Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative

by Owen R. O'Neill

  Taliaferro shrugged. “Sounds like it. He’s not a bad sort—overbearing, proud of what he knows—but not bad. We’ll have to watch him though. Can’t have any loose cannons right now.”

  “Quite so,” PrenTalien agreed and Wesselby nodded emphatically. “Nick, who was that guy from the Foreign Office?”

  “Burton.” He scratched behind his ear as he gave his head a private shake. “Technically, very solid—just doesn’t always know how to work his mouth.”

  “So you agree with what he said about the physical security?”

  “Pretty much. He was defending his honor so he was being maybe a bit optimistic, but I don’t think by much—unless there’s a crowd outside, of course. Then again, it’s never been tested.”

  “What’s the chances there are more drones in our future?”

  “Well y’know Joss, we’ve never—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” The two men exchanged a smile.

  “Drones don’t bother me much though.” Taliaferro leaned back and folded his hands across his ample stomach.

  “Plants?” Wesselby prompted.

  “Yep. Drones ain’t Mankho’s style.”

  “Speaking of Mankho.” PrenTalien looked at Huron. “What about you, Lieutenant? You haven’t said much.”

  “Not exactly my area, sir. But for what it’s worth, I find Commander Wesselby’s assessment convincing.”

  PrenTalien thumbed up the corner of a report and glanced at it. “What about this girl, Loralynn Kennakris, that the medicos have got their knickers in a twist over?”

  “Sir?”

  “Dr. Quillan has memos abroad expressing his ‘grave reservations’ and recommending I lock her up. At least. Seems to think she might be a plant. If we accept that Nestor Mankho cooked this up, sounds like his M.O. But I understand you don’t share the doctor’s opinion.”

  “That is correct, sir. I do not.”

  “And you are willing to bet your life on that?”

  Huron stiffened, thinking of their encounter with the drone. “I believe I already have, sir.”

  At that, Wesselby looked down, PrenTalien looked serious, and Taliaferro looked interested. PrenTalien pulled his chin for a bit, but turned to Taliaferro. “What about it, Nick? Any thoughts?”

  “Not really. Unique case. On the one hand, can’t be too careful sometimes. On the other, the shrinks can and do go overboard.”

  “Trin?”

  Trin looked at Huron briefly and then slid her eyes away. “I don’t have anything to add, sir.”

  “Any other candidates? Indications?” PrenTalien looked from one to the other. They both shook their heads and Wesselby added, “Mariwen Rathor is the only attendee who’s actually had any contact with slavers that we know of, but the timeline doesn’t work and she was fully checked out, of course.”

  PrenTalien looked contemplative. “Nick?”

  “She looks golden. As for who gets into those hearings: no friends, no family, no live media, hand-picked security. Unless some grand senator’s a mole, it’d be damn hard to insert someone.”

  “But the Halith angle still bothers me, sir,” Wesselby interjected. “If there is a Halith conduit, we’ve got a whole new situation. If Mankho had access to Halith technology and Ops support . . .” She didn’t need to finish the thought.

  “Indeed.” The Admiral looked at them all in turn. “For all the Archon is an oily old SOB, he has a point about Halith. We cannot go there unless we have something ironclad and locked in. They’re salivating for a casus belli and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them that satisfaction.”

  He paused, picked up the hardcopy reports and handed them across to Wesselby, who sealed them into a yellow folder. “So even though I’ll accept Iona’s report, the fact is we really don’t know a damned thing about that meeting on Cor Leonis or what Halith’s involvement might have been—hell, they could have been arguing against it or even warning the Andamans off poaching on their preserves. So no one is to go off unprimed on this. We officially support the Archon’s position. Unofficially too, outside family. That’s rule one.”

  He paused again to ensure there could be no misunderstanding. “Rule two is that we keep a hard wrap on this. Trin, I want you to set up a small select group—whoever you think best but no in-laws except Nick here. That okay with you, Nick?” Taliaferro nodded. “Copy findings to me, eyes only. Otherwise, keep things at home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nick, can you find a way to share what you’ve got on Mankho and his Black Army bastards with Trin here without tripping too many wires?”

  Taliaferro looked dubious. “Maybe. Gotta walk soft around that one, though.”

  “What kind of official cover do you need? An MOU? Or do I need to pitch something stronger to the Archon? Make him understand how seriously we’re taking this.”

  “With all due respect, that office is a goddamned sieve. Let’s try an MOU. Just promise me a job after I get out, if it doesn’t work.”

  “You got it.” PrenTalien smiled at his old friend. He gathered up the remaining memos and stacked them to one side. “Now for rule three. This is the easy one—don’t fuck up. That is all.” As they rose to leave, the admiral motioned Huron back toward his seat. “Lieutenant, please stay for a moment.” He stood aside as the others exited, Trin giving him a uneasy glance on the way out.

  When the door closed, PrenTalien leaned back and exhaled as if setting down a weight. “You know, Huron, nine days out of ten, you’re about the best officer I have. But on that tenth day . . .” He reached over and selected a memo from the stack he’d set aside. “I can’t recall another instance of a lieutenant of mine threatening a fairly high and respected civilian official with a Grand Senate subcommittee hearing.” He waved the flimsy. “But perhaps you were not acting your official capacity that AM?”

  Huron’s expression settled into stolid impassivity. “I regret if I crossed over the line there, sir.”

  PrenTalien chuckled. “Certainly.” He laid the memo back on his desk. “So I’m going to suggest you check the calibration on where the lieutenant ends and Huron family heir begins.”

  “Yes, sir.” Huron considered the admiral for a moment, and then added, “Have you seen the reports on Loralynn Kennakris, sir?”

  “I have.” PrenTalien nodded, looking inscrutable. “I’ve read yours, which Captain RyKirt forwarded to me, and I’ve heard what the rehab people had to say and I’ve read that medical director’s report. His had pictures.”

  Huron exhaled. “Ah . . . yes, sir.” Then: “Did you know that she out-flew a hypersonic drone after only ten flight lessons, sir?”

  “Yes, I heard about that too. But she did have a little help.”

  “I could tell her what to do, sir. I couldn’t make her do it.”

  PrenTalien nodded, cupping his hands above his desk. “Well, that’s true.” He looked at Huron, mouth crimping. “Not sure how much it helps, though. Candidly, she scares the hell out of people. Christ, she scares the hell outta me.”

  Privately, Huron thought it would be quite the news that the Universe had spat up anything that frightened Joss PrenTalien, short of defeat. Which had not yet happened.

  “You know that the medicos—even if they don’t quite agree on her being a plant—consider her to be a ticking time bomb and they want her defused.” He rubbed his hands discontentedly. “Given this new situation I cannot, in good conscience, refuse.” A chill settled in Huron’s stomach. “But . . .” The admiral dropped his hands and leaned back. “I’m not sure my conscience is all that good. Especially in view of her contribution to the d’Harra operation.”

  “Then you’ll give her a chance, sir?”

  PrenTalien considered. “Where is she now?”

  “We have her in a billet down in HQ.”

  “Officially? Was she extended protective custody?”

  “No, sir. It merely seemed prudent after that night.”

  “Understandable.” PrenTalien n
odded. “But get her out of there before we have to take official notice.” A pause. “That detail was your idea, I suppose.”

  “It was, sir.”

  “Got Corporal Vasquez, did you?”

  “She was suggested to me, sir.”

  “I remember her from back-when. Such a thumping she gave me.” PrenTalien laughed quietly at the recollection. “General Perry was wondering why some of his best people were filing police reports about witnessing breaking-and-entering.”

  “Officially?”

  “No. Zeke Perry can connect the dots too. He’s not an overly rigid sort and he’ll tolerate an off-the-books Op every now and again. He’s tolerating this one now, so let’s just hope it doesn’t happen again.” He favored Huron with a telling grin. “Or we may end up explaining ourselves to a Grand Senate subcommittee.”

  Huron inclined his head.

  “Alright, Lieutenant. That is all. I’ll leave the ticking time bomb in your care for now.” PrenTalien shook his head, perhaps at what he considered his own folly. “Just keep her the hell away from these goddamned hearings.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  CEF HQ, Mare Nemeton

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  Trin Wesselby put her feet up on a vacant chair and leaned her nose over a cup of jasmine tea. “So you talked him into it?”

  “d’Harra talked him into it.”

  Wesselby tilted her head sideways. “Not a bad argument.”

  “And what’s between the Admiral and Taliaferro? They seemed quite chummy.”

  “You didn’t know?” Huron shook his head. “They served together—they were sparring partners. Somebody probably saved somebody’s life. The usual.”

  “Oh.” He paused to digest the tidbit. “So are you making progress with Taliaferro?”

  She nodded, sipping absently. “Some good data we didn’t have. That Mankho person is even more of a piece of work than I knew.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “Yeah. He likes to blow shit up—as they say.”

  That was hardly news. “Okay.”

  “Look”—she gestured a little carelessly with her teacup—“Mankho spent most of the war climbing the terrorist food chain. You remember how he got rid of Azrael Mureyev? That cruise ship? The Haarlan? He doesn’t just blow shit up. He blows shit up in a way you’ll remember it.”

  “So you’re sure it’s Mankho.”

  “Worst-case scenario. Any run-of-the-mill terrorist, the security in-place could handle.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

  “So the Nedaemans foreclosed on the Black Army. Mankho wants payback. What’s the most spectacular thing he could do?”

  “Okay . . .” Huron made a little clucking noise with his tongue, considering. “He thinks he’s an anarchist, right? So, uh . . . the Archon gets up, recites a mea culpa about his role in universal oppression and cosmic injustice and blows the whole place with a nuclear suicide vest?”

  Wesselby didn’t seem to find the suggestion at all humorous. “And that would require what?”

  “What’s in that tea, Trin?”

  “Huron”—she put it down—“about the only thing we can’t protect against with physical security is a plant. That, and their sense of humor, is why slavers love plants.”

  Huron’s face settled into a grimace. “Kris doesn’t have anything to do with these meetings.”

  “But Mariwen Rathor does.”

  “What?”

  “Kennakris and Mariwen Rathor were noticed to be a little . . . cozy on the Arizona.”

  Huron did not like where this was going at all. “So?”

  “So what if Kennakris suggests to Ms. Rathor that she bring along a special guest—a real slave, not just a briefly held paid pick, but a slave who was held longer than anyone we’ve ever recovered—to give her own heartrending testimony.”

  Huron leaned back, crossed his arms. “So where does Kris get the nuclear suicide vest? Mine’s at the cleaners.”

  “Look, Rafe.” Wesselby regarded him, a shade more tense than usual. “I know this sounds crazy. But think who we’re dealing with.”

  Huron shook his head; bit back a reply. “Alright.” He drummed his fingers on his leg. “What if she says no? Doesn’t your little scheme imply they should implant Mariwen Rathor too? And after all, she was on that slaver ship.”

  Trin shrugged and picked up her tea again. “That would be ideal but as I told the Admiral, they didn’t have time.”

  “How long would they need?”

  “Several weeks to have any chance at all. Maybe that was their plan but we cut it short. Besides, we tested Ms. Rathor just to be safe and she’s clean.”

  Huron digested all that. It didn’t go down well. Mostly to cover up the feeling, he asked, “So how do these implants actually work?”

  Trin raised an eyebrow as she sipped. “Well, you should ask one of your doctor friends if you want details, but it’s not that complex, conceptually.” She cleared her throat before going on. “Implants are morphological structures artificially induced into the appropriate brain center. They trigger certain actions in response to a given stimuli.” She paused for another sip as Huron nodded. “But mostly they remove your inhibitions against whatever the response is, assuming you have any. That’s how we find them, by the way. Not by detecting the implant itself—that’s almost impossible without knowing exactly what it is—but by testing behavioral inhibitors for evidence of tampering. That’s why the tests piss people off so much.”

  “Oh.” Hard-faced, he crossed his arms and considered as she watched him over the rim of her cup. “So how do you break them?”

  “Well, that depends. If the target is a good friend, the inhibitions are much more powerful. I’ve heard you can still do it but it takes a long time and you need to know some details of the relationship. Otherwise, conflicting impulses arise and the implanting might to be broken.”

  None of this was improving his mood. “So if Kris is a plant, why’d she give us d’Harra? And why’d they try kill her? Twice?”

  “Rafe, how do we know they knew she could give us d’Harra? That’s not a talent she paraded around. No, let me finish. Let’s assume they did know—that in implanting her they found out she had that talent. What if they decided to use it? Even make sure she’d give us enough—not d’Harra specifically because they couldn’t have planned that—but something to establish our trust in her. After all, what’s losing some slaver assets—assuming those were Mankho’s people, which we don’t actually know—they could’ve even been competitors—compared wiping out a whole gaggle of high-ranking officials from a few dozen governments?”

  “And after all this fancy plotting, they try to kill her?”

  “Maybe they didn’t.” Trin held up her hand against his look. “Maybe the first time was to get you out of the way—we have no idea if they knew she was with you or not—and the second time was an abduction attempt to prime her for the Op.” She raised an apologetic eyebrow. “You’re thought to be kind of cozy with her too. And we didn’t exactly get a chance to ask her assailants their motives.”

  “Jesus Christ, Trin.”

  “Sorry.” She sounded genuinely pained. “This is my job.”

  * * *

  Huron left in a black mood and it didn’t noticeably improve as he flew back to his suite at Xanthus Towers. After his meeting with Admiral PrenTalien he’d moved Kris into his suite, given her strict instructions not to call anyone and made sure the bots would anonymize any requests she made or any cloud surfing she did. She hadn’t been happy about it and he hadn’t had the time to explain.

  Letting himself in unannounced, he walked into the main atrium, a high-ceilinged noble room with the two main residency wings off to the left and right, and a larger and even more splendid exedral room straight ahead, connected to the atrium by an arched narthex. Unsealing his uniform jacket, he dropped his service sidearm, wallet, and some cards and keys
on an antique side table before crossing to the narthex, where he activated a large console in the wall over a stately carved mantle and paged Kris. She came out of the southern residence wing and he saw her agitated look hadn’t changed much—a bit more sullen now. As she approached, she returned his scrutiny.

  “What happened?”

  He tossed his jacket toward one of the curved couches in the exedra, now full of delicate evening light, and it landed a yard short. Ignoring it, he stretched, joints popping. “Long day,” he answered. “I need a drink. Can I offer you one? No obligation.” Kris’s experiences with alcohol had been brief and unpleasant. She shook her head. “You mind if I do?” Another headshake. He went to the bar cunningly worked into a cabinet in the opposite wall and tapped a request. A snifter of cognac appeared. He took it, swirled, inhaled the vapor but did not taste it.

  “Look, Kris . . . It’s getting ugly out there. May I ask you a few questions?”

  She fought down an urge to retreat. “About what?”

  “Mariwen.”

  “Why?”

  He gave her a condensed and suitably edited version of his conversation with Trin Wesselby. When he finished, her face was a hard as a slammed door. He met her eyes with difficulty. “So, did Mariwen say anything about the hearings to you?”

  “She said she doesn’t want to go. Lora wants her to, though. Says it will do a lot of good.”

  “She doesn’t want to testify?”

  “No. She just wants to forget the whole thing. Lora’s insisting—I think she wants the money.” Kris sounded waspish.

  Huron ignored the comment. “Has she asked you to go? Suggested you testify?”

  “No!” Kris took a deep breath to calm herself. “She never said anything like that.” She paused, trying to get her nerves under control. “All she ever said was I could get rich selling my story to producers”—she spat the word—“but that was when we just met.”

  “When you went out with her that night, I noticed your xels and cards were off—”

  “People kept calling. The media were hassling us so we turned ‘em off and blocked the trace.”

  “Did she talk to anyone? Mention where you lived? If you were alone? Anything like that?”