So he stepped away from his chair and tried to grab Kris by the shoulders. His awkward stance gave her the perfect target, and she kicked hard. Her boot made solid contact with his crotch. His eyes bulged as his face went chalk-white, and his thin mouth stretched wide in an airless, silent scream. Curling spasmodically around the shattering pain, his descending chin met her rising knee with a resounding crack. He collapsed in a boneless heap.
The orderly, holding Kris in a bear hug, lifted her bodily—another mistake. She snapped her head back, catching his jaw. It wasn’t a telling blow, but it surprised him enough to loosen his grip slightly. She tore an arm free and rammed her sharp elbow into his ribs with adrenaline-fueled viciousness. Beneath the layers of fat and muscle, she felt bone break.
He staggered, uttered an ox-like grunt and dropped her. Instantly, she pivoted, catching him in an arm bar and twisted hard. With the wet, sodden pop of cartilage parting, his left shoulder went. The man was tough—with a low bestial growl, he swung at her with a mammoth fist, a powerful, ungainly punch that she dodged easily. Her foot lashed out and smashed his braced knee—never lock your knees, ya stupid fuck. It buckled, he began to topple, and her fist struck right in front of his ear with all her weight and explosive rage behind it. His head slammed into the wall, rebounded, and he pitched onto his face, landing across Quillan’s unmoving form.
Panting savagely, Kris straightened, rubbing her bruised knuckles. Don’t hit a man with a closed fist—that advice from Sergeant Major Yu surfaced weirdly in her disordered mind. Yeah, well . . . She shook that hand. It stung like a son of a bitch, but nothing felt broken.
Oh fuck’n Christ. That thought came as the redness began to clear from her vision and she took in the wreckage heaped before her. You really slam-fucked it this time. Her breath was slowing to a series of irregular gulps, almost like broken sobs, and her shoulders had started to shake. She picked up a towel off a metal tray and swabbed her face and throat with it, trying to breathe through the tremors. The urge to run was so strong it made the muscles in her legs jump, and she felt a cold prickling in her hands and up the back of her forearms.
Don’t freak—that won’t help nothin’. As if anything would help. If she thought she’d served up her career on a bed of lettuce before, now she’d deep-fried it.
Biting her lip, she considered her options. There weren’t many. They’d come around to haul her ass off soon enough, but she’d be damned if she was gonna wait for them here. It wouldn’t take ’em long to find her—where was there to go anyway?
Dropping the towel in the trash, she smoothed her hair back, put her cap back on, and sealed her tunic. Breathing more evenly, she palmed the door open, stepped into the corridor, and with a quick look at the lifts, jogged towards the stairs.
Exiting the stairwell, Kris glanced left and right for any signs of undue activity. There were none. The pudgy receptionist was still at the front desk, and the CSPs were still there, one by the entrance and the other farther down the hall, chatting up a cute medical assistant over a cup of coffee. Shaking a twitch out of her shoulders, she started towards the entrance with a determined gait.
Hearing her approach, the receptionist looked up, his expression full of puzzled consternation. “Ah, ma’am? I don’t show a completion cert from Dr. Quillan.”
Kris paused by the desk. “Somethin’ came up. We’re gonna have to reschedule.”
“Oh?” He glanced at Kris’s face and hastily down at his console. “Let me call the doctor and see.”
“I don’t think you’re gonna get through.”
“Ah—” The man was fidgeting now, and the closer of the two CSPs was starting to take notice. The other one was still sipping his coffee and hitting on the cute med-assistant. They were a fair distance apart—
“I’ve got Dr. Quillan’s calendar right here.” The receptionist coughed theatrically. “Let me see what times—”
“Jus’ blink me a message when you get a hold of ’im.”
She turned towards the entrance. The CSP there had gotten his partner’s attention, and both were sidling over. As he came near, Kris gave him a nod.
“How’s your day been going?”—locking eyes with the man. “Good so far?”
The CSP sized her up and licked his lips. “Tolerable, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Before he could react, a few long purposeful strides took her to the entrance and through it, out into the dim foggy light and a sullen drizzle. She’d be wet through by the time she got where she was going.
Yeah. A stellar day. She’d been right about that. Absolutely stellar.
Chapter Two
Mather’s Landing
Epona, Cygnus Sector
What a fuck’n miserable way to end a career. Kris stabbed morosely at the ice in her poisonously green drink. Three hundred eighty-seven days, fifty-one victories, four decorations, including that Distinguished Flying Cross with Clusters and a Senatorial citation for valor. Wasted. Blown away in half a twisted moment . . .
She went back to torturing the ice in the bottom of the tall funnel-shaped glass. Shards of it and viscous green liquid swirled thickly. You finally got me, you dead fucker. Although you’re not really dead, are ya? I still carry you around in my head.
Anton Trench, captain of the contract slaver Harlot’s Ruse—her owner and the man who’d first called her Kris—had gotten his revenge, just over a thousand days late. Reached up out of the grave she’d put him in and nailed her. For the longest time, she hadn’t remembered doing that. Then, about four months ago, the memories had started to seep out: confused flashes and vivid scraps that would shock her awake at night. At times, she could almost convince herself it was just an especially lucid nightmare—one that always ended with Trench laughing at her—but then she’d catch a veiled comment or the tag end of a distorted rumor told third-hand and a little while later some new detail would be called up. And the more she remembered, the harder she tried to forget.
But not for much longer. Tomorrow or the next day, or some day after that, chances were the med-techs would arrive and banish those memories—and Trench—forever. And everything else.
A hell wallpapered with happy little smiles . . .
She’d rather administer her own medicine. The drink—a near-lethal concoction of Maxor vodka, Hotch whiskey, and lime ice—hadn’t been purchased for the flavor. It was a one-way ticket to drunken oblivion, a state she had been trying to achieve for some hours. So far, it hadn’t been working out.
Mechanically, she sipped the Hotch & Vodka, her upper lip curling against the aromatic vapor that lay burning on her tongue and stung as it invaded her nose. Damn, this stuff got stronger with every sip. Groping, she snatched up a waiting beer chaser and took a long pull. The foaming, malt-sour fluid washed around in her mouth and killed the congener sting. She swallowed, then inhaled deeply to clear her sinuses.
No, this wasn’t working at all. Getting drunk had never been one of the things she did well, although she was making fair progress towards getting sick. Perhaps being sick was as good a distraction as being drunk. She raised the glass to her mouth; the smell made her stomach roll.
Then again, maybe not.
She put the glass back down and began to move it in aimless patterns around the table, leaving trails of condensation behind. Brushing back a strand of chestnut hair escaping from the regulation hairstyle, she glanced up through the thick fume-burdened air of Romney’s and looked around.
Tonight it was fairly quiet, just a group of rates in tan maintenance fatigues talking among themselves at the bar and a few solitary drinkers littered here and there. The live sex show was in full swing; five players, including one she thought was a hermaphrodite, cavorting under laser-lights in a mirrored antigrav globe. Nobody was paying much attention. Even the working girls seemed to be keeping to themselves tonight.
That was fine with her. Nothin’ to do anyway but wait.
She resumed playi
ng with her drink, pushing ice fragments up the glass walls and watching them slide back down into the slush at the bottom. It was time for something less corrosive. She began to search the drinks menu.
“Hi, Kris.” The voice took her by surprise. She looked up from the fuzzy menu display in the table and squinted at the speaker, backlit by the uncertain glow of the cracked overhead luminates.
“Oh. Hi, Huron.” She didn’t salute. “Ya here to arrest me?”
“I thought we should talk.” Huron pulled out the chair opposite her and slid his tall frame into it.
“What’d ya wanna talk about?”
He looked pointedly at her drink. “I see you’re serious.”
“Yep.”
“You also look like hell.”
She raised the glass to him. “Why thank you, Commander.”
But the smeary reflection in the plastic table top agreed with him. Her cheeks were drawn and pale, and in the flickering greenish light the thin, pursed line of an old scar high on one cheek stood out abnormally. She had lines around her mouth and eyes, and she noticed that in this light, her eyes took on almost the same poisonous yellow-green shade as her drink. As if the venom in her thoughts were leaking out . . .
“You wanna drink while we’re talkin’? Or would that get you com-pro-mised.” She broke the word apart derisively.
“A short one won’t hurt.”
Kris aimed her credit chip at the slot by the dumbwaiter—had some difficulty inserting it. She was drunker than she’d thought. In the table-top reflection, her little gold bars winked mockingly at her from the collar tabs of her gray fatigues. When they first pinned them on her, she remembered someone saying—it might have N’Komo—that in the SRF they were called Jack Sprats because one bar was fat and one was thin, like she was supposed to get the joke.
Some fuck’n joke alright . . .
Kris picked a Mothan Cream off the menu, and Huron selected a brandy. She frowned at him, trying to read the eclipsed emotions in his eyes, while the dumbwaiter obligingly disgorged their drinks onto the table. She resumed their interrupted conversation.
“So what d’ya wanna talk about besides I’m serious and I look like hell?”
Reaching into the breast pocket of his fatigues, he pulled out a flimsy and skated it across the table at her. Kris picked it up and unfolded it carefully. Her lips moved as she read it: “DTG: 30.1744.42. Pursuant to General Order 17.2, para.3: Striking or threatening to strike . . . or causing an affray . . . general inquiry . . . flight rating suspended . . . report aboard . . . confined to quarters—”
She crumpled the flimsy and shot it across the table to him. “Yeah, I heard all that. That DTG’s outta duty hours—I don’t take orders off duty. ’Zat why no provosts showed up? They hauled your ass outta Brentagne’s to come find me an’ serve that all correct and proper?”
Brentagne’s had turned out to be Brentagne’s Core Systems, a company Huron’s family owned. The “house of ill-repute” he’d mentioned was the local headquarters. He was using his furlough to take care of some family business.
“Yes,” Huron answered, stirring his drink absently with his right index finger. “But I thought you should first have a chance to explain why you kicked Quillan in the balls.”
“Oh.” Kris’s fingers flexed and unflexed around the squat mug of thick, alcohol-laden cream. “Well, I wouldn’t have kicked him if his goon orderly hadn’t grabbed me.”
Huron’s eyebrows rose. Kris, staring into her drink, her lips compressed until they were nearly white, didn’t notice.
“He deserved it anyway. Goddamn psych-voyeur asshole.” She sucked down a healthy gulp of the laced cream. “Y’know how long it’s been? I looked it up. One thousand eleven days, G-A-T”—with heavy sarcastic emphasis on the letters. “That’s two-point-seven-seven fuck’n GAT years exactly—an’ he does this”—her voice was rising to a dangerous pitch—“all cuz I was a slaver captain’s bitch! Jus’ a—”
“Easy, Kris.” Huron tried to make his voice soothing, but still it came out with overtones of flint. “I know Quillan, remember?”
He did, and while Quillan might be cold, annoying, obsessively cautious, and dogmatic, he’d never struck Huron as vindictive. It seemed like pure bad timing that had brought LSS Fidelia, with Quillan aboard, into Epona two weeks ago. Quillan, due for rotation, had been assigned downside while he waited for his new billet to come through—just in time for Kris to be ordered to undergo a new psycheval.
Unhappily, the same couldn’t be said for Commander Mertone. Huron, who’d taught Advanced Combat Maneuvering at the Academy that term, was briefly at the party that led up to the incident between Mertone and Kris, and (in common with others) had a pretty good idea of what must have happened. He was much clearer on the aftermath, in regards to Mertone’s career. As a fighter boss, Mertone was certainly competent, but he was also a Messian aristocrat: touchy, apt to be arrogant, and unlikely to ignore—or forget—an injury. As much as Huron hated the thought of a fellow officer crossing the line into actual malice, that was looking increasingly likely.
The worst part was that Mertone now had a perfectly legitimate excuse. While there were definitely mitigating circumstances, the undeniable fact was that Kris had assaulted a superior officer—twice. What exactly had happened with Quillan wasn’t clear, and they couldn’t bring charges in his case without his word, assuming they knew about it, but they could force her to face a hostile inquiry.
Huron folded his hands around his glass. “Maybe you should fill me in on exactly what happened.”
“Yeah, okay.” She squinted and rubbed her knuckles across her forehead, struggling to get her alcohol-washed wits in order. “It wasn’t the next day—it was the day after. Mertone pinged me—wanted elaboration, he said, on some report. I couldn’t say no unless I checked into the infirmary and if I did that . . .” She waved a hand at her left arm and leg, where the bruises would have then been quite vivid. “So I went up top to see him.”
Huron winced. If Kris had felt anything like he did that day, her condition could have been explained by the leftovers of a major-league hangover. Still, it might have inspired Mertone to press matters. Like Kris, he’d been surprised they’d ordered up a psycheval on such short notice.
“Anyway, you remember that Andaman-registered slaver we tagged back in Winnecke IV?”
Huron cocked his head, surprised. “He wanted to talk about that?”
“Yeah—wanted clarification on our procedures and ROEs and protocols for determining the acceptable level of employed force and the dev’l . . .”—she focused hard to get the word out—“devolution of constituted authority and all this shit.”
Huron’s eyes narrowed as he tapped the side of his glass with an index finger. Bringing up such old news was suspicious in itself. Was he trying to revive that too? Or just goad Kris into acting rash?
“What else did he say?”
Kris made a broad, disgusted gesture. “Started in on how aggression was all fine in its place—admired a zealous officer—different situation now—this fuck’n smirk all over his face—critical to follow established procedures—recon ops not to be confused with privateering expeditions . . .”
This was heading in a dangerous direction, and Huron interrupted her before that tirade could really get going. Besides, a disquieting thought had just occurred to him. “Look, Kris, you . . .” He slit his eyes and regarded her closely. “You didn’t get up in his face about this?”
“No . . . Not really.” Kris swiveled her head from side to side. “I mean, not much . . .”
“Oh shit,” Huron hissed under his breath. “Kris—”
“God dammit, Huron.” Kris slammed her elbows on the table, harder than she intended. The drinks jumped and splashed as she dropped her face into her hands. A spot of moisture leaked out of the corner of one eye, and she brushed at it angrily. “What I gotta do to keep these assholes off my back?”
Huron leaned back in his chair, tha
t distant look masking his features again. “You know what you have to do, Kris. You just won’t do it.” He glanced down into the brandy, began stirring it with a finger again. “I gotta say, habitually referring to your fighter boss as an asshole ain’t a real good start.”
Kris revved up a nasty retort but swallowed it and chased the bitter aftertaste with a shot of cream.
“Not like we haven’t warned you.” He picked up the crumpled sheet of buff plastic and pocketed it. “Go to the inquiry, Kris. Play the game—Yessir, Nosir, jus-wanna-serve-the-navy, sir. You know the drill.” His gaze lifted back to hers. “Armistice or no, we can’t afford to lose you, and for all Lo Gai may look like a hairy little bandit, you know he’s good with his people.”
Kris snickered. Huron was probably one of the few people alive who could call their hirsute and diminutive commanding officer that and get away with it. Rear Admiral Sabr’s temper was as short as his inseam. “Yeah, so they say.”
Huron frowned at the snide tone. “It’s true, Kris. I’ve never seen Lo Gai short-shank anyone under him. Push ’em out a lock maybe—”
“Of course you haven’t—Homeworlder.”
Huron spread his hands at the barb. “Kris, you’re not all on your own here. It’s just an inquiry at this point. There are ways to deal with this.”
Kris sank back, with a deep tired sigh, deflated. You just don’t understand, do ya?
“Understand what?” Huron asked quizzically.
Kris started: she hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. Damn! I am drunk.
“I mean, Quillan,” Kris added in a shamefaced tone, “he started in on Trench. Then . . .”
“Then what?”
More tears squeezed past the dams of her lashes. Dammit, why do I cry when I’m drunk! “Then he tried to drug me. Ran an IV. Things got weird—all outta shape, y’know. I yanked the IV—then his goon was grabbing me and I kicked Quillan.”
Huron dragged his hands down his face. This was bad. Quillan had been doing more than just a psycheval, he’d actually tried to run a chemically assisted probe. Which meant he was fishing deep. And there could be only one reason for that: with his original reports sealed, he was trying to get that data back any way he could—even by resorting to what amounted to chemical interrogation. That might excuse Kris, depending on . . .
The Loralynn Kennakris series Boxed Set Page 111
