Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Oh no, ma’am. That’s women’s country in there. My sort’s not allowed. Just tap on the hatch. Your strip will let you in. Then look for the door that lights green—that’s your berth.”

  Women’s country? Kris still didn’t quite understand. “But there’s women in the crew. They don’t have separate quarters, do they?”

  “No ma’am. But you ain’t crew.”

  “Oh. Well . . . thank you.”

  He tipped the brim of his cap to her. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Kris nudged the hatchway; it dilated with a hiss that startled her. Moving somewhat gingerly, she stepped through into what appeared to be a forward berthing space. Doors to what she assumed were the individual bunkrooms opened off each side of the passageway and there was another door at the far end. She walked slowly along, watching the door seals, until the last one on the right lit green. She tapped the entry pad and it obediently slid aside.

  Maybe it was going to get crowded; it wasn’t at the moment. There appeared to be room for at least thirty people but right now only a dozen or so women clustered about; five talking quietly in a small group, a few more silent with their heads together, two reading alone on their bunks. They all looked up as Kris walked in. Some looked away again, some seemed startled, some smiled in a timid, jerky sort of way. Kris nodded slightly to those who made a pretense of greeting and ignored the rest. She didn’t know any of them. That wasn’t surprising. She’d been a deck slave, one of the privileged few who had freedom of the decks and mixed with the crew. There had been a few other deck slaves she’d known casually; not what you’d call friends, exactly—her status as the captain’s property tended to put a damper on that—but people she might eat with or talk to when they had a little time to themselves. None of them were here, though. She wondered if they were still alive.

  These people must have been transportees. Slavers tried to keep deck slaves and transport slaves apart—too much information got passed around otherwise—and mostly they succeeded. Nonetheless, Kris had managed to get to the holding deck a few times and talk to the transportees. But not this trip.

  She found her bunk, marked with a narrow white card that said KRIS. That made her frown; the others she’d seen had the occupant’s full name spelled out. Was her name just too long? That seemed unlikely—they must think she preferred it. There was a foot locker under the bunk with the promised change of clothes. A couple of dark blue jumpsuits, matched for height and nothing else, a comb, a shower kit with a towel and assorted toiletries. Pulling out a jumpsuit, she realized it was a man’s. Her nose wrinkled. Glancing around, she verified that everyone else seemed to be wearing something that looked like standard issue—but women’s standard issue.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  She wasn’t that tall. The brunette reading by herself in the next bunk was at least her height, and she got real clothes. Piqued, Kris rummaged around in the locker some more. No underwear.

  Well, that figures.

  Still, it was an improvement. She wanted a shower and to wash her hair. Laying the jumpsuit and the kit on the bunk, she stripped off her old clothes. Suddenly. the room became very quiet. Kris stiffened. Just what the hell were they looking at? In the unnatural silence, she thought she heard a few whispered comments followed by tense warnings to hush up. Her ears burned.

  Slowly, she stuffed her worn clothes in the foot locker’s laundry compartment. What good that would do, she couldn’t guess. Even with the bloodstains mostly gone they were pretty well trashed. She picked up the kit and jumpsuit, grabbed the towel and walked slowly to the showers.

  The shower was a standard ultrasonic weightless model, newer than the one on Harlot’s Ruse, but basically similar. There were some regulations on the wall about water use: one wet-down, one rinse, seven minute limit per day—that sort of thing. The allotment was positively lavish compared to what she was used to and the shower seemed leisurely almost to the point of sin. She kept one eye on the timer, reveling in the slowness at which the seconds ticked by. She washed her hair with painful thoroughness and stepped out refreshed not one second earlier than necessary. Briskly, she dried off and worked the kinks out of her hair before getting dressed again. When she tried on the jumpsuit, it fit about as expected: too tight across the breasts and hips, baggy in the waist, short in the inseam. Belting it helped the second problem somewhat, tucking the pant legs into her boots solved the third, the rest would have to be endured. Finally, she went back to the bunkroom. It was empty now except for the tall brunette in the bunk next to hers. As she walked in the brunette looked up and smiled as if she meant it.

  Kris had seen plenty of beautiful girls, but none to match this one with her dark changeable eyes, heavy waves of sable hair touched with copper and exquisite latte skin. Even more remarkable, Kris could detect none of the telltale signs that her looks were the work of a visosculptor, even a gifted one. Not a colonist certainly; a Homeworlder—and a rich one too. She appeared to be no more than a year older than Kris but she probably was; her skin had the hyper-healthy sheen that marked her as a rejunvenant. Kris wasn’t used to rejunvenants. Out in the colonies, people had to make do with simple postpausal geriatrics. The woman’s voice, when she greeted Kris, had a soft liquid accent Kris couldn’t place.

  “Hi,” Kris answered, a little uncertainly.

  The woman swung her feet off the bunk and offered her hand. “You’re Kris, right? I’m Mariwen. I’m sorry about the others—they all went to dinner early. I think they’re a little bent.”

  “Bent?” Kris asked as she shook the other woman’s hand. “Oh, my name’s Loralynn. But they call me Kris.”

  “Funny—my brother’s name is Chris. But he goes by Antoine now. Which do you prefer?”

  Kris looked down. “Well . . . Kris is fine.”

  “Is that a middle name?”

  “No.” She looked up, shook her still damp hair. “It’s from Kennakris—Loralynn Kennakris.”

  “That’s beautiful . . . such a lovely name.”

  Kris winced inside, eager to get off that subject. “What’s bent?”

  “Oh, you know. Messed up—out of sorts.” She shrugged. “Bent. It’s not their fault really. Most of them were taken a couple of months ago. I think it must have been pretty bad. But they won’t talk to me about it.”

  “Why?” Kris asked. Mariwen seemed to be the first nice person she’d met in . . . how long? Not since . . . Stop that. She exhaled silently. “I mean, why won’t they talk to you?”

  Mariwen laughed. She had a delightful laugh. Kris couldn’t remember ever hearing one like it. It made her insides ache. “Because I’m a lesbian.” She tossed a look back over her shoulder, indicating the Great Unwashed no longer present. “They’re from Harkness mostly—Iron Heads. You know, Amalekites. They don’t like us very much.” Then she caught Kris’s look and a sudden concern clouded her exquisite features. “Sorry, maybe I went a bit rough there. Does it bother you?”

  Kris could only shake her head perplexedly. She wasn’t sure she’d met a real lesbian before, but her experiences in that vein weren’t something she wanted to think about right now. “Ah . . . no. I’m—well—I don’t think I’ve known any homosexuals . . .” Kris abruptly shut her mouth, sure she was saying something stupid. Then, a little sheepishly: “You seem nice enough.”

  Mariwen laughed again. “Thanks. You seem very nice also. I’m glad—but don’t worry, I won’t make a pass at you, even as beautiful as you are. Really. It’s just that I’ve missed having someone to talk to so much. Exiles together, you know.”

  “Um . . . exiles?” Kris had no idea what that meant. Then she thought of the other women—the bent women—the Amalekites. She recalled people back home talking about Amalekites when she was growing up, calling them religious extremists, and she could kind of understand them having a problem with Mariwen. But what had she done? “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” A flustered look pa
ssed over Mariwen’s face. “I guess I put my foot in it. I didn’t realize you didn’t know.” Kris couldn’t imagine what there was to know. “Well, it’s about you and that slaver captain,” Mariwen explained, wincing a little.

  Not that again. Kris tensed her lips, unconsciously balling one hand into a fist.

  “I’m sorry,” Mariwen repeated softly. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like . . .” She looked away—the first time she’d done that. “I wish . . . I hope . . .if I’d been in your place I would have done the same thing. You’re very brave, you know. They just have trouble dealing with it, I guess. And with everything that’s happened to them . . . well, you understand.”

  Kris did, but that didn’t alter her opinion much. “You seem fine.”

  Mariwen rolled her eyes. “I’m a lot better now. I was only on board a week. I don’t think I had time to get used to the idea—it just wasn’t real. I kept thinking it couldn’t be happening—and then it wasn’t.” She shrugged. “But when we were under attack I was so scared.” Mariwen rolled her eyes again and added a groan. “I was sure we’d all get killed. It was awful . . .”

  Not as awful as some things.

  Then Mariwen brightened. “But you know all that, don’t you? Besides, you’re famous. That’s another thing that makes us a pair.”

  “We’re famous?” Mariwen kept saying things that made no sense.

  She laughed again. “Not making much of a first impression, am I? I hope I don’t usually babble like this.”

  No, you’re doing fine. Wasn’t quite the way Kris expected Homeworlders to be though, based on the few she’d met. They had been—stop thinking about that. . .

  “But I guess you probably wouldn’t know. Anyway . . .” She pressed a hand to her lips as if stuffing in a giggle. “I’m Mariwen Rathor. Without the makeup.” If she was expecting comprehension, she was disappointed. But she didn’t look disappointed as she elaborated, “I’m a model. I’ve done vid work too—but mostly print and covers. Shi-an, Metra, Veronique 2M2, Cosmo—stuff like that.”

  “Oh.” Even Kris had heard of stuff like that. She’d never read any of them, but the second woman her dad had married got Cosmo and Metra all the time—he hated them, said they were trash—but Kris had liked her. They’d only been married a season though and when she left, his drinking got really bad. It’d been less than a year after that . . .

  Kris blinked, seeing him again that last time, standing in the road in the billows of red dust, one hand raised, all the life beaten out of his face, still trying to smile—nothing behind it, nothing at all, just hollow . . .

  Tears welled up, hot and unpleasant, and Mariwen put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh shit,”—the expletive was so alien on her lips that it shocked Kris—“I said something stupid, didn’t I?”

  “No.” Her voice choked. “No, it’s okay. Really.” She reached up, touched Mariwen’s arm lightly and shrugged out from under it.

  Mariwen bit her lip as her hand slid off Kris’s shoulder. “Like hell.”

  Kris sat down on her bunk, put her face in her hands. Dragging up years of hard-earned control she forced the tears back where they belonged. She raised her head and smiled at Mariwen. “Look, I’m okay. Really.”

  Mariwen was unconvinced. “If you say so.” She paused, then said, “It might be better if you just let it go. There isn’t anything wrong with that, you know. If you want to talk . . .”

  Kris shook her head, politely but firmly. “No. I don’t wanna talk. It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

  Mariwen nodded, relenting with a smile. “Okay.” Then a second later, she said: “You know, it’s nice not to be the supermodel to someone. You haven’t even asked for my autograph.”

  “Yet.” An attempt at a witty repartee—Mariwen seemed to expect that and it was the best she could do at the moment.

  “Don’t be in a hurry. Are you hungry?”

  Kris drew a couple of deep slow breaths. “Probably.”

  “Want to get something to eat? They already won’t talk to us. We could start a rumor.”

  “You don’t think there’s enough rumors already?”

  “Oh, come on.” Mariwen held out her hand. Kris hesitated, then took Mariwen’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting their fingers slip apart. Mariwen cocked her head, her look becoming a little pensive. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be pushy. I’d just really like the company.”

  That teased a smile out of Kris, slim but real. “Okay,” she answered, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” Mariwen said with a grin. “I’m not quite up to being alone with my legions of rabid fans just yet.”

  Chapter Four

  LSS Arizona

  entering Sagittarius

  Dinner was something of a disappointment. It was, in fact, the same concentrate-based stuff that Kris had learned to loathe. This didn’t do much for her appetite, but she found that if she listened to Mariwen, she could ignore the food. She hadn’t known how to take Mariwen’s comment about ‘legions of rabid fans’—she seemed to be kidding, but Kris couldn’t tell about which part. There certainly did appear to be legions of fans, to say the least. Everyone knew her, and the same things that made Mariwen a pariah to the Harkness Amalekites—her sexual orientation and chosen profession—made her a deity to the crew. They were stopped constantly on the way to the mess and had their dinner interrupted half a dozen more times once they got there.

  But they were hardly rabid. In fact, they all were on their best Sunday-school manners. Still Kris was amazed at the graciousness with which Mariwen met them. She smiled, chatted, signed everything—including a nude flat-photo from an old ‘zine—leaving all her admirers grinning and many of them tongue-tied and flushed.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Mariwen admitted when the beaming crewman with the nude pic left. “You have to get started in this business somehow. That’s one of the best ways. Besides”—she took another dainty bite of the lousy food—“it was fun. I’d do it again, if my agent would let me. But she says it would cost me too much. The money’s all in the tease. Of course, I might tell her to go to hell one of these days.”

  Kris couldn’t get her mind off the image. “And you said I was beautiful.”

  “You are,” Mariwen said, suddenly serious. She put down her fork. “You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

  Kris blushed. Mariwen started eating again. “I am going to get invited to the NCO mess,” she muttered. “Say, you wouldn’t be interested in a job, would you? Lora’s a good agent. She doesn’t often handle newcomers, but I know she’ll work something out if I ask her to. If you want, that is.”

  “You know?”

  “I know,” Mariwen answered with a twinkle in her eye. “I’d stop speaking to her. She’d lose her twelve-and-a-half percent and her meal ticket. Besides, we’re married.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look like that. We’re not that married.”

  Kris’s ears began to go red. Mariwen giggled and shook her head. “That’s a joke. Are you interested? I’m serious. About the job, I mean.”

  Kris shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I’m—well . . . Thanks for asking, though.”

  “Okay. But if you change your mind . . .”

  Kris changed the subject instead. They chatted for awhile and it turned out that Mariwen had been a paid pick. A gang had picked her off while she was vacationing on Hestia alone—Lora had returned just the day before to negotiate her next contract.

  “God, I’m glad she wasn’t there,” Mariwen moaned. “I mean, what would they have done?”

  Kris didn’t have the stomach to tell her.

  “They were very polite and all that. No violence—no real violence. They didn’t hurt me or even threaten me really. Mustn’t damage the merchandise or anything.” She stabbed a chunk of reconstituted vegetable with controlled viciousness. “I’d cheerfully cut the balls off each and every one of them. With a nail file.” The vegetable disa
ppeared in a single snapped bite.

  Mariwen had no idea who’d paid for her kidnapping. The small ship she’d been brought in on docked with Harlot’s Ruse and left; her handlers had been killed in the attack.

  “Handlers?” In all her years as Trench’s slave, Kris hadn’t heard of that.

  “Handlers. When you’re special, you get handlers. I was special.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “They keep you from scarring yourself. The re-gen marks still show to a connoisseur”—the venom in the inflection burned hot and acid-bright through the word—“and they keep you from killing yourself. And, yes, I thought about that. All the time.”

  Kris mashed her napkin under the table and said nothing.

  Mariwen asked where they were going. When Kris told her, Mariwen looked blank with surprise. “That’s where Lora is. We live in Nemeton.” That was a city on Nedaema, Kris gathered. “Christ, I hope she hasn’t gotten all worked up about this. I wonder what she’s heard . . .” Mariwen fretted over the thought. “I hope she hasn’t found out too much. She’ll have every goddamned producer within fifty light-years out to bid for my ‘story’. One week with the bad guys in a stinking little ship.” She shook her head. “I’ll be sick. Now if I had your story, that would be something—”

  “You don’t want my story,” Kris said, more harshly than she meant.

  Mariwen put hands in her lap, looked down at them. “I did it again, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Kris. I really am. I just keep forgetting. I don’t know why.”

  Kris touched her arm lightly. “It’s fine,” she lied. Then they talked about other things.

  After dinner, they went back to their quarters again. They were full this time; as crowded as she’d been led to expect. Commander t’Laren came in as promised and talked to them—addressed was maybe a better word. Isabeau t’Laren was a rather hard-looking woman with short roan-red hair, younger than middle-age and attractive in a muscular sort of way. She didn’t smile easily, and then only with the lower half of her face. She was polite but very formal. Most of the other women watched her with a kind of silent awe. She told them much of the same information that Lieutenant Huron had already given her and Kris listened with her eyes closed. She wasn’t sure if she liked the commander or not.