“It is nothing—no more than justice. I am even happier to tell you the monitor is finally operational and will be able to deploy by the end of this week.”
This was even more welcome news: the Naval Construction & Logistics Department had badly underestimated the difficulty in getting the monitor ready, and so much depended on it.
“Will they send it here?” Adenauer was thinking ahead to the necessary logistical arrangements.
“They will. The tuning of the grav plants has been quite problematic. They will need to be retested and verified before it can jump to Novaya Zemlya. Once there, you will then have to reassess whether it can make the transit to Wogan’s Reef.”
“I see.” That implied a serious risk the enormous ship would fail to make a jump, but they had accepted that from the start, and Adenauer did not pursue the point, for Caneris clearly had more to say.
“Now, I believe you have reservations about the Wogan’s Reef plan as proposed?” The recent wargames had revealed some glaring holes—holes the plan’s proponents were busy trying to explain away.
“Most certainly,” Adenauer said with emphasis. “Especially this insistence by Bucharin that we not divide our forces. It ties my hands, Joaquin. Outbound Station is the key. If we do not seize it early in the battle and cut off PrenTalien’s escape route, we achieve very little. Our decisive battle is not decisive if he can retire with his fleet intact. It is his fleet that is our object—not some volume of space, however grand.”
“Just so,” agreed Caneris, inwardly impressed by his laconic friend’s vehemence. “I felt that would be your position—strongly enough that I pressed Andros on this point, and he has agreed.”
“Has he truly? That is excellent.”
“There are other details that will admit modification, I think. All under seal—it is vital no word leak. But in its essence, the plan remains unchanged. PrenTalien must not leave Ardennes at Outbound as covering force, nor must he be presented with a situation so overwhelming that he decides to disengage. He is aggressive, yes”—anticipating his friend’s objection—“but Merope is his critical sector, not Wogan’s Reef, and he must answer to Admiral Westover, who will counsel prudence. Once he commits, he must be held until your Center Force can engage—the monitor will see to that.” Here, Caneris paused. “Now, would you rely on the Bannermans to deal with Outbound? You know about the tanker fleet being sent there, of course.”
“I do know about it. And no, I would not—the timing is too critical to rely on the Bannermans. If they are late and allow PrenTalien to reposition his tankers, or even if they are early, it could be ruinous. It is vital that proper coordination be maintained, else we invite defeat in detail or risk missing the object altogether.”
“I agree, and considering the conditions in the Reef, our carriers are of little value there. That allows us to detach them for other uses. It is on this possibility, Jakob, that I wish to hear your thoughts. I believe we might use them to decoy the blockading force so as to aid the Bannermans’ breakout, and then employ them against either Outbound, or better, the tanker fleet. It is the tankers that are key, and they are vulnerable to our attack craft, much more so than the station. As you say, it is PrenTalien’s fleet that is our true object. We need not hold the station—that would be extremely difficult with the forces at hand in any case—but the point is to effectively cut off his ability to retire with his force intact. Our carriers are well suited to this and I believe that justifies employing them independently on this occasion. Even if the tankers are moved, our long-range strike assets will be able to reach them, which gives us added flexibility.”
Caneris stood, having taken on a terrier-like intensity. “Perhaps if we were to move to the BMC, I could be clearer.”
Chapter Four: By The Fates Assembled
Z-Day minus 24
Northern California Territory;
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol
The gentle light of the new-risen sun filtered through the heavily laden boughs of the peach trees to fall across Mariwen’s face, accentuating the eloquent curve of her cheek and the perfect shape of her lips, while emphasizing the extraordinary warmth of her flawless latte complexion. It was a famous face—indeed, one of the most famous in charted space—revered for its beauty. Such an inadequate word. To say Mariwen Rathor was beautiful was to state that which was blindingly obvious, and indeed, the multitudes were blinded by the captivating trademark smile, the lambent sensuality, the penetrating look in the dark eyes that could kill at a mile. But those were merely the tools of her trade. The essence went much deeper than that; a sublime quality, richer and more invisible, that defied description—and it was gone. In its place was a look of peace, as serene as this perfect morning with the dew-scented air barely stirring and the tiny droplets on the leaves catching the light in a myriad rainbow glints.
To Antoine Rathor, standing at his sister’s shoulder as she gazed up at something that had caught her attention in the branches above, that was the cruelest cut of all. The peace was manufactured, the serenity medically induced. This early walk in the peach orchard was actually a medical exercise: Mariwen’s time sense remained dislocated and carefully planned excursions like this were calculated to steady her perception of the passing days and hours, and help her sort prior memories from present existence.
And it did seem to be working. His sister now smiled and talked much more easily, and if there was still a certain feeling of going through the motions about it, it was a definite improvement over the mechanical responses of the first year. The medical staff was quite pleased. Mariwen had weathered the dangerous period where lucid episodes combining with shattered memories often moved patients to suicide, and they now talked openly about attaining a significant degree of self-sufficiency.
There were all the usual caveats, of course, and Antoine had done his own research. He knew they were far from out of this mental desert and a “significant degree of self-sufficiency” was very much in the eyes of the beholder—what the doctors considered significant and what was acceptable to him and their mother, and to Mariwen herself, could be wide apart. His reading told him that Mariwen had already recovered better than eighty percent of patients in like circumstances, but to see his sister condemned forever to this placid wandering in the wastelands of her mind—a sort of waking death—was not a fate he was, as yet, prepared to accept.
It was a touchy issue. Her doctors had made him aware full recovery was next to unheard of, and in the rare cases it happened, it was the result of a spontaneous crisis, most often happening late in the rehabilitation process. It was not something to be sought after, they strongly cautioned. The usual outcome was a relapse into deep catatonia, rapidly degrading to a persistent vegetative state and death. In fact, at this point, with Mariwen showing such improvement, the primary focus of her treatment had shifted to seeing that this potential crisis would not occur.
The family had acquiesced to this approach; on sober reflection there was really no choice. Nothing in Antoine’s personal makeup or profession predisposed him to put much stock in miracles, and while their mother’s older faith might have been more generous in this regard, it did not preclude being realistic about Mariwen's prognosis.
Such thoughts were ever-present, but he pushed them into the background now as he looked up to see what absorbed his sister so. It appeared to be a blossom on one of the nearer branches, coming in late. The trees of this orchard bore both summer and winter fruit—with the last of the former ripening, the latter were just beginning to bud.
Looking closer, he saw that this late bloom was unlikely to make it that far. One fragile petal had unfurled and it was already starting to fade, the telltale crinkling of the edges and faint stain of rust heralding the inevitable. It struck him with particular poignancy this morning, and left him wholly unprepared when Mariwen suddenly spoke.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
The words were shocking enough, but the way she said them m
ore so. No one had heard such animation in her voice at any time during her rehabilitation.
“Who is?” He kept his tone deliberately cautious, to mask the surprise she’d given him, and because he was half afraid of the answer. Mariwen’s late wife, Lora Comargo, had been murdered by Nestor Mankho’s people during her kidnapping on Hestia over two years ago, but his gut told him that wasn’t who Mariwen meant.
“Kris.”
“Kris isn’t dead”—wishing his gut had been wrong.
“But—” Mariwen took her eyes off the blossom and looked into his face, a look that pierced to the bone. “I . . . Didn’t—I—?”
Her eyes defocused and he had barely a second to react before she collapsed into his arms.
* * *
“What happened?”
Dr. Alistair King, head of Mariwen’s medical team, shifted uneasily at Antoine's question. This setback had caught them all by surprise, and Dr. King was finding it harder than usual to maintain a pose of proper professional detachment. Antoine wished he’d just give it up: the way he kept twitching his shoulders while trying to keep his folded hands still wasn’t helping anything.
“I’m afraid it’s still too soon to say with certainty. Until her condition stabilizes, we can’t take the necessary measures. However . . .” The doctor cleared his throat—never a good sign. “You are familiar with the role of an associative anchor, I trust?”
“To a degree, yes.”
“Key memories, I believe they are called in the popular literature. Not the best term. But critical, especially in a case such as your sister’s—critical, that is, to reconstruction. Anchors—particularly strong anchors—cannot be readily modified, even for therapeutic purposes, as doing so risks unraveling, as it were, an entire memory stack. Thus, we are unable to loop them out, as we could other memory structures, if they are . . . problematic. This creates certain—difficulties.”
“Yes.” Antoine was sure there was a point to all this.
Dr. King was flexing his hands now. “What we have been able to determine is that there’s been a considerable degree of transference—that’s to be expected, of course, when someone has been subjected to such extensive memory manipulation—but in this case, the specifics are, ah—” He stopped and, unclasping his hands, leaned back in his chair. “At this time there exists in your sister’s mind serious confusion regarding the nature of her relationships with her late wife and this other woman, Loralynn Kennakris. Normally, this would be straightforward to deal with, by suppressing the improper associations. But your sister is also cognizant that her wife died. And unfortunately, one of the strongest anchors we’ve been able to identify relates to the events immediately before the neural implant was broken.”
When Mariwen was pointing a gun at Kris and about to squeeze the trigger. Antoine had seen the classified government surveillance video, not just the blurry long-distance recording the media had released.
“You are saying,” he began stiffly, “that Mariwen believes she was married to Loralynn Kennakris, not Lora Comargo and, knowing her wife is dead, thinks she killed her.”
“Not precisely. Or I should say, that cannot be determined at this time. But the conflicting perceptions—her wife’s death, her emotions in regard to Loralynn Kennakris, the events of—yes, those appear to be the cause of this episode.”
“But it’s easy enough to demonstrate that Loralynn Kennakris is alive. Wouldn’t that help?”
“I’m afraid not.” The doctor leaned forward on his desk again. “You sister’s ability to properly process sensory input is still compromised, and with this setback, we cannot be confident of what effect a given stimulus will have—when she regains consciousness, that is. As far as we can tell, your sister did not suffer a full cascade failure, as happened when the implant broke. But extreme caution is required at this point.”
“I see.”
“Yes. In view of that, there is another topic I feel it necessary to raise.”
Given the direction of their conversation, Antoine had been expecting this. “Loralynn Kennakris.”
“Just so. I understand this woman is a fighter pilot?”
“She is a flight officer, yes.”
“Indeed. I would imagine that you are much more aware than I that a flight officer’s life—that is, that the risks involved are extreme?”
Antoine, not liking where this was headed at all, nodded.
“By that, I mean the risks to your sister’s recovery, should this woman become a fatality,” the doctor added, somewhat too hastily.
“Doctor,” Antoine interrupted brusquely, “are you about to suggest that Ensign Kennakris be expunged from my sister’s memory?”
“Such a course might be advisable. Under the circumstances. Given the nature of the attachment.”
The medical lexicon apparently did not admit the word love.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concerns, Doctor,” Antoine began slowly. “But is it not also important that my sister’s love for Loralynn Kennakris has been a primary factor in her recovery? Especially in view of this setback? The transference issues should be resolved in time, shouldn’t they? Or does the current prognosis not envision that?”
“We must be guarded as to the prognosis, of course. For the time being. But my concern here encompasses the out-years as well.”
It wasn’t like Doctor King to be so evasive. Clearly there was more behind this than the simple worry about what would happen to Mariwen should Kris be killed in action.
“Out-years. By that, you mean the possibility of a future relationship.”
“Mr. Rathor, we had spoken before of certain rare instances where full recovery was attained.”
“We had.”
“You understand, I trust, that any such possibility is now precluded?”
At this, Antoine could do no more than nod. Dr. King accepted the nod with something like a muffled cough and looked down to retrieve a sheaf of hardcopy from a desk drawer. Placing it on his desk between them, he drew his hands back and regarded Antoine with an air that appeared to contain more uneasiness than might be expected in a medical professional of his prominence.
“Given the new circumstances,” he began, in a slow voice, weighted with proactive justification, “and the significance of this Loralynn Kennakris to your sister’s mental state—” Pausing abruptly, he glanced briefly at the document before meeting Antoine’s eyes again. “Have you met her, by the way?”
“I’ve had a conversation with her, yes.”
“Ah. As I was saying, in view of current circumstances, I felt it necessary to make certain inquires. I imagine you have not heard of a Dr. E.E Quillan?”
“No. I have not.”
“A naval commander, but quite well-regarded.”
Antoine tightened his jaw at the gaffe but let it slide by without comment.
“Considered a specialist in these matters,” Dr. King went on, conscious he’d overstepped. “We have consulted a time or two. As it happens”—here, he tapped the pages—“he performed the initial psychiatric evaluation on Ensign Kennakris, immediately upon her recovery—you are aware of her history, of course?”
“Certainly.”
“Yes. Obviously, it would be out of the question for him to divulge details, but he did supply an overview, conforming to a standard professional—well, here it is.” With that, he pushed the papers across the desk to Antoine.
Antoine lifted the coversheet and scanned the first page. His face hardened. “He’s essentially calling her a psychopath here.”
“That’s not quite accurate—unfortunately imprecise,” Dr. King replied uncomfortably. Gesturing at the document, he added, “If you refer to the second page, you will see that he describes certain indicators, possible latent tendencies, a certain—” Seeing that Antoine was making no move to view the page, he broke off, pulling his hands once again into his lap. “Mr. Rathor, I realize this is a delicate subject. I cannot, of course, endorse all of Dr. Q
uillan’s conclusions, as I have no direct knowledge of the woman. But I can say there is compelling evidence of serious instabilities.”
“Doctor—” Antoine also leaned back, leaving the document between them. “I understand your concern. But I cannot consent to any course that would tend to suppress my sister’s feelings toward Loralynn Kennakris.”
With a shallow nod, Dr. King picked up the document and returned it to his desk. “We shall of course be responsive to your wishes. However—”
“Yes?”
“Permit me to say that any direct contact between your sister—once she recovers from this present episode—and such an individual would, for the time being, be extremely ill-advised.”
Coming slowly to his feet, Antoine signaled the end of the meeting with a curt acknowledgement. “That, I shall take under advisement.”
Z-Day minus 21
LSS Trafalgar, docked;
Outbound Station, Gamma Hydras, Hydra Border Zone
Kris, wearing tight black exercise shorts and a matching tank top, sprinted up the simulated incline of a treadmill in Trafalgar’s forward rec spaces. Her long muscular legs flashed and her bare feet pounded out a swift rhythm as she attacked the “hill” created the artificial gravity gradient, and her flushed skin was glistening with sweat. Today, this was not about the exercise: it was Stage 3 of the physical she needed to pass as a first step to getting back her flight rating.
There was more to it than mere stamina—much more. The treadmill projected a facsimile of a HUD in the holographic space just before her, and targets popped in and out at random intervals. For some, she had to take the appropriate action by tapping the HUD’s virtual controls; others she had to locate in the space about her and actually touch, and since these winking multicolored spheres were just projections, they could scamper about with a fine disregard for inertia. A few were to be ignored; they were just distractions from targets that actually mattered. Every time she missed one, the treadmill made life more difficult for her. If she scored three or more in a row, it eased off. Overall, it was a grueling test of stamina, coordination, reflexes, and situational awareness.
The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set Page 84