Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris Book 3)

by Jordan Leah Hunter

  “That’ll do fine. Thanks, Silk.” Min reached for her boots.

  Silk stopped her with a hand on Min’s bare knee. “That’s not my name, y’know.”

  Min looked over at her, assessing. “I do—”

  “It’s Quinn.”

  “I know.” Althea Quinn, if memory served. Sometimes Allie. Never Althea. Lance Corporal, way back when. “Mind if I ask a personal question?”

  “Probably not.” Then: “No.”

  “Could you always sing?”

  That drew out an odd, quirky half-smile. “No. Five years ago, I couldn’t sing a lick.”

  “Then I have to say, if you ever decide to go straight, you got a grand career ahead of you.”

  She laughed. Using all three voices, it was unnerving as hell. “You ever gonna go straight?”

  “Not a lotta career options for me.”

  “You’d make a terrific bouncer.”

  “Maybe so.” Min’s forefinger teased the edge of a grin. “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

  Quinn smiled as the unasked question wound round and round the silence thickening between them. Finally she answered it. “Triplet singers can go anywhere. Nobody suspects ‘em and all sorts of people talk to ‘em. You’d be surprised how many people wanna fuck a Trip.”

  Not anymore.

  “It’s a lot better cover than stripping—better even than a courtesan. Strippers don’t have access and high-value targets know better than to get chatty with their whores. But Trips are just fascinating and harmless.” That odd smile again as she said it. “We’re artists.”

  That was the first time she’d applied the term to herself, Min noted, and from the note of bitter-tinged pride it was obvious, in regard to the other two avocations, she was speaking from experience.

  “I gotta agree with that last bit.” Min offered it quietly. “Takes more than just an operation to do what you do.”

  “Thanks.” Her smile this time was a touch shy. “I was always good at math. Learning the music part was easy once I could actually do it.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. But don’t let me keep you.” The look Min gave the woman sitting close to her after checking the chrono over the entry might have been invitation or farewell. Another pause for the space of two breaths. “Back at the Lark—you understand. We needed cover.”

  Quinn regarded Min sideways—a tilted gaze, more than half ironic. “Back at the Lark . . . I don’t think that was just cover.” Her hand rubbed up Min’s naked thigh slowly.

  Watching the temperature rise in her eyes, Min gauged the voltage returning to the smile, the degree of challenge in the lingering uncertainty. “I reckon you’re about right.”

  “The truth is . . . I do go for Phalaenopsis. I like pink.”

  Min lolled back against the pillows. “So my intuition wasn’t leading me astray after all?”

  “It wasn’t—but don’t let that go to your head.” Quinn reached for the seals of her half-boots. “So what’s your schedule like tonight?”

  “Pretty open. I already got tagged for an hour on this place. Be a shame not to use it.”

  That mordant edge reemerged, with a daggerish look from those hot opal-jade eyes. “If that’s all I’m worth to you, maybe I should just go now and let you fuck yourself.”

  No parry of the thrust was attempted. “Me and my damn mouth. Guess I need to watch it better.”

  Quinn snickered as she popped the seal on one boot, then the other. “Yeah. The General said that about you.” The peach shell was peeled off with one effortless heart-stopping motion and fluttered to the floor. A sinuous writhe and the pants followed. Pure ivory flesh, now fully liberated, shone in the uncertain light of the cubicle’s two dull and ugly lamps. “So how ‘bout it? Are we even now?”

  Scanning the lithe and lovely form, Min smiled into that wicked green gaze and made room on the bed. “No, Lieutenant, we’re not. I think I still owe you, and I am entirely at your service.”

  Chapter Five: The Gathering Storm

  Z-Day minus 13

  LSS Ardennes, docked;

  Outbound Station, Gamma Hydras, Hydra Border Zone

  Admiral Joss PrenTalien cleared the displays and refocused the omnisynth in Ardennes’ crowded flag bridge. “So, ladies and gentlemen, now that we’ve finally got our tickets punched, a few items to improve your evening hours.” Confirmation that Wogan’s Reef was the Halith objective had been received late AM yesterday—Trin Wesselby’s fuel caper, as the admiral had termed it when he conveyed his personal and private congratulations, had borne fruit. “X-ray will remain at Merope, as expected”—referring to the second squadron of the Ardennes Strike Force. It would have been more comfortable to have the dreadnought squadron join them here at Outbound, but weakening the Pleiades’ critical junction at Merope that much posed too great a risk, and the Nedaemans had vetoed the idea. He did not resent the decision.

  “Ardennes Tango will deploy to Wogan’s Reef with Third Fleet, except for TF 34, who’ll hold the fort here.” By taking DREDRON Ardennes Tango to the battlespace, PrenTalien was also taking himself, so he could exercise personal command. That effectively put Vice Admiral Burton (Third Fleet’s CO) in the position of his deputy, but no one objected, least of all Hamish Burton. He was a fine defensive admiral, and that was not the kind of battle PrenTalien intended to fight. Well aware of the scope of his talents and being of an unusually modest demeanor, even for a Nedaeman admiral, Burton had raised no protest. He’d transferred his flag to the battlecruiser Temeraire, where he would assume command as needed and, if things went down Charybdis, be responsible for getting what he could of the fleet home safely. It was no small responsibility, and it suited him admirably.

  “Jesse, you’ll have command of the left flank, as usual”—looking across at Rear Admiral Leander ‘Jesse’ Wallace, gray and grizzled, with a bulldog chin; the very picture of what mariners called an “old shellback.”

  “Kim?” PrenTalien turned now to Rear Admiral Kimiko Belvoir, two places down from Wallace. “You’ll take the right. While Jesse gets them by the balls, you kick ‘em in the ass.”

  “Yes, sir.” Belvoir might be on the young side for a rear admiral, but like her mentor, Lo Gai Sabr, she excelled at ass-kicking.

  “Ardennes takes the center under me.” That PrenTalien would retain command of the center as a second hat went without saying, but staff meetings required it to be said anyway. They did allow it to go unsaid that PrenTalien would undoubtedly work in some ass-kicking of his own—this was equally well understood. “Now—” He paused to adjust the omnisynth’s display again. “About the Bannermans. We all know how badly the Doms would like to bring them along to this dance.”

  Nods and smiles about the small space assured him this was so.

  “It’s up to Admiral Hollis to see that doesn’t happen. But given what they say about the fates of mice and men”—as well as what was said about the relationship between Hollis and Commodore Rhimer—“or is it plans?” More smiles, for the CinC’s propensity for mishandling quotes and homilies was also well known. “Anyway, an ounce of prevention is in order.”

  PrenTalien looked again to Admiral Belvoir. “Kim, I’m saddling you with that ounce. Shariati’s off scouting the situation now and she’ll stay out there to be our canary. You’re the cat, if they get through.”

  “Understood, Admiral.”

  “Very good.” Rubbing his broad palms, he briefly appraised his officers. “That brings us to this phantom monitor.” That was the other revelation contained in recent intelligence. It had been thought since shortly after Trin had raised the issue of Halith doing something suspicious with high-capacity gravitics that the Imperial Navy might be trying to fit dreadnought-class hyper-keels on a monitor. The suspicion had grown stronger during the interim, and if last week’s intercept was to be believed, they had actually managed to do it. The report was not fully accepted in all quarters, but PrenTalien was taking no chances with it.

  “If
they bring it—and should they chicken out, I think I’ll be disappointed—it’ll be the key to their entire position. But they expect it to be a surprise, so we better act surprised. If it looks like we knew all along, we’re going to get into a slugging match over the damn thing, which we can ill-afford. So we are going to dedicate just three light carriers to this: Daedalus, Bellerophon, and Fidelia. We’ll cram ‘em with all the assault birds they can hold—enough to deploy a full battalion.”

  He swiveled his gaze to Lieutenant Colonel Kerr, seated by the hatchway, next to Trin Wesselby. “That means we’ll have to go in brisk and hard, Colonel. No time for the niceties of a classic setup. I understand your people haven’t worked together before. Do you think they can handle it?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  PrenTalien frowned. No officer ever had the right to be absolute about anything. Kerr was young and he didn’t know him. His newly constituted battalion had some very seasoned units and some equally green ones—not the best mix for this sort of operation. “We’re big believers in the Uncertainly Principle here, Colonel. We leave absolutes to the Blue Lights”—a satiric reference to officers known for their religious piety, after the blue lights they burned in devotionals. “What’s your assessment?”

  That cooled the colonel’s ardor several degrees. “It’s true, sir, my people have not yet been on the line together and some are new. But I have a solid core of veterans, sir—razors—under excellent officers. They know the work, Admiral, and I don’t doubt they’ll bring the others along. I’ll have all the details for you, sir—by morning.”

  That was the best answer he was going to get, and PrenTalien accepted it. “Thank you, Colonel.” Sealing his notes, he pushed them across to his flag lieutenant. “I think that’s all the damage we can do for the moment. We’ll leave the details of the dispositions until next time.” Then, hands on the omnisynth’s ledge, he heaved to his feet and addressed them all.

  “The Doms will expect us to fight a defensive battle. They’ve been having a ball for over a year now, and they feel they’re entitled. They believe we’ll do our damndest to hold our jump sectors, so we can skedaddle if—in their view, when—things get too hot. That’s not how this one’s gonna go. You’ve heard of ‘the wisdom of the ancients’, I believe, and there truly is some. A general named Patton said it best: on the eve of the Normandy Invasion—the one in the middle of the 20th Century, I mean—he told his people he didn’t want to get any messages saying they were ‘holding their position.’ They’d let the enemy do that. He told them they were attacking constantly and ‘We’re not interested in holding on to anything, except the enemy.’” His determined gaze swept the space. “I can’t say it better than that. You all have your action items—now go forth and conquer.”

  His officers stood with some shuffling, and muted conversations here and there began to spring up. All except for Trin Wesselby, who was still in her seat, looking paler than usual. The admiral, noting the perspiration beading her forehead and under her eyes, and the slackness that seemed to be affecting the left side of her face, stopped Lieutenant Reynolds as he was about to leave and turned to her.

  “Are you alright, Commander?”

  Trin blinked at the question but seemed unable to move her head. “Not quite, sir. I’m—afraid . . . I’m feeling—a trifle unwell.” Several officers, clustered in the flag bridge’s hatchway and hearing the labored intonation, turned and looked.

  “Geoff, get a medic in here. Make a lane there!” PrenTalien barked at the group at the entrance.

  “Don’t bother, s-sir.” Trin slurred the words thickly through the right half of her mouth. “Jus—just a little—” Her eyes rolled back and she slumped. The watching officers parted as a medical corpsman and an orderly shouldered their way through the press. The corpsman had a hand scanner out and was attaching the leads to Trin’s neck and temples. Her lips were turning blue.

  “What is it? A stroke?” asked PrenTalien.

  “Could be, sir.” The corpsman checked his traces. “No intracranial bleeding but her blood pressure’s—shit!” He waved to the orderly. “Heart stopped. Gimme a defib and get her up on that chart table, stat!”

  One sweep of the admiral’s arm cleared the narrow chart table of its contents. The corpsman and his orderly lifted Trin’s limp body onto it. A savage wrench ripped open the front of her uniform tunic, the gilt buttons ricocheting about the compartment. The corpsman attached a defibrillator unit to the still breast and yelled, “Clear!” The unit fired, lifting her body a hand’s breadth off the surface.

  The corpsman checked his scanner and shook his head. “Clear!” Trin’s body convulsed again. Again the corpsman checked the traces and shook his head. “Get the A-V stim unit and an oxygen loop.”

  The orderly produced a vicious-looking dark gray block with four bent appendages ending in glittering needles three centimeters long. The corpsman placed the atrial-ventricular stimulation unit over Trin’s sternum while the orderly unwrapped some thin transparent coils from around a banded cylinder a little bigger than his thumb and applied them to the hollow of her throat. The crowd on the other side of the space watched in distraught fascination as the ends of the coils burrowed into the quiescent flesh. Instantly, the tubes turned the dark color of oxygen-starved arterial blood.

  “Workin’ there?” the corpsman asked. The orderly gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Alright, here we go,” the corpsman muttered and chewed his lip. He tapped a series of codes into his scanner, reached over and pressed the central button on the unit between Trin’s breasts. The four appendages snapped down with a metallic snick, driving the needles deep into the grayish flesh that now looked like wet clay. Her body did not so much as twitch. Scanning the traces, the corpsman rubbed the side of his nose.

  “Not so good here, sir.” He held the scanner out to the admiral, wagging his head apologetically. “Look at the alpha trace. Circulation’s up and running okay, but—” Another dismal headshake. “We ain’t equipped for this—there ain’t a full neurological suite in this whole station.”

  The admiral was aware of that: Outbound’s medical facilities were designed to treat combat trauma, not rare conditions like stroke. “Who is equipped to handle this?”

  “Ah—Cimarron probably can, sir. She’s got a special ward for touchy cases.”

  PrenTalien caught the eye of Lieutenant Reynolds, who’d been hovering near. “How far out is Cimarron?” The big hospital ship was not in port: they’d cleared the station’s hospital wards of all patients who could be moved to prepare for the impending action, and she’d left earlier that PM to transfer them to fast transport bound for Merope.

  “Just over an hour, sir—last reported position.”

  “Will that do?” he questioned the corpsman.

  “I don’t know, sir. That’d be cuttin’ it mighty fine. She needs a full setup—the works. ASAP.”

  PrenTalien swung his heavy, grim countenance back to his flag lieutenant. “Order Cimarron to close us at flank speed. Whatever they think they’re doing, they aren’t doing anymore.” His glare transfixed the corpsman again. “Can she be moved?”

  “Ah—yessir.” The corpsman licked his dry lips. “Just don’t go bouncing her around.”

  “Geoff, ready a pinnace. You and the medics here will transport the commander to Cimarron at best possible speed—burn the bottles as long as she doesn’t get bounced around. Does that meet your requirements, Corpsman?”

  “Uh—yessir. That should be satisfactory.”

  “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Nicholson, sir. Specialist Dieter Nicholson.”

  “Very good, Mr. Nicholson—” Here they were interrupted by two more orderlies maneuvering a float pallet into the space. PrenTalien waved them over. “Carry on.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” They sidled up to the table. Nicholson and an orderly lifted Trin onto the pallet and began to prepare her for transport.

  Lieutenant Reynolds looked up f
rom his xel. “Cimarron’s skipper’s replied, sir. He says he’s about to transfer the remaining patients and begs we give him twenty minutes to accomplish it.”

  “You tell him from me,” PrenTalien answered, a blaze of brimstone in his glacially blue eyes, “that his remaining patients can hang fire for awhile and if he doesn’t get his ass moving in ten seconds, I’ll personally find out how long he can hold his fucking breath.” His voice grew even louder as he called out to the members of his staff who were still loitering. “Clear away there! Nobody told you to stop working.”

  That impelled the loiterers from the compartment, and medics guided the pallet with Trin’s strapped and sheeted form into the passageway. As Lieutenant Reynolds made to follow, the admiral laid a hand on his elbow.

  “See that she’s put in a secure ward, Geoff—no admittance without my say-so. I don’t care if they have to stack people in the bilges to make it happen. And keep me updated. She’s worth a strike force to us, and I’ll be goddamned if I lose her.”

  * * *

  Joss PrenTalien exhaled noisily, pushed aside the night’s last cup of coffee and cleared his desktop of the day’s last paperwork. Then he paged his flag lieutenant. The young man answered on the second ping.

  “Not getting you up, am I, Geoff?”

  “Of course not, sir.” Lieutenant Reynolds stifled a yawn.

  “Spare me a minute, if you would. There’s a couple of quick items.”

  “Absolutely, sir. I’ll be there directly.”

  The stateroom’s entry system announced Lieutenant Reynolds’ arrival not quite eight minutes later, and admitting him, the admiral smiled at his aide’s crisp appearance, despite the hour. The resiliency of youth, he observed silently. How soon we grow old and forget.

  “Yes, sir?” Reynolds prompted politely.

  “I was wondering if there’s been an update on Commander Wesselby.” He hadn’t heard anything for the last two hours, and it wouldn’t do to constantly badger them. But Geoff had left Cimarron less than an hour ago.