Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Y’know how I feel about you, right?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Y’know that’ll never change, no matter what?”

  “I know that.”

  Quinn brought a hand around to brush her fingertips across Min’s cheek. “Then you’re not gonna be mad when I tell ya that somebody can’t be me.”

  Min settled back on the cushions, covering a sigh of a wholly different nature. “I felt that comin’.”

  “You’re not mad, right?”

  Taking Quinn’s hand in her free one, Min kissed the palm. “I’m not mad.”

  “Y’understand?”

  Another kiss on that warm palm before letting it go. “Understand. So where are we?”

  Quinn pulled her hand back and cradled it in her lap. “I’m not gonna disappear in a flash of glitter, if that’s what you mean. I want you to find someone. I don’t wanna be your albatross.”

  “Wasn’t the albatross a ship’s good luck until some ass killed it?”—dredging up her recollection of Coleridge.

  Quinn’s brows pinched together. “I dunno. Was it?”

  “Pretty sure.” Min essayed a smile, with caution around the edges. “What’dya say to not killing any albatrosses, just to be on the safe side? Understanding that they wander a lot, and ya only see ’em on occasion. Maybe not for quite a while. Even rarely.”

  “Okay.” Quinn’s brows did not relax. “But if I find out you’re just sitting around watching for albatrosses, the shit’s gonna fly.”

  “I won’t. Give ya my promise.”

  “And what happens, happens. Even if that’s nothing.”

  “Even so.”

  “Alright.” The pinch smoothed into a quiet smile, even beatific. Quinn got to her feet. “I oughta get going. You got another visitor waiting—she told me to come in first.”

  “Who’s that?” That she didn’t sound like the deputation of intrusive official well-wishers she’d been half dreading.

  “Her name’s Robyn. She really cute”—adding a wink.

  Gomez? Oh, well . . . She’d been expecting that, too. “Thanks. Tell her to come ahead.”

  “I’ll do that.” Quinn paused. “I’ve got a deal working here—a gig in three weeks.” She rubbed a hand briefly over the nape of her neck. “Y’still gonna be my girl in the front row?”

  Min smiled like the rising sun. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

  Duly told to come ahead by Quinn, Captain Robyn Gomez appeared a minute later with a look of ill-concealed apprehension on her pretty face.

  “Pleasure to see you, Gomez,” Min greeted her pleasantly. “Come on in”—when the young woman hesitated. Gomez entered with a tentative smile. “Something on your mind?”

  Gomez looked more nervous than apprehensive now. She was a fine young officer: firm, decisive, quick and adaptable; always got the best from her people—and Min had not forgotten her key insight about radiation clearing Bolimov’s gundeck. She and her XO, 1st Lieutenant Chloe Galovic, were both destined for brilliant careers, if they didn’t get killed first. As a result of her performance at Wogan’s Reef, Gomez had made captain at a ridiculously young age, and while Min had no cause to regret that, whenever she met Gomez in private that’s exactly what she seemed: ridiculously young. Now Min waited for the young woman to wrestle with what was obviously a prepared speech that had suddenly given her cold feet.

  “I wanted to wish you well, ma’am,” Gomez began at last. “And . . . um . . .”

  “And—um?” Min coaxed.

  “Thank you, ma’am . . .but—” Pearly incisors scraped her full lower lip for the barest second. “It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. The armor would’ve taken it.”

  Oh. “Yeah—probably take one. But there might’a been two.”

  The large dark eyes narrowed and the deeply-bowed lips firmed in puzzlement. “Doesn’t that make it worse, ma’am?”

  That teased out a smile. “I suppose you’re right. It does.”

  “But then . . .” Those teeth worrying that lower lip again. “I lost the plot out there, ma’am. That was my fault. I put everyone at risk by going off-lock when it mattered.”

  “No one’s always perfect. No matter what the manual says.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  What was that shyness in the averted eyes? Gomez hadn’t been playing the fool out there. Her attention was divided for a moment, that’s all. What was it she couldn’t bring herself to ask?

  Dammit, Anders. Did your fuckin’ mouth get the better of you again?

  “Did you talk to someone, Gomez?”

  “I—I did, ma’am.” Her eyes flicked to Min’s and away. “Captain Anders.”

  Troy, when they let me loose, I sweartogawd, I’m gonna make a double-crown wall knot outta you. “He told’ja about Tallie Jones?”

  Shifting her shoulders, Gomez nodded. “Yes. He didn’t tell me her name, though.” As if that might somehow save him from having all his bones broken.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Taliesin Jones. She was a cross-holder.” The Senatorial Cross was the League’s highest military honor. Fewer than a hundred had ever been awarded. Min had one of them.

  “Oh.” The knuckles of Robyn’s right hand were scrubbing themselves against her palm. “Did she survive?”

  Min shook her head. “Armor wasn’t as good in those days.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” You weren’t even a year old then.

  “I mean I’m sorry I brought it up, ma’am.” A softer voice, but without the tremor that marked it before.

  “It’s fine. Just do me a favor and try not to spread it around, okay?”

  “Oh!” That brought her head up. “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

  “And try not to be stupid like me, too.”

  A faint crease formed between the dark brows. “I’ll . . . do my best.”

  “Can’t ask any more than that.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.” Her right hand unclenching, Robyn smiled. “We’re all looking forward to having you back on the line soon.”

  “I thought you all had better sense than that.”

  The smile relaxed and widened. “Some more than others, ma’am. I’ll risk it.”

  Min returned the smile. “Well, Captain, go enjoy yourself for tonight. They don’t know how to keep a good woman down in these parts.”

  “I’ll try, ma’am.” The shyness was back. What the hell? “Rest well, Major.”

  Robyn turned to leave. Min swatted her indecision aside before she reached the entryway.

  “Gomez?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You mind if I ask you a personal question? Officer to officer? Without the ma’am.”

  “No, m—um . . . I don’t mind.” Her complexion made it hard to tell if there was a hint of color in those apple cheeks.

  “Do you have anyone special to spend the night with?” Anders had brought up Robyn more than a little in recent months, and he wouldn’t have told just anyone about Tallie.

  “Um . . . No. I don’t.”

  “Not Troy?”

  That brought out the pink in full force—a shade Min found quite attractive. Lord, how she loved a marine who could still blush.

  “We like each other,” Robyn explained with slight, endearing stumble in her speech. “But nothing’s happened yet.” That tiny note of disappointment she was trying to hide made it more endearing still.

  “If you want it to happen, you’re gonna have to make it happen, Robyn. Troy’s funny that way. Carpe diem, y’know.”

  “Carpe diem?”

  “Seize the initiative. In the Latin. More or less.”

  “Oh.” The smile lit up her face. “Is that an order, Major?”

  “Take it however it you like, Captain.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “You’ll be good for ’im. Better than he deserves.”

  “I—ah . . . Not sure about that part.”

  Jeezus! There she goes ag
ain. These kids . . . “Be sure about it, Robyn. Never doubt it.” Make her happy, Troy, and I’ll leave you the use of both arms.

  “Okay.” Then: “You’re not going to be too hard on Troy, are you? He just wanted me to understand.”

  Troy now, huh?—unwillingly deciding she had to grant him a reprieve. The lucky little prick. “Not irreparably.”

  “I appreciate the time, Major.” She cycled the entrance open. “Good evening.”

  “Good night, Captain.”

  The entrance cycled closed and Min relaxed. They’d make a nice a pair. Anders needed to get over his fly-by-nighters; Robyn needed to blossom into something more than a fine officer. Ama, moriendum est. Is that how the old tag went? Was it Seneca? No, couldn’t be. Seneca was a Stoic—thought “virtue is sufficient for happiness”—what an ass. Fucked up in the end—forced into suicide. Goddammit, her chest was starting to hurt again. Must be messing with her mind. A bone matrix always hurt, but this one was working up to be a real bitch. She hadn’t touched the pain meds yet. Should she?

  No. Someone else always needed it more. Like Vasquez? How was she doing? Thank gawd they left her a xel. Groping around, she found it and unfurled the display with her thumb. Logging onto the fleet rosters, she asked for an update on Vasquez Montero y Domanova, Maralena (Tech-Corporal). The query returned the hospital address. Muttering, she resubmitted her request to the hospital, along with her credentials. It replied with a screen to asking to verify her biometrics.

  What a pain in the ass. Especially with one hand.

  She managed it and learned the corporal was doing okay, all things considered: expected discharge in five or six days. Prognosis decent.

  And she was five floors directly above her, according the floor plan. Paging back to her messages, a new one appeared. Naming calls? She opened it—Vasquez was okay enough to dictate a note—and read the perfectly professional pleasantry, offering congratulations and wishing her well. That was a dead giveaway: Vasquez deserved the congratulations—she hadn’t done anything cleverer than catch a slug.

  Min flipped the display shut. Quinn was right (as usual). Here she was lecturing Gomez and . . . What was Vasquez thinking? Vasquez, who wasn’t in her chain of command; who was thirty years senior to her; who—like all CATs—was basically a law unto herself . . . and who loved music. Jazz, opera, you name it.

  And Min knew the hottest new performer on the planet. Quinn’s concert was scheduled for two weeks. If she was a very good girl, they’d let her out in a few days. Plenty of time make plans . . .

  She brought out the xel again, and reopened the display. Now, if she could only figure out how to hold the fuckin’ thing while keying in a message with one hand . . .

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 241

  Carillion Naval Hospital

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Kris had always hated the smell of hospitals—the smell and the carefully chosen décor, the relentlessly pleasant views on the light screens, the subtle annoying hum of the antiseptic fields. It was the odor of sterility and carefully regulated perfection which masked, but did not remove, the smell of pain, of desperation and loneliness, lurking underneath.

  Her stomach tight, she followed the pathfinder the nurse had given her along with some sketchy verbal instructions to a room on the 17th floor. The door was open, so she knocked with a hesitant knuckle.

  “Come in.” The voice was more buoyant than she’d expected.

  Kris walked into the room. Vasquez was up, dressed in loose civilian clothes—a bright teal with accents of Chinese red and improbable violet—packing her belongings in a single bag. Her left arm was bandaged to her torso by an elastic sleeve with a rehab unit plugged into it, it’s little green lights blinking purposefully, and a cast still covered the stump of her right leg. A temporary prosthesis lay on the bed. Vasquez had an old-fashioned crutch tucked under her good arm which she maneuvered deftly as she crossed the couple of meters between the dresser and the bed.

  “Hi,” Kris said. “I thought I’d come by and see how you were.”

  “Good morning, Commander,” Vasquez answered . “I’m doing well, thank you.” She looked well too or, at any rate, better than Kris had feared. She was thinner, much less tan, and there was still a touch of yellow to her complexion. But she seemed amazingly fit, everything considered.

  “I just heard you’re getting out this PM—thought it’s be tomorrow. Guess I almost missed you.”

  “I heal fast, ma’am. Thank you for coming by. I was hoping to see you before I was discharged.” Vasquez took hold of the corner of an undershirt with her teeth, folded it expertly with her single arm, and placed it in the neatly arranged pack. The practiced, efficient motions reminded Kris absurdly of their first meeting, when she couldn’t get herself out of bed with two more working limbs than Vasquez now had. Clearly, Vasquez had experienced the inconvenience of missing limbs before.

  “How’s the new leg coming?”

  “Very well, ma’am. It should be ready week after next, then we can graft it.”

  “Are you coming back here for that?”

  “No, ma’am. Dr. VelSilinjes offered to do to it at her clinic—”

  “Vasquez?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you think we can dispense with the ma’am until we’re both back on duty?”

  “All right.” Vasquez smiled; a dazzling display of white teeth, a few probably brand new. She tucked her small collection of toiletries into the corners of the pack, and smoothed the wrinkles out of the clothes on top.

  “So where are you staying locally? Somewhere on the South Continent?” Since that was where Dr. VelSilinjes was located.

  “Yes. Lev Anson is letting me use one of his places. Tanner’s Ridge, up in the Traumerei Mountains. Near where we saw the Veriform Gloriosa.”

  “That would make Leidecker happy.”

  “I hope so. I plan to invite him.” And after a pause accompanied by a significant look: “You ought to talk to him, ma’am—if I may say so. About your arm.”

  Kris had been expecting her to bring that up. Dr. VelSilinjes had already offered, and Kris had overcome her irrational reluctance to accept. “Yeah, that’s been handled, already.”

  The smile took on a tincture of surprise. “So glad to hear it, ma’am.”

  “I take it this place is on the ground?” Kris asked, changing back the original subject.

  “Yes. I don’t much care for those floating things. But it has a triple-isolated ferrocrete foundation and a built-in stasis lock if things get too bumpy.”

  “Very plush.”

  “Lev has been very thoughtful. I appreciate it.”

  “Sounds like he does too,” Kris said. “Nice to be appreciated.”

  “Well yes,” Vasquez agreed, zipping her bag shut. “But they can afford it. After all, by the Book, Iona won. We just came out a little ahead.”

  “Yeah, I imagine history will look on it that way.” Kris slid her hand into her tunic pocket; her fingers fidgeted under the fabric. “You—ah . . . you aren’t thinking of settling permanent, are you?”

  “No. Just for a few months. Until the rehab’s finished—maybe a little longer. I’ve got a ninety-day furlough coming. I thought I might file for it.” Vasquez held the bag out to her. “Would you mind putting this by the door, ma’am? I need to stow the leg.”

  She kept her hand in her pocket. “Hey, you promised.”

  “Sorry . . . Kris.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Kris took the bag and nodded at the prosthesis on the bed. “So you aren’t taking that with you?”

  “No. I need the upper-body exercise.”

  “True.” Kris put the bag down by the door, propped just so. “We wouldn’t want you to go soft on us.” She paused, looked over at the bed again so as not to meet Vasquez’s eyes and said slowly, “I, for one, couldn’t afford it.”

  “Don’t worry ma’am—Kris. I’ve already lined up an excellent sparring partner. As soon a
s the new leg works.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Vasquez went over the bed, smoothed the sheets and tucked down the blankets, stacked the pillows at the foot for the orderlies. “What are your plans?”

  “I’m shipping out to Weyland Station late this PM—Admiral PrenTalien wants a full debrief.”

  “Didn’t Commander Huron already take care of that? The debrief, I mean.”

  “Well,” Kris said, fidgeting again, “he wasn’t there for the first part. And I’ve got some chip work to catch up on. And then there’s the court martial, y’know.”

  Kris had resigned her Ionian commission, and the court martial—officially over the loss of Polidor while she was in overall command—was one step in the legal theater of restoring her rank in the CEF.

  Vasquez gave her a reassuring nod. “There shouldn’t be any problem, ma’am.” Kris let this one slide. “I think we did very well.”

  They had done well, as Kris had already been told at least fifty times. Overlight had been a success, Iona had been removed as a dangerous adversary and made a valuable ally; the Sublime Porte had been chastened, the treacherous Emir was one with the stars and the Winnecke IV junction had been secured from future threats. The circumstances in which Polidor had been lost were nothing short of commendable, even heroic.

  Had it been someone else in the Dock, Kris would have told them the same and believed it. But it wasn’t someone else in the Dock and Kris had greatly exceeded her orders; certain influential merchant houses were furious at the concessions Iona had been granted; the civil intelligence community was angry and embarrassed that their little scheme for acquiring the lithomorph had been spiked, and she had threatened to commit an unspeakable war crime.

  Kris forced a smile. “You’re an optimist, Vasquez.”

  That answering smile again. “Have you ever met the Admiral?”

  “No. Well, I’ve been in the same room with him a few times.”

  “He’s a straight-ahead fighter, ma’am. You’ll know exactly where you stand with him right off. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “You know him?”

  Vasquez gave her head that little toss that flared her hair so alluringly. “He’s a friend of my uncle.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Kris glanced one more time around the room. “Well. Gotta go.”