Silence. That suddenly immobile face.
“Baz . . .” The warning tone was clear in her voice. “You didn’t break it off with her, did you?”
“Ah fuck, Kris”—she’d never heard him use that word before—“Husband-in-a-box? I can’t put her through that. Not after her sister.”
“What does she say?”—her rising temper heating the words.
“That’s not the point. She didn’t sign up for this shit. She needs—”
“You. Get your head outta your ass, Baz.”
“Kris, you don’t get how little of me there is left!”
“I dunno. You sound like the same old dumbass.” Kris stood up and started typing on the room’s console.
“What are ya doin’?”
Kris squinted at the screens scrolling past. “Reading your messages.”
“For gawd’s sake, Kris—”
“Line of duty.”
There were several messages from Kenzie, and neither the tone nor the content wavered. She fully understood what had happened and what it meant—after taking care of a sister with Ballard’s for ten years, she could hardly fail to. There were no illusions here, no false hopes. In other words, exactly what Kris expected. She turned back to the bed, a take-no-prisoners look in her eyes.
“Baz, listen to me.”
“What?”
“You will go home. You will get married. That’s an order. If you cross me on this, I’ll make what those tin cans did to you feel like a goodnight kiss from your mother. Is that clear?”
* * *
If Kris had left Baz a little shell-shocked, it was nothing compared to what he was about to receive. Kris knew that the moment she opened the doors to the ward and saw the short woman standing at the attendant’s station.
Standing was all too passive a verb, and Kris also knew she’d interrupted things right when the attendant’s life was about to become unenviable. Not that Kris thought she was in danger of any physical violence, but the way the short woman was leaning forward—the set of her mouth and the blaze in her eyes—the attendant might have preferred that option.
“Hi, Kenzie,” Kris said as both women’s eyes turned to her, their expressions showing mingled surprised and relief. “You’re here to see, Baz?”
“Yes.” They both spoke at once, with a striking contrast in tone. “She’s telling me,” Kenzie began as the attendant butted in with, “I was explaining—”
The double-barreled glare from Kris and Kenzie together shocked her to silence. Kris hadn’t expected quite this degree of fire from Kenzie, and her regard for Baz’s fiancé went up a notch.
“Come on back.” Still holding the doors open, Kris motioned behind her. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
“But ma’am . . .” the attendant began again, swallowing to marshal her courage. “We can’t—”
“Log it under my visit.” Kris moved aside to allow Kenzie to edge through. The doors shut and Kenzie let go a breath that would have scorched several layers of skin off the unfortunate attendant. Then she blinked and smiled.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m sorry for my temper. I’m not usually like this.”
“Too bad”—returning the smile. “You look good this way.”
That caused a slight twitch in the corners of Kenzie’s smile. “I really do appreciate it.” Her gaze skipped past Kris’s shoulder, down the hallway. “How is he?”
“He might be stinging a bit.”
A furrow appeared between Kenzie’s eyebrows. “Stinging?”
“Yeah. He told me about the message he sent you—wanting to break things off. I’m afraid I kinda ripped him a new one over that.”
“Good!”—a fierce clench of those adorable lips. “How the bloody hell can he think he gets to decide this for me?”
“With all due respect to Baz, he is operating with his head up his ass. I gather you just heard?”
Nodding, Kenzie bit her lips against a sound that was half laugh and half sob. “We left as soon as the first notice came through. We couldn’t travel together, unfortunately—”
“You and his folks?”
“Yes—they should be here within the next half-day—so I wasn’t able to receive messages until we arrived in-system. About eighteen hours ago. And to read that . . .”
“You oughta be good now.” Kris took off the pathfinder and handed it over. “Go set him straight. If you need ’em”—she pointed the way—“I bet you’ll find forceps at the nurses’ station. But I don’t think you’re gonna need ’em.”
Covering a laugh, Kenzie gave Kris a quick impulsive hug. “Thank you, Lieutenant! I really don’t know how to repay you for this.”
Kris disengaged gently. “Well, for starters, how about not calling me Lieutenant all the time?”
“Oh, certainly . . . Kris.” With a blush.
“Great. See you after the wedding.”
The smooth brow puckered again. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“That’s between you, Baz, and the rolling dice.”
“Then you’ll be there.” Kenzie’s tone brooked no contradiction.
“Okay. I’ll be there.” Kris squeezed her hand. “Best of fortune, Kenzie.”
“And you, Kris.”
They parted, Kenzie towards Baz’s unit with a quick determined step, and Kris through the double doors. She ignored the attendant’s gimlet stare as she crossed the lobby, and once outside the hospital, checked the time. Her meeting with Hatton was in less than ninety minutes. Getting downside to his office at Eltanin Sector Headquarters would take just over a hundred minutes.
Probably not the best way to make a good first impression.
Well, fuck it. Making a good first impression wasn’t on top of her priority list, anyway.
~ ~ ~
Day 161
ELSEC HQ, Tremontaine
Vesta, Eltanin Sector
Captain Kenneth Hatton took his booted feet off his desk as he leaned forward to flip the after-action report shut. The embedded holograms floating above sparkled out of existence as he leaned back, tapping his middle finger on his chair arm.
“What am I going to do with you, Lieutenant?”
He looked across his desk at the tall woman on the other side, valiantly trying to stand at a species of attention. The black SRF uniform jacket draped loosely over the wide shoulders didn’t help, but since her left arm was bound across the front of her stand-collared white tunic with gleaming surgical tractors, that could be excused. Mostly, it was the hair that annoyed him. Rather ineffectively clipped back, enough dark reddish-brown strands had escaped to soften the fine strong angles of the proud face and partially mask the thin line of the old scar high on one cheekbone. It would, he supposed, pass for regulation given the state of her arm, but he didn’t like it. It was distracting, especially in combination with her damnable hazel eyes, and Hatton despised distractions.
“You go through wingmen like some people go through socks.”
Kris stiffened and her hazel eyes began to shift ominously to yellow. No one who knew her for any length of time failed to learn what that yellow-eyed look meant—and some of them lived to regret it. The full-lipped mouth, looking a bit out of place against the firm line of her jaw, unclamped. Stress made her alto voice piercing.
“I didn’t order Baz back in, sir. I had his withdrawal covered. He could have made it out.”
“Without you.” Hatton’s mouth crimped down on one side. “You gave him a hard choice, Kennakris. You might have known he’d come back.”
Looking down at him, Kris’s nostrils dilated with the force of her breathing. What did Hatton want to hear that she hadn’t already reported at the debrief two weeks ago, when she was released from the hospital? He hadn’t been present, but so what? He had all the reports.
“I had to give him the best chance I could, sir. At seventy-percent max, there was no other way.”
“Well,” Hatton said grudgingly, correctly interpreted Kris’s look. “I
t would appear you were able to convince the Board of that, as they have officially agreed.”
“Thank you, sir. I did my best.”
No hint of a smile accompanied the remark, although he searched for one. Hatton resumed tapping his finger.
“Look, Lieutenant. My problem isn’t with your results—we’re all grateful for that. My problem is we’re running out people to fly with you.” He reached out to pat the bronze box, as yet unmarked and unclaimed, that he perversely kept on his desk. “Your ratio of live pilots to dead heroes is not enviable. Folks like to have their name mentioned in dispatches, not on one of these.” His fingers lingered a moment on the polished metal before letting go. “I might go so far as to suggest a change of tactics is in order here.”
“My squadron has always posted excellent tonnage records, sir.”
Hatton dragged his dark hands down his face, rubbing his cat-gold eyes, the genetic heritage of his home planet, Messier.
“That’s the point, Lieutenant. SRF squadrons aren’t supposed to amass tonnage records—especially not recon units. And I don’t suppose I need to point out that your squadron also leads the League in posthumous decorations. If you wanted to behave like a roving cruiser division, you joined the wrong service. Maybe you should’ve hit up the Grand Senate up for a letter of marque.”
“That’s not funny, sir.”
“No, I suppose not.” Hatton noticed the frozen calm of the pale strained face, the muted anguish in the lambent eyes. He decided to change the subject. “Then there’s this little matter of the drones—”
“Those ships were stealthed, sir. After what they did to us, one of ’em deserved to waddle home with a drone up its ass.”
“Lieutenant, those hyperdrones go for about five million each. We put them on recon craft as a reusable resource for surveillance—not as antiship weapons.”
“Worked real good, sir.” Now he did detect a hint of a smile—a smirk, actually. “Did the commodore catch ’em, sir? I never heard.” Commodore Shariati, Vice Admiral Sabr’s spouse, had been in command of the forward-deployed squadron, there to handle anything Kris’s flight ran across.
“Yes. She blew them into a nice shiny cloud of ions, too. We’d rather she had brought one home. Sometimes I wonder if you two are related.”
“I’d claim her, sir.”
“No doubt. I often think she forgets she’s not a privateer anymore. I think she enjoys forgetting it.” Kris’s hint of a smile became a glimmer. “Anyway . . .” Hatton picked up his xel and began jotting notes on it with a stylus. “I still have this other problem of what to do with you. Any suggestions?” His tone was faintly sarcastic and Kris’s eyes became hooded.
She shook her head, stirring those loose strands of hair. “No, sir.”
“Well, I have one.” He pointed his stylus at her immobilized arm. “Are the medicos ready to let go of that yet?”
The broad shoulders shrugged unevenly. “Almost sir. The bone’s regrowing nicely. Dr. Einhorn says they can pull the matrix sometime next week. The nerves . . .“ Kris hesitated. “The nerves might take a little longer.”
“Yeah.” Hatton tapped his xel. “Says here you don’t regrow certain body parts so good.”
That uneven shrug again. “Touch and go, sir. A synthnet would be alright.”
“Uh huh.” Hatton had heard about synthetic nerve nets, and alright wasn’t what he’d heard—especially about the tuning process. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure we’ve ever requalified a pilot with synthetic nerves, Lieutenant.”
Her pale skin went a shade paler. “It won’t be a problem, sir.”
“Uh huh.” He made another note. “Can you travel?”
“Yessir.”
“Good.” He furled the xel. “How familiar are you with the Ionian situation?”
“Has Iona declared war, sir?” she asked, some of the brightness back in her voice.
Hatton frowned. “Not as far as I know.”
“Then, only vaguely. Sir.”
“Good enough.” Hatton produced a flimsy from the recesses of his desk and held it out, looking at it ostentatiously at arm’s length. “I have a request here—it came in the last packet—to furnish an officer to accompany the Honorable Mr. Vilnus Loews to Iona. Diplomatic mission.”
He put down the sheet and slid it towards her. “What they hope to accomplish escapes me. A person of some seniority, but not too senior, is specified. Discreet and able to maintain a low profile. Do you know anyone meeting those requirements, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.” Her voice was now utterly flat.
“Nor do I. At least not at hand. But you’re going to be beached for a couple of months with that arm in any case, so I thought I might suggest you.”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure that’s such a great idea, sir. Discretion and all . . .”
“You might consider it a learning experience, Lieutenant.” There was no hint of joviality in Hatton’s face.
“I could read a manual, sir.”
He chose not to dignify the suggestion with a response. “The position is billeted for a lieutenant commander, but the Admiral agrees that should present no particular problem in your case. He’s prepared to give you a brevet promotion. If all goes well, it might be referred to the Admiralty with a request to make it permanent. Obviously, nothing is guaranteed.”
Kris felt the walls closing in about her. “I understand, sir.”
“Then you’ll accept?”
She let go a breath, held against the black inevitability of it all, and formed a question to stave off her reply a moment longer. “What is this discreet officer required to do, sir?”
Hatton reached out for the flimsy she had not touched and turned it to face him. “Appreciate the situation, it says here. And”—he squinted at the tiny letters—“convey that appreciation to the Right-Honorable Mr. Loews when and as he shall require, unquote. I’m sure the Right-Honorable will be happy to clarify that at any time you wish.”
“Yessir.” Kris had clarified it already: look decorative, keep your mouth shut, maybe fetch the Right-Honorable’s coffee. Ceremoniously opening doors would probably be involved too. “When is this all supposed to take place, sir?”
“Imminently. Loews and his party are coming out in Leander—due into Miletus in three days. They depart for Iona the day cycle after that. There’s a fast packet just arrived—cleared into orbit an hour ago. It goes back tomorrow at 0930 local. That should get you there in plenty of time.”
“Yessir.” Her reply was purely mechanical.
He saw the look in her eyes and smiled. He wanted it to look sympathetic but it didn’t come out that way—Hatton was a bad actor. “It’s not the end the world, Kennakris . Light duty, good food, a reasonable chance of promotion. Broaden your horizons. Anyway, you’ve earned a rest.”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I’ll draw papers this PM. And don’t worry. By the time you can fly again, I’m sure we’ll have something for you. The Admiral takes care of his people.”
“Yessir.” Kris stepped back a pace from the desk. “Is that all, sir?” He nodded. She saluted stiffly and turned to go.
“Oh, by the way.” The words caught her off-balance. Half-turned towards the door, she halted. “The Board also confirmed your four kills on this one—not counting the assist on that can.”
She turned back. “Three, sir.”
“Eh?”
“Three kills. One of those belongs to Tanner.”
Hatton consulted a file in his desktop. “That’s not what your log says.”
“It was a hell of a mess, sir,” she replied, stone-faced. “Autotrack can get awfully confused with all that stuff flying around.”
“You’re absolutely sure it was his missile?”
“Yessir. I saw all the way in. Mine crossed up on a decoy.”
“Right.” Hatton managed to keep a straight face, even through the part about seeing—as if any
one could see anything during a deep-space dogfight. He reopened his xel to make another note, then frowned. “You were, of course, unaware that this kill makes Lieutenant Tanner a triple ace.”
Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker as she deadpanned, “Does it, sir?”
He squinted at her through the pale wings of his eyebrows, not raising his head. “Indeed it does. Too bad he isn’t here to spend the bonus money.”
“His family is, sir.”
“His family—yes.” Frank Tanner was from Port Mahan. His family there included his wife, two kids, his parents, and gawd knows how many siblings.
“Well . . .” Hatton scratched his ear. “I see that the Board hears of this. I expect it’ll be enough to go around.”
“Yessir.” There was a faint, sad smile on her lips now and a more discerning man than Ken Hatton would have recognized that it was heavy with unshed tears. Unknowing, he put his xel down and nodded. “That’s all, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
Kris sketched another abrupt salute and exited, her boots hitting the tile hard as she strode down the passage towards the neuro-rehab clinic for her weekly appointment.
* * *
Kris’s teeth almost met through her lower lip as the med-tech turned the neural blocks off. Hastily, he turned them back on and looked up from behind his console. “Bad?”
The feeling, like drops of molten metal running down the nerves of her left arm, started to fade. Kris could barely nod as pain tears made warm wet splotches on the tops of her breasts.
“Sorry,” the tech muttered, shamefaced.
“Uh huh.” She swallowed hard and spat to ease the queasiness in her stomach. “That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”
He frowned as he replayed the traces. “It ain’t good.”
“Another write-off?”
He sighed. “Yeah—probably.”
“So what happens now?”
He shut down his equipment and stepped out from behind the console. “Well, nothing at the moment. We can’t do anything until the new axons atrophy.” He began removing the electrodes from her arm and torso with absurdly exaggerated gentleness.
“How long will that take?”
“A couple of weeks.” He pulled the last two tabs and began wrapping the wires around his hand.
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 16