Although habitual, the caution was not idle, even here in Crystal City. Min’s long, colorful career had stripped her of the luxury of being lax or inattentive. Between the wars, she’d left the CEF and signed on with Quinn’s very organization, risen rapidly to executive officer, and become the right hand of General Alexis Corhaine, commanding officer and CEO of the Tanith Rangers. It was the partnership of Min and Corhaine in those bygone days that did much to establish Corhaine’s Black Hats (as they became known, ostensibly from their black berets) as a premier black-ops outfit.
Even today, the Black Hats retained the liveliest recollection of Min—her legend had grown over the years, bourne aloft by a string of accomplishments, of which her heroics at Wogan’s Reef were but the latest and (so far) the most impressive—and this, together with the mystery and intrigue surrounding the true nature of her relationship with Corhaine, doubtless did over half the work of bringing her and Quinn together in the first place. The rest—Min’s appreciation of analog music and exceptional women (especially when the later were short; Min herself was what she preferred to call six-three and strong, petite women enthralled her), along with a pressing question relating to the failed operation at Anandale—were just the thrust that got this particular ball accelerating.
But as far as the world-at-large knew, Min was enjoying a casual affair with a local celebrity singer who performed under the name Silk, her trio being Raw, Silk, and Jazz. Silk—that is, Quinn—was a triplet singer: a person with an induced genetic mutation that allowed them to sing with three sets of vocal chords independently. Trips were extremely popular, and Quinn, in addition to her musical talents, possessed both looks and charisma to a remarkably eminent degree.
But if anyone beyond her kith and kin within the black-ops world discovered that Silk, the triplet singer, was also Lieutenant Quinn, the deep-cover operative for a mercenary outfit, life would get very interesting in all the wrong sort of ways. For Quinn’s musical career and her role as a key member of the Tanith Rangers’ core intelligence unit were one in the same. Her rare ability afforded Quinn both wide access and excellent camouflage for her intelligence gathering activities. Those activities covered a lot of ground, much of it unpleasant in that same bone-chilling fashion that a frowning surgeon would tell you a medical procedure hurts.
Shortly after they met (and while Min was distinguishing herself at Wogan’s Reef), Quinn was active in the Cathcar Raid. What exactly Quinn had done there, Min had never asked—she didn’t need to. There was really only one way a young woman of Quinn’s appearance and gifts could infiltrate a slaver magnate’s personal household, access his secure networks, and free 80,000 people.
Objectively, it was worth the price that was barely hinted at by the constrained smiles, the occasional short answers, and the counterfeit vivaciousness that lay like a mask over a personality born to shine. Min was sincerely happy for those 80,000. But she didn’t feel about any of them as she’d come to feel about Quinn during those first couple of months after Quinn came back. Or as she was beginning to feel now that those shadows were gone—not effaced, but taken in, shifting the key of the music, leaving their mark on the edges of Quinn’s smile.
Marines and mercs share a saying: “On every op, you die. Sometimes you get over it. Sometimes not. Either way, you don’t come back in the same shape.” Quinn wasn’t the same—and neither was she—and what they’d started in easygoing and carefree curiosity had matured into something more; something neither of them had sought; something this revived conflict now cast into a much harsher and more poignant light. Most especially so, in view of the orders Min had picked up as she arrived.
With all showing clear on the bots, the apartment door opened and Quinn stepped inside, smiling through layers of stage makeup.
Min answered a welcoming smile with her own. “You look fabulous.” Min’s idea of makeup stopped at war paint, just as her idea of fashion didn’t extend much beyond the working buffs she was wearing: a version of the marine’s undress “Buff and Blue” uniform without the jacket or tie—and in this case without the shirt too, for Min was wearing a tank top.
“I know. Gimme a minute to fix that.” Quinn crossed to a nightstand, activated the mirror and pulled a fistful of cloths out of the top drawer. A minute’s industrious scrubbing later, she turned to Min with her smile unfettered.
“Now that’s absolutely fabulous.”
With a laugh, Quinn allowed the much taller woman—Min topped her by a foot—to pick her up and plant a kiss on her full, fresh lips. Set back on her feet, she teased the hem of Min’s tank top.
“Did you get your orders yet?”
Min obediently raised her arms. This was part of their ritual when they met again after more than a few days, and they both agreed that ritual was important. “Yep. More blockade duty.”
“Ouch. Sorry to hear.” Quinn, stretching up almost as far as she could, peeled the tank top off over Min’s head. As Min’s heavy breasts celebrated their liberation with a bounce, Quinn leaned in and kissed each broad pale nipple—they were just at the right height—before adding, “That’s some real twisted rassclat.”
That brought out a deep chuckle from Min. The phrase was favorite from Jessamae—Jazz in the trio’s name—their steel drummer. She was married to Ravi, a wizard on the sitar, who went by Raw.
“How about you?” She tapped Quinn’s hip. Quinn put her right foot on the nightstand’s bench. Min removed the high-heeled lox boot and signaled for the other one. Both boots gone, she unsealed Quinn’s tight, fitted, and expensive pants—cream Antiguan maral leather—and shucked them carefully down the small woman’s legs. Stepping out of them adroitly, Quinn took a moment to hang the pants in the autovalet before turning back to Min.
“New offer on the horizon”—addressing herself to removing Min’s loose-fitted tan jeans. “Maybe long-term. Not sure about it, though.”
“Not sure about the offer?”—sure fingers undoing the gilt buttons of the matching ivory silk tunic Quinn wore and pushing it off her shoulders. As the silk hit the floor, they simultaneously shed their last article of clothing with a smooth, mutual motion, and sat together on the bed.
Quinn shook out her hair, combing it with slim fingers. “No. Me.”
“You thinking of going straight? Just doing the music?”
“It’s feeling like that”—reaching for Min’s hand and squeezing it. “There are some good opportunities out there right now. I know some people. The General offered to stake me.”
“Sounds sweet. Contract or independent?”
“Not sure. What’dya think?”
Min put an arm around Quinn’s small waist and tugged her closer. “If I was gonna sell my soul to the devil, I’d wanna write my own ticket and keep the proceeds at home.”
“I thought of that. It’s touchier, obviously”—easing in against the curve of Min’s side.
“Genius don’t need no proppin’ up—genius.” Min gave one small, pert strawberry-tinted nipple a pinch for emphasis.
Quinn laughed and swatted at Min’s hand. “Shameless flatterer!”
“I’ve got shame. Really. It’s back in storage somewhere.”
Shaking her head with a broad smirk, Quinn pushed Min back against the pillows.
“You gonna go for it?” Min asked as she let Quinn arrange her legs to her satisfaction.
“Might.” Quinn dropped down and shouldered in between them.
Min stroked the bright gold hair, smoothing it back with fond, expectant hands so she could watch Quinn’s face, unobstructed. “Well, when you get it all wired, send me the shirt. I wanna be the girl in the front row.”
Opal-green eyes bright, the tip of her agile pink tongue gliding across her full, promising lips, Quinn closed in on her objective.
“Deal.”
~ ~ ~
1 Day Earlier
Northern California Territory;
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol
“Did you have a nice
ride?” Antoine called across the paddock as Mariwen slid off the back of Brandee—a short slide, for Mariwen was tall and Brandee was not: just thirteen and a half hands, barely larger than a pony.
“We did. Thank you.” Mariwen, dressed in laced half boots, breeches and a light jacket, had been riding with just a fleece saddle pad, and this she pulled off and put over the top rail of the paddock fence. “Is mom still up at the house with Josephine?”
“Mom is. Jo went into town. Shopping.”
That earned a mild frown. “She should not exert herself at this point.” Josephine was Antoine’s wife, heavily pregnant with their second child. In fact, she was due any day now.
“You try to tell her that.”
“Maybe I will.” Mariwen extracted a cloth from a satchel waiting on a nearby post and began to rub Brandee down, murmuring endearments in an attentive, pointed ear all the while. It was astounding to see his sister like this, lavishing such affection on the small, sweet-tempered, and strikingly intelligent filly, who appeared to return every iota with her huge luminous brown eyes and soft whickers. It had been almost six months now since they got her from Marc Huron’s breeder, on his suggestion it might help.
It had helped—beyond all expectation. Within two months, they’d been able to reduce the onsite staff to just three, within another month to one, and for the past sixty days, they’d transitioned to merely having staff on-call. Dr. King had confessed himself amazed: had never seen a better example of what equine therapy could do—would certainly pay it the utmost attention in the future.
“What did she go into town for?” Mariwen asked, taking out a brush and applying it to Brandee’s long black mane.
“A couple of last minute things. Mom’s whipping you up a mango lassi and some cupcakes.”
“Mango lassi and cupcakes?” She smiled, and if it wasn’t her old smile, it was the heartrending echo of it. Antoine thought he’d get used to that in time. But not yet.
“Yes. She says it’s past time you started making these critical decisions. You are aware that no power of Heaven or Earth will keep her from making you one or the other from here to eternity.”
“I suppose not.” Brandee, who’d been beyond patient with all the rubbing and grooming, began to snuffle Mariwen’s clothing, seeking the treat that was her just due for being a good horse. She was, unquestionably, always a good horse. And absolutely not spoiled. No—not in the slightest.
Antoine tossed Mariwen the apple he’d been holding.
Mariwen caught it and held out it to Brandee, who lipped it up with a snort and thump in the ribs, to remind her person (oh so delicately) of what really mattered.
“Um—Chris? Would you do me a favor?”
Antoine straightened at the shift in tone. “What do you need?”
“You to stop worrying.”
“About?”
Mariwen glanced up from rubbing Brandee’s cheek as she crunched the apple, the big brown eyes with their absurdly long black lashes half closed in equine bliss.
“Me . . . and Kris.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m—”
“No. I mean it.” Her eyes dropped as she stroked Brandee’s sleek neck. “I’m okay. It just wasn’t meant to . . .” be.
She let that syllable fade away, unvoiced. As the world had refocused around her during these past months, taking on life and form and texture, with past and present and future aligned as they were meant to be . . . meant to be—not meant to be . . . three—three and half—years now . . .
Three and half years: an eternity she could just see across; figures there, most dim, some shining bright enough to scorch her mind’s eye . . . and more than that. They tried hard to ensure she remained ignorant of things they thought (with the best will in the world) would disturb her, but no cocoon was perfect and the best will in the world could not make Rafe invisible, nor hide his relationship with Kris.
How she felt about this development, something like contentment but more involved, she kept wholly private. From the moment she’d first seen Kris and Rafe together on the Arizona, she’d felt, with innate bone certainty, that Rafe had met his match; that no matter how hard they resisted, they were meant for each other. It gave her a deep, grave happiness to learn that they’d yielded to the inexorable logic of two hearts—not easily nor sweetly for that was not their nature, but right, wholly right—and if her happiness was also brim-full of a type of sorrow, that was all right too: a necessary contradiction. Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point . . .
“Things don’t always work out. Do they?”
“Not always.”
“It’ll be fine. Really.”
He sighed. “Is that a promise?”
“If you stop worrying.”
“Then I’ll stop worrying.”
“Alright.” She turned her head away. “Then I promise.”
~ ~ ~
Day 364, Yr. ‘42
Oscoda, Michigan
Great Lakes Province, Terra, Sol
“Sorry,” Kris said when she finally finished. “I know that’s not whatcha wanted to hear.”
Rafe open his mouth slightly and she knew with an iron certainty what he was going to say—what he always said: This isn’t about what I want. And she waited for him to say it, trying to hold down her temper because she hated it so fuckin’ much, cuz it was about what he wanted—and about a million other fuckin’ things she had no words for . . .
And then he closed his lips. “That’s true,” he said after a moment.
She looked at him then, tears spilling unheeded down cold cheeks. “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“It’s . . . not you.” The tears ran free but her voice was strangely calm. “It’s me.”
He said nothing.
“Where I grew up, we got parsons. You got parsons here?”
“Yes, but maybe not like you mean.” Kris almost never mentioned her childhood. This was perhaps the third instance he could recall.
“Y’know what a parson’s widow is, then?”
“Sounds . . . pessimistic.”
“Yeah.” A catch in her breathing—a stillborn laugh. “Parsons can divorce. It ain’t easy, but they can. Their wives can’t. And when one dies, his wife can’t remarry—not ever. And when she dies, they—take her away, y’see? Outside.” Pausing, she wiped tears off her lips. “Fucked up, isn’t it?”
“I’d say as much.”
“That’s what it means. Not just that ya gotta behave—be the parson’s wife. It’s that you’re outside. Forever. Y’never belong.”
That strange, almost disembodied voice; her eyes looking everywhere but his. “I understand.”
“Molokai was . . . not like that. It was—” She cut the words hard and suddenly he did understand. There were no limits—no bounds—that night beneath the ocean’s surface with the moon above. Just them. And in that perfect horizonless moment, she felt she could belong. And he understood then, her hunger for deep space—not just freedom in the common sense, but because if there were no bounds, no one could put you outside them.
But it was all illusion: there were always bounds. Because if they don’t exist, we create them.
And on learning that, Molokai became the thing she wanted that she couldn’t have.
“Kris—” “Rafe—” “No—” “You—”
They both stopped, breathing unevenly. “You go first,” he said.
“Look, Rafe. You remember when I told ya there’s a lotta shit I’m no good at?”
“Yes.” That was the first time she’d kissed him.
“And there’s a lot more I never got a chance to learn?”
“I remember.”
“It’s still true. It’s not your fault. Keep that in mind, would’ja? Please?”
“I’ll do my best.” There was so little moisture in his mouth his voice sounded brittle. “What can I do for you, Kris?”
“I want . . .”
He already knew what sh
e wanted—had wanted—still wanted. “You want back in.”
“Yeah.” She pronounced it like a death sentence.
He nodded slowly, thinking it might just be that.
“Okay”—scrubbing a hand across his face. “I think that can be arranged. I know Lo Gai has billets open.”
She met his eyes briefly, shivered and looked away. “I thought you’d argue.”
“You want me to?”
“Yes—no. I dunno.”
“Kris, look.” She did. “This isn’t something I can help you find. I thought, maybe—once . . . But . . . maybe someday . . . maybe someone else. Or maybe you just need to do this on your own.”
“Yeah.” A small defeated whisper.
“So . . . Are you gonna stay long enough for breakfast?”
Looking out the window, her head moved in a slight affirmative motion. “Yeah . . . For breakfast.”
“I’ll get it started then.”
He got up and, with her attention still fixed outside, she missed him pausing to retrieve his xel and hover over it a moment. Then she heard the bedroom door open and close, and turned.
On the nightstand, his xel emitted a soft glow. She walked over and checked the display: there was a message open, addressed to her—with an email address, a map reference, and a secure access code. Just below pulsed two icons: CANCEL and SEND.
Mariwen.
Her finger hovered, hesitated . . . tapped.
SEND SECURE MESSAGE?
[YES] [NO]
The sun was up now, filling the room with hard winter light. Daybreak had surrendered to day. A tiny sparrow landed on the balcony, its feathers fluffed against the cold. It hopped about, pecking disconsolately at the snow. Disappointed in its search, it fixed Kris with small black accusing eyes, and then flew off in a flurry of wings. Her finger tapped.
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 14