Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks

by Owen R. O'Neill

  Yet another wrinkle was added when Rafe described the problem to his father: the first question the old man had asked was “We are sure this individual has always been female?”

  Rafe admitted that thought hadn’t yet occurred to him, but it seemed most likely. Transsexuals were not that rare, but unless they’d undergone a complete gender morph, they were fairly evident and Kym would almost certainly have noticed. Gender morphing was a long, involved and expensive procedure, requiring extensive hospitalization to monitor the gene splicing (no matter of simply swapping out the inconvenient X or Y chromosome) and especially the skeletomuscular changes, and was done at the youngest possible age, when the plasticity of youth improved the results and ameliorated the discomforts as well as the risks.

  In the League, gender morphing was strictly regulated, being performed only where testing demonstrated a strong need, and adults had to content themselves with the much less radical gender reassignment therapy. A few might travel to jurisdictions where the regulations were more lax, and the truly desperate might seek out the illegal back-alley gender-benders. These charlatans promised a full morph using banned nanocyte technology, but most often delivered a lifetime of crippling pain—if the subject lived at all, which in many cases, they wished they hadn’t.

  Some ‘practitioners’ even went so far as to advertise gender flexing, a supposedly reversible procedure for those eager to walk on the wild side, which they claimed was based on the ‘lost’ secrets of old gene-morphing technology. That this technology had been used to create the Maxor was a dubious recommendation; that the other human subspecies begot with it were all extinct should have been a stark warning, but those who ventured into these outer limits were not concerned with such things. Fortunately for them, the gender flex procedure only separated them from large amounts of cash, unlike the victims of the gender-benders.

  All this argued strongly that their target had not been born male, but the possibility could not be ignored. Given Kris’s revelations about the services slavers offered, they were already casting their net wide into decidedly squalid waters, and now they cast them wider still. Taken together, their efforts had seined up a considerable collection of suspects, most quite low, but some not, and a few quite highly placed indeed, united in their taste for (or addiction to) the sordid, the outrageous, and the extreme.

  It seemed everything they considered broadened their search criteria, rather than narrowing it, and Trin had already been through SAARs as much as was prudent; the thinness of the results had prompted them to approach Huron’s father in the first place. To query it again using a significant portion of the personalities he’d supplied to winnow the candidates risked raising red flags. Yet there were far too many for a standard debriefing.

  There was a solution, and it lay well within Trin’s professional capabilities, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you would ordinarily like to subject a sixteen-year-old girl to, especially not a recently recovered sex slave who’d never been on a developed world before. Huron sat with Trin in her office for one fruitless hour and most of another, arguing pros and cons that could do no more than sooth a raw conscience, at least in Huron’s case, and failing even there. His final suggestion—that they involve Kris as someone Kym trusted—was met with a brisk headshake and a cold look of negation.

  Trin knew what she was doing and, the sensitivity of the topic aside, a lack of distractions was everything in these matters. Comfort was kind, but it was a distraction by its very nature, and that would interfere with the responses they were hoping to collect. There was no honor to be satisfied in this mode of warfare, just winning and losing—and trying to live with it afterward.

  Huron took out his xel and made the call, giving thanks to Providence he was just a fighter pilot.

  At the appointed time, Kris delivered Kym to Trin’s office, which had a small conference room that would serve their purpose admirably. The look she gave Huron as she surrendered Kym to their tender mercies was one he thought even Trin might have trouble meeting. There was no telling, however, as she was in the other room, completing her setup. For his part, he kept his face impassive, his gestures to a curt nod and his words a brusque acknowledgement. He also studiously ignored the murmured exchange between Kris and Kym, just before Kris left with a choppy salute that could have broken an unwary neck.

  Showing Kym into the small room, he made cursory introductions and retired to the main office to prevent interruptions and await developments. Trin resumed her seat after urging Kym into a chair, which she took, tucking her feet up as she habitually did and looking suspicious.

  Commander Wesselby was an experienced interrogator but heretofore, her subjects had all been implacably hostile. The last one—Reid, the late slaver captain—they were keeping on ice (what was left of him anyway), in case his remaining synapses might still yield something useful. This young girl, watching her with a wary expression in her huge, green, and undeniably discerning eyes, was outside her professional experience. And she was willing, more or less. Trin knew from Kym’s file that she had not yet undergone a routine psycheval—the circumstances of her recovery accounted for that, and they would insist on doing one when she entered rehab—so she had no idea whatsoever about the procedure Trin had planned, and all that it entailed. Planned being the key word.

  Trin’s reputation among her service acquaintance was for being as “ruthless as God makes ‘em,” and given what was at stake, she had every intention of going through with the procedure, even if Kym showed signs of balking. It was certainly bound to be unpleasant, perhaps quite unpleasant, but it wasn’t going to permanently scar the girl. Her file made it clear she’d been through much worse.

  Still, willing was better than unwilling, so Trin began her description with the dry, technical aspects, in hopes of making things less threatening. But as the talk progressed, she came to appreciate Huron’s attitude toward Kym, and her resolve began to falter. And by the time she reached the point of describing the components of the small portable kit she was using—five induction probes, much like penlights, and a master probe linked to her xel, through which she’d control the procedure—Trin had decided she would not proceed without Kym’s full consent.

  It was a new feeling, and strange, reposing her faith in a teenage girl she’d just met. The only saving grace of this unexpected softness (if that’s what it was—her mind was unsettled on that point) was that it owed nothing to any perception of weakness in Kym. For all that Kym might be as sweet as a lunar day was long, and at times act younger than her years, Trin sensed that weakness formed no part of her character. Frontier colonies did not breed weakness, whatever else they might do, and no weak girl could survive three years as a slaver captain’s bitch (a phrase Huron’s OPREP had acquainted her with, along with the condition). So it was full of unaccustomed feelings that Trin pointed out the master probe, positioned at eye-level in front of the chair beyond the end of the conference table, with the other probes arrayed about it.

  “This is the device you will be able to see. It lights up red. The light will blink now and then. It may change color and it may appear to move. You might feel lightheaded or dizzy or experience some disorientation, especially with regard to time. That’s perfectly normal. But it you feel vertigo—if the room starts to spin—or if you become strongly nauseated, tell me at once, because we need to stop immediately. Understand?”

  Kym nodded, her face betraying the first signs of impatience. “So what’s it do?”

  Trin opened her mouth to launch into a discussion that would have been far beyond most people and, seized by a sudden inspiration, paused. Picking up her xel, she tapped a series of codes into it and held it out to Kym.

  “Here. I’ll show you.”

  Kym took the unfamiliar device hesitantly, looking askance at Trin as she relocated to the chair with the probes about it. Ideally it would have been a something that allowed the subject to recline, but Trin was just a visitor here, temporarily borrowing an office,
and even back on Nedaema it would have strained credulity to request having a couch delivered. They would have to make the best of it.

  “This is what I want you to do. See the big green button?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “When I tell you, tap that button. Not until I tell you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then I want you to ask me a question. After I answer, hit the red button that says STOP. Okay?”

  “What kinda question?”

  “We’ll start with something simple, like what I had for breakfast two days ago. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ready?”

  “Tap the green button. Then ask me the question.”

  Kym tapped. “What did’ja have for breakfast two days ago?”

  Trin had forgotten for the moment that two days ago was a weekend, and her usual weekend breakfast—toasted peanut-butter sandwiches, grapefruit, and champagne—was one of her more private eccentricities. But she answered truthfully and Kym laughed. Some of the anxiety went out of the room. Kym hit STOP.

  “What’s all this?”—looking confusedly at the xel’s display.

  Trin leaned forward. “This here”—pointing—“means it’s a recent memory. This part tells you it is also sharp, and probably habitual. That is, related to something that happens a lot. This part down here says that I’m telling the truth. I don’t necessarily mean lying”—noting Kym’s look—“I could be confused. I might mistake what I ate for breakfast last weekend with some other day. Clear?”

  “Yeah. Sorta.”

  “That’s the basics. Now I want you to ask me another question, something harder. Like what I had for dinner some day last month.”

  “Does it gotta be that?”

  “No. Make something up. But keep it to last month. And make it specific.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Start then.”

  Kym did. “What were ya doin’ fifteenth of last month at noon?”

  “Talking to Nick.”

  “Who’s Nick?” —deviating from the script.

  “A friend. Stop.”

  Kym hit the red button. Trin moved her index finger over the display again.

  “Do you see how things have changed? The memory is less recent, but it’s still a strong memory. I happen to remember that day clearly.” She cycled the display. “This shows my response to your second question. That is also a strong memory, but you see this area here? These spikes? That means I wasn’t completely happy telling you.”

  “Sorry,” Kym mumbled.

  “That’s alright. Now you see how this works.”

  “Uh huh.”—nibbling her lower lip.

  “Okay. One last question. One.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Make this one about something quite old. Like where I was on this day, a Terran year ago.”

  “How long’s that?”

  “Thirty-one million, five hundred fifty-six thousand, nine hundred fifty-two seconds.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ready?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Kym stuck to the script this time. Trin answered vaguely that she was at work, in her office. Then she took the xel back and showed Kym the final displays.

  “You see how the colors changed? And there’s no spikes in this area now. This area here is just hash—not a pattern like it was before.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That means I’m guessing. I don’t really remember—consciously—where I was a year ago, but it’s very likely I was at my office. I usually am, on a weekday, unless I’m traveling. And I don’t recall being on a trip then. And it’s an honest guess. I’m not making something up because I don’t remember, and I’m not confused about some event. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trin cycled to a new set of displays. “This tells you my guess is probably right. You see, I can’t remember, but the information is still stored in my brain—partly, anyway. There are still memory indices relating to where I was and what I was doing that day, but I can’t consciously recall them. They match up with my answer, though. This bar here shows how well, while this one shows how good the related indices are. By putting those two together, you can say that my guess is almost certainly correct, even though it’s just a guess.”

  “Oh.”

  “So that is how I can test your memories very quickly with the data—the pictures and video—I’m going to show you. Even if you can’t remember, or if your memories are confused, I’ll be able to tell.”

  Kym sat still for a minute, thinking.

  “So what’s the ringer?”

  Trin took a deep breath. “It’s not like remembering. It’s more like reliving. Like it’s happening all over again.”

  Kym rested her chin on her knees and looked at Trin over them. “An’ you done this? Yourself, I mean? Not jus’ easy questions like we did jus’ now?”

  “I’ve been through the procedure, yes. We all go through it, so we know what it’s like.”

  “An’ you got through it okay?”

  “I survived, yes.”

  Kym gave her an especially penetrating look.

  “S’kay. I’ll try.”

  “How’d she do?” Rafe asked Trin as she came back into the office, having duly consigned Kym to the proper authorities. It had only been an hour and they’d expected it to take most of the PM. Kym had left tight-lipped and pale, but putting a brave face over it all.

  “Frankly, better than I expected.”

  Not the reply he expected, given the relative brevity. “Get anything?”

  Trin helped herself to a chair. “Do you remember Shardine Karmin? The Halith actress?”

  It would be a bit strange if Huron didn’t: Shardine Karmin had made a big splash while still in her teens and during her heyday had been almost as famous as Mariwen Rathor would become thirty years later. (In fact, when Mariwen arrived on the scene, it was common to compare her to Shardine, although they were nothing alike, except in the ability to convey a certain untamed, captivating intensity.) Halith celebrities usually didn’t cross over into League markets but Shardine had, becoming popular in the Meridies and New California, where she spent considerable time before the first League-Halith War cut off all such intercourse.

  Shardine Karmin had retired abruptly, as he recalled, several years after the start of the war. “What happened to her?”

  “She became Nikolai Arutyun’s mistress.”

  “Really? Are they still together?”

  “More or less. Stormy relationship—quite a few scandals, some hushed up better than others, including one involving a war minister who got caught with his fingers in the, ah—till, shall we say. After that, they were estranged for five years or so. Resumed their relationship after the end of the war. She’s a woman of singular talents and rather exotic tastes. And she’s probably a rejuvenant. Could’ve had the procedure started on New California when she was living there. She was young enough.”

  “How’s she getting the follow-ups done then? Not on Halith.”

  “No idea. There’s always the black market. She does have considerable trade value.”

  “That’s very high risk.”

  “Functional immortality is worth it to some people.”

  “Do tell. What else?”

  “These days she uses her birth name, Carissa Pagorskav, and while her official bio says she was born on Vehren, it’s almost certain she’s actually from Zalamenkar.”

  “A Halith colonial? Next you’re going to tell me she’s the woman we’ve been looking for.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “What confidence?”

  “Positive ID. Face, voice, mannerisms. That girl lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw her.”

  “So Sandrine has a thing for Shardine—or Byrony for Carissa, if you wanna slice it that way.”

  “That’s what it boils down to, yes.”

>   “And we’re back at square one.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What would you say?”

  “Not even that far.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tycho Prime

  Luna, Sol

  “I don’t know what you mean—what’s a protocol?”

  Kym’s question was directed at the thin woman of medium height with jet-black hair and an overly healthy complexion sitting in the ergonomic chair across from her. The room had several such chairs—Kym was folded into another one, arms and legs crossed—and a couple of low, convenient tables, but was devoid of desks or other trappings of authority, in keeping with the policy of the Department of Human Service’s Office of Rehabilitation to encourage an open, nonthreatening atmosphere of antiseptic welcome. That office, or rather a committee under it, had mandated the mutedly cheery wall color (an officially approved shade known as ‘whisper peach’) and the color of the doors and trim (whisper beige), the omni-lit ceiling that banished any shadows, and even the woman’s tailored suit, which was warmed-over beige with taupe accents, and lacked metallic buttons, buckles, or clasps.