Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “As you have no doubt inferred,” continued Leidecker, “there has been, continues to be, much debate as to why Life shows so little variety—variety in the broad genomorphological sense you understand—over billions of years and on many hundreds of biologically active surveyed planets.”

  “Are you going to suggest a divine cause, doctor?” Kris asked smiling, knowing enough about Holy Joes to be aware that they’d put forth something similar as proof of what they called “actionable divinity.”

  “There are those that do,” said Leidecker. “Do you recall Dr. Larson, insisting that Life was not Life without the presence of deoxyribonucleic acid? What a fellow! Deoxyribonucleic acids are certainly the most common basis for self-replicating molecules—not surprising, no not at all, giving the chemical makeup of this particular part of this particular galaxy. DNA represents what engineers call—or is it physicists?—well anyway, the zero-energy solution, which is always to be preferred and therefore always most prevalent. But not the only solution, as has been, I trust, amply demonstrated.” Leidecker stared straight ahead, his train of thought having gone astray.

  “Phyla,” Kris said.

  “Yes, phyla,” Leidecker echoed, recovering his thread with an effort. “Theologists are not however the only defenders of the Seven Sacred Phyla, as some now call them. There are those who say that the principles of engineering act on evolution in such a way that only seven successful basic plans for animal life exist. They are much at odds with the theologists, as you can imagine.”

  Kris could, but chose not to.

  “Then there are others—the so-called splitters—who contend that the ancient classifications are essentially right: that the modern phyla definitions have been distorted to artificially accommodate new findings; that there aren’t seven phyla at all, but thirty-five, forty-six, even seventy-two. They go on about coelenterates especially—quite a number of people are squishy about coelenterates, and give credence to the obsolete classifications Ctenophora and Cnidaria—and once they get that wedge in, they use it to go whole hog, as it were. They also claim much fossil evidence on their side, but its relevance is not widely credited. And then there are some radicals reject the notion of phyla altogether, contending that all classification is artificially imposed and inherently meaningless. They sometimes use the splitter’s evidence to bolster their argument, much to those persons’ irritation. But they do not add anything to the discussion, because instead of addressing it, they merely attempt to dismiss the basic issue.”

  “Which is?” Kris prompted.

  “Why, whether or not the evolution of life adheres to a set of narrow principles that constrains its basic forms to those already described.”

  “Oh. I see.” And she did, if in a somewhat feeble way. “And this is a serious issue in xenobiological circles, I take it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Leidecker nodded vigorously. “Most violently serious. It has lead to no recent deaths, thank goodness, not since that bad business between Stephenson and Gould. That was, oh fifty odd years ago or more. But tempers do run high. Science is a passionate business.”

  “I guess so. Is Dr. VelSilinjes very involved in this debate?”

  “She is not. She prefers to go about her business and leave the bloodletting to others. Yet she has the knack of making the most extraordinary discoveries, as she did with this new lithomorph. Have you heard of Veriform Gloriosa at all?”

  Kris shook her head.

  “It is a species native to Iona, found so far only in the deep forests of the Southern Continent. There is but the single species known—no allies to the genus have yet been discovered either, though that will likely change as the continent is more fully explored—and it, Veriform Gloriosa that is to say, was first described as a pseudo-mammalian, but that is most certainly in error—the description was based on an incomplete specimen and a badly handled one at that, I fear—and Dr. VelSilinjes writes to me that she has reason to believe it may represent a truly unique and nondescript phyla.”

  “Ah, I see,” Kris said, as the root of Leidecker’s eagerness to go exploring became clear. “Just how common is this thing?”

  “It is held to be very rare,” Leidecker said gloomily. “But Dr. VelSilinjes has given me some hope that in the New Forest it may be a little more prevalent. The New Forest is in the northwest extremity of the Southern Continent,” Leidecker explained, “between the Traumerei Mountains and Mons Megaera off the coast. The Arl River drains the basin into the western sea, as you might recall.” Kris did recall, having looked up the area on Leander’s index once when she was bored. She’d justified her interest with the notion that such a mountainous, heavily forested, unexplored area would provide excellent cover for any number of secret military installations.

  “Wild country,” Kris observed.

  “So it is too,” Leidecker agreed. “It was only opened to habitation two years ago, and that on a most limited basis.”

  “Well,” said Kris, standing up: it was time—past time—to stretch. “I certainly hope you get a chance to go look for it.”

  “I—ah—” Leidecker hesitated a moment. “I had hoped that Corporal Vasquez might be allowed to accompany me. And yourself, naturally, should you so desire. I’m not sure however, if that would be protocol. The corporal reports to you, does she not?”

  “More or less.” The official subordination of a marine special-forces corporal assigned to an SRF officer on semi-active status who’d been seconded to a diplomatic mission did not bear thinking on. But that aside, if Leidecker really intended to pursue this jaunt into the back-of-beyond, having Vasquez along could only be a good idea. “Tell you what: see what you can arrange with Loews. If you can get him to let you go, I’ll suggest that it would prudent if I accompanied you. Then he certainly can’t object to the corporal’s joining us. As a matter of fact, I think it would be obligatory.”

  “Oh that would be capital,” Dr. Leidecker said, suddenly buoyant. “Capital. And then perhaps we could have Dr. VelSilinjes look at your arm.”

  “Yeah, that to.” Her head full of fragments of Leidecker’s discourse on phyla and kingdoms and Veriform Gloriosa, Kris looked down into the Commerce Secretary’s artificial trout stream with its empathic fish and beady-eyed turtles and wondered what other surprises Iona would have in store for her. Probably more than she might want. She began to reconsider the turtles, their black reptilian gaze fixed reproachfully on her.

  “Doctor,” she asked, “what about these turtles? Are they anything special—like the fish?”

  “The turtles?” Leidecker sounded surprised. “Oh no. The turtles, I’m afraid, are just turtles.”

  The party broke up an hour or so later. Vilnius Loews emerged beaming, steady on his feet but clearly having eaten, drunk, and inhaled more than was prudent, even for a man of his bulk. Leidecker went quickly to his side. Kris followed and caught the doctor whispering something in the Envoy’s ear, to which Loews shook his head. The formal leave-taking was painfully extended.

  Finally, they escorted to Loews to his car, the rest of his party including Kris and Leidecker to one of the entourage vehicles, and proceeded at a stately pace to the capital’s main embarkation center. The flight to the orbiting transfer station was brief and when Loews was stowed in Leander’s shuttle, back on League sovereign territory at last, Leidecker went to him, pulled out a handheld med-scanner and clucked over the results. He said something in an admonishing tone; Loews grunted, his eyes, now that he no longer had an audience to perform for, beginning to glaze. Leidecker applied a hypospray to his neck and the big man hardly twitched. His eyes drooped shut and Kris saw that her five minutes were going to have to wait for another day; she’d wasted twelve hours for nothing.

  But Leidecker came and sat beside her in the shuttle’s forward jump seats. “He’ll come around in a few hours, quite himself again,” he told Kris. “I understand you wished to discuss something with him. I suggest that when he wakes you might make your opportunity, befo
re he becomes distracted.”

  Kris took Leidecker’s advice and approached the Envoy a few minutes after he woke up. They were a hour away from docking and Loews appeared to be in fine fettle. He pumped Kris’s hand in greeting and insisted she take a seat beside him. “I’ve stiffed you shabbily, Commander and I’m heartily sorry for it. Now what can I do for you?”

  Kris put forth her suggestion about inviting Lieutenant Anson to the match. Loews seemed to not have been aware of the match, but listened intently. “Lev Anson, yes,” he said when Kris was finished. “Sits in the Defense Secretary’s office, doesn’t he? I know his father. His family holds mineral rights throughout much of the Southern Continent and his father still maintains a position on the board of several League corporations. Do you think the admiral would object?”

  “I wouldn’t expect him to be overjoyed, sir.”

  “Well, sacrifice is the way of the service, isn’t that right, Commander? Yes, yes.” Loews rubbed his hands together. “And the Anson’s are in well with the Secretary General, although the President’s Office doesn’t like them much. That in itself could be useful.”

  Kris watched Loews run through the mental calculus of faction and counterfaction, modified by countless other variables, until he nodded briskly and said, “An excellent suggestion. In fact, I shall tender the invitation myself.”

  For a moment Kris feared he would invite himself as well, but he said, “Can I prevail on you to escort the younger Anson? I saw your contact report, by the way—you would seem to be the obvious choice.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Good. Excellent. Is there anything else?”

  “Well, yes sir,” Kris acknowledged. “Polidor’s aft gunroom is hosting a dinner in honor of the event. I’ve been invited and I’d like leave to attend. And if the gunroom consents, it could be a good idea to extend the invitation to Lieutenant Anson also.”

  “Would they consent, do you think?” Loews regarded her narrowly.

  “I’m fairly confident of it. Under the circumstances, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll include that in the invitation—conditional, obviously. And you must certainly attend—a significant honor, is it not? Wouldn’t do to put them out—Navy traditions should be honored when at all possible. Yes, you must certainly go. When do you think there would be an answer on that other matter?”

  “On Lieutenant Anson?” Kris guessed. “Within an hour of docking, sir.”

  “That soon?” Loews exclaimed, as if such a swift resolution to any matter was anomalous. “Well in that case, I shall wait. Easier that way all around. Send word as soon as you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Loews paused, that look of calculation reappearing. “I am reminded—the name, yes. Anson’s Day is upon us, is it not?”

  The question gave Kris a twinge. “Yes, sir. Day cycle after next.”

  The Envoy stroked his beard slowly, making Kris hope he wasn’t about to suggest also turning that celebration into a diplomatic sideshow. Anson’s Day was the most hallowed of the CEF’s “holy days”—in truth, the only day the entire Service held to be holy. The Navy celebrated the anniversaries of other battles, the SRF had its own legendary actions to honor, and the Marines had theirs: both the corps as a whole and special days kept by each regiment. But Anson’s Day alone belonged to all of them—and no one else. Surely, even a man like Loews couldn’t be so obtuse as to suggest defiling it.

  “Very significant. I shall be downside, as you say—more meetings. But you must be excused. You must certainly attend the celebration.”

  The clench in Kris’s stomach dissolved. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the consideration.”

  “Pleasure,” Loews said, turning to his secretary who was hovering nearby with a sheaf of hardcopy and an anxious look; Kris imagined it was perpetual for one in his position. “That’s all settled then. Good evening to you, Commander.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 184

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  The sainted day arrived. Preparations had been ongoing for a week, straining the combined ingenuity the pursers, the mess presidents, and the galley staff to engineer a festivity that would do them credit with the resources of a squadron long on blockade. The captains and Rhimer opened their private stores, which added a welcome array of delicacies, and a much larger—and more welcome—assortment of spirits. Liquor could be counted on to make up for the paucity of fresh food, which all the chef’s art could not disguise.

  The meetings down on Iona were postponed, ostensibly to allow additional information supporting some new proposals to be refined, but in reality because the Envoy was indisposed. On hearing this, Kris asked for and received permission to bring Dr. Leidecker as her guest. She’d taken a liking to the physician: his quirks, his odd yet unaffected speech, his good humor, his eccentric enthusiasms. He took no more notice of her status as a colonial than he did of Vasquez being a Homeworlder from an exalted family; his erudition made a beguiling contrast to his innocence, and his ignorance of naval life. Kris wondered how he’d come to be attached a man like Loews, his opposite in every way.

  But it was these former qualities, not the latter question, that were most in evidence as Kris conducted him to the senior officers’ wardroom, both of them resplendent, almost shining, in their very best. They had just stepped off a lift-ladder into the gundeck central passageway, and Leidecker was telling her with near-breathless delight that while dressing he’d received word from the Envoy’s principle secretary that Loews approved of the longed-for trip to the Southern Continent and had somehow winkled out the necessary consent from the Ionians for himself (Leidecker), Kris and Kris’s orderly—only three days, but that ought to suffice—when a hellish great noise broke out: banging and hooting; yelling, high pitched and devilish, and the stamp of many rushing booted feet.

  “My lord!” Leidecker exclaimed, interrupting his flood of joyful news. “Whatever is that noise? Nothing is amiss, I hope?”

  “Oh no,” Kris replied. “That’s just the crew being piped to dinner. The noise is traditional on Anson’s Day.”

  “Dear me. I have heard the melampus of Luxor roaring in the night and the din of the Herculean Probostellus being fed in the London Zoo, but I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything quite like this.”

  “Well,” said Kris, “I only guessing, but I expect they don’t issue melampus or those other things metal mess kits.”

  * * *

  Arriving at the wardroom and conducted to their places by one of that several mess stewards, each adorned in showy, gold-laced uniforms, Kris and Leidecker were immediately seated. The protocol of Anson’s Day called for guests to be seated first, and the commanding officer last. Toasts were likewise drunk sitting (a humane custom), no saluting, and first names only were to be used. Vasquez was not with them, being a honored guest of the aft gunroom, where the senior NCO’s messed, and Kris found she missed the corporal’s presence. She’d long ago overcome her reserve while on her own ship, among her own people; all the various functions she’d attended with Huron had given her a degree of aplomb at those affairs, but she would’ve liked Vasquez’s unfailingly polite unobtrusive steadfastness at her back in a strange mess where, despite everyone’s best efforts, the fractures in the squadron’s relationships could not quite be concealed with full conviction.

  Sitting directly across from her, and apparently unfazed by the atmosphere that had Kris’s teeth slightly on edge, was Major Lewis. She looked entirely splendid, even more so than usual, and was being treated with an exaggerated degree of deference on this occasion, being the only person present who’d actually fought at Anson’s Deep. Kris also detected that the enthusiasm for tomorrow’s match was as high among the officers as it was for the crew in general, and this added much to the major’s already brilliant luster.

  When the admiral stood to recite the customary tribute, he ended it with a toast to the major, for which he remained st
anding, and then the courses began to arrive, eventually reaching eleven in number. Kris was never more grateful for having learned the fine art of nibbling her way through these fetes, of imbibing no more than absolutely necessary during the many toasts, and of smiling and nodding.

  Just as the mess president was determined to make the profusion overwhelm an unavoidable degree of mediocrity—Kris had never attended an Anson’s Day feast with eleven courses; seven being usual number—so the company raised a din that stood in for genuine conviviality. That suited her fine, absolving her of the need to say much of anything, since it was nearly impossible to be heard.

  After the fifth course—the main course, a reasonable imitation of Calebrian beef, eked out with various fungi in a cream reduction and pork rillettes—Rhimer signaled for silence to give the well-known peroration. The formula was always the same—an exchange between Admiral Kiamura and her chief of staff as her fleet bore down on the enemy—but Rhimer augmented this with some flights of his own. Whether it was “the heat of wine that set him on”—as Major Lewis was seen by Kris to mouth—or some other motive, it was unskillfully delivered and the ritual acknowledgements were even more forced than Kris had expected.

  There followed an intermezzo (citrus sorbet), then chilled asparagus and celery in a vinaigrette, triangles of puffed pastry filled with herbed mousse, cheese, and finally peach flummery and trifle. This pushed Kris well past the point of even nibbling, nor was she alone, and conversation began to flag during the flummery, diminishing until Kris could actually hear Leidecker and Minerva Lewis exchanging quotes by various ancient authors. This seemed a far cry from xenobiology, but roughly as obscure, and Kris leaned back in her chair, exhaling a deep breath, as Leidecker tried to recall some passage from Plutarch on Pyrrhus, having a bit of difficulty with it, and perhaps appropriately, his labors were interrupted by the mess president rising to announce the arrival of the port.