Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  Mariwen’s eyes wavered. “And then . . . what?”

  Kris removed the cherished paper, smoothed it out on the table with a shaking hand, opening her fingers over the four inked lines. “Then . . . I’m here.”

  Mariwen closed her eyes, hiding whatever condensed within. “I . . .” She paused to put her glass next the Kris’s. “I want to thank you . . . for what you did that day.” Kris swallowed hard—Oh god no—but kept her lips tight and Mariwen kept on: “And I wanted to—that is, I hoped . . .” Here she paused again, dark eyes open, uncertain, searching, skittish. “I hoped you might stay for dinner.”

  All at once the trembling in Kris’s fingers stopped. “I’d love to.”

  Hours later—how many hours, Kris neither knew nor cared—she lay on her back watching the moonlight paint colors, infinitely delicate, on wisps of cloud hung over a horizon jagged with the silhouettes of leafless trees. She didn’t know what sort of trees. Oaks maybe? She’d have to ask Mariwen in the morning. There was a sleepy movement by her side, a shifting of the warm weight there and Kris felt Mariwen’s breath caress the side of her breast. And then a kiss. She looked down into Mariwen eyes, barely visible in the deep soft shadow and yet brimming so full with something Kris had not seen there before and was not sure she really believed in.

  “You’re awake,” Mariwen whispered. Kris nodded. “You okay?”

  Kris nodded and looked away.

  “Kris?” Mariwen reached a up with a tentative hand. Kris caught her fingers as they traced the line of her jaw and kissed them. Letting them go, the hand dropped lightly to her left shoulder. The tip of Mariwen’s index finger traced the ridges of the old scar there, left by a hull splinter that spalled off during her dogfight with Jantony Banner. Then Kris felt Mariwen shift, felt her breath against her flank, the brush of her hair and then her lips pressing on the two exit-wound scars just inside and above her left hip point. She was sure Mariwen was going to ask about them—she’d said nothing before; just a catch in her breath when Kris had stripped off her tank-top—but she didn’t.

  Instead, Mariwen slid her naked body up the long length of Kris’s, gently took her face in her hands, touching ever so lightly with just her fingertips, and turned Kris’s eyes back to hers. Their eyes locked and Mariwen’s narrowed slightly, searching for something of the very first importance; desperately afraid of finding it—of not finding it. Then she lowered her lips and paused; their breath mingling for a few seconds before she closed those last three millimeters, and they kissed.

  It was not the first kiss they had shared that evening—far from it—but it reached into places no other had ever gone. Virgin places, laid open and bare—tender, vulnerable, sweet. Places where all her feelings came to the surface . . .

  The kiss broke and gave time back its meaning. Mariwen lifted her mouth away a centimeter and Kris felt a warm drop splash on her throat, then another. Her face held in a cage of fingers, staring into Mariwen’s eyes—huge, almost black and overflowing with more than tears—Kris felt powerless to move, even if she’d wanted to.

  “Mariwen? What—”

  “I’m so scared—” The barest whisper, more felt than heard. Abruptly, Mariwen rolled off Kris and sat up. She gathered the creamy sheet about her dark torso, a startling contrast in the blue-silver light, and dropped her face into her hands. As Kris watched her shoulders began to shake. No sound, just terrible silent sobs.

  Kris slid over, put an arm around Mariwen’s shoulders. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Mariwen hunched forward, her sobs now breaking out sharp and rough. “Oh god—oh god, Kris—” She put a hand down against Kris’s thigh and with a convulsive movement, pushed away from the bed. In that instant she seemed about to break but she stayed rigid, muscles straining all along her body and as her fists came up, Kris heard her say: “Oh fucking god”—a gasp, a moan, a prayer.

  Kris kept her breath trapped as Mariwen turned to her. “I’m so . . . sorry.” Her fists were under her chin, shaking; her beautiful face was tear-streaked, tense, fiercely longing and, yes—terribly afraid. Kris shifted, lifting a hand and Mariwen flinched—just a nervous flick of one shoulder and a twitch under her right eye—but to Kris it felt like a slap.

  “Mariwen . . .”

  As if she was straining against some terrible, unseen force, Mariwen brought her arms down to her sides. “Did you know—no, you—couldn’t . . .” She gulped a breath, a tremor shook her entire body. “I remember . . . everything—I remember . . . you—your eyes—” And then that scream, that sound, wrenched out of her again, a scream like shattered glass in her ears, and Kris lunged for her, caught her, and they collapsed together on the cold hard smooth polished floor.

  Kris held her, held her hard enough to bruise, rocking her, repeating murmured nonsense into her hair as broken sobs ripped out of Mariwen’s belly in a long harsh wracking stream. When she sensed Mariwen’s hand uncramp and reach, searching, she caught it in her own and felt a grip that ground her bones together and through the sobbing, the fractured breathing, the convulsive shaking, she heard: “. . . sorry . . . I’m so sorry—forgive—please . . . please forgive . . .” over and over again.

  Kris held the teacup to Mariwen’s trembling lips, helping her sip the steaming liquid. The scent of osmanthus leaves teased her nose and Mariwen’s shaky fingers were pressing against the back of her hand, but it was much, much better now.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mariwen whispered between two sips. She looked up at Kris with damp eyes and tried her best to flash a ghost of that old smile. “I really am sorry.” Sipping again. “I don’t know why you’re still here.”

  Kris’s lips quirked to one side. “You never met Admiral Heydrich,” she said dryly.

  Another shaky sip, but calmer now. “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okay.” She gave the tea a gentle push. Kris put it down on the table by the side of the bed.

  “Would you like to talk?”

  Mariwen looked down, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and nodded. “But first . . .”

  “First?”

  She nodded again, not looking up. “Can I ask a question? It’s personal.”

  “Mariwen, we just spent all evening . . .” She couldn’t find the right word.

  Mariwen looked up, her face nakedly open. “Fucking?”

  Kris dropped her head with a soft, quiet laugh. “If you want to call it that.”

  Mariwen reached out and laid her hand on Kris’s thigh. “What would you call it?”

  “Is that your personal question?”

  The hand slid away a few inches but Kris caught it. Mariwen shook her head. “No.”

  Kris leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Then I’ll tell you that later. But let’s stick to the subject for now. What did you want to ask?”

  “Alright.” Two slow breaths. “How much do you love Rafe Huron?”

  Kris blinked, caught off guard. “I . . . never weighed it.”

  Mariwen’s brow furrowed faintly. “You were together . . . how long? Almost a year, wasn’t it?”

  “Nine months.” And seven days.

  “Why’d you leave? I—I know he didn’t leave you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because no one would.” She sounded wholly serious, even a little bitter. “Besides, I . . .”

  “You fucked him.”

  Mariwen’s face froze. Then she saw Kris’s smile. “How did you—”

  “We talked about it—one morning.” The morning of the day she left.

  Mariwen replied with a faint nod, eyes straying out the window. “I didn’t remember that until recently.” She continued to study the night. “I wanted to love him—I really did. I almost did too.”

  But you were a sunset. Kris thought, recalling the look in Huron’s eyes as he’d said that.

  Mariwen’s hand stroked the sheets, caught a fold, pulled it tight into her fist. “Did it just not work out? Between you and Rafe?
”

  The shields began to close about Kris’s heart. With an effort she tried to keep them back—almost succeeded. “I had things to do.”

  “Are you going back to him?” Silence. “It’s okay. Please don’t think I’m—”

  “Look, Mariwen, what he and I do for a living is—”

  “Dangerous? You could be killed at any time?” Mariwen was looking at her now; a look that was peeling layers off her armor. “Kris,” she began again, “I remember . . . you—that day. The gun going off . . . I don’t really remember—that . . . man—”

  Having his brains blown out? Jeezus fucked, Mariwen . . .

  “I remember—your eyes. In—the—the gunsight. How—they looked . . .” Fresh tears welled up and spilled over. Kris felt the collapse coming again, braced for it, but Mariwen gathered herself; brushed the tears away. “I saw that look—in your eyes . . . the same look”—she swallowed hard—“just now. Just when we—”

  “Oh.” Kris reached out, took hold of her bare shoulders. “Mariwen . . .”

  Mariwen seemed not to notice. “I’m so sorry—I believed it—wanted so much to believe it. That you could—that you might—” Kris loosened her grip slightly; Mariwen kept on. “On that ship, I knew . . .” She shook her head. “I think I knew Lora was dead. I think they must’ve killed her when . . .” Her eyes wandered and her brow wrinkled. “It’s so hard sometimes. Never sure about things. But . . . but I met you and I—” She lifted her eyes, bleak with a haunted haunting beauty. “I know it can’t mean . . . what—what I want—wanted—it to mean. But I can’t—”

  “Oh god, Mariwen. I’m sorry—”

  “No.” She placed a shaking hand on Kris’s bicep. “You don’t understand, Kris. Kris, I almost killed you.”

  “That wasn’t you, Mariwen.”

  “But it was—that’s how it works! Understand? It was—me. That’s in me, Kris—it is. And you looked at me like . . . and you can’t—can’t possibly . . . not after what I—” And Kris pulled her into her arms, cutting off whatever she was about to say.

  Christ, how little you know . . . “You’re afraid I can’t love you?”

  A slight shrug against her breasts. “Maybe. I guess”—in a small voice, muffled—“but really it’s that—I’m—I’m not . . . right. Not—for you.”

  Kris pushed her away gently. “Not right? What the hell, Mariwen? You’re the most—”

  “No. I know what you’re going to say. Don’t. It’s all fake, Kris. I fake everything. It’s all . . . put together—make up.” That look again. “You shouldn’t . . . you really deserve—”

  “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “Oh.”

  “Loveable—that’s word I had in mind.”

  Mariwen frowned. “Don’t tease, Kris.”

  “I’m not.” She slid her hands down Mariwen’s arms, caught Mariwen’s hands in hers. “Look—I don’t know what to call any of this. It’s too new. I can’t put any of this into words—I suck at that. Yeah, I still love Rafe. And someday, well—I can’t think about that. But I do know all about faking it and this . . .” She nodded at the impression they’d left in the bed. “This wasn’t.”

  “Okay.” A merely polite response.

  Kris sighed, let her hands slip; fingers just touching palms—a chancy uncertain but vital contact. “Mariwen, do you know about Trench?”

  “He deserved it.” Five flat hard vicious syllables. Mariwen had as much reason to hate Trench as she did.

  “Yeah. But do you know what I did to him?”

  “They talked about it—on the ship.”

  “Did you see the pix?”

  “No—but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you know about Asylum?”

  “I saw the news reports.” The carefully doctored news reports.

  “Well, that’s not exactly what happened.” And Kris told her about that attack; told her in short clipped passionless yet painful sentences. But she didn’t tell her everything: not about all Admiral Heydrich; not much about Soho Manes, and nothing about Lailani Christopher—especially not anything about Lailani Christopher. When she was done, Mariwen sat quiet, her hands limp.

  “Sounds like they deserved it too,” she said, her voice toneless.

  Well, yes but . . . “Iona?”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Kris? That you’re a fighter pilot? That that’s what pilots do?”

  “It’s not just that, Mariwen. It’s in me too.” Don’t you see? See why I can’t—can’t even—

  Mariwen stayed quiet but a change in the rhythm of her breathing told Kris that maybe she did understand. Maybe . . . At last: “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

  Kris smiled a little. Sliding her hands away, she stretched out on the bed, supporting herself on one elbow. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

  “How—how . . . do you—deal with it?”

  Kris’s mouth pulled to one side. “I don’t know. I just have to.” She reached for Mariwen’s flank but hesitated, and dropped her hand. “It’s what I am. Doesn’t matter why anymore—if it could’ve been . . . different. I just have to.”

  Mariwen reached down without looking, took Kris’s hand and held it between her breasts. Kris felt her heart beat under her palm.

  “Okay.”

  The sound of Mariwen’s breathing, the warmth of Mariwen’s skin, the throb of Mariwen’s heart. Her own breath sighing in and out; her own pulse fluttering her neck; her own heartbeat loud in her ears, keeping time.

  “You’re going to go back to Rafe, aren’t you? I don’t think you ever really left.” Her chest rising and falling in concert with Kris’s own. “He’ll need you—one of these days. I think maybe you’ll need him too.” A heartbeat. Another. A tear trembling on a lower eyelash. Another. “Stay for breakfast?”

  Did you really have to ask that? “Mariwen, no matter what I feel, I can’t make any—”

  “Promises?” Suddenly, Mariwen was arching over her reclining body, hands pressing down on her shoulder points, knees straddling her hips. Her eyes were a deep uncatchable color, reflecting something dark and bittersweet. “I don’t need promises—just an hour. A minute . . .” Mariwen trailed three fingertips down her cheek. “Just now.”

  Kris wrapped her arms about Mariwen’s back, pulled Mariwen’s parted lips down against her parting ones.

  Okay. Just now. Here and now—as much as I can give you . . .

  Authors’ Notes

  The engagement described in Chapter Five of Part III was inspired by the Battle of Samar, fought on the morning 25 October 1944, as part of the larger Battle of Leyte Gulf. It pitted the USN Seventh Fleet’s Task Unit 77.4.3 (known by its call sign “Taffy 3”), commanded by Rear Admiral Clifton (“Ziggy”) Sprague, against the Imperial Japanese Navy’s “Center Force” (a designation of convenience) commanded by Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita (in Japanese, Kurita Takeo).

  Taffy 3 consisted of six escort carriers, three destroyers, and four destroyer escorts (ships even smaller than a destroyer). The largest gun any of these ships mounted was a 5-in gun, firing a shell weighing about 54 pounds. The escort carriers—small carriers built on a merchant hull—carried an air group of maybe two dozen aircraft and had a top speed of 18 knots, compared to a fast fleet carrier, with an air group of about 100 planes, that could do over 30 knots. The designator for these ships was CVE, said to mean “Combustible, Vulnerable, Expendable.”

  The Japanese force Taffy 3 faced consisted of eleven destroyers, two light cruisers, six heavy cruisers, and four battleships, including the super-battleship Yamato, which mounted 18-in guns as her main battery. One shell from these guns weighed over 3,000 pounds. And they were fast: Kurita’s force could move at 34 knots. The fastest ships of Taffy 3 could make only 28 knots.

  Against these extraordinary odds, Taffy 3 achieved one of the most incredible victories in the history of naval warfare, although at great cost: two of their three destroyers were sunk and the other damaged; one of the
destroyer escorts was lost and two more damaged; two escort carriers were sunk (one by gunfire) and three damaged. Over 1,500 men were killed or reported missing and almost another thousand wounded; more US Navy men than were lost at the better known battles of Coral Sea and Midway.

  We drew inspiration from a variety of historical sources for our fictional battle, fully aware that nothing we can invent approaches the true heroism and extraordinary valor of the men who fought and died at the Battle of Samar.

  For readers interested in learning more, there are any number of books on this battle and Battle of Leyte Gulf. Two of the best, in our opinion, are “The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors”, by James D. Hornfischer; and “Battle of Leyte Gulf: 23-26 October 1944”, by Thomas J. Cutler.

  In Chapter Six of Part II, the Latin phrase consectatio interruptus may be translated as striving, or striving after, or eager pursuit.

  Cryptology is the science of data communication and storage in secure and usually encrypted form. It encompasses both cryptography and cryptanalysis.

  In Chapter Two of Part II, Min mentions Artemisia, who was queen of Halicarnassus and an admiral in the fleet of the Persian king Xerxes. She, alone of his advisors, counseled Xerses not to fight at Salamis, and was not listened to. During the battle, she rammed a friendly ship to escape a Greek pursuer. After the battle, Xerses granted her battle honors, saying: “My women have become men and my men have become women.” If he had listened to her, the history of western civilization probably would have been quite different.

  Si monumentum requiris, circumspice (“If you seek his monument, look around”) is the epitaph of Sir Christopher Wren in St. Paul's cathedral in London, of which he was the architect.

  In Chapter One of Aftermaths, Min is misremembering a quote attributed to Seneca: Vivamus, moriendum est (which may rendered as “Let us live – we must die”), as: Ama, moriendum est. By using “ama” (the second-person singular present active imperative of amo, “I love”), Min’s botched quote becomes: “Let her love – we must die”, or simply (as a command to a single person): “Love – we must die”.