Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  APOLLYON'S GAMBIT

  Loralynn Kennakris #4

  Jordan Leah Hunter & Owen R. O’Neill

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and organizations either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Owen R. O’Neill and Jordan Leah Hunter

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Pleiades Web Press.

  IN DEDICATION

  To the Best Woman We Know, our unfailing source of encouragement and inspiration: This book could not have been done without you.

  Owen R. O’Neill & Jordan Leah Hunter, October 2016

  Table Of Contents

  Prologue

  Part I: Alien Skies

  One: Daybreak

  Two: Honor and Policy I

  Three: Harbingers

  Four: Points of Departure

  Part II: Far Horizons

  One: Wing Burn

  Two: Honor and Policy II

  Three: Arrival Iona

  Four: First Impressions

  Five: The High Southern Reaches

  Six: Events Multiply

  Seven: Ringside at Armageddon

  Part III: Dies Iræ

  One: Seven Trumpets Gather

  Two: The Broken Seal

  Three: Seven Trumpets Sound

  Four: The Wrath of the Lamb

  Five: Apollyon’s Trumpet

  Six: Dies Illa

  Seven: Katechon’s Arrival

  Aftermaths

  One: New Horizons

  Two: Eve of All Hallows

  Three: Arizona Sunset

  Authors’ Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About The Authors

  More Work by Us

  Connect with Us

  Map

  The Apollyon Gates

  Prologue

  Makin’s Sound, Upper Stournow

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  Admiral Joaquin Caneris of the Halith Imperial Navy stood on a large flat outcropping of bare rock, his hands clasped at the small of his back in a posture of long habit, looking out over the forest of nonnative spruce, fir and cedar that descended in a grand sweep right to the water’s edge, half a kilometer away, and then erupted again two kilometers farther on, seemingly right out of the indigo depths of Makin’s Sound. The sound was smooth as glass today and the trees’ reflections lay over its surface like the score of a pastoral symphony, covering the water with deep emerald notes.

  The scent of conifers filled the quiet, unstirring air, irrepressibly vibrant, almost otherworldly after so many months stuck in Halevirdon, the capital. His grateful lungs drew it in while he surveyed the scene with keen eyes too long denied such open spaces. The combination made it almost possible to forget the myriad mundane details of his position, symbolized by his aircar and accompanying security detail, parked in a hollow down and to his right, where thin spewy soil supported no more than thin weedy grass.

  He’d ordered his men to stay by the aircar: they were almost superfluous here, where overhead sensors would detect any threats long before they became dangerous. On landing, his party had scattered a small herd of kine—if the indignant amble with which the beasts had departed could be described as scattering—and now a handful of the shaggy cattle, some black and others reddish, all with long wicked horns, had gathered on the ridge above to stare down at the security men with an air of bovine officiousness. A couple of the security men were making use of this liberty to stare back at the animals, live specimens of which they had never before seen.

  Caneris, hearing the creak of a door opening to his back, turned around and advanced with a smile on his deeply lined face, an expression somewhat stiff although wholly genuine, for his was a face unused to smiling.

  “Joaquin!” called out the unusually tall man coming down a gravel path from the smallish and rather rude dwelling. “I am so glad to see you.” The two men met, the one towering above his visitor, and shook hands, each regarding the other with the warmth of long friendship.

  “Jakob, how are you? You look well.”

  The tall man, Jakob Adenauer, once commander of the Imperial Navy’s Kerberos Fleet did look well—surprisingly so. He was leaner than when Caneris had last seen him, many months ago, and his skin was now sun bronzed, but beneath the tan was the ruddiness of health. The damaged arm, which had still been in a casing from the reconstructive surgery when last Caneris saw him, was fully healed, and his right hand again had its full compliment of digits. His grip was stronger than ever.

  “I am well,” Adenauer replied in his deep resonant voice. “The better for this visit. Your letter came today. Amelia is overjoyed. Shall we walk in? Or perhaps you should like the grand tour first? The weather is very fine just now.”

  “So it is. I should like the grand tour, as you say.” As a commanding officer, Adenauer had never been much given to levity, although his good humor was notable in contrast to the dour gravity of Caneris. But it seemed the lifting of command responsibilities, or isolation from the often poisonous political atmosphere of the capital, or being able to spend more time with his wife—a thoroughly delightful person—had tapped, if not hidden wellsprings of mirth, at least something in the same vein.

  Caneris was gratified to see this; he’d been concerned. After the disaster at Wogan’s Reef, the res publica had been crying out for heads (not always metaphorically) and Caneris had been prepared to throw the whole of his weight—his very considerable weight, for he was Lord OverHallin, one of the most important of the ancient Halith titles, as well as the commander of the elite Prince Vorland fleet—behind his friend, whose family was a political nonentity that could boast no aristocratic blood whatsoever. In Caneris’ opinion, Adenauer truly had no grounds on which to reproach himself. As the overall commander, he must bear the responsibility for the loss and he did, but it was politics that had saddled him with an unqualified deputy commander, and it was politics that forced him to rely on the Bannermans. The abject failure of the Bannerman fleet had occurred while Adenauer was literally having his flagship blown to pieces about him—he was powerless to prevent it.

  Further, a number of eminent heads had already been collected, among them Vice Admiral Arvin Shima, Adenauer’s ill-fated second-in-command, killed when IHS Orlan had exploded with the loss of all hands, and Vice Admiral Vitaliy Tomashevich, commander of Adenauer’s carrier battlegroup, who had shot himself over the affair. Added to this was the overall Bannerman commander, Admiral Voorhees, victim of the purges that had followed the assassination of the Bannerman President-for-Life, after which the Bannermans switched sides.

  With these offerings fresh on the public alter, Caneris had felt confident of securing his friend a modest retirement, especially in view of the latter’s many accomplishments and heretofore unblemished war record. But Adenauer wrote to him privately, asking that he take no such pains. Caneris had therefore restricted his efforts to seeing to it Adenauer faced only internal exile, not banishment to the colonies—a sentence that often amounted to death. Meeting him for the briefest time after the court martial (from which Caneris recused himself), he was struck by how deeply the defeat had marked his friend, and how he appeared only too glad to go.

  That this bucolic exile, in the wilds laying along the 50th Parallel—wilds only in the sense of being a continent-spanning parkland, painstakingly constructed over centuries by an aristocracy that made a fetish of such places, along with hunting, warfare, and murder by consent—had so well rec
overed his friend was excellent news, although Caneris, noting the stack of split wood on the covered porch, the axe at one end, saw the exile was even more thoroughgoing than he’d been led to expect.

  Tied to this land like the merest serf, the binding monitored and enforced by an array of orbital sensors, the former admiral’s life appeared rustic in the extreme. The ban on most communications was the law, of course—Caneris had sent his message twice, once by approved channels through the Ministry and another by means known only to certain of his intimates, for even so exalted a man as Lord OverHallin had needed to go to great lengths to arrange this visit—but judging by the axe, the Ministry had forbidden even the most rudimentary forms of automation as well. This impression was confirmed as Caneris followed Adenauer around the side of the dwelling, to confront another shaggy ruminant, standing in a snake-rail enclosure.

  “That is the cow,” Adenauer announced.

  “Quite so.” Caneris exchanged looks with the placid animal as Adenauer halted beside him.

  “You would not credit, Joaquin, how much milk a single cow can produce. At the moment, she happens to be dry, but until we learned to make butter and then cheese, there was a sad deal of waste. Now we are wiser about how often she entertains the bull, and life is more comfortable for all of us.”

  “You have a bull, as well?”

  “Oh no. We have an arrangement with a steading up the valley.”

  “This is your only cow, then?”

  “Yes.” Adenauer turned from his consideration of the animal. “Why do you ask?”

  “I encountered some half dozen upon arriving. I thought perhaps you had taken up husbandry.”

  “No.” Directing a glare to the southwest, Adenauer shook his head. “It is Phillapaes. He will let his animals out to despoil our acreage. I shall have to take more active measures. I’ve spoken to him before, but it does little good.”

  “Conmor Phillapaes?” Caneris knew the man slightly—a deputy undersecretary for agriculture.

  “A nephew-in-law. An idle, useless fellow, always prating about his law-uncle.” From the tone, Caneris gauged that Adenauer had lost little of his admiral’s steel. “If they are still about this evening, the extra protein shall be welcome.”

  “The Ministry will not involve itself?”

  “Oh, he will complain, to be sure—has done so before. They docked us a month’s rations. It doesn’t matter much. We use them mostly for barter, in any case.” Dismissing Phillapaes’ nephew with a last meaningful look, he gestured behind him. “Come. Look at my cabbages. I’m quite proud of them.”

  “There”—pointing to row upon row of dark green heads nestled in the dark, turned earth half a minute later. “It is remarkable, Joaquin, what an old man with a hoe can accomplish, given time.” Caneris allowed that he found it remarkable: he would remark on it to people. “The beans are over here, by the onions. The melons are not ready yet, and we have harvested the first crop of peppers. They pickle nicely—you must take some.” Then he waved to a barren patch down the mild slope. “That was to be rye and barley, but I haven’t managed the irrigation as yet. I’ll see to it in due course. Next season I mean to plant a few fruit trees, there behind the house. Apple or pears, maybe. Amelia has her heart set on a cherry tree, but I’m not confident of its doing well here. Yet I hate to disappoint her.”

  “And that is a greenhouse?” Caneris indicated the small shed at the back of the dwelling, next to where the hoped-for apple, pear, or cherry trees were to go. “For more equatorial fruits, perhaps?”

  “Herbs.” At the look of puzzlement, Adenauer smiled with quiet satisfaction. “We are so dependent on our technology, Joaquin—nanocytes for everything, when a little crimson mirrowtip or champflower tea will do wonders. It gives one perspective. Amelia has become quite proficient. We sent for several references, first thing. The Ministry approved them out of hand, I assume thinking they couldn’t possibly be any use.”

  “I confess I’m amazed.” Caneris regarded the tall, changed man carefully. “Then I take it you don’t find this life entirely disagreeable?”

  “Oh, it has its vexations”—frowning off to the south again. “But in sober earnest, I can’t say I do. True, at midwinter you may find me less sanguine, but all in all, we do well enough.” Adenauer’s frown faded as he looked back his friend. “Forgive me if I suggest you must have some reason for asking.”

  “I do have reason.” Caneris couched the words in a careful tone. As Adenauer waited expectantly, he went on. “Perhaps you have not heard, but Jerome is in a fair way to resurrection.”

  Jerome Paul Augustus, the former proconsul, had been a vigorous proponent of the war with the League. After Wogan’s Reef, he had resigned his office, leaving his fellow proconsul (Halith traditionally had a pair of men in this highest of offices) to govern with the opposition. Jerome had gambled that his opponents would bungle the aftermath, and he’d been right. The new government promptly plunged into a scheme to renew the war through a devastating sneak attack that depended on a secret treaty with the Maxor, only to have it blow up in a most spectacular manner. The important outpost of Asylum Station had been lost, the chief of Halith military intelligence had been killed, and the Dominion had been forced to accept a peace treaty with new and more humiliating terms attached.

  Despite the fact that no one knew exactly how the plan had been compromised, or how Admiral Heydrich, the late chief of military intelligence (whose reputation for ruthless competence was eclipsed only by the fear he’d inspired), had come to so mismanage the affair, Jerome and his allies had promptly pounced on this show of “gross ineptitude” and the new government’s position was becoming more precarious by the day.

  “I have heard.” Adenauer spoke in a slow considered voice. “As much as they try to keep us in the dark, word still goes round.”

  “Then may I say that other resurrections are becoming possible, and your talents will, I think, be sorely needed.”

  “War,” Adenauer said after a pause. “Yes. War again.” He stood for a moment with his knuckles pressed down upon his hip points. “I’m sensible of the compliment, Joaquin, but my perspective has shifted in other ways.” He moved a long, lean-muscled arm in a broad gesture. “You see how we live here. We rely on our own crops instead of the rations the Ministry drone drops once a month, unless it’s late, which it often is. I managed to obtain a small power supply, but beyond the well pump, we hardly use it. Wood serves for heat and cooking. The oven is my own design, by the way; you will have an example of its powers shortly, when Amelia’s pies are out. Aside from Phillapaes, the people here are a quite decent set. The nearest are a good distance away—I do not mind the walk. We get small items from them, foodstuffs we can’t grow ourselves and medicines should the need arise, and use of the bull, obviously.

  “But there’s Phillapaes’ nephew”—condemning the miscreant with a lift of the strong lantern jaw. “Not a big estate by any means, and not heavily manned compared to some, but he keeps five thousand guest laborers, at very least. Five thousand people toiling with shovels and mattocks, to accomplish what is a few hours work for machinery, all so he can pretend to be rich.”

  Caneris was well aware of the trend to use slave labor—what the Halith termed “guest labor”—in place of automation. Whether it was planting a thousand hectares of land or hand-sewing extravagant clothes (even looming the very cloth), the use of manual labor for every possible task was the preferred way to flaunt one’s wealth and position. The richest landholders had been doing so for decades, but in recent years, the habit had spread to small-holders. This had not only vastly increased the demand for slaves, but public indebtedness as well, as most families had to borrow heavily to maintain the lifestyle. With the economic hardship caused by the defeat, exacerbated by the terms of peace treaty, this debt had become a major issue. Combined with the supply of fresh slaves being curtailed by the Bannerman’s defection and the loss of the Outworlds, there had resulted what was being ca
lled a “labor crisis”. This “crisis” and the increasingly strident cries for debt relief from overburdened members of the taxpaying class were the prime movers behind the groundswell for renewing the war.

  “Now he doesn’t turn over his stock every year,” Adenauer continued, his iron gaze still fixed in the direction of the invisible estate. “Selling them off to the colonies, or worse, as some do.” Selecting only the comeliest slaves and recycling them annually was another pernicious habit of the loftiest families, and yet another distortion of the market. Halith aristocrats did not breed their stock; that was left to the colonies. Investing ten or even twelve years of feed, space and (above all) time did not suit their notions of economy. Only in the colonies did child-sized labor have practical value.

  “He can’t afford it”—spoken in gruff conclusion. “Quite out of his reach these days—but you know he longs to.”

  In the pause that followed, Adenauer dropped his head and nodded to Caneris. “When you cut your own fuel, wield your own pick and must live by the profit of it, these things take on a different character. I comprehend your feelings, Joaquin, and there is much truth in the view that when your house is on fire, it is no time to worry about drawing water from a poisoned well.” Another pause. “But I do believe the well is poisoned. And I will risk the fire at this point.”

  The two men had known each other for more than fifty years; they knew each other’s mind as well as two men could, and Caneris recognized the note of finality. To argue, to demur—even when there were cogent counterarguments to be made—would be worse than pointless.

  Instead, he merely asked, “Amelia shares your opinions, I make no doubt?”

  “Rather more so. She has become quite a staunch abolitionist—becomes moderately outrageous on the topic at times.” A voice from the house interrupted him, and Caneris saw his friend’s weathered face light with unalloyed pleasure. “Ah, that is our summons. Amelia will have her pies eaten hot, or I’m afraid outrageous won’t begin to express it. After you, please.”