“Well sir, as I’m sure you’re aware, the only practical transits are through the Sultanate itself or Iona. Given how the Ionians feel about us these days, there could be, um, consequences, and the Andamans probably wouldn’t be too happy either about us sending a task force to their key junction.” This pithy assessment of the current political situation sent glances ricocheting around the dais. “But you can sneak through the Traps pretty well—assuming you can run deep enough.”
Now the exchange of looks took on an entirely different and altogether more serious character. The CEF was quite familiar with the properties of the Shaula Traps and its usefulness for covert transits, but that was far from common knowledge. Hearing about it from a cadet was decidedly uncomfortable.
“Your point, Ms. Kennakris?” asked the Commandant, uncomfortably.
“It’s just that running an optimum through the Traps is no good, sir. Optimum’s all I can do in my head, so if that’s the preferred route, I wanted to point out that my solution would not be practical.” She smiled, trying to make it agreeable rather than triumphant, and wasn’t altogether successful. “You can ask Commander Olson, but I think he’ll verify that you can’t really run the Traps at anything above 0.75 optimum, sir—should go hotter if you can manage it—about 0.69 if you really want to have a good chance of not being detected.”
“Ah . . . um.” Hoste looked over at Olson, whose jaw tightened as he tried to hide his alarm. The CEF’s covert transit doctrine called for running the Shaula Traps at 0.67 optimum and that value was in fact highly classified. Having a cadet essentially blurt it out was a most disagreeable surprise and Hoste could only thank God he’d been warned to close the inquiry.
“Your point is well taken, cadet,” Hoste said a moment later. “That caveat is accepted. Please provide an optimum solution for whichever route you choose.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll take the Traps.” And she did. It was easier this time, and when Olson verified her result the murmuring was louder and more general. A sotto voce discussion broke out on the dais and Kris finally allowed herself a look of triumph, while murmuring a few not very complimentary reflections to herself.
The Commandant saw her lips move. He again leaned forward slightly. “Is there some further comment you wish to make, Ms. Kennakris?”
“Not really, sir.” She might have left it there—Hoste certainly thought she would and was leaning back—but the devil already had her tongue and she added, “I was just going to say that I can keep doing this, if you want. I’ve got a free afternoon.”
The ensuing ripple of laughter quickly threatened to get out of hand, and the Commandant called sharply for order. Eventually, he got it.
* * *
One of the perqs of being Commandant was a private residence with its own dining faculties, downside at the Cape York campus. Ambrose Hoste made sparing use of these, feeling it was generally better to dine with his staff, but this evening he made an exception. Stirring cream into a cup of tea while he and Naomi Buthelezi worried at a plate of petit fours, he remarked in a thoroughly discontented voice: “That was damn near a fiasco.”
“Don’t take it so hard, Ambrose. We knew she could do it. And it certainly put to rest any question of her cheating.”
“Yes, but we can hardly attribute her victory to luck.”
“Not just to luck, perhaps, but I think we can allow that route in the scoring. We needn’t get specific as to how she exploited it. That attack she made was spectacular enough.”
“I suppose.” The fact of the matter was that they had little choice, but that did not make it sit any better with him—indeed it made it worse. “But, good lord, Naomi! Did you see Stan’s face when she delivered that little homily on how to escape detection by running the Traps? How does she know these things? He was in here afterwards practically demanding I arrest her.”
Naomi had overheard some of Stanislaus Olson’s rather overwrought reaction, and she concealed her smile with a petit fours. “He’s probably just afraid of what might happen when she shows up in his class next year.”
“And I shouldn’t wonder,” Hoste said in a low voice, not really attending. Then louder: “Imagine having a cadet who can check your work!”—forgetting in his agitation that Naomi had no need to imagine: it was her ‘unsolvable’ problem that Kris had blown up so spectacularly, precipitating this whole mess. Personally, she’d been amused and somewhat gratified by Kris’s performance, but she could appreciate that others—notably Commander Olson, who could be a prickly sort—might see things in a different light. Still, she thought his being lectured by a cadet—an underclassmen, at that—was good for him.
“She has had a rather singular education, it would seem,” she said diplomatically. “But I don’t think we need to be concerned—she’s quite closed mouthed—only talks to Basmartin. She felt provoked today. Maybe we should have apprised her of that memo beforehand.”
Hoste made a noncommittal noise and attacked his tea. “Perhaps Fred Yu was right after all.”
“In what respect?”
“About her not really belonging here. Turn her loose on them, by God”—he motioned generally at the cosmos—“and let them see how they like it. If she discomfits our adversaries half as much as she did me today, it would be well worth it.”
“Ambrose, you can’t be serious,” Naomi chided gently.
“I suppose not.” He settled his cup back on its navy-blue saucer with its elegant hawser-laid border picked out in gold. “But I tell you—in earnest—I worry about what else they saw fit not to tell us.”
That was a fair question. Naomi had no answer for it, and before she could offer more than a slight shrug, the Commandant’s personal line beeped. He thumbed ACCEPT.
“Yes?”
“Apologies for the interruption, sir”—it was his secretary on the line—“but you just received a call from ONI.”
He exchanged a glance with Naomi. It was not unlikely he would hear from the Office of Naval Intelligence regarding the inquiry, but not anything like this soon. “Did they say on what subject?”
“No, sir,” his secretary replied. “The call was from a Commander Wesselby.”
“Thank you, Stacy. Please tell her I shall be happy to speak to her in fifteen minutes, if that is convenient. I’ll take the call in my office.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Commander Wesselby?” he asked Naomi.
She returned a thoughtful look. “Trin Wesselby, I believe. She was deputy director, PLESIG, but I heard she’s been given the director’s billet. Very close to Admiral PrenTalien.”
“Odd,” Hoste muttered. Quite odd, in fact. What conceivable reason could the director of PLESIG have to visit ONI here at Nereus HQ, and then call on him?
“If I remember right, she was our lead in investigating the Alecto Initiative also.”
Hoste looked up sharply. “Was Kennakris involved in that, by any chance?”
“I’m not sure, sir. It’s possible. Lieutenant Commander Huron was.”
“I take it Lieutenant Commander Huron and Kennakris are . . . associated?”
“I believe there are some rumors to that effect, sir.”
Hoste made a disgruntled noise. This was beginning to look even more complicated, and he’d had quite enough of complications. “Well, do excuse me, Naomi. This shouldn’t take long. I would enjoy finishing our game, if that’s not inconvenient.”
Their eyes wandered to the waiting chess board, set to one side for dinner. Ambrose Hoste, distracted, had not played at his usual level this PM and she had a clear mate in five, but with this new development she was considering a blunder, if she could make one that wasn’t too obvious.
“Not at all, Ambrose.” She selected another petit fours and bit it in half. “Please don’t rush.”
Chapter Twenty-One
CEF CGHQ, Capitol Complex
Nereus, Mars, Sol
The distinctive warbling tone echoed thinly throughout the almost em
pty gym, and Rafe Huron tapped his sparring partner’s forearm. Gunnery Sergeant Alison Jordan released what was about to become a devastating hammer lock, swiped some bright gold locks, now darkened with sweat, away from her forehead and stepped back with a heartfelt sigh.
Wearing an easy grin, Huron loped across the exercise mats to where the calling card lay caroling among his gear. Tapping ACCEPT, he was treated to Commander Wesselby’s smiling face.
“Not an inopportune time, is it?” she asked, taking her dark hair out of the tight braid and noting the way Huron was dressed.
“Not at all. Quite propitious, in fact.”
“Why? Allie about to get the drop on you again?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I can see her grinning over your shoulder. Hello, Sergeant.”
“Good evening, Commander.” Sergeant Jordan’s sweetly accented voice spoke right next to his ear. He hadn’t heard her approach at all.
“Apologies if I delayed Rafe getting what I’m sure he richly deserves.”
“No worries, ma’am.” The sergeant, a dyed-in-the-wool Canberra native, rolled her shoulders suggestively. “Not much of a delay, I expect.”
“Glad to hear it.” Trin returned her gaze to Huron. “I just spoke with the Commandant and also Commander Buthelezi—who sends her regards, incidentally. Is she one of your old flames, by any chance? Her greeting seemed to convey a certain . . . warmth.”
“Who’s prying now?” Huron was acutely conscious of their audience.
“It’s my turn.”
“She’s a royal, y’know.”
“So are you—to most people.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“She’d be quite a catch.” Trin was warming to the exercise.
“Now don’t you start.”
“ ‘I have not yet begun to fight.’ John Paul Jones.”
“I know. He also said something about going into harm’s way.”
“Touché.”
Huron made a little bow of acknowledgement to the image in the card.
“And she also wanted you to know your girl made quite a name for herself tearing up War Week.”
“Do tell.”
“They actually had to hold an inquiry about it.”
“Trin?”
“Yes?”
“Two things. You might want to go easy on employing the possessive case when it comes to Kris. And as much as I appreciate the interruption, my keen instincts tell me you had another reason for calling.”
“In fact I did. The Academy is willing to greenlight a meeting, if she agrees.”
“Schedule?”
“Early next week. We’re looking for a day to maximize the inconvenience for CID.”
“Excellent. With whom?”
“You, a Commander Tilletson from Operations and a CID rep to be named later. Most of the department heads will be attending a major bull session at Lunar 1 then, so I’m expecting Eliot Matheson. He’s deputy of the group that’s tasked with human trafficking. Do you know him?”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’re in for a treat, then.”
“Box checker?”
“Extraordinaire. He’s hell on wheels when it comes to report formats too.”
“Very nice.”
“Back with an update tomorrow PM.”
“Looking forward to it. Enjoy your evening, Trin.”
“You too, Rafe. Have fun, Allie.”
“I’ll do that, ma’am.”
And Huron killed the link.
“Have you known the Commander a long time, sir?” Sergeant Jordan inquired politely as they moved back onto the mats.
“Her father and mine were friends.”
“Does she always talk to you like that?”
“Once she lets her hair down, yes.”
“So it’s true you dated Commander Buthelezi?” As they took their stance and locked forearms.
“Are you trying to get on my good side, Sergeant?”
Alison Jordan replied with a grin as bright as her hair. “You’re better when you’re motivated, sir. Ready?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol
The day after the inquiry, a board of faculty members, chaired by Commander Buthelezi and observed by Commandant Hoste, who took no active role, met to decide the War Week scoring. It was a close, detailed and deeply technical discussion, and the upshot was that Basmartin came out on top, ahead of Kris by a mere three points, the edge being his performance during the torpedo runs. Indeed, the result was so closely argued, detailed and technical as to seem a bit defensive, which, given the extraordinary nature of the situation, it certainly was. Nonetheless, the majority accepted the decision as being on the right side of justice.
This majority did not include Basmartin, who was livid. When they chanced to have a moment alone, he’d exclaimed savagely to Kris, “You were robbed! Fucking robbed!”
Kris had never seen him angry before and certainly had never heard him say fuck, the way she and Tanner did so liberally—it was daunting.
“S’Okay,” she replied. “It’s no problem—really.” And then she tried to explain that setting up the conditions for victory was not at all the same as achieving victory.
Baz would not buy any of it. “But you assigned us the torps! You coulda made those runs better than either of us! You know it!”
She did know it, but she also knew that she was better in a dogfight than either of them, so if Red Team’s fighters had shown up, she stood a better chance of buying them the time needed to pull off the attack. That, however, was a line of argument Baz was obviously not amenable to, and she didn’t even bother to voice it. When she left, he was still fuming.
The following day, the Grand Senate passed, by an unusually slim margin, a resolution authorizing the Plenary Council to proceed with the ultimatum and any action that should result from its execution. An eleventh-hour compromise to soften some of the wording had been needed to secure sufficient votes, leading to cries of weaseling wording and watering down. The senior senator from New Meridies took the floor at the last minute to harangue his colleagues: “What is the point of an ultimatum that merely suggests, not demands?” His tone was overwrought, as were his arguments, and the compromise stood. The Plenary Council accepted the resolution with due solemnity, and the Speaker promised action with “all alacrity consistent with the portentous nature of the resolution” and set no date for doing anything. The media, reacting on cue, was full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
At the Academy, all the outcry signified perhaps less than nothing. The results of the vote were announced on the same Martian day as the finals of the All-Forces Unarmed Combat Championship, in which Corporal Vasquez defeated Sergeant Major Yu in a match of record length by the required minimum of two points. Regardless of the confident predictions from some parties, the sky did not fall and, as attentive observers noted the next morning, the sun rose in its accustomed quadrant.
Even for those few near-pariahs who hadn’t followed the tournament with obsessive dedication, the term was ending in the spirit of holiday, not politics, and governmental doings were a very distant concern, indeed.
Kris’s private thoughts were not on holidays, however, which meant nothing to her but more time on her hands (it was pleasant enough to have a break from people, but she got squirmy after about a week), and even less on what the government was up to.
Instead, her thoughts were wholly occupied with what the immunocyte implants were doing to her system. Walking with knees that still shook more than a little and keeping one hand on the wall, she was making her way back to her study from the head, where she’d practically taken up a lease on the stall nearest the door. In fact, the day before yesterday she’d seriously considered posting a sign to that effect when she unexpectedly found it occupied. Fortunately, there was a sink handy.
She’d gotten her first round of immunocyt
es four days ago—the same day the final scoring was announced—and the med-techs had told her to expect “a little discomfort” and “maybe some nausea,” especially after the first twenty-four hours. Kris had come to understand this as medical shorthand for puking your guts out for an hour and a half every morning. That was supposed to be diminishing at this point, and she certainly hoped it would, because it was beginning to feel like the cure was worse than the disease—any disease. The very thought of food made her stomach roll; she was having enough trouble keeping down the specially fortified, somewhat slimy, vaguely sweet, unpleasantly pale-orange stuff she was supposed to drink a liter of each evening.
Baz looked up as she eased unsteadily through the door, noting her pale, drawn face and the beads of clammy perspiration across her forehead and under her eyes, which were ringed with dark circles.
“Bad, huh?” He’d gotten his implants the same day, and whatever they fixed up kids with in the Homeworlds, it must be a lot different than the proactive vaccines Kris had been inoculated with, because he’d sailed through with barely a burp. Kris was not close to forgiving him for that.
“What’re ya still doin’ here?” she said in a hoarse, strained voice. He was supposed to have left to meet his family early that AM.
“Flight’s delayed.”
“Again?” This was the second time. Minx and Tanner had left two days ago, Minx with her upperclassman girlfriend and Tanner to parts unknown. Baz had been stuck here, exactly at the time when she really didn’t want the company.
“It happens,” he said philosophically. It was easy for him to be philosophical. Kris had a vague idea that he also felt some obligation to hang around and ‘be there for her’ or some such bullshit. His parents were doctors—his father was in fact the medical director of a hospital on Phaedra—and Kris knew they both did a lot of pro bono medical outreach in the poorer colonies. Baz evidently felt he had to keep up the family tradition. She really couldn’t blame him for that, but she did anyway. Sometimes Baz could be really dense.
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