Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit
Page 26
Kris smiled, somewhat in spite of herself: the enthusiasm in the room was infectious. She could well imagine that the crew could not be denied; not even if this were to be a far less glorious match; even if they were not tired, edgy, and bored from half a year on blockade without shore leave, without action or the prospect of action, and with a senior command whose members were barely civil to one another. Under the circumstances, the degree of anticipation must be well above fever pitch, verging on incandescent. To judge by the faces in the room, perhaps it was incandescent already.
“Well,” said Minerva Lewis, getting to her feet with a theatrical groan. “I need a cool down. What do you say to a little friendly low-gee racquet ball? We can play doubles, since there’s four of us now.”
“Wardroom against gunroom?” asked Ulloa eagerly. “What odds?”
“Hump your odds, Sergeant,” Lewis answered cordially. “None of your cut-throat, blood-on-the-walls antics today. But I’ll spot you a pint of what you like, to keep things interesting.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Lewis fixed Kris with a curiously penetrating glance. “How about it, Commander? Seems we’re called upon to defend the honor of the wardroom.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vasquez chimed in, “would you mind?”
Kris shook her head, hiding a slim smile, knowing she was trapped. It had been months since she’d played low-gee racquet ball, but she had been looking for something to do . . .
“Give me a minute to change.”
Vasquez helped Kris change in the locker room, slipping her into the standard-issue exercise rig—the black tank top and mid-thigh-length shorts that Vasquez, the major, and the sergeant were all wearing, an outfit designed with only the most minimal concessions to differences in male and female physiques—and binding up her useless left arm carefully. Together, they walked back to the rec-room where Major Lewis and Sergeant Ulloa had the court configured and were working out the details. A five-minute warm-up had been decided on, lines would count as good, and because this was a friendly match, one fault per serve would be allowed. They shook hands on it and began.
Kris played lazily during the warm-up, gradually working into her rhythm. The lack of an arm was less of a handicap than might be supposed. It did effect her balance, but by now she’d learned to compensate fairly well. After a couple of minutes she was volleying with a smooth, easy stroke.
The warm-up also gave Kris a chance to observe her opponents and her partner. Vasquez, as expected, moved with speed and grace, but Kris got the feeling that racquet ball was not quite her game: her shots were solid and well aimed but they did not work the court. Major Lewis was perhaps a bit cagier and her languid movements disguised truly remarkable reflexes; her height also gave her excellent reach. But her style, Kris thought, was overall conservative, relying a trifle too heavily on the opponent’s unforced errors. Sergeant Ulloa was holding back now but she was sure he’d play like he looked, a straight-ahead power game: aggressive, risky, no quarter asked or given.
With the gee level set at twenty percent and the automatic scorekeeper programmed, Kris and Minerva Lewis called the toss and lost. Sergeant Ulloa served first and met, or exceeded, Kris’s expectations. His serve came right at her like a shot from railgun, but she was expecting it and executing a neat leaping turn, scooped the ball with a backhand that killed most of its velocity and sent it into the wall wearing a nasty unpredictable topspin. The ricochet evaded Ulloa’s lunge—he’d been expecting to be repaid in kind—dying under his racquet and hopping to the back of the court in long, low-gee bounces. “Point!” barked the scorekeeper in its loud mechanical voice.
Major Lewis favored Kris with another of those penetrating glances. “You,” she said, “have played this game before.”
“Yeah, a bit,” Kris allowed.
“And you have trophies on the home mantel to prove it.”
Kris, recalling the tidy sum she’d won hustling low-gee racquetball during her Academy days, cracked a smile. “Not trophies, exactly.”
Minerva Lewis correctly interpreted the tone. “This is great,” she said with an evil grin as she returned her attention to their opponents.. “Let’s kill ’em all.”
* * *
It did not turn out to be possible to kill ’em all; Vasquez and Ulloa were too quick and too powerful to be dominated, but Kris and the major had science on their side and almost as important, reach. Kris was a head taller than Ulloa, a head and a half over Vasquez, and Minerva Lewis was taller yet although not by much. In the low-gee environment, power—in which the noncoms had the edge—counted most when scientifically exercised and neither the sergeant nor the corporal were scientific players. But it did count, as did aggressiveness and sheer determination—if this was a “friendly” match, Kris imagined the serious ones were played in full body armor—and Kris served for match point with a slim 11 to 13 advantage.
She put the ball neatly to Vasquez’s backhand, letting her power the return to where Major Lewis was waiting. Kris and the major had rapidly found their best working arrangement: Lewis playing up and behind where she could exercise her talent for keeping the volley alive; Kris down and short, where she could put the point away. Lewis kept it alive now, and Vasquez, playing well back, replied with a series of booming forehands that put the major on the run.
Almost overreached, Lewis decided to drop the volley short to where Ulloa waited, crouching menacingly. But Ulloa chose this moment to display his touch and it betrayed him. His drop shot, rather than dying off the wall as he intended, came back too high and Kris, with an exultant smile, slammed a hard passing shot that turned Ulloa half around and bounded past Vasquez, caught fading to cover the wrong corner.
“Game and match,” bellowed the scorekeeper and Minerva Lewis let out a whoop, as cheerful as it was uncharitable. Vasquez didn’t seem to mind however and Ulloa, coming over to shake Kris’s single hand, was certainly willing to be philosophical about it although he said, somewhat ruefully, “And with one arm. I shall never live this down—never in life, not if I top it Methuselah’s grandfather.”
“You’ll survive,” Major Lewis said, “and I’ll come by for my spoil. In the meantime, winner’s dibs on the hot water. After you, Commander.”
They left Vasquez and Ulloa taking over the match in low tones and minute detail and retired to the locker room. Lewis gave Kris a gracious hand with her arm binding and activated the general spray. The water came down, hot and very welcome to muscles unaccustomed to so much exercise.
“Want me to wash your back?” Minerva Lewis asked. Kris nodded and Lewis came up behind her and began scrubbing hard with a rough pad. The major’s hands slid over Kris’s wet slick soapy shoulders and down her spine and Lewis made a low noise. “You’re a knot. Just a complete knot. How long has it been since you really relaxed?”
“A while,” Kris admitted.
“Well—officer to officer, you understand—you’re wound up tighter than a bishop’s wife.” She pressed on a particularly tense lump of muscle at the curve of Kris’s neck and shoulder. “Feel that?”
“Yeah.” The lump yielded under the forceful thumbs; it hurt—it felt wonderful.
“Just like a rock. You carry all your tension in your neck, don’t you?”
Kris nodded, leaning back into the kneading of the powerful hands. The rigid muscles bent, complained, and eventually gave way to the heat and pressure until Lewis said, “Five minutes. Do me?” She proffered the soapy pad.
Minerva Lewis’s torso—broad across the shoulders and full breasted, tapering neatly to a trim waist and then flaring generously again—was a wonder of anatomy but terribly hacked about. Kris did not even try to count the scars under her working fingers; some old and faded, a couple much newer, but she did notice the hard muscles that coiled and uncoiled with sleek oiled perfection as the major stretched.
The thirty-second alarm chimed, they turned under the spray for a final rinse and the shower clicked off. Toweling themsel
ves dry in front of the row of lockers, Kris glanced over at the magnificent woman beside her and with unaccustomed diffidence offered, “Thanks. That was fun.”
Minerva Lewis smiled through the cloud of her towel and her wet hair, which she was drying vigorously. “Welcome. Glad you enjoyed it. You’d been to see the Yellow Admiral, I take it. I recognized the look.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“After six months on blockade,” the Major said, “obvious ain’t in it.” She chucked her wadded towel into the laundry chute.
“Why the yellow admiral?” Kris asked, laying out her uniform in the order that would make it easiest to put on.
“Well, yellow admiral,” Lewis explained, “as in our esteemed admiral, was once a cant term for a rear admiral without command—what they did to you when they had to promote you because of seniority but didn’t for whatever reason want to give you an active post. You had the pay—or half pay—and rank, but basically you were persona non grata.” Minerva Lewis tugged on her khaki fatigues and reached for her drop boots. “Then again, some folks attach a different meaning to the present case.”
Kris, who’d been thinking deeply on that, chose to make no comment. The major’s freedom of expression was a bit unrestrained, even for a marine. Minerva Lewis seemed to sense this and said, “No pickups here, I do believe. And the CEF can’t fire me. Shoot me, yes—fire me, no.” She smiled and asked, as Kris went through the evolutions needed to put on her fairly tight undress breeches, “Did he try out any of his more extravagant theories on you?”
“He got my attention,” Kris allowed.
The major nodded. “He’ll do that. He’s been riding that horse since before he got here. Hasn’t run yet. Here, let me help with that.” Lewis came over and slid her tunic up to her shoulders, always the trickiest part of the operation, straightened the collar and smoothed it. “There, how’s that?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” Major Lewis zipped up her light jacket and, pulling back and tying her damp hair, set a black beret overall, cocked at a rakish angle. “I don’t know about you, but its still an hour until dinner, and I could favor a drink. I believe at Home Fleet the sun must be well over the yardarm by now. We can send the tab to Sergeant Ulloa.”
Kris chuckled. It would be worthless, even conduct unbecoming, to resist.
“Splendid,” Lewis said, opening the locker-room door for her. Vasquez and the sergeant, who were waiting just outside affecting their best look of bored insouciance, checked the time ostentatiously. The major smiled sweetly, gave them the nod and they stepped inside. Down the passage, Kris heard Vasquez’s sugared voice call out: “But Sergeant, don’t you like cold showers?”
* * *
Leander’s wardroom (the state dining room when she wasn’t in naval service) had a better bar than any Navy ship, especially for the adventurous. Minerva Lewis was one of these, judging by the green concoction she was mixing up.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Lewis said, resuming their interrupted conversation as she added a splash of liqueur to her drink, something a bright ice-fire blue with a pungent, unplaceable aroma. “The admiral’s not the worst sort but he has a genius for rubbing people the wrong way, and his taste in staff officers gets on people’s nerves. He’s a Holy Joe too—his family’s originally from Galatea, y’know—and that don’t always suit.” Kris did not know (the accent, the mannerisms were all thoroughly Hesperian) but she nodded anyway. “But things being as they are—that mess at Callindra wasn’t all his fault—he’s got it cranked over on this one and if he’s not careful he’ll break it hard. Break it hard,” she repeated.
“Does that have anything to do with his keeping the drives hot?” Kris asked.
“Oh that.” Lewis snorted. “That was some staff monkey’s idea—to demonstrate zeal, as I recall. The admiral’s big on zeal. And his staff . . . well, you’ve noticed his staff, I expect. The non-conformist conscience doth make cowards of us all. ”
Kris, who had noticed them admiral’s staff but couldn’t place the quote—for a quote it obviously was—nodded again. She was rummaging in the refer unit for a straight measure of cider or the Balmagowry Cream she’d remembered seeing there. What she found was the remains of a bottle of Loews’ Antiguan claret, an excellent year. Before moving in with Huron, Kris hadn’t had much appreciation for wine, but she remembered this one. “Thanks, Major. I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, inspecting the bottle ruefully before putting it back.
Minerva Lewis glanced at her chrono. “I’m not on duty until first watch. Call me Min. Racquet ball doth make sisters of us all.”
“Min,” Kris said and laughed. It felt good to laugh, like a weight lifting off the back of her neck. It also looked like she would have to content herself with small beer or the vile-looking mixture the major was drinking. She took out a frosted mug and walked over to the beer tap.
“Vasquez tells me she doesn’t recommend the beer on this here barky. But I know where there’s a pretty good bottle of amontillado.” Without waiting for a response, Min stretched up on her tiptoes, reaching into the far corner of a cabinet flush with the overhead. She came down with a squat bottle with a hand-printed label. Kris looked it over quizzically. “It belongs to your corporal. She keeps a stock in here—for emergencies.” Min took a glass from the bar and presented it to Kris. “As the victor, you have my permission.”
“Why does she keep it up there?” Kris asked. For Vasquez, short as she was, to retrieve the bottle would require quite the feat of brachiation. Not that that would be a problem for the corporal, famous for her one-arm pull-ups.
“I’ll leave that as an exercise for the student. May I?” Min had uncorked the bottle and held it poised. Kris nodded, feeling a trifle sheepish. The major poured two generous fingers and set the bottle on the counter. Kris sipped. The sherry was excellent, smooth and nutty, not too sweet.
“This is really good.”
“Isn’t it?” Min agreed. “Her family label, I believe.”
“I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with wine, Major,” Kris said, sipping again, grateful for the spreading warmth in her belly.
“Min,” the major corrected. “And it sorta runs in the family. Dad was an importer of spirits and other of the finer things. A free-trade importer, if you take my meaning.” Kris didn’t. “He didn’t always bother with custom’s stamps,” Min explained.
“Oh,” Kris said.
“He used to make the run between Lodestone and Reveille in the sweetest little top-keel lugger. The Furbelow.”
“The what?” Kris asked, convinced she’d misheard.
“Furbelow,” Min repeated. “It’s from a song Dad liked to sing when he was drunk.” Without warning the major broke into a slightly rough, sweet alto:
“Adam catch’d Eve by the furbelow
the fur belowww . . .”
And she laughed, a rich decidedly pleasant sound. “Ma hated it, said it was rude. Licentious and rude.” Min smothered a chuckle in her drink. “Maybe she had a point. But he’s not in that business anymore.”
Kris had no opinion of the licentious or rude aspects of the brief snatch of song, but she did wonder what exactly was in that green thing the major was imbibing.
“What’s he do now?” she asked. “Your father.”
“He’s working for the State, you might say,” Min answered cheerfully. “They’re due to let him out one of these years.” She laughed again.
“I see.” Kris decided to change the subject. “So have you known the corporal long?”
“Only in the ring actually,” Lewis answered. “She’s all that stands between me and glory.”
Kris, remembering the medal-encrusted dress tunic, concluded that the major had a funny sense of glory. “So you must be looking forward to this match.”
Minerva Lewis beamed a great smile, raised her drink and sipped, the radiant look never leaving her face.
“You have no idea.”
&n
bsp; Four: First Impressions
Day 181
INS Ticonderoga, Shenandoah Dockyard
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“Now officers and gentlemen, if you’ll follow me through here, we’ll go along to the part you’ve all been waiting for—at least, I have.” No one laughed at the young lieutenant’s attempted joke; no one had laughed since this tour began, ninety minutes ago. The lieutenant was tall and blond, perhaps a bit too much of both, but good-looking in his way. He still had that slight air of adolescent gawkishness that tall men are sometimes slow to lose, but he had a beautiful resonant voice and a degree of self-possession—not to say arrogance—perhaps natural in a bright young officer. He didn’t care if people failed to laugh at his jokes.
He was in all regards an excellent tour guide: intelligent, vivacious and well-informed. He answered some questions promptly and in detail, gave others a sly, polite evasion. He had also, Kris had noticed, been looking in her direction more than a little. It was true that she was the only League military officer present, and she was in uniform, but she didn’t feel that his interest was entirely professional. Now he was leading them into the Combat Information Center—the heart, the piece de resistance, as he’d said more than once—of Ticonderoga, destined to replace the noble yet aging battlecruiser John Paul Jones as the flagship of the Ionian fleet.
The crowd of dignitaries shuffled through the narrow hatchway, Loews was up in front, Kris well towards the back with Dr. Leidecker who did not actually need to be led by the hand, but almost. Behind them, a cordon of security men, entirely without humor or expression, kept the mass moving. They also ensured that the League delegation saw exactly what they were supposed see and nothing more. Kris thought they needn’t have bothered. This whole performance was into its fourth day now—the first three had been taken up with welcoming ceremonies and tours of other ships, orbital dockyards, manufacturing plants, depots and logistics facilities—all without yet setting foot on Ionian soil and with the evident purpose of making the visitors anxious before the actual negotiations got underway, which, Kris had been told, would be early next week.