Caine's Mutiny, page 1
part #4 of Caine Riordan Series
Table of Contents
Dedication
Interstellar Shift Links
Tactical Map of Turkh'saar
PART ONE Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
PART TWO Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
PART THREE Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
PART FOUR Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
PART FIVE Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Appendix A: Dramatis Personae
Appendix B: Glossary
Appendix C: The Accords
CAINE’S MUTINY
CHARLES E. GANNON
BAEN
Caine’s Mutiny
Charles E. Gannon
Caine Riordan, fresh from serving as envoy to the aliens known as the Slaasriithi, has been given yet another daunting task: apprehend raiders that are terrorizing a distant planet.
As difficulties mount, Caine becomes aware that the mission his superiors sent him to perform may not be the one they actually hope he will achieve. Which means Caine may be forced to choose between honoring a promise to friends or following orders—a choice that could ultimately put him in front of a board of inquiry. Or a firing squad.
BAEN BOOKS by CHARLES E. GANNON
The Terran Republic Series
Fire with Fire
Trial by Fire
Raising Caine
Caine’s Mutiny
Marque of Caine (forthcoming)
The Starfire Series
(with Steve White)
Extremis
Imperative
The Ring of Fire Series
(with Eric Flint)
1635: The Papal Stakes
1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies
CAINE’S MUTINY
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Charles E. Gannon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4767-8219-5
eISBN: 978-1-62579-557-1
Cover art by Bob Eggleton
Maps by Charles E. Gannon and Robin Szypulski
First Baen printing, February 2017
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
With boundless love and appreciation to my
entire family (my wife Andrea and living children
Connor, Kyle, Alexandra, and Pierce), whose
patience was matched only by their willingness
to have me absent for so much of their lives
during the completion of this book.
And in memory of I. F. Clarke, whose friendship,
scholarship, and raucous, cackling laugh are
always with me as reminders and inspirations as
I apply his beloved concept of “future-think”
to exploring the shape of warfare in the
decades and centuries to come.
PART ONE
May 2121
APPEARANCES
Species decepit
(Appearances deceive)
Chapter One
OUTER SYSTEM, BD+56 2966
Cold.
Icy, bone-cracking cold. Like the winter he was nine and fell through the ice rimming a backwater inlet of the Chesapeake. Only one of his legs had gone in all the way, but the ache in his femur and tibia seemed ready to explode out through his skin, even as the frigid water burned down into its nerve endings…
But this time that burning was entirely inside him, running the length of his skeleton, running in and out of his heart, his brain, his groin: conduits of fire that made him flinch, groan—
—groan as loud as the voice which said, “We are sorry, Caine Riordan. But we have no choice. You must awaken.”
Riordan struggled to move, to turn his head, to open his eyes, to fight up through layers of subzero molasses. Perhaps his eyes had already been open, because suddenly there were lights. But too bright. With multiple halos around them all.
He reached to either side, discovered he was in a bed. Or in a pit. Or maybe a coffin. None of which made any sense.
Nothing made any sense, Caine realized as he scrambled to escape the claustrophobic box. The wheeling lights and surging sounds around him were unsteady, indistinct. His thoughts were a jumble of images that had nothing to do with each other: a ruined Grecian temple; then another half its size; explosions in jungles and massacres in cities; creatures and plants that seemed half vision and half nightmare; and finally, the head of a child’s doll, rolling out of a roiling mass of smoke and debris in a war-torn Indonesian kempang…
Whether it was that last image, or the abruptness with which the fire streaming along his arteries changed back into debilitating icewater, his attempt to clamber out of the box-coffin was derailed by a fit of shivering…which quickly amplified into shakes so profound that his teeth did not merely chatter but clacked together convulsively.
His fingers weakened, his grip slipped, and he tumbled out of the box-coffin, catching himself unevenly. He swayed on his knees, still half-blind, discovering that the deck—or whatever was beneath him—was not only hard, but was even colder than he was.
Hands steadied him, kept him from falling over. But no, they weren’t hands. They were clusters of prehensile tendrils, wrapping around his arms, his torso. He flinched away, horrified. “What—? Get off! Get the hell off—!”
“Caine Riordan, it is I, Yiithrii’ah’aash. Do not fear. You are safe. My fellow Slaasriithi will help you in every way possible. But we had to awaken you swiftly. We have employed drugs that accelerate your metabolism and heavy doses of chemicals that mimic your body’s own epinephrine and endorphins, as well as neuromodulators and neurotransmitters. We apologize for the discomfort, but we had no choice.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash: the Slaasriithi ambassador. The one who had snatched him from death’s door after humanity’s first diplomatic mission to his species ended in a furious firefight on the world known as Disparity. Images and ideas started swirling slowly into logical alignment; currents of order began surging up out of the frigid chaos. He realized he was clutching the side of the cold cell in which he had been placed when they had departed Delta Pavonis. “This mix of chemicals; are you sure it’s safe? It’s—very painful.”
“We feared it would be.” Yiithrii’ah’aash leaned into Caine’s steadying field of vision, his tetrahedral head tilting downward as the tendril clusters at the end of his long, tightly furred arms gestured for the other Slaasriithi to resume assisting the human. “But our mission is in jeopardy. Human skills may be required to ensure its safe continuation.”
No longer disoriented, Riordan discovered himself surrounded by the slightly shorter but even m
Yiithrii’ah’aash straightened. Whereas his assistants resembled thick-bodied lemurs with emaciated extremities, the Slaasriithi ambassador was more akin to a tall, digitigrade gibbon with an ostrich neck. His pupilless mauve eyes, arrayed in equilateral triangles on each surface of his tetrahedral head, considered the larger human for a long moment. “We are in danger of detection.”
Caine’s pain didn’t fade, but suddenly, he was only distantly aware of it. “Where are we?” He realized that his teeth had stopped chattering.
“At our destination: Turkh’saar. Or as your catalogues list it, system BD +56 2966.”
Riordan started. “What’s our situation?”
“We shall brief you as you recover. It is essential that your companions see that you are well.”
“Well?” That’s a pretty relative term right now…Caine’s vision cleared enough to reveal his surroundings. He was in the navy-issue cryobank module, lined with the cold cells in which they had been conveyed from human space. He also realized that he was naked. “Ambassador, I should be wearing clothes when I rejoin my crew.”
Even as he said it, one of Yiithrii’ah’aash’s assistants—subtaxic members of the pastorae taxon—laid a folded navy duty suit over Riordan’s sweat-slick left forearm. Flipping the unipiece garment open, Caine discovered the underwear he’d been hoping to find. The Slaasriithi were quite observant and were usually excellent at recalling and anticipating human customs, but found clothing particularly baffling, having no nudity taboos or particular need for covering. He began pulling on the regulation briefs, discovered they were a size too big as he scanned the rest of the module.
Shallow alcoves lined either bulkhead, each filled by a large white cold cell flanked by medical gear. The nine bays closest to Riordan’s own were scenes of considerable activity. The lids of the cold cells were open. A sweat-shining human form was fumbling and shivering out of each high-tech sarcophagus, attended by clusters of the space-bred pastorae. One or two of his team began retching.
Alarmed, Caine began pulling on the lower half of the duty-suit at the same moment he started forward at a trot. “Are they okay?”
The pastorae did not exactly restrain him, but their hands slowed his progress enough that his concerned haste did not result in yet another fall. “Your companions are well, Caine Riordan. Be at ease.” Yiithrii’ah’aash’s voice was soothing, backed by a faint purr. “They had less concentrated therapeutic infusions than yourself. It was essential that we awaken and orient you first, that you may provide suitable guidance and leadership to them.”
Riordan glanced at Melissa Sleeman, who, having recovered from her momentary nausea, discovered that she was staring at Peter Wu’s short, nude body. She blinked. He blushed and stared back—which was the moment that Sleeman discovered that she herself was unclothed. She gasped in alarm.
“There are medical gowns in each alcove,” Riordan mumbled to the ambassador. Yiithrii’ah’aash’s sensor cluster fixed on him in what might have been quizzical regard. Caine suddenly recalled the confusion the term “gown” had occasioned the last time it was used in reference to medical garb. “I mean a cover, a wrap,” he explicated.
“Ah. Yes, of course.” Yiithrii’ah’aash sent a stream of liquid syllables down the length of the cryobank module, prompting quick, efficient searches by the pastorae. Pale blue gowns were promptly offered to the various humans, who fumbled them on with what seemed to be palsied hands. Lithe, muscular Dora Veriden cursed her unsteadiness in a sulphurous mix of Spanish and French profanities.
Although the Slaasriithi ambassador’s familiarity with human idioms and customs was incomplete, he was evidently expert at reading Caine’s pensive expressions. “I assure you there is no cause for concern. The cold cells are manufactured by your Commonwealth bloc and are quite reliable and robust. Also, we have been able to refine your reanimation cycle. Our modifications reduced the possibility of medical complications and enabled your accelerated return to awareness.”
Caine exchanged nods with his almost fully dressed executive officer and friend, Bannor Rulaine, before turning back to Yiithrii’ah’aash. “When did you commence our reanimation?”
“Six hours ago.”
Well, that was certainly impressive. It usually took thirty-six hours for awakened cold-sleepers to become ambulatory, another twelve to twenty-four to become fully functional. Whatever methods the Slaasriithi had used to shorten this cycle would be extremely interesting and valuable to the people in exosapient technical intelligence. Assuming that Caine could get the Slaasriithi to share the details…“Ambassador, although I’m sure this unusual process was warranted, you did circumvent our own reanimation protocols and systems. Did you seek permission to do so?”
Yiithrii’ah’aash was still for a moment; his neck twitched in surprise. “I did not consult the human that your superiors left in waking oversight of your care. There was no time. It also seemed unnecessary, since our collective interests are served by your swift reanimation.”
“I don’t disagree, Ambassador. But in my role as acting ambassador plenipotentiary, I must point out that my government’s medical experts will want to review the procedures and substances you used. Otherwise, the issue of quarantines between our species could arise again.”
Yiithrii’ah’aash was still for a moment, then his neck contracted slightly. His verbal response rode over a series of clicks and a rough buzz: grudging compliance and a hint of amusement. “You shall have the protocols and samples of the compounds we used.” The clicks subsided, the buzz slid into a faint purr. “It is good to see that your resourcefulness is unimpaired.”
Riordan responded with a lopsided smile. “As you say, your reanimation methods are extremely effective. Now, you mentioned a human who remained conscious during our journey?”
Nods and waves greeted Caine as he and Yiithrii’ah’aash moved slowly down the module’s center aisle. The Slaasriithi continued his explanation. “Your superior, Richard Downing, assigned a human to watch over you and, I presume, to brief you upon reanimation.”
“Brief us? About what?”
“New information has come to light about our destination and how recent events upon the system’s main world, Turkh’saar, may be amplifying political tensions in the Hkh’Rkh Patrijuridicate. Furthermore, Mr. Downing was able to provide some additional forces for this mission.”
“Then why not send them instead of us?”
“Because they too are in cryogenic suspension and have been for some time.”
Riordan heard the extra emphasis that Yiithrii’ah’aash had placed upon the final phrase. “Just how long have they been in cold sleep?”
“Their last memories date from before your species became aware of what you label exosapients.”
Caine stared at the Slaasriithi. “You mean, before the Convocation and the invasion of Earth?”
The ambassador’s sensor cluster inclined slightly. “I infer they were part of the ground forces that your late strategist Nolan Corcoran put into cryogenic suspension as a counterattack force to accompany the fleet that you named Relief Task Force One.”
Good grief, the amount of disorientation those sleepers will experience upon awakening—“How long has it been since we were cold-slept and left Delta Pavonis?”
“Just over three of your months.”
Riordan did the mental math, back-calculating along the calendar of frenzied recent events. “So they’ve been asleep at least two years. Possibly more.”
“That is consistent with what Mr. Downing intimated. It is also why we did not feel safe waking them. They do not know of our, or any other, species. We feared that their reactions to our unexpected appearance might be—unpredictable.”
