Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum

by Owen R. O'Neill

  Of course, there could be no real point of comparison between Kris, a beautiful young woman—and even more striking today in her smartly tailored jet-black uniform—and a cigar-store Indian, except for that same fixity of expression: not contempt in her case, but a remoteness that was close to inhuman.

  A lot of that was the ceremony itself. Kris hated these affairs. At best, they made her feel like a performing dog. At worst, all the attention brought up memories of other gatherings, nothing short of horrific. In private, she could accept praise graciously if she believed in the reasons behind it. Her pride in her accomplishments was real enough, especially when recognized by a man like Lo Gai Sabr, and Huron knew that the medal hung from that wide purple ribbon was no millstone.

  But take away the discomfort of the moment and all too much remained. It put a strain on her, on him, on the whole squadron, made worse by the exacting tedium of these past months—months of mopping-up operations and DEMOB assignments; of patrolling, escorting, ferrying—and like almost all the people on Trafalgar, the majority of them having not set foot on anything with a true affinity for matter for close to half a year.

  Cooped up in the same wardroom under such circumstances, her standoffishness, the clipped tones, a reserve that sometimes came across as being unwilling to be pleased, wore on the best of tempers, and Huron had had to take notice of an out-of-place comment more than once. This award ceremony was their relief. They were all due for a week or two of furlough before they got their next assignments, and when the dogs barked this evening they’d be free to enjoy it. And they meant to do just that. Epona might be a small colony and Mather’s Landing just a small colonial town, but these days that passed for paradise. The wry looks and the cold shoulders would be forgotten—if only Kris could see her way clear to showing up. He was by no means certain that she would. When Kris got her hackles raised, you were much, much safer having a close quarters argument with a pit viper. But he hoped it wouldn’t go that far. His instinct told him it probably wouldn’t, but where instinct ended and wishful thinking began was a hazardous thing to assess—

  “Lieutenant Commander Rafael Huron V,” Commander t’Laren called out. He stood, saluted, and walked with stiff precise strides to the appointed place. Reaching it, he came to exact attention, as the equally pompous words of his citation again began to fill the hanger.

  Yep, he thought as he assumed that look of formal impenetrability, Kris wasn’t the only one this PM who might be feeling like a cigar-store Indian.

  When next Huron saw Kris, at the end of the first dog watch, she was again on the hanger deck, waiting for the transfer shuttle down to Mather’s Landing, with her duffle bag at her feet. Like him, she’d shifted to her undress grays, the pewter ‘reversed’ uniform that was worn downside, in complement to shipboard kit. Behind her, the shuttle was disgorging pallets on one side, mostly fresh supplies from planet below, and absorbing them on the other, including his baggage and that of the other members of their squadron.

  But not Kris’s. Aside from her dress uniforms, that duffle contained everything she owned.

  He wandered over and greeted her with a smile. “Hello, Kris.”

  Looking up, she smiled back, an uncertain movement involving just the lower half of her face.

  “Hello, sir.”

  He lifted his chin towards the chrono visible behind the busy shuttle. “You can hold the sir. I’m on furlough, as of five minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” She turned to check the chrono for no evident reason. “By the way,” she added, turning back. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but you can hold that too. It’s at least half yours anyway, Kris. Those clusters don’t begin to cover all you’ve earned.”

  It was hard to tell in the hanger deck’s patchy light, but she might have been showing the beginnings of a blush. “That’s, um . . . Thanks. Maybe we can share it or somethin’.”

  “I’d like that—very much.”

  She made a show of observing the deck crew’s progress with the shuttle. “You got plans? Gonna check out the wildlife at all?”

  “I do believe there is a proposal to that effect, yes.”

  “Romney’s?”

  Romney’s was the traditional spot for kicking off the après-cruise binge. Kris had been there a few times. It was a cheap and dingy little joint, but it was convenient, the girls were clean and the drinks were alright, too. Not a bad place when you were stuck out here at the ass-end of nowhere. It could get rowdy at times—the provosts were notoriously relaxed—but things rarely got broken that couldn’t be easily replaced, and the revelers generally left those who were disinclined alone. Generally.

  “That’s the assigned objective. What about you? I saw you didn’t take your furlough.”

  She shrugged. “I got three days. It’s enough.”

  “It’s light-duty time, Kris.” Something in his voice called her eyes back to his. “A celebration is in order. You shouldn’t miss out.”

  “I—dunno. Was thinkin’ maybe I’d keep it down a tone tonight.”

  It was going to be one of those nights, with the prospect of an interval of peace ahead and the thrill of victory—to say nothing of months’ worth of stress—still to burn off. The stiffness from the award ceremony hadn’t quite worn off yet and she wasn’t sure how she really felt. Huron had more sides to him than a dodecahedron, and they were most evident in his tone. In meetings, his diction was so crisp you could shave with it. Outside them—and especially when he strapped into a fighter—that drawl came back in his voice. When the pressure mounted to its highest point, he had a tendency to hum softly, always off-key. At social events, he was all affable formality and the drawl smoothed to something almost urbane, keeping just a enough roughness to remain interesting. When he chose, this smile came out that complemented his off-kilter handsomeness superbly. It made people—particularly women—cease talking. But for all his cultivated openness, none of it told you anything.

  Kris understood that. No one in his position—eldest son of the League’s most politically powerful family, with a net worth greater than the economic output of some star nations—could let people get a handle on him. He had to be what everyone wanted but no one could touch—sort of like Mariwen that way—and he was good at it. Yet there were times when he looked at her that she thought she caught a glimpse of something beneath that surface. When they were alone, there was quality in his voice she never heard otherwise. And there was the massage he gave her after that mission she had no right to come back from—the times she’d kissed him—

  “You’re the guest of honor.” Huron’s voice slid across her thoughts. “They’ll all be disappointed.”

  “I, ah—” The next words caught in her throat, making her wince. Why was she always reflexively saying no? These were her flight-mates for gawd’s sake, not some bunch of— “Sure. I’ll go. It’ll be fun.” She looked back at the shuttle again. The boarding lamp was lit. “I—ah—gotta check in first. Take a care of a coupla things, okay? I’ll link up after that.”

  “Sounds good, Kris.”

  She hefted her duffle bag. “Thanks, Huron—Hi, Lieutenant.” This last with a nod past his shoulder at Senior Lieutenant Geoff N’Komo, who’d just sauntered up. N’Komo was a Belter—they didn’t know any other way to move when under gravity.

  “Lieutenant,” N’Komo returned in his slightly high-pitched, carrying voice, with a negligent motion towards his forehead. “Congratulations. Keep kickin’ ‘em in the balls until they give ya the rest.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do my best.” Shouldering her bag, she gave them both a nod. “See ya in a few, sir. Lieutenant.” Then she hurried to board the waiting shuttle.

  The two men watched Kris jog away. “That’s one hell of a woman,” N’Komo remarked, with a shake of his head. “But she’s got it wound real tight, don’cha think, Boss?”

  “She has cause, Geoff. Put you or me where she’s been and we’d be screaming batshit crazy.”

  N�
�Komo put a hand on Huron’s arm. “You gonna keep an eye on her, Boss? I’d hate it if she broke it off.”

  “If she doesn’t put a missile up my ass for interfering.”

  “Yeah.” N’Komo snorted. “I suppose there is that part.”

  “Hey?” Huron turned to his friend, the banter back in his voice. “Where’n hell’s the others? They waitin’ for an engraved invite from the Almighty?”

  N’Komo hooked a thumb behind him in his genteel manner. “Krieger and Dance are collecting ‘em. Be down in a sec. Tole’s left already.”

  Huron smiled and clapped N’Komo shoulder. “Excellent. I distinctly hear a bottle calling and I don’t wanna hurt its feelings.”

  * * *

  Epona Outstation had no proper visiting officers’ quarters. This added a great deal to its comfort because that meant officers staying downside had to be given accommodations in Mather’s Landing. BuNavPers arranged for quarters there as required, but when it became apparent they would be on-station for an extended period, Kris, Huron, and a few others had clubbed together to lease a block of suites in one of the better buildings in Old Town, noted for its restaurants, a live theater, and rather more bordellos than the permanent population of Mather’s Landing might be expected to support.

  The suite Kris got was not particularly spacious, but it did have a full-sized tub in addition to the usual shower stall, an absolute requirement and something she would spend almost any amount for. Otherwise, it was wholly unremarkable: a single bedroom and a token living space, both sparsely furnished in a décor that could most charitably be called utilitarian, and a small but serviceable kitchen—more than serviceable for Kris, whose idea of cooking did not extend much beyond zipping the foil of a ration pack to heat it.

  The kitchen was kept fully stocked but it had been recently restocked by someone well acquainted with naval tastes, which ran heavily to saturated fat, animal protein, and alcohol. Kris’s tastes were different, and after she had checked in with the duty officer and drawn her orders—from which she learned that her assignment had been postponed for a week and she was granted leave until then—she dined in Old Town, splurging on a huge plate of fresh fruit, real potatoes (her favorite food), and a slab of interestingly spiced local meat.

  The unanticipated gift of so much free, unmortgaged time might have been expected to induce a holiday mood, but in fact it unsettled her. Returning early, she got comfortable and unpacked, spreading out her meager kit. Stashing the items with a fine disregard for efficiency took barely a third of an hour.

  She went to the living space, sat down on the couch there, checked the large console and paged through some entertainment options. That wasted almost seven minutes. Fidgeting occupied a few more. Rummaging disinterestedly through the kitchen, and taking note of the no less than seventeen varieties of beer and several whiskeys that were totally unknown to her, got her to the top of the hour. She went back to the living space, and activated the console again. The second time through the feeds, she saw a title: Reflections: The Alecto Initiative—Two Years Later.

  Were they really showing programming that ancient? It was closer to three. She picked up her xel and checked how long it had actually been: nine hundred seventy-five days—two and two-thirds years. She could barely remember what she was like then. She’d just turned twenty, she was just forty-nine days off Harlot’s Ruse . . .

  The crawl displayed a little parade of sensationalized factoids. She scrolled over it, opening a preview window, and then a floating banner zoomed out: Mariwen Rathor—A Life Destroyed. Half against her will, Kris clicked the program. The screen filled with stock footage of Mariwen—covers, videos, media appearances—as a syrupy voiceover intoned, “Mariwen Rathor, one of our best-loved celebrities—a tragic pawn in a terrorist plot.”

  Oh fuckin’ Christ, Kris snarled inwardly, reaching for CANCEL. Then she froze abruptly. The sappy montage was gone and now the console showed a video of little figures, distorted by the extreme magnification and much post-processing, on the portico of the Grand Exhibit Hall in Nemeton. The figures were blurred but the one at the top of the steps was just recognizable. The video had been slowed down so the gun in Mariwen’s hand rose with sickening deliberation, taking aim at the security men lunging for cover—one man was already collapsed at her feet in a welter of gore—the gun fired, the flash marked by a flat dull pop—another man fell. She fired again, and there, from the right side of the screen, was another figure sprinting—a security man closing on her, grabbing her—they spun together—Mariwen turning, the gun coming up—and Kris closed her eyes, hearing the video’s dull faraway pop but seeing the muzzle flash again—seeing it all again: Mariwen’s face, Mariwen’s eyes, the 10-mm round flicking the brains out of the man who’d grabbed her, the pitted crown of the gun’s muzzle smoking, all stark and clear in her memory . . .

  Kris swallowed hard, brought her hand up tight against her mouth and thumbed JUMP. Eyes still shut tight, she heard an announcer again: another women, voice oily with a media professional’s faux concern.

  “. . . Dr. Frederick Purcell, formerly director of the Institute for Advanced Neurophysics, Oxford. Dr. Purcell, you are an expert on the kind of neural implanting that was used on Mariwen Rathor by the terrorists to try to carry out this bombing. Can you tell us a little about how these implants work?”

  Kris opened her eyes to see the stern, slack, yellowish face of Dr. Purcell, droning on about the morphology of neural implants in a voice that was colorless but for the fractured speech pattern and affected accent: “ . . . but of course in this particular case the implant itself was very simple—one might say basic—most difficult to discover and masked by extreme memory manipulation . . . ah, most severe indeed. It was the memory manipulation that was . . . um . . . key—key in the attempt to carry out this plot. Helped out by drugs of course, and, ah . . . handlers—to ensure the implants were not broken. Fortunately, in this—er . . . in this instance, the subject—Ms. Rathor—was able to . . . under high stress, you understand . . . to defeat the stimuli of the implant and . . . the plot was foiled. This sometimes happens in, ah . . . in cases as—as extreme as this.”

  What an ass, Kris thought. And then: Thank god they didn’t mention my name.

  She also noted they hadn’t mentioned that Mariwen had been salvage fused either; that the bomb, over thirty-two kilos of an extremely powerful, experimental explosive, had been rigged to detonate the moment she was killed.

  Maybe they don’t know—I hope to hell not . . .

  “ . . . treatment in such cases. Ms. Rathor has been in private rehabilitation since the attack: all access restricted—no statements from the family. Can you give us some idea of the treatment and the prospects for recovery?”

  “Well, in such a case, it must be speculation of course. But I should say . . . ah—difficult—most difficult. The techniques, the necessary reconstruction—most involved. And the recovery—one does not generally speak of recovery in the—in the common sense, do you see. Some functionality? Ah, likely. But in matters of, eh . . . personality, memory—basic cognition . . . these things are deeply affected and, ah—the resolution is umm . . . that is, unpredictable.”

  “So your opinion, Doctor, is that we shall not see Mariwen Rathor in public life again?”

  “Oh no. I should not think . . . in, ah—in such a case . . . such a case this—that there would be any such possibility—realistic possibility, that is. No, no. I’m afraid not.”

  “Thank you very much, Doctor. That was Dr. Frederick—”

  Kris killed the video and shut down the console. Cupping her face in her hands, she leaned forward and took several deep breaths and then several more, until the painful tightness in her chest began to ease.

  Almost three years and they’re still trying to score points off her . . . Assholes.

  She dropped her hands and flexed them, shaking a tremor out of her spine as she stood. Going into the bedroom, she picked up a flat case on the dresser and th
umbed it open. The case held an envelope—real paper, a bit worn from handing—sealed with a gold wafer. She touched the wafer, it released and she slid the folded square inside into her hand.

  She didn’t unfold it (she knew the words, the lines, the shape of the letters by heart) but turned it in her fingers, savoring the slight roughness, the dry crispness of the fine paper. Mariwen had sent it to her on her graduation from the Academy without explanation, just four spare handwritten lines: the first, “The moon has set, and the Pleiades”; the last, “and here I lie alone.” Kris had never answered—had never known how to answer. It had been just over a year, now.

  Carrying the letter gingerly into the living space, she resettled on the couch and picked up her xel. A few taps brought up Mariwen’s ID and email address. She opened a compose window and stared at it awhile before closing it again. A year . . .

  Kris brought up the email address again, ran a trace. The icon pulsed for the better part of a minute and then glowed red. Restricted. She opened the info pane, requested an exception, typed in her ID, pressed her thumb to the screen and waited. The icon pulsed even longer this time, and came back red again. Kris chewed her lip. She could only connect to the local service and out here, and who knew how often it was updated or even if the directories were complete. Trafalgar would have full, up-to-date directories . . . That meant sending the email through ship comms—not so private—but . . .

  She opened a link to Trafalgar. The signals officer of the watch answered, Lieutenant JG Roland Howard. Howard was not a bad sort at all, but they were not friends.