“So you guys never planned to cut me loose at all, or help me piece together my lost hundred hours. You just wanted to keep me dangling, forcing me to choose between living out on Mars, where I’ve got almost no access to information, or down on Earth, in easy reach of IRIS.”
Downing closed his eyes momentarily. “Caine, I’m sorry. Yes, we hoped you would continue to work for us. As to having access to the right information-well, you chose to come up here; you weren’t exiled.”
“So you’re telling me you do have information on the one hundred hours now? That you can help me?”
“Caine, it’s not that simple. It was Nolan who kept all the relevant files, who knew where they were and how to access them. But when he died, well-”
“Oh, I see. You can’t help me because Nolan’s gone. Blame it on the dead guy. Very original.”
“Damn it, Caine, it’s the truth!”
“The truth? Since when has anyone connected with IRIS ever cared about the truth?”
“Caine,” Downing pleaded. “This is not how it was supposed to be. But I can’t undo the past, and I can’t get information from dead men. All I can tell you is that we need you. Again.”
“Well,” said Caine, turning to leave with Opal, “thanks to the President, you and IRIS have me. Again.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ODYSSEUS
As soon as Caine got the news, he bolted out of his stateroom, across the corridor, and into Opal’s berth. She looked up with a big smile. “And to what do I owe-?”
“The Dornaani are here-and we’ve got pictures.” He put his hand on her firm upper arm, drawing it gently towards him: a dancer’s cue to “follow.”
They left the delegation’s hab mod at a trot, dodging around the stacked cargo bins and duffle-bagged supplies that were still being loaded into it. As they cleared the end of the luggage-slalom, Caine saw Lemuel Wasserman crossing the T-intersection ahead of them. Caine grabbed Opal’s hand, pulled her in the direction Wasserman had gone.
She almost stumbled, looked at Caine: “What? Where are we going?”
“Wherever Wasserman goes.”
She looked ahead as Lemuel disappeared around a corner. “Follow him? Why?”
“Because he’ll have the inside track on where to see the first sensor results.”
“But that will be the bridge-”
“Don’t bet on it. This corvette is rigged for spec ops. There’s a section amidships which has a couple of unlabeled rooms. And I bet he’s heading toward them.”
“You’re thinking a passive sensor suite?”
“I’m thinking the works: passive, active, every spectrum you can think of and more. The intel folks knew they were going to get a look at a Dornaani ship, so I’m betting they loaded this hull with every sensor known to man-and probably a few that are still in the experimental stage.”
“And how would Lemuel have located it?”
“I figure he shadowed folks in the mess, listened to their chatter, figured out which ones had the advanced science backgrounds.”
They rounded a corner-and saw, in addition to a single unmarked door at the end of the passageway, Lemuel Wasserman reasoning with two Marines. The look on the smaller-and senior-leatherneck’s face was not promising. “C’mon,” whispered Caine as he tugged Opal forward.
They arrived just in time to hear Lemuel’s voice rise a decibel and a whole octave: “-and who do you think needs to see those results the most? I’ll tell you who: they picked me to go on this mission to do exactly what you are now preventing me from-”
Caine stepped alongside Lemuel and brought out the biggest and best smile he could muster. Damn: I must look like Nolan, right about now. A large, congenial grin to put all the restless natives at ease. “Hello, gentlemen. Can I help?”
Lemuel looked sideways at Caine and grunted. The shorter Marine, a gunnery sergeant, looked him straight in the eyes. “I doubt it, sir. I was just explaining to Mr. Wasserman that our orders are very clear regarding security and clearance in this section. If he can’t show me the correct ID, then I can’t let him pass. Or you either.”
Caine’s smiled broadened. Good preemptive move, Gunny. But I’m heading toward higher ground. “I’m sure this is all just an oversight. I wonder if you-or your team member-could call in to Mr. Downing and have him wave us in?”
The sergeant’s face did not move, but his eyes wavered.
Gotcha. “Mr. Downing got the jump on us-got here first-and probably overlooked the special clearance protocols. He expects the entire delegation to join him, I believe.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Thanks for confirming that Downing went through already. “Probably too excited himself; pretty historical stuff happening in that room down the hall.”
“Essential stuff,” piped Wasserman from over Caine’s shoulder.
Caine turned, shone his smile at Lemuel, used his eyes to say “shut up,” turned back to the gunny. “I guess we’re all a little worked up. So if you’d be kind enough to give Mr. Downing a call, that should set everything straight.”
The sergeant nodded at the larger leatherneck, who did a crisp one-eighty and tapped his collarcom, walking away as he started to speak in quiet tones.
“Thanks for your help, Gunny.”
“Don’t thank me for anything yet.”
But the bigger, younger marine had already returned and nodded once at the gunnery sergeant.
Who seemed a bit surprised, then shrugged and stood aside. “Sorry for the mix-up, sirs, ma’am.”
Lemuel leaned forward to respond: Caine put a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, Lemuel stopped with his mouth open, looking at Caine. Who jumped into the silence, determined to save Wasserman from himself: “No problem, Gunny; you’re just doing your job the way it’s supposed to be done. Thanks for your help.”
The corners of the sergeant’s mouth crinkled: probably his equivalent of a smile. Caine nodded, towed Lemuel past the checkpoint, noting Opal’s suppressed grin.
Lemuel shrugged off Caine’s hand. “Thanks-but I had every right to tell that guy-”
“Lemuel. That guy-that Marine-was doing his job. And if there was a crisis on this ship, accidental or otherwise, he’d be one of the people most likely to save your life. You might want to consider that.”
Lemuel looked away as they reached the unmarked door. His retort was a grumble. “Okay, so I need to play nice to stay on Jarhead’s good side.”
Opal drew abreast of them and pinned Lemuel in place with unblinking eyes. “‘Jarhead’ would give his life trying to save yours, whether or not he liked your sorry ass. Being nice-hell, just being polite-to him is the least you can offer in return.” She opened the door, turned her back on Wasserman, and went straight in.
Lemuel stepped after her, head thrust forward, cheeks reddening. “Hey-”
Caine took Lemuel’s arm again. “No. Don’t start it. I won’t allow you to give Major Patrone any trouble. Besides, there’s one more thing you might want to consider.”
“Like what?”
“That she’s right.”
Lemuel looked up at Caine, then away. “Yeah. Maybe. Okay. Let’s go.”
They entered a room filled with screens and a few small holotanks. Three sensor operators were adjusting controls, studying results. Standing at the center of their triad, Richard turned, nodded, went back to watching the screens. In the most distant corner, wedged between two consoles, shoulders hunched together, Visser acknowledged them with a tight, perfunctory smile. Had she been wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the legend “I am a technophobe,” her discomfort could not have been clearer.
Evincing a diametrically opposed set of affinities, Lemuel pushed hurriedly into the suite, shouldered past Downing and almost dropped into the lap of one of the Navy ratings in his single-minded attempt to get at the machines. Opal sidestepped over toward Caine’s side; he felt her shoulder brush into contact with his upper arm and stay there. “Jesus, I see why they call Wasserman ‘Le Mule’ instead of Lemuel. What gives with him? Does he take jerk pills?”