“I understand, sir.”
“Good. Glad to have that outta the way.” PrenTalien began clearing his desk with broad sweeps of his hand. “Now if we’re done with business, there’s another small matter.” Desk empty, he smiled across at Huron, an oddly gentle expression, incongruous in so large and scarred a man. “Lispeth and I are having a little informal gathering this weekend. We were hoping you might attend, if the prospect suits you.”
Puzzled, Huron searched his memory for any reason the admiral might be having an informal gathering on a date of no obvious significance. Reconsidering PrenTalien’s expression, he suddenly realized what had been odd about it something close to tenderness. He broke into a quite genuine wide smile. “Sir, would it happen to be your fiftieth wedding anniversary?”
PrenTalien chuckled, cocking his head with a grin. “Fifty-five not an orthodox number, I know, but I admit it pleases me.”
“I’d be delighted, sir.”
“Would you happen to know if Commander Kennakris might be available? We’d like to invite her, if she’s about and not adverse. Don’t want her to feel obliged, of course.”
“I believe she’s still on Earth, sir.”
PrenTalien shook his head resignedly. “Oh well, I’ll send the invitation anyway. Mark our sense of her contributions.” Huron’s smile dimmed a shade. That meant the political waters were more troubled than he’d thought and the admiral intended to spread some unofficial oil on them. Ever since Kris had been nominated for a Senatorial Cross for their joint feat at Wogan’s Reef, where he and Kris had engaged a Halith formation of sixty fighters and defeated it, Kris’ reputation within the CEF had been murky, at best. The award should have been a done deal (Huron had been given an augmentation for his own Cross for the action) and would have been a done deal if Kris hadn’t been a colonial, if there hadn’t been things in her past that could not be revealed, and if Admiral Westover, the former CNO, had not resigned over the Bannerman controversy.
And if Kris, consulted on some points of the agreement that converted to the Bannermans from enemies to nominal allies as a result of the victory, had been more diplomatic, or simply managed to keep her mouth shut. But she hadn’t, and an unfortunate diplomatic incident she provoked over what was certainly an Andaman slaver, but one whose captain had the sultan’s ear, bolstered the arguments that a turbulent, hot-headed, risk-taking colonial with a habit of losing wingmen was not a fit recipient for the League’s highest honor. Admiral Narses, Westover’s replacement as CNO, saw no reason to expend political capital on behalf of such a person, and while Huron thought Narses did not lack confidence in Kris personally, her failure to make that clear gave heart to those parties, some of them from prominent merchant houses who sought to profit from the new opportunities offered by the Bannermans switching sides, who wanted Kris, if they couldn’t get her dismissed from the Service, at least shuffled off into a comfortable (for them) obscurity.
Those were the currents troubling the political waters around Kris (and, not incidentally, himself). Word of the admiral’s invitation would wend its way through the Service’s grapevine and put those parties on notice that Lieutenant Commander Loralynn Kennakris enjoyed the support of the League’s most respected naval officer, the victor of Wogan’s Reef and countless smaller actions.
Inwardly, Huron sighed. It might be the admiral’s fifty-fifth anniversary, but politics never took a holiday.
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, sir.”
Chapter 3
Northern California Territory
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol
Kris stood in the entryway of Mariwen’s residence, frowning at a message from Huron. She’d reported for her orders that AM, but there was only a notice that her leave had been extended yet another month and she would receive clarification presently. That probably meant the recon wing had gone to someone else she knew she was junior for it, but the last Admiralty letter had raised her hopes and such a long delay in assigning her a new billet was strange, probably ominous. Then Huron’s message had arrived just as she’d left. It was more cryptic than anything.
“What is it?” Mariwen asked, coming into the room. “Did you get your orders?”
“No,” Kris answered, checking her xel. “My leave’s been extended again.”
“Oh!” followed Oh in a much different tone as Mariwen read her expression and realized that Kris must have been refused the billet she’d hoped for. “Does that mean . . .”
Kris looked up, suddenly conscious of how she was acting, and tried to smile. “It means we have another month.” Her tone was not all she intended, though, and Mariwen’s answering smile was painfully diplomatic. They hadn’t yet figured out how to deal with these awkward moments, especially where Kris’ career was involved, and right now Mariwen was hanging there, torn between a desire to go to her and a fear of intruding. With an inaudible sigh, she settled back on her heels. “I’ll get something for us.” She motioned toward the kitchen. “You must be starving.”
“Thanks.” Kris let go a breath as she reread Huron’s message. What the hell was he trying to get at? It said only she’d should expect to stay on leave for a while, things were looking okay for the future, and the admiral sent his regards. She wondered what that might mean. She’d gotten PrenTalien’s unexpected invitation a few days ago, along with the regrets usual when intervening light-years prevented it from being acted on, but the sender still wished to make the social gesture. There seemed to be important implications here, but Huron ended by saying nothing more than he hoped to see her soon.
How soon? She checked the envelope and was shocked to see the origin was Lunar 1. Huron had certainly attended the admiral’s anniversary party; he must have caught a very fast packet to have arrived so quickly. Something had to be up, and the possibilities of what that something might be made her chew her lip.
Kris heard Mariwen fussing in the kitchen a little more than necessary. She went to the archway that separated it from the open living space. “You have Rafe’s calling card, don’t you?”
Mariwen looked back over her shoulder, hands full of smoked salmon canapés. “Sure. Don’t . . .” Something in Kris’ face stopped her, and she turned back, spreading the canapés hurriedly on a plate and wiping her hands on a towel. “I’ll get it.”
“Hey?” Kris stepped into the kitchen. “It’s not I just don’t understand what’s going on. That’s all.”
Mariwen smiled and stepped over for a quick kiss. “It’s okay. I’ll get the card.”
A minute later, she returned with the calling card and activated it. Calling cards were genetically keyed to their owners and offered private, secure, and within their range instantaneous communications. They were organic, not electronic, meaning they were cloned rather than being manufactured, and exactly how they worked was still something of a mystery. When the card linked to its mate, Mariwen handed it across. Huron’s face appeared, his look of puzzlement transmuting briefly into surprise when he registered who was holding the card.
“Oh . . . hi.” His mouth quirked to one side in a smile that was almost a smirk. “Didn’t lose my card, did ya?”
“No, but you don’t usually send me such obscure emails. I thought maybe I’d be careful. I know they supposedly can’t monitor these things, but since you didn’t call, I figured maybe I shouldn’t.”
Huron’s smile un-smirked. “Commendable circumspection. I was going to invite you to dinner after a decent interval.”
“Why after a decent interval?”
“Urgent family business is the official reason, but ”
“So what the hell’s up this time? Don’t I get a hint?”
“Not officially. I can tell you that Trafalgar’s in refit ”
“I know that.”
“ and you’re going to get that recon wing, the Admiral’s word on it ”
“Really?” A delighted cry.
“Christ is this what happens when you go on leave for a coup
le of months? These things don’t transmit words edgewise, you know.”
“Sorry.” But she did not sound sorry.
“And it’s not the Phantom wing. You’re getting the first Valkyries out the chute now don’t interrupt!” he said over her squeal. “And we got an assignment in the meantime, but it won’t get underway for another five or six weeks.”
“What assignment?”
“Flight instructors.”
“Flight instructors?”
“Yeah. On Karelia.”
“Karelia? Are you kidding?”
“‘Fraid not. I can fill you in at dinner. You won’t get anything official until next month. It’s ah volunteer . . . sort of.”
“Okay. I suppose you’ll explain that at dinner, too.”
“I’ll try. In the meantime, don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Mariwen’s listening.”
“Mariwen’s not anyone.” His smile looked suspiciously like a smirk again. “Hi, Mariwen.” Off to one side, Mariwen giggled. “Yeah, I didn’t think she was talking to me.”
Mariwen grabbed the card. “And what reason would I have for not talking to you, Mr. Huron?”
“Lemme see . . . what reason would you like? I recall something about coconut oil and a certain ”
Mariwen burst out laughing, and Kris snatched the card back. “Hey! Stop flirting, you two!”
“Flirting? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Coconut oil is extremely healthy” Mariwen let go another peal of laughter “and I’ll email you about dinner tomorrow. If that’s okay.”
“Sure. That’s fine.” She glowered at Mariwen, who giggled again.
“Then we’re all set. Bye, Mariwen. Nice to talk to you.”
“Bye, Rafe,” Mariwen called out. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
“See you at dinner, Kris.”
“Yeah.”
Smiling, he cut the link. Kris held the card out. Mariwen, still smiling, took it, and Kris’ face transformed with a flash of realization: Mariwen had giggled. “You you’re really . . .”
“I’m really what?” Mariwen asked, looking arch.
Kris shook her head, suddenly wordless. There was no point in saying it aloud, but Mariwen was back. She was really back. “Ah, I mean . . . what’s this about coconut oil?”
Mariwen crossed the floor, that living incandescence rekindled in her eyes. She kissed Kris lingeringly and then put her lips right next to her ear. “Eat your lunch. Then come into the bedroom . . . and I’ll show you.”
* * *
“Oh, that’s a good trick.” Kris’ voice was closer to a purr than either of them had ever heard before. She nuzzled the inside of Mariwen’s left thigh and felt a mild electric tingle against her cheek. It was by no means unpleasant, but it was unexpected, and she lifted her head a bit more swiftly than she meant to. Gently pulsing there on the dark lovely skin was what looked very much like an idealized constellation of seven stars, showing coppery red and metallic cinnamon, and occasionally a glint of warm bronze, as they shimmered in and out.
“What’s this?” Kris asked, amazed.
“It’s a tattoo, silly.”
“Yeah, I figured. But what . . . Oh, wait. Is this the Pleiades?”
“You’re so clever.”
“How come I haven’t seen it before?”
Mariwen’s face would not show a blush, but the stars rippled as if giggling. “Maybe cuz I’m shy?”
“Shy?”
“Well . . . it only responds to touch and then only if, um . . . certain biometric parameters are ah above threshold?”
And suddenly Kris understood. Certain biometric parameters meant a lot more than simply having an orgasm; they clearly related to her mental state as a whole. She was glad Mariwen couldn’t see her expression at that moment that would have started her crying, and tears, even of undiluted happiness, were not something she wanted to indulge in right now.
Mariwen might have sensed the reason behind the extended scrutiny, for she said teasingly, “They change color if you lick them. Try it.”
Kris did. “Sweet!” as the stars glowed and twinkled, bright copper and molten brass and fiery Chinese red. “How’s it do that?”
Mariwen laughed. “How should I know? My degree is in biophysics, not dermal arts.”
Kris lifted her head to see the wicked look behind the laughter. “So you got other hidden secrets?”
Mariwen grinned impishly. “Lick here.” She tapped high on the inside of her right thigh.
Kris surveyed the indicated area. “You sure you don’t have an ulterior motive?”
“What a thing to say! You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Yeah, okay.” She drew a lazy figure eight with her tongue across the taut, elastic flesh. “Wow!” Kris stared as the image danced into view literally danced. “What is that?”
“That’s Ganesh.”
“It looks like an elephant sorta.”
“He is an elephant sorta. He’s an ancient Hindu deity. He uses his trunk to point the way to happiness and fulfillment or, some say, nirvana.”
The orientation of Ganesh, to say nothing of the gesturing trunk, was not lost on Kris. “His trunk is pointing up,” she observed with narrowed eyes.
“I should add that the Buddha connected the concept of nirvana with nothingness.”
“That’s not nothing up there.”
“Sweet of you to say so.”
“This Buddha guy’s confused.”
“Um, that would be past tense. He lived thousands of years ago.”
“No wonder he was confused.” Kris looked from the cheerful, smiling Ganesh to the realm of happiness and fulfillment indicated, and back. “How come he winked at me?”
“Maybe he likes you?”
“Yeah, sure. The trunk’s wiggling.”
“Oh, goodness me. Really?”
“Can you control this thing?”
“It’s just a tattoo, sweetheart.”
“Uh huh. This is a hint, right?”
“They do say following Ganesh brings good luck.”
“They would say that. How much coconut oil do we have left?”
“Oh, there’s plenty. More than enough.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Chapter 4
Tycho Prime
Luna, Sol
Seventy-two hours later, Kris regarded Huron over a forkful of wild Alaskan halibut. She hadn’t seen him in months, but the memory of the last time the last evening, especially crowded close. Was Mariwen right about the two of them? It was an unsettling thought on one level, but oddly consoling on another. Kris was not accustomed to trying to reconcile such tangled emotions. She may be able to do jump-convolution mathematics in her head, but these relationships obeyed no logic she could visualize. For example, right now, she was fairly sure she could reach across the table and . . . what? Huron was smiling in that way he had, a hooded expression that masked a sectioning gaze: considering, evaluating, watching for the opening he wanted or learning how to create it.
Kris realized she’d never seen how Huron looked when he flew. He wasn’t a flashy pilot; a few people could push a fighter into maneuvers he never attempted Kris was one of them but he never made a mistake either, and he seemed to be able to sense the exact moment his opponent was going to. In that instant, he would strike, almost as if out of nowhere with shocking and lethal precision. Kris thought that most of his victims never knew what hit them; some of them probably even thought they were winning. Did he smile then like he was smiling now?
It was hellishly disconcerting to have that gaze fixed on you, wondering what he was thinking, knowing that he was always half a step ahead . . . and it was also impossibly thrilling. Mariwen was sure she still loved Rafe, and she did . . . but did she love him, or the challenge of him? All she had to do was reach across and
Huron’s smile deepened. “How’s Mariwen?”
Dammit! The breath rushed out of Kris as the strike went home. “Sh
e’s . . . fine, actually. I think . . . I think she’s back.”
His smile mellowed into something close to a normal human pleasantry. “She certainly sounded like her old self on the call.” He busied himself with his food for a moment, giving Kris a chance to resettle her composure. “It was damn nice to hear. We were afraid it wasn’t possible.”
“Oh.” Kris looked at him intently. “Why?”
Huron shrugged. “That’s what her medical team said. The basic reconstruction in the hospital took about seven months. That was a rough time. When she got back to Earth, she came along pretty well at first. Then she suffered the relapse. After that, she got the horse . . . her family was there the whole time, of course it all helped. But . . . she seemed to get to a certain point, and that was it. The doctors thought that was it, anyway. They did say there was some possibility of a breakthrough, but it was slight. They couldn’t be sure, and it could go either way and she was a lot better than anyone ever expected. That kind of implant shock normally leaves a person . . . I mean, the chances of full recovery are, ah . . . Let’s just say no one wanted to push it.”
Kris looked down, vaguely embarrassed. “They didn’t know everything.”
“That’s certainly true.”
“So how did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About . . . me and Mariwen. You do know, right?”
“I do now.”
Bastard!
Huron chuckled at the look on her face. “Sorry couldn’t resist.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, under her breath this time, but there was no heat in it now.
“Do you really want to know?”
She shook her head. “Not really, I guess. Pretty obvious, huh?” Looking up, she saw something in his eyes even as he hid it. That’s not fair, she thought, lips tightening. Quit hiding from me! “Look, Rafe . . .” She faltered and passed her fingers through her hair. “Sometimes I don’t know . . . where things are going.” She caught his gaze again. “Like now.”
Unexpectedly, he reached out for her hand. That look had returned he wasn’t hiding it now but she still wasn’t sure what it was. “One thing at a time, Kris. Just take it one thing at a time.”
The Bonds of Orion Page 3