“Wha—wha’appened?”
Mariwen climbed off her stomach. “You were dreaming.”
Kris rolled over. She was violently nauseous.
“Bad?” Mariwen’s voice, stiff with concern.
The room rolled. Kris rolled with it. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Let’s see if we can get to bathroom first. Okay?”
Mariwen helped her to the head. Kris collapsed by a commode. Her stomach roiled but she fought it down—grimly, tenaciously. Gritting her teeth, she hung on to her writhing belly. Finally, she won. Mariwen came and wiped the sweat off her face with a damp towel. “Better?”
“Better.”
“Must have been a hell of a dream.”
“It was.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Fuck no!”
Mariwen looked hurt. “About Trench?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You kept screaming his name.” Mariwen handed her the towel. “Was he that slaver captain? I never knew.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I bet.”
“Fuck you, Kris!” Mariwen hissed. “I’m a friend, remember?”
Hot, salty liquid stung Kris’s eyes, just like Trench’s blood. She blinked furiously, humiliated by the tears. Impatient fingers flicked them away. “I know.” She reached a hand around the back of Mariwen’s neck, pulled her close. “I know. Sorry. Don’t be mad.”
Mariwen kissed her cheek lightly. Comfortingly. “Alright, I’m not. I’m sorry I snapped.” She laced her arms in Kris’s, leaned her head back to where she could look into Kris’s face in the dim light. “Are you gonna be okay? You were talking really strange when you got back. I was worried.”
“Slaver talk?”
“I guess.”
Kris tried to stand. She managed it with Mariwen’s help and found her head hurt much less. “I was tired. And I guess I’m a little strung out.”
“You could say that.”
“I just did.”
Mariwen smiled, a bit thin and wan. “Let’s get some sleep.”
“Okay.”
“No dreams.”
“If you say so.” Kris took a step, stumbled. “Help me along, please?”
Mariwen put an arm about her waist. “Sure.”
Mariwen put Kris to bed amid ill-disguised murmuring and sour looks, but the others soon retreated and Mariwen sat holding Kris’s hand in both of hers while Kris drifted off to sleep. It was an agitated restless sleep, so Mariwen waited for Kris’s breathing to slow and become even. When it did, she rose silently and made to slip away, but Kris’s fingers reflexively closed on her hand with shocking strength. With infinite care, Mariwen settled back down on the side of the bunk.
Sometime in quiet hours near the end of the middle watch, Kris woke from a charming dream that evaporated even as she left it. She did not open her eyes or try to move; she felt heavy but not constricted and besides, there was a warm sweet weight pressing against her back and an arm curling protectively over her flank, with the hand between her breasts where her own covered it.
She heard Mariwen’s soft breathing and felt it gently stirring her hair. Kris shifted a tiny bit, settling ever so slightly deeper into Mariwen’s embrace and receiving a sleepy murmur in reply. She squeezed the shielding hand gently, sighed against the pillow and with a hint of the tempting misty dream again teasing her thoughts, went back to sleep.
Chapter Seven
LSS Arizona
in the Kepler Transit
Huron rose early, breakfasted on coffee and orange juice alone, and set about the day’s activities as calmly as he could. Everyone was waiting on news of d’Harra and the ship had an overall expectant air. By the middle of the forenoon watch, he was completing his inspection of the aft weapons bays and as he stepped into the passageway, Walsh jogged up behind him. “Hey, Huron! Did you hear?”
Huron turned. “Hear what?”
Walsh’s smile was electric. “About d’Harra. We bagged the whole lot! They dropped outta the High Holy right into Shariati’s lap.” He cackled. “That girl turned up gold!”
A deep happiness suffused Huron, spreading to his face as a slow smile. Walsh clapped him on the back. “So the Captain’s ordering up a special celebration for tonight. Spit and polish, white gloves, full kit. He wants you to invite her—special.”
“Kris?”
“Yep! Oh—Ms. Rathor too.” Walsh laughed again. “Of course.”
Huron chuckled privately. Of course. “I’ll see to it. Thanks Walsh.”
“Thank her!” He turned and jogged off the passageway. “Goddamn, this is a beautiful day! Put this fucking day on the calendar . . .” The joyous exclamations echoed off the bulkheads until Walsh turned a corner and Huron heard the vigorous opening and closing of a hatch.
By noon, the invitations had been given and accepted—with some hesitation on Kris’s part, who would have demurred had Mariwen given her a choice. The primary concern was finding proper attire but this was not the obstacle they’d feared, due to the purser’s ingenuity and the considerable number of female crew.
The carefully boxed options, presented by white-gloved orderlies, ranged from subdued to surprisingly flamboyant. Kris chose one end of the spectrum and Mariwen, the other. Mariwen’s choice—the flamboyant end, of course—turned out to be a commander’s formal ball gown with the insignia removed and a rather daring slit up one side of the long elegant royal blue skirt. Seeing Mariwen twirling delightedly in it made Kris rethink certain ideas she’d formed about the Navy.
Her choice was also elegant, if sober: a female lieutenant’s dark blue full dress suit—pants, no skirt—without the cap. A couple of rates tailored it to fit her perfectly in less than half an hour and Kris, observing herself in it, self-consciously admitted that it sat pretty well.
At the appointed hour, Huron arrived to escort them and also to explain a few aspects of the proceedings. After detailing the number of courses, the toasts, and the Navy’s notion of polite conversation, he said: “And as this is a formal dinner, no ranks, no saluting, and first names only.”
This earned a pair of quizzical looks and Huron elaborated. “You see, in the Navy we are very formally informal. Except for the Captain, of course—who is still Sir—and the Admiral, unless he chooses to be otherwise, as he is not part of the ship.” This he further clarified by explaining the admiral was only a passenger and not acting in any official capacity.
This was the first Kris had heard about an admiral, part of the ship or no, but certainly not the last. He was a short wiry gentleman, bald but for a fringe of gray hair with a goatee and papery skin that showed the veins, especially on the backs of his hands. He was a rear admiral; his name was Nathan Byng—Sir Nathan Byng, for he was Hesperian—and he was on his way home. Captain RyKirt introduced him at the opening of the dinner, where it was revealed he had indeed elected to be known to the company by his first name, not his rank or title; this was understood to be a mark of respect for their role in the victory. Kris found his way of speaking eccentric and more than a little decided, but he was the first Hesperian she’d met and one of the few Homeworlders—Huron and Mariwen being two of the others—so she admittedly had little to go on.
Admiral Byng soon settled in, talking mainly with the senior officers near the head of the table, and the courses started arriving, hot from the galley, on a truly astounding service of plate made from asteroidal iridium. The courses were many, which quickly reduced Kris to nibbling, just as it quickly outstripped her ability to identify the dishes being served, the names often being foreign to her as were, in some cases, the foodstuffs comprising them.
The talk was general, pleasant, and if a trifle banal at times, it still made for a cheering noise with all the officers looking splendid in their very best—a glittering company. Mariwen shined, entirely in her element, able to speak charmingly on most subjects and having a dazzling smile to fall b
ack on if she chose not to. The adoration of the officers was certainly of a more refined order than that of the crew, but it was adoration nonetheless and offered with great respect.
Huron and Mariwen talked a good deal. They seemed to be among the very few Terrans here and the only two from the States. Kris recalled Mariwen saying she hadn’t really known him personally but they certainly seemed to have a lot in common, although Kris noticed that every now and then Huron would allude to something that Mariwen did not seem to catch; she would just dip her head and smile. A couple of times, she was sure Huron noticed it too, but of course he did not say anything. Once, though, she did detect him tactfully changing the subject.
Kris, on the other hand, was not called on to say much at all, which suited her just fine—if they treated her with a certain respectful reserve, she was grateful for it. The only truly awkward moment came when the captain rose to offer a solemn toast in her honor and Mariwen had to chivvy her out of her seat to accept it, all the while whispering guidance in her ear.
It was among the first toasts, being the proximate cause of the occasion, but far from the last. Captain RyKirt maintained an excellent cellar and bottle after bottle was brought in and circulated, always clockwise in the time-honored fashion. The admiral was especially fond of wine and at one point remarked, rather loudly: “This is capital claret. Antiguan, it is?”
“No actually, Nathan. It comes from the north of California, on Terra.” RyKirt smiled down the table at Huron. “One of your brother’s vineyards, isn’t it, Rafe?”
“Indeed so, sir. A small valley slightly to the east of Napa.”
“Well, it’s damn fine,” said the admiral, “though I do not set myself up as true connoisseur. My compliments to your brother. Been in the business long, have you?”
“Not long, Nathan. A few generations only.”
“Well, it does go down most gratefully.” The admiral, who for some time had been letting it go down very gratefully indeed, held his glass up to the light and intoned: “History shows us that winemakers and the military are the only two reliably competent and generally honorable professions that humanity has ever produced. Well, I suppose I might add firemen and shipwrights—have never known an incompetent shipwright—but beyond these noble few and our esteemed guests, of course,”—here he raised his glass and bowed to Kris and Mariwen at the other end of the table—“humanity has, I’m sad to say, sometimes seemed to have damned little to recommend itself. So it is wherefore that the Navy always has and always will drink wine. And if we do so at times immoderately, let that be taken as a token of our love and respect.”
“Hear! Hear!” the table cried and Huron, hiding his smile behind his glass, winked.
“I’m afraid that might have been a trifle tedious for you,” Huron remarked confidentially when, retiring to their quarters an hour later, they found themselves alone in the passageway. Kris’s “That’s alright” clashed precisely with Mariwen’s “Oh, not at all” and they laughed together.
“Well,” Huron went on in the same tone, “the admiral can tend to get a little prosy. He’s on his way home and, ah . . . well, shifting the weight of responsibility, shall we say, can have that effect.”
Neither Kris or Mariwen had a clear idea what he was talking about but where Mariwen had the diplomatic sense to politely incline her head, Kris blurted, “Was he relieved?”
Huron looked a trifle embarrassed; his eyes darted left and right. “He is close to retirement—he may in fact choose to retire. Or he may have something lined up with the shore establishment.”
“Oh.” Kris, now aware of committing something of a faux pax, reddened.
“He’s a kindly gentleman,” Huron finished, “and if he does retire, it is well deserved.”
That struck Kris as a rather odd thing to say: surely being a kindly gentleman was at best a weak compliment for an admiral. Admiral Joss PrenTalien, the one League admiral Kris had heard mentioned regularly, would never be described by anyone as kindly, and the only other one she knew of, Rear Admiral Lo Gai Sabr, had once caused the evacuation of an entire moon, just on the rumor (the false rumor, it later turned out) that he was operating in the area. And that well deserved remark could certainly be taken in more ways than one. But this obviously wasn’t a fit topic for the middle of a passageway and they ambled on, Kris keeping what part she took in the conversation, now grown remarkably insipid, to the most neutral of subjects.
As they reached the hatchway to their quarters, Huron said, “We should be translating near the end of the middle watch—not terribly convenient, I know—but the captain wants to clear into orbit in the late PM tomorrow. So this will be the last night you’ll spend on board. Unfortunately”—he sounded a trifle apologetic here—“you’ll just be exchanging our hospitality for that of the rehab center on Cassandra, but I have it on good authority that it’s at least a shade more comfortable.”
Mariwen laughed and put her hand on Huron’s arm. “Oh, Lieutenant! Surely you don’t think your company has been anything short of delightful.”
Huron smiled in that lopsided way he had. “I would never presume to contradict, but you are too gracious.”
“Will we have the pleasure again, or are you leaving us at Cassandra?” Mariwen’s voice was all politeness.
“I believe you might, should you wish it,” Huron returned, equally gracious. “We are due for a refit and crew rotation. So if things are handled with their usual swift efficiency, we’ll be on station for about a month. If they are not, six weeks is probably more like it.”
“Then we shall certainly see you again, Lieutenant”—Mariwen squeezed his hand and leaned slightly forward in her most alluring manner—“when your duties allow.”
“That will be the greatest pleasure.” Huron touched the brim of his peaked cap to both of them. Kris gave him a nod in return and Mariwen an elegant bob. “Good night, Ladies.”
The hatch opened in response to a light knock, and as they stepped through Mariwen looked at Kris and giggled.
“What the hell was that about?” Kris demanded. She hadn’t understood much of the comedy of manners she’d just witnessed (maybe it was a Homeworlder thing?) but she could swear they were flirting. Given Mariwen’s predilections she didn’t see the point.
Mariwen giggled again and gave her eyes a little roll. “Rafe Huron is an outrageous flirt. He’s slept with god-knows-how-many girls from Sol to Cygnus. If he wanted to, he could have a planet named Dad after him.”
“But he knows, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he knows. Everyone knows. That’s what makes it so much fun!”
Kris shook her head, puzzled and on the edge of being irritated. Mariwen knew the look and put a hand on her wrist. She leaned over, gave Kris a little kiss on the temple, and said softly, “Don’t worry. I’d never take him over you.”
“Mariwen!” Kris hissed.
Mariwen dissolved into giggles, her hand over her mouth. At length, she mastered them and waved at Kris apologetically. “I’m sorry! It must be the wine.” Then she sobered a bit, took Kris’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t be too hard on us, Kris. Please? I know—I’m rich and I’m silly and I’m spoiled. And yes, Rafe Huron can be such a fucking paragon.” She laughed, soft and with a note that hinted at things beyond Kris’s reach—things that seemed far from cheerful. “So we play games, Kris. We act out silly little parts. I know it can seem maybe just a little . . .” She looked down and Kris could swear she was embarrassed. “. . . stupid.”
Watching Mariwen, Kris had no idea what to think. “I . . . I never meant that. I just—I just don’t get it sometimes.”
Mariwen reached out and gave her a hug, a strong lingering hug, and whispered, “Don’t.”
At around six bells of the middle watch, Kris drifted from a deep sleep into a light doze. Like most longtime mariners, she was acutely sensitive to gravitational disturbances like skeer or rip, or the odd subtle shifting feeling of impending translation. Breaking the
surface of consciousness, she wondered if the skeer had awakened her—they’d hit a little just as she was falling asleep. That was to be expected: skeer was caused by gravity-wave phase shifts and non-isotropic rotating mass distributions in a star system were the most common source, so it was usually worst at the end of a trip. Skeer was rarely a threat to the ship but it did make some people profoundly uncomfortable. Kris wasn’t one of those—in fact, she found the sensations mildly pleasant in an edgy sort of way—but after laying still for a couple of minutes, she was sure it wasn’t skeer she’d sensed. No, they were approaching translation.
She stirred and as her hand fumbled for the bunk straps—it was usual for a ship dropping out of hyperlight to kill the gravity and she expected a warning any minute—she became aware of agitated breathing next to her and opened her eyes just as Mariwen touched her forearm.
“What?” Kris whispered. “What is it?”
In the faint illumination, Mariwen’s shadowed face was pinched and drawn; she was chewing her lower lip. “Sorry—I didn’t want to wake you . . . but we’re going to translate soon, aren’t we?”
Kris nodded, rising up on her elbows.
“I, umm . . . I—can’t stand it. I have to . . .” Kris sat up in her bunk, reached out for Mariwen’s arm; felt the tense muscles jumping under her fingertips. “I always take something for it.” She paused again and Kris could see she was fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. “I did—but—but—it’s not working.”
“Not working?”
“No!” Mariwen was hugging herself tight with her head sunk between her hunched shoulders as she shivered. “Something’s wrong! It’s not working . . . like something’s blocking it and—” A claxon cut the sentence off. The null-gee warning.
“Let’s get strapped in. They’ll be taking the gravity down in a moment.”
“Oh God!” Mariwen squeezed her eyes shut. The tremors were getting worse. “I can feel it . . . I can already feel it—”
The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set Page 8
