Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Please.”

  They passed the word and within a quarter hour, the corporal appeared, looking trim, erect and official. Huron put the question to her point blank. The corporal’s response came back, equally direct.

  “Yes, sir. My orders were to surveil and assess.”

  “And report to?”

  “The Envoy himself, sir.”

  “No one else?”

  “Correct, sir. No one else.”

  “And once you reported, what then?”

  “The Envoy would direct taking ‘appropriate measures’ under the ‘prevailing’ circumstances.”

  Huron’s expression became speculative, and they all sat in silence for a short time. Then: “Did these ‘appropriate measures’ extend to acquiring a perceived threat or negating it?”

  “I cannot say, sir. The Envoy was nonspecific on that point.”

  “He didn’t respond to your assessment?”

  “He never received it, sir. He became incapacitated before I was able to report.”

  “Corporal, on who’s authority was this op undertaken?”

  “A council missive, sir.”

  That gave Huron pause: those came straight from the Speaker’s desk.

  Vasquez’s eyes flicked briefly towards the major. “May I elaborate, sir?”

  Huron, catching the exchange, nodded. “Certainly, corporal.”

  “I considered the ambiguity of my orders problematic. The missive did not ID a specific military authority for the mission. I felt it my duty to acquaint the Commandant with the nature of the op.”

  “You had questions about its legality?”

  “I did, sir. No op should be this ill-defined. Under those circumstances, the Major’s orders should supersede the Envoy’s.”

  “I agree, Corporal.” The potential conflict between civil and military authority in a case like this could be a gray area, but Huron had little patience with shades of gray at the moment. The whole thing smacked of careless hurry and bad faith, on the assumption that Vasquez was a mere tool. Whoever was behind this—that was a question for another day—clearly thought everyone (besides themselves) was a tool. “Were you able to make an assessment?”

  “To a degree, sir.”

  “Do you feel able to share it?”

  “I believe the capability is there, sir. I cannot assess how real it might be, near-term. The captain”—nodding toward Trin—“could provide a better judgment. ”

  Huron let the postscript slide. “In your view, does this capability—if it became real—present a grave threat?”

  Vasquez hesitated, her jaw tightening. “That’s not my call, sir.”

  “But?” Huron prompted.

  “No, sir”—with a sharp breath through her dilated nostrils. “Not an actionable threat.”

  No less than he expected. But he’d wanted it on record. “Very well, Corporal. We appreciate your candor.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Another silent beat. “Will that be all? There are people I should get back to. ”

  “Yes, that will be all, Corporal. Carry on.”

  Snapping a salute, Vasquez stepped back and exited. Around the table, shoulders relaxed a notch.

  “Good,” Huron said in the aftermath. “I think we can put that to bed. I think the main point here is that the lithomorph is now an asset we can consider. Unless there’s anything you’d like to add?” Glancing at Trin again.

  “I think you covered it,” she deadpanned.

  “Alright then.” Huron laid his hand flat on the table. “I’ll dispatch a drone with the fundamentals. I don’t think it would be prudent at this time to mention your arrival, Commander.” Yanazuka nodded. “And nothing about the General or the lithomorph. That info is best given in person, and I’ll assume the responsibility for that. In the meantime, Commander, you have a boatload of data. General, you have an operator in place. And the Ionians have an asset that potentially represents a critical force multiplier. If there’s a way out of this clusterfuck, fitting those three elements together is how we’re gonna find it.”

  They all had implicit faith that PrenTalien and Westover would do what they could when they got the message, but Fortune favored the bold, God helped those who helped themselves, time and tide wait for no man, and couple of other homilies occurred to him as he scanned the faces around the table.

  “Anyone disagree?”

  No one did.

  * * *

  Back on Polidor, Kris wasn’t entirely surprised when Vasquez called on her. Current events had played havoc with the therapy sessions for her paralyzed arm, and she half-expected the corporal wanted to make up for lost time.

  She was half right. The other half came—not out of the blue, exactly, but from somewhere in that vicinity—with a forthrightness Kris expected despite her surprise at what Vasquez actually said.

  “Ma’am, I’d be very sorry if my actions undermined your faith in me.”

  Kris paused, realizing how the corporal must’ve interpreted her look or manner or something during the meeting. Recalling how she felt—especially when a thought did cross her mind: how much Vasquez’s actions owed to art, and exactly how did she get scratched by that veriformii—and the sour taste they left behind, they being ignoble and uncalled for, she shook her head.

  “Corporal, you know what I did on Rephidim”—when I got Marko killed and damn near you.

  Vasquez did not bat an eye. “I think your actions were perfectly understandable, ma’am.”

  So someone—Sergeant-major Yu, himself perhaps?—had appraised Vasquez of her history with Nestor Mankho. Yet she could not imagine Vasquez entertaining any similarly ignoble thoughts.

  “I think the same thing about yours.” She looked down at the corporal, the distance between them—officer and enlisted, SRF and marine, Homeworlder and colonial—no longer apparent. “And I’m glad they sent you.”

  Vasquez smiled back. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m glad I came.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 212

  LMR Penthesileia, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  “I understand you not being thrilled that I involved Quinn in this business,” General Corhaine said as Major Lewis filled her glass.

  “Neither fish nor fowl, Alex.” Min applied the contents of the bottle to her own glass with a musical splash.

  “Nor good red herring?”

  Inspecting the creamy head on the stout she’d just poured—Min had resolved to take it easy tonight—she chuckled. “I suppose there is a red herring involved.” The chuckle had a rather false air to it, and when Min picked up her full tumbler a minute later, her face was solemn.

  “I won’t say I wasn’t happy to see her outta the rough and tumble. But we do what we gotta do.” Savoring the rich, bitter liquid under the thick foam for a handful of sips, she rested the glass on her upraised knee and licked the cream off her upper lip. “I was curious about somethin’ though.”

  The general regarded her above her glass. “What’s that?”

  “When you offered to stake Quinn, you must’ve had this op down in your good books?”

  “We were deep in negotiations at that point, but nothing was sealed yet.”

  “Did you know that we—the rangers—were on the hook for deployment here?”

  “There were rumors to the effect. Why?”

  “I just wondered if you staked Quinn because you were worried what might happen if we showed up in each other’s gunsight.”

  Sliding her drink on the table beside them, Corhaine interlaced her fingers and gestured openly with her thumbs. “Quinn’s a bit like a daughter to me. That was a situation I didn’t want either of you to face.”

  “And what about us, Alex?”

  The general watched her through a long moment before reclaiming her drink. “You already said it, Min. We do what we gotta do.”

  The major reached out and they tapped their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”

  ~ ~ ~

/>   Day 214, (AM)

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  “How’s your day so far, cuz? Been treating you right?”

  Huron had not seen Lev Anson is years, but the smile, the voice—indeed his whole manner—were very little altered from the obnoxiously charming teenager of bygone days.

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Well, it’s not all rose dipped in chocolate, but you might find a silver lining anyway.” Observing that his witticisms weren’t buying him much, Lev produced his news in a succulent and straightforward manner. He carried Huron’s proposals to his government, and their response amount to this:

  His government would agree to an armistice, but not a formal end to the war until a treaty was in place. They would not agree to taking action against the Prince Vorland Fleet, pleading inadequate power projection capability and that they must see to their own defenses. Paroling the CEF personnel the Ionians held presented no difficulty, and they were free to depart as soon as suitable transport could be arranged. The status of the captured ships, however, was an issue for the future. While the Ionians had no interest in keeping them any longer than necessary, his government could not agree to hand them over until a formal treaty was ratified. He trusted that Rafe would see that was no more than prudence. Privately, Huron agreed it was prudence, along with also a few other things, like short-sighted under the circumstances. Still, in justice, he could not blame them.

  “Last thing,” Anson said, “as long as we have an acceptable data-sharing agreement signed, cooperating with Dr. VelSilinjes regarding the lithomorph is a go. Provided she can be convinced to agree, that is.”

  “You foresee a problem?” Huron asked.

  Lev’s smile telegraphed his answer. “Just between you and me, after she published that first paper, ISS developed an interest, and some months ago they sent a delegation to call on the good doctor and explain to her the potential ramifications, along with some high-flown stuff about God and Country and such like. It went over about as well as you might expect.”

  That did not surprise Huron, and he nodded for him to go on.

  “Anyway, Isabeau then called on her good friend the president and waxed almost biblical, as I understand it, along the lines of she’d see them in Hell first.”

  “I see.”

  “Yep. Marquardt directed ISS to darken her door no more, and that was that.” That did not sound especially promising, but Lev still clearly had a thought in mind. “But it occurred to me you might have someone more acceptable to broach the subject on hand.”

  That did surprise him. “We might?”

  “Commander Kennakris. She can very . . . persuasive when she puts her mind to it.”

  Huron suppressed a snort. Not that Lev was wrong exactly, but . . . “Right.”

  Lev seemed to take Huron’s comment monosyllabic comment as satirical. “I’m serious. Isabeau hates slavery like the very devil. Being she’s a former slave, the commander would have credibility with her. Along with your report of that slaver fleet, it might do the trick.”

  Surprising as it was, Huron could see the suggestion had merit. Within the past 24 hours, General Corhaine had retrieved the last batch of messages from Lieutenant Quinn. These confirmed what Commander Yanazuka had already reported: that the sultan had arrived and been seized when the Prince Vorland Fleet appeared; that the Emir had forced him to send the message decoying the TTF and then spent several days personally torturing him to death. Quinn had also included estimates of when the Emir planned to leave for the capital to declare himself sultan, and a rough breakdown of the force Admiral Caneris would detach to escort him, the rest of the Prince Vorland fleet staying behind to secure Winnecke IV.

  What Lev was referring to, however, was a fleet the Emir had been assembling at Nicobar; the fleet Yanazuka had detected indications of. Quinn reported this to be a large slaver fleet intended to conduct a raid of historic proportion on the Outworlds, once the Emir reached the capital. The Emir was known to be heavily involved in the sultanate’s slave trade, which was nominally outlawed, but in fact run by a cadre of guild houses located on Nicobar. Considering Halith’s need for new slaves, the raid made perfect sense. The Prince Vorland fleet would provide an escort and some auxiliary muscle to help out, and Quinn had supplied a few other details, as well. All this they’d shared with the Ionians, as a gesture of good faith. Besides, Huron reflect, they were the ones who paid for it.

  But Huron had been sitting next to Kris when they received Quinn’s intelligence—it was a wonder his uniform hadn’t scorched—and he wasn’t as sanguine about her value as an emissary as Lev seemed to be.

  “You’ve met the commander, then?”

  “Indeed I have.” Lev almost winked.

  Huron pointedly ignored the almost-wink. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “Good luck.” Lev’s smile morphed into a more guarded look. “So, can I ask one question—out of school?”

  “Sure, you can ask.”

  “About Commander Kennakris . . . she was bluffing, wasn’t she?”

  “Now Lev, I know you’re a keen judge of character. What do you think?”

  Expression unchanged, Lev tilted his head. “I figured you’d say something like that.”

  “Figured right.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 214 (PM)

  LSS Polidor, in free space

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Gathered around the table in Polidor’s wardroom, which bore the remnants of a light and hasty meal—better than the rat packs Min had decried but only just—Huron acquainted her, Kris, General Corhaine and Trin with his AM’s conversation with Lev Anson. They welcomed his news with about as much enthusiasm as they’d eaten lunch. Corhaine apprised them of the latest from Quinn, a dispatch just 74 hours old. The Emir had wanted to leave for Andaman separately, but Caneris had vetoed this. So they could not depart until Caneris’ fleet had been resupplied and completed necessary repairs. Quinn had been using her access to the Emir’s systems to do what she could to delay his departure by mucking about in the supply system, delaying orders and losing messages, without raising undue suspicions.

  But “undue suspicions” were very much in the eye of the beholder, and not knowing who those beholders might be, Corhaine promptly ordered her to not risk herself further. Commander Yanazuka had graciously offered one of her stealth frigates to act as a relay for Quinn and to get her off-planet when the time came. LSS Kite had left immediately, amid hopes that time had not come and gone.

  Now, Huron approached Kris with Lev’s notion that she might be the right person to raise the lithomorph issue with Dr. VelSilinjes. From her look, Kris thought even less about her powers in that regard than Huron initially had.

  “I barely met her,” Kris said, in barely more than a mutter. Then she added, “Better off trying Dr. Leidecker.”

  Exhuming the name from his memory of the Mission’s roster, Huron looked thoughtful. “The Envoy’s personal physician?”

  “Yeah. He’s tight with the doctor. He’d be a better bet.”

  “Would he agree?”

  Kris twitched one shoulder. “What d’we got to lose? He’s downside. Be a lot faster than one of us making the trip, anyway.”

  An excellent point, Huron allowed. Time was very much of the essence. “Okay. I’ll ask Anson to arrange a chat with the doctor. I think it’s best if you talk to him. Does that work?”

  “It works.”

  Surveying the others at the table, Huron asked, “Anything else before I take up the cudgel with our Ionian friends again?”

  Standing, Min sifted the reports in the tabletop beneath their plates and mugs. Locating the sheet listing Quinn’s estimate of the Prince Vorland fleet’s order of battle, she tapped it. “Maybe this isn’t the time, but this order of battle. I know it’s gospel, but it doesn’t add up for me.”

  Huron leaned over the sheet. It was true the estimate showed an unorthodox orga
nization. Typically, a Halith fleet deployed with a Center Force (CENFOR) and two carrier divisions (CARDIVs). As the name suggested, a CENFOR formed the core of a fleet, consisting of a dreadnought squadron with two, sometimes three, battleship divisions (BATDIVs). Normally, components of a fleet never acted independently, although Admiral Adenauer has famously broken this doctrine to split off his carriers at Wogan’s Reef’s to cut off PrenTalien’s escape route. It was a bold move and it almost worked.

  Here, doctrine was being departed from again, in that the Prince Vorland fleet has its normal center force, but only one carrier division and a formation Quinn identified as a “flank group”. This flank group included at least two battlecruisers, but appeared to be made up mostly of a large number of lighter combatants; Quinn had learned nothing more specific. She believed flank group was most likely intended to escort the slaver fleet.

  “And that’s what doesn’t add up for me,” Min said after they reviewed the numbers. “They left a whole CARDIV at home and detailed a special taskforce as an escort?”

  “So it would seem,” Huron agreed.

  “But this slaver fleet.” Min scooped out that part of the report. “Look at the max capacity.”

  They looked. Min underlined the tonnage with a fingernail. “Five hundred thousand, tops. Now I’m not saying that isn’t a lot”—with a conscious glance at Kris. “But does it make sense to give up a whole CARDIV for it? Seems . . . disproportionate.”

  As Min sat back down, and Huron, Trin and Yanazuka pondered, Kris spoke. “It’s not five hundred kay.” Four pairs of eyes turned to her. “They’ll put ’em in cryo. No stores, pack ’em in tight.”

  Commander Yanazuka pursed her lips. “But the cryo containers would take up so much space—”

  “They don’t use containers,” Kris cut her off, dead-voiced.

  “Open cryo?” Trin sounded quietly aghast. “They’d lose thirty . . . thirty-five percent.”

  “More like forty.” In all her years as a slave, Kris hadn’t heard of it being done more than three or four times, and then only massive contract raids—planet sweepers—that freelancers like Trench and the Harlot’s Ruse rarely if ever got in on. But the crews talked and dreamed about it: the one thing that would set you up with a ship of your own—even a flotilla. “With open cryo, you can cram in at least ten, closer to fifteen times as many people.”