Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Aye aye, ma’am.” Then, his curiosity getting the best of him: “Who is that, ma’am?”

  Standing, Kris gave the screen another glance. “Unless I’ve completely lost the plot, that’s Commander Huron.”

  * * *

  Kris had not lost the plot, of course, and shortly after the middle of the morning watch, she met Commander Huron at Polidor’s starboard main hatch with a mind prepared. She was less prepared, however, for the appearance of Captain Wesselby alongside him. Where Trin Wesselby appeared, the shit had usually gotten unusually deep and, worse than that, frequently treacherous. She’d seen Trin only once since her promotion, at a private birthday celebration of Huron’s father, and what Kris knew of her billet on Terra did not jibe with her being here.

  Keeping her face impassive, she waited until Tom Salsato, standing beside her with Senior Lieutenant Jeremy Dalton, Polidor’s acting captain, made the formal introductions. It all felt rather silly, with parade-ground salutes and “May I present . . .” and all the rest, and Huron remained as stone-faced as she did throughout. Only Trin smiled, explaining her supernumerary status, and neither the explanation nor the smile reassured anyone. Least of all, Kris.

  “Commander, I wonder if I might have a word with you and Major Lewis, if she’s available,” Huron asked when the formalities were accomplished.

  “Of course . . . sir”—modifying her habitual response. “I am sure she—the major—will be more than happy. We can use my quarters, if that’s . . . satisfactory.”

  “Perfectly.”

  Kris looked to Trin Wesselby. “Will you be joining us, Captain?”

  “No, Commander”—with a slight inclination of her head and that damned smile. “Operations aren’t my area. But I would like to glance through your databases, if that’s acceptable.” She turned her attention to Dalton, who flushed slightly.

  “That’d be fine, ma’am. We love to oblige you, but we don’t have them back on-line yet.”

  Trin elevated a dark, level eyebrow slightly: polite inquiry.

  “The fact of the matter, Captain, is that none of us have access to the keys, so we can’t load the backups.”

  “I see.” Trin’s expression clouded a moment at the implications and then cleared. “I believe I can help you with that, Captain. If you’d be so good as to have someone show me the way?”

  “You can come with us, ma’am,” Dalton volunteered. “We’d certainly appreciate the assist.”

  “Very well. Please, lead on.”

  As the trio left, following a flurry of salutes and “By your leave, sir . . . ma’am”, Huron looked back at Kris. “Can I take it you’ve had a chat with the major?”

  “She filled me in”—returning his look.

  “So you know that much, then. What about here? How deep are the alligators?”

  Kris recognized that as stemming from one of his father’s favorite aphorisms: “When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s no time to think about draining the swamp.”

  At least he sounded more like himself now. She jerked a thumb down the passageway. “C’mon. I’ll tell ya.”

  * * *

  A bosun’s mate elbow-deep in an open panel, checking the control runs to the aft launchers, glanced at the marine sentry standing at the hatch a meter away. “Well, Kerr, we’re fucked and no mistake.”

  The marine swiveled just his eyes in the direction of the mariner. “You don’t know shit, laddie. That was Commander Huron, that was.”

  “I know who it fuckin’ was—the Favorite Son, himself. Didn’t you see the look Reaper Angel give ’im? He didn’t bring no goddamned relief, nor is none coming neither. We are so fucked, so we are.”

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ, Kris! You can’t go around threatening to blow up entire planets!” Huron was leaning back in his seat, recovering from the shock of what he’d just heard. He expected surprises from Kris but this was . . .

  “A bravura performance!” interjected Min with a great beaming smile. “We have a recording—you really should see it.”

  Huron and Kris both glared at the major, which did nothing to diminish the wattage of her smile.

  Kris refocused her glare on Huron. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Surrender? Fight to the death?” Huron stared at her, lips tight. “Sorry if I was rude but we were out of options. And it worked.”

  Min laughed. “Rude,” she said under her breath. “Love it.”

  Making a show of ignoring the major, Huron scrutinized the list Kris had passed him. “So they agreed to hand over Lexington, Saratoga and Yorktown—almost half their heaviest combatants? And this pair of light cruisers, Dahlgren and Kearsarge . . . Algonquin. That’s a tin can?” Kris nodded. “These captures”—running a fingertip down the names—“and detail this hospital ship for our use. All with some of our people aboard and crews of their people? And the major’s marines here to secure things?” He lifted his eyes from the xel. “Is that it?”

  She nodded again. “We don’t have enough supplies for everyone, so I insisted on balanced crews and I’m holding them responsible for the welfare of the rest. They tried to push them all off on us, knowing we couldn’t feed ’em or even find space for ’em to lie down. Since I didn’t know when to expect a relief, I said no. The general agreed to parole so I could use Min’s people.”

  “And except for the hospital ship”—the log showed they’d rendezvoused with her the previous day-cycle—“they’re going to do all this in the next forty-eight hours?”

  “They wanted time to pull some electronics and scrub the systems. I agreed. We don’t want their hardware and I don’t care about their data. I just wanted to pull their teeth until a relief showed up.”

  “And you mixed crews and picked that parking orbit to prevent any nasty surprises?”

  “That’s right.” Kris watched Huron for several beats, as if expecting him to raise some objection. Instead, he set the xel aside. “That’s a fine start. We’ll let it be known that they sent me ahead to negotiate an agreement and Sabr is a few days out, but if they ratify and fulfill the agreement, he’ll pull back. And hope that holds them until this plays out.” He paused, lips shaped by a thin smile that could’ve had any of a number of feelings, or all of them, behind it. “The Old Man said you scared the shit outta people—even him.”

  “Thanks,” said Kris, who had not heard that particular tidbit. “I guess.” Then: “But did they actually give you diplomatic authority?”

  Huron shrugged. “That’s an open question. It’s certainly plausible and I don’t intend to give them time to check. If we pull this off, they aren’t going to disown it and if we don’t, we’ll be past caring.”

  “That’s a cheery thought.”

  “Your idea.” He rubbed his hand rasping along his jaw. “Set up a meeting and I’ll go shave and try to look diplomatic. But first tell me about this merc outfit you have locked up. Who are they?”

  “The Tanith Rangers,” Kris answered.

  Huron dropped his hand and looked sharply at Min. “Corhaine’s Black Hats?”

  “You know them?” Kris asked, following the look Huron and Min exchanged.

  “Yeah. They’re very good—specialize in black ops, infiltrations, counterinsurgency, blockade busting, pirate suppression, that sort of thing.” Huron was still eyeing the Major. “Are they part of your agreement?”

  “Um . . . not exactly.”

  Huron looked back at Kris. “Well, they need to be added then. There should be a clause in the contract they can exercise to cover this sort of thing. Once Corhaine is out from under any obligation, we can deal with her ourselves.” Kris frowned. “I don’t mean like that,” Huron added, with emphasis. “What? You two bond over something?”

  Min chuckled. Kris looked needled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “General Corhaine has a certain reputation in the black-ops community,” Min put in helpfully. Kris waited for further enlightenment but Min just kept up tha
t ambiguous knowing smile.

  “Alright,” Huron said, breaking the tension. “Let’s get on-line with the Ionians and make that meeting happen. I’m going to send an appraisal home—”

  “And engage in a bit of CYA?” Min asked.

  “More than a bit,” Huron replied. “I don’t fancy mine as a wall ornament. If you feel differently, by all means . . .”

  “Oh, not at all. An admirable art form.”

  “ . . . and I hope you still have a few hyperdrones available?”—looking to Kris, who nodded—“Excellent.” Huron got up to leave. “This has been very edifying. See you in an hour or so.”

  As the door closed behind him, Min also rose and as she did, Kris stopped her. “What was that all about—General Corhaine’s reputation?”

  Min considered for a moment before answering. “Well, the General has a reputation for being extraordinarily dangerous when backed into a corner, and she’s also known to be quite creative in her methods.” The knowing smile got a little deeper. “What the good commander was getting at is that, in some ways, she’s a lot like you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 208

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  The particulars of what Huron did over the next seventy-two hours, or how he did them, Kris neither knew nor sought to know. She was aware of his Ionian mother, and that he maintained connections with her family there (Lev Anson was a cousin), which clearly helped. Beyond that, he had the weight of his family name, some acquaintance with a few prominent officials, and his personality. The orders Admiral PrenTalien had given him were extraordinarily broad, saying nothing more than he should “use his best efforts”, while Carlos Westover had seized on the declaration of war to place an embargo on the system, effectively cutting everyone else out of the loop for the time being.

  By whatever means, Huron convinced the Ionians to hold to the agreement Kris had hacked out, and obtained the equipment and stores necessary to get Polidor hypercapable again and patch up Ariel. He also resolved the issues with Corhaine’s contract with the Ionians, and secured her services for what the new contract termed “logistical support”. This removed some of the unaccustomed (and unwelcome) burden from Kris’s shoulders and brought her much better acquainted with the general.

  Much was said in history and legend of the “The Touch” that some commanders were gifted with. It went beyond charisma, a quality almost mystical in its essence. Caesar had it, and Hannibal and Alexander; some ascribed it to Napoleon, and Lord Nelson inspired the name by which mariners had described it ever since.

  In modern times, Joss PrenTalien had it, if in a rather avuncular style, and Lo Gai Sabr in a more piratical one, but for most, Ashlynn Kiamura had been the person who truly embodied it. Min certainly felt that way, and now Kris, in the presence of this woman with the dissecting eye and the clear melodic voice, knew how she felt. There seemed to be no specific focus to it, nothing Kris could put her finger on or name, and without it the general would appear unremarkable. Yet it inspired the kind of faith that would take people through any fire—not blindly, but knowing full well what they did and why; that whatever price they were being asked to pay was worth it, and that this woman would pay more, and had.

  This last was no hyperbole: Kris read in the general’s face—more symmetrical than was quite natural and she detected the faint scars of at least one major reconstruction, done a long time ago. The general had seen a lot of action, some of it evidently from the wrong side.

  Action did not concern them, however, but trying to discover how they could turn two shot-torn ships and a wreck into spaceworthy vessels. Kris had been about to write off Osiris as hopeless, but Corhaine suggested otherwise. Ingenuity could accomplish a great deal, as long as her keel was sound.

  Already, the fruit of that ingenuity could be seen, but whether it would have a chance to grow sufficiently ripe was a different issue. On that score, Kris turned to Captain Wesselby, Huron being away on Iona. She found the captain warmer than she remembered, but what Trin told her struck a chill to her bones.

  With Overlight in progress, the only force available to support them here at Iona was the Tuffs, currently covering the Sultan’s ass at his capital. Kris knew that, and she knew dispatching them to Iona would pull the covers off the deception that Ninth was still at Eltanin. She hadn’t been expecting them, but arranging an inconspicuous rendezvous with the Tuffs didn’t seem out of the question.

  Trin’s news shot that question out the airlock. PrenTalien had a squadron of stealth frigates at Ivoria, led by Commander Yanazuka in LSS Kestrel, to keep tabs on the Emir and monitor the Winnecke IV junction. In brief, Trin told her, Yanazuka had reported evidence the Emir was on the verge of launching his coup, meaning he must’ve finally gotten Halith to support him. Learning this, the Sultan had hurried to Ivoria to arrest the Emir. The Tuffs had followed him to defend Winnecke IV.

  That was the last they’d heard. The Sultan ought to have arrived at Ivoria a few day ago, with the Tuffs less than a day behind him. Hearing this explained why had Huron replied, when Kris had asked him exactly what he expected to accomplish: “Salvage all we can and make it look like we’re being magnanimous. Let everyone go home and declare victory. Then boost the hell outta here before the bill comes due.”

  Under the circumstances, that struck Kris as a practical and perhaps even realistic; certainly the best they could hope for, for the present. For the future—for the CEF and for herself (what billets could a one-armed fighter pilot fill? Why did Rafe’s smile still make her stomach flip that way?)—those thoughts nagged, nibbled and harassed her. Drowning them in a flood of details helped some.

  Not enough. Not nearly enough, looking at him now in Polidor’s newly restored wardroom, outwardly happy and relaxed. He’d returned from the negotiations to attend the dinner for the cruiser’s rechristening (unofficial, but heartfelt: they’d brought the grav-plant back on-line that PM), along with Kris, Trin, Minerva Lewis and General Corhaine, whose people had done much to bring about this happy event.

  Jeremy Dalton had just raised his glass in a third ritual toast. The diners echoed it, tossed off the excellent port looted from the late, unlamented Commander Sayles’ private stores (she’d accumulated quite the hoard of delicacies, certainly by unsanctioned means, and this personal corruption had proved a great comfort to the overworked crews), and set down their glasses, allowing the mess steward to approach the acting captain and murmur confidentially in his ear.

  Dalton nodded and a yeoman appeared with a flimsy. Hesitating on whom to give it to, his captain or Huron, the senior line officer on-station, Huron nodded to the head of the table. Dalton accepted the flimsy, frowned and folded it. “How long?”

  “Just translated in, sir.”

  “When they make their number, acknowledge. We’ll be along directly.”

  He passed the note down the table to Huron, who unfolded it and read. Kris saw the flicker in his eyes that few would have noticed. Trin did, and he handed the note to her. She glanced at it without any change in expression.

  Returning his attention and the flimsy to the head of table, Huron laid his hand on his glass. “Well, Captain. I think we have time to complete our business here.”

  “As you say, sir.” Dalton inclined his head toward Cheryl Mason, acting damage control officer. “Lieutenant, the bottle stands by you.”

  At the top of the hour, Dalton led Huron, Kris and Trin to Polidor’s bridge where the Signal Lieutenant displayed the new arrival’s number and private signal. Viewing the sender’s recognition key, Dalton looked over at Huron and said, “I think this one falls to you, Commander.”

  Huron nodded, stepped to the hyperwave and keyed in his codes. Then he tapped out: THIS IS A PLEASANT SURPRISE, and hit SEND.

  Within seconds, Commander Yanazuka’s reply flashed across the screen.

  IT REALLY ISN’T.

  Part III: Dies Iræ

  The day of wrath and doom imp
ending,

  Will dissolve the world in ashes . . .

  The trumpet, scattering wondrous sound

  through the sepulchers of all the regions . . .

  Death and nature will marvel,

  when the creature arises . . .

  —Dies Iræ (from the Latin)

  One: Seven Trumpets Gather

  Who is like unto the Beast? Who is able to make war with him?

  —Revelation 13:4

  Day 211

  IHS Bolimov, in orbit

  Ivoria, Antares Region

  “Unacceptable.” Admiral Caneris closed several files with an abrupt motion. “How long must we put up with this nonsense?”

  Across the desk in the admiral’s day cabin, Bolimov’s captain, Grigori Hoffman, his jaw set and his eyes dark, put a fist on the edge of the desktop. “I’d answer it with a file of marines. That would stir the bastards up.”

  It would, but however pleasant to contemplate, that approach would not avail them. “No, Grigori. We must play the diplomat awhile yet.”

  “Every day the little shit delays us elevates the risk.” Hoffman’s fist rocked unconsciously against the desk. “The League will not stay deaf, blind and dumb forever, whatever IRIS may believe.”

  “Quite true”—letting his captain vent. Hoffman had been unhappy from the start; his temper had not improved on acquaintance, quite the opposite, and Caneris shared his feelings, if with less outward vehemence. They made an excellent beginning, arriving ahead of schedule and decoying the Trifid Frontier Force with a masterwork of deception. Admiral Sansar, believing he was coming to the Sultan’s aid, had arrived at Winnecke IV to find himself in a hopeless position and wisely elected to not make a vain and useless sacrifice. His disarmed fleet now rode comfortably at grav-anchor, watched attentively by Caneris’ battleships.

  The Sultan had not been so lucky. Breezing in with his overdressed palace guard, he found a warm welcome deep in the Emir’s private residence, where the Emir, who indeed lacked stature, personally tortured him for two days before he died. Caneris did not think the old man’s death intentional; the Emir would certainly have preferred to linger over his fun; no doubt, he’d become overexcited and clumsy. Fortunately, there’d been no hope of resurrection, or Caneris, returning to learn the state of affairs, would have felt obliged to intervene, likely ending the mission.