The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set

by Owen R O'Neill

  Now clothes. She needed clothes.

  She rifled Heydrich’s quarters, sometimes opening drawers and hastily shutting them again: the search was providing an altogether too detailed picture of the future Heydrich had planned for her.

  And you thought you could wait him out . . .

  Then she found a set of fatigues that she imagined would do. She ripped off the hateful black gloves, throwing them at the unclean bed, and hastily put on the fatigues. They fit tightly on her, but they fit. Dressed again in military issue, she felt almost herself again. Now footwear.

  A further search turned up a surprising variety of women’s shoes. All of them were nonregulation. So at least ship’s stores didn’t stock those things, she muttered inwardly, thinking of the boots that had fallen to Manes’ scalpel. A minute or two of rummaging turned up a pair of boots with heels just low enough to pass muster and squeezed them on. There was a grinding sensation vaguely noticeable through the anesthetic as she jammed the right boot on.

  Fuck, what am I doing to my heel? The thought made her queasy. Don’t think about it.

  Finally, she considered her hair. It would take too long to undo and comb out that elaborately braided and curled mass. She located a visored cap that matched the fatigues and stuffed the hairdo into it.

  Okay, all dressed up—now where do I go?

  All her instincts screamed at her to get out of there immediately. She stood in the center of the room and started to shiver violently. Did reason demand flight? Or was it just adrenaline talking?

  Adrenaline, she decided. Heydrich had said he’d be in CIC for several hours, and she doubted anybody would disturb Manes while he was playing. The crew must be aware of his and the Admiral’s habits. She eased into the overstuffed chair with the cerise upholstery and succumbed to a bad case of the shakes. For a long minute, her shoulders twitched uncontrollably and her knees felt jellied. She tried to decide what to do. It was proving to be quite a problem. She jammed her shaking hands between her knees.

  What to do?

  Well, first off, get control.

  Kris closed her eyes and drew a deep, ragged breath. Then she tapped her badly depleted reservoirs of will, scraping the bottom, and squeezed the spasming tension out of her toes, into the floor.

  Fine. Now consider the situation . . .

  The situation was pretty simple: she needed to warn somebody—PrenTalien, preferably—about the Maxor’s duplicity and the planned Regulus blitz. She had no idea of the Halith timetable, but given Heydrich’s state of agitation, she figured it was soon. Hopefully, the situation would delay his side until hers could get into position for a counterstrike. But only if she could send a message.

  That was tough: standard design practices said all out-ship comms would route through CIC—and CIC was a fucking fortress. Entry was probably only on strict visual check-and-clear, and there was no way she was going to get into it. Her eloquence did not extend to unlocking blast doors. She began to swear, long and elaborately, under her breath. Was escape an option?

  She could probably get to an evacuation pod and fire it, but she couldn’t imagine what good that would do. Maybe she could beep a message using the locator beacon?

  Yeah, right. Might as well save them the trouble and just step out an airlock. And if she kept silent and they missed her, she’d just float and float . . . No thank you.

  She drew a shaking breath. “This is just not working out,” she muttered. She needed to think of something.

  Standing up gingerly, tender of her heel, she walked into the small adjacent compartment. It was laid out as a small office, quite neat and organized and unadorned. Clearly, Heydrich did not mix pleasure with business. The room held the console, a standard interface, and several floor-to-ceiling cabinet files. Along the back wall was a weapons locker.

  An idea sparked. Heydrich was in CIC. He’d instructed Manes to report “interesting” activity. Interesting activity, huh? She grinned—probably very unpleasantly if it matched her thoughts.

  Sir, I have a report from Sergeant Manes that the prisoner has escaped and is here to shoot your ass . . .

  She almost laughed but stopped and considered the idea more seriously. With a weapon, she wouldn’t need entry clearance; she’d only need them to open the hatch for a moment. If Manes sent Heydrich a message informing him of something new the prisoner had said—say, an eyes-only flimsy, too sensitive for ship comms—would they open up? They might . . .

  She checked the time on the desktop console—just past 0200 ship-time. There couldn’t be that many people in CIC at 0200. And she had the element of surprise. But what was the readiness condition? If they were gearing up for a dance, that would be bad. That had to read out on the console. She tapped a key to bring up a status summary screen. Ilya was under port watch.

  Her attention went back to the weapons locker. It was all academic if she couldn’t open it. Going to inspect the front, she found it both keyed and thumb-locked. That figured.

  She returned to the main room, knelt, and began frisking Manes’ body. Manes was Heydrich’s batman—batmen had keys and serviced personal weapons. Her search rewarded her with a wrist pad, an ID card, a credit chit, and a set of electronic keys. They were even labeled.

  Pocketing everything but the keys, she reached down and grabbed the small corpse.

  Come on, little prick, I need your thumbs, too.

  For a moment, she considered removing them—and the ears and tail?—but this bit of butchery was only appealing in the imagination. She dragged the body into the other compartment and over to the locker door.

  Let’s see, Manes was right-handed. That means right-hand key, left-hand thumb. She pressed both items to their respective locations. The locker doors popped open.

  “Decisions, decisions,” Kris murmured, savoring her first real smile in weeks. After a moment’s reflection she chose a flechette pistol. The service-issue sidearms fired a light-armor-piercing caseless round; Kris didn’t expect to encounter armor, but she did intend to shoot into a compartment full of electronics she needed to use.

  Besides, the sleek black flechette pistol went so much better with the outfit.

  She found a plain black holster, strapped it on, and then slapped a 50-round flechette clip into the pistol’s grip. Not much for taking over an enemy ship.

  But enough to keep from getting captured again.

  She snapped the safety off and slid the pistol into the holster. The weight felt good.

  She went into the head, treated her cuts, and dealt with her other needs. Emerging a couple of minutes later, she felt better but increasingly edgy.

  Okay, time to move.

  She went to Manes’ corpse, removed his sergeant’s insignias, and stuck them on her own fatigues. Then she dragged his body into the head and dumped it in the shower stall. That might buy her a few minutes if somebody came by. Blood on the carpet in here couldn’t be all that odd. With any luck, they’d assume it was hers and think Manes had gotten carried away and had to drag her . . . somewhere.

  Last, she pulled the chip from the recorder in the desk and began searching the drawers for the other chip. She found it in with dozens of others, filed in strict chronological order. The catalog of activities represented by the collection made her sick to her stomach. She slammed the drawer shut.

  Going to the door, she checked the viewer in the call pad. No one coming. She opened the door and stepped out, letting go of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She left the door unlocked—better to have somebody find the quarters empty and unlocked, than locked with no answer when they were supposedly in use. Then she went quickly down the hall.

  Chapter Eight

  IHS Ilya Turabian

  orbiting Asylum Station

  Two in the AM was not a busy time for a ship under port watch. Kris walked briskly down the empty passageway and turned two corners without seeing anybody. Then she passed a couple of maintenance types, who nodded briefly at her. Kris nodded
back. No one paused. Farther along, she stopped, pulled an order-of-the-day message off the wall, folded it up neatly, and stood there looking at it.

  I’m outta my mind—this’ll never launch . . . Did she have another choice? Judging from the wall codes, the evac pods were just around that corner and down . . . No, she still might get an opportunity if they were just a little lax about their security. Then again, maybe the evac pod wasn’t such a bad idea after all . . . Oh hell, quit dithering. You’ll probably get iced either way. She stuffed the folded sheet of yellow plastic in her breast pocket and moved along.

  Down the next passageway, she passed a small, walled-off snack alcove. A pair of feet projected out from a far corner. Curious, she stopped and stuck her head inside. A young officer sprawled in one of the chairs, a neglected cup of coffee near his hand, asleep. Kris grinned unpleasantly. She tiptoed quietly up to the officer, peering at his name plate. It read: Lieutenant J.M. Quist, Security.

  Now here was an opportunity . . .

  Taking the flimsy out, she cleared her throat loudly. The lieutenant awoke with a start. “Who’a—what the—”

  “Lieutenant Quist?” she asked politely.

  The lieutenant sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. Shit—I mean, what’dya want?” His eyes focused on her, more or less. “Oh. Uh, hel-lo.”

  Kris smiled at the leer. She was used to being leered at, and this time not only could it be useful, it meant he didn’t recognize her. Keeping the smile fixed, she regarded him quizzically as he blinked at her. Was he drunk? Drinking on duty and hitting the coffee to cover it up? She looked into the bleary-red eyes. Yep, definitely. No wonder you pulled grave watch.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant,” Kris said as she saluted smartly. “I need your help delivering a message.”

  It wasn’t what he had in mind. “Me? Wha—I mean, how come?”

  “You are the security duty officer?” An inspired guess.

  “Yeah, sure.” He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “What is this? How’d you find—know where I was?”

  “One of the guys told me,” Kris lied boldly. She indicated the bit of folded yellow plastic. “I’ve got an eyes-only flimsy for Admiral Heydrich and—”

  “Heydrich! Holy fuck!”

  “—he’s in CIC. I’m not badged in yet. I need you to take me there.” She let her hand rest negligently on the pistol butt.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Quist muttered under his breath. Then out loud: “Look, why don’t you just—”

  “It’s from Sergeant Manes, Lieutenant,” Kris interrupted frostily. “Admiral Heydrich specifically asked for this information ASAP. Manes instructed me to deliver it personally. It’s about that CEF prisoner, and I don’t want to explain to the Admiral why it was late.” So get with it, asshole. Or I’ll drill you right here.

  That sobered Quist up a bit. “Yeah, yeah. Alright, Sergeant—Sergeant . . .”

  “Marelich.” Her father’s second wife’s name—it even sounded right.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m on it.” He staggered to his feet and barely managed to keep from falling. Shit, I hope he doesn’t get the DTs halfway there. Quist was fumbling for his cap. She handed it to him. He jammed it on his head cockeyed. “Okay. I’m on it. Let’s go.” He lurched down the corridor the way she’d come.

  “Ah, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you sure it’s that way?”

  He squinted. “Oh, yeah. Got turned around . . .” His voice dribbled off as he went down the passage in the other direction. Kris followed him. Quist began to pull it together after a few steps. He must have had a lot of practice at this. After a while he commented, “I haven’t seen you around much. You new?”

  “Uh huh. Just got in.”

  “Oh? Where from?”

  “Zalamenkar.” The one Halith colony she knew. It was at the edge of the Hydra, and the accent there was close to her own.

  “Never been there.”

  Good. Don’t go.

  “Who did you say you were with?”

  “Med-lab. Commander Grinnell’s staff.”

  “Interrogation, huh? You were in with Manes and that CEF Lieutenant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought Manes didn’t like—”

  “He enjoys my help,” she said flatly. That shut him up, but she saw him glance at her and mutter holy shit under his breath. Good. The more worried he was, the better she liked it. After a minute or two, they turned down a narrow passageway, and Kris saw a lift-ladder at the end.

  “Well, we’re here,” Quist remarked, turning towards her and nodding at the lift-ladder. “Now what exactly do you w— ” His mouth snapped shut as he found the flechette pistol jammed under his jaw. She shoved him back against the wall of the lift-ladder alcove.

  “I want you to keep your cool, Lieutenant. If you wanna be a hero, go ahead. You’ll never even feel it.” She pressed the muzzle into the yielding flesh, her eyes flicking to the passageway entrance. If anyone came around that corner now . . .

  “I’ll be chill—I’ll be chill,” Quist whispered, his eyes goggling. “Wha—what do I do?” Sweat started out in little oily drips under his eyes and on his upper lip.

  “First tell me what’s down this ladder.”

  “CIC entrance well. It’s small—three people maybe.”

  “Shot-trapped?”

  “Plasma and explosions, yeah. If they shoot into it, the slugs go bouncing around until they hit something—”

  “Monitored?”

  “There’s a vid in the hatch.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Entry on visual check-and-clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good boy, Quist. You might live through this. Now, remember: this is a hand delivery for Admiral Heydrich from Sergeant Manes. It’s about that prisoner—eyes-only. They have to open that hatch to receive it. If they ask, I’m a sergeant from med-lab—but I’d rather they didn’t ask. Just get that hatch open, and then you can fly like hell up the ladder. Got it?”

  Quist’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, rubbing on the gun barrel. “Yeah. Yeah. Got it.”

  “No fuck-ups, Quist.” She pulled down the gun and pushed him in front of her, keeping the barrel nestled in his spine.

  “Okay, down we go.” They stepped into the lift ladder and descended slowly. Kris’s heart began to pound wildly.

  At the bottom was the trapezoidal armored niche of the CIC entry well. The long side of the trapezoid was the entrance, its duralloy hatch clearly marked, framed by the narrow apertures of the blast reflectors. Kris nudged Quist up to where he filled as much of the monitor’s view as possible, hunched down, and prodded him. He put his ID in the entry pad and pressed the CALL button.

  A voice blurted from the speaker, “What is it, Quist?” So they knew him.

  Okay so far . . .

  “Flimsy for Admiral Heydrich, sir,” Quist replied with commendable calm. “Eyes-only personal from Sergeant Manes.” She dimly heard some internal conversation through the pick-up as the speaker conferred with someone while he held the switch down. Her muscles began to bunch and coil, sucking up tension from her racing thoughts. “It’s about that CEF prisoner, sir,” Quist volunteered helpfully.

  Good boy, Quist. I may not kill you.

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” Kris heard the click of the comm-switch, the swish of the heavy hatch retracting, and exploded in action. Grabbing his collar, she jerked Quist back and slammed him into a wall even as she dropped to one knee and fired. A narrow stream of flechettes like sharp silver tears spattered the entrance. The man standing there convulsed and flopped sideways, the astonished look on his face freezing as he hit the deck.

  Kris snap-rolled through the hatchway. The other people inside—two staff officers and Heydrich, standing at a big Tacticon in the middle of the kidney-shaped room—were momentarily frozen in attitudes of stupefaction, gestures uncompleted, half-formed words still
in their mouths. A console operator reached for a pair of large red buttons; she put a burst into his back. The console screen shattered in a hail of bright fragments, the operator’s narrow shoulders stiffened, and he slumped forward.

  The men around the Tacticon were starting to react. One had his sidearm out; the other was still scrabbling with his fancy flap holster. Heydrich was ducking behind them. Kris fired a wide spray in their direction. The fan of flechettes passed across the throat of the man raising his pistol and then intersected diagonally with the head of the other. Blood and brain curds spattered the room. Another display shattered, raining chips of crystal. Both men fell together. Heydrich dove under the blast, rolled, and came up lunging for another pair of red buttons. She fired again, her burst catching his outstretched right hand. It disappeared in a pink fog.

  She saw a flash of light, and a huge fist swatted her in the side. She spun, falling to one knee, even as the report boxed her ears. Quist!

  He was propped up on one hand on the entry deck, the barrel of his sidearm smoking. Another shot went wild over her head, the blast slapping her eyes. Decided to be a hero after all, huh? She shot him in the face. He flopped over backwards, his features dissolving under a wash of blood.

  Lurching to CIC’s narrow aperture, she punched the hatch closed and slammed down the manual lock lever. As the hatch banged shut, a gust of air blew against her lower body, wet and chill. She glanced down.

  Two unpleasant holes—exit holes—perforated the fatigues just inside and above her right hip point. There would be a matching entry wound in her lower back that she couldn’t see. Oddly, she felt no pain as yet, just an awful, hollow, sickening feeling. The stim-tab was fighting the shock.

  She pressed her left hand to the wounds and was rewarded with a flare of pain—deep and hot, reaching and clawing through her vitals. She reeled, gritting her teeth, waiting until it subsided to angry, uneven throbbing. She could deal with that—for a while. The stim-tab would help a lot. She turned back to the room.

  Bodies everywhere. Blood, glass crumbs, the splattered blue bits of someone’s intelligence in a wide arc across the floor. Heydrich collapsed to his knees, waxy with shock, his severed wrist clamped tightly by his left hand, blood spattered up the sleeve and over the pants of his otherwise immaculate white uniform. Staring at her, hate burning through his pain.