Orion's Price

by Owen R. O’Neill

  “Here’s to opening up.” Her grin took on a wicked edge. “Or becoming uncorked!”

  Chapter 45

  Trinity Base Embarkation Center

  Luna, Sol

  Kris and Huron walked together down the access ramp, his slight limp still noticeable. At the junction with the main concourse, Huron stopped. He had already spotted Mariwen across the river of people flowing both ways through the wide passage under the open arches of Cassandra Station’s sparkling skeleton, pacing in front of the entrance to one of the transfer terminals.

  “She’s waiting,” he said, nodding towards the far side of the concourse. Kris looked; saw the unmistakable figure dressed in subdued blue. As she watched, Mariwen stopped, her hands clasped in front of her and turned her head, looking up towards the civilian docking bays.

  “Rafe, I . . .” don’t want to fucking cry. More than anything, Kris hated that her tears ducts would engage at inopportune times—hated it even more than her tendency to laugh when most people found it inappropriate. Her eyes filming with wetness, she turned, and balling her fists in the front of his uniform tunic, dropped her face to Huron’s chest. She half-expected him to push her away, but his arms came sliding around her and as she felt their warmth, their strength, the tears came, soaking into the crisp fabric.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute—there was no need—his breathing told her everything. She lifted her head, swiped her hand across her eyes and looked up the few centimeters that separated her face from his. He wore his ‘careful’ expression: a guarded look that darkened his brown eyes—a look intended to keep her from being hurt but somehow did just the opposite. His lips were just a short stretch away and she felt impelled to kiss them but for a slight change in the pressure of his arms that held her back. He smiled, convincingly enough to make her wonder what he really felt, and shook his head.

  “It’s okay, Kris. There’s plenty of time. But right now, I think you should go to her.”

  Her hands uncramped, leaving slightly damp wrinkles in his uniform. As she stepped back a pace he unconsciously smoothed them. The asymmetric smile broadened a bit.

  “See you up top, Kris.”

  He held a hand out; she took it in a brief hard squeeze and turned towards the concourse. Three steps—Mariwen had not noticed her yet—and oh fuck it, she broke into a run, dodged through a gap in the crowds and emerged from the steam just as Mariwen saw her.

  Mariwen had fewer inhibitions about crying in public; none at all about kissing her, and it was long moments later when she pulled back, arms still around Kris’s torso and asked, “Is Rafe okay? He’s limping.”

  Kris glanced reflexively down the concourse, but his tall form was no longer in sight. “Yeah, he’s almost completely healed now. Just another few . . .” She stopped and looked at Mariwen. “You saw us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh.”

  Mariwen reached up and touched an index finger to her cheek. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Mariwen—”

  Mariwen slid her fingertip up the wet trail to the corner of Kris’s eye and caught a tear. “But I think you should have kissed him.”

  “Mariwen—this is . . . complicated.”

  “I know.” She tightened her arms again and kissed the scar high on Kris’s cheekbone. “I know.”

  Epilogue

  Northern California Territory

  Western Federal District, Terra, Sol

  Mariwen’s cries began to diminish at last, tapering into a series of broken gasps and she pushed Kris’s head from between her thighs with shaking hands. “Dear—God—please—stop.” The words escaped one by one through the ragged panting as her spine unbent to make contact with the crushed grass beneath them. “You’ll—kill me.”

  Kris looked up, immensely pleased with herself and slid alongside Mariwen. “Or what?” Mariwen, torso still giving way to sharp little quakes and gilded with sweat in the late afternoon sunlight, tried to roll into her, but Kris caught a wrist in either hand and threw her leg across Mariwen’s hips, pinning her flat with her arms wide. “Or what?”

  “Good lord,” Mariwen said again, her breathing slowing enough to allow two syllables together. “What—what got . . . into—into you?” Three were still almost too much.

  Kris grinned, wide and devilish, and lowered her mouth to her lover’s. Nuzzling her lips open, Kris’s tongue teased from Mariwen’s an answering caress. The kiss deepened and Kris began to orbit her hips in slow rhythmic circles. Mariwen’s feverish eyes grew wider and little mewling sounds escaped from deep in her throat.

  Kris pulled away, laughing, the clear ringing sound rising into the still air far above the chuckle of the stream running into the pond off to their left; interrupted by the sound of splashes, remarkably loud, as two fat bullfrogs, disturbed by this new outburst, took to the water.

  “Are you going to let me up?” Mariwen’s voice was almost back to normal.

  “No,” Kris teased and wiggled her hips for emphasis. “Not until you answer me.” Mariwen made a face: the movement had wiggled more just Kris’s hips, and Kris was keeping that more just out of her reach.

  “Oh, you’re a fiend . . .” Mariwen had her eye on a taut coral-colored nipple oscillating so temptingly just half a foot away. Perhaps a well-timed lunge . . .

  Kris caught the look and dipped suddenly, swishing her breasts within an inch of that parted mouth, the edges of perfect white teeth just visible, and laughed again as Mariwen missed by a millimeter.

  “Damn you!” Mariwen hissed, eyes narrowing and wonderfully bright. “When you let me up, I’m gonna . . . gonna—”

  “What?” Kris giggled, undulating. “What? Whatcha gonna do? Huh?” She lowered her torso slowly, tantalizingly, repeating “Huh? What?” in a voice that slid into a moan as Mariwen’s cunning lips and strong pointed tongue finally latched onto their quarry.

  Long minutes later, when there were no more frogs on the banks of the pond and the ravens, beginning to recover from their outrage but still scolding, had settled back into the topmost branches of the oak trees far up the grassy slope, Mariwen rolled onto her side and gazed along Kris’s limp form, limbs all deliciously askew, with a touch of awe.

  “You can come that way?”

  “Apparently so,” Kris wheezed. “Who knew?”

  Mariwen drew a fingertip in a wide lazy figure-eight across Kris’s breasts. “You’ve placed yourself in my power, you know.”

  “Oh hell. Tactical blunder. Gimme a second”—her hand groped in the grass stems towards where their clothes were strewn—“I think maybe I gotta white flag here somewhere.”

  “No terms,” Mariwen whispered, leaning close, that hand questing lower and drawing forth a soft, involuntary cry, “but immediate and unconditional surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.” And she did.

  The sun set, the temperature dropped, and the evening breeze began to murmur and rustle among the phalanx of bulrushes that guarded the pond. They had retreated under an old uniform jacket and Mariwen was running a moist finger around Kris’s lips.

  “Okay,” Kris sighed as the fingertip retreated and another, reanointed, was offered. “You win.” That digit duly administered to, she caught Mariwen’s hand and kissed the palm. “But assuming I ever get my strength back . . .”

  “Now I warned you about that,” Mariwen reminded her archly.

  “Yeah, but you never told me what you were gonna do about it.”

  Mariwen slid her calf behind Kris’s knees and tugged their bodies closer together. “Well, I’m going to . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “ . . . make you breakfast. For a thousand years. Or so.”

  “Oh,” Kris said, snuggling into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “I’ll be careful then. You know how I feel about breakfast.”

  Authors’ Notes

  Historically minded readers will have recognized the words spoken by Mariwen to Kris in the Epilog
ue: “No terms but immediate and unconditional surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works,” as the reply sent by General Ulysses S. Grant to General Gideon Pillow at the Battle of Fort Donelson (February 16, 1862) in response to query from General Pillow regarding surrender terms. We have (mis?)appropriated Grant’s quote, which made him famous throughout the nation, in the spirit of “make love, not war” and we beg the reader’s indulgence for so doing.

  The quote Danilov’s recalls in Chapter 39 is from the famous first line of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, published in 1859. The full sentence runs:

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

  The “batmen” assigned to Kris and Huron are enlisted personnel who act as personal servants to a commissioned officer. The term derives originally from the French term bât, which became a (now obsolete) loan word into English, bat, meaning “pack saddle”. In the British army of the 19th Century, each officer had a “bat-horse” to carry his kit. The soldier in charge of this horse became known as the batman. The term persisted into the 20th Century, being used both formally and (increasing) informally. Batmen or batwomen are also termed orderlies, and in the US Army “dog robbers”. Their duties include:

  • Acting as a valet to maintain the officer’s kit (uniforms and equipment).

  • Conveying orders to the officer’s subordinates.

  • Acting as the officer’s driver and bodyguard.

  • Seeing to the officer’s accommodations in the field, which might include digging a foxhole.

  • Performing miscellaneous tasks the officer does not have time for, which are related to her or his official responsibilities.

  Helena Marazovna, mentioned by Zorya in Chapter 37, was inspired by a historical figure, Helena Marusarzowna. As a member of the Armia Krajowa, or Polish Resistance, in WWII, the historical Helena acted as a ski courier in the area around Zakopane in southern Poland. These couriers, most of whom were Catholics, were instrumental in saving many Poles, especially Polish Jews, from Nazi concentration camps by helping them escape over the Tatra Mountains into Hungary via Slovakia.

  In 1941, at the age of 23, Helena Marusarzowna was captured by the Nazis, interrogated and tortured for nine months as a ‘spy’, and then shot. She was buried in Zakopane, where her grave is visible today.

  We extend our grateful appreciation to her living relatives for allowing us to base a fictional character in our universe on her inspiring and enduring example.

  Acknowledgements

  Now that our sixth book in the series is completed, we once again have the happy task of giving credit where credit is due. First, to our A-Team, as it is primarily through their efforts that we were able to finish this book: Alex, Ramona, Cynthia, and above all SJ, who once again proved herself to be utterly indispensable. SJ, we cannot say enough good things about you. But we will never stop trying!

  Finally, to our readers, an enormous “Thank you!” You have stuck with us through thick and thin, and we cannot thank you enough. You give us the gift of your time, which is invaluable. We will always endeavor to be worth it and the story continues.

  More Work by Us

  The Loralynn Kennakris Series:

  The Alecto Initiative (Loralynn Kennakris #1)

  The Morning Which Breaks (Loralynn Kennakris #2)

  Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris #3)

  Apollyon’s Gambit (Loralynn Kennakris #4)

  The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris #5)

  The Loralynn Kennakris Series Boxed Set: (Loralynn Kennakris Books 1-3)

  Upcoming:

  The Tears of Artemis (Loralynn Kennakris #7)

  Also by Jordan Leah Hunter

  The Erl King’s Children

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