Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris Book 3)

by Jordan Leah Hunter

  They were full of a deep, if sorrowing, pride in Blenheim. Beset by two battleships and a heavy cruiser, she’d fought gallantly until mortally wounded, and if she had taken only the cruiser with her, neither Condorcet nor Desailles—the latter, a limping cripple—would soon forget the beating she gave them. Prince Valens’ surviving fighter pilots would no doubt think twice about tangling with Trafalgar when they met her again (the initially reported exchange ratio of a phenomenal seven to one had been reduced in the official reckoning to a more modest, but still impressive, five to one), and above all they’d held the field, thwarted a major invasion, and sent a superior Halith force slinking away wounded and whimpering.

  It was clearly a victory, and anyone with sense would see it so. Yes, there could be an unlearned civilian here and there who, wringing his hands over the losses, might conclude otherwise, but anyone who had been keeping up with current events would disagree.

  “So what’s the word?” Kris pushed the bowl away—the stuff had begun to pall halfway through the recitation—and looked from one expectant face to another. It was as if telling the battle over again had whetted their appetite for more.

  “Rearm, refit.” Huron spoke for the group. “Try to rope in some replacements.” Here he was probably referring to the marines lost with Blenheim. “Check the next slot on the dance card.”

  “Any guess as to where?”

  Huron swirled the cold coffee left in his cup and decided it wasn’t worth it. “Not here.”

  Z-Day minus 33

  LSS Trafalgar, on-orbit;

  Epona, Cygnus Sector

  As usual, Huron proved to be a true prophet. Six days later found Trafalgar’s entire fighter group waiting in the Number 4 hanger, their customary meeting space when the whole group assembled, while Commander Sonovia Harmon, Trafalgar’s Director of Strike and Reconnaissance Operations (less formally, the DSRO or fighter boss), mounted the temporary dais to stand at the briefing lectern and call her ninety-four flight officers to attention.

  Sonovia Harmon was not an especially prepossessing woman. At sixty-five, age had thickened her already stocky frame and squared the line of her jaw, which had always been a tad heavy, and her short dark hair was shot through with gray, enlivened only by a silver forelock. She wore her unconcern for her physical appearance with a certain solid, quiet pride and off duty, when her high wide forehead was not furrowed by the concerns of her job, she might have been taken for a prosperous midlevel manager of a modest but thriving business enterprise, a kindly aunt, or even a senior librarian. Few, if any, would have taken her at first glance for a fighter pilot who had ended her flying days fifth on the CEF’s active kills list, two places behind Rafe Huron and one ahead of Geoff N’Komo. (Newly joined ensigns who were inclined to privately call her “Auntie Harmon” or “Granny Harmon” for her gray hair and strict ways were thus quickly and vigorously disabused of their erroneous opinions.)

  That was at the conclusion of the last war, and the events of the ongoing one had moved her down the list by a few notches—Huron had since displaced Captain Vire in the top slot and N’Komo stood at number five, ahead of a cluster of young aces who constantly reshuffled the Top 20, which now included Kris, who’d jumped into nineteenth position by virtue of her recent victories. Today, however, she looked every inch the top ace as she acknowledged her officers’ salute and told them crisply to be seated.

  As they complied, she gave them with her version of a smile. “By now most of you will have already guessed that our labors in Cygnus are coming to an end. It’s time to go home.”

  Within the CEF, home was a rather elastic term, short of a bronze box (earning one was said to be “taking up permanent residence”), but in this case, it referred to Outbound Station, which resided in a star system near the outer edge of the Hydra Border Zone, and guarded the vital junction at Wogan’s Reef. The station consisted of three small planetesimals, conjoined by an impressive array of manmade works. The largest of these bodies was roughly the size of Deimos, while the second was a Ceres-class asteroid. The first, designated Outbound Alpha, was home to the station’s dockyards, storage and work spaces. Outbound Beta held the station’s offices and habitations. The third, Outbound Charlie (Chuck to the mariners), was a mere rock that trailed the others like a scorned younger sibling, but was arguably the most important of the three, for it housed the station’s large automated refueling facilities.

  As stations went, Outbound was among the more popular postings. Although remote, it shared the system with Crystal City, a fanciful edifice built in the years immediately after the last war as a commerce hub. The original owners’ plans were even more fanciful than the architecture, and when they went bankrupt, Crystal City was sold piecemeal to those concerns that have made a long practice of supplying military bases with the creature comforts their personnel needed.

  In consequence, many mariners preferred the more exotic, untroubled and candid offerings of the City’s establishments (or as some preferred to frame it: more licentious, wanton, abandoned and dissolute) to the highly refined, regulated and civilized attractions of Nedaema, a full five days away in the Pleiades.

  TF 34 had been long from these attractions and the temptations Epona could offer—which were quite a bit ruder, it being a frontier planet, as well as overburdened by the recent large influx of military personnel—did not really measure up. So Harmon’s officers received this confirmation of their hopes with a good deal of private satisfaction.

  “However,” the commander continued, announcing the inevitable cloud that accompanied this silver lining, “some of you will have the honor and privilege of remaining here and continuing to support Seventh Fleet.” They all knew TF 34’s other fleet carrier, LSS Salamis—Big Sal, as she was affectionately known—had been detached to Seventh in partial recompense for the loss of Camperdown and the damage to Ramillies, but the breaking up of Trafalgar’s fighter group came as a surprise.

  “That’s you, Kideki,” she continued, singling out a short muscular man in the second row, Huron’s junior squadron leader, “and you, Tschosik,” nodding to a tall lean belter, a friend of N’Komo’s, who led one the strike wing’s squadrons. “You’ll get the details of your new assignments this PM and transfer in the next day-cycle.”

  “Huron,”—she caught his eye where he sat in the front row—“this is going to fall most heavily on you, as you’re already light.” That was something of an understatement. Recon wings only had three squadrons where strike wings had four, so this reduced his strength by a third from its normal complement. But since his wing had not been at full strength in months, it was actually closer to forty percent. “We’re doing our best to get you some help. Bellerophon has been pulled off blockade duty at Callindra 69 and they’ve promised us another light carrier, as well.” Harmon had no need to gesture for him to detect the air-quotes around the word promised. An Admiralty promise and six bits would get you a lukewarm cup of coffee in any canteen you cared to mention. “I’m confident you’ll find a way to keep up the good work in the meantime.”

  N’Komo’s sideways half-grin from two places down wished him good luck with that.

  “Now that we have the domestic concerns settled, I’m sure you’re all wondering what we’re going to do for an encore.” Here Commander Harmon stepped away from the lectern. “You know the state the Doms went home in.” She did not elaborate. Unlike many fighter bosses, Commander Harmon abjured anatomical similes and scatological metaphors. But in contrast to the lighthearted introduction, her expression was deadly serious.

  “We have just received some new information. What I am about to say is not to leave this room. Most especially those of you transferring to Big Sal shall make no mention of it. Nor shall you ask about—or even speculate on—the source.” Pausing to see that this sunk in, and assuring herself that it had, the commander went on: “This is in regards to the Tuonela Op”—the sighing noise of a collective inhalation at that—“which you lately helped carry
out. Because you took the freight there, it’s been decided to inform you of what we’ve been able to learn of the results. The target was not Syrdar, as was supposed at the time. The strike was delivered against Haslar itself. It was a qualified success.” The last sentence kept the group from breaking into a cheer, as Harmon had known it would.

  “It appears that a dozen or so of our ships survived. They were able to attack the dock facilities and launch—” She paused again to wait for calm to reassert itself. “Launch a ground strike. Damage was minimal.” The group settled further. “All we can assess is significant damage to one destroyer and minor damage to a cruiser. The ground strike did not appear to hit anything of value. As far as we know, all our ships were able to escape the system. There is no further info on them.”

  Now that mood in the room had cooled, she proceeded to the heart of the matter—or as near to it as she was allowed. “That a couple of ships were dinged is not the significance of this strike. Not at all.”

  She had the room silent now. “We’ve hit Halith where it really counts—where they never thought it possible.” Indeed, their sources indicated that shock had reigned supreme at Supreme Staff HQ for the better part of three days, and Grand Marshal Van Diemens, Chief of the Supreme Staff, and Grand Admiral Osterman had left hurriedly to brief the Proconsuls personally. What was more, the Halith analysts had been completely flummoxed by where the starclippers came from. They appeared to believe—incredibly enough—that the CEF had somehow managed to get a carrier somewhere within Halith space, launch the ships, and then exit without a trace. There were even suggestions that the Supreme Staff was worried the CEF might attempt a suicide attack by sending hyper-accelerated ships into the planet itself.

  How ONI—or CDI or whoever—had managed to learn all this, Commander Harmon had no idea. The message had not arrived through normal channels, and Captain RyKirt had briefed her personally. They were the only two people on the ship who knew these details, and she was not at liberty to divulge them. Instead, she kept to the brief script she and RyKirt had worked out.

  “What matters is that we’ve lit a fire under the Doms that they have no idea how to put out. That works to our advantage. Our goal was to sting them into acting impulsively, before they’re ready, and it appears we’ve succeeded. Now we have to brace for whatever they throw at us and hit back harder.

  “The warm-ups are over. You passed the dress rehearsal with flying colors. Now it’s time for the main event. We’ve been waiting a long time for this. When it comes, stay focused and keep your eyes firmly fixed on the main chance. Never underestimate the enemy, but remember you’re better pilots flying better birds, and you’re a damn-sight crazier. I have no doubt you will do your duty. That is it for today. May Fortune follow you all.” Her officers stood as one. “Dismiss.”

  * * *

  Lingering in the passageway after the others had dispersed, Huron was scanning their transit orders on his xel. It turned out they were making a detour to pick up some marine replacements at Tenebris, here in Cygnus. Last month, the CEF had launched its first major offensive of the war out of there, only to have it blow up spectacularly from the get-go. The whole thing had to be aborted, but not before a battalion of marines was almost wiped out at a place called Anandale. It’d been ugly from first to last, and he wondered if the replacements they’d be ferrying to Outbound were some of the survivors. If so, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He closed the file and furled his xel as Kris jogged up.

  “Hi, Kris”—giving her a welcoming nod.

  “Hello, sir.” She touched her cap brim casually. Her arm was out of its sling and he knew from that AM’s medical reports they’d pulled the matrix from her broken ribs, which were healing nicely. Physical therapy for the SMS was much more involved, but overall, she was looking more bright eyed and bushy tailed than was usual for her.

  Kris had grown from the Academy cadet of a year ago, and was almost unrecognizable from the girl he’d met the day she was pulled off the contract slaver Harlot’s Ruse: at once fierce, withdrawn and oddly magnetic—a collection of dangerous edges, beautifully assembled. Her personality had smoothed to the point where ordinary mortals could rub shoulders with her without coming away bleeding, but the new habits were still tenuous, and while there was no one he trusted more in a dogfight, in social situations the old, habitual inclination to shield her still leapt out at inopportune times and made things awkward.

  He could admit privately (there being no place for it in the professional sphere) that he missed flying with her. By tradition, the SRF usually assigned the most junior member of the squadron to be the squadron leader’s wingman. So when Kris earned her combat wings, she’d flown with Huron for three months until Ensign Charles Dance had joined.

  During the last war, Huron had flown mainly with Geoff N’Komo, making a famous duo to rival Jantony Banner’s partnership with Pavel Heink. But his connection with Kris was even stronger, as their tally of victories clearly showed. In the intensely focused purity of combat, the strengths of their relationship—an innate mutual comprehension that went deeper than consciousness, and a faith in each other’s abilities no odds could shake—were given full play, without the multilayered complications that so often (or so it seemed to him) would turn inward and bite when their lives weren’t on the line.

  Carefully schooling these thoughts off his face, he answered her evident good humor with a smile.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  Kris glanced about as if checking who else was within earshot, and then asked in a low tone, “Is the game still on for tonight?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. She was referring to the private weekly poker game he and N’Komo had established some months ago for select shipmates. (It was a tradition of longstanding with them, revived wherever they were stationed for a decent interval.) Membership was limited to six, always three men and three women. At present, the third man was Krieger and there were only two women: Ensign Sahyli ‘Shyli’ Casanova (she much preferred her nickname), a merrily minded young woman Kris had roomed with during her last months at the Academy; and Lieutenant Commander Leeza Cannero, who reminded Kris of an older version of another studymate, Minx, in face and form though not in character. The open seat had belonged to Lieutenant Dina Sexton, who’d lost parts both legs at Miranda, and was on her way to Verdun Military Hospital to have replacements cultured. (She was also going to get them to fix, or so she swore, a condition she termed ‘chronic height deficiency’.) Kris, learning of this a couple of days ago, had worked up the nerve to ask Huron if she could join in.

  “Sure you still wanna do this?” he asked, gauging her expression.

  “Absolutely.” Her tone was touch emphatic, in keeping with her new resolve to improve her social skills where she could. Becoming more social seemed like a good place to start.

  Huron, noting the tone, also observed the accompanying smile. “Okay. Which ranks higher, a straight or a flush?”

  “A flush,” she said confidently. Huron had given her a brief rundown on the theory of the game when she broached the subject last night and she’d checked the rules quickly on her xel. Gambling was unheard of on Parson’s Acre, the Outworlds colony where Kris was raised, and slavers generally preferred dice to cards.

  “What’s a flush?”

  “All red?”—the confidence dimming a shade.

  “Not quite. Try all the same suit.”

  Kris nodded, surreptitiously biting the inside of her lower lip. “That’s right.”

  “What ranks next above a flush?”

  “A full house. That’s three of a kind and a pair”—attaching the elaboration to attenuate her prior mistake.

  “And the highest-ranked hand is?”

  “A Royal Flush.”

  “Alright.” He rewarded her with a one-sided smile. “2130. You know the place.”

  The place was the ‘snake pit’ attached to Epona Outstation’s small SRF officers’ club downside at Mather’s Landing
. In the SRF, snake pits were a hallowed tradition—a separate space where the normal rules of military discipline did not apply and were, in fact, actively discouraged. Saluting and ranks weren’t allowed (first names only), proper uniform was not to be worn (and never ties of any kind), and drinking was generally required. Accordingly, it was a cozy room equipped with a trio of couches, a few small tables and a single larger one, a huge console, and two liquor cabinets stocked with alcohol of many interesting varieties. The walls were decorated with slogans encouraging unruly (even licentious) behavior and 3D pinups, several of which (rather poignantly for Kris) were images of Mariwen Rathor. The room was also lavishly provided with a multitude of snacks and jar full of fast-acting detox tablets.

  Kris breezed in at the appointed time and was greeted with smiles and nods, which she returned, and which subsequently became a bit puzzled as she continued on, entering the adjoining compartment where their lockers were. Most officers kept a change of clothes there (both uniform and civilian kit), because you never knew just what the state your apparel might be when it came time to leave.

  But whatever Kris needed to retrieve from her locker was no concern of theirs, so they resumed their conversation while Krieger picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle it, preparatory to Huron cutting for the deal. Krieger liked to show off a little when he shuffled, but in this case he was simply riffling the deck when Kris walked back in and he sprayed the cards across the table and beyond.

  The others glanced at the chaos spread abroad—including some cards that had landed in their laps—and then turned to look at Kris. Kris, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness at the scrutiny, looked down at her feet. “I left my boots on. Is that okay? The deck’s cold.”