Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum

by Owen R. O'Neill

“It was supposed to be a feint but it didn’t go so well . . .” Kris spun a carefully embroidered version of the actual attack, leaving in all the verifiable facts, and adding some unverifiable ones: a problem with Huron’s fire control system that prevented him from launching, and a rash final run-in to convert a blown diversion into a real strike. She allowed her account to digress, letting Heydrich stop her and redirect the narrative. He had that inquisitor’s voice back on, sharp and pointed, snapping questions again and again to keep her off-balance. After a minute, he rose and retrieved a tablet from the mahogany desk and began jotting notes on it. He continued eating, but from the twitchiness around his eyes—narrowing and widening and narrowing again—she could tell he wasn’t tasting the food.

  “What other diversionary maneuvers were planned?”

  Kris drew a deep, shuddering breath, all unfeigned. “I . . . don’t know. Details, I mean. PrenTalien was gonna dance around—act threatening. At least two other fighter wings were modified, I think, but they probably bagged that operation when we didn’t come back. There’s this bunch of tenders on the way to Miranda all phonied-up to look like Thermopylae X-ray. They were gonna have the Caledonians maybe get in on it too, I think—”

  “What was the purpose of these maneuvers? What did you hope to accomplish?” Heydrich was attacking his wine—he’d switched to something straw-gold now—with rapid little sips.

  “To answer your maneuver.”

  “Explain.” He fiddled with some controls in the desk; the recording equipment, she supposed.

  “You. You being here—sending Ilya here—is a one-man feint. Make us think you’re serious about Miranda. We had to respond, so you’d think it worked. Otherwise you’d know we knew—” You know, we know; you know we know; and we know you know it. We’re all so knowledgeable . . .

  “Know what?” He’d moved up to the edge of his chair.

  She hesitated. Damn, his eyes are bright . . .

  “Know what?”

  “Know you’re not after Miranda.”

  Heydrich slowly sat back into his chair. “Explain.”

  Kris let a tremble slip into her voice and cast the big bait. “We found out about your agreement with the Maxor—you’re gonna push through Maxor space to take Regulus. You can threaten Terra from there.” His face went stiff around the mouth, the lines framing his upper lip deepened. Kris saw a kaleidoscope of calculations going on behind the mirror-bright eyes.

  Gotcha . . .

  “Continue.” He spoke slowly, thoughts weighing down his words.

  “Well, you pushin’ on Regulus uncovers the Hissarlik jump nodes. By holdin’ those, we can put the choke on Halith Evandor itself. We’re gonna hit Hissarlik while you’re jumpin’ into—”

  “What’s happened to your voice?”

  Kris hadn’t noticed she’d slipped into the lank slaver drawl. Nice effect, huh? Wish it was on purpose. “It, uh . . . happens when I get too fragged—stressed . . . out. Sorry.”

  “How are you going to attack Hissarlik?” She saw the glint of calculation, plot and counterplot continuing to churn.

  “We—uh—” Careful now, you’re just a jig, remember. “Can I have ‘nother drink? Please?”

  “No.” His voice was as flat as his eyes were animated. “Continue.”

  “We—uh—we got our own agreement with Maxor.”

  Heydrich sucked on his lower lip, wine glass dangling forgotten in his hand, perilously close to spilling its contents.

  He’s deciding something. He either believes me or he knows I’m lying.

  After a minute, he noticed the precarious position of his wine glass, raised it, and took an absent sip. “Playing both ends, are they?” He seemed more relaxed now. “I wonder who is to be stabbed behind the arras?” She wondered about responding—he seemed to be thinking out loud.

  Yeah, give it a shot. It might sound triumphantly rebellious. “You are. Maxor’ll cooperate in lettin’ ya cross their space, an’ the Ardennes Strike Force gonna be waiting for ya at Regulus with Zahir and Thermopylae. Both strike forces’ll jump past you and transit Maxor space to drop two million tons of DREDRON on your ass. Once they kick the door in, Seventh’s gonna follow up and you’re fucked.”

  That brought him upright. “You can’t possibly reposition a fleet that fast.”

  She swallowed hard. “Don’t have to. Miranda’s a set-up—a real old hook.” His eyes narrowed, seemed to sink inward.

  Bothers you, huh? So you’ve got nightmares too, you flash-freaky bastard . . .

  “Explain.” He rapped the word this time, his voice gravelly: over-controlled and hammered flat.

  “Seventh ain’t—isn’t—really . . . there. GS 3.1 set up a paper fleet, simulated comms traffic, dummy force concentrations—the works. Stuck PrenTalien in charge so you’d—”

  Heydrich lifted his head, observing her intently. “Yes? Why would you waste your best commander on a false deployment?”

  Kris quirked her lips in her best sour smile. “Cause you’d never believe we’d do it. Our one-man feint. He’s been on the Council’s shit-list for months—pitched a fit when they let the Bannermans come over after Wogan’s Reef. Then he publicly pissed all over the armistice deal.” All too true. “GS 3.1 came up with this—a sorta useful exile . . .”

  “Who has Seventh Fleet now?”

  “Lo Gai. They put him under Zahir for this caper—”

  “What is the point of the ‘old hook,’ as you call it?”

  “Pinning maneuver—bleed your forces off to Asylum, where you’d be outflanked once we went for Hissarlik.”

  Kris watched him chewing her words, the calculations going on with an almost audible crunching noise. Her hyperbolic-sounding estimate was, in fact, low. The dreadnoughts Ardennes and Rubicon, Thermopylae and Excalibur, accompanied by a dozen battleships and thirty battlecruisers—that was a million tons right there. Four carrier battle groups—close to another million. Almost a hundred cruisers, destroyers and frigates. Over eight hundred fighters and attack craft. And Seventh coming along behind. All to be opposed by a trio of outdated monitors and the Haslar Fleet, which hadn’t heard a shot fired in anger in over a century . . .

  Choke it down, asshole. Have I ruined your whole day?

  But then the doubts began to well up bitterly in her stomach. He’s just nibbling—hasn’t swallowed it yet. Maybe he’s just giving me more rope?

  “How is the trap sprung? The Maxor dislike violence in their space. If we follow your jump to their side, they will certainly intercede. This would make things . . . unpredictable. They have as little use for you as us, I think.”

  Kris shook her head, a spasmodic twitch. “Can’t jump back. Once Seventh comes through, they’ll blow the jump fields to Regulus. Drop a quantum black hole down the well—goes inflationary and bungs up things for weeks . . .”

  “That requires a great deal of energy.”

  “Ardennes is a big baby.”

  Heydrich studied her minutely. His wine glass started to list again.

  Come on, make up your fuck’n mind, dammit! I’m just about played out . . .

  He held his silence for a full minute, then spoke, his voice dry and uninflected, “How do you know all this?”

  “Huron told me. Wanted me to know . . . know I wasn’t jus’ . . . bait. Was a good bet we weren’t comin’ back. We were . . .”

  “How romantic,” Heydrich inferred cynically—or probably knew. She caught his look. Yeah, you knew. “How did he know?”

  “You fuck’n kidding? He knows all sorta shit.” Kris swallowed in a vain attempt to settle the sick churning in her stomach. “His old man was Speaker, y’know.” Surely a Halith lord could understand privilege and nepotism. “He’s got hooks into everybody—had . . .”

  “What was his source?” Heydrich’s eyes started to spark.

  Kris shuddered, the line between acting and actuality beginning to blur dangerously. “Dunno. I mean—like . . . what’s the point? You’re the guys w
ho trusted the crazy-as-fuck Maxor. Probably cuz he . . .” Her thoughts were beginning to unravel. Frantically she grabbed at the strands. “He knows lotsa guys on the intel side—he’s been staff too. Like I said, hooks into fuck’n everybody . . .”

  With the utmost deliberation, he put down the glass, rose and left the room.

  Kris could hear him talking low and rapidly on the comms in an adjacent compartment. The words were fast and guttural; she couldn’t make them out. Either she’d hooked him or she’d broken it off badly. She couldn’t tell which. The churning in her stomach was uniting with the trembling in her limbs to shake her mind to pieces. She gave way to a shuddering fit, almost a convulsion. It left her weak and exhausted. Yellow sparks clouded her vision. If she didn’t get something to eat or drink soon . . .

  Heydrich seemed to stay in the other room forever. She heard the click of keys, periodically interrupted by his voice, and then long intervals of silence. As an exercise in control, she tried to measure the silent intervals by counting, but lost it after a few minutes to a violent convulsion. When it passed, her mouth tasted bloody. Heydrich was having a long conversation, in lower and calmer tones. Was that good or bad? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell anything . . . Another fit wracked her. As she spasmed, Heydrich walked back into the room. He paused to watch, avidly.

  “Please,” she croaked, not acting at all. “Please.”

  He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Water.” It came out a gasp. “Please . . .”

  “Ah!” He pantomimed surprise. “But of course.” He brought the glass, sat on the edge of the bed, and fed her a careful, measured sip. It helped—some.

  “Th—thank you.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the horror of those words. He thinks he’s winning. And he is—I meant that. When she opened them again, he still sat there, a picture of solicitous concern. A subtly distorted picture.

  “I am curious,” he commented conversationally, “how did Commander Huron come to be involved? Surely they needn’t have risked him on such a mission.”

  “They didn’t. He volunteered—no, he . . . insisted.” She shook her head to clear her suddenly blurred vision, angry to be crying real tears in front of him. Huron’s tears. “They ordered him to stand down but he wouldn’t. Huron didn’t take orders he didn’t like—”

  “How did you come to be selected for this mission?” Heydrich interrupted. In an inspired bit of sadism, he kept the glass near her lips. She could smell the water and salvation became a curse.

  “I told you—my DSRO and I don’t get along. Goes way back. He groped me when I was a Cadet and he was an Academy instructor.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “So you reported him and his career suffered—”

  “No, I kneed him in the nuts. I gotta bad temper. We made this deal, see—I wouldn’t report him, he wouldn’t report me. But he’s been after my ass ever since. Fucker set me up . . .”

  “Indeed.” Heydrich stroked a finger down his scar absently. Kris recognized the gesture. He’s thinking of something. “And this involved your recent psychiatric evaluation? You had some difficulty with a Dr. Quillan, I think.”

  Kris lay her head back. “Yeah, I objected to his line of questioning.”

  He put the water glass down. “I take it this line of questioning involved your time as Captain Trench’s slave?”

  “Uh huh. Quillan thinks I’m either psychotically hostile or a Halith plant.” That was rewarded with a small ironic smile. “Can’t make up his mind which. We never got along.”

  “Reasons?” Heydrich asked quietly.

  Kris let the breath slide out of her body. “Trench. He saw the pix of Trench. After I . . . killed ‘im. Quillan’s a Nedaeman—y’know, neo-pacifist, vegetarian, hyper-tolerant . . . of other Nedaemans. He couldn’t understand why I’d do . . . that. He couldn’t understand a lotta shit. Anyway, I got myself classed as a psych problem. So they gave me a choice of this mission or getting’ my brain raped.”

  “Very interesting,” Heydrich commented dryly. “Your people have the most fascinating vices. So I take it you were prepared to resist interrogation?”

  Well, and why not? If Heydrich thought so, she’d play along. “Yeah, it’s routine. They figured if I got caught, you’d chem me and then let it alone—you know, small fry. Nobody thought you’d bother with . . . with . . . me.”

  “You must be excruciatingly hungry.” Heydrich yanked her rambling to a halt. She fought with an acknowledgement for a few seconds, then gave it up. If he was feeding her, she must have won this round. She didn’t have the strength to fight any longer anyway.

  “Yes.” Very small, very tired, very defeated.

  Heydrich got up, began investigating the contents of another domed silver service. “Bless thermal platters. As fresh as the moment it was made. Allow me.” Bringing the food to the edge of the bed, he sat down and fed her, bite by bite, in an obscene parody of tenderness.

  Dining, if it could be called that, took a long time, and she was traitorously grateful for the diminishing hungry ache and abating tremors. She hated herself for that, almost more than she hated him; that was part of the game, she knew, but pale reason had pretty tenuous hold just now.

  Heydrich kept up a light, easy patter throughout. This was probably a mistake on his part; it kept reminding her who the enemy really was—especially when he praised the wine. Huron had loved wine; his family was in the business and he was rich enough to indulge his tastes in any fashion he desired. The memory carved a hollow ache a little deeper.

  After that she tried to ignore what he was saying. Eating gave her an excuse for not keeping up her end of the conversation and she let her mind wander. She had no idea how much time her little ploy might buy her. Meanwhile, she’d live to learn to play Heydrich’s filthy game; eight years as Trench’s slave had given her quite an education in games. She figured he’d get bored with her eventually, ship her off somewhere, and then she’d have a chance. She might even get a chance sooner if Huron had managed to send a message before he fried . . .

  Stop dreaming, she admonished herself as Heydrich fed her a scallop. Nobody at Seventh has the faintest goddamned idea what’s happened. A depressingly accurate assessment: as far as anyone knew, she’d suffered jump damage flying an overloaded fighter through enemy space. Huron had gone back to find her and neither had come back. Close paragraph, end chapter. PrenTalien wasn’t going to invade Halith space to look for pieces.

  Halfway through dessert, the line in the other compartment chimed. Heydrich politely fed her a final bite, then rose to answer it. A very brief discussion ensued. Then Kris heard him key-up a different line and speak quietly into it. The tone made the hair on her arms lift; it sounded like an invitation. When he stepped back into the room he seemed much more animated. He walked to the mahogany desk, removed a chip from the recorder, slipped it in a drawer and inserted a new one.

  “You must excuse me for a while,” he announced cheerily. “However, I don’t wish you to languish in my absence, so I’ve arranged a visit with an old friend. I think you will have much to talk about.”

  Kris’s stomach lurched heavily. Friend? What kind of fucked-up joke was this? Did he have another prisoner? Did he intend to arrange one of those performances that Trench had so enjoyed?

  “ . . . didn’t know you were acquainted. He did not mention it until later, and I can guess why you did not.”

  Kris’s heart began to palpitate. This didn’t sound good at all—

  The entry pad chimed, and Heydrich pressed the entry button. As the door slid open, he declared, “Excellent timing, Sergeant. Please come in.”

  Soho Manes stood in the entrance holding what looked like a portable med-kit. Icicles of dread slashed at her guts. She’d thought she could play his game—

  But it seems I’ve got a lot to learn . . .

  Manes stepped into the room. Kris dropped her head back, stared into the corpse-white visage reflected in the mirror.

 
Oh, I wish I were—I wish I were—I wish I were . . .

  “Ah, Sergeant,” Heydrich sounded appallingly happy. “I must go to CIC for several hours to oversee a . . . situation. This woman”—Heydrich hooked a thumb in her direction—“knows rather more than I would like her to. Please rectify that.”

  Manes grunted. “Beggin’ the admiral’s pardon, sir, but we already been through that. All yesterday. I told ya she’s a stone bitch. Jus’ whathefuck you want me to do now, sir?”

  Heydrich smiled. “I wish you to use your imagination, Sergeant.” Hideous accent on that word. Kris stared fixedly into the mirror, as if it might swallow and save her. “Consider it recreation. And, by all means, take your time.”

  “Yessir!” Obscene happiness beaming through his voice now.

  “Very good, Sergeant. Inform me if anything . . . interesting transpires.” She heard the squeak of his boots as he began to leave, the scuff as he paused and turned. “I should like there to be something left, Sergeant. Something . . . worthwhile. Do you understand?”

  “Uh, yessir.”

  Kris heard the swish of the door opening, the clap and the gust of air as it slammed shut.

  Chapter Seven

  IHS Ilya Turabian

  orbiting Asylum Station

  For a long, frozen heartbeat, she remained motionless, staring at the other girl, the one in the mirror, the one Manes couldn’t touch, and wishing desperately to change places.

  I’m still you, the mirror girl said. It would still hurt.

  I guess you’re right, she answered herself.

  Manes came and stuck his ugly face in between them. He looked her up and down admiringly, then stared intently at her face.

  “Ya don’t ‘member me, do ya?” His voice slurred more than usual, and she noticed his pupils—pin-hole tiny.

  You jacked up for this, she realized. Fuck’n wonderful . . .

  “Do ya?”

  Wait—that voice, mumbling slaver gab; those eyes. Wait . . .

  “Give ya a hint. Nobody called me Manes then.”

  Oh . . . Mentally, she added some thick, curly brown hair, a ragged black beard growing almost to the eyes, and removed about twenty pounds . . .