The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  Lessing’s participation was significant, but by no means exceptional. What was of interest was where he spent it. Lessing had relied on an anonymizer/VPN bundle known as Tap-Out, one of the most popular of those illegal applications. It was powerful, easy to use, and a CID product. Indeed, Trin had no trouble giving CID due credit for creating it. Along with the black-market firewall CID had released, it was an invaluable tool.

  Nick had prudently restricted his pull to just the meta data, but that was sufficient to show that Lessing was a frequenter of the dark clouds and that his interests were primarily sexual. The illicit sexual services offered there spanned a wide spectrum, and Lessing’s tastes lay toward the more expensive end. That alone would make him a prime target for blackmail, as the expensive end was also the most exotic and perverse. Yet there was no hint of blackmail in his actions or in his accounts.

  Draining the last of her tea, Trin resolved to look more deeply into the mystery of the ex-wife’s whereabouts. And not only that.

  Outside her window, the ardor of the moons was cooling as they mounted higher in the sky. Eidothea’s peach tint had faded and Telos was now a soft dovish gray. So like life, infinitely repeated.

  Trin smiled as she looked away, closed the file and deleted it.

  Chapter Five

  CEF Academy Main Campus

  Cape York, Mars, Sol

  “Comments, Naomi?” Commandant Hoste slid the file across the table to Commander Buthelezi. It listed the new instructors proposed for the additional classes needed to handle the increased load and fill the vacancies created by officers who’d taken active-duty assignments. The selectors had narrowed it down to twenty-six final candidates, of which only two caught Buthelezi’s eye.

  “This Commander Mertone.” She tapped his name with a fingernail to highlight it. “I don’t know him.”

  “Cal?” Hoste leaned back and laced his fingers in front of him. “He served under me on Tarawa. Technically excellent—rather a stickler for detail, though that’s not a bad thing. Question?”

  “He’s a Messian aristocrat, Ambrose. And we have an unusually high number of colonials among the new cadets.”

  “A good many officers are Messian aristocrats, Naomi. I don’t think we can afford to be particular on that account.”

  “It looks like he’s gunning for the fighter-boss slot on Trafalgar,” she added with pursed lips. Mertone’s file included an annotation that he’d turned down the same post on LSS Camperdown, after serving as DSRO (the more official designation for fighter boss) on the light carrier LSS Fidelia. Trafalgar was the CEF’s newest and fastest fleet carrier, due to be commissioned just after the end of the current term. She was a plum posting for any officer and competition for billets was fierce. Naomi herself had been encouraged to apply for TAO but she’d demurred, preferring to stay at the Academy for the time being.

  All DSROs were former pilots, and Mertone was a starling—a flight-rated naval officer, one of a dying breed since the services had been separated. He hadn’t seen the inside of a cockpit in years, but he was very well connected and looked to have the inside track on the position. That meant he’d probably only be at the Academy for the next four months, and Naomi would have preferred someone committed to at least a year, not just serving out the current term.

  “I’m not sure we can hold that against him,” Hoste offered. He was well aware of the history behind the choice. “We need someone to replace Janaina, and Cal, in addition to being excellent on theory, has a wealth of real-world experience. It might be throwing them into the deep end to some extent, but it’s not too soon for that.”

  Naomi allowed the justice of that remark. Lieutenant Commander Janaina Carniero, the former Advanced Astronautics instructor, whose position Mertone was being considered for, had also been an excellent theoretician, but she hadn’t served in the fleet since she was a jig (that being why she’d accepted a posting to Tamerlane, one of the newest battlecruisers), so in that regard Mertone was definitely an improvement. And these were uncommon times; Ambrose was not wrong about the cadets getting an unvarnished view of the navy in which they were about to serve.

  Accepting her nod, Hoste pointed to a name further down the list—the second name to catch Naomi’s eye. “What I was most curious about, however, was your reaction to Commander Huron.”

  Naomi raised an eyebrow slightly. “Ambrose, you can’t be suggesting there’s someone better to teach ACM.” Advanced combat maneuvering (dogfighting to pilots) was the most important course in the Advanced Fighter Program; the cadet’s instruction in it was literally a matter of life and death. She knew Huron had requested assignment to any open wing commander billet, of which there were several—the fleet carriers Normandy, Ramillies and Blenheim and the light carriers Bellerophon and Daedalus all had wings available—and the Admiralty had shot him down, promptly and without comment. Not that any comment was needed: with the war going badly, it was scarcely conceivable that the CEF would allow its most famous officer to be exposed to the dangers of front-line combat, extending to the enemy the possibility of a major propaganda coup should he be killed or captured.

  Privately, Naomi did not expect that to last. Huron had applied to take over as lead instructor for the Academy’s ACM course as his second choice, not incidentally allowing the current incumbent to pursue the combat posting he coveted, and giving Huron time to marshal his forces, as it were. She was sure that the end of term would see him back at the controls of a fighter, even if he had to change the government to do it (she allowed herself a private smile at the exaggeration, if indeed it was that), and what was more, Trafalgar’s wings were still being formed. Personally, she suspected he had his heart set on the new carrier’s recon wing, and she wouldn’t put it past him to have urged the Admiralty for an immediate appointment, knowing it would be denied, to strengthen his case for getting it.

  But private politicking aside, she was entirely certain he would give himself completely to his role as teacher, and both the Academy and the cadets would be much the better for it. Looking across at the Commandant, however, she could tell he was occupied with other thoughts.

  “Are you concerned about him and Kennakris?” she ventured.

  Hoste compressed his lips—a clear affirmation. “It’s not that I give credence to the scuttlebutt, but she will obviously be in the alpha track, and appearances, even if they are only that, can still be distracting.”

  That was true, as far as it went. The ACM class lead served as principal flight instructor for the alpha-track cadets, and that would put Kennakris in close contact with Huron for the last half of the term. There would be no shortage of gossip and innuendo, and yes, it might prove a bit distracting. But that went along with the unvarnished side of the service as well, in her opinion.

  “That’s true, Ambrose. But I’m afraid it just may be in Kennakris’s nature to cause distractions. Under the circumstances, I think we will just have to accept that and overcome it.”

  “Well, I suppose there is something to that,” the Commandant allowed, having just employed the same argument. “I shall endorse the list and, as you say, we’ll deal with the fallout as best we can.” He leaned forward to pull the document closer and affix his signature. “And who knows? Perhaps Commander Huron will know what to make of Kennakris. I do not think it is my fate to find out.”

  A flock of homilies came to Commander Buthelezi’s mind, but she dismissed them with a smile, partly concealed by a fan of fingers.

  “Confusion to the enemy, is it, Ambrose?”

  “Amen to that, Naomi,” the Commandant said with deep feeling. “Amen to that.”

  Chapter Six

  CEF Academy Flight School

  Solander Point, Mars, Sol

  He was a good-looking kid, Kris thought. Nice eyes, well-spaced; an unnatural blue from the corneal implants but so what. Nice smile too, with slightly crooked teeth. A happy, confident the-world-is-my-oyster kind of look. The eyes, the teeth and the blond hair wor
n straight back dated the image to over thirty years ago, just as it announced the young man’s origin: New California and almost certainly from the capitol, Ascalon, which, with a population of about half a billion, was the second largest megalopolis on that planet, and the fifth largest in the League as a whole.

  “Ryan Sroka,” announced Lieutenant Commander Huron, the new lead instructor for the Advanced Combat Maneuvering course. Kris and the twenty-three other cadets who made up the alpha track of the Advanced Fighter Program were all standing at rigid attention on this, the very beginning of their very first day. “Graduated at the top of his class.”

  He tapped the image with his pointer and it faded, only to be replaced by another: a plain girl with a determined expression and an out-of-date ponytail. “Kathryn Laeser. She was second in her class.” Another image: three strapping young men, grinning as they held aloft a slight girl with pale hair so short it was almost shaved, saluting the camera with an erect middle finger. “Giles Peterson, Jon Shierling, Trevor Lambert, and Maria Heberlein. Peterson was Honor Candidate for his class. Lambert came in third in flight scores. Heberlein was twice War Week Points Leader—as you can see, she finished Number One.”

  Cadet Ian Mason, back in the third row, allowed himself a snigger at this and Huron paused, fixing him with a look that first extinguished the smile and then, as the seconds stretched out, bore down on Mason himself. Finally, his gaze released the much diminished cadet, and he continued. “Michael Zelenjak, John Declan Murphy . . .”

  Image followed image, name followed name: Lars Lyn, Kelly Prcin, Lauren Russell, Wolfgang Simms, Tristan Randall, Grigorios Vastatzidis, Kennedy Kin-Tak Shang—a precise litany that took a full ninety seconds to recite. Only when he was done and the forty-eight images were arranged in a mosaic on the wall behind him did Huron say, “Be seated.”

  The class sat as one, with no wasted motion and very little noise. Of all the alpha-track cadets, only two were probably not in awe of Commander Huron, who was second in kills on the active list. One of those was too arrogant to know better. The other was Kris.

  “Take a good look at them,” Huron was saying. “They all have two things in common.” He brushed the pointer along the array of faces, making them glow. “One, like you, they were the first class in the last war to be graduated directly into combat.” The pointer swung down so the tip touched the floor. “Two, they are all dead.”

  “They all died,” he said, stepping away from the lectern, “in their first dogfight. Lambert lasted the longest—seven minutes. Heberlein, less than two. In fact”—he paused to allow them to digest this data—“the casualty rate for the flight officers of the class of ‘06 in their first year of combat was sixty-four percent. At the start of that war, the half-life of a new SRF ensign was three hundred twenty combat hours—about seventy-two sorties. The overall exchange ratio was just under three to one. For them”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the young, happy faces—“it was a damn sight less.

  “I’m here to see that what happened to them does not happen to you. The game playing ends now. You’re not flying for points anymore. There are no second chances out there, and no one comes in second place. Every time you strap in and boost out, someone is not coming home. If it’s not them, it’s you. Any questions?”

  * * *

  “Bloody hell!” Basmartin jumped off his trainer’s wing spar onto the ferrocrete paving of the jet park. “One hundred twenty-seven seconds.” He looked across at Tanner, who’d just popped his canopy and was taking off his helmet. “You?”

  “Not even.” Tanner pitched it onto the pavement and proceeded to climb out. “If he’s second on the kills list, who the hell is first?”

  “Captain Vire,” Kris said, walking up behind them. “But only because he fought most of the war. Huron just got in at the end—he graduated in ‘19.”

  Baz snorted. “I guess we can be thankful he’s on our side.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Tanner muttered.

  “Gentlemen!” Huron’s voice slashed across their conversation. He walked up and looked down at the discarded helmet. “What is that?”

  “Ah . . .” Tanner blanched. “That’s my helmet, sir.”

  “Is your head in it?”

  “Um . . . no, sir.”

  “Then pull your head out of your ass and put it on. If I see that again, your head will be on the ground with it. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!” Tanner snatched the helmet up and jammed it on, wincing as the electrodes pinched.

  “Kennakris.” Huron looked over at her. “You broke one-fifty—so this one’s your show. Basmartin, you’re her wing. Tanner, you get Tail-Gunner Charley.”

  “Yessir!” they chorused together.

  “Basmartin.” Huron singled him out with a gloved finger. “I want one-eighty out of you. Stop thinking about the book. You’re telegraphing every move you make. You waste twenty percent of every approach you set up, worrying if you’re doing it right. This is combat, not a goddamned lab.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Tanner.”

  “Sir!”

  “Try to convince me you’re not hopeless. If you can’t stay alive for two minutes up there, I’m having you assigned to the bootlace-and-jockstrap department. Is that clear?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Kennakris.” Huron turned back towards her. “I want two-forty out of you this time.”

  She swallowed hard—that would beat her best by over a minute.

  “You’re worrying too much about what I’m going to do to you and not enough about what you’re gonna do to me. Quit flying to their level. If these guys are holding you back, shoot Tanner. Got it?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Okay, people. No one goes home until you hit your marks. We’ve got all night and all day tomorrow. Now strap in and get hot.”

  * * *

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for this shit,” Tanner groaned as the hot, pulsing water of the shower pummeled his bowed back. “How many times did we go up today?”

  “Today—tonight. I lost count,” Baz answered, half shrouded in the spray. “But, hey—you got to one-thirty-five.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be my fuckin’ epitaph. Mr. One-Thirty-Five. You’ll be Mr. One-Ninety-Three. Hey, Kris!” He lifted his head and squinted through the steam at her. “Congrats on being Ms. Three Hundred!”

  “I didn’t win,” Kris snapped, scrubbing furiously at her matted hair.

  “Well, who the hell ever has?”

  Kris sniped a glare at him and kept scrubbing.

  “You know he took out a destroyer once,” Basmartin added.

  “You’re shittin’ me!” Tanner straightened and reached for the shower controls as the timer chimed.

  “He did. That action at Mananzas Cay. He got a half-dozen other kills there too, but the destroyer’s what made all the noise. That’s really why they gave him the Senatorial Cross. The OPREP doesn’t mention it in the UNCLE version—just the other stuff. But it was him. Dux told me about it.”

  “Why’d they put a lid on it?”

  “Damfino. Don’t want people to know how he did it, I guess.”

  “I’d like to know how he did it. Hey, Kris?” Tanner called out as the spray of water died. “Did’ja know about that?”

  “What makes you think I would?” She wrung a stream of water out of her hair. In fact, Mariwen had told her about Huron being a big hero at Mananzas Cay, the day after they met. She hadn’t said why, though, and Kris had never heard anything about a destroyer.

  “Well, you knew him. Before here, I mean.”

  Kris shook her head and flipped her wet hair back over her shoulders. “Listen, don’t believe all that shit people talk, okay?”

  * * *

  Fresh from his own hot shower, which he’d prolonged as a privilege of rank, Huron settled onto the short couch in his sparsely appointed quarters, institutional beige, like everything else in it, and rifled his wallet. />
  He was looking for a calling card—a very particular calling card—and after an initial pass, located it in a deep inner pocket. Calling cards came in several different types (or perhaps species was more appropriate), and this one had unusual range. Mars was near conjunction with Earth, and Luna was in a favorable position, so he thought trying to get a connection was worth a shot. He didn’t feel like trusting the conversation he wanted to have to a hyperwave.

  He rubbed his thumb across the card to activate it and the icons lit green. So far, so good. He tapped CALL. The icons pulsed for an unusually long time and then the card locked, the secure mode indicator illuminating. After a moment, Antoine Rathor appeared in the overlay.

  “Hello, Rafe.”

  “Evening, Antoine. Not keeping you up, am I?”

  “Oh no. Certainly not. No rest for the wicked here.”

  “Quite so. Still at the office?”

  “Indeed. Though I’m learning to call it home these days.”

  Indeed. That would change the tack of this conversation. “It must be midnight there?” Referring to Luna’s utterly artificial 24-hour day cycle.

  “2300. Time shift last weekend.”

  “Oh. Moved it again, did they? I always forget. Why do they even bother with that, do you think?”

  “Immemorial tradition of the ancestors. What can I do for you?”

  “You recall that special little item I got from you last time I was out that way?” Referring to the chip full of information on Mankho which Antoine had handed him at the meeting back on Luna.

  “I believe so.”

  “Well, I’m wondering if there might be another available. A friend has a birthday coming up and I’d like to make her a present of it. Doesn’t seem to be available here.”