And he also didn’t want to experience the scene that would likely ensue if Devlyn got wind of Joss’s suggestion and found out he’d turned it down. She and Joss were by far his most aggressive senior commanders—the less said about Lo Gai, the better—but at times, they tended to lack perspective.
Like now. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your feelings, Joss”—he held up a hand against a fresh outburst—“but I need you here at the moment.”
“Here?” PrenTalien looked at his friend and then at the displays, as if they’d suddenly transmuted into windows that would reveal an alternate reality. “There’s nothing here, Carlos, and what nothing there is, Hamish can look after. He’d jump at the chance. Why not let him?”
Westover could think of a few reasons, for although Burton was a fine fleet commander, steady and meticulous, he also tended to be slow and was used to PrenTalien’s firm guiding hand. Moreover, he could get stubborn if pushed, and Admiral Narses didn’t fully trust him. But those were minor considerations compared to the main issue.
“Because Merope’s here,” he explained quietly. “Merope covers Wogan’s Reef, and if they take it, they can threaten both the Pleiades and Canopus. Now that they own the fuel fields in Deneb, we can’t count on holding them at Epona, especially with Miranda being as shaky as it is, and that exposes both Eltanin and Regulus from—”
“So shut down the Huygens’ Gap with mines and a couple of monitors and let Lian reinforce Merope from Regulus—or even with the Grand Fleet, they’re not good for much else—while Devlyn and I push ‘em off—”
“That won’t do, Josh. Even if we shut down Huygens—and we’re about to—we have to worry about the Maxor.”
“Maxor?”—in tones of ringing disbelief.
“There’s been . . . well, not what you’d call indications yet, but let’s just say some disquieting data points regarding possible Maxor interaction with Halith.”
“You can’t be serious, Carlos. That was on Delphi, for God’s sake.” Delphi Group professed to be a government watchdog organization, but what they actually did was peddle conspiracy theories through a network of cloud sites with affiliates on all the Homeworlds and most of the major colonies. Peddled them most successfully, as Delphi was consistently near the top of the official Nexel list of most trafficked cloud sites.
“I know it was. And I wish to hell we knew how they got a hold of it. Timing’s too neat for me to dismiss it as mere coincidence.”
That got PrenTalien to sit down. “So you do think it’s serious?”
“Frankly, Joss, I’m not sure what to think at this point. We were so far out on our assessment of the Principate and Halith’s intentions that CID is going through everything again with a molecular sieve. Things that would’ve gotten you assigned straight to the Tin-Foil Hat Section two months ago have to be taken seriously now.”
The frustration in Westover’s voice was almost as disturbing as the answer itself. He saw the point: Halith’s offensive against Rho Ceti had more hallmarks of a coup than an invasion. PrenTalien shifted in his seat, his massive shoulders flexing unconsciously. “What exactly are they finding?”
“Their algorithms reported a pattern shift, starting eight months ago and lasting for five weeks before things settled into a new pattern. No one thought anything of it at the time—the confidence threshold was less than one-sigma.”
“Less than sixty-eight percent. Christ—that’s not much better than random chance.”
“That’s right. Even if it’s significant, Halith must’ve been well into the planning stages by then, so it’s not unreasonable they would have some sort of dialog with Maxor, to reassure them if nothing else. But until we’re certain it isn’t more than that, we can’t weaken Regulus. And that’s not all.”
“Oh, so now for the good news?”
Scrubbing his hands together in a distracted gesture, Westover leaned back in his seat. “Kepler upset things more than you may realize—no, let me explain. What matters now are the Antares fields and the Traps. Especially the Traps. Those fuel fields are crucial. With Port Mahan untenable, we have to secure the Rip from the Andaman side, which bleeds Crucis. Yes, I know it is a long shot, but we can’t ignore it. Right now, the Porte is about as happy as a cat on hot tiles. If we don’t support them fully, they might flip. You know the problems they’ve been having with the Ionians.”
“I’d take the Ionians over the Sultan’s Navy any day.”
“So would I, but that’s not the issue. If we shift focus now, the Porte won’t stand for it—the only alternative would be to annex the Sultanate. One war at a time, Joss.”
PrenTalien shrugged.
“The kicker is that even if the Porte doesn’t flip, the Emir of Ivoria might.”
“You’re saying he might invite Halith in through the Winnecke IV junction?”
“It can’t be ruled out. It seems he’s been scheming to set up as an independent ruler for some time. There are conflicting reports that he was feeling out the Ionians at one time regarding a possible alliance, but the Ionians would rather do things their own way—”
“Of course.”
“—and apparently nothing came of it. Their relations cooled markedly after that. Anyway, it’s dubious Iona could have given him the backing he needs, while Halith certainly could.”
“Who told us all this?”
“CID got it from the Porte.”
“And we believe it?”
“To a degree. ONI corroborated some key points through their Ionian sources. Enough to make SECNAV very nervous.”
With a grunt, PrenTalien settled back in his chair and rubbed one thick hand across his face. “So, they got us pinned, is that it, Carlos? Some crap about the Maxor from Delphi and a story about a treacherous emir from an oily Andaman diplomat. They’re not even committing any forces—just bullshit served up on a shingle. We already lost Kepler—now we’re losing the info-space too.”
“We need to find a line we can hold, Joss. Regulus, Eltanin, and here. That’s the bottom line.”
Admiral PrenTalien lifted his gaze to the situation display on the far wall, to Crucis Sector. “And devil take the hindmost.”
Chapter Two
CEF Academy Main Campus
Cape York, Mars, Sol
“I heard they gave up Knydos.”
“No one gave up Knydos. You oughta stay off Delphi.”
“Wasn’t Delphi—it was my cousin.”
“Tell your cousin to stay off Delphi then.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hold it down, you two.”
“No way we hold Knydos after losing New Madras. Chiron’s gonna go too.”
The loss of the CEF’s forward base at New Madras to a surprise Bannerman attack had been the top story of the day’s news. The announcement of a new declaration of war between the League and the Bannerman Confederacy had been read out to them before breakfast.
“We gotta hold Chiron! Without it we lose Mytilene. They can’t write off the whole Crucis Sector!”
“They sure as hell can. They’re worried about Merope and Regulus. If the Andamans flip—”
The clatter of a tray as Cadet Sylvester Harkins got up abruptly and left.
“His family’s on Mytilene,” the girl who’d been sitting on his right said quietly.
“Aw shit. That’s the cube root of fuck-all. Hey Kris!” Tanner lifted his voice as Kris walked into the mess. “Over here!”
Midshipman no longer, but merely Cadet Kennakris again, she snagged a loaded tray from the chow line and made her serpentine way through the tables to where Tanner sat with three other cadets she did not recognize. As she put down her dinner, he indicated the three with a wave.
“This is Roland DuChein, Deniz Singh-Whalen, and Sahyli Casanova.”
“Make it Shyli,” said the last woman, smiling.
“This is Kris”—with a genteel jerk of his thumb in her direction.
“Hi.” Kris squeezed sideways into a chair
at the crowded table with her best attempt at a smile.
“We’re hot-bunking with them,” Tanner explained. “You know about that?”
“Uh huh,” she answered with a mouth full of something the cooks dignified with the title casserole. It probably wouldn’t do to inquire much further.
“Heard you were on your way back. You just get in?”
“This AM.” Meaning she’d gotten back to the Academy that AM. She had been in-system for almost four days, including two at Lunar 1, where she’d dealt with closing out her apartment, received a note Kym had left for her—heartfelt, but not very well spelled—and spent two miserable hours waiting to be debriefed. In the end, it was so anticlimactic as to be surreal. Conducted into the room at last, wondering if they meant to eviscerate her quickly or slowly, a rail-thin, hard-faced lieutenant colonel of Marines from PLE-SOCOM asked her to be seated in the only chair in the nearly barren room.
After five minutes of boilerplate that seemed to serve no purpose but setting her up for the knife, he unfurled his xel and read a statement that she recognized as a condensed version of Huron’s after-action report. With no change in tone or expression, he asked if she disputed any of the statements he had read. When she answered she did not, he asked if she had anything to add. When she said “No”, he closed the proceedings with no more than a sharp “That will be all, Midshipman.”
Standing up and saluting, she was wondering if he meant she’d been dismissed when he capped the surrealistic episode by inquiring, in the same official tone, if she was “at leisure to consider other business?” Thoroughly taken aback, she mumbled “Yes,” upon which another officer entered and escorted her to a different room. There the officer and two other men, dressed as civilians, politely presented her with the hire agreement she’d signed for Flechette, which had another few days to run. Would she be interested in extending the agreement for another six Terran months? Perhaps a year?
“Sure,” she’d said automatically. She hadn’t bothered to consider what she planned to do with it, but they’d evidently concluded that having a fast slaver-built corvette on hand was a useful thing.
The three men smiled. Would a year suit?
“Sure,” she repeated.
In view of current circumstances—meaning the war—would she like half to be paid in advance?
“Fine”—whatever.
They asked her to sign a new agreement. She did and left the room with a new source of income and her head spinning. Had she been aware of the backstage maneuvers that had gone on due to the op’s mostly off-the-books nature, including the official cover story regarding Marko’s death, and compounded by Huron’s strictly unofficial letter, her head would still have spun, though perhaps in the opposite direction.
As it was, she had not quite shaken off the dazed feeling when she arrived at the Academy, where she’d spent much of that morning getting up to speed with the developments during her absence. Hot-bunking was one of those developments: the problem of accommodating twice the usual number of cadets here at the main campus had been solved by the simple expedient of doubling room occupancy and having them sleep in shifts. Other changes, like the end of purely academic coursework, were more welcome—most of the rest, not so much.
Yet these were mild reactions compared this sense she’d stepped back into some kind of a theme park where what they did—what she’d done before she left—was an elaborate make-believe with training wheels—a feeling so disorienting as to be almost dream-like. When two cadets she vaguely knew passed her in the corridor on the way here, she overheard their earnest chatter about tests—tests? War games? What the fuck? Suddenly recalling her fervent desire to graduate Number 1 was a strange hollow sensation, impossible to comprehend. Were they gonna stop all the game playing and get real here? Did anyone even know what that meant?
“What’sa matter with your shoulder?” Tanner asked, noticing how she was moving it as she ate.
“Nothing.” The break was well on its way to being healed, but it was still stiff and she wasn’t quite used to not favoring it. “Dinged it some. That’s all.”
“You’ve come from out there,” Singh-Whalen cut in abruptly. “Is it true? Are we really abandoning Crucis?”
Kris, who’d heard the status reports firsthand on her way back, was most unwilling to be the bearer of bad news. “I dunno anything you guys don’t.”
“Must really be bad then,” Shyli said, half under her breath.
Kris kept her eyes on her food. “Say,” she asked after a moment. “Where’s Minx and Baz?”
To Kris’s great relief, Tanner embraced the change of subject with both arms. “At their solos. We’re all up before the selection committee start of next week. There’s lots of new instructors, too. They’re running things ‘round the clock. It’s insane—you got no idea . . .”
“Don’t be mad at ‘em,” Tanner said as they walked back to their dorm. “They’re good people—Shyli’s nice—and they do treat us like mushrooms here.”
“I’m not mad.” Kris glanced back over her shoulder, uncomfortably aware of her disconnected attitude. “Was I bein’ a shit?”
“It’s okay. No one expects you to talk a lot.”
“Didn’t mean to be.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Uh—” Now Tanner glanced back. “Did’ja hear about the Outworlds? They put that on the Boards.”
Kris nodded. However reluctant the League might be about announcing the impending loss of Crucis Sector, they had no similar qualms about the Outworlds. Of course, the Trifid Frontier Force was needed elsewhere—no one would seriously expect them to expend precious resources defending a colonial backwater.
“You got people there?”
Kris bit the inside of her lip. “Not anymore.”
* * *
“You think Kris has changed?” Basmartin asked Tanner during a rare private moment in their dorm the next AM. They were reviewing the scores of their solos, the final hurdle before getting their assignments from the selection committee. Baz had scored in the top three percent. Tanner had done about as well as he expected. He set his tablet aside with a sigh that belied his professed insouciance for getting into the Advanced program. They all knew the quota and while they hadn’t heard yet—it was a safe bet that they would shortly—he was pretty sure Minx had topped him by a few percent. She always did well on tests.
“What do you mean?”
“Y’know. Colder.”
“She never was much of what you’d call a beacon of sweetness and light.”
Baz frowned. Sometimes it was okay when Tanner got flip like that—something it wasn’t.
“Not like this. Something happened when she was gone—I’m sure of it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“How’d she break her collarbone?”
“She said she just dinged her shoulder.” Tanner picked his tablet back up and started scrolling through screens again. Getting into Tactical wasn’t so bad. Not really.
“No. Watch the way she moves it.” Both of Basmartin’s parents were doctors, so he would know. “She broke it, a month or six weeks ago, maybe. She probably dinged her shoulder too.”
“Accidents happen.”
“What? You think she just slipped in the shower?”
Tanner shrugged. “So ask her.”
Basmartin stared at his tablet another moment before blanking the screen. “Do you know when they’re gonna send out the selection results? I haven’t heard anything announced about it yet.”
Tanner looked across the small room at him for several seconds. Then he gave his head a little shake. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Chapter Three
CEF Academy Main Campus
Cape York, Mars, Sol
Commander Brett Rappaport, head of the Fighter Track Selection Committee, closed the file on Class 1842 and opened Class 1861. “What’s your count, Charlie?” he asked the woman to his right.
“Twenty-four left.”
>
That squared with his own tally. Nodding, he stirred four profiles into the middle of the table. “This is their highest ranked study. Cadets Basmartin, Brunner, Tanner, and Kennakris.” Reaching out with his stylus, he ticked off two. “Basmartin and Kennakris. No question, I think. Anyone disagree?” No one did. He marked both profiles with an Advanced tag and swept them to one side.
“Now this Cadet Brunner. Comments?”
“Technically solid, sir. Learns quickly, good with a plan. Follows up. Generally thorough.”
“Thanks, Mike. Improvisation?”
“Not her best area.”
“Tanner?”
“Good but he skates at times. He’s got the edge over Brunner when things brew up badly, though. Between them, call it fifty-fifty.”
“Zale, what do you think about that?”
“Mostly agree, sir. Tanner does lock it in when he has to. Outside the envelope, Brunner has a tendency to be operationally brittle. Tanner goes all in, as long as he believes in his leader.”
That was Rappaport’s impression too. “Play that torpedo run he made again.”
Lieutenant Zale Aquinas reran the video of Tanner’s torpedo attack during his, Basmartin’s and Kris’s now legendary encounter with the boggart. Reviewing the familiar footage, Rappaport nodded and made a note on his ledger. “Send Brunner to Tactical. Tanner needs to be shaped a bit, but I’m nominating him for Advanced. Let’s see if he can rise to the occasion.”
Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Page 51