Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “I doubt I could afford her,” Kris said neutrally—and untruthfully, as she had a net worth of several million. The funds was from her repatriation settlement, paid to her by the League for being held as a slave for eight years, augmented by her prize money, which was even greater. But that those were things she’d rather not have generally known.

  “Oh, say nothing of that.” Leidecker, mistaking Kris’s answer for a type of assent, smiled and waved his fork, imperiling a bite of pastry. “Dr. VelSilinjes is not beyond taking an unusual case out of pure interest. Unlikely to charge at all. A capital woman, as I say. I’m sure I could arrange something suitable.”

  Kris’s lips compressed into a thin line. She reached for a slice of pastry of her own and stabbed it more vehemently than she meant to. But she said only, “Yeah, politics. Politics is likely to be a problem.”

  “I shall speak to Mr. Loews,” Leidecker said happily, misreading her again. “Happy to do it. Fascinating case. Nothing is insurmountable.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 169

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  The trip back to Leander—a mere passenger, again—allowed Kris reconsider her piqué at Vasquez over her little caucus with Dr. Leidecker. In fairness, she told herself, she could hardly upbraid the corporal for doing what was, in actuality, her job and she was clearly no use in her present state. Clearly. Seeing Vasquez return from her dinner in the aft gunroom looking so happy morphed the last dregs of her irritation into a sodden species of mild guilt. That did not help her mood, already burdened by having eaten far more than she was used to and oppressed by ill-feeling that pervaded the squadron’s flagship and she turned in very much at odds with present existence.

  The next morning brought breakfast, limited to thin black coffee after yesterday’s huge dinner, and another round of the daily therapy sessions she had to endure to keep the muscles of her paralyzed arm from atrophying along with the regrown axons. Those were pretty much gone now and while the sessions weren’t exactly painful—Vasquez was considerably more deft than the ham-handed tech back at Weyland Station —there was still something profoundly disturbing about having her own arm jerking about without will or feeling.

  At about the halfway point in the exercises, a message arrived from the Flag. The yeoman coughed politely at the cabin hatchway, announced himself and, ignoring the strange evolutions going on within, said, “Captain’s compliments, ma’am, and there’s a message from Polidor for you.”

  She motioned for him to enter and he handed the flimsy to her while Vasquez went to get her tunic. It was short:

  FM: Polidor, Cygnus Mariner

  On station

  TO: LCDR (brevet) Loralynn Kennakris,

  Flag requests LCDR Kennakris will repair aboard at earliest convenience.

  Tm. Rhimer,

  RADM, SOC

  What the hell’s this? I haven’t been here long enough to trip any wires yet.

  She handed the flimsy back to the yeoman as Vasquez brought her uniform. “Thanks, yeomen. Tell them I’ll be over immediately. We can take a break, here. Can’t we, Vasquez?”

  The set of her lips suggested Vasquez wasn’t wholly onboard with the idea. “For now, ma’am.”

  “Fine.” Kris shrugged her tunic on—she was getting better at doing it one-handed. “Will they send a boat or shall I take one of ours?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am,” the Yeoman answered. “Shall I ask the captain?”

  “No. Just give her my compliments and ask her to warm up No. 2 shuttle for me.” Asking for a boat from Polidor might allow time for Vasquez to insist on finishing her exercises.

  “Yes ma’am,” the yeoman said a little doubtfully. “Shall I inquire about a pilot also?”

  “No.” Kris started to put on her second-best jacket, which Vasquez had produced without prompting. “If I can’t fly a damn shuttle a few klicks one-handed, I might as well step out the lock.”

  She got the shuttle with only a bit of argument. Leander beamed Polidor, asked for and received clearance to send the boat, and Kris guided the little craft out of the bay. It felt good to have a living, breathing machine under her hands—well, hand—even if it was only a shuttle, and only for a few minutes.

  Her forward view screen showed Polidor twenty klicks ahead, pearlescent white where the light of Cygnus Mariner hit her; impenetrable black where it did not. Speculars glinted off the faceted hull, typical of Halith design, flaring from the sharp prow into the armored forecastle, and then tapering again into the narrow waist. Kris could just make out the forward neutron gun cluster and the three starboard launch tubes. Above, a thick dorsal ridge—the missile fin, Polidor’s main armament—ran along the forecastle’s center line and down the waist, ending just before the quarterdeck.

  Below, she could see only the tip of the deep keel that housed the gravitic plant—the infallible sign of a hypercapable ship—its running lights blinking in succession. Most of the waist was deep in shadow as well, but the four railgun ports could be seen, picked out by pale green hatch lights. Just aft, the ship’s superstructure rose from quarterdeck with its forest of antennas, several winking gold, and behind this the tall sensor mast with the gold-clad deep-radar housing. At the very end was the bulge of Polidor’s engine cluster, pulsing a deep, bloody red; Rhimer was keeping the drives at hot standby. Kris wondered why—it was usual to stand down on station unless some maneuver was imminent. As far as Kris knew, the alert level had not been raised; it was unlikely that it could have been without her knowing about it—unlikely, but not impossible.

  Intrigued, Kris surveyed the neighborhood to see which other ships were in company. Just beyond Polidor was Vistula, a refit Halith light cruiser that had been captured along with Polidor. Below and astern of her was Osiris, another light cruiser, constructed on classic Belter lines. Unlike the Halith-built light cruisers, which had torpedoes as their main armament, Osiris was designed for maneuverability and speed, to allow her to close rapidly and take her prey under fire from her banks of 8-inch surge guns—genuine smashers, irresistible at close range.

  Beyond the cruisers, max magnification allowed Kris to just make out the sleek silhouettes of two destroyers at their picket stations: Circe and Naiad. Manticore, Wyvern and Ethalion, though present on her nav screen, were too far away to be seen. Argo and her sisters must have been on patrol and only two of frigates, Euryalus and Ariel, seemed to be in company today. Checking the energy readouts, she saw that all of the ships had their drives at hot-standby. Something must be up.

  A proximity beacon warned her that she had entered Polidor’s traffic control zone. She decelerated, answered Polidor’s purely superfluous but formally required hail of “What boat?”, received her approach vector, and brought the little craft smoothly into line. Then, reluctantly, she gave up control and let them pull her in. Hotdogging wouldn’t do for her first visit to the Flag, last night’s dinner not counting in the military reckoning of things.

  A stout ensign met her on the Flag’s hanger deck with the animated manner and ruddy complexion of its kind, looked around for someone else and, confirming that Kris was alone, conducted her to the admiral’s stateroom. Kris scanned the ship for signs of imminent departure, but found none. No hurry was evident as they walked the narrow corridors; Polidor had a workaday air, not the tense expectancy of a ship about to get under way. Kris, puzzled and fidgety, smoothed her hair and readjusted her peaked cap as they entered officers’ country. The ensign rang at the hatch to Rhimer’s quarters, and stood aside as the aperture dilated to admit them.

  Rhimer’s cabin was not palatial but it was spacious enough, fitted out with dark blue carpeting with a large gold star in the middle and, Kris noted, fully equipped. There was a large flat-mounted situation display, two consoles, and a number of small portable tablets. The CO’s conference room, just an open area off to one side, set off by a low bulkhead, was dominated by an omnisynth, its holodisplay filling the volume a
bove with a rotating simulacrum the Cygnus Mariner system. The door to the sleeping quarters was open, affording a glimpse of the interior, its tidiness at odds with the general clutter. Across from the sleeping quarters, opening on the conference room, was the admiral’s day office, taken up almost entirely by a large desk, strictly utilitarian, with great litter of reports and charts on it and a coffee maker somewhere in the middle.

  Rhimer was sitting at this desk, his chief of staff leaning over his shoulder. They were studying something on a flat screen, and batting a question back and forth in low tones. The ensign announced them, Rhimer made a distracted gesture in their direction, said something to Sayles, squashed her reply and asked Kris in.

  “Please have seat, Commander.” He gestured at an almost vacant bench by the conference table, next to the omnisynth. Kris sat, careful of the box of chips on the other end. Rhimer got up from his desk, came around to the front side and hitched a hip onto the edge—an affected casualness. Commander Sayles remained where she was.

  “This isn’t an official visit,” Rhimer said, doing nothing but compound the riddle of the hot drives. “I see from your orders you aren’t assigned to me, but I still thought it would be good to introduce you to the squadron; get a feeling for one another.”

  Oh, Kris thought, forcing a polite smile. Introductions of this type were guaranteed to raise the hackles of almost any junior officer—just a friendly little chat, let’s get to know one another.

  “You’ve met my chief of staff, by the way?”

  “Yes,” Sayles interjected in a tone calculated to disavow the acquaintance.

  “Yessir,” Kris affirmed in her most wooden voice.

  “Yes,” Rhimer echoed. “Good. Allow me to say that I’m pleased to have you on my station, Commander. Your service record proceeds you.” Rhimer picked up a sheet from his desk and scanned it. A copy of her dossier, Kris realized. “The most decorated officer of your seniority in the CEF, fifth in kills on the active pilots list, ninth on the all-time list. And that business with the Dom destroyer—an unprecedented accomplishment. Quite impressive for a pilot with your term, of service.” He held out the piece of plaspaper and looked down his nose at it. “But your squadron casualty figures—upwards of twenty-five percent. Almost twice the Fleet average.”

  Kris clenched her jaw and shifted her feet on the carpeted deck. “I’ll put my exchange ratio up against anyone’s, sir.”

  “Yes, yes—of course,” Rhimer said. “No criticism implied—none at all. Clearly you are an unusually zealous, active young officer.” He slid her dossier back onto the desk. “No doubt about it, you are an interesting woman, Commander Kennakris.” His fingers drummed on his thigh briefly.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But I do have a couple of questions,” Rhimer went on, “Things I’d like clarified, if I may.”

  “Sir?”

  Rhimer twisted round and Commander Sayles handed him another sheet. “Your orders, for example. They struck me as a bit vague. Can you enlarge on them at all?”

  Kris could not. The promised clarification from Loews had not been forthcoming, probably because Kris had so far neglected to ask for it. She doubted Loews would have been in much shape to answer, but that would cut no ice with the admiral. “I’m supposed to appreciate the situation, sir.”

  “Yes, that is what it says,” Rhimer agreed, all shallow affability. “But exactly what and how?”

  Kris fell back on form. “As the Envoy requires, sir.” Rhimer continued to watch her intently and form wavered. “That hasn’t been exactly spelled out yet, sir. By the Mission, I mean.”

  Rhimer nodded; apparently this fit his expectation of diplomatic SOP. “Then perhaps I can enlarge a bit. On the situation, that is. It’s bloody awkward.” He stood, all affability now put aside. “How much do know about what’s going on here in Iona?”

  “What was in the briefing packet, sir.” By which Kris meant: what she’d been able to glean from the briefing packet while Leander’s shuttle warmed up. She’d already known that for a few years, Iona had been involved in a spat over trade rights with the Sultanate of Andaman and Nicobar. And she was aware the major issues centered on Ivoria, the system that controlled Winnecke 4, a major transit node on which both Iona and the Sultanate depended.

  The briefing packet added some details: Emir of Ivoria started had detaining Ionian merchantmen for “customs violations”. Iona retaliated by freezing Ivoria’s assets and cutting its trade routes with the Outworlds. Just as war seemed inevitable, the Sultan had asked the League intercede with its former colony to prevent, in the Sultan’s words, “the effusion of blood”—a request the League was only too happy to grant. The resulting agreement, hammered out on LSS Cannae, flagship of the strike force the League had interceded with, was less than the local parties could have wished. For one thing, it gave the League broad rights of intervention, including the right to stop and inspect merchantmen at will.

  It was no surprise, whatsoever, that Iona had refused to comply and had accelerated rather than curtailed its naval building program as the League demanded. After the new treaty with Halith had been sealed, the League had complained, and Iona had recalled its ambassador in protest. The Plenary Council lost no time in voting to impose economic sanctions, by which they meant a blockade, and stationing a task force in Ionian space to enforce it. At one point there had been loud rumors that Iona was about to declare war, but they came to nothing, and the uneasy quarrelsome peace (marred by a few forcible boarding incidents and one unexplained explosion) had been holding ever since.

  All this she encapsulated for Rhimer, skipping gracelessly to the end when he began drumming his fingers on his trouser seam again.

  “That’s the heart of it,” Rhimer said when Kris finished. “But as with most things, the devil is in the details. Have you ever been on blockade duty before, commander?”

  Kris answered that she had not, suppressing a comment to the effect that she was not now either.

  “Well, for blockade you want frigates—lots of frigates. Yes, I know, you’ll say that frigates aren’t good for much, thin skinned and light in the bite. And you’d be right. But for blockade work they’re just the thing. And small craft—small craft that can follow them to ground if need be—are indispensable. But the Admiralty in its wisdom has given us almost no small craft and of frigates, we have only four. Wholly inadequate—woefully so, especially in a damned rock garden such we have here, a bloody smuggler’s paradise.” Rhimer picked up the omnisynth’s remote and fiddled a control, causing the display to focus on Cygnus Mariner’s inner system.

  “You’ll have noticed, commander, that Cygnus Mariner has not just one but two asteroid belts and this band of dust here, just outside Iona’s orbit.” He highlighted it with the remote, a thin disk now glowing a poisonous orange. “Nasty, dirty, lumpy stuff, thick as kiss-my-hand. Small craft can nose their way through easily enough, but it chews the hell out of our ablative armor. Deep-radar is practically useless and passive sensors almost as bad. Not just the IR either: the dust has trapped a layer of hydrogen within it—solar wind interacts with the hydrogen and causes emissions all over the alpha band. Do you follow?” He clinked off the toxic orange and looked at Kris.

  “Yessir,” Kris replied mechanically.

  “Good. Now we move father out.” Rhimer expanded the display and illuminated the first asteroid belt, inside the orbit of Thetis, and the second one, out beyond Tanis, the last major planet in Iona’s system. “The farther belt—” he waved with the remote at it “—no great difficulty. Thinly populated, cold and slow—easy enough to find a drive signature in. But the inner one,” now he waggled the remote at Kris, “the inner belt is something else again. Notice the inhomogeneities—the clumps—and percentage of highly eccentric orbits. Thetis’s gravity is forever directing swarms of asteroids into the inner system, and the behavior is purely chaotic. We have no accurate catalogs—no decent surveys for the last fifty years or more. But the
Ionians do—they have to, to support their asteroid defense system—and they can use them to coast ships through, no drives on at all, small ships or even large ones with the signature suppressed, and we have a devil of a time telling them from a rock. Once clear, they can boost away, and most times we can do nothing but watch them go. I imagine you see the problem.”

  Kris saw several, but not the one Rhimer seemed to be referring to. “Yes, sir,” she ventured, “But can’t we”—she used the preposition somewhat self-consciously—“Can’t we intercept them at the transit nodes?” Cygnus Mariner had four, spaced around the system’s periphery where the gravitational conditions were favorable for translation. Rhimer obviously couldn’t cover all of Ionian space—a task group twice the size of his would have a tough time doing that—but monitoring the transit nodes should be easy enough.

  “It would be lovely if we could, commander; if this were Corinth or Port Mahan or some Christian system. But the details—remember what I said about the details?—the details are vexatious. Fully forty percent of the traffic through Iona’s transit nodes doesn’t originate in-system, nor is it bound there. Over half of that through traffic is Ivorian in origin, most of the rest is from New Caledonia or from Nicobar itself. Further,” Rhimer’s voice dropped a tone, as for conveying a touchy confidence, “we believe—and I should say stronger than that—that the Ivorian Emir is flagging Ionian ships, and probably the Caledonians also.”

  “Sir?” Kris blinked, this being the only surprising thing she’d heard so far. “I thought Ivoria and Iona were mutual hostile—more or less.”

  “Rather less than more recently,” Rhimer said. “Our presence has strengthened the Emir’s hand in this sector and he is not above capitalizing on it. For Iona’s part, they are rather more worried about us now than him.”

  “So they accept Ivorian registry and become exempt from boarding,” Kris reflected, “and if we catch them in-system, we’ve no choice but to send them out-bound—exactly what they want.”