Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Shit.” She dropped her face into both hands and her shoulders began to shake, but she wasn’t crying. She made no noise at all. When her head came up there were no tears—just a withering coldness. “Fuck.” One syllable, very soft and impossibly savage. He saw her exhale. “Alright. When?”

  “Tomorrow. Oh-eight-thirty.”

  She nodded, eyes unfocused. He rose, thanked her in a quiet voice and let himself out.

  Kris sat for long minutes, staring not at a place, but a time—a cloud of memories she’d have given anything to be rid of. How could she possibly put what happened during those days into words suitable for a briefing? She didn’t even know how she’d survived them. With Trench, when things got ugly, she had a trick of falling down—falling into herself: a cottony nothingness where the pain barely touched. She’d used it with Mankho too, especially that night he came back in such a bestial mood, but she couldn’t do it all the time.

  She remembered his leer, the games he made her watch, how he’d used a neural transmitter and an array of microcams to show her things no one should ever see—the silky cold sound of his voice in her ear as he kept up a detailed running commentary, the endless supply of studs and exotics she’d performed with until he became aroused enough to join in, the hot feeling of his rough skin and calloused hands . . . The girl she’d put on a show with and what he’d done to her afterwards, making them flip a coin to see who it would be—a weighted coin, because Trench had to have her back in one piece—and what was left over and how he made her clean up the mess.

  Her stomach heaved and she bolted for the bathroom. The door was already open or she never would have made it in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  NAVSUR HQ

  Lunar 1, Tycho Prime

  Luna, Sol

  Kris arrived for the briefing the next AM six minutes early, dressed in her best uniform. She’d put it on because she wanted to armor herself with all the formality she could get, and wearing her No.1 rig seemed like a good way to do that. Commander Wesselby was already there; she introduced herself with perfect politeness, thanked Kris for being willing to appear and showed her to a seat near the head of the table.

  Huron and Sergeant Major Yu arrived in the next minute, followed a moment later by two lieutenants Kris did not know: a slightly mousy woman and an undistinguished-looking man, rather young. He seemed to Kris to have a vaguely nervous air. When everyone had settled into their seats, Trin Wesselby stepped to the head of the table, activated the displays, introduced Kris, and after a short description of the briefing’s purpose, said, “Because of the nature of the information being presented, I’m going to establish some ground rules. First, any questions will concern generic points only and will be strictly limited to Nestor Mankho or the details of his compound and its operations. Questions about specific incidents or Ms. Kennakris’s personal history will not be made.

  “Next, the credibility of this information has been established. Do not ask for further substantiation on points presented. Finally, Ms. Kennakris has my permission not to offer amplification on any issue she does not wish to further address. In that case, please accept the answer and consider the point closed.”

  She looked over the audience, paying real attention only to Lieutenant Elkins. The stern preamble had been intended for him. Huron had warned her that he was insecure in his new post and had a tendency to overreach. Satisfied that Elkins looked sufficiently impressed, she concluded her introduction. “All info presented here this AM shall be treated as eyes-only code-class ZIRKON. Commander Huron and myself will be sole key-holders. Now, unless there are any questions, we’ll get started.”

  There were no questions, and Wesselby took her seat as Kris stood and stepped into her place. She had never done anything like this before yet she found herself strangely calm. It certainly helped that the group was small, and that Huron and Yu were there. Commander Wesselby seemed thoroughly professional and had an air about her that enforced the same. Only the lieutenants were an unknown quantity—Elkins especially. Lieutenant Ashley Crismon had a calm demeanor: she clearly knew her business. Elkins was still feeling his way, Kris thought.

  The very nature of the material she was to present also helped: had she been asked to address them on some pleasant, neutral topic she might well have been too nervous to speak. She’d spent the night trying to pare down the experience of those days to a cold, clinical skeleton—still horrific enough but nothing like the fleshed-out reality—and finding appropriate names for Mankho’s favored activities. The expressions slavers used—shake-n-bake, rip-rap, glory trains, triple play, cradle rocking, cut-n-run—would require explanations she didn’t want to give. If they didn’t understand the terminology she’d settled on (some from medical references and some from elsewhere), they could damn well look it up for themselves.

  If that effort had robbed her of sleep, it’d also bought some vital distance, and she knew exactly what she intended to say. Speaking without notes, she began, very formally and consciously imitating the mien of her favorite instructors.

  “Officers, Sergeant Major, regarding my information on Nestor Mankho, there are two things that need to be emphasized up front. First, this info is almost two years old, so I’m going to limit my remarks to habits and characteristics that seem unlikely to have changed since then. Next, the period of observation”—she’d chosen the phrase deliberately—“was thirteen local days, so what I have to say is based on one episode and can’t be considered comprehensive. I’ll do my best to answer questions on the understanding that my observations may be obsolete or atypical.”

  She paused to see how this was received, and perceiving polite acceptance, launched into her main line. “Nestor Mankho is a voyeur and a sexual sadist. He thinks he’s a showman. He likes Old Earth European replicas, especially Baroque.” She’d looked up the name of the style—which he had copied exactly, from the gilded furniture to the brocade bed hangings and the overwrought paintings—and made sure she knew how to pronounce it correctly. “He likes to stage what he calls productions, which feature men, woman and exotics. He does not himself engage initially. He may, in fact, wait a day, or even two . . .” She went on to describe some of his favorite activities, hurrying a little. The expressions on the faces of her audience showed her when comprehension set in: Commander Wesselby first, Elkins last—though it was clear Lieutenant Crismon was getting quite the education too. Only Wesselby never betrayed any emotion beyond a particular chill in her light-colored eyes. Kris was certain the commander knew precisely what she was talking about, and wondered how the small woman might have come by that knowledge.

  “He’ll switch between caring and sadistic—you never know what you’re going to get or when he might change his mind.” She paused, having come to the end of her prepared remarks and aware she’d neglected to think of a wrap-up.

  “So any operator we insert can expect to endure sexual torture?” Commander Wesselby asked after the pause had stretched out for a few seconds.

  “Yes ma’am, but not necessarily right away. He likes to make new slaves watch for a while—a day or two maybe—as a softening-up routine. It’s a sort of psychological torture, really.”

  “Does this typically occur under restraint?”

  “If you mean bound, ma’am, occasionally—for fun. He always has muscle with him.”

  “Can you say anything about how he selects those whom he subjects to this psychological softening-up routine and those he doesn’t?”

  “He doesn’t like to start in on top-tier girls right away. He takes his time with them—it’s the others he’ll work over from the beginning.”

  “Top-tier—is that a formal classification?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s more her reputation . . . sales history, stuff like that. It’s pretty subjective.”

  “So, Ms. Kennakris, it sounds like the ratio of psychological to physical methods used goes up if the subject is highly valued. Did I infer that correctly?”

&nb
sp; “Well . . . sort of, ma’am. He does use psych methods more on top-tier girls—it’s more of a game-type thing with him—but that doesn’t mean that he does less physical stuff. Except for actual maiming. He isn’t going to seriously maim a top-tier girl. Not normally.”

  It took some moments for this to sink in. Kris watched as they all jotted down notes. Huron, Commander Wesselby and Sergeant Major Yu exchanged a significant look. Crismon’s face was grim and Elkins appeared to be even more out of his depth. Then Yu spoke.

  “How often are these activities fatal to the subjects?”

  Something lurched deep behind her solar plexus. “Well, he had them strangle this girl slow while he fuc—” Her teeth clicked as her mouth snapped shut and she shot Huron and a panicky, pleading glance.

  “That’s quite alright, Midshipman,” he said calmly. “Please carry on.”

  Kris swallowed the acid burning her throat. “Yessir.”

  “It that a common activity?” Yu asked, his voice utterly flat and precisely controlled.

  “Ah . . . I—I only saw it the one time, sir.”

  That look cycled between the three of them again, but with a new cast to it.

  From her end of the table, Commander Wesselby said, “Ms. Kennakris, if you feel this—”

  “It’s—alright, ma’am,” Kris interrupted hurriedly, trying frantically to shake off the memory. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment and with a great conscious effort calmed her mind, reaching inward for that special healing stillness, and when she opened them, her face relaxed.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t answered your question, sir”—addressing herself now to Sergeant Major Yu. “He does go through a lot of slaves but I think that’s mostly . . .” She hunted for a word—the slaver phrase tear & wear didn’t seem appropriate—and finally decided on “attrition. Yes, he will sometimes kill slaves during his games but I don’t know how often, and as far as I know only meat. He keeps a lot of meat, mostly for his muscle—his troops, I mean—but once they get to be what they call leftovers—”

  “How do you know what’s meat?” Elkins broke in. “Is that a subjective measure too?”

  Kris pinned him with a glare that had him shrinking back in his seat. “Excuse me, sir. It’s not what. It’s who.” Elkins got even smaller. “And meat is a grade. There are four: prime, utility grade, service grade—those are specialists, people with tech skills—and meat. They barcode meat. It’s rude to mark prime merchandise.”

  Lieutenant Elkins nodded and cleared his throat. Nodded again.

  “Thank you, Ms. Kennakris,” Commander Wesselby said, shooting Elkins a look that warned him it might be better for him not to open his mouth again once he got his foot out of it. “So if we assign an operative, we have to be sure that she doesn’t become classified as . . . meat?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “And who decides?”

  “A grader does, ma’am—it’s a guild. You can sell ungraded slaves but it’s risky. It’s not just about looks: health, mentality, resilience, docility, skills . . . lots of things count. Graders assess all that. And they’ll guarantee a clean title too.”

  “Clean title?” Lieutenant Crismon asked. “Is that to make sure it’s not an escaped slave or something?”

  “Oh, that doesn’t happen very often, ma’am. It’s usually money stuff—liens, unreported shares . . . partner deals. Stuff like that.”

  “Liens . . .” Huron muttered under his breath. Then: “Do they keep a central registry or database where this data is recorded?” A central database could be a major issue unless they could get into it. That could take months . . .

  “I don’t know, sir. I never heard of one—there weren’t any hooks to anything like that in the ship’s databases. Maybe the big houses have something. I don’t know.”

  “How do they check then?” asked Crismon. She seemed to want something new to think about.

  “Well, ma’am . . . I’m not exactly sure. Usually the grader knows the seller; he’ll have his regular clients and he can check with other graders, especially in his guild house. If a slave isn’t clean or the original bill of sale isn’t straight, he’ll probably hear.”

  “So it’s mainly informal then,” Commander Wesselby put in.

  “Yes, ma’am. As far as I saw.”

  She looked over at Huron. “We’ll have to confirm that, to be sure. We can’t have our operative failing a check if they do run a registry.” Huron gave her a nod and she turned back to Kris. “What’s the mechanism for all this? If this system is run in a mostly informal way, how is the guarantee made?”

  “Usually, the grader posts a bond. Then he charges the buyer for bond insurance. If a legit claim is made, the bond pays it.”

  “I see.” As the commander made a note, Kris saw her mouth the words bond insurance.

  “Ah, ma’am?” Kris was getting antsy. “There’s a draft report on all this. It’s almost ready. You could speak to Commander Huron about getting an advance copy.”

  “Yes . . .” She jotted another note. “We are getting a little far afield. So, back to the operator. It’s obviously critical that she match his criteria for a favored slave. Can you offer any . . . insight on what’s typical of Mankho’s favored slaves?”

  “Well, ma’am . . .” Kris took a deep breath. “It’s hard to say. Guys like that get bored easily. And it’s been years. But yes, from what I saw, the ones he kept around—treated well—they were a couple of types.” Her voice caught for a moment before going on. “He had a few tall girls on the pale side, though I didn’t see any blonds—only brunettes with lighter eyes. What I think he liked about them was the contrast. His regular girls were short—he liked short. Dark hair, tanned. Young looking; real pretty although he didn’t seem to go for the—um—stylish types . . . Good curves but not heavy or slack—he had a couple of athletes, I saw. And, ah . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  “Athletes?” Sergeant Major Yu asked. “Do you recall what sort?”

  “Well, one girl was into judo—he made me spar with her. The winner would . . .” She crushed that thought.

  “How good was she?”

  “Decent, sir. I think.”

  “Who won?” Yu had taught her unarmed combat: he knew exactly what Kris could do and could use that knowledge to gauge her opponent’s ability.

  “I did—barely.”

  Yu gestured at Huron and Wesselby and all three nodded. Lieutenants Crismon and Elkins were not included. Commander Wesselby said it first. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  From their expressions, it was clear that they were. Kris hadn’t a clue.

  Wesselby returned her attention to Kris. “Ms. Kennakris. I’m going to show you images of a few of our operators that I think best match your criteria. Could you please indicate those who would meet Nestor Mankho’s tastes—as you understand them—if there are any?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  When the images appeared on-screen, Kris scanned them quickly, trying not to think why she was doing it. Any would probably do, but the fourth especially caught her eye. The woman had a young, heart-shaped face with short, lustrous black hair, huge dark almond-shaped eyes and an absurdly cute pouting mouth. Dressed in a tight black exercise rig, Kris saw that she had moderate breasts, a tiny waist, full hips and unmistakable muscles, although they were sleek, not at all bulky. The woman also appeared to be quite short. There was a sparkle in her eye that belied her otherwise serious expression, and Kris got an overall impression of latent ferocity, as if she was the prettiest predator you could ever hope to meet. Mankho liked that in his women: it excited him to play with dangerous toys—as long as he stayed in control. As long as he thought he was in control.

  Kris selected the image and highlighted it. “Her. Definitely her.”

  All three of them gave the impression of expecting that result.

  “Vasquez.” They said it almost together and their tone expressed a great deal mor
e than might be expected for a mere two syllables.

  The commander blanked the image. “That was very informative, Ms, Kennakris. One last question. Has Nestor Mankho any significant peculiarities, outside of what you have just described to us?”

  “Ah—I’m not sure what you mean by significant peculiarities, ma’am.”

  “Habits, phobias—things that govern how he acts or reacts. I believe you mentioned to Commander Huron that he is severely claustrophobic.”

  “Um . . . well, he hates needles. Knives too. Sharp objects in general, I guess. Won’t let any of his people carry ‘em. I heard the thought of surgery really freaks him out.”

  “Most interesting.” Commander Wesselby began to gather her materials together. “I think it’s time we took a break. We’ll reconvene back here at 1330. Ms. Kennakris”—she gave Kris a nod—“I want to thank you for your contributions. I understand this was very far from easy. I’m going to ask you to attend this PM’s session—a few people from different organizations will be joining—civilians—and they are not aware of the nature of your involvement in this matter. I intend to keep it that way.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Then we will see you at 1330, Ms. Kennakris.”

  As Kris left the room, Lieutenant Crismon following, Huron turned to Elkins. “Lieutenant, would you mind going downstairs and getting a copy of Ms. Kennakris’s draft report for the commander? It’s not in the system yet, but if they look under my sigfile, they’ll find it.”

  The set of his mouth made it clear that Elkins didn’t appreciate being the commander’s errand boy but he couldn’t very well object, so he said, “Not at all, sir” and stood up to leave with as much bad grace as he thought he could get away with.

  When the door closed behind him, Trin looked over at Huron. “I see what you mean,” she said. “I thought Elkins was going to have a coronary.”

  “Daggers weren’t in it,” added Yu with a grin. “Since when did midshipmen start running staff meetings?”