The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “It would have to be someone influential.”

  “Any of the attendees could have floated the idea.”

  “One of the senators?”

  “Likely.”

  “Any chance you can find out? I can’t get near politicals.”

  “My office didn’t get anything but the list after it was vetted. Oughta be a signature somewhere, though—maybe in the minutes of some meeting. I’ll take a look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Fun, huh?” He made a wide gesture that took in the whole horizon.

  “The windsurfing? I’ve spent less pleasant afternoons.”

  “Great. Because there’s all day tomorrow too.”

  “Nick, you ever think it’s possible for there to be too much of a good thing?”

  He topped off his beer and took a pull through the rich foam. “Nope, can’t say I ever have.”

  Chapter Six

  LSS Retribution

  Killian's Reach, Hydra Region

  It was around three bells in the afternoon watch, on their seventeenth day of patrolling, when Ixion, far off in her picket station, informed Retribution via hyperwave of a faint contact, estimated to be just under ninety light-minutes out. Retribution’s sensor team immediately tuned their gravitic ears to the parameters provided by Ixion and confirmed a vessel, the size of a very small merchantman, coming in-system on a standard parabolic; their gravitic eyes—deep radar—they kept shut. Passive gravitic sensors were nearly instantaneous at this range but the data they collected were crude: just bearing, mass-energy profile and a rough estimate of range. Lightspeed sensors that could refine the contact’s characteristics to within the proverbial gnat’s ass would have to wait their turn. Ixion was herself over a light-hour away, running with her keel cold so grav-sensors could not pick her up, thus it would be at least that long before they got a look at the interloper’s emissions which would reveal a great deal about him and potentially allow a positive identification.

  The new contact was designated Tango-One-Seven, and all that could be said with confidence at present was that the mass-energy profile most closely fit that of a blockade runner, and he was in a tearing hurry. Of course, there were no blockades to run anywhere in the Hydra and while the mass reading might, at the lower end of the confidence interval, match a government dispatch boat, there was no conceivable reason a dispatch boat belonging to any of the nearby governments would be transiting this particular system.

  His obvious intent was to translate through one of the jump fields near the system’s periphery, probably one of the two marked on the charts as M5 and M7. A ship going through M7 could be headed for Cathcar or Lacaille, or even the Bannerman naval base at Callindra 69, but one exiting by M5 was almost certainly bound for Mantua. Any of these, except perhaps the naval base, was a likely slaver destination.

  Captain Lawrence ordered Ixion to maintain distant contact with the interloper: no closer than five light-minutes and with passive sensors only—“Mustn’t spook the fellow just yet”—until she could handoff to Kestrel. The contact obviously had the legs of Ixion, the slowest of his squadron, so pursuit was pointless and he didn’t want the frigate pulled too far off her picket station in case Tango-One-Seven had a consort out there somewhere.

  Kestrel was better positioned for an intercept, and while she was fast for a frigate, she could not be fast and maintain her stealthy character. More importantly, Sir Phillip was sure they had not seen the contact show his full paces yet—the energy profile told him that. If the contact broke too soon, it was doubtful Kestrel could close, and neither Swiftsure nor Avenger were yet in position. With that in mind, he directed Avenger to conform to his own movements and Swiftsure to plot a best-speed course to the M7, the closest of the two likely jump fields. That was a guess, no more, but it would not irretrievably commit them to anything for several hours at least. Once Tango-One-Seven reached his turnover point—the focus of his parabola—they would know a great deal more about his true intentions.

  “Ms. Easley,” Captain Lawrence addressed the conning officer, “how soon before the contact can reach either of those jump fields?”

  “Eleven to fourteen hours, sir, depending on how he handles his turnover. The way he’s piling on vee, I would say closer to eleven.”

  “Plot his turnover point for me, please.”

  Lieutenant Commander Easley put a kidney-shaped blob on the big main screen, shaded according to the current uncertainty on the contact’s trajectory.

  “Very good,” Captain Lawrence said after a moment’s scrutiny. “We shall take the western-most zone and station Avenger to the southeast. Fifteen percent margin I should think will be sufficient. Ms. Easley, make us a course that keeps the primary between us and him as far as possible. Mr. Martinsen, when the course is locked in, we shall proceed all-ahead standard. Mr. Emmanuel, be so good as to make Avenger aware of our motions.”

  The helmsman, SWO Reidar Martinsen, and Ensign Ivor Emmanuel, the signal lieutenant for the watch, made their acknowledgements and Captain Lawrence leaned back in his chair, drumming four fingers lightly on the arm. Then he turned to Huron, standing by the quartermaster’s station with Kris on his flank.

  “A peculiar swan, don’t you think, Commander? What do you make of him?”

  Huron turned to Kris, who’d been watching him out of the corner of her eye. Ever since the contact’s estimated mass-energy profile had gone up on the display, she had been studying the trajectory intently and rhythmically clenching her hands behind her back.

  He observed her expression and asked, “Something you’d like to offer, Midshipman?”

  “He’s a fleshex, sir,” Kris replied and clicked her teeth shut as she heard her own hasty words.

  Sir Phillip turned further round, with a tilted expression. “A flechette? That is a whimsical name for a ship class. Would that be a slaver term, at all?”

  Kris breathed a sigh of confused relief. A flechette was a dart-like projectile, usually of tungsten, fired by light sidearms and some multimode rifles. A fleshex was something completely different: the name slavers gave to special shipments of high-value cargo—Kris had been such a cargo several times. The term was supposedly a contraction of flesh express, but that wasn’t really clear—it could have been just another rationalization of a slaver idiosyncrasy—and while not a class of vessel at all, slavers did favor heavily modified corvettes that usually had a crew of six or eight for this purpose, and Kris was certainly willing to fall in with this notion her imprecise diction had given rise to.

  “Ah, yessir. Flechettes”—she enunciated the name quite clearly—“are mostly used to transport prime slaves or paid picks—anything exceptional like that.”

  “Then this fellow is worth the effort, you would say?”

  Kris shot Huron a look with a tinge of panic, but there was no help there. She’d opened her own goddamn mouth; let her deal with the consequences. “I—um—I would say that, sir. Yes.”

  “Very well.” The captain returned his attention to the forward screen. “Mr. Emmanuel, record in the log: Fell in with chase, presumed a flechette, at thirteen-thirty hours. You will note the exact time, of course.”

  And with that simple sentence, Contact Tango-One-Seven became simply the chase, to be pursued mercilessly to death or capture, and a new class of vessel was entered in the CEF’s books.

  They chased. All through the afternoon and all through the dogwatches, when stewards brought in sandwiches and coffee and a sweetly astringent pinkish liquid that made Kris’s mouth pucker. “Grapefruit juice,” Huron commented, picking up a second cup of thin black coffee. Closing to within ten light minutes, the chase ran on, innocent by all appearances of being stalked. Sensors discreetly queried, calculated and refined their data, then draped it across the many screens. Four bells of the first watch—they had been at it for eight-and-half hours and Huron said privately to Kris, “Go get some rest, if you like. I’ll see that you’re called before anything happens.”
r />   “I’d rather stay, sir,” she answered, eyes glued to the plot.

  Seven bells of the first watch. Every pair of eyes on the bridge intent on the chase—a fixity of expression, almost wolfish.

  “Ms. Easley, what do you estimate his time to turnover to be?”

  “Forty-one minutes for M7, sir. Twenty-six minutes for M5,” the lieutenant commander replied, her clipped tones stiffening her normally smooth voice. “Unless he smokes us, sir.”

  As if on cue, Lieutenant Wagner appeared in overlay from his post in CIC. “His drives just spiked, sir. I think he’s made us.”

  “Put his energy profile up, Mr. Wagner. Two sigma limits, please, and stand by.” A dense stratum of lines replaced the lieutenant’s young face. The chase had certainly spiked his drives.

  “Increase to full,” snapped Sir Phillip. “Mr. Emmanuel, tight beam to Swiftsure with relay to Kestrel: Close the chase, best acceleration. Kestrel will not unmask until directed by me.” That would put Kestrel farther behind but in a good position if the chase tried to double up. Although it would be difficult for him to narrow his trajectory into a hyperbolic about the system’s primary, the captain was not willing to bet it could not be done. And he did not wish to reveal his ace-in-the-hole unless he absolutely had to.

  “Sending now sir, aye,” Ensign Emmanuel announced briskly. Then: “Acknowledged.”

  Sir Phillip gave no more than a nod. Commander Easley had left the chase’s estimated turnover point on the forward screen and it was growing and blurring as his acceleration increased. It was becoming increasingly obvious they no longer had any hope of covering both M5 and M7; they would have to choose, and choose soon.

  “What do you make of him, Ms. Easley?”

  “He’s fine for M7, sir, on his current tack. He can still make M5 though. He won’t be committed for another twenty-three minutes.”

  Sir Phillip pulled his narrow chin and addressed the Signal Lieutenant. “Send Avenger and Swiftsure ahead. Have them lay in a course to make intercept one light-minute short of M5.”

  “M5, sir?”

  “Just so, Lieutenant. Tell them that they are to be prepared to come about on my order.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Captain Lawrence swiveled his chair again and this time addressed Kris directly. “So, Midshipman. Have you pearls of wisdom to cast before us?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The captain favored her with that tight-lipped smile. “Do you care to voice an opinion as to where this fellow might be headed? He appears to wish us to think he is pelting headlong for M7. So do we conclude he seeks to fox us and means to break for M5? Or shall we take him at his word?”

  How the fuck should I know? He couldn’t really mean to throw this straight on her? Could he? Cathcar and Mantua were both major slaving centers and traffic still moved through Lacaille, though it seemed less likely a fleshex would be headed there. Is this some kind of fucking test? She began to feel the oppressive eyes on her, just as she’d felt them at the inquiry, but there she knew how to find the answer. Here, what should she do? Slavers didn’t run to a goddamn schedule unless they were in a hurry to make a gathering. Should she guess? It was almost a fifty-fifty deal, right?

  Kris opened her mouth, feeling everyone on the bridge ready to pounce on whatever she was about to say, and half-formed words practically choked her. A gathering. She brought a fist to her mouth to cover a cough and then cleared her throat. “Ah, sir? What are the dates?”

  “Dates, Ms. Kennakris?” His mobile face seemed to express genuine puzzlement.

  “The local dates, sir. On Cathcar and Mantua. What day in the season is it?”

  Captain Lawrence gave his head an abrupt twitch as though he were trying not to blink and Huron, standing where Kris could not see him, indulged in a covert smile. “Mr. Wagner, ask Commander Ravenswood if she would be so good as to have someone look up the current local dates on Cathcar and Mantua. By season, that is.”

  “Yes, sir. One moment, sir.” The line muted. A tense, pregnant air, like the audience of a play’s third act when all is to be revealed. Then Commander Ravenswood appeared. “Sir, Cathcar’s local date is the forty-fourth day of High Summer. On Mantua, it is the sixty-first day of their autumn.”

  The hush continued. Kris swallowed. Shit. How many days in Mantua’s autumn? Sixty-four? Or was that Solon? God fucking dammit! Why couldn’t she remember? She’d been there often enough.

  “Sir? Can you ask if that’s four days before the winter solstice? On Mantua, I mean.”

  Sir Phillip spoke again in a strained, unnatural voice; he was not accustomed to relaying messages for midshipmen. “Commander, would that be four days before the winter solstice on Mantua?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  The Mantua Winter Solstice Gathering: the biggest gathering on that planet during the year. One of the biggest slaver gatherings. Loads of VIPs; captains from all over bringing their bitches. Deals, trades, loans . . . A lightheadedness seized Kris and for a moment she genuinely feared falling. Then her eyes cleared.

  “That’s it, sir. Mantua.” Her voice was brusque as she endeavored to conceal its weakness.

  “Are you quite sure, Midshipman?”

  “As sure as I can be, sir.”

  Captain Lawrence seemed oddly reluctant to look away. “Ms. Easley, is there any change in the chase’s trajectory?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Mr. Wagner, is there any change in the chase’s energy profile or emissions?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  More silence. The tension on the bridge was mounting towards the snapping point, with officers actually beginning to lean forward at their stations.

  “Ms. Easley, if Avenger and Swiftsure were to come about and make intercept before M7, how soon must that be done?”

  “Swiftsure is on the ragged edge right now, sir. Avenger could wait maybe five minutes.”

  “Why the imprecision, Commander?”

  “Sir, I’m not entirely confident we’ve seen the chase at his best so far.”

  “You suspect he’s foxing us then?”

  “I can’t say he isn’t, sir.”

  Captain Lawrence grunted. Then: “Mr. Wagner, please update the energy profile for the chase.”

  “Two sigma, sir?”

  “I should like it raw this time, Lieutenant.”

  The strata of colored lines fuzzed into bands of spiky hash. Sir Phillip considered them minutely. Huron left Kris’s side to go stand by the captain’s console and stared with equal intensity. The chase did appear to be running for all he was worth, redlining his bottles. He was in fact running harder than they’d known, chuffing his drives for extra boost. A dangerous practice that; the smoothing of the Poisson filters had masked it. Yet his acceleration seemed less than it should have been, pushing so hard, and what was that shuddering in the plume signature—?

  “Foxed us, by God!” Sir Phillip muttered emphatically. He looked up at Huron. “A shunt, I dare say. Or am I deceived?”

  “No,” Huron answered. “About seven, eight percent, I’d guess, the way he’s chuffing.” A shunt bled off thrust, usually through emergency exhaust ports in the engine housing. It had risks and care had to be taken to hide the broadening of the plume it caused, and it also produced wake turbulence. But so did chuffing and it was very difficult to spot the difference unless one was quite close—or unusually astute.

  “Foxed us!” Captain Lawrence repeated. “Ms. Easley—” But the conning officer had already updated her turnover estimates for the chase’s new energy profile. “Quite. See there? He can still come about three minutes after we’re committed to M7. Well, my friend, we’ll see about that.” The look of tension dissolved, replaced with a renewed predatory gleam, and Captain Lawrence actually rubbed his hands. “Mr. Emmanuel, raise Avenger. She is to come about for M7 immediately and hold that course for fifteen minutes. Tight beam to Swiftsure: ‘Conform to Avenger.’ She may be a trifle less than
swift in her motions, although I am sure it will be done with every appearance of alacrity.”

  As the lieutenant relayed the message and they watched the evolution unfold, Lawrence looked up at Huron with a devilish smile. “The sluggishness of frigates, you know. In six minutes that will open up a gap in our dispositions, and he will have another four in which to shoot it if he wishes to make M5.”

  Sir Phillip sounded almost gleeful, but Kris, watching the plot, failed to see why. She knew only the rudiments of ship handling, but even she could see that with Avenger bearing up for M7 and Swiftsure just finishing her clumsy turn, only Retribution could possibly close the chase before he reached M5, and Retribution had not yet started her turn in pursuit. She knew the battlecruiser was fast, but even at flank acceleration, the chances of intercept could not be better than fifty percent and they were falling every second she held this vector.

  Yet Sir Phillip seemed entirely confident. Indeed, his smile was now a most unbecoming grin, and he rubbed his hands briskly again.

  “I think it is time we show that fellow over there what a battlecruiser can do. Mr. Martinsen, inquire of Commander Grinenko about the possibility of going to one-hundred-thirty percent on the bottles.” There was the briefest pause, and the helmsman’s relaying of that message echoed loud in the bridge as even some of the senior officers looked a bit pale at the question.

  SWO Martinsen took his hand from his earpiece and reported, “Engineer says she can do, sir. But she begs your honor will not keep it up for more than ten minutes.”

  That sounded like Deirdre, and Captain Lawrence broke out in a look of intense satisfaction. “Ten minutes shall be more than adequate. Helm, come about. Increase to flank and go to one-thirty on the bottles, if you please.”

  The helmsman responded, “All ahead flank and going to one-thirty on the bottles, aye sir.” Then, quite low: “And may all the goddamned fuckin’ sacred martyrs preserve us.” It was not the most politic thing to murmur on a bridge where you could hear a pin drop, but no one, not even Captain Lawrence, saw fit to take issue with the sentiment.