The planet then became a point of dispute between Outremeria and the Bannermans, who both claimed it as being within their sphere. The Amalekite settlers decamped en mass, a few for an almost sterile world in an uninhabited, asteroid-filled system far off in Cygnus that they dubbed Asylum, and the rest for the primitive pastoral world of Harkness, where they hoped to find a more fertile environment for their strict and ardent faith.
Upon the departure of the Amalekites, groups from Outremeria and Bannerman began resettling the planet. The Bannermans believed that new techniques would make the planet’s unexploited resources accessible. Outremeria wanted to expand its influence in the region through settlement. Later, some Tyrsenians also arrived. These competing factions, alternately hostile and collaborative as whim and opportunity dictated, made the planet a perfect stew of lawlessness—an attractive haunt for a terrorist warlord who dealt heavily in the slave trade. Accordingly, after years of moving from one base to another, Mankho settled on Rephidim with his Black Army and declared his own sovereign state.
For a time, the Black Army was able to dominate much of the planet. Things began to deteriorate when their relationship with the Tyrsenians soured. According to conventional wisdom, they came to view the Black Army as an unwelcome competitor and were hostile to Mankho’s anarchist credo. Whether for these reasons or others, there were a series of sharp engagements between them and the Black Army when the latter was at the height of its powers. This was thought to have played a role in the decision to attack Knydos, leading to the Black Army’s downfall and Mankho’s eviction. The Tyrsenians then got the upper hand in local affairs and had kept it ever since.
Rephidim had thus been widely disregarded as a possible refuge for Mankho after Lacaille. His discovery there was viewed as vindication by a small cadre of analysts who maintained the hostility between the Tyrsenians and the Black Army was more theoretical than real; some even thought it was largely a blind. Indeed, this group proposed the Tyrsenians, not the Bannermans, as the Black Army’s most likely state sponsor, and held that the Tyrsenians fell out with Mankho over the failure at Knydos (which, in their view, the Tyrsenians were invested), rather than the other way around. How right they were remained unclear, but there was no doubt that Mankho was firmly reestablished on Rephidim in a major new installation.
A model of that installation now hovered over the briefing table, while the 2D data and various reports lay scattered about the table itself. Old Moe himself stood, or rather stooped, above it. He was uncommonly tall and round-shouldered as well as old—the oldest lieutenant in the Terran Navy, in fact, a distinction he’d achieved by the simple expedient of refusing promotion once he had attained that rank. Superannuated lieutenants were not normally tolerated, but given his talents and impressive personal fund of information, the Service made an exception for him, just as they did for his uniform, which was at least twenty years out-of-date; his shock of unruly white hair that would not submit to headgear of any kind; and his frequent long leaves, such as the one he’d just been recalled from.
If he regretted that (he’d left behind not only his beloved nesting swallows, but also a rare oyster catcher who was about to bring off her brood), no trace of it showed in his seamed face or pale eyes under the sparse gray eyebrows that waved about to a surprising degree as he talked. He was talking now, presenting his assessment of Mankho’s compound.
“Not the best model, I’m afraid”—rotating it with a long, thin, translucent forefinger. “Regrettably, the probe could not cover all the favorable aspects given the time constraints. What you need for a really superlative model is—” Huron cleared his throat. Sanderson might be an excellent analyst, but he also tended to be prolix and easily distracted, as Huron had been warned. He got the hint this time, however, and forged on. “Yes. What you see is a rather well thought-out installation. Quite a defensible location, good orbital access, close enough to Tirana to receive support, but not so close as to suffer the, shall we say, the inconvenience of having pesky visitors about.
“You will have noted, of course, the perimeter fence, well placed, and the walled main compound with towers commanding all the approaches, and these hardened bunkers here and here”—he highlighted them in red with his stylus—“that look very much as if they house an IADS, probably employing plasma guns. These towers are likely to mount gatlings: 30-mm or so, I would say. You can see what look like ammo hoists there on the inner walls. There are quite likely antipersonnel measures as well. In one of those images you can see a number of pallets being unloaded. It’s difficult to tell, needless to say, but enhancement suggests they are cases of mortar rounds: semi-active, two-inch—five-centimeter, if you prefer—typical of Bannerman, Tyrsenian, most of the armed groups in that neck of the woods, so to speak.
“Now turning to infrastructure: power is local, as is water. Note the wells between the fence and the compound. The generators would appear to be underground—there are significant underground facilities, a garage for vehicles and water treatment, environmentals and the like.”
He tapped the model and magnified a portion. “These are very likely quarters, and here is a large main residence structure. The compound is thermally shielded and caged against sounders, so little can be determined regarding the inside, though as you can see, it is well supplied with windows.”
Here he paused, for the presence of so many windows had caused a small stir. Mankho’s compound on Lacaille had also been notable for having a lot of windows, which was somewhat unusual from the security standpoint. Ensign Jaelin from GS2 straightened in his chair.
“Have the windows some special significance, possibly?” he asked.
“To look out of, I should think,” Sanderson replied solemnly, without a trace of sarcasm. Observing the look on the ensign’s face, he added, “But perhaps you had something less canonical in mind.”
At the far end of the table, Kris leaned closer to Huron and whispered, “He hates feeling closed in.”
Huron dipped his head next to hers. “He’s claustrophobic?”
“I guess that’s what you call it. Enclosed spaces freak him out. He’s gotta have lots of windows.”
Noting the quiet interchange, Sanderson peered down the table to where Kris sat. “Ah yes, I am forgetting. I’ve been given to understand one of you has experience of the place.”
Huron nodded as Kris sat unmoving and no one else saw fit to respond.
“Well, better to leave those matters until later then. So . . . um, yes. In sum—an installation suited to a number of functions, including training, conferencing, staging for modest operations, as well as a fortified refuge and residence. A tough nut in any case. Perhaps you have specific questions.”
“How many people could be quartered there?” asked Sergeant Major Yu.
“Based on the size of the leach field, we can estimate that no more than a hundred people are expected to be in residence for an extended length of time—the number of bottoms per square meter of leach field is a remarkably stable indicator. Naturally, twice that number could be accommodated for short periods of time, but currently the telemetry from the septic system indicates about sixty or so. Also, you will note the limited garaging space, if vehicles are not to be left in the open. That reduces the likely upper limit somewhat.”
“Reduces by how much?” Huron wanted to know.
“Oh, ah . . . to a hundred and fifty, I should say. Assuming they don’t have people perched on the outsides of their vehicles. Not an altogether unlikely situation, given these sorts.”
“You mentioned possible support from Tirana,” Lieutenant Crismon said. Tirana was the major city and starport on the northern continent. “Any estimates on that?”
“I’m afraid nothing new. The situation is tolerably fluid and we’re not quite sure how well Mr. Mankho gets on with his neighbors. You can clearly see that, if such support is available, it is only about forty minutes away by air. I should point out that because of the abundance of petrochemicals
and the general state of things, they rely a great deal on wheeled transport, and that would be a matter of some ten hours away—perhaps as much as most of a standard day, depending on the state of the roads, unpredictable that far north.”
“What sort of comms infrastructure do they have?” Ensign McCaffrey asked.
“A very standard RF suite—you find the details in that third insert. But there’s also a buried hard line—we were able to map it for about twenty kilometers, until it went under an especially dense strata. We did not note any isolated RF repeaters in the vicinity so it’s possible it goes all the way to Tirana. Unfortunately we cannot identify a building there to which it might connect.”
“Do you see evidence of an active security enclosure?” Yu inquired.
“Nothing definite, the imagery being insufficient. It is possible, given the power capacity. You see here”—he highlighted a number of structures on the roof over what they took to be the underground garage—“those are heat-exchangers. Characteristic of systems from ABR Nevis—the Bannerman firm. Class-B devices; high-end, quite well made. With their standard rating, an active security enclosure for the main compound is not out of the question. Not to cover the whole perimeter, certainly not, but the compound itself could be managed, or perhaps just the main residence building, though I shouldn’t think they would be able to run it for long—not more than a few hours—twenty-percent duty cycle, something like that. Less, if they indeed have plasma mounts in their IADS.”
Lieutenant Crismon spoke next. “What about the environmentals? If there is no security enclosure or they can’t run it for long, would the compound be susceptible to gas?”
A chime interrupted them, and Huron took a quick glance at his xel. He lifted a finger and nodded to Yu. Yu nodded back and Huron said, “Excuse the interruption—this will just take a moment.” At the press of an icon, the briefing materials obediently cloaked themselves and Huron unlocked the door.
Kris watched the man who entered with interest. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome’ would have described him perfectly, had Kris been aware of the cliché and had he not been rather short. He strode purposefully to Huron’s chair; they bent their heads together for a brief conversation and the man handed Huron a chip which he immediately put in his briefing folder. It was all a trifle mysterious—as was the look that passed between Huron and Yu—and the man straightened and left without another word, but with Kris’s curiosity quite piqued. As the door closed, Huron apologized and directed Sanderson back to the lieutenant’s question.
Sanderson cleared his throat a trifle ostentatiously. “Yes . . . about the susceptibility to gas attack. I should doubt it. I should think they’d have scrubbers. Even if they are not concerned about gas, those fumaroles to the northwest are quite active. Liable to get rather, well, eh . . . stinky much of the time. Not quite the thing for a proper warlord’s castle, if you follow me.”
Polite nods assured him that they did.
Huron checked the time and, in the pause that followed, suggested a short break. There was a general nod of assent, the briefing materials were shut down and each of the participants sealed their notes in the tabletop before standing and filing out. Huron did one last sweep to verify the room was secure and motioned to Kris, and she walked out the door just ahead of him.
As they exited the conference room, Kris saw the handsome man waiting in the corridor. He saw her as well—he appeared to have been waiting for her—and approached, bringing his right hand to his forehead in greeting. “Ms. Kennakris, I hope you will forgive the imposition. I’m Antoine Rathor. I am Mariwen’s brother.”
“Yes. Pleasure,” she murmured with a frozen smile. Close to, he indeed showed the clear stamp of Mariwen, but rendered in shining black and not as tall; as near to beauty as a man could well be.
She recalled Mariwen telling her she had a brother named Chris—almost the first thing she’d said when they met—and Kris now noted his badge said C. Antoine Rathor, below the initials of one of the Terran security departments. Automatically, she extended her hand and he took it, not shaking it firmly but gently squeezing and bowing with his head a little.
“I’m sorry this is so haphazard, but when I learned from Commander Huron’s agenda you were going to be here, I felt I shouldn’t waste the opportunity, as I understand you’re leaving soon.”
He spoke with the flat Terran accent that most inhabitants of Sol seemed to have (except Belters, who clung fiercely to their distinctions); so different from Mariwen’s soft, liquid lilt. She’d gathered from things Huron had said that Mariwen’s brother was older—perhaps quite a bit older—and it seemed he must have been raised under very different circumstances, but she’d had no idea he was with Terran security. The image she’d formed of Mariwen’s family certainly did not fit with government connections. Old money was more what she’d imagined: large estates, pampered living, servants, lots of leisure travel and yes, a bit spoiled—not a family that would have an elder son as a mid-level official in one of the many security organs.
These were odd reflections to be having, and Kris’s ears got warm as she realized he was still speaking and she’d completely missed at least one full sentence, maybe two. “. . . impossible to adequately express our gratitude or repay the debt we owe you. But I hope you have some sense of what saving Mariwen’s life means to us. To say someone is the light of your life sounds pitifully trite, Ms. Kennakris, but with Mariwen that’s almost literally true.”
That would have sounded pitifully trite for anyone but Mariwen, and it congealed in Kris’s stomach like a lump of ice. Light was what had been so horribly missing last time she saw Mariwen—the husk of Mariwen—propped up in a hospital room on Nedaema, surrounded by equipment racks: smiling, physically perfect; eyes dull, flat, and utterly empty. Utterly unlit.
“Thanks—thank you,” she managed to say in spite of the constriction in her throat. “Is—ah . . . How is Mariwen?”
Antoine’s lips curved in a slightly forced smile. “She’s . . . she is back in California. Well taken care of. We still have hopes.”
Still have . . . The qualification snatched at some chord deep in Kris’s chest and, haunted by the image of the pretty thing in the bed, but even more by the memory of the dazzling, brilliant vibrancy that had translated Mariwen’s beauty out of the realm of mere physicality into a quality much more sublime, she replied with something low, indistinct, and (she hoped) appropriate.
“Thank you,” Antoine said. He offered a card. “If there’s ever anything I or my family can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She took the card, smiled and slid it into a breast pocket. He gave her another of those slight nods. “I hope that someday we will have the pleasure—the honor—of your company under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Of course,” Kris murmured and, looking over his shoulder, noticed Huron coming down the hall. “Certainly, sir. Most appreciated.”
Antoine Rathor followed her look and advanced the pensive smile he had greeted her with. “I see I’ve detained you. I won’t take up any more of your time. Good afternoon, Ms. Kennakris.”
Huron was waiting patiently by the conference room door, holding it open for her. They entered wordlessly and resumed their seats. The meeting lasted another two hours but Kris, full of restless feelings, took in almost none of it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Northern California Territory
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol
Antoine Rathor piloted his groundcar into the drive of the modest residence nestled in the midst of a landscape of rolling hills dotted with oak trees in full-summer leaf, the late afternoon sun throwing sharply cut shadows across the surrounding fields, their tall pale stalks nodding in the southerly breeze that always came up at this time of day.
Personally, he preferred this place in spring, when the fields added their own diverse notes to the symphony of green—the acres of dry dead grass lent a strange air of being passed over, or being used up; physically
identical to their former verdant state, but with all the color bleached out. He found it depressing and it would have been trivial to change, but the medical team had suggested that strong visual cues regarding the passage of time would be beneficial, so they’d decided not to improve on the cycles of Nature.
He submitted his codes and the purely decorative gate retracted as the security enclosure opened a portal for him to guide the groundcar through. That was little more than a formality; he’d already passed through several layers of security, including (but not limited to) a squadron of surveillance drones overhead backed up by a constellation of dedicated micro-sats in low Earth orbit. The Terran government paid for micro-sats; they were footing the bill for the drones themselves.
Cutting the power, the car settled down in the cobbled parking area, and his xel alerted with a call from his escort. “All correct, sir?”
He activated the voice circuit. “Yes, Shawn.”
“Will you be needing anything else this evening?”
“I don’t think so. I believe I’m going to stay the night this time.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Who relieves you?”
“Wallace and Martin. Be along at 1930, sir.” That last detail was reflexive precision.
“Thank you, Shawn. Tell them I expect to be here until 0900 tomorrow. I’ll catch a flight back from Beale at 0930. Perhaps you could let them know.”
“Will do, sir. Good evening, now.”
Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Page 37