The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “It all comes back to pinning the bugger down,” Lieutenant Crismon broke in on Huron’s thoughts. Trin liked to say bugger too, and that amused him. “If we can’t know where he’ll be, when and for how long—and be sure he’ll stay there—this whole thing’s academic. Isn’t that just about it, sir?”

  Huron, recovering from the momentary distraction, nodded.

  “Flush him and bounce him when he makes orbit?” offered Lieutenant Elkins.

  Ensign McCaffrey shook her head. “I’ve been through the traffic in and out of there. We’d need a whole fleet and a full sys-load of small craft. Even so, he only needs one smuggler smarter than us.”

  “I belled a cat before,” commented PFC Marko Tiernan, CAT 5’s designated sniper, smiling at the no-doubt-intentional pun. “That were a piece o’ cake compared to this. I don’t think we can count on stopping all his bolt holes even if we could find ‘em. Not there. Labyrinth ain’t in it.”

  “It could work if we tagged his bird. Mark, flush, snatch,” insisted Elkins.

  “How do we get someone in there to do the tagging?” McCaffrey countered. “He’s got what? A dozen vehicles? More? What’s his rotation? Schedules? How’d we hustle him into the one we want? Without real-time surveillance? Maybe he calls for a ride?” McCaffrey fanned a hand through the fog of difficulties. “We don’t know how deep his hooks go.”

  “Maybe use a dragonfly to drop him?” Elkins tried again. He had persistence. “Catch him when they try to move him?”

  “Been tried,” answered PFC Rachel Cates, the team’s sniper/scout and medic.

  “Hasn’t about everything been tried by now?” asked Gunnery Sergeant Antoinette Lopez. “Short of an engraved invitation in Iambic pentameter.”

  “That might work,” Huron drawled. “How ‘bout it, Trin?”

  Trin Wesselby did not reply but looked over at Elkins. “They used dragonflies on the Lacaille op.” She flicked a report across to the lieutenant. “We have to assume he’s primed to look for them.”

  Elkins leafed through a screen or two and closed the report without comment.

  Silence. Then PFC Kyle Argento, frankly exasperated, commented, “Is there anything this son of a bitch will stay put for and where he’s not alone?”

  Huron looked up, the story Kris had told him about her loan coming back to his ears and the blood starting to leave his cheeks. Trin noticed.

  “You have something, Huron?”

  Huron looked at her woodenly. “We’ve moved a lot of air around here today but not much else. I think we should break for the PM—see if maybe we can get a different perspective tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Alone with Commander Wesselby in her private office ten minutes later, Huron shook his head. “No.”

  “Rafe, I didn’t mean send her,” Trin snapped. “Don’t be an idiot. But it’s almost the only thing that hasn’t been tried yet—”

  “For damn good reasons—”

  “Like we’ve never had access to the necessary insight before now.” Trin leaned back and folded her arms. “For god’s sake, Rafe. We just need the info. To evaluate this.”

  They waited out the rigid silence between them that lasted for more than a handful of tense breaths, and then Huron looked over at the time. It was just coming up on the first dogwatch. “Fine. I’ll talk to her. I’ll let you know what she says. But I’m not going to order her to do this.”

  “I’ll accept that.” Another beat. “For now.”

  He nodded, his expression fixed, palmed the door open and stepped through.

  Trin hesitated a moment and then followed Huron into the corridor. “Rafe?”

  He turned, face still set in sour discontent.

  “Are you sure you’ve got a good handle on this?”

  “Meaning what?”

  Trin’s expression could have been either frustration or hurt, or some of both. “Look, you two weren’t exactly invisible on Nedaema. I’ve seen her file. She’s the best pilot candidate to come through the Academy since you, she made the Academy S&T staff look ridiculous over that stunt with the boggart, she blew Mankho’s plot without any help from us, and I’ve gone over the data dumps from the Harlot’s Ruse. Did you know she was this close”—raising her hand before her eyes with thumb and forefinger two millimeters apart—“to taking that boat down by herself? She had complete control of the environmentals and she was about to crack the jump convolver.” One corner of Trin’s mouth slanted down as she lifted an eyebrow. “And she’s drop-dead gorgeous. I mean . . . a girl like that, what’s not to like?”

  “I think you left out what she did to Anton Trench.”

  “Rafe . . .” Her expression softened and she put a hand on his arm. “Everyone’s objectivity has limits. Even yours.” Huron said nothing, knowing full well that there was nothing to say. Trin glanced quickly down the hall, stretched up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Look, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I should say something . . . as your friend.”

  That cracked Huron’s stony expression. “Don’t apologize, Trin.” She settled back on her heels with a careful nod. “But if she agrees, you ask the questions. Okay?”

  Trin gave his arm another squeeze. “Okay. Deal.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Huron rang at the entrance to Kris’s quarters. As the door opened, she looked into his face and assumed a blank expression. “Yes, sir?”

  “Hi, Kris. May I come in?”

  Her lips pinched together. “Ah . . . sure.”

  Huron smiled. “No ranks during the dog watches. Navy tradition.”

  Her look became suspicious—no such tradition had been mentioned at the Academy. “Are you making that up?”

  “Well, maybe it’s a very local tradition.”

  That earned a smile and she ushered him in. “Have a seat,” she offered, indicating one chair while she took another.

  “Thanks. Is Kym here?”

  “No. She’s at another orientation seminar. Be back tomorrow.”

  “How’s she handling it?”

  Kris shrugged. “Okay. This place pisses her off some, though. Did’ja wanna see her?”

  “No. I came to see you.”

  That did not appear to be a surprise. “So what is it? Did the meeting go okay?”

  His bantering smile died. “It went fine. I think we may have a shot but . . . we need more info. On Nestor Mankho.”

  “Info.” She stared into his face, her eyes suddenly like yellow flint.

  “Yes.” He held her gaze; it was difficult. “That loan. You were with him for what? Two weeks?”

  “Eighteen days standard. Thirteen local.”

  “Okay.” His eyes slid from hers. “What we need is . . . We need to know what he’s like—and what he likes. Habits: when he eats, sleeps—does he follow a personal schedule or not? If he likes to entertain and how. Does he sleep alone? What occupies him? What’s important to him? What he allows interruptions for and especially . . . what he doesn’t.”

  Kris’s eyes had gone so hard Huron thought you could strike sparks off them. “Huron, you want me to stand up in front of these people and tell them what it’s like to get fucked by Nestor Mankho. That’s it, right?”

  Her look made him feel like a rapist. “Yeah . . . that’s what we need.”

  “Shit.” She dropped her face into both hands and her shoulders began to shake, but she wasn’t crying. She made no noise at all. When her head came up there were no tears—just a withering coldness. “Fuck.” One syllable, very soft and impossibly savage. He saw her exhale. “Alright. When?”

  “Tomorrow. Oh-eight-thirty.”

  She nodded, eyes unfocused. He rose, thanked her in a quiet voice and let himself out.

  Kris sat for long minutes, staring not at a place, but a time—a cloud of memories she’d have given anything to be rid of. How could she possibly put what happened during those days into words suitable for a briefing? She didn’t even know how she�
��d survived them. With Trench, when things got ugly, she had a trick of falling down—falling into herself: a cottony nothingness where the pain barely touched. She’d used it with Mankho too, especially that night he came back in such a bestial mood, but she couldn’t do it all the time.

  She remembered his leer, the games he made her watch, how he’d used a neural transmitter and an array of microcams to show her things no one should ever see—the silky cold sound of his voice in her ear as he kept up a detailed running commentary, the endless supply of studs and exotics she’d performed with until he became aroused enough to join in, the hot feeling of his rough skin and calloused hands . . . The girl she’d put on a show with and what he’d done to her afterwards, making them flip a coin to see who it would be—a weighted coin, because Trench had to have her back in one piece—and what was left over and how he made her clean up the mess.

  Her stomach heaved and she bolted for the bathroom. The door was already open or she never would have made it in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  NAVSUR HQ

  Lunar 1, Tycho Prime

  Luna, Sol

  Kris arrived for the briefing the next AM six minutes early, dressed in her best uniform. She’d put it on because she wanted to armor herself with all the formality she could get, and wearing her No.1 rig seemed like a good way to do that. Commander Wesselby was already there; she introduced herself with perfect politeness, thanked Kris for being willing to appear and showed her to a seat near the head of the table.

  Huron and Sergeant Major Yu arrived in the next minute, followed a moment later by two lieutenants Kris did not know: a slightly mousy woman and an undistinguished-looking man, rather young. He seemed to Kris to have a vaguely nervous air. When everyone had settled into their seats, Trin Wesselby stepped to the head of the table, activated the displays, introduced Kris, and after a short description of the briefing’s purpose, said, “Because of the nature of the information being presented, I’m going to establish some ground rules. First, any questions will concern generic points only and will be strictly limited to Nestor Mankho or the details of his compound and its operations. Questions about specific incidents or Ms. Kennakris’s personal history will not be made.

  “Next, the credibility of this information has been established. Do not ask for further substantiation on points presented. Finally, Ms. Kennakris has my permission not to offer amplification on any issue she does not wish to further address. In that case, please accept the answer and consider the point closed.”

  She looked over the audience, paying real attention only to Lieutenant Elkins. The stern preamble had been intended for him. Huron had warned her that he was insecure in his new post and had a tendency to overreach. Satisfied that Elkins looked sufficiently impressed, she concluded her introduction. “All info presented here this AM shall be treated as eyes-only code-class ZIRKON. Commander Huron and myself will be sole key-holders. Now, unless there are any questions, we’ll get started.”

  There were no questions, and Wesselby took her seat as Kris stood and stepped into her place. She had never done anything like this before yet she found herself strangely calm. It certainly helped that the group was small, and that Huron and Yu were there. Commander Wesselby seemed thoroughly professional and had an air about her that enforced the same. Only the lieutenants were an unknown quantity—Elkins especially. Lieutenant Ashley Crismon had a calm demeanor: she clearly knew her business. Elkins was still feeling his way, Kris thought.

  The very nature of the material she was to present also helped: had she been asked to address them on some pleasant, neutral topic she might well have been too nervous to speak. She’d spent the night trying to pare down the experience of those days to a cold, clinical skeleton—still horrific enough but nothing like the fleshed-out reality—and finding appropriate names for Mankho’s favored activities. The expressions slavers used—shake-n-bake, rip-rap, glory trains, triple play, cradle rocking, cut-n-run—would require explanations she didn’t want to give. If they didn’t understand the terminology she’d settled on (some from medical references and some from elsewhere), they could damn well look it up for themselves.

  If that effort had robbed her of sleep, it’d also bought some vital distance, and she knew exactly what she intended to say. Speaking without notes, she began, very formally and consciously imitating the mien of her favorite instructors.

  “Officers, Sergeant Major, regarding my information on Nestor Mankho, there are two things that need to be emphasized up front. First, this info is almost two years old, so I’m going to limit my remarks to habits and characteristics that seem unlikely to have changed since then. Next, the period of observation”—she’d chosen the phrase deliberately—“was thirteen local days, so what I have to say is based on one episode and can’t be considered comprehensive. I’ll do my best to answer questions on the understanding that my observations may be obsolete or atypical.”

  She paused to see how this was received, and perceiving polite acceptance, launched into her main line. “Nestor Mankho is a voyeur and a sexual sadist. He thinks he’s a showman. He likes Old Earth European replicas, especially Baroque.” She’d looked up the name of the style—which he had copied exactly, from the gilded furniture to the brocade bed hangings and the overwrought paintings—and made sure she knew how to pronounce it correctly. “He likes to stage what he calls productions, which feature men, woman and exotics. He does not himself engage initially. He may, in fact, wait a day, or even two . . .” She went on to describe some of his favorite activities, hurrying a little. The expressions on the faces of her audience showed her when comprehension set in: Commander Wesselby first, Elkins last—though it was clear Lieutenant Crismon was getting quite the education too. Only Wesselby never betrayed any emotion beyond a particular chill in her light-colored eyes. Kris was certain the commander knew precisely what she was talking about, and wondered how the small woman might have come by that knowledge.

  “He’ll switch between caring and sadistic—you never know what you’re going to get or when he might change his mind.” She paused, having come to the end of her prepared remarks and aware she’d neglected to think of a wrap-up.

  “So any operator we insert can expect to endure sexual torture?” Commander Wesselby asked after the pause had stretched out for a few seconds.

  “Yes ma’am, but not necessarily right away. He likes to make new slaves watch for a while—a day or two maybe—as a softening-up routine. It’s a sort of psychological torture, really.”

  “Does this typically occur under restraint?”

  “If you mean bound, ma’am, occasionally—for fun. He always has muscle with him.”

  “Can you say anything about how he selects those whom he subjects to this psychological softening-up routine and those he doesn’t?”

  “He doesn’t like to start in on top-tier girls right away. He takes his time with them—it’s the others he’ll work over from the beginning.”

  “Top-tier—is that a formal classification?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s more her reputation . . . sales history, stuff like that. It’s pretty subjective.”

  “So, Ms. Kennakris, it sounds like the ratio of psychological to physical methods used goes up if the subject is highly valued. Did I infer that correctly?”

  “Well . . . sort of, ma’am. He does use psych methods more on top-tier girls—it’s more of a game-type thing with him—but that doesn’t mean that he does less physical stuff. Except for actual maiming. He isn’t going to seriously maim a top-tier girl. Not normally.”

  It took some moments for this to sink in. Kris watched as they all jotted down notes. Huron, Commander Wesselby and Sergeant Major Yu exchanged a significant look. Crismon’s face was grim and Elkins appeared to be even more out of his depth. Then Yu spoke.

  “How often are these activities fatal to the subjects?”

  Something lurched deep behind her solar plexus. “Well, he had them strangle this girl slow
while he fuc—” Her teeth clicked as her mouth snapped shut and she shot Huron and a panicky, pleading glance.

  “That’s quite alright, Midshipman,” he said calmly. “Please carry on.”

  Kris swallowed the acid burning her throat. “Yessir.”

  “It that a common activity?” Yu asked, his voice utterly flat and precisely controlled.

  “Ah . . . I—I only saw it the one time, sir.”

  That look cycled between the three of them again, but with a new cast to it.

  From her end of the table, Commander Wesselby said, “Ms. Kennakris, if you feel this—”

  “It’s—alright, ma’am,” Kris interrupted hurriedly, trying frantically to shake off the memory. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment and with a great conscious effort calmed her mind, reaching inward for that special healing stillness, and when she opened them, her face relaxed.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t answered your question, sir”—addressing herself now to Sergeant Major Yu. “He does go through a lot of slaves but I think that’s mostly . . .” She hunted for a word—the slaver phrase tear & wear didn’t seem appropriate—and finally decided on “attrition. Yes, he will sometimes kill slaves during his games but I don’t know how often, and as far as I know only meat. He keeps a lot of meat, mostly for his muscle—his troops, I mean—but once they get to be what they call leftovers—”

  “How do you know what’s meat?” Elkins broke in. “Is that a subjective measure too?”

  Kris pinned him with a glare that had him shrinking back in his seat. “Excuse me, sir. It’s not what. It’s who.” Elkins got even smaller. “And meat is a grade. There are four: prime, utility grade, service grade—those are specialists, people with tech skills—and meat. They barcode meat. It’s rude to mark prime merchandise.”