Marque of Caine Read online

  That decided Riordan. He couldn’t be sure he was only facing automatons, but that was the safest bet. He activated his pistol’s smartgun attachment, then squeezed the remote control actuator he held snugged between his left thumb and the mirror’s handle.

  The instant he did so, the quadrotor spun, its sensor cluster swinging away from the rear of the cave where Caine was located. Now fixed on the alcove from which Caine had retrieved the bag, the little drone moved forward, inspecting that section of the rough wall.

  Riordan leaned out, gave his smartgun a look at its target, selected the image of the quadrotor as soon as it was highlighted in the scope, and squeezed the trigger. The gun did not fire until Caine had aligned it with its designated target, at which point the weapon fired twice. The impacts bounced the drone off the wall, showering pieces as it fell.

  Riordan ducked back into his cramped space, raised the mirror again to watch for a reaction, noticed blood rolling down toward his wrist. Damn it. His self-inflicted forearm wound was still dripping, some of it spilling to the ground. Hopefully, it would blend into the patches of thin mud that had collected in the low points of the floor.

  Because there wasn’t anything Caine could do about it now.

  * * *

  The main drone’s AI registered all the relevant information at once: the sound of a firearm; the abrupt termination of the datafeed from the subdrone in the cave; and its last, fragmentary detection of a small gap in the left-hand cave wall.

  Priorities altered immediately. The last subdrone was pulled off rearguard duty and sent into the tunnel at maximum speed. Secondary contingencies to deal with the possibility of the target escaping from the cave or the arrival of his allies were dismissed. A swiftly mounted attack would ensure that the target could not flee, and any inbound allies would arrive too late. However, in the event that they materialized sooner than anticipated, the self-destruct circuit was brought to readiness.

  The second subdrone swept into the cave, skimmed above the debris that had been its partner, and then went high as it drew abreast of the fractionally scanned alcove. It was almost certainly the source of the attack, since that was definitely the source of the transponder signal. The large drone slowly entered the cave behind the smaller one, its more powerful fans filling the narrow space with a steady current of deeper sound.

  The subdrone’s audio sensors reported the concomitant drop in discriminative acuity and edged forward until it was able to look into the craggy recess at a shallow angle: nothing. The alcove curved away from opening, doubled back in the direction of the entrance. The subdrone would have to advance further to get a good look inside.

  As it started to do so, a human voice emanated from the alcove. It was faint, almost a whisper. Direction-finding confirmed that it was colocated with the transponder signal. There was also a brief, frequency-jumping radio emission from further within the cave, consistent with a highly compressed communications burst. Possibly a remote signaling device of some kind.

  The AI assessed: the transponder signal from within the alcove was so proximal that the target’s elimination was virtually ensured. Only final confirmation and a firing solution were required. The large drone sent the smaller one forward to acquire a target lock, then followed, accelerating, hastening to close the distance and bring its weapons to bear.

  The subdrone turned the corner, scanned in all spectra.

  The sound of the human voice was emanating from what appeared to be a wadded shirt on the cave floor. A playback device was hidden in the folds of fabric, which, combined with the noise from the larger drone, had compromised audio reception enough to momentarily cause the voice to be mistaken for a living, rather than recorded, human. Wires ran away from the crumpled shirt to the radio-controlled actuator that had triggered the playback remotely. Completing the ruse, the target’s transponder signal was emanating not from a human body, but from a waist-high hollow just behind the playback unit. A close scan revealed that the transponder was wedged into a crevice and was covered in a dark fluid. Split-second analysis confirmed what the AI simultaneously conjectured: based on color, reflectivity, and projected viscosity, the liquid was blood.

  Crammed in alongside the transponder was a handgun slaved to another remote activation unit. The AI spent .001 seconds matching the firearm to a corresponding file image: a Unitech ten-millimeter liquimix pistol. An enhanced model capable of five-round bursts and fitted with a smartgun targeting system. At this range, if the weapon was loaded with armor piercing rounds, its mission-kill probability on the large drone was eighty-five percent or greater. The AI did not detect any mechanism capable of adjusting the weapon’s aimpoint, but a definitive scan would take another half second. Too long.

  Mission preservation algorithms took over. A port opened in the drone’s undercarriage. Two minirockets flashed into the alcove, detonated sharply.

  At the same instant, the subdrone detected sounds of movement at the far end of the cave. Turning swiftly, it spotted a faint and mostly hidden thermal signature leaping upward.

  The AI, busy reassessing the tactical scenario, ran a heuristic analysis of how the new movement might be causally related to the events leading to the detection and destruction of the decoy in the alcove. Integrated result: the actual target had excised its transponder to use as bait, and had somehow hidden itself from thermal sensors in a very small crevice at the rear of the cave, from which it was now attempting a vertical exit. However, if the main drone closed on the target, the improved sensor results would ensure a clean lock on the target, despite its curiously degraded IR signature.

  The large drone rotated, revved its rotors to close at maximum speed—

  —just as it detected another high-compression radio burst from the back of the cave. Having two prior samples for comparison, identification was almost instantaneous: the encryption was military grade.

  Overhead, as if in response to that radio burst, something with a low electric current activated.

  Already speeding forward, the drone’s AI correlated the new data and projected the logical endpoint of the chain of events in which it was now trapped. There was no time left to establish a lock on the target. The only options now were:

  Command One: fire all remaining fourteen-millimeter missiles using preliminary target solution.

  Command Two: engage self-destruct.

  The electric impulse carrying those instructions reached the drone’s weapon control circuits the same moment that the plastic explosive concealed in an overhead crevice detonated.

  * * *

  Connor leaned farther back into the brush as the slowing aircar’s throaty rush up-dopplered into a two-toned roar. Between boughs, he watched the vehicle’s four thrusters roll through a sharp attitude change; the two at the rear pivoted ninety degrees into VTOL mode, the front pair snapped forward 135 degrees into counterthrust. The aircar shuddered to a halt. One of the three silhouettes in its open passenger compartment swept Booby Island with multispectral binoculars.

  Clutching his pistol, Connor knew, even as he threw himself back behind a boulder, that he had reacted a second too late. If he had seen the binoculars, its thermal imaging and motion sensors had certainly seen him. He snapped the safety off, experienced a sharp longing for his dad, but thought about only one thing: surviving.

  The thrusters quieted considerably. Then a shout: “Connor?”

  It wasn’t surprising that these men knew his name—there had been nothing uncertain about their approach—but he was shocked to recognize the voice. Was that Uncle Trevor? No. Couldn’t be. It was probably some kind of trick…

  “Connor, it’s me, Uncle Trevor. I’ll come to you, if you want.”

  “How do I know it’s really you?”

  “Want me to tell you what we had for Thanksgiving three years ago?”

  Connor swore silently. Damn it, even I don’t remember that.

  “Or maybe you want me to tell you the dish I bring every year that everyone secretly
hates. Even you.”

  “Hey, I never said—”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Connor. I know when I’m being patronized.”

  Connor closed his eyes. Whoever they were, they had a high-powered and very expensive government aircar, were probably armed to the teeth with the latest milspec weapons, and outnumbered him at least three to one. He, on the other hand, had a decent civilian handgun, a couple of auspiciously placed trees and rocks to hide behind, and no idea what the hell was going on. He risked a peek around the other side of the rock.

  If the guy who saw and waved at him wasn’t his uncle, then either Connor was hallucinating or someone had created a clone of Trevor just to trick him. Yeah, right. Connor stood up.

  Trevor waved both arms, his sudden smile actually glinting in the sun. He gestured for the driver to boost the fans, which pushed the aircar up the slope until it was hovering just below Connor’s hiding place. Trevor waved for him to hop down into the vehicle.

  Connor grabbed his gear, took his uncle’s extremely firm hand—damn, he’s strong!—and took a long step down into the car. “Uncle Trevor, what the hell is going—?”

  “We’ve got to find your father.” Trevor tapped the driver, pulled Connor down, pointed to the four-point straps. “Harness up. We’re moving.”

  Connor barely had time to get the unfamiliar buckles done before the aircar leaped forward. “Moving where? Why?”

  “You’ve been found, both of you.” Trevor had a carbine with him: a short-barreled version of the standard military shoulder arm, the CoBro eight-millimeter liquimix. He snapped it over to full automatic. “We don’t know how they did it, but given the timing, our bet is that there’s a leak in our intelligence services. That’s why there are only the three of us here; we know we can trust each other. The guy driving is my pal, Chief Petty Officer Cruz, and this gentleman is Associate Director Gray Rinehart.”

  Associate Director of what? Connor wondered, but he was too worried about his father to follow that any further. “Is Dad okay? Where is he?”

  Trevor ran his hand through his hair: the speed-amplified breeze caught it, made it look like a lion’s mane in a wind tunnel. “That’s the trouble. He could be in any one of three, maybe four, places.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just as we were lifting to pick you up, Caine’s transponder…well, it multiplied. There are three identical copies of his transponder signal on the grid right now and we don’t know which is his.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Trevor sighed. “We gave him three decoys before you came here. In case he had to confuse someone who was trying to track him. We had just entered St. Kitts’ airspace when two extra transponder signals showed up—and an extra one of yours, too. So your dad clearly got our message that your cover is blown and you’re in danger.”

  Connor thought for a moment. “Can you show me where the transponders are?”

  Trevor glanced at Rinehart, who shrugged and tilted a polarized palmtop toward Connor.

  Connor studied it briefly. “These signals: can you show me their prior movement?”

  Rinehart raised an eyebrow, adjusted the view: flashing lines showed the path of each transponder.

  Connor nodded, pointed at the one that had traveled the least. “That’s Dad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The one that’s way to the south is just stupid. Dad wouldn’t get into the car to drive around the island. If the enemy has drones, they could downlook and kill him the same way a hawk gets a rabbit—couldn’t they?”

  Trevor and Rinehart exchanged looks that became furtive smiles. “That sounds about right. And the other one, to the east of your house?”

  “I know that part of the coast. You have to be a goat to move around down there. From a map, it looks like you could walk it. And you could if you’re both lucky and suicidal. But most likely, you’re just going to fall or get washed out to sea by one of the bigger waves. After you get bounced around on the jagged volcanic rocks, that is. But this signal”—he pointed at the transponder icon that had moved part of the way to Mount Nevis—“that’s on the path where we go hiking. Or running, if Dad decides to make our day particularly miserable. And at that exact spot, there are caves. Lots of caves.”

  Trevor tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Site three. Maximum thrust.”

  “Sir,” muttered Cruz, “that speed is way above local limits. We’re going to become real high profile, real fast.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a real shame. Redline it, Carlos.”

  A flock of seagulls scattered out of their way, startled and perhaps envious of the wedge-shaped aircar which left them behind as if they were suspended motionless in midair.

  Chapter Five

  JUNE 2123

  NEVIS, EARTH

  Connor saw it the same moment the others in the aircar did: twinned plumes of gray smoke rising up from the northeastern skirts of Mt. Nevis. One was much heavier and thicker.

  Rinehart cleared his throat. “Those are right on top of the transponder signal.”

  Trevor glanced at him. “Bio register?”

  Rinehart frowned. “No data. Either the connection has been disrupted or that part of the transponder is malfunctioning.”

  Connor felt his stomach harden and sink. “Or Dad could be—”

  Trevor did not let him finish. “No. That’s not what the null signal means. It means that the transponder is either out of contact with your dad, or its ability to detect ongoing life-signs has been ruined.”

  “You mean, like what would happen if his arm was blown off?”

  Gray Rinehart looked away as Trevor shook his head. “There’s no reason to think that.”

  Connor’s weight was suddenly pushing against the straps on his chest: Cruz was slowing, lest he overshoot the twin columns of smoke.

  Rinehart adjusted the settings on his palmtop’s tracking program, frowned. “The transponder signal should be stronger by now.”

  Trevor looked over his shoulder. “Unless he’s still in a cave.”

  Rinehart nodded. “In which case, it’s time to go spelunking.”

  They were dropping down toward the source of the smoke. Connor saw that the larger plume was curling up out of the cave he and Dad had nicknamed the Mud Hole. The smaller plume was emerging from the tangle of bushes and vines that capped it like a thatch of wild hair.

  Cruz glanced back as they pulled close enough to touch the immense volcanic slab that housed the cave. “If you want to go spelunking, sirs,” he yelled over the thrusters, “you may have to rappel down. There’s no place large enough for me to land.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Chief,” a more distant voice shouted.

  Dad’s voice!

  A mud-coated figure stood up from the tangled growth atop the spur as the aircar’s engines settled into the hoarse rush of low-power hover.

  Gun at the ready, Trevor leaped from the aircar to where Caine stood. Connor made to follow, but Riordan held up a hand. “Better that I come on board.” Dad had spoken loudly, but slowly, evenly: the way he did when counseling caution. Connor looked over the side of the car: a missed jump here could easily result in broken bones. A lot of them. Still…

  His father must have seen the look on his face. “C’mon, son, be sensible. Reporting for Plebe Summer with your leg in a cast is no way to start at the Academy, is it?”

  Connor took a deep breath. He hated it when his dad got overprotective. He hated it even more when he was right. But by the time Cruz had snugged the aircar a little closer and everyone was on board, all he really cared about was that his dad was alive.

  * * *

  As Caine buckled in, Trevor stared hard at his bloodied left arm, started reaching under his seat for a medkit. Riordan shook his head. “It’ll wait.” He smiled. “It’s self-inflicted.”

  Trevor raised an eyebrow. “The transponder?”

  Caine shrugged. “As long as it was in me, I was in their crosshairs.”r />
  Connor goggled. “So you just cut it out?”

  Caine smiled. “Sorry to lessen your opinion of me, son, but there was no ‘just’ about it. It hurt like hell.”

  “But you did it.”

  “You would, too.” I just hope you never have to do anything like it. He turned to Trevor. “That block of C-8 and bag of decommissioned equipment you left at the safe house saved my life. The remote controllers and actuators got their killer drone looking the wrong way at the right moment.”

  Cruz whistled. “Sir, you are one ballsy—uh, nervy gambling man.”

  “What do you mean, Carlos?”

  “Well, in order to come after you, they had to know where you were, right, sir? So how could you be sure they didn’t know about the equipment cache?”

  Trevor smiled. “Because it was totally off the books, Cruz. Only Richard Downing and I knew it was there. I told Caine about it just before he came down.”

  Connor turned to look at his father, eyes wide. “And you never told me about it?”

  Caine shrugged. “You were never going to be at the Mud Hole when it mattered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Trevor nodded approvingly. “Your dad means that if he had time enough to get to the cave, then he had time enough to make sure you were safe before going there. No matter who or what might come after him.”

  “What you’re really saying is that you wanted to stash me away somewhere while they swooped in and killed you.”

  Caine reached across the aircar, put both hands on his son’s shoulders. He did not speak immediately. Then: “What I wanted was for you to be out of harm’s way. I’ve had too many people become ‘collateral damage’ because they were near me when the hammer came down.” He pushed aside the nightmares in which he not only lost his son, but was the cause of it. “Not you, too, Connor.” Not like your mother. “Not you.”