The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  Lieutenant Elkins nodded and cleared his throat. Nodded again.

  “Thank you, Ms. Kennakris,” Commander Wesselby said, shooting Elkins a look that warned him it might be better for him not to open his mouth again once he got his foot out of it. “So if we assign an operative, we have to be sure that she doesn’t become classified as . . . meat?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “And who decides?”

  “A grader does, ma’am—it’s a guild. You can sell ungraded slaves but it’s risky. It’s not just about looks: health, mentality, resilience, docility, skills . . . lots of things count. Graders assess all that. And they’ll guarantee a clean title too.”

  “Clean title?” Lieutenant Crismon asked. “Is that to make sure it’s not an escaped slave or something?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t happen very often, ma’am. It’s usually money stuff—liens, unreported shares . . . partner deals. Stuff like that.”

  “Liens . . .” Huron muttered under his breath. Then: “Do they keep a central registry or database where this data is recorded?” A central database could be a major issue unless they could get into it. That could take months . . .

  “I don’t know, sir. I never heard of one—there weren’t any hooks to anything like that in the ship’s databases. Maybe the big houses have something. I don’t know.”

  “How do they check then?” asked Crismon. She seemed to want something new to think about.

  “Well, ma’am . . . I’m not exactly sure. Usually the grader knows the seller; he’ll have his regular clients and he can check with other graders, especially in his guild house. If a slave isn’t clean or the original bill of sale isn’t straight, he’ll probably hear.”

  “So it’s mainly informal then,” Commander Wesselby put in.

  “Yes, ma’am. As far as I saw.”

  She looked over at Huron. “We’ll have to confirm that, to be sure. We can’t have our operative failing a check if they do run a registry.” Huron gave her a nod and she turned back to Kris. “What’s the mechanism for all this? If this system is run in a mostly informal way, how is the guarantee made?”

  “Usually, the grader posts a bond. Then he charges the buyer for bond insurance. If a legit claim is made, the bond pays it.”

  “I see.” As the commander made a note, Kris saw her mouth the words bond insurance.

  “Ah, ma’am?” Kris was getting antsy. “There’s a draft report on all this. It’s almost ready. You could speak to Commander Huron about getting an advance copy.”

  “Yes . . .” She jotted another note. “We are getting a little far afield. So, back to the operator. It’s obviously critical that she match his criteria for a favored slave. Can you offer any . . . insight on what’s typical of Mankho’s favored slaves?”

  “Well, ma’am . . .” Kris took a deep breath. “It’s hard to say. Guys like that get bored easily. And it’s been years. But yes, from what I saw, the ones he kept around—treated well—they were a couple of types.” Her voice caught for a moment before going on. “He had a few tall girls on the pale side, though I didn’t see any blonds—only brunettes with lighter eyes. What I think he liked about them was the contrast. His regular girls were short—he liked short. Dark hair, tanned. Young looking; real pretty although he didn’t seem to go for the—um—stylish types . . . Good curves but not heavy or slack—he had a couple of athletes, I saw. And, ah . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  “Athletes?” Sergeant Major Yu asked. “Do you recall what sort?”

  “Well, one girl was into judo—he made me spar with her. The winner would . . .” She crushed that thought.

  “How good was she?”

  “Decent, sir. I think.”

  “Who won?” Yu had taught her unarmed combat: he knew exactly what Kris could do and could use that knowledge to gauge her opponent’s ability.

  “I did—barely.”

  Yu gestured at Huron and Wesselby and all three nodded. Lieutenants Crismon and Elkins were not included. Commander Wesselby said it first. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  From their expressions, it was clear that they were. Kris hadn’t a clue.

  Wesselby returned her attention to Kris. “Ms. Kennakris. I’m going to show you images of a few of our operators that I think best match your criteria. Could you please indicate those who would meet Nestor Mankho’s tastes—as you understand them—if there are any?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  When the images appeared on-screen, Kris scanned them quickly, trying not to think why she was doing it. Any would probably do, but the fourth especially caught her eye. The woman had a young, heart-shaped face with short, lustrous black hair, huge dark almond-shaped eyes and an absurdly cute pouting mouth. Dressed in a tight black exercise rig, Kris saw that she had moderate breasts, a tiny waist, full hips and unmistakable muscles, although they were sleek, not at all bulky. The woman also appeared to be quite short. There was a sparkle in her eye that belied her otherwise serious expression, and Kris got an overall impression of latent ferocity, as if she was the prettiest predator you could ever hope to meet. Mankho liked that in his women: it excited him to play with dangerous toys—as long as he stayed in control. As long as he thought he was in control.

  Kris selected the image and highlighted it. “Her. Definitely her.”

  All three of them gave the impression of expecting that result.

  “Vasquez.” They said it almost together and their tone expressed a great deal more than might be expected for a mere two syllables.

  The commander blanked the image. “That was very informative, Ms, Kennakris. One last question. Has Nestor Mankho any significant peculiarities, outside of what you have just described to us?”

  “Ah—I’m not sure what you mean by significant peculiarities, ma’am.”

  “Habits, phobias—things that govern how he acts or reacts. I believe you mentioned to Commander Huron that he is severely claustrophobic.”

  “Um . . . well, he hates needles. Knives too. Sharp objects in general, I guess. Won’t let any of his people carry ‘em. I heard the thought of surgery really freaks him out.”

  “Most interesting.” Commander Wesselby began to gather her materials together. “I think it’s time we took a break. We’ll reconvene back here at 1330. Ms. Kennakris”—she gave Kris a nod—“I want to thank you for your contributions. I understand this was very far from easy. I’m going to ask you to attend this PM’s session—a few people from different organizations will be joining—civilians—and they are not aware of the nature of your involvement in this matter. I intend to keep it that way.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Then we will see you at 1330, Ms. Kennakris.”

  As Kris left the room, Lieutenant Crismon following, Huron turned to Elkins. “Lieutenant, would you mind going downstairs and getting a copy of Ms. Kennakris’s draft report for the commander? It’s not in the system yet, but if they look under my sigfile, they’ll find it.”

  The set of his mouth made it clear that Elkins didn’t appreciate being the commander’s errand boy but he couldn’t very well object, so he said, “Not at all, sir” and stood up to leave with as much bad grace as he thought he could get away with.

  When the door closed behind him, Trin looked over at Huron. “I see what you mean,” she said. “I thought Elkins was going to have a coronary.”

  “Daggers weren’t in it,” added Yu with a grin. “Since when did midshipmen start running staff meetings?”

  Huron chuckled. “Maybe that’s why they abolished the rank.”

  After lunch, they were joined by Mick Quennell, another man from his shop named Keith Rosen and a third named Ezzard Klein, whose affiliation was not stated. Quennell and Rosen, with their thinning long hair, day-old stubble and rumpled attire, adhered to the stereotype of a cloistered tech almost to absurdity, as if they dressed each AM according to a manual. Klein was of a wholly different animal, laid-back and v
ery sure of himself, and he smiled to excess.

  Commander Wesselby introduced the newcomers and gave them a preamble setting limits on the topics and questions. Kris was not mentioned this time. She hunched in the back willing herself to invisibility, as the commander finished: “Our goal here is to assess whether we can realistically place an operator within Nestor Mankho’s personal compound and if she could sufficiently control events to allow our team to extract him.” She paused. “This is perhaps the most challenging environment we have ever encountered, and you are all aware of the previous failure on Lacaille. So the risks here are extreme—especially to any operator we assign. Now I’m going to summarize what we have so far, but keep the level of risk in mind when you consider your input.”

  The summary was admirably concise, condensing the essence of all Kris had told them into a few short minutes. The possibility of using Vasquez was introduced last.

  “Just one point,” Lieutenant Elkins spoke up when she was done. It was obvious from his tone that he was trying to redeem himself. “Corporal Vasquez is a three-time All-Forces Unarmed Combat Champion. That’s earned her some notoriety. How confident are we that Mankho’s organization hasn’t cracked our profiles and could recognize who she really is?”

  Trin Wesselby took a breath before answering. She hadn’t shared her suspicions with anyone in the room except Huron, and the point was an unsettling one. Huron hadn’t reacted to the question, except that his gaze was now rather chillier.

  “That would imply a serious and far-reaching breach of our overall security,” she said carefully. “If we consider it a realistic possibility, we need to make our case directly to GS2.3 and CNO. If not, we go forward and plan accordingly.”

  Elkins subsided, but not all the way. “What about the possibility of doing a visosculpt or something? Do we have time for that?”

  From the back, Kris abandoned her attempt at being undetectable. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Commander Wesselby turned toward her. “Yes, Midshipman? Have you something to add?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That would be a really bad idea.” All eyes around the table fixed on her and she cleared her throat. “They—ah . . . check real carefully for re-gen marks—big buyers hate ‘em. You’ll never get a girl through like that—they’ll spot her as a knockoff right away.”

  Huron, Wesselby, Lieutenant Crismon, and Yu shared a collective exhalation; Quennell, Klein and Rosen regarded her with new interest. Elkins stared straight ahead, doing his best not to look picked on again.

  It took a moment for the mood in the room to recover, and the brainstorming that followed made Kris blanch almost as much as poor Elkins had during that AM’s briefing, as the three civilians brought up and sifted a compendium of dirty tricks, nasty surprises, and ethically dubious remedies.

  It made her stomach turn, though, when Rosen suggested, “What if we give her a shot of androhalynene? With thirty-six hours for it to build up in her mucosa, it’d give him all the symptoms of a scary-ass heart attack about twenty minutes after he initiates sex with her, whether he’s using a barrier or not—unless it’s a damn special one—and provided he has a Y-chromosome, of course.”

  And when someone else—Kris thought it was Klein—muttered that Vasquez would hardly need androhalynene to induce a heart attack in any man she had sex with, she excused herself and left the room.

  Huron found her in the head, splashing cold water on her face. She looked sideways at him: disgust bordering on loathing. Reaching for a towel, she just held it for a moment, and then dropped her gaze back to the metal sink.

  “That’s some fucked-up shit you guys think of.”

  “Klein was out of line. In about an hour, it’ll occur to him that Vasquez might become aware of his remark.”

  “And if she did?” Kris straightened and began scrubbing her face with the rough towel.

  “She’d probably just laugh. But Klein doesn’t know that—he only knows her by her reputation. And she knows where he works. He may not be sleeping too well for a while.”

  Kris threw the towel at the laundry chute. “Who is this Vasquez person? They talked about her back on Deimos too, especially after she won the last tournament.”

  “One of Yu’s people.”

  “And he’d send her off to someone like Mankho?”

  “She’d volunteer.”

  “Fuckin’ stupid,” Kris snapped. “You’re not really gonna do this, are you? You—she . . . you guys got no fuckin’ idea what you’re getting into.”

  “She defeated Yu in the finals. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “In a sporting event.”

  “I guess you didn’t watch it then.”

  Her eyes went to slits as she clamped her lips over whatever retort she was about to make.

  “Okay, maybe we don’t know. But Mankho certainly wouldn’t have any idea what he’s getting into. If you ever meet her, you’ll understand.”

  Kris leaned back over the sink, silent.

  “Look, Kris . . . we’re close to done here. It’s not really necessary for you to—”

  She shot him a vicious look. “I’m not copping out on this.”

  That brought Trin’s words back like a slap. Maybe he was losing his objectivity.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  NAVSUR HQ

  Lunar 1, Tycho Prime

  Luna, Sol

  “Look,” Huron said again, the frustration mounting in his voice, “if we can’t identify a reliable, secure covert comms scheme, this whole plan is pointless.” He leaned back and put one boot up against the briefing table. He didn’t like the idea—none of them did—and he was tired. They were all tired.

  Mick Quennell leaned his arms on the table, over which was spread everything they knew about Nestor Mankho and most of what they’d learned about slaver operations in the last few days. “The comms themselves aren’t the problem. We can give her a new freckle, we can tattoo a transponder on her eyelid—we can do any damn thing. But we don’t know what we’re up against.” He swept his hand across the charts. “If they have the right scanning equipment, they can find anything. If we know what they have, we can beat it. But all this—this doesn’t help much. The guy’s paranoid, he’s connected and he’s got Halith tech support.” He slumped back in his chair. “If they’ve got it, don’t we have to assume he has it?”

  They’d been going around on this for a while now, partly because cove-ops people and tech analysts didn’t really speak the same language. Huron couldn’t blame him for sounding exasperated.

  “So your bottom line is that there’s no point in talking about a solution unless we can give you a more specific target to work against.”

  “That’s right,” Quennell said, sounding relieved that someone finally got it. “There’s no generic eight-seven percent solution here. Maybe sixty, but I wouldn’t stick my neck out even on that.”

  “Co-opting their surveillance nets might be the most viable option,” Lieutenant Elkins offered. “We can almost certainly get in.”

  Quennell gave the young man a quizzical look. “What’s she gonna do? Blink Morse code into the surveillance video?”

  Elkins was about to reply but Yu, who’d hardly said anything the whole meeting, spoke first. “We can’t guarantee she will be in range of a surveillance unit when we need it. I’m not sending one of my people in without a lifeline we control. I don’t care what she says.” He spoke with great finality and Elkins subsided. Huron found himself intensely amused that Yu had just implied Corporal Vasquez might be human, after all.

  “Okay,” he said, letting a glimmer of that amusement show through, “I suggest we—” His xel beeped and he looked down to see Kris hailing him. He tapped ACCEPT. “Yes, Kennakris?”

  “I’ve got that report you asked for, sir.”

  It took Huron a moment to remember which report she was referring to. “Thanks. Would you mind bringing it down here to Briefing 5?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you.” He cut the connection. “Anyway, as I was—”

  “Does she know anything about this guy’s scanning tech?” Quennell asked abruptly. That got him a pointed frown from Huron. He seemed surprised by the reaction. “Well, I understand she hacked the hell out of that boat’s systems—had the environmentals doing a jig.”

  Elkins shook his head, confused. “Who are we talking about?”

  “Midshipman Kennakris,” Huron answered.

  “The one . . . the one who briefed us on . . .” Elkins stopped, the tips of his ears starting to show pink. “I wasn’t aware . . .”

  “Most aren’t,” Huron said, wondering how Quennell found out. Before he could say anything else the door opened and admitted the briefer herself. Stepping into the room, Kris saw the occupants looking at her in a way that made her distinctly uncomfortable. Huron forced a smile.

  “Take a seat, Midshipman. We have a couple of questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied cautiously, sliding into the chair at the foot of the table. “Oh—here’s the report, sir.” She put the sheaf of hardcopy on the table and pushed it towards him. The charts obediently reshuffled themselves so as not to be obscured.

  “Thanks,” Huron said, picking it up and sliding it into a folder without looking at it. “Mr. Quennell, would you briefly explain the problem?”

  Brevity was not one of Quennell’s strong points. Kris listened as he began his discourse on cove-com and scanning tech, link equations and probabilities. Finally, swallowing her dismay that they were seriously considering this scheme at all, she interrupted.

  “I’m sorry, but why don’t you just tag her?”

  Quennell looked blank. “Do what?”

  Kris scanned the faces around the table. Elkins seemed to be even more clueless than Quennell, but Yu and Huron were suddenly alert. “She’s pretty enough—tag her. There wouldn’t be anything weird about it. I mean if a chip is supposed to be there, then a scan finding it doesn’t matter . . . does it?”