Fire With Fire

trouble than the other nine combined.”

“A rabble-rouser, sir?”

“Nothing of the sort. But he does resent me-and for good reason.”

ODYSSEUS

Caine pried open the malfunctioning door sensor he had removed: hair-thin fiber-optic connectors coiled around chips that should have been called “specks.”

The doorbell’s secure tone announced a recognized “friend” rather than an “intruder.” Opal breezed into the suite, then his room-and stopped, surprised. “Is that sensor busted again?”

“Yep, which is damned odd, considering it was just repaired. This time, I’m running the diagnostics myself.”

Opal frowned at his tone. “Do you think that someone has been tampering with it?”

Caine smiled. “No, probably not. As Napoleon said, never ascribe to malice what which can be adequately explained by incompetence. But either way, the only way to be sure the sensor works is to fix it myself.”

“Can I help?” she asked brightly, sitting down very close to him.

He looked at her. “You’re very cheery. Too cheery. So I’m guessing today’s news is bad.”

Opal’s smiled faded. “Well-yeah. Just as we expected; the Scarecrow will be here soon. Sorry.”

Caine went back to examining the sensor. “It was only a matter of time before Downing came sniffing around. And with Nolan’s memorial being held on Mars, he has the perfect excuse.”

Opal responded in the flat, utterly reasonable tone that signified she was digging her heels in. “Well, just because Scarecrow is almost here doesn’t mean we have to waste the afternoon. I was thinking that, before he takes our lives away from us again, perhaps we could-”

“Yes?” Caine looked up, trying not to look hopeful or lecherous or shallow.

“I was thinking that we could get in one last visit to the dojo.”

“Oh.” Caine tried to sound enthusiastic. “Sure. Great.” Not the direction I hoped our activities would take during our last day of privacy.

But that hope was, Caine admitted, pure fancy. After months of uncertainty regarding where his relationship with Opal was headed (if anywhere), it beggared belief that she’d initiate a change now, in a few final hours.

When they’d left Earth, Caine had hoped their traveling together would segue into their being together. But the frenzied rush of their departure hardly set the tone for budding romance. Getting off Earth had meant getting through security before Downing-or anyone else-thought to red-flag their IDs. Fortuitously, the back-to-back deaths of Nolan and Tarasenko had generated enough chaos to prevent that.

Or so Caine had thought. But he began to question that hypothesis when they made the journey to Mars without interference or even a message from Earthside. It wasn’t as if they had vanished without a trace: they’d had to use their own IDs to get to orbit, and then to book passage to Mars. So maybe Downing had left them alone because he couldn’t risk sending orders through his leak-prone intelligence net. If so, that might explain why he was now coming himself.

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 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 be 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