The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “Of course they think that. They may even be right.” Huron shrugged. “So what?”

  “Has it occurred to you that a stealth drone is a damned expensive way to try to assassinate someone? Especially when it doesn’t work?”

  “Certainly. Are you suggesting they just try to drop a safe on my head?”

  “I’m suggesting that none of this makes any sense. Look”—she took the stylus and started ticking off points in the various reports—“we’ve got vague indications of something going on that’s been in the works for at least a year. We’ve got this Ionian report that is not considered credible but if it was, would be a smoking gun for a serious plot involving Halith. Then we have someone taking this shot at you in a way that seems, well, costly and clumsy.” She favored him with a acerbic smile. “With all due respect, Huron, I don’t think you’re worth all that effort.”

  “For what it’s worth, Taliaferro agrees with you.”

  “Nick Taliaferro is worth a good deal. Is that why he’s making those media statements?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Wise of him. These hearings are, of course, a very high-value target. But if that’s the case, why light up everything now by taking a potshot at you? You don’t have anything to do with the hearings.”

  “Thank god.” He scratched behind his ear. “So we’re left with a report we don’t believe, an ambiguous meeting, and a bunch of traffic that could mean just about anything, or even nothing, and a botched assassination attempt. And from all this, we conclude that either Halith is conspiring with Mankho to pull off a major terrorist attack using slaver muscle and with the connivance of both the Bannermans and Andamans, or Mankho is just up to his old tricks, or my street value has gone way up.” He looked from Wesselby to the reports. “Are we milking a dead horse yet?”

  “Rather,” Wesselby agreed, gathering the reports into their file. She sealed it, dropped it back into her desk and shut the drawer emphatically.

  “Well then.” Huron got up to leave with doubtful sigh. “It’s been lovely.” He paused and looked back at Wesselby quizzically. “Why are the Ionians so convinced about that meeting?”

  Wesselby shrugged, looking tired and glum. “They claim they have direct surveillance.”

  “Which they won’t share.”

  “Nope. Too sensitive. They don’t like us that much anyway. Especially these days.”

  “And there’s nothing of interest in the message traffic you told me about? Nothing that might possibly point to this meeting or Mankho . . . or Halith?”

  Trin thumbed open a file of hand-written notes and squinted at them. “No, not really. The only thing CID flagged was some references to the Alecto.”

  “The Alecto?” The LSS Alecto was an old Halith destroyer captured during the last war and refit. “The Alecto is laid up in ordinary. Why would they be talking about her?”

  Trin shrugged. “No idea.” She closed the file. “Does that name mean something to you?”

  “Well . . . Alecto is one of the Erinyes. Or Dirae, if you prefer.”

  “Yes Rafe,” Trin remarked with a biting tone and look to match. “We all know you have a classical education. So Alecto is one of the Erinyes. Meaning what?”

  “Ancient Greek and Roman mythology—the Furies. Alecto was implacable or unrelenting anger, as I recall.”

  “So? Other than it makes a nice name for a destroyer.”

  “Or a terrorist plot?”

  Trin’s brow wrinkled. “What are you trying to get at, Rafe?”

  “What sort of education does Mankho have?” Trin rolled her eyes. Huron’s mood softened. “Okay. Thanks, Trin—this did help. I’m going to make some calls.”

  “Buying tickets for a front-row seat?”

  “Hardhat. In case they think of that dropping-the-safe idea.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  * * *

  When Huron was clear of the building, he took out his xel and tapped up Fred Heink. As soon as the connection locked, Fred exclaimed, “Christ, Rafe! You could’ve said something!”

  “What? Spoil the surprise?”

  Fred snorted. “Made me feel like a ass. Some surprise.”

  “You’ll recover.” He paused to assess his friend. “Look Fred, I still owe you a drink. Want to meet at Wanda’s in thirty?”

  “Sounds good, Rafe. See you then.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Fifteen minutes later Huron pulled up in front of a café that was not called Wanda’s. Wanda was the proprietor’s daughter, who had been the subject of their mutual affections many years ago—a circumstance they’d been unaware of until the girl got her dates confused one evening. The comedy of errors that ensued was a pivotal moment in Huron’s young life.

  He checked his security detail: a groundcar a discreet distance behind and some nondescript characters lounging around the corner from the café and another three sitting just inside the door. Fred was waiting by the door, looking the other way. Huron leaned out the window and whistled. Fred saw him and came across the street, not hurrying. When he was about six feet away, he said, “You don’t owe me a drink.”

  “I know,” Huron replied. He’d been checking the car’s scanners. Fred was clean; not wired and not carrying.

  “So where are they?”

  “Haven’t you spotted them yet?”

  “The guys in that car, yeah. Tell that fella round the corner to get different shoes and not to ignore his friends so much.”

  “The three guys just inside to the right by the door?”

  Fred knew better than to look. “Shit. Must be getting old.”

  “Happens to all of us.” Huron got out of the car, held out his hand. “Sorry, Fred.”

  Fred took his hand and shook it. “Hell, I wouldn’t trust me either. Where you want to do this?”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Huron pointed down the street. They turned and walked side by side for about ten meters before Fred said, “So what do you need?”

  “Who knew that I went up with Kris the other day?”

  “Me. You. ATC in the tower, of course. The maintenance guys probably noticed. Ground crew all over the place—who knows if they were paying attention. Did you fuel up before takeoff?”

  Huron nodded. “Anybody new around in the last few weeks?”

  “No new maintenance guys. No one new in ATC. They screen the hell outta them, anyway. Ground crew?” He made a brusque movement. “Come and go. Can’t say there.”

  “Who’s in charge of security?”

  “A guy named Clancy Rollins.” Fred said the name in tone of singular of distaste.

  “Clean?”

  “I think he’s most of an asshole. But that don’t mean he’s crooked.”

  “Been there long?”

  “About a year, I think. No . . . less. Nine—ten months, maybe”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  Fred twitched his shoulders. “I haven’t been back. Kennakris is the only student in my book at the moment.” He paused, sucking in his thin lower lip. “The only other thing I recall was this cop who showed up about two months ago—made a nuisance of himself. Hestian. Wanted to know about security practices so we all had to play along for a couple of days.”

  “Security in general or counterterrorism?”

  “I’d’ve expected counterterrorism with these hearings and all, but he was more concerned with smuggling, contraband, stuff like that. Weird, I thought, since Eelusis don’t handle freight. But he talked slaving some too—seemed to be from that side of things—so maybe that was it.”

  “And he was from Hestia? Remember his name?”

  “ ‘Fraid I didn’t catch it. Probably in the notice they sent out. Want me to look for it?”

  Huron shook his head. Mariwen Rathor had been kidnapped on Hestia but that would have been at least week or two later, so the visit couldn’t have been related. “No Fred. Thanks. I think that’s all I need.”

  Fred smiled, a bit tigh
t, and touched his forehead. “Glad I could help.” His eyes made a quick scan of the street. “I don’t think I’ll walk you back to your car.” He winked. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” They shook hands again. “Might want to be a little careful of your company for a bit. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Well, I was thinking of taking a little vacation—got some savings, y’know.”

  “Good. Take care of yourself, Fred.”

  “Good hunting, Rafe.”

  Huron watched him for a minute as he walked off down the street. Then he motioned to the car behind him and got in as it came alongside. His driver, a massive marine lance corporal named Jenk, gave him just the briefest sideways glance. “All correct, sir?”

  “Yes, corporal. Take us back.” Jenk selected a priority lane from the console and merged into it, pulling the nose up and taking the car clear of the ground. About sixty meters up, he banked left and headed for Xanthus Towers, it’s tall spires just visible over the horizon against the fading sun. Huron retrieved Taliaferro’s card from a pocket and tapped CALL. The lock light illuminated and when the Chief Inspector answered, Huron immediately said, “Are you in a green zone?”

  “Wait one.” The line dimmed for a moment as the mute engaged and then half a minute later, it came back as Taliaferro asked, “Have you got something?”

  “Do you know anything about a Clancy Rollins, works at Eelusis cosmodrome?”

  “Oh yeah. Mr. Clancy Rollins. Security director.”

  “So you do know about him.”

  “Not personally. He skipped before we got the landlock in place. Had his bot call in the next morning about a family emergency or something. Lame.”

  “Any trace of him?”

  “Well, when you work at a cosmodrome, it’s pretty easy to arrange a ride. We’re pretty sure we know his departure craft, but I’m sure he met someone up top and is long gone. If he was smart at all, they would’ve used a squealer and it’ll be awhile before we can sort out all the tracks.”

  “Enjoy yourself with that. Do you know if there were any new ground crew put on the books in the last few weeks?”

  “There weren’t. But as he was security director, he could badge anyone in and make sure the logs didn’t record it. Then they could just leave with him.”

  “Good point.” Shit. He should have thought of that. “Call logs? Intercepts?”

  Taliaferro responded a patient smile that really wasn’t. “Running that down now. But in an environment this dense, it going to take time, especially if they were using their own gear.” The smile widened a bit. “Anything else you think we might have overlooked, Lieutenant? Sure you don’t want to ask me about Mr. Cole Pritt while you’re at it?”

  “Who?”

  “Supervisory Agent Pritt of the Hestian Central Bureau of Investigation. Deputy director of their human-trafficking task force. Made an official visit here month before last.”

  “Oh.” So that was his name. “No. But thanks, Inspector. There’s nothing else.” His voice was stiffer than he would have liked and clipped with frustration. “Sorry to take up your time.”

  “No worries, Lieutenant. We’ll be touch.” They cut the link.

  Huron tapped up Kris on her xel. No answer. No answer on her calling card either. He asked for a trace. The trace came back refused. He considered calling in for a scan that would force the line; a legally dubious act on his own authority and certainly rude. He decided he was overreacting but tried the trace once more just to be sure. Refused again. Huron repeated his imprecation under his breath as Jenk glided the car into Xanthus Towers’ private garage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mare Nemeton

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  Mariwen gave Kris a quick hug and discreet peck on the cheek. “That was really fun! I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to get away.” She squeezed Kris’s hand. “Thanks!” Kris returned the squeeze and looked down, self-conscious. The brief pressure of Mariwen’s lips had managed to reach something naked and vulnerable that recoiled instinctively, as if back into a shell. But something else, equally naked, had swarmed blindly toward the warmth of that kiss and she heard herself saying, “You, um . . . you don’t want to come up for a minute, do you?”

  “I can’t.” Mariwen’s face scrunched awkwardly, regretful and anxious. “I really do have to get back. It’s late and with the testimony coming up and everything that just happened . . .” Her look changed to exasperated. “Lora’s probably fit to be tied as it is.”

  Kris nodded. She understood. It was almost certainly for the best. But she couldn’t quite hide her disappointment. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Sorry.” Mariwen let go her hand, turned and slid into the back seat of the waiting groundcar. As the door closed she stopped it with her arm. “I’ll call after the hearings, alright?” Kris nodded, waved. The arm retreated inside, the door slid shut and car left purring on its ground-effect skirts.

  Kris turned away after a moment, ran her pass-card through the lock and pressed her thumb to the keypad. The doors opened and as she took a step inside, someone hit her violently in the back, a blow that propelled her across the foyer towards a man she barely had a chance to see. He assumed she’d try to dodge but Kris used the momentum of the shove to launch herself into him. The impact caught him wrong-footed and they fell heavily back against the stairs, the base of his skull hitting the lowest step with a resounding crack. Kris rolled free, lashed out with a kick that struck meat and was rewarded with a grunt. But the other man was on her now. She punched at his throat with all her strength even as her knee came up hard between his legs. Both connected but he did no more than grunt again and she saw the designs on his teeth as he grinned and, pinning her with one big hand on her throat, raised a fist.

  There was a explosive noise behind him and he turned his head with a shocked look that became permanent as his skull was violently rotated through a hundred and twenty degrees. The wet sodden pop of vertebrae parting was unnaturally loud in the confined space. Then a dark shape lunged past Kris and she heard a breathy grunt cut off by another fleshy snap. Then nothing.

  She sat up, blinking and dazed, and an arm curved around her back. She looked sideways into the darkened visor of a marine combat helmet and while gentle fingers knowingly palpitated her throat, a richly accented, distinctly feminine, and curiously tender voice asked her, “Are you alright, ma’am? Can you stand?”

  Kris nodded and the marine helped her up. As she got to her feet, knees wobbling, she found the foyer full of people. Marines, all armed. One, with a sergeant’s stripes on his arm and a face that might have been carved in basalt scowling through his open visor, demanded, “Any more?”

  The female marine holding Kris, a corporal, shook her head and another Marine standing to the side of the foyer’s entrance with his weapon poised answered, “Marx and Keller giving Have Joy. Perimeter secure, Sarg.”

  “She okay?” The sergeant pointed at Kris and marine supporting her, who she now noticed was absurdly short, gave her head a silent shake. Nettled, Kris snapped, “I’m fine, dammit.” But in fact, she was not fine: she was dizzy and it was getting worse. That sick headache was returning and her knees were starting to shake badly. The sergeant peered into her eyes and grunted. “Bring her.”

  The short corporal picked up Kris as if her seventy kilos were a trivial burden—an infant, a puppy, a sack of rations—and carried her through the door and down the steps as a low squat heavy vehicle was coming up to the curb. The marines peeled off from their positions as they passed and the sergeant brought up the rear. Kris was deposited in the back and the driver was already pulling out as the rest of the squad piled in. The doors sealed and the vehicle accelerated. Kris felt it lift away from the ground a moment before she passed out.

  * * *

  Huron’s personal secure line flashed red and he thumbed it on, giving the access code. Geoff N’Komo’s face appeared. “It’s your girl, Boss. You were right a
bout that weird feeling.”

  The fine hair rose at the nape of his neck. “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, she’s a little pissed off, I think. Other than that she’s fine. We got her down here.”

  “What happened?”

  “About what you’d expected. There were only two of them—never have a chance, even in light armor. I could almost feel sorry for the sonsabitches.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  * * *

  Coffee was a taste Kris had never acquired, so she was surprised at how well the hot bitter brew went down. They apologized for only being able to offer it to her black but she just shook her head and mumbled her gratitude and let the aromatics tickle her nose as she sipped. Her headache was fading and the shakes were almost gone—just little tremors that corkscrewed unexpectedly up and down her spine now and then.

  At the sound of footsteps and sotto voce greetings, she looked up and saw Huron approaching with a long purposeful stride. The coffee had taken the edge off her mood—savage at having been handled like baggage and even more so at her body’s betrayal that had allowed it—and she smiled at him, faintly.

  He smiled back. “Y’know, we have to stop meeting like this.”

  Kris’s smile twitched up at the corners and she went back to sipping her coffee.

  Huron looked around at the others in the room. “Who has the stiffs?”

  N’Komo answered from within a clot of people checking the boards on the far side of the room. “The cops. We filed a report after the area was secure.”

  “Anything on them?”

  “Didn’t check. They’re awful touchy about that.” N’Komo detached himself from the clot. “Kinda on thin ice here as it is.”

  Huron nodded. “Yeah.” He leaned back against the desk across from where Kris was sitting. “Anything you can tell us, Kris?”

  “One of them was a slaver.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. But he had the tattoos.” She tapped her teeth. “Probably from the Hydra. Cathcar or Mantua.”