The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “What happened?”

  He tossed his jacket toward one of the curved couches in the exedra, now full of delicate evening light, and it landed a yard short. Ignoring it, he stretched, joints popping. “Long day,” he answered. “I need a drink. Can I offer you one? No obligation.” Kris’s experiences with alcohol had been brief and unpleasant. She shook her head. “You mind if I do?” Another headshake. He went to the bar cunningly worked into a cabinet in the opposite wall and tapped a request. A snifter of cognac appeared. He took it, swirled, inhaled the vapor but did not taste it.

  “Look, Kris . . . It’s getting ugly out there. May I ask you a few questions?”

  She fought down an urge to retreat. “About what?”

  “Mariwen.”

  “Why?”

  He gave her a condensed and suitably edited version of his conversation with Trin Wesselby. When he finished, her face was a hard as a slammed door. He met her eyes with difficulty. “So, did Mariwen say anything about the hearings to you?”

  “She said she doesn’t want to go. Lora wants her to, though. Says it will do a lot of good.”

  “She doesn’t want to testify?”

  “No. She just wants to forget the whole thing. Lora’s insisting—I think she wants the money.” Kris sounded waspish.

  Huron ignored the comment. “Has she asked you to go? Suggested you testify?”

  “No!” Kris took a deep breath to calm herself. “She never said anything like that.” She paused, trying to get her nerves under control. “All she ever said was I could get rich selling my story to producers”—she spat the word—“but that was when we just met.”

  “When you went out with her that night, I noticed your xels and cards were off—”

  “People kept calling. The media were hassling us so we turned ‘em off and blocked the trace.”

  “Did she talk to anyone? Mention where you lived? If you were alone? Anything like that?”

  She looked into Huron’s averted face and hated the suspicions she saw there. Her hands clenched into fists. “Mariwen didn’t do anything! That wasn’t her fault!”

  “Alright, Kris.” He straightened, the snifter tilting forgotten in his hand. He paced over to the big console, checked his messages. Nothing seemed to interest him. Coming back, he seemed more thoughtful. “Have you heard from her at all since the second attack?”

  “No.” A sad heavy shake of her head. She went and sat on the edge of one of the little elegant fragile chairs that were spaced along the atrium walls. “I tried to call her once. She didn’t answer.”

  “Why’d you call? Did you want to go to the hearings with her?” Kris shot him a vicious look. “Sorry. I have to know.”

  “So how do you know I’m not lying to you?” Her tone was acid bright and sharp.

  “Because I trust you?”

  Stupid fuck’n answer. Then aloud: “I called because Lora’s got her scared and all freaked out, on meds, all this shit.” She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “I just wanted to talk to her—not get her more upset. She said she’d call after the hearings. But I . . . I’m afraid she won’t.”

  “Okay, Kris. That’s all. I’m sorry about this.” He finally lifted his glass and sipped the cognac. “I’m gonna get something to eat—want anything?”

  “No.” Kris rose. “Thanks.” She took a step; looked back. “That woman’s wrong about this.”

  “Who? Commander Wesselby?”

  “Yeah.” Kris’s eyes were hard and opaque. “She’s wrong about me—about Mariwen. About everything. She’s doesn’t know shit.”

  * * *

  Back in the south wing, Kris sat on her bed, feeling her heart flutter and her stomach cramp and churn over what she’d heard, especially about implants—Mariwen did not set me up!—and the added weight that, whatever she’d led Huron to believe, what she’d told him was not quite all.

  She had not told him that after she called Mariwen’s card and got no answer she’d tried to leave a message on her public line, but Lora Comargo had answered instead. Lora had been a shade too chipper and too pleasant and the condescension Kris heard in Lora’s voice made her dislike harden into something not too far from hatred. Lora explained that they were terribly sorry but Mariwen was at an appointment now and with her testimony tomorrow would not be free then either—which Kris already knew—but when Kris asked Lora to convey the message that she hoped to talk to her after the hearings, Lora had assumed a pained expression.

  “I’m not sure that will be possible,” she’d said. Unfortunately they were leaving immediately afterwards—an important opportunity had come up—and were unlikely to return anytime soon. Mariwen wanted to go home—to Terra—Earth—where she had family she had not seen in years. Lora was deeply regretful. That ended the conversation.

  Kris believed none of it. Except the part about leaving.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mare Nemeton

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  Lora Comargo came into the bedroom carrying a cup of tea and small plate with two pills and some slices of purplish-red star-shaped fruit. “Feeling any better, sweetie?”

  Mariwen, lying on her stomach amid a tangle of rumbled sheets, gave her a faint nod. Lora put the tea and plate on an end table and watched as Mariwen stretched across the bed to reach them. She swallowed the pills, sipped the tea and bit into a slice of fruit. As she dabbed at the dark juice trickling down her lower lip, Lora sat on the bed and caressed her bare hip.

  “Big day,” she said. “Nervous?” Mariwen shrugged. Lora leaned over and kissed her back. “It’ll be fine, sweetie—really. Just think of all the good you’re doing.” Then she playfully slapped one flawless buttock and slid off the bed. “Got to get ready though. You need to leave in an hour.”

  Mariwen nodded again and consumed more fruit. As Lora busied herself with the built-in wardrobe, so much larger and more versatile than an autovalet, Mariwen paused for a moment, her fingers over the plate. “Has Kris called?”

  Lora turned and noted the new brightness in Mariwen’s eyes. “Who?”

  “Loralynn—the girl I went out with that night. You remember.”

  “Oh!” Lora bobbed her head, an exaggerated movement. “The pretty one. No, she hasn’t.” She took a suit from the wardrobe; inspected it critically. “I heard she left with Rafael Huron—you know they’ve been seeing a lot of each other—a day or two ago.” She laid the suit out carefully by the bed.

  “Oh.” Brightness gone, Mariwen looked down at the little plate where the juice of the remaining slices was running in narrow rivulets to collect in a carmine puddle against the rim.

  Right on schedule, Lora Comargo tugged the lapels of Mariwen’s suit jacket even and twitched the wide collar straight. “I so wish we were going with you.”

  “It’s fine,” Mariwen said.

  “I hate all this—the rumors, everything that’s been happening.” She smoothed the jacket’s fabric with her palm.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, you know me.” Lora stepped back to see if anything else needed fussing with. Satisfied, she picked up Mariwen’s bag, a large black satchel, and handed it over. Mariwen took it, gave Lora a quick hug and they kissed. “Taxi’s already outside,” Lora said. “Wait a second, Sweetie. I want you to take this.” She held out a heavy compact pistol with a short thick barrel. “For protection.” Mariwen’s hand hesitated over it. “It’ll be fine. Just give it to security when you check in,” Lora said reassuringly. “I just can’t stand the thought of you going out there alone. Things can happen so fast.” Mariwen’s hand closed over the black shape and she slipped it into the satchel. Lora squeezed her arm. “Thanks, sweetie. We’ll see you this evening—just as soon as it’s all over.”

  Mariwen nodded absently, the front doors opened and she stepped out into the soft morning light.

  * * *

  Kris finished her morning bath early, dressed, and came out into the big atrium to find Huron already
gone and a note on the console saying he would be at the Chief Inspector’s office. There was a map reference and a card on the mantle below. The card had a hand-written note next to it that read: If you need to see me, this will get you in.

  She ordered breakfast, took it to her rooms and settled by the console. Today was the first day of the hearings and the media were already out in force. There were vids of participants arriving, taken at a safe distance because of the security; vids of the welcoming ceremony that media was not allowed near at all—government reporting only—with commentary based on leaked copies of the opening speeches, and speculation about the testimony to be given and its probable effects.

  Mariwen was to be the first actual witness to testify once the preliminaries were finished. They showed file video of her and replayed bits of the first sensational stories about her kidnapping. One showed a distraught Lora Comargo turning the media away, played in slow motion while a female announcer cooed about the terrible crime. Then the clip cut to a tight shot of a younger Mariwen walking away from the camera and looking back over her shoulder with that dazzling smile as the wind caught her hair and blew it suddenly across her face.

  Fuckers. Kris snapped the obscene vid off. She checked the time. Mariwen was due to arrive in less than half an hour. Kris stared at the dull blank display, but the images remained etched on her retinas: Mariwen’s face—young, sweet, happy, achingly beautiful and alive—the wind rising, her hair stirring, blowing, the gust—

  Gone.

  Heart thumping high in her throat, Kris brought out her xel, requested Transport, tagged it Urgent. The destination was requested. She entered Grand Exhibit Hall.

  The request came back: DENIED—Restricted Zone.

  Shit.

  She got up, looked around, breathing fast, angry, helpless. Picked up Huron’s calling card. Stared at it. Huron’s card. The mantle.

  She sprinted from her rooms, snatched the card off mantle. She repeated her transport request. When she asked for her destination, she entered it again and swiped his card over the xel.

  The request came back: ACCEPTED ETA 00:23:17.

  * * *

  Mariwen breezed up the steps to the Grand Exhibit Hall, walking with that long, swing-hipped trademark gait; the black satchel held comfortably under her left arm. Two security men, gaudy in burgundy and gold uniforms, flanked the broad, arched entrance. Mariwen noticed half a dozen others, dressed in dull, workman-like gray, placed unobtrusively around the wide portico and on a mezzanine level just inside. More lurked around the margins of the courtyard she had just crossed. She flashed her best model’s smile as one of the gaudy men approached and tipped his cap to her.

  “Good morning, Ms. Rathor. Glad to have you with us. I’m afraid I’ll have to examine your bag, though. Just routine, you understand.”

  Mariwen stopped, artfully distressed. “Is that really necessary? I’m afraid I’m already late.”

  The security man spread his hands and smiled a little guiltily. “I’m afraid so, Ms. Rathor. There have been rumors, you know. We were told to make no exceptions.”

  “Oh, alright,” Mariwen conceded, opened the black bag and held it out to the guard. As his hands took hold of it, she reached deftly inside and pulled out a stubby black shape. With a smooth motion, she jammed the pistol into the guard’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

  The flat crack was muffled by flesh that exploded around them in a fine pink spray. She caught the sagging body even as it clutched reflexively at its shattered entrails—now uncoiling in tatters about their feet. Deliberately, she shot the second gaudily-dressed security man, catching his right arm just above the elbow and carrying it away.

  Yelling began to resound through the pistol shots. One of the men in gray was running at her, firing wildly with his sidearm. A slug thwacked wetly into the body of the dead man she was holding. She shot him in the chest, then squeezed off a volley at the men on the mezzanine.

  They dove for cover as part of the balcony railing shattered and a large painted urn exploded into fragments. Shards of poly-marble ricocheted all over the entry way. Mariwen drew a bead on a man crouched behind a pillar. Then someone yelled her name.

  Kris had reached the broad shallow portico steps just as Mariwen handed her bag to the security man. She saw the gun drawn, the explosion as the pistol went off into his belly, the rapid succession of shots that followed, the other guard crumple around his severed arm, the man in gray thrown into a neat back flip as the round cratered his chest.

  Absurdly, she thought: 10-mm explosive-tipped caseless. Slaver ammo.

  “Mariwen!” She sprinted up the steps. Another man in gray ran from the side, moving to intercept her. He had a gun.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screamed. “Don’t shoot!”

  She didn’t know if she was yelling at him or Mariwen or all of them. The man in gray shouted at her—something stupid like: “Get down!”

  Fuck you! You’re trying to kill my friend!

  She ran harder. Mariwen aimed deliberately at a man off to her left.

  “Mariwen! Don’t!”

  He fired—the collar of Mariwen’s jacket twitched as the bullet clipped the edge.

  “NO!”

  The man in gray caught her, his arms closing around her waist. Spinning, she fought him.

  “Mariwen!”

  Mariwen turned and pointed the gun straight at her. There was a blinding flash and the man holding her jerked as the report boxed her ears. She looked into his eyes—they stared back at her, utterly surprised. His mouth opened and shut; he blinked twice. Then his body slithered off hers and she saw the back of his head blown away, the blue remnants of his intelligence sprayed out in a fan behind her.

  She was untouched. There was hardly any blood.

  “Mariwen.” A plea this time; gentle but carrying.

  More men in gray ran up, guns out. They waved at her, yelling idiotically. She couldn’t hear them over the ringing in her ears. Her arms held out to Mariwen, she walked forward.

  Mariwen aimed the pistol between her eyes—she could see the pitting around the crown of the well-used muzzle. Mariwen’s face was contorted beyond all bounds of humanness—all beauty raped from it by an insane bloodlust.

  “Mariwen, please.” The silly gray men and their guns no longer existed. Nothing existed but her and Mariwen and the pitted muzzle of Mariwen’s gun. Heartbeats reverberated at long and regular intervals, with deafening silence in between.

  Kris kept walking toward her. “It’s me. Kris.”

  If the gun went off, she’d never hear it. She knew that now.

  “Mariwen, put the gun down.”

  Mariwen’s eyes bored into hers: dark, mad, tormented. Trapped, frantic eyes. Hating eyes. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Mariwen, it’s okay. I’m here. Put it down. For me?”

  Something clouded the tortured eyes. Something yearning. Something confused. Mariwen opened her mouth but no sound emerged. Her lips writhed helplessly.

  “Will you do that for me, Mariwen? Please?”

  She reached out, arms and hands inviting.

  “Please Mariwen?”

  The gun barrel wavered.

  “I’m here.”

  A long scream, terrible and bare, clawed out of Mariwen’s throat. The pistol dropped from slack fingers. With a long lunge, Kris caught her as her knees buckled. Together, they collapsed onto the cold blood-washed marble. Protectively, Kris hugged her while huge wrenching sobs shook her narrow back and burning tears washed the bitter sweat from Kris’s skin.

  Aftermaths

  Six days later (NST). . .

  NBPS HQ, Mare Nemeton

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  Chief Inspector Taliaferro sat on the edge of his desk between a coffee cup, two ammo clips lying there in open defiance of regulations, a scattering of hardcopy and an ashtray. He held a light gray cube in his fingers, not quite two centimeters on a side, twirling it absently. “Know what this is?”r />
  Kris, who was sitting in the one of the two extra chairs in Chief Inspector’s office, gave her head a small negative shake and Huron, who stood behind the other one, responded only with a tightening of the muscles around his mouth.

  “Metabonded forward-propagating focused-blast explosive,” Taliaferro said to no one in particular. “Call it Forpro. Supposed to be experimental. About 45 grams here.” He tossed the cube in his hand and Kris fervently hoped that whatever it was, it had been rendered inert. “If this went off ”—he held it up and studied the shiniest of the six surfaces—“lessee, I think that’s the front—it would blow a hole about two-foot across in that wall there and wipe out the one beyond. Probably get a third. But sitting here, you’d only a hear a loud pop—except for some blast reflection, that is.”

  He stared at the imaginary hole. “Y’see, the way it detonates, the blast front propagates in only one direction—cancels itself out in every other direction. Fun, ain’t it?”

  Neither Huron nor Kris saw fit to comment.

  “Tricky stuff,” Taliaferro went on and before the quiver this sent up his listeners’ spines could abate he continued, “A real bitch to set off. Perfectly inert in normal circumstances. Can’t detonate it with igniters or fuses or even other explosives. Hell, I could set off a demolition mine on this stuff and it wouldn’t explode.” He dropped the cube on his desk.

  “So what sets it off?” It was Huron who asked. Kris was still just sitting there, looking pale.

  “EMP. A pretty healthy dose, too.”

  Kris, appalled, found her voice. “That’s what Mariwen was carrying?”

  “Yep. A small class-C device. Effective range for this stuff, about forty-five meters.”

  Kris heard Huron exclaim under his breath. “Where was it? The explosive.”

  “In a bunch of extra tables supposedly for those damn hearings—had a core in the top of all of them. They just waltzed in with ‘em and stacked ‘em in the courtyard. Since they’d been scanned, nobody gave it a second thought—didn’t even ask what they were for.”