The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “Dust?” Now Zayterland’s face relaxed in unfeigned surprise.

  “There was dust in the drain. Couldn’t have been a working unit.”

  “Oh . . .” The chief’s face reflected something like the ex post facto horror of disaster averted. “But it was a working unit.”

  “It was?” Now it was Kris’s turn to be horrified.

  “Well, working enough to test it anyway. Would’ve run for three, four minutes.” The look settled deeper on both their faces, “Damn, I’m glad we didn’t do that. I was sore tempted.”

  Me too . . .

  Zayterland shook her head and blew a breath through pursed lips. “Damn,” she repeated and then held out her hand. “Well, I wanted to thank you, ma’am. That was fine work. To think we would’ve had to let the son of a bitch go.” Kris took the offered hand self-consciously. The chief’s grip was powerful, her handshake vigorous and when she released Kris’s hand, she asked, “How’s that girl? She gonna be all right?”

  “I think so.” A cautious and politic answer.

  “I sure hope she is. Seems like a real sweetheart.” Zayterland touched the brim of her cap. “G’day, ma’am.”

  Kris appeared at Huron’s cabin door minutes later. The strain of last night was marked on her features but she was composed. Utterly composed; a hardness in her expression and her voice that was chilling.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “I did. Get comfortable.” He motioned to one of the folding seats.

  She sat, moving in a tight-sprung way that matched the look in her yellow-shot hazel eyes.

  “Look, Kris”—he relaxed his voice and used her familiar name in hopes of relieving some of the tension in the air—“this loan to Sandrine Onstanyan and her friend. How usual is that?”

  “You mean two women like that? It happens.”

  “Without men involved?”

  “That part’s a little weird.”

  “Do these loans happen strictly at gatherings? The ones involving outsiders like this?”

  “The loans, yeah. Sometimes they let guys buy hours, though. That could be anywhere.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Depends. Some girls—yeah, they got put on the boards all time. Me, not so much. Trench didn’t like doin’ it. But y’know, scrip gets tight—he’d get an offer too good to refuse.” Like during one extended stay on Solon. Things had been slow, the refitters were gouging them, and this mook showed up and bought all the hours with Kris Trench would sell. A slack fucker with a few too many visosculpts, chromatanned, face permanently depilated, a semi-hard body bought with faux-exercise treatments. He had money though, lots of it: liked to watch Kris with a genuine androgyne—much rarer and more pricey than the commonly available hermaphrodites—and then had her made up like a boi and fitted with a prosthesis, and wanted her to drive . . .

  “How do they get the word out?” Huron’s question was a welcome interruption. “Did they ever post to the dark clouds, trolling for clients?”

  “I don’t know,” Kris answered when her stomach settled. “What do you mean dark clouds?”

  “Those are clouds where people go to deal in elicit services—nearly all are ghosted and cloaked. Mostly VRSN but also controlled substances and contraband: Maxor pharmaceuticals, bootleg liquor and things like that. People with exotic sexual tastes go there too, for things the legit services won’t handle. We see a lot of ‘slave auctions’ and ‘slave for rent’ notices posted, but as far as I know, none of them have turned out to be by genuine slavers. Only lifestylers. But it’s hard to tell. From what you’ve told us, if slavers were posting, it would be easy to miss.”

  “What’s a lifestyler?”

  “A person who adopts a master-slave relationship with their primary partner as a lifestyle.”

  “You mean you got people who pretend to be slaves? For fun?”

  “Some. It’s not all that uncommon.”

  Kris swore, long and vehemently, under her breath. “I don’t get it,” she muttered when the diatribe exhausted itself. “People are fucked.”

  Huron had no idea whether present company was excluded from that judgment or not, and he had no intention of asking.

  “Kris, here’s the deal,” he ventured instead, “until now, we’ve treated slavers as a—constrained problem.” That got him no more than a bitter, narrow-eyed frown. “I mean, we thought of it as slavers dealing with slave-holding societies and their enablers. When we found them, we—dealt with them. We haven’t studied them much—not the details of their society anyway. You probably noticed. ”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “But from what you just said, they don’t just deal in slaves—they deal in services too. That means they have much wider reach than we supposed.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Any of these people who buy hours—they’re blackmail targets. Or potential sympathizers. And they’re outside what we’ve always assumed to be slaver society, and they interact through channels we know nothing about. That means other people could be using slavers to reach pretty deep into our . . . into other areas. Maybe sensitive areas.”

  “Yeah. Big problem.”

  “Exactly. We need a better handle on this, or at least a piece of it, to see if there are any hooks and how deep they might go.”

  “What’s that mean? For us?”

  “We can’t do that out here. We need other resources—other people.”

  “Not those two asshats at that meeting?” Her voice notched up a tone with alarm.

  He suppressed a smile. Trin Wesselby was about as far from Commander Aloysius Tilletson and Eliot Matheson as the bounds of the species would permit. “No. Professionals.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We can debrief Kym better—get a more thorough understanding of what she knows.”

  Kris’s lips compressed and the yellow cast in her eyes got brighter.

  “Or we stay out here and hope another long shot comes in. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “We not just fighting this problem. We’re fighting time.”

  Jaw clenched, Kris sat still for a minute. “I don’t want those people fuck’n with her.”

  “I understand how you feel—”

  “No you don’t!”

  He waited for the angry rush of breath to subside. “That’s a fair comment.”

  “So?” She bent forward, rubbing hard at her temples with the knuckles of both hands.

  “So this is where it starts to get tight, Kris. I said it was going to—”

  “I remember”—cutting him off, her eyes squeezed shut. “So do it. Do whatcha gotta do.”

  * * *

  Captain Lawrence stroked the deep smile lines along either side of his mouth as he read the document Huron had given him, explaining the requirement to transport Kym back to Sol directly. “Found another oracle, have you?” he asked, smiling. Sir Phillip set great store by his wit, which led him to recycle favored examples, and while that was harmless enough, Huron would not weep for being shot of it.

  “Rather too early to say, sir,” he replied smoothly. “She does appear to be a potentially valuable cooperative source, but clearly that cannot be assessed here. ONI will need to do that, though we’ll have to coordinate with PLESIG first. And, of course, it would be best to get her back quickly and with as little notice as possible. There’s no sense in stirring up questions as to who should have cognizance until we get an evaluation.”

  “Quite.” Sir Phillip tapped the document suggestively. “Those fellows at CID are like to barge in, if they get wind this. It’s their way to appropriate the info you’ve sweated blood to acquire, hem and haw over it, and then pronounce you’ve no right to it—your own data!” Captain Lawrence had gained considerable experience dealing with the Central Intelligence Directorate during his time hunting slavers.

  “Just so, sir.”

  “Be taking Kennakris, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kr
is was present only in the capacity of an advisor, and her attachment to the captain’s staff was a mere formality, to give her have an official existence on board, but Huron had included a justification that she was needed to provide ‘psychological support’ and ‘liaison services’ for Kym, just in case Sir Phillip discovered some reason to become particular on the point. So far, however, he’d been complaisance itself.

  “No difficulty about the flechette. Fine idea. Almost poetic.”

  Huron could not imagine what the captain meant by that. It was no more than logic to use the captured corvette—flechette, call it what you will—to return to Sol. She could make the journey, she was wonderfully fast, and she wasn’t needed for anything else. Poetry would not seem to enter into it.

  “One could say she’s hers by right, y’know,” Sir Phillip added, elucidating, but not very well.

  “Ms. Kennakris, sir?” Huron asked, unraveling the pronouns.

  “Yes. If anyone has a claim to that boat, she does. Can’t see the Service buying her, though. Too much refit for a craft like that. Pity, her being so fast and sweet handling. Might make the midshipman a tidy sum otherwise. Has she thought of that, do you think? Shouldn’t like her to get her hopes up. Not that she doesn’t have a tidy sum coming as it is.”

  Wondering at the captain’s solicitude, he answered truthfully, “Not as far as I’m aware, sir.” He believed it was quite unlikely that Kris would want to have anything more to do with the slaver boat, and he would, in fact, have preferred to use another vessel for their return, had any been available.

  “Just as well. She’s done fine things for the hands—for the whole squadron. They shall be sorry to see her go.”

  “Yes, sir.” The extent to which that feeling was mutual, he had no idea. Kris had closed up these past few days, even more so than usual. “But the show’s not over yet.”

  “No, indeed. We’ve a lap or two left to run, I dare say.” Sir Phillip got to his feet and Huron stood up with him. “You shall have my endorsement for all this,”—indicating the flimsy he’d just slid onto his desktop—“not that it’s truly necessary, since you don’t work for me. But never it hurts seeing all the T’s are dotted and the I’s crossed, y’know.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” The sentiment, anyway—the shopworn witticism, not as much.

  “Then, good speed to you, Commander.” They shook hands. “Perhaps at the end of this business we’ll have a chance to share a glass or two. Do the civil thing together for an evening, perhaps.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Huron made his most politic smile, calculating how soon they could leave. If they’d been expeditious about getting the stores in, that should be within the hour. “And best of fortune to you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mare Nemeton

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  Trin Wesselby broke the surface slowly and rolled on her back, breathing deeply. She’d taken it easy today—only forty laps—but even that told on her. Served her right for neglecting her PM swim for the past few days. Closing her eyes, she heard footsteps and then the voice of her aide.

  “Commander? There’s a call for you. Chief Inspector Taliaferro. Would you like to call him back?”

  Trin turned and stroked unhurriedly to the wall. “No, I’ll take it here.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Hauling herself out on the coping of the 25-meter pool, she accepted the handset. Her aide, an impressionable young lieutenant, had obligingly set it to voice-only, no doubt thinking it improper for his boss to be seen in her current state of undress outside the family—as if, after thirty-five years in the Royal Hesperian Marine Corps, Nick was capable of being scandalized. But Robert didn’t know that and he was a good kid, if a trifle wet behind the ears.

  She keyed the handset on and waited for the secure mode to lock. “Hello, Inspector.”

  “Afternoon, Commander. Apologies for interrupting your busy PM, but I’m afraid there’s no dice on that info you requested. Nothing my department has would be of use. I thought I should call myself so there’d be no confusion.”

  “I appreciate that, Inspector.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t be more help.”

  “It was a long shot. Thank you for trying.”

  “Our pleasure. Have a good PM, Commander.”

  “You as well, Inspector.”

  Getting to her feet, Trin held out the handset. “Thank you, Robert. I’ll be back at the office shortly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As the lieutenant exited, Trin made her way to the locker room, leaving a trail of small damp footprints. Once inside, she entered the shower nearest the door and activated it, turning the spray up as hot as she could stand. Then she went to her locker and retrieved Nick’s calling card from her wallet. Stepping into the enveloping cloud of steam, she hit CALL. As the secure icon lit, Nick answered.

  “Nice,” he said, eyeing her surroundings—no nonsense about voice-only mode this time. “Excellent white-noise generator. Steam’s a nice touch. Y’know, it never occurred to me these things are waterproof.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Trin said, turning under the spray. “No dice, huh?”

  “Correct.” That being the term they’d agreed on if Nick found anything. “The request to add Mariwen Rathor to the attendee list came from Grimbles’ office. He endorsed it personally.”

  Trin hadn’t expected that. Grand Senator Grimbles was Hesperian and notably straitlaced. Mariwen Rathor had been as popular in the Meridies Cluster as anywhere else, although her racy lifestyle came in for constant comment from the local media. Of course, that was only to be expected from a society that still thought ‘racy’ was an appropriate adjective for a sexually open lesbian, or for anything else, when it came right down to it. She’d rather thought someone from New California or Venus or even the Belt would have been more likely to consider a mildly controversial celebrity as a good headliner for the conference, not an old fossil like Grimbles.

  “Any indications what his motive was?”

  “Can’t say as yet. The email trail suggests the idea originated with his Chief of Staff, Taylor Lessing. Lessing’s been with Grimbles most of his career, serving in one capacity or other. Started out in security. Reputation for being very hard-nosed. He’s rolled a number of people on his way up, and he’s pretty ruthless about enforcing loyalty on the senator’s staff.”

  “Sounds like a very popular guy.”

  “I suspect he’s got enough enemies to make a fair-sized colony, but Grimbles appears dedicated to him. That gives him a wide shield.”

  “And a lot of influence.” Which made sense. Mankho’s plot hinged on getting Mariwen into those hearings—it was not something they could’ve left to chance. And then there was the note she’d gotten from Huron early this AM. “Nick, Rafe may be on to something. I got a message from him today.”

  “A source?”

  “Possibly. He’s bringing her back for debriefing now. I’m shipping out tomorrow to meet him. What are the odds you can get more background on Lessing?” Nick still had his RHMC connections, and if Lessing began in security, he almost certainly had left some acquaintances behind. Maybe unhappy acquaintances.

  “Fair to middling.”

  “Don’t get your fingers burned.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She killed the connection and then the shower, and stepped out a fine, glowing shrimp pink. Grabbing a towel with her other hand, she dried off on the way back to her locker, where she replaced the card in her wallet and sealed it. Then she braided her wet hair while running a routine scan with her custom security bots. They showed all clear. Dressing quickly, she tapped up Robert on her xel.

  “Are the visitors here yet?”

  “They’re being badged in now, ma’am.”

  “Very good. I’ll be there in a minute. And, Robert, could you have them send me up some iced tea?”

  “Not hot tea, ma’am?”

 
“No. Iced, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Trin nodded gratefully as the line dropped. Things were looking plenty hot enough already.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In Transit, Outer Neptune Approach Zone

  Free Space, Sol

  The nameless corvette dropped into Sol space four light-hours inside heliopause, cutting it as close as Huron dared. She was nameless because there was obviously no chance they’d retain Chiller Down, and inspiration had not been forthcoming, so the little craft was known solely by its new registry code and call sign, Alpha-Zulu 17. Huron activated his beacon and duly submitted both, along with his recognition codes, to the outer ring of early warning satellites thirty light-minutes up ahead that were linked to hovering constellations of H&Ks, and kept his velocity just barely on the right side of the law. As Sir Phillip had said, she was a sweet-handling little boat and wonderfully fast, but he could not love her, or even like her. With Sol in sight, he was impatient to be off her, and he had a good idea that Kris, sitting next to him in the No.2 chair, and Kym, asleep in the berth they rigged in what had been the crew’s mess, felt that way even more strongly.

  It had been a quiet trip; the underlying tension had put a damper on casual conversation, and despite the boat being completely turned over and scrubbed to bare metal (a requirement for entering League space in any case), the miasma clung to her, as if it was worked into the atomic structure.

  He got up, leaving Kris to set up their approach and deal with the autopilot—she’d become quite proficient and if she had wanted, he would’ve cheerfully seen that she got the corvette in lieu of prize money (her share was likely enough to cover it and then some)—and went to tune the hyperwave. The set was old, finicky, and supported only the most basic encryption the League used, but there was a good chance Trin would try to contact him, once she learned they’d made their number.

  He’d sent her two messages already: a standard OPREP on the mission from New Madras, and a private message via a KKHR courier when they stopped briefly at Knydos. The second message had in fact been addressed to his father, and ostensibly (and, to a degree, actually) contained an update on some local developments. He hadn’t copied his younger brother Charles on the message as he nominally should have, and Charles would undoubtedly get tetchy when he found out, though he’d be best off keeping it to himself.