The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  “So your opinion, Doctor, is that we shall not see Mariwen Rathor in public life again?”

  “Oh no. I should not think . . . in, ah—in such a case . . . such a case this—that there would be any such possibility—realistic possibility, that is. No, no. I’m afraid not.”

  “Thank you very much, Doctor. That was Dr. Frederick—”

  Kris killed the video and shut down the console. Cupping her face in her hands, she leaned forward and took several deep breaths and then several more, until the painful tightness in her chest began to ease.

  Almost three years and they’re still trying to score points off her . . . Assholes.

  She dropped her hands and flexed them, shaking a tremor out of her spine as she stood. Going into the bedroom, she picked up a flat case on the dresser and thumbed it open. The case held an envelope—real paper, a bit worn from handling—sealed with a gold wafer. She touched the wafer, it released, and she slid the folded square inside into her hand.

  She didn’t unfold it (she knew the words, the lines, the shape of the letters by heart) but turned it in her fingers, savoring the slight roughness, the dry crispness of the fine paper. Mariwen had sent it to her on her graduation from the Academy without explanation, just four spare handwritten lines: the first, “The moon has set, and the Pleiades”; the last, “and here I lie alone.” Kris had never answered—had never known how to answer. It had been just over a year.

  Carrying the letter gingerly into the living space, she resettled on the couch and picked up her xel. A few taps brought up Mariwen’s ID and email address. She opened a compose window and stared at it awhile before closing it again. A year . . .

  Kris brought up the email address again, ran a trace. The icon pulsed for the better part of a minute and then glowed red. Restricted. She opened the info pane, requested an exception, typed in her ID, pressed her thumb to the screen, and waited. The icon pulsed even longer this time and came back red again. Kris chewed her lip. She could only connect to the local service, and out here, who knew how often it was updated or even if the directories were complete. Trafalgar would have full, up-to-date directories. That meant sending the email through ship comms—not so private—but . . .

  She opened a link to Trafalgar. The signals officer of the watch answered, Lieutenant JG Roland Howard. Howard was not a bad sort at all, but they were not friends.

  “Hello, Kennakris,” he greeted her, professionally polite. “Something I can do for you?”

  “Hello, Howard. Who’s on comms watch tonight?”

  “Olantry has the duty.”

  That would be Petty Officer, 1st Class Mike Olantry, a good operator, reliable, friendly—and he’d gone out of his way to oblige Kris on occasion. “Can you link him up for me?”

  Howard looked like he had a question but did not voice it. “Wait one.”

  “Thanks.”

  Olantry’s oval pink face shimmered up on the display, smiling in a tight-lipped way that gave him a slightly comic air. “Good evening, ma’am. What can we do for you?”

  “Mike, do me a favor, please?”

  “What do you need?”

  “I’m trying to get a message to someone on Earth. The node down here is telling me it’s restricted. Can you check for me?”

  “Sure, ma’am.” Olantry looked down at his console, opening the master directories. “What’s the name?”

  “Mariwen Rathor.”

  Olantry raised his head, startled for a moment. “The Mariwen Rathor?”

  “Yeah. I have her ID here.” Kris linked it to him.

  Olantry lowered his head again with a private little shake and checked the ID as it popped up on his console. He typed and waited. Kris watched him as his head jogged side to side, lips moving slightly. Then he frowned. “Yep. Restricted alright. Pretty hard lockdown.”

  “Are there any exceptions logged?”

  More typing and another frown. “No. Nothing. It’s code-locked—a directive from Terran OSI, looks like. Sorry, ma’am.” He looked genuinely disappointed. “I can log a request for you—gawd knows when they’ll get back though. Take a month at least—probably longer.”

  Kris struggled to mask her own disappointment. “No. Thanks, Mike. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Have a good night, ma’am.” The link died. Kris slid the xel slowly onto the table and laid Mariwen’s letter beside it. What the fuck was she thinking? Stupid to think Mariwen would want to hear from her after all this time anyway—even if she still remembered—had only known her for a few weeks—had she really known her at all? The real Mariwen—was there any such person now? Kris put the letter back into its envelope. Maybe if she hadn’t waited so long . . .

  No—stop. Jus’ fuck’n stop.

  Sealing the envelope, she sat for a minute more, fingers tap-dancing on her knee, considering it.

  Fuck it—

  A soft distinctive warble from her wallet interrupted her. She took it out and checked.

  Huron’s calling card.

  Shit. She’d told him she would be there. And she hadn’t called or—

  Picking up the card, she tapped ACCEPT. “Hey, Huron. Sorry. I, uh—was gonna call . . .”

  “Something happen to change your mind?”

  “Uh—no. Not really. I jus’—just . . . kinda lost track.”

  “Come on down then.” His smile coaxed as much—more than—his voice. “This is your night, Kris. You made them proud. Let ’em show you for an evening.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, swallowing against the sour aftertaste of guilt. “I’ll be right over.”

  “Looking forward to it.” The card blanked.

  With a sigh, she stood up and reached for her tunic and jacket.

  * * *

  Kris found them at a back table. Only five of them were left, but the celebration still seemed to be in full cry. When Huron saw Kris, he got up, surprisingly steady for being as flushed as he was, went to their nearest neighbor, and clapped his hand on the patron’s shoulder.

  “We need this chair.”

  The patron was a thick-bodied fellow and tall; he started to rise with a dangerous expression until he saw the challenge in Huron’s eye. He swallowed, nodded, grabbed his drink, and left with as much dignity as he could muster. It wasn’t much.

  Huron hooked the chair with his foot, skating it triumphantly across to their table. “Have a seat, Jig.” He waved her over extravagantly. “And in my great goodness, I’ll still buy this round. Get her a glass.” Sliding into his seat with a self-satisfied air, he addressed Tole across the table. “The bottle stands by you. What the hell’s the matter? You asleep?”

  Tole did look a bit sleepy—he snapped out of his woolgathering and pushed a tall slim bottle to Krieger, sitting on his left. Krieger poured his glass full. An arm reached over Kris’s shoulder to put a glass down in front of her. Kris checked it—it was actually clean for once. Huron reached across to take up the bottle and pour for her.

  Kris lifted the drink tentatively. It was a deep blue-green and smelled like disinfectant, machine oil, and some unnamable spice. “What the hell is this?” she asked the table at large.

  N’Komo and Dance laughed. Huron replied, “That’s a very good question. A while ago, it was brandy. Then it was Maxor vodka, a very good year”—more barking laughter—“and at this point, I’m terribly sorry to say, I’ve lost track.”

  Kris sipped gingerly. It made her sinuses sting and her eyes water. She coughed. “Jesus!” They all lifted their glasses to her and cheered. “You’re supposed to drink this?”

  “Well, it also makes a damn fine degreaser,” Huron drawled. “Krieger here once tried to use it as a fuel-air explosive. I’d stay the hell away from his bunk tonight if I were you.”

  “Fuck you, Huron!” Krieger called out, laughing.

  Kris sipped again. It actually didn’t taste so bad once you got used to the sting.

  “No doubt, you will discover your own uses for it in the fullness of time.”
Huron poured another glass for himself, stood, and raised it. “Bumpers, gentleman. To Kris—who introduced the Doms to a whole new universe of hurt!” They all stood, raised their glasses, cried her name out loud, and downed their drinks in a go. Kris went along, swallowing hers in a gulp. Something explosive happened behind her eyes and the room spun wildly.

  “Shit!” She blinked furiously and blotted her eyes on her sleeve.

  “Please,” said Huron, “there are ladies present.”

  The party’s trajectory climbed to its apogee not long after that and then began a gradual descent. They drank a toast to each of Kris’s victory missions, although she got away with just sipping on these occasions, and then to other, more dubious, achievements. N’Komo told a number of doubtful stories, and they switched to something that was pale amber and surprisingly pleasant after the violent blue-green stuff. The third round claimed Dance as the first casualty. Glassy eyed and wearing a tetanic grin, he was starting a slow slide to the floor when Huron took out his xel and tapped a code on it. A trio of Trafalgar’s liberty men, led by a senior chief, arrived momentarily and conducted the paralytic ensign away. Krieger and Tole were not far behind, although both managed to retreat under their own power, more or less.

  Alcohol affected Kris strangely. She did not drink often, and when she did, she rarely got drunk, at least by naval standards. Her sense of hearing tended to become almost painfully acute, her sense of smell might change, and sometimes her perception of visual details was heightened, while at other times things took on a gauzy quality, and time was not always quite what it should be.

  Right now she was observing Huron closely, the lines around his eyes as he laughed, the way his lips moved, the pause and slight inhalation, and how his right eye narrowed as he prepared to deliver a bon mot. His occasional habit of rubbing the bridge of the broken nose he’d never had fixed because it rendered his features less boyish. His dark expressive eyes, now warm with a look she hadn’t seen before and could not place.

  He was not nearly as drunk as he should have been, having consumed an unreasonable amount of liquor—or at least he didn’t seem to be. His sense of humor had gotten even more outrageous and his commentary had ascended to heights few CEF officers would dare attempt, but his movements remained assured, while across the table N’Komo’s smile got ever more rigid and his speech ever slower—he was now ordering his words with exaggerated care. At last he stood, bade them a fond goodnight, and navigated his way through the tables with only a moderate weave, leaving them a bottle with a few centimeters still in it.

  Huron followed N’Komo with a considering eye until he reached the door and then picked up the bottle with a sigh. “It would be impious to waste this.”

  Kris was not sure about that, but she did not object to his topping off her glass. Huron drained the remainder and sat back in his chair. Romney’s was quiet at this hour, the remaining patrons being those who went about their search for oblivion in a most dedicated manner. Swirling the amber liquid, he smiled at her—a becoming smile.

  “You have done a lot of damn fine work, Kris. I congratulate you.”

  He sounded utterly sincere, and Kris’s blush would have been much more noticeable had not the alcohol already brought a high color to her face. “Thank you, sir.”

  “How about: Thank you, Rafe.” His eyes caught hers in a most disconcerting way. “Or is that too much to ask?”

  Kris felt the heat rising anew in her cheeks. She dropped her gaze. “No. No, it’s not.” Then, eyes still lowered: “I know I haven’t made things easy on you.”

  “This job isn’t about easy, Kris.”

  “I just want ya to know—”

  “I know.” He smiled, looking into his drink. “Not sorry you came then?”

  “No!” The vehemence in her voice startled her. “I mean—I’m glad I didn’t miss it. Thanks for gettin’ after me.”

  She waited for some rejoinder, some witty repartee, but he said nothing. Then, after a minute, his eyes still on his drink, he remarked, “It is getting late, though.”

  Not out of nowhere, but out of a place she hadn’t charted yet, came the urge to touch him—reach across that meter between them and place her hand along the smooth plane between his cheekbone and the angle of his jaw. The urge was strong enough that she pulled her hands back into her lap and, for a long moment, forgot to breathe.

  Why not? she asked the space between them. Letting her hands go up to the edge of the table, she caught his eye as he looked up—a direct gaze, both earnest and apprehensive.

  “Maybe we should call it a night?” Her voice was soft in this space they’d just made their own.

  Huron read her look, weighed and measured it, and glanced down again. Raising his eyes a heartbeat later, he gave her that asymmetric smile. “Did you just make a pass at a superior officer?”

  Kris shrugged, the blush flaming against her pale skin. “Umm—I—ah, I guess. Yeah.”

  His eyes stayed on her. “Is that something you really want?”

  Her teeth indented her lower lip. “Rafe . . . why don’t you ever tell me what you want?”

  “Because you’re worth waiting for.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For you to be sure you’re ready.”

  He stretched out one hand, placing it on the table between them, palm up. After a few seconds, she reached across the distance—once so great—and took it.

  “You can stop waiting.” Her voice wavered as she squeezed his hand. They stood up together, and she nodded towards the exit. “It’s just a short walk.”

  After that, she never knew what went wrong. Maybe she was a bit too rough—or he a little too hurried. Maybe it was just too soon. Whatever it was, suddenly something curdled inside her and all she could think of was Trench. Trench’s fingers, Trench’s eyes, there in the room with them. Together on the couch—her shirt off, his open, zippers undone—she pushed him away.

  “Look, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  Huron let her go, accepting the rebuff, but a little too drunk to let it slide without a comment. Still holding her hand, he tried to guess what was bothering her and, not unexpectedly, he guessed wrong.

  “Kris, this doesn’t have to mean—”

  She snatched her hand out of his. “Mean what?”

  “Well . . . anything,” Huron finished, a little lamely.

  “You sonofabitch! You motherfuck’n son of a bitch!” She surged off the couch, away from him, all interest in rationality blown away by the clumsy answer. “What do you mean it doesn’t mean anything? Is that whatcha want? A little slave-bred whore-girl who’ll suck it ’n chuck it and not mean anything? Well fuck you, Huron! When you’re the one crawling around on your hands and knees getting fucked in the ass, it goddamn well means something!”

  Huron hadn’t been prepared for an attack; maybe his response was natural. But all she heard was the confusion that rendered his tone maddening. “Kris—that isn’t . . . When you—”

  “When I what?” she snarled over her shoulder, her back rippling with anger. “Get mouthy? Not nice and quiet so you can handle ’em? What’s the matter, Huron? On your knees, cunt—that’s how it goes. Come on, asshole! Say it—take a shot!”

  Realizing the problem at last, Huron collected his wits and got off the couch—slowly. He extended an arm to her, placating. She jerked away.

  Trying to be apologetic, he began, “I’m sorry, Kris—”

  “Fuck you!” she screamed, spinning on him. “Don’t you ever call me that!”

  “But it’s your—”

  Her open hand cracked across his face. “It’s not! Goddamnyou! It’s not!” The room was full of other people now: Mangle, Strich, the Slime Line Crew, the ’tween-desks whores—and Trench. Everywhere she looked, Trench. Trench who’d first called her that. Trench who’d raped away her life, her dreams, her name. Trench who couldn’t even leave her own name . . .

  Instinctively she lashed out—hit something h
ard. Hit it again. But hands were grabbing her now: Trench’s hands, coming to rape and rob again. Trench’s hands that never let go. She twisted, screaming, fighting as she’d fought that first time, but the hands were trapping her, holding her, and she fell gagging to the floor—feeling Trench all over her—gagged again and lost herself in a paroxysm of vomiting. She heaved again and again, retching until her abdomen burned—until she brought up nothing but the ghost of Trench’s stinking blood.

  Someone lifted her, gripping her around the waist, around her painfully quaking abdominals. She batted feebly at the arms carrying her and was dumped into something hard and cold. Water hit her forcefully in the face, shocking and merciless, flooding down her front, purging away vomit and Trench. Strong and impersonal fingers went to work, removing the rest of her clothing—no, no, stop it, you’re dead—but the hands would not let go, the fingers continued to work. She was too weak to resist, too blind to see, water and hair and something that must be soap in her eyes. She began to cry, massive tearing sobs that ripped fire through her strained abdominals, a hoarded decade of unshed tears—and the hands kept stripping her—and she began to kick, banging painfully against hard metal, while somewhere in a dark recess of her overwrought brain a little piece of her woke up and said: What the fuck’s the matter with you? He’s dead goddammit! Stop it!

  But she couldn’t stop it, and with her crying and kicking tried to drown out the little voice—that fucking little traitor voice—who wouldn’t let her be alone with her agony. And the hands kept doing what they were doing, and she kept doing what she was doing, and at last the paroxysm beat itself to death against the shower’s metal walls.

  * * *

  She lay on something soft: a bed—her bed—wrapped in a warm, fuzzy robe with someone wiping her face with a warm, wet cloth. She hurt all over and her mouth tasted terrible. The cloth wielder seemed to realize this and held a glass to her lips.