Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks (19 page)

Hoste made a noncommittal noise and attacked his tea. “Perhaps Fred Yu was right after all.”

“In what respect?”

“About her not really belonging here. Turn her loose on them, by God”—he motioned generally at the cosmos—“and let them see how they like it. If she discomfits our adversaries half as much as she did me today, it would be well worth it.”

“Ambrose, you can’t be serious,” Naomi chided gently.

“I suppose not.” He settled his cup back on its navy-blue saucer with its elegant hawser-laid border picked out in gold. “But I tell you—in earnest—I worry about what else they saw fit not to tell us.”

That was a fair question. Naomi had no answer for it, and before she could offer more than a slight shrug, the Commandant’s personal line beeped. He thumbed
ACCEPT
.

“Yes?”

“Apologies for the interruption, sir”—it was his secretary on the line—“but you just received a call from ONI.”

He exchanged a glance with Naomi. It was not unlikely he would hear from the Office of Naval Intelligence regarding the inquiry, but not anything like this soon. “Did they say on what subject?”

“No, sir,” his secretary replied. “The call was from a Commander Wesselby.”

“Thank you, Stacy. Please tell her I shall be happy to speak to her in fifteen minutes, if that is convenient. I’ll take the call in my office.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Commander Wesselby?” he asked Naomi.

She returned a thoughtful look. “Trin Wesselby, I believe. She was deputy director, PLESIG, but I heard she’s been given the director’s billet. Very close to Admiral PrenTalien.”

“Odd,” Hoste muttered. Quite odd, in fact. What conceivable reason could the director of PLESIG have to visit ONI here at Nereus HQ, and then call on him?

“If I remember right, she was our lead in investigating the Alecto Initiative also.”

Hoste looked up sharply. “Was Kennakris involved in that, by any chance?”

“I’m not sure, sir. It’s possible. Lieutenant Commander Huron was.”

“I take it Lieutenant Commander Huron and Kennakris are . . . associated?”

“I believe there are some rumors to that effect, sir.”

Hoste made a disgruntled noise. This was beginning to look even more complicated, and he’d had quite enough of complications. “Well, do excuse me, Naomi. This shouldn’t take long. I would enjoy finishing our game, if that’s not inconvenient.”

Their eyes wandered to the waiting chess board, set to one side for dinner. Ambrose Hoste, distracted, had not played at his usual level this PM and she had a clear mate in five, but with this new development she was considering a blunder, if she could make one that wasn’t too obvious.

“Not at all, Ambrose.” She selected another petit fours and bit it in half. “Please don’t rush.”

CEF CGHQ, Capitol Complex
Nereus, Mars, Sol

The distinctive warbling tone echoed thinly throughout the almost empty gym, and Rafe Huron tapped his sparring partner’s forearm. Gunnery Sergeant Alison Jordan released what was about to become a devastating hammer lock, swiped some bright gold locks, now darkened with sweat, away from her forehead and stepped back with a heartfelt sigh.

Wearing an easy grin, Huron loped across the exercise mats to where the calling card lay caroling among his gear. Tapping
ACCEPT
, he was treated to Commander Wesselby’s smiling face.

“Not an inopportune time, is it?” she asked, taking her dark hair out of the tight braid and noting the way Huron was dressed.

“Not at all. Quite propitious, in fact.”

“Why? Allie about to get the drop on you again?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I can see her grinning over your shoulder. Hello, Sergeant.”

“Good evening, Commander.” Sergeant Jordan’s sweetly accented voice spoke right next to his ear. He hadn’t heard her approach at all.

“Apologies if I delayed Rafe getting what I’m sure he richly deserves.”

“No worries, ma’am.” The sergeant, a dyed-in-the-wool Canberra native, rolled her shoulders suggestively. “Not much of a delay, I expect.”

“Glad to hear it.” Trin returned her gaze to Huron. “I just spoke with the Commandant and also Commander Buthelezi—who sends her regards, incidentally. Is she one of your old flames, by any chance? Her greeting seemed to convey a certain . . . warmth.”

“Who’s prying now?” Huron was acutely conscious of their audience.

“It’s my turn.”

“She’s a royal, y’know.”

“So are you—to most people.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“She’d be quite a catch.” Trin was warming to the exercise.

“Now don’t
you
start.”

“ ‘I have not yet begun to fight.’ John Paul Jones.”

“I know. He also said something about going into harm’s way.”

“Touché.”

Huron made a little bow of acknowledgement to the image in the card.

“And she also wanted you to know your girl made quite a name for herself tearing up War Week.”

“Do tell.”

“They actually had to hold an inquiry about it.”

“Trin?”

“Yes?”

“Two things. You might want to go easy on employing the possessive case when it comes to Kris. And as much as I appreciate the interruption, my keen instincts tell me you had another reason for calling.”

“In fact I did. The Academy is willing to greenlight a meeting, if she agrees.”

“Schedule?”

“Early next week. We’re looking for a day to maximize the inconvenience for CID.”

“Excellent. With whom?”

“You, a Commander Tilletson from Operations and a CID rep to be named later. Most of the department heads will be attending a major bull session at Lunar 1 then, so I’m expecting Eliot Matheson. He’s deputy of the group that’s tasked with human trafficking. Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re in for a treat, then.”

“Box checker?”

“Extraordinaire. He’s hell on wheels when it comes to report formats too.”

“Very nice.”

“Back with an update tomorrow PM.”

“Looking forward to it. Enjoy your evening, Trin.”

“You too, Rafe. Have fun, Allie.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

And Huron killed the link.

“Have you known the Commander a long time, sir?” Sergeant Jordan inquired politely as they moved back onto the mats.

“Her father and mine were friends.”

“Does she always talk to you like that?”

“Once she lets her hair down, yes.”

“So it’s true you dated Commander Buthelezi?” As they took their stance and locked forearms.

“Are you trying to get on my good side, Sergeant?”

Alison Jordan replied with a grin as bright as her hair. “You’re better when you’re motivated, sir. Ready?”

CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol

The day after the inquiry, a board of faculty members, chaired by Commander Buthelezi and observed by Commandant Hoste, who took no active role, met to decide the War Week scoring. It was a close, detailed and deeply technical discussion, and the upshot was that Basmartin came out on top, ahead of Kris by a mere three points, the edge being his performance during the torpedo runs. Indeed, the result was so closely argued, detailed and technical as to seem a bit defensive, which, given the extraordinary nature of the situation, it certainly was. Nonetheless, the majority accepted the decision as being on the right side of justice.

This majority did not include Basmartin, who was livid. When they chanced to have a moment alone, he’d exclaimed savagely to Kris, “You were robbed! Fucking robbed!”

Kris had never seen him angry before and certainly had never heard him say
fuck
, the way she and Tanner did so liberally—it was daunting.

“S’Okay,” she replied. “It’s no problem—really.” And then she tried to explain that setting up the conditions for victory was not at all the same as achieving victory.

Baz would not buy any of it. “But
you
assigned
us
the torps! You coulda made those runs better than either of us! You know it!”

She did know it, but she also knew that she was better in a dogfight than either of them, so if Red Team’s fighters
had
shown up, she stood a better chance of buying them the time needed to pull off the attack. That, however, was a line of argument Baz was obviously not amenable to, and she didn’t even bother to voice it. When she left, he was still fuming.

The following day, the Grand Senate passed, by an unusually slim margin, a resolution authorizing the Plenary Council to proceed with the ultimatum and any action that should result from its execution. An eleventh-hour compromise to soften some of the wording had been needed to secure sufficient votes, leading to cries of weaseling wording and watering down. The senior senator from New Meridies took the floor at the last minute to harangue his colleagues: “What is the point of an ultimatum that merely suggests, not demands?” His tone was overwrought, as were his arguments, and the compromise stood. The Plenary Council accepted the resolution with due solemnity, and the Speaker promised action with “all alacrity consistent with the portentous nature of the resolution” and set no date for doing anything. The media, reacting on cue, was full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

At the Academy, all the outcry signified perhaps less than nothing. The results of the vote were announced on the same Martian day as the finals of the All-Forces Unarmed Combat Championship, in which Corporal Vasquez defeated Sergeant Major Yu in a match of record length by the required minimum of two points. Regardless of the confident predictions from some parties, the sky did not fall and, as attentive observers noted the next morning, the sun rose in its accustomed quadrant.

Even for those few near-pariahs who hadn’t followed the tournament with obsessive dedication, the term was ending in the spirit of holiday, not politics, and governmental doings were a very distant concern, indeed.

Kris’s private thoughts were not on holidays, however, which meant nothing to her but more time on her hands (it was pleasant enough to have a break from people, but she got squirmy after about a week), and even less on what the government was up to.

Instead, her thoughts were wholly occupied with what the immunocyte implants were doing to her system. Walking with knees that still shook more than a little and keeping one hand on the wall, she was making her way back to her study from the head, where she’d practically taken up a lease on the stall nearest the door. In fact, the day before yesterday she’d seriously considered posting a sign to that effect when she unexpectedly found it occupied. Fortunately, there was a sink handy.

She’d gotten her first round of immunocytes four days ago—the same day the final scoring was announced—and the med-techs had told her to expect “a little discomfort” and “maybe some nausea,” especially after the first twenty-four hours. Kris had come to understand this as medical shorthand for puking your guts out for an hour and a half every morning. That was supposed to be diminishing at this point, and she certainly hoped it would, because it was beginning to feel like the cure was worse than the disease—any disease. The very thought of food made her stomach roll; she was having enough trouble keeping down the specially fortified, somewhat slimy, vaguely sweet, unpleasantly pale-orange stuff she was supposed to drink a liter of each evening.

Baz looked up as she eased unsteadily through the door, noting her pale, drawn face and the beads of clammy perspiration across her forehead and under her eyes, which were ringed with dark circles.

“Bad, huh?” He’d gotten his implants the same day, and whatever they fixed up kids with in the Homeworlds, it must be a lot different than the proactive vaccines Kris had been inoculated with, because he’d sailed through with barely a burp. Kris was not close to forgiving him for that.

“What’re ya still doin’ here?” she said in a hoarse, strained voice. He was supposed to have left to meet his family early that AM.

“Flight’s delayed.”

“Again?” This was the second time. Minx and Tanner had left two days ago, Minx with her upperclassman girlfriend and Tanner to parts unknown. Baz had been stuck here, exactly at the time when she really didn’t want the company.

“It happens,” he said philosophically. It was easy for him to be philosophical. Kris had a vague idea that he also felt some obligation to hang around and ‘be there for her’ or some such bullshit. His parents were doctors—his father was in fact the medical director of a hospital on Phaedra—and Kris knew they both did a lot of
pro bono
medical outreach in the poorer colonies. Baz evidently felt he had to keep up the family tradition. She really couldn’t blame him for that, but she did anyway. Sometimes Baz could be really dense.

As she made her way carefully to her bunk—Tanner’s bunk, actually, since hers was an upper rack—Baz looked down at the tablet he was browsing. “By the way, your xel’s been beeping like crazy.”

“Fuck it,” Kris muttered as she sat carefully on the bunk and dragged a pillow across her knees.

“I think it’s important.”

“Fuck it anyway,” as she lowered her face into the welcoming softness.

“It’s from Commander Huron.”

Kris raised her head faster than was prudent. “What the
fuck
?”

“Yeah, he got promoted. Months ago, I guess. Anyway, it’s his sig. Thought you’d wanna know.”

“Yeah.” She’d left her xel a good two meters way. That meant moving.
Shit
.

Baz got up and reached over for it. “Here.”

“Thanks.” She hadn’t meant it to sound so gruff. Baz smiled anyway. He opened his mouth but then his xel warbled, an insistent priority tone. He thumbed it off and checked the alert.

“
Now
they’re here. Just cleared into orbit.” He looked over at Kris, who was staring at her xel in bewilderment. “You doing okay? I can stay a little longer, if you’d like. It won’t kill them to wait some.”

“No—no,” Kris said distractedly. “Go on. Have a good break. Tell your sister I say
Hi
.”

“Sure you don’t need anything?”

Yeah, being alone
. “Naw, I don’t. All good.”

“Okay.” He made no move to stir. “We’ll be downside a few days—maybe the rest of the week. Then we’ll be at my sister’s place in Kyoto. You got my card?”

“Yeah.”

“Well . . . y’know—you can call if there’s anything. Door’s always open—all that.”

“I know.”

Finally, he shouldered his tightly packed duffle bag and picked up a smaller travel case. “Well, see ya next term, Kris.”

“Take it easy, Baz.”

The door slid open and then shut behind him before she looked up.

The message was from Lieutenant Commander Huron and what was more, it came with an endorsement from Commandant Hoste, or at least his office. The endorsement informed her that while the attached request concerned an official matter, her compliance was wholly voluntary and refusal would in no way impact her Academy career—would not in fact be noted in her record—but if she chose to comply, she was to understand there would be certain obligations thereby assumed, both under civil law and the 17 Articles of the Code of Military Justice, and she was to understand what rights she had in such a case and which others might be limited or curtailed by her acceptance of the request and so on for almost three pages.

The message itself was not even three lines. It simply said he and some other unnamed ‘gentlemen’ had some questions they would like to ask her, and would she agree to meet with them downside at the main campus today at 1500, or some other time tomorrow if that was more convenient? The second line informed her that transport was already standing by.

Of the topic there was no clue, but there were few things Commander Huron and some ‘gentlemen’ could possible wish to ask her about—in fact, she could think of only one: Nestor Mankho.

She sighed and rubbed her aching ribs, trying to ease the pain in the wrenched muscles along her sides and around her abdomen. She had no doubt she could refuse, and besides, she felt like shit. That was not an excuse exactly—no excuses were called for here—but on the other hand, it would get her off this fucking rock for a day. And she’d get to see Huron again. That thought gave her queer contradictory feelings which did not sit well with her stomach.

Goddammit
. She rapped her knuckles absently on her thigh. It was still early. What did she have to look forward to here? Choking down another liter of that fucking jellied lizard piss this evening?

Oh, to hell with it
. She opened the message again, typed her two-word acceptance. Hit
SEND
.