But for what purpose? To coerce them back into the cloak-and-dagger webs that he habitually spun? No way. IRIS was a magnet for death: Nolan’s demise, Tarasenko’s, and three attempts—at least—on his own life were all the proof Caine needed. And if his efforts at filling in the one hundred hours missing from his past were proceeding slowly, at least no one had tried to kill him, either.
He mustered a smile for Opal. “So, when should I meet you at the dojo?”
“Sixteen hundred hours sidereal. We’ll work on releases, maybe a few throws, then kumite.”
“Ugh.” He smiled more broadly. “Sparring.”
“You don’t like getting a workout?”
“Oh, I like the workout. But getting my ass kicked every time does deflate my ego.”
Opal’s own smile faltered a bit and she turned quickly—even awkwardly—and strode into her room, apparently suppressing a wistful sigh as she did.
MENTOR
Downing checked his watch. “Mr. Rulaine, we need to establish contact with two of the other people on your security list. Nolan Corcoran’s children—Trevor and Elena—are on Mars presently, for their father’s memorial ceremony.”
Rulaine raised an eyebrow. “Admiral Corcoran’s memorial is being held on Mars? That’s a little—remote—for a person of his stature, isn’t it, sir?”
“That’s partly why it was chosen. His children are expecting me, but I’m a bit ahead of schedule, so we’ll need to call ahead. Please contact Comm Ops at Syrtis Major Naval Base and have them locate and collect the Corcorans.”
Only a few moments passed before Rulaine responded. “Syrtis Major confirms that the contact orders for Corcoran’s children are received and being acted upon, sir.” Pushing back from the commo panel, Rulaine slowly and carefully unfolded himself into a standing position: only three weeks in zero-gee, and he already moved like a seasoned professional.
“Very good, Captain. It also seems like the disturbance in the galley has died down.”
Without looking sideways at the relevant monitor, which showed the crew going through preparations for cold sleep, Rulaine nodded. “Seems so, sir.” Rulaine evidently had impressive peripheral vision, as well.
“Then let’s start reviewing—”
“Sir, before we get to that, I have one more question about Riordan.”
Downing nodded.
“Beyond his resentment of you, is Riordan going to present me with any—problems—that I have to take into consideration?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, there’s a rumor in the news—and elsewhere—that Mr. Riordan was not exactly a ‘fellow traveler’ when given his mission to Dee Pee Three.”
Downing kept from working his jaw. “He was not a completely willing recruit, no.”
“Then, sir, do I expect that he’ll cooperate, or be—problematic?”
Downing considered avoiding the question, redirecting it, even lying outright, but instead he turned to look at Bannor Rulaine and said, “I wish I could tell you, Captain, but I don’t know the answer myself. You see, when we activated him—”
“Mr. Downing, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a response from Syrtis Base regarding the Corcorans.”
“And?”
“There’s a problem, sir.”
“You mean the Shore Liaison Office doesn’t have them in hand, yet?”
“No sir; I mean that, according to the SLO, they’re not in Syrtis City—or anywhere else on Mars.” Rulaine looked straight into his eyes. “They’re missing, sir.”
Chapter Thirty
TELEMACHUS
The face that looked out the airlock window at him was ill-shaven, eyes indistinct behind a lank forelock of dirty-blond hair. Thank God, he thought. If they’re terrorists, then they’re sloppy ones. Most are highly disciplined, attentive to personal grooming not only by inclination, but by training. Conversely, personal sloppiness usually means operational sloppiness.
As the face backed away from the airlock door, he felt the wind push fitfully against the heavy life support unit on his back. He turned: a rusty-brown expanse of stone and sand was surrendering occasional sheets of dust up to the growing wind. Not good and not expected. The Navy meteorologist had agreed with the civilian service for once: from Syrtis Major to Isidus Planitia, twenty-kph winds, steady from the west, a relatively constant –12 degrees Celsius. By Martian standards, a calm and balmy day. But that’s not how it was shaping up for Trevor Corcoran, and the disguised SEAL officer was not pleased with the discrepancy.