Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “A notable discovery, certainly,” said Larson. “But may I represent that perhaps it is just an as yet unfathomed chemistry? That the impulses are say piezoelectric in nature, traversing these organics surely, but no more indicative of true life than say the formation of rutilated silicates?”

  “A good notion,” Leidecker answered, happy to be engaged in cordial debate. “Certainly good notion. We shall have to fathom, as you say, the precise nature of these processes before we can be absolutely certain. But I must say that already these impulses have been much recorded and subjected to rigorous statistical analysis, and there is general feeling among my colleagues that they are not random in nature, but indicative of the application of will.”

  Silence greeted this pronouncement, lasting as long as it took to take a sip or two of the captain’s best Madeira and then Loews, grinning widely, called out, “Doctor, are you not tugging the phalanges, as you might say, just a bit? Are you not asking us to believe that this thing of yours is not only alive, but that it thinks? Whatever would such a thing have to think about?”

  “As to that,” Leidecker replied with a self-satisfied smile, “I should go far afield indeed if I should attempt to expound on the psychology of a rock.”

  * * *

  The laughter of that afternoon—some of it merely polite but much of it sincere and almost the only heard on the entire trip—echoed in Kris’s memory as she pointed out their destination to Vasquez, the brightest star visible on the observation deck’s bulkhead screens, and spooled off what she’d been able to learn from the ship’s library.

  “Cygnus Mariner, Iona’s primary—a hybrid G, a bit off sequence. That point to starboard—no, right—no, closer in—that’s probably Thetis. You can see the disk if you look hard, about three-quarters phase. It’s a gas giant—a damn big gas giant. It’s still accreting hydrogen—space round here is lousy with it—and in twenty million years or so it’ll go nuclear. Then Cygnus Mariner will be a contact binary and the Ionians will have to move on. But I expect they’ll be bored with the neighborhood by then and won’t mind.” This sally of wit passed over Vasquez unnoticed; Kris soldiered on: “Even now, tidal heat keeps Thetis’ moons at water temp or above. It even affects Iona’s climate. They have a season called conjunction; the added radiation plays hell with the upper atmosphere and creates the damnedest storms. Have to be seen to be believed, they say.”

  “I’m quite sure, ma’am,” mumbled Vasquez in a colorless undertone. Her complexion was still splotchy under her tan, and she was looking fixedly in no particular direction, direction having rather unpleasantly lost its meaning in this weightless void.

  Kris slowly brought her rambling to a halt, reflecting silently that she’d probably have better luck if she changed the subject to Ionian tree shrews. But she didn’t, settling instead for, “We should be on station in a couple of hours. I imagine the Right Honorable will want to go aboard in style. Full-dress kit, marines, side-boys, and a regimental band.”

  “Sanctae Maria, let it not be bagpipes.”

  Kris caught the whisper and smiled wide. “What’s wrong with bagpipes? I love bagpipes—everybody on Parson’s Acre loves bagpipes. When I was little I could play them. A bit.” She shoved off the stanchion to propel herself gently towards the hatch. “Probably time to think about getting ready. The captain will be turning the gravity on as soon as the compensator checks are finished.”

  “Dio mi guarde,” Vasquez murmured, and followed Kris a moment later.

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 169

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Kris was right about the full-dress entrance, but wrong about the band. Rear Admiral Rhimer’s flag, LSS Polidor, a Riga-class heavy cruiser captured from the Halith before Third Miranda and refit, lacked the space for such amenities and as it happened Loews insisted upon going aboard navy style, with the gravity off. That would have ruled out the band anyway, but also it meant his people had to struggle into the unfamiliar null-gee suits. Null-gee suits had a built-in attitude control system that kept the wearer properly oriented and from spinning helplessly about, and micro-impellers that provided movement; these were linked by neural transceivers to the motor centers of the wearer’s brain. They required a degree of mental discipline to control however—a wandering thought might send one careening into a bulkhead—and none of Loews’ people (other than Kris and Vasquez) had much experience in null-gee; what traveling they’d done had been in the commercial comfort of a full gee.

  But Kris had her own challenges. The null-gee suit was no bother, but getting her best uniform on and its decorations in order was almost her undoing. She would have done without—entitlement be damned—but Vasquez would have none of that. Kris would be presented in full glory, her ribbons right and square and the Wogan’s Reef medal, symbol of that famous victory, around her neck. Arguing was pointless and Kris was presented to the shuttle bay five minutes early, taut-rigged, her useless arm clipped up Nelson-style, with Vasquez repeating her whispered warning about what would happen if Kris creased her uniform by slouching.

  The shuttle lifted off with its anxious passengers—the civilians unnaturally still for fear of activating their suits; Kris unnaturally straight and Vasquez watching over all, and making the watched-over even more uncomfortable. But in the end, everyone acquitted themselves credibly. Leander’s shuttle glided into Polidor’s hanger deck on a tractor beam and as the hatches opened Loews’ party was piped aboard—not by bagpipes to Vasquez’s very evident relief—with uniforms perfect and only a little flailing and tumbling about.

  Polidor received them in fine style: her captain and the admiral afloat in the center of bay, the executive officer beside them and the admiral’s chief of staff slightly behind, and the rest of the ship’s officers stretching away in wings to either side—all in their best No.1 dress blues, medals shipped and gold braid in abundance. Sideboys in spotless white made a lane from the shuttle hatch to where the officers floated motionless, not merely decorative but ready to secure an unsteady passenger. The squadron’s marines were drawn up on either side of the bay, splendid blocks of burgundy and gold, their officers arrayed in front, complete with ceremonial bayonets, and to the rear was formed the ship’s company, all that could be spared from duty stations, dressed in their finest blue-and-white shore-going rig.

  The Nereid March played over the ship’s address system as the Envoy’s party progressed between the immaculate lines of sideboys, segueing neatly into the opening strains of Farewell Hyperion, the Navy anthem, as the captain glided forward and saluted. He was tall thin man, almost spidery, with a narrow face and alert dark eyes.

  “Welcome aboard, Excellency,” he began in a deep gundeck voice, “I am Captain Narris of Her Ladyship’s Cruiser Polidor. Allow me to present Admiral Tomas Rhimer, his chief of staff, Commander Orietta Sayles, naval and my executive officer, Commander Ruvin Osier. Officers, the Right Honorable Mr. Loews, Special Envoy of the Plenary Council.”

  Salutes were exchanged, hands carefully shaken. Admiral Rhimer made his duty to the Envoy as senior officer on station, uttering the formal welcome and acknowledging the Envoy’s authority in flat and, Kris thought, distracted tone. In contrast to the captain, he was short and rather thick set, with a gray complexion that made him look abnormally old. As he finished the brief speech, Commander Sayles, a small blond woman and remarkably pretty, inclined forward to whisper something the admiral’s ear, a shocking breach of etiquette, and he brushed her off with an impatient gesture. Captain Narris pointedly ignored the gaffe, but Commander Osier, suppressed fury on his dark face, sniped a withering glare at the chief of staff.

  Loews affected to notice nothing, congratulated the officers on the splendid welcome—he used the word several times—and asked, “Please, Captain, may I know your other officers?” The request was a compliment, an expected compliment but by no means obligatory, and Captain Narris would naturally be pleased.

  Th
is began a long, somewhat painful, round of introductions and soon the names were swirling around Kris in a confusing haze: Commander Artur Kyle, head of the admiral’s staff, Commander Karl Haas, the Engineering Officer; Lieutenant Commander Ben Mosler, Staff Intelligence; Senior Lieutenant Amanda Hellsten, the Staff Operations Officer; Senior Lieutenant Mike Antilles, Head of Astrogation; Senior Lieutenant Tom Salsato, Tactical Action Officer; Carl Romer, the Signal Lieutenant; Bess Corbin, the Purser; Dr. Raj Bowlin, the Medical Director; and on and on, down through the senior and junior weapons and sensors officers, the bosun and his chief mate, the quartermasters, and the captains of the magazines, fore, aft, and waist. Pale thin-faced men and women for the most part, with that vaguely attenuated look associated with long exposure to weightlessness, but also the usual compliment of ensigns on their first cruise, still bright eyed and florid.

  When they reached the marines, Narris introduced a very tall, striking-looking woman in a major’s uniform with a heavy encrustation of decorations. The Wogan’s Reef medal on its heavy purple ribbon, twin to Kris’s own, blazed at the center of her breast, along with the League Order of Merit with two wound stripes, and the Senatorial Cross with stars.

  “Major Minerva Lewis, our Commandant of Marines.”

  The major greeted the Envoy in a melodious voice with a distinct colonial accent Kris recognized as being from Lodestone Station. She watched Loews for a reaction but he was too much the diplomat to give anything away. When her turn came, Kris and the major exchanged salutes and brief pleasantries. The major had an open cheerful face, at odds with the martial splendor of her uniform, but Kris was struck by her pale gray eyes, large and cool, and quite penetrating. Major Lewis did not return the scrutiny however: after a polite nod of parting, her attention shifted to Kris’s left and she said, “Hello Corporal, how are you?” with a warm smile.

  Vasquez snapped a parade-ground salute and answered, “Very fine, ma’am.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Healed up nicely, ma’am. Thank you. May I ask about your knee?”

  Major Lewis’s smile inched toward one ear. “Oh, let’s me know when the weather’s changing,” and they moved on.

  At a brief pause in the proceedings, Kris whispered to the corporal, “What was that all about?”

  “All-Forces Championship semifinals last year,” Vasquez answered sotto voce, “Went to seven. Gave me more trouble than Sergeant Major Yu.”

  * * *

  Afterwards there was to be a formal dinner, with all due pomp and circumstance, and Kris wondered how a squadron six months on blockade duty was going to cope. Certainly they would be down to reconstitutables by now, and though Kris was mostly indifferent to the lure of cuisine, she was well aware that the taste and texture of reconstituted rations could not be disguised. And after Leander’s excellent, even luxurious, fare what the Polidor could offer could not help but be a letdown, all the more so because with their stomachs recovering, Loews’ party would be more inclined to miss it.

  But Vasquez brought intelligence from the gunroom that a store ship had been in just last week and the squadron was new stocked with delicacies—fresh fruit, carrots and potatoes (non-hydroponic), eggs, cream, five kinds of live meat, even real coffee. The delight with which she spoke showed that a few hours in normal space had restored her appetite. “I’m invited to dine in the After Gunroom, ma’am. I took the liberty of securing you an invitation.”

  Kris was somewhat taken aback—taken aback and pleased. A gunroom invitation was a rare privilege for a lieutenant commander. Gunrooms were noted for having the best food in the Navy and the most of it. Gunroom officers—chief petty officers, bosuns mates, masters mates, and other noncoms; and the gunroom steward, a senior chief who presided—were allowed to requisition whatever navy stores could provide in almost unlimited quantity, and in the concept of precedence that governed the Navy, the aft-most gunroom ranked highest. In contrast, the rates made do with the carefully regulated diet of the common mess, and the commissioned officers and warrant officers had to purchase their provisions at the established market price, under direction of the executive officer, serving as mess president. In a ship with a penurious exec, the wardroom mess could be a dismal place indeed. Kris had no notion of what kind of mess Commander Osier ran, but she hoped that the Loews’ presence would counteract any tendency towards stinginess.

  “Thank you, Corporal. That’s kind—really, I appreciate it. But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a rain check. I don’t think his Excellency can be put off this PM..”

  “I understand, ma’am. I’m certain there will be no difficulty about the rain check.”

  * * *

  Even with the fresh stores, the grand dinner was pretty much what Kris expected. Narris’ cooks were no better than the usual Navy run and the atmosphere was no improvement over Leander, even the reverse. The morning’s tension between Commander Osier and the admiral’s chief of staff hadn’t diminished and by the time the cloth was drawn and the first of several bottles appeared, Kris had decided it never did. There were also odd currents between the staff and ship’s officers, and between Narris and Rhimer themselves. Tempers wore thin on blockade—the longest, most boring and yet strenuous duty there was—but even allowing for that, the admiral’s was not a happy squadron.

  “Ms. Kennakris,” Commander Osier called down the table to her. “The bottle rests by you.”

  So it did. Osier favored port, which gave Kris headaches. She passed the bottle widdershins, as custom demanded, to Dr. Leidecker, again sitting on Kris’s left. Without Vasquez to talk to about odd fauna, Leidecker’s conversation was a bit constrained. But he made amiable small talk and when Kris’s passed him the bottle, he asked, “Tell me, Commander, what was the meaning of the captain’s saying this morning that this was ‘her ladyship’s cruiser’? A religious observance? I had no notion of religion being so imbedded in the Navy. I’d rather been led to believe the Service was ecumenical. But I do not mean to be impertinent. Please forgive my ignorance.”

  Kris tried to conceal her surprise, not very well, by bringing her napkin to mouth. “Why no, Doctor, it’s not religious, not the way you mean.” Or perhaps it was, she thought—the Navy’s religion, superseding others—but rather than try to express this she said, “You see, the Navy is dedicated to fortune, to Luck. A fair wind from the sun, a warm bed and a soft landing, good hunting and target-rich environment—you must have heard those.” Leidecker nodded. “So we dedicate our ships to good fortune, and as we all know, Luck is also a Lady.”

  Leidecker’s look went from thoughtful to quizzical, the nodding stopped, and his expression became dismayed, then displeased. “I freely admit my ignorance of things naval,” he said in a low voice, “but I am aware that mariners are often pleased to practice upon us planetaries, or as I believe you say, sod suckers. I imagine you are pleased to be jocose.”

  Kris blinked, that being far from her intent. “No, sir. Nothing of the kind. Sure we gig a downsider now and again. But that’s different.”

  Leidecker continued to look hard at her, but eventually nodded and cleared his throat. “Then forgive me, Commander, if I seemed put out. One hears things—it is all too easy to draw improper conclusions.”

  Kris picked up her port, made a show of tasting it. “Not at all, sir. But in the diplomatic corps, I’d have thought you’d seen a lot of the Service.”

  “Oh, I’m no diplomat, “ Leidecker said, reaching for a cream confection that was making the rounds on a gilded tray—probably the only one Polidor possessed. “I’m a physician—and a naturalist. Mr. Loews has been my patient for some years. It was felt I should come along as one familiar with his condition. Not to say anything against the Service’s medical corps—splendid fellows, very fine—but you understand how these things are. In truth, I’ve never set foot on a naval vessel before, although I have traveled some in the xenobiological line.”

  “I see.” Kris was dying to know just what Mr. Loews’
condition might be, but there was no polite way to ask, or for Leidecker to answer. “Then you aren’t taking part in the talks?”

  “Oh dear me, no.” Leidecker took a bite of pastry and dabbed some sugar off his upper lip. “I shall be on hand, however. Waiting around, no doubt piteous bored.” He smiled to show he meant no reflection on the Mission’s importance. “But I hope to be allowed to take a flyer into the central mountains of the southern continent, if only briefly. There are a variety of pseudo-mammalian genera there I hear, quite nondescript. To come so far, to actually set down and not attempt to see them would be . . .” But he thought better of saying what it would be, and continued, “I have a friend who lives there as well, Dr. VelSilinjes—she’s been studying the lithomorphs I mentioned before—a capital woman and neurologist of great note. Oh—”

  Kris arched an eyebrow at him.

  “I am reminded, that’s all. May I make a professional inquiry, Commander, as a physician?”

  A chill broke out along Kris’s good arm, but she nodded in faint assent.

  “Your arm. I take it the therapy does not go well?”

  “Not yet,” Kris said carefully. “I seem to have something against growing the right kind of axons. I’ll be fine with a synthnet, once we get back.”

  “Hmm.” Leidecker paused, fearing another misstep. “I thought there might be perhaps . . . professional complications. With a synthnet, I mean. They are . . .” He shrugged, saw Kris’s look and backtracked. “I hope I haven’t been indiscreet. Your orderly, Corporal Vasquez, consulted me onboard Leander—test results she found peculiar. A medical matter strictly.”

  “I see.” Kris’s voice was cool.

  “I thought at the time,” Leidecker hurried on, “that Dr. VelSilinjes might be the very person to consult regarding your condition. Should have mentioned it sooner—I am remiss. And while I cannot speak for the political situation, but I’m sure she would make no objection.”