—” Caine felt a snap-frost of panic coat his body. “What the hell has happened to me? Have I been in an accident?”

Downing retrieved a folder from a black, wire-frame table that Caine only now distinguished against the darkness. “You were taken into—let’s call it protective custody.”

“Protective custody? Why? And what kind of protective custody would cause me to black out, or—” Or lose my muscle tone, Caine suddenly realized, seeing his wrists and arms for the first time: my God, I must have lost five kilos. More. How long have I—?