Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks

by Owen R. O'Neill

  The risk was the unescorted jump and the potential delay, up to thirty-six hours, before the escort arrived. But the tender could lie up, dark and silent, reducing any chance of detection to a level they deemed acceptable. Of course, this scheme also meant mixing the slaves they were repatriating with their slavers, a combustible situation to be sure, but they had an answer for that too.

  “Lock ‘em down in their own holds. Let them wallow in there awhile and see how they may like it.”

  This was what Kris heard Captain Lawrence say as she walked into his stateroom. And coughed.

  A dozen pairs of high-ranking eyes turned to stare at her and her cheeks tingled as the blood left them, while the rims of her ears got pink.

  “Yes, Midshipman?” inquired Sir Phillip.

  “I—ah . . . I have Commander Huron’s report here, sir. On the prisoners.”

  “Ah. Quite.” Lawrence looked benignly down the long table at Huron, who was looking at Kris.

  “Your report, sir”—approaching stiffly and laying the folder before him.

  “Thank you, Ms. Kennakris.” Huron continued to look piercingly at her.

  Kris, heart fluttering, noted that he didn’t even glance at it. “Ah—will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes, I think so.” He paused. “Unless there’s something you wish to say.”

  Licking her lower lip discreetly, she nodded at a situation display, showing the squadron ringed about their prizes, the big tender in the middle. “Well, sir. I heard something about holds. Putting the slavers in their own holds?”

  She looked back at Huron, beseechingly, but it was the captain who spoke.

  “You do not approve, Midshipman?”

  The vaguely mocking tone took some of the edge off Kris’s nerves. “No, sir. Not really”—turning to face him. “Y’see, that could be a really bad idea.”

  “Explain, please?”

  Kris gestured at the display. “Those ships. They riddle ‘em, sir. Hidden compartments, false decks, crawl spaces—all kinds of stuff behind the bulkheads. That tender there, she’s probably honeycombed. They do it in case they get boarded, sir. You never know where the f— I mean, where they’ll come out of.”

  Sir Phillip, digesting this unlooked-for morsel, singled out Commander Walashek. “Commander, what do you think of the midshipman’s statement?”

  “We have no info on that, sir, but it’s certainly plausible. Take a full survey to find out, of course.”

  “Of course.” Sir Phillip leaned his elbows on the table. “Then prudence demands, I think. Do carry out a survey, Mr. Walashek. The rest of you, we will hold matters in abeyance until we know better what devilry those fellows have been up to. That is all.”

  That devilry proved to be shockingly extensive, yet fruitful. By the end of the first watch, Commander Walashek’s team of surveyors had found all Kris had spoken of, plus weapons, explosives, and six pale, filthy, and shaking fugitives wedged in some very unlikely places.

  And Kris added another two names to her list.

  The incident also earned her new respect in some elevated quarters, a new station on the bridge watch, and a permanent seat at the table. She was in it the following AM when Commander Walashek made his report. The captain listened with a mild expression until he finished.

  “Do you think you can stopper all their bolt holes, then?” was his first question.

  “I wouldn’t bet the life of anyone who owed me money,” Walashek answered in his easy, country-bred manner. “The size of that thing, and the way it’s put together, have to rip it to pieces. In airdock, that’d take a couple of weeks. Out here, month at least.”

  Captain Lawrence put a finger to his lips with a discontented sound. “I suppose, then, it’s back to the drawing board, as they say.”

  It was, indeed, and after some thrashing, all present bowed to the inevitable. The prizes would go as planned, crammed with their nine hundred passengers, but somewhat richer in stores, for the tender had been nearly stripped of these, along with some of its fuel. This could be done because the tender, its navigation disabled and its jump convolver destroyed, was to be loaded with just the slavers and escorted back to New Madras by Naiad. With no prize crew or other passengers to support, it merely had to get them there alive, or as Captain Lawrence put it: “A low diet will do them no harm, and washing they appear not to esteem, though by the end they may gasp a little.”

  That did mean Naiad had to make room for the four-hundred-twenty-odd ex-slaves she was to take on board, and she was distributing some of her people about the squadron in a near-desperate bid to do that. She succeeded (“God knoweth how” was heard throughout the squadron), and departed in company with the overstuffed prizes to much cheering and many an avid wish for a fair voyage and a happy return.

  Chapter Five

  Mare Seriphos

  Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

  As Sir Phillip and his officers, free of their burdens but short a destroyer, considered how best to continue their endeavors, seven hundred thirty-seven light-years away in the Pleiades, a different sort of commentary was to be heard. A flaw in the wind, followed by a sudden gust, had just laid over the competitor with the bright red sail, and the woman on the starboard tack took advantage of it to cut inside, nearly clipping her opponent’s board.

  “That was a goddamned foul!” cried Nick, swinging his binoculars to the judge’s skiff. No red flag appeared, however. “Gawd, they hate a Terran.” He lowered the glasses with a rueful shake of his head. “Don’t worry though. Zara has some moves left in her.”

  Trin Wesselby was far from worried. She’d spent most of the day listening to esoteric discussions of jibing versus gybing, tacking and planing, luffing matches and downhill cut-backs and the virtues of various types of fins or skegs or boom vangs or dagger boards. Now she was looking at the woman with the red sail, Zara Daniels, the Terran windsurfing formula champion, and wondering about the power of a well-rounded yet taut female physique to inspire such an elevated degree of technical enthusiasm. But within minutes, Nick was shown to be a true prophet, as Daniels executed a bold and faultless carve gybe on the downwind leg that ate the wind out of her opponent and left her deep in spray at the finish line.

  “Knew she’d pull it out,” Nick observed with great satisfaction, no doubt enhanced by the winnings now registering on his xel. “There’s only one way to keep a good woman down, and that ain’t it.”

  Trin had to smile at that. In truth, she was finding it less dreary than she’d feared. She’d never before paid any attention to the League’s annual windsurfing championships, which rotated between here and Terra, and which, despite the name, drew competitors from only a small handful of planets. In general, it was a Terran-Nedaeman contest, although a contestant from Phaedra had been a surprise winner two years ago. The finer points might be lost on her—and she intended to keep it that way—but the light on the water and freshening breeze were most agreeable, and the undeniably graceful, even acrobatic, maneuvers of the competitors were a joy to behold. If she had to endure a surfeit of technical discourse, well . . . there were worse fates.

  The wind diminished to a series of flawed gusts, prompting the judges to delay the next heat, and Trin took advantage of the respite to settle back against the bole of the silver oak they were sitting under. It crowned one of the taller hills overlooking the water and offered a fine, if remote, prospect of the course along with a comfortable degree of solitude, the rest of the spectators being arranged on a series of knolls nearer the shore or crammed against the water’s edge. The distance was no great handicap to those possessing mil-grade binoculars and Trin appreciated being far from the maddening crowd.

  Reaching into the pack between them, she took out the container of truffle pate and a couple of brioche, on which she smeared a generous layer and held one out to Nick. That was part of their deal: if he picked the event, she chose the food. Drinks were left to the individual, which in Nick’s case meant beer in all its interestin
g variety, and for Trin, wine—reds, as rule. Today, Nick had opted for stout and she was drinking a Nedaeman Tempranillo. Nedaeman viticulture differed from Terran in a number of respects but particularly in the structure of the tannins, which gave Nedaeman wines a character most often described as ‘leathery.’ It was an acquired taste, but Trin had come to enjoy it, though not in the whites, where it lent a glyceriny character (much praised by the locals) she could not find favor with.

  Pouring her glass full, she nibbled the brioche, enjoying the dappled sunlight scattering through the silver oak leaves and their soft musical rustling in the mild, inconstant airs. Silver oaks were not a native species, nor were they silver, nor oaks. In fact, even their status as plants was debatable: they did not photosynthesize but derived their energy from the photovoltaic properties of a monomolecular layer of silicon in their leaves. This, and the silicon veins running through their variegated bark, gave them their name and striking appearance. Recently, a subspecies had been developed in which the tiny blossoms acted as light-emitting diodes; Trin thought that was taking things a bit far. But she had no objection to the original variety, which had been discovered a century ago on some undeveloped planet deep in the Hydra. The light playing across her closed eyelids was having an almost hypnotic effect, and Nick reached over to right her dangerously tilting wine glass.

  “So what did you want to ask?” he said as she opened her eyes and blinked. A moment’s mental rummaging brought back the question she’d elliptically alluded to in her message of the previous PM.

  “When things don’t make sense, do you find it helpful to go back to the beginning?”

  “Eukaryotes,” he said with a deep nod.

  “What?”

  “Going back to the beginning”—and winked.

  Trin sighed. Trust Nick to flash out an outlandish paleontological reference when you least expected it. “Perhaps I should be more specific.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “What I’m curious about is: who invited Mariwen Rathor to the human-trafficking hearings?”

  “That is a good question.”

  “Any idea?”

  “No one from our side. At least, I don’t recall anyone on the organizing committee bringing it up.”

  “It would have to be someone influential.”

  “Any of the attendees could have floated the idea.”

  “One of the senators?”

  “Likely.”

  “Any chance you can find out? I can’t get near politicals.”

  “My office didn’t get anything but the list after it was vetted. Oughta be a signature somewhere, though—maybe in the minutes of some meeting. I’ll take a look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Fun, huh?” He made a wide gesture that took in the whole horizon.

  “The windsurfing? I’ve spent less pleasant afternoons.”

  “Great. Because there’s all day tomorrow too.”

  “Nick, you ever think it’s possible for there to be too much of a good thing?”

  He topped off his beer and took a pull through the rich foam. “Nope, can’t say I ever have.”

  Chapter Six

  LSS Retribution

  Killian's Reach, Hydra Region

  It was around three bells in the afternoon watch, on their seventeenth day of patrolling, when Ixion, far off in her picket station, informed Retribution via hyperwave of a faint contact, estimated to be just under ninety light-minutes out. Retribution’s sensor team immediately tuned their gravitic ears to the parameters provided by Ixion and confirmed a vessel, the size of a very small merchantman, coming in-system on a standard parabolic; their gravitic eyes—deep radar—they kept shut. Passive gravitic sensors were nearly instantaneous at this range but the data they collected were crude: just bearing, mass-energy profile and a rough estimate of range. Lightspeed sensors that could refine the contact’s characteristics to within the proverbial gnat’s ass would have to wait their turn. Ixion was herself over a light-hour away, running with her keel cold so grav-sensors could not pick her up, thus it would be at least that long before they got a look at the interloper’s emissions which would reveal a great deal about him and potentially allow a positive identification.

  The new contact was designated Tango-One-Seven, and all that could be said with confidence at present was that the mass-energy profile most closely fit that of a blockade runner, and he was in a tearing hurry. Of course, there were no blockades to run anywhere in the Hydra and while the mass reading might, at the lower end of the confidence interval, match a government dispatch boat, there was no conceivable reason a dispatch boat belonging to any of the nearby governments would be transiting this particular system.

  His obvious intent was to translate through one of the jump fields near the system’s periphery, probably one of the two marked on the charts as M5 and M7. A ship going through M7 could be headed for Cathcar or Lacaille, or even the Bannerman naval base at Callindra 69, but one exiting by M5 was almost certainly bound for Mantua. Any of these, except perhaps the naval base, was a likely slaver destination.

  Captain Lawrence ordered Ixion to maintain distant contact with the interloper: no closer than five light-minutes and with passive sensors only—“Mustn’t spook the fellow just yet”—until she could handoff to Kestrel. The contact obviously had the legs of Ixion, the slowest of his squadron, so pursuit was pointless and he didn’t want the frigate pulled too far off her picket station in case Tango-One-Seven had a consort out there somewhere.

  Kestrel was better positioned for an intercept, and while she was fast for a frigate, she could not be fast and maintain her stealthy character. More importantly, Sir Phillip was sure they had not seen the contact show his full paces yet—the energy profile told him that. If the contact broke too soon, it was doubtful Kestrel could close, and neither Swiftsure nor Avenger were yet in position. With that in mind, he directed Avenger to conform to his own movements and Swiftsure to plot a best-speed course to the M7, the closest of the two likely jump fields. That was a guess, no more, but it would not irretrievably commit them to anything for several hours at least. Once Tango-One-Seven reached his turnover point—the focus of his parabola—they would know a great deal more about his true intentions.

  “Ms. Easley,” Captain Lawrence addressed the conning officer, “how soon before the contact can reach either of those jump fields?”

  “Eleven to fourteen hours, sir, depending on how he handles his turnover. The way he’s piling on vee, I would say closer to eleven.”

  “Plot his turnover point for me, please.”

  Lieutenant Commander Easley put a kidney-shaped blob on the big main screen, shaded according to the current uncertainty on the contact’s trajectory.

  “Very good,” Captain Lawrence said after a moment’s scrutiny. “We shall take the western-most zone and station Avenger to the southeast. Fifteen percent margin I should think will be sufficient. Ms. Easley, make us a course that keeps the primary between us and him as far as possible. Mr. Martinsen, when the course is locked in, we shall proceed all-ahead standard. Mr. Emmanuel, be so good as to make Avenger aware of our motions.”

  The helmsman, SWO Reidar Martinsen, and Ensign Ivor Emmanuel, the signal lieutenant for the watch, made their acknowledgements and Captain Lawrence leaned back in his chair, drumming four fingers lightly on the arm. Then he turned to Huron, standing by the quartermaster’s station with Kris on his flank.

  “A peculiar swan, don’t you think, Commander? What do you make of him?”

  Huron turned to Kris, who’d been watching him out of the corner of her eye. Ever since the contact’s estimated mass-energy profile had gone up on the display, she had been studying the trajectory intently and rhythmically clenching her hands behind her back.

  He observed her expression and asked, “Something you’d like to offer, Midshipman?”

  “He’s a fleshex, sir,” Kris replied and clicked her teeth shut as she heard her own hasty words.

  S
ir Phillip turned further round, with a tilted expression. “A flechette? That is a whimsical name for a ship class. Would that be a slaver term, at all?”

  Kris breathed a sigh of confused relief. A flechette was a dart-like projectile, usually of tungsten, fired by light sidearms and some multimode rifles. A fleshex was something completely different: the name slavers gave to special shipments of high-value cargo—Kris had been such a cargo several times. The term was supposedly a contraction of flesh express, but that wasn’t really clear—it could have been just another rationalization of a slaver idiosyncrasy—and while not a class of vessel at all, slavers did favor heavily modified corvettes that usually had a crew of six or eight for this purpose, and Kris was certainly willing to fall in with this notion her imprecise diction had given rise to.

  “Ah, yessir. Flechettes”—she enunciated the name quite clearly—“are mostly used to transport prime slaves or paid picks—anything exceptional like that.”

  “Then this fellow is worth the effort, you would say?”

  Kris shot Huron a look with a tinge of panic, but there was no help there. She’d opened her own goddamn mouth; let her deal with the consequences. “I—um—I would say that, sir. Yes.”

  “Very well.” The captain returned his attention to the forward screen. “Mr. Emmanuel, record in the log: Fell in with chase, presumed a flechette, at thirteen-thirty hours. You will note the exact time, of course.”

  And with that simple sentence, Contact Tango-One-Seven became simply the chase, to be pursued mercilessly to death or capture, and a new class of vessel was entered in the CEF’s books.

  They chased. All through the afternoon and all through the dogwatches, when stewards brought in sandwiches and coffee and a sweetly astringent pinkish liquid that made Kris’s mouth pucker. “Grapefruit juice,” Huron commented, picking up a second cup of thin black coffee. Closing to within ten light minutes, the chase ran on, innocent by all appearances of being stalked. Sensors discreetly queried, calculated and refined their data, then draped it across the many screens. Four bells of the first watch—they had been at it for eight-and-half hours and Huron said privately to Kris, “Go get some rest, if you like. I’ll see that you’re called before anything happens.”