Caine jumped up, sprinted those twenty yards, scanning for tools as he went, preparing to help Buckley however he could — but stopped when he saw Joe’s predicament. And thought: what the hell is that? — And what the hell can I do?
Vac-suited Joe Buckley seemed to be pinned to the wall next to one of the cargo mod’s primary power mains. But in the next moment, Caine realized that the extrusions which had snaked down the wall toward the mains were holding Joe up. But no, that wasn’t quite right, either—
They had transfixed Joe, and were growing, even now, toward the cargo mod’s power mains, burrowing through his body to do so. In the one paralyzed second that it took for Riordan to understand what he was seeing, more of Buckley’s abdomen sagged. The hole in it widened, the extrusions leaking a slow but constant secretion that was, from the smell of it, highly alkaline. Joe seemed to rouse out of a stupor, yelled incoherently, sobbed back into quasi-consciousness.
Caine looked around: a power-saw. Hand-sized, the kind used to cut off locks or through simple sheet steel. He grabbed it off the deck, jumped next to Buckley to get to the power mains — and discovered what had probably initiated the horrific scenario.
The power mains were covered by a luminescent polyp that emerged from the extrusion burrowing through Buckley’s body. Another such polyp, lifeless and dull, lay on the deck, evidently torn aside by Buckley when he attempted to connect the saw to the mains and scorched his hands trying. Beyond the burnt meat smell, the air was thick with the medicinal tang of the gas from the corridor, but it was stale, had probably been used at the outset. Apparently, the gas had also kept Joe senseless as the extrusion burrowed through his body in its unswerving purpose: to get to the power mains.
Caine spent one moment looking at the situation, waiting for a solution — any solution — to come to him. But the only course of action that he could think of was the same that would have occurred to his Cro-Magnon ancestors. Without attempting to plug it in, and using his left hand to cover his nose and mouth, Riordan slammed the hand saw down across the conductive polyp attached to the mains.
A blast of heat and energy sent him backwards. The extrusion transfixing Buckley, which had seemed as solid as a stalagmite a moment ago, writhed. Buckley’s eyes opened into panic and pain as the spasms of the extrusion widened the wound, his weight slamming back and forth against the dark rootlike protrusion upon which he was impaled. He shrieked. Blood spattered. A fresh wave of the astringent smell preceded a glistening rush of the corrosive fluid which had already eaten a hole through Buckley’s torso. The edges of that gore-rimmed gap widened more rapidly. Fumes arose as tissue and fluids bubbled.
As Caine rose, groggy but resolved to try again, Joe’s screams became more desperate, his writhing wilder — which brought him fractionally closer to the mains. Apparently, the once-luminous fluid that splattered on him when he’d smashed the first polyp remained a powerful conductor. Actinic, blue-white charges danced out of the mains’ sockets and along vaporous trails leading to Buckley’s chest and shoulders. The smell of charring flesh increased along with the of the gas. Caine staggered forward, fell to his knees. The scene began doubling, the sounds blurry and indistinct as Buckley’s desperate struggles transformed into spasmodic convulsions—
Chapter Twenty. IN ORBIT GJ 1248 ONE (“ADUMBRATUS”)
Caine started awake. He tried to get off his back, get to Buckley—
Hands he hadn’t noticed were holding him down. And he wasn’t in the cargo mod anymore.
“That was fast,” commented Bannor’s voice, just behind him.
“The effects of the gas are immediately dispelled by the antidote,” Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice answered.
Riordan tried to rise up on his elbows. “Buckley is—”
Rena Mizrahi’s face was over his; she was wielding a diagnostic stylus. A light stabbed into his left eye briefly and went away. “Let’s worry about you for now, Captain. Contraction and dilation already normal. Vitals normal.”
“As I assured you,” Yiithrii’ah’aash said. His tone was not impatient or even disappointed; it was sad.
“Thank you, Doctor. And you as well, Ambassador.” Gaspard’s voice was more distant. Caine’s voluntary nerve functions finally began catching up with the restoration of his senses and involuntary reflexes; he rolled his head to the right, saw Gaspard standing in the doorway to the dispensary. Closer, almost out of his field of view at the head of the bed, were the edges of one human torso and one alien torso: Bannor and Yiithrii’ah’aash, respectively. Now realizing that Joe Buckley would have been found and assisted long before he was, Riordan simply asked: “Buckley?”
Bannor moved into Caine’s field of vision, shook his head.
Riordan had expected that answer, but it felt like a physical blow to his stomach, even so. He swallowed. “Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, I take full responsibility for—”
Gaspard interrupted. “Captain, I have already reviewed the events with Ambassador Yiithrii’ah’aash, whose surveillance systems recorded everything. He knows you are blameless.”
Blameless? Bullshit: my man, my fault. “Ambassador, with all due respect—”
“Caine Riordan.” Somehow, Yiithrii’ah’aash’s interruption didn’t feel like one; it sounded like a gentle but firm request for attention. “I am aware of the scope of your duties. I am also aware that no being may fully anticipate the actions of another, particularly one so briefly and incompletely known to you as Mr. Buckley.”
“I—”
“Please allow me one further statement. Mr. Gaspard has also acquainted me with the contents of Mr. Buckley’s dossier. There is nothing within it to suggest that he might behave in such a way. Furthermore, none of his prior actions or statements validated taking any abnormal precautions. Indeed, your newly awakened legation members might have construed such precautions as signifying that you distrusted us, or them, or both. In short, you made the best decision, given all the variables and available data.”
“Yes, but it was the wrong decision, nonetheless,” Riordan insisted. “I am the head of security. Even if you — dubiously — insist that I didn’t make any bad decisions, it’s still my command. That makes it my responsibility, and my fault.” Caine saw a slight wrinkle quirk the corner of Bannor’s mouth: a rueful smile which translated as, they’re not going to understand. Ever.
Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendril fingers straightened into columns, were still. “I am only slightly familiar with this human predilection for elevating an individual’s level of responsibility above their ability to assure desired outcomes. I note that it is a particularly strong tradition in your human militaries. Am I correct?”
Before Riordan could fashion a reply, Gaspard rolled his eyes and sighed. “You are quite correct, Ambassador. And you are not the only sentient being that finds these superhuman expectations absurd.”
Two of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s tendrils rose: a motion calling for a pause. “I am not suggesting it is absurd. Indeed, given the relationship between your species’ sociology and expressions of authority in crises, it is probably inevitable.”
Bannor raised an eyebrow. “Ambassador, would you care to explain what you mean?”
“Certainly. Most simply, it is inarguable that there are events for which no individual has sufficient agency to affect the outcome. Yet, those members of your species who are assigned to confront extreme challenges are, by rituals of ranks and oaths, made ‘accountable’ for just such outcomes. This is inherently illogical.”