Orion's Price (Loralynn Kennakris Book 6)

by Owen R. O’Neill

  A deep groan. Releasing her, leaning down for a kiss, tongue sliding past her lips. She nuzzles it with her own, a sensual duet. It retreats and hers follows . . .

  Sitting up; one smooth swift motion, arms rising and falling, dance-like, coming to rest on either knee. Reaching out, her hand stops, pinned by the look in those hazel eyes—knowing, in that transfixed moment, that those eyes are a mirror to her own.

  “C’mere . . .” Strong arms pull her close. Brushing the auburn hair aside, she plants kiss after delicate kiss along the collarbone, then bends further to lick a slow curve over one breast before kissing along the cathedral arch of ribs that entemples a sculpted belly. Now, hands pushing her back, once again pressing her deep into the softness of the pillows. Moving over her, knees spreading outside her shoulders; hips lowering to her impatient mouth for a first loving taste—sweet rain, salt tang and sunlight.

  Greeting her with rapid feather-light licks that barely touch, then dragging her tongue through the ornate swirls of flesh, all dewy and slick—lapping up pleasures that well to the surface. A soft gasp, a louder moan. Gazing up along that sweet, muscled torso; peaked breasts rising and falling with the quick, hard tempo of sharp-drawn breaths; head thrown back, hair lashing as if in a storm; chanting in a voice rasped of all tone by the churning sensations:

  “Yes . . . like that—like that . . . Oh fuck!”—body writhing with the wild sinuous abandoned motions of the oldest dance. Wrapping her arms around the bucking hips, keeping her eager mouth pressed home, riding out the rolling spasms. Finally relenting, the tremors dwindling; breathing slower but still ragged. Releasing her hold, she lets her ease away to rest on both arms; panting, flushed, exultant. Leaning over, she licks the sweat that sheens the heaving chest. It makes her tongue tingle.

  Laughing, lips coming together; moist and sweet and alive with the taste of them. Held tight in her arms, straddling her thighs, rocking gently. A fine and private darkness enclosing them like the inside of a rose . . .

  Kris cupping her face in two hands, her hazel eyes brimming with silver tears. Smiling—so radiant, more beautiful than she can stand—touching her cheekbone with a tender questing fingertip.

  “You have forever in your eyes.”

  Stammering—fighting for words. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it matters. It does—it matters . . .”

  “No. Don’t cry.”

  “Don’t go—”

  “I’m already gone.”

  “Please don’t go . . .”

  “I was never here.”

  Darkness melting; harsh light piercing. Her arms empty and a figure looming in a far-off doorway, silhouetted in the acid-yellow glare that slashes across the space between them. A sharp constriction in her chest as she recognizes his shape, the thin dry malevolent hiss of his voice—

  “Is she ready?”

  A firm hand on her bicep, shaking. Another voice:

  “Are you ready?”

  Mariwen opened her eyes. Zorya was bending over her, the room’s yellow light catching in her raven-black hair.

  “You need to get ready. It’s time.”

  Chapter 36

  Camp Villanovo

  near Haslar Cosmodrome

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  The door to Kris’s solitary confinement cell opened without warning and four armed guards entered, followed by a man of medium height and impeccable soldierly bearing. He wore the uniform of a Halith navy captain and carried a small gray metal case. His men wore light combat armor and carried assault rifles. Not guards then, but a naval combat team.

  Oh shit . . .

  Kris rose up on her elbows on the hard bunk. She’d been expecting this ever since they separated her from Huron and put her in here.

  Shit—shit—shit . . .

  She wondered what they’d done with Huron. They’d transported them here together but then put them in separate cells. Could she ask to see him, for just a minute? Or was it possible they’d planned to take him, too? It would only take a second—they wouldn’t be expecting it . . .

  Rafe would do it. He knew as well as she did what would happen if Heydrich got her in his custody.

  Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not like this . . .

  The captain advanced and saluted, jarring her out of these thoughts. So they were gonna be polite about this? Oh goody. Military courtesy demanded she stand and return the salute, but Kris didn’t even bother to nod. Fuck that. Let the assholes be all spit-and-polish if they liked. They were great ones for spit-and-polish, she’d noticed. March her in perfect order all the way to that cozy little room with the sterile table, the needles, the neural splicers . . .

  She fought down the acid rising in her throat. Not yet. Nothing’s happened yet. Wait. Think.

  The captain wasn’t wearing armor—he was carrying a sidearm. What were the chances—

  “Commander Kennakris, I am Captain Escobar Malinen.” His voice was as precise as his uniform. He set the gray case on the chamber’s small table, opened it and took out a conical device that he placed next to the case. Then he appeared to activate it with a small square remote he took from a pocket of his uniform jacket. “You are required to answer certain questions.”

  That’s what you think . . .

  “A full recording is being made of this inquiry. I am required to inform you that if you do not supply satisfactory answers to all questions, you will be transported to another facility for further interrogation. I strongly advise you to cooperate fully.”

  Kris swung her feet off the bunk and onto the floor. The captain’s men shifted. Dammit, they were paying way too much attention. And somehow she figured batting her eyes wasn’t gonna work with this crowd.

  “Captain,” she replied coldly, in her best formal manner, “I have on multiple occasions supplied your people with all they are entitled to know under the accepted Interstellar Conventions of War, to which the Dominion of Halith is a signatory.” Stand up now? Make it more dramatic? No, not yet . . . “But just in case you assholes are hard of hearing, let me spell it for you again. Name: Loralynn Kennakris. Rank: Lieutenant Commander. Serial number: F-U-C-K-Y-O—”

  Captain Malinen surreptitiously clicked the little remote again and—incredibly—smiled. “Thank you, Commander. I applaud your getting straight to the point. Sometimes we have to go through five minutes or even more of this rigmarole to be able to construct a plausible recording. I am most gratified this is not the case with you, as we are pressed for time.”

  Now Kris stood up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “That device will block all surveillance of this room and create a complete record of an interrogation in which you are predictably defiant and profane. I shall therefore have no choice but to conduct you to another location where—”

  “I mean, what is this all about?”

  “Ms. Mariwen Rathor.”

  Her knees gave out and she barely caught herself as she hit the bunk. It hurt. She opened her mouth, but her vocal cords betrayed her. No . . . not Mariwen. You can’t possibly have Mariwen—

  “I regret to inform you that Mariwen Rathor is in very grave danger. We require your assistance in this matter.”

  In danger? How? Makes no sense—Mariwen can’t be . . . “You what?” she said aloud.

  “We require your assistance. I regret I do not have time for a full explanation. That will come later. Right now, we must act. You must listen. Please.”

  Please? “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Captain Malinen’s face took on a severe look and he began to speak very rapidly. “Ms. Rathor is at this moment in Halevirdon—I must ask you not to interrupt. She was able to, how shall I say, encourage—please allow me to continue—certain members of the Council to reopen the issue of POW exchange. An agreement in principle has been reached to extend to your government an offer to resume exchanging prisoners according to the previously accepted
protocols. Under this offer, you, Commander Huron and a select number of other prisoners are to be paroled and released as a sign of good faith. We are confident that with the support of the former Speaker’s faction, your government will accept, and normal POW exchanges will then resume on an agreed-upon schedule under a flag of truce.”

  “But—but . . .” It was too much, too fast and Kris looked down, moving her head aimlessly. “I don’t understand.”

  Malinen visibly forced himself to stop and wait for a few seconds. Then: “Commander—”

  “Okay—yes. Go on.”

  “This agreement is being stalled by General Heydrich. His authorization is required to proceed and we do not have—”

  We? You keep saying ‘we’. Who the fuck is ‘we’?

  “—the leverage to force this agreement through against his opposition. The general believes you may be responsible for his brother’s death—”

  Oh fuck’n goddammit—

  “Ms. Rathor has arranged a personal meeting with him—”

  “WHAT?”

  “—at which it appears she hopes to convince him to—”

  Mariwen! Dear fuck’n mother of god what’re ya thinking, you fuck’n crazy girl—

  “—by means unknown, but we suspect she intends to offer herself as a—”

  NO! Don’t say that! No goddammit—don’t cry—don’t—

  “Commander, you must listen. I have orders to attempt to recover Ms. Rathor and see to it that General Heydrich’s influence is . . . neutralized. I require your assistance.”

  “Why?” Lifting her head.

  “If we succeed, Ms. Rathor will be given safe conduct under the protection of Admiral Caneris to where her return to your territory can be arranged. To make certain of her cooperation, I must be able to present a surety to Ms. Rathor that we are acting with your knowledge and in good faith.”

  “You are?”

  “Commander Kennakris, please understand I can provide you no authentication at present. But I offer you this: my solemn oath as a captain of the Halith Imperial Navy that all I have said is true, and that my intentions and those of my superior are as I have stated them. Will you assist me?”

  My good fuck’n gawd, he sounds like he means it! “What happens next?”

  “You are to be escorted by myself and my men to a secure location to await the outcome of this operation. Commander Huron should be in transit already. You will both wait there to be exchanged in the event of success.”

  “And in the event of . . . ”

  “Admiral Caneris has issued strict orders that you are not to be surrendered to General Heydrich under any circumstances.”

  Well . . . that takes care of that. I guess you’re off the hook, Rafe.

  “Commander, my recording device will hold for another minute, but no longer. I must have an answer.”

  “Okay. Tell Mariwen . . .” How the fuck did that go? “Um . . .” Shit! It was—was . . . “Tell her: ‘Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades or loose the bonds of Orion?’”

  Chapter 37

  Docklands Quarter, Halevirdon

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  As they entered the city’s southeastern airspace, Zorya guided the slide-bike through the layers of traffic and banked right onto an exit ramp. Setting the bike’s tires smoothly on the pavement, she coasted down the incline and merged onto the surface streets. After a few kilometers of dodging other vehicles and streams of pedestrians, she turned left into the Docklands Quarter and almost immediately entered an alleyway and parked alongside what appeared to be a huge warehouse.

  “The car is through those doors, straight ahead, then left.” Zorya pointed at a pair of big roll-up doors just behind a loading dock. “Look for number 42. It is clean—we could not risk tell-tales or any monitoring.” Mariwen had understood that. Zorya went on. “I will maintain strictly visual contact with you until you are inside the general’s compound. At that point, there is little I can do for you.”

  Somewhat mystified, Mariwen said, “But I’d understood Paavo to say he wouldn’t allow you—”

  “Paavo does not rule me in all things,” Zorya cut her off. “Many things. Most perhaps. But not all.”

  Feeling mysteriously embarrassed, Mariwen dismounted the slide-bike, took off her helmet and began to remove her riding leathers. “Thank you. I hope . . . it’s not a—problem. For you.”

  “He may fire me if he wishes”—with a slim blade-like smile. “But there is one more thing.” Mariwen expected some parting advice but Zorya was also taking her helmet off and opening her jacket. She reached into her shirt and lifted out a necklace: a silver chain with a plain disk of whitish metal. Removing the necklace, she cupped it in her palm.

  “What is it?” Mariwen asked, expecting some new bit of covert technology.

  “A Saint Helen’s medal. At least, that it what we call it. See?” Zorya licked her thumb and rubbed it on the disk. A woman’s face appeared: young, roundish and rather ordinary but for her eyes, which were beautifully shaped and filled with a fierce determination. “Helena Marazovna.” Zorya traced the name inscribed around the medallion’s edge with a fingernail. “Early in the Formation Wars, my planet was overrun by Syrdar—we were weak then, you know. Helena began as a courier for the Resistance—she was sixteen. Later, she spied inside Syrdarian Supreme Headquarters itself. It was she who brought out the data that allowed us to break the Siege of Tuonela.” Zorya scrubbed the image again with her thumb and it faded. “For centuries after, our soldiers prayed to her before entering combat.” She held the necklace out to Mariwen. “Some of us still do. I wish you to have it.”

  Wholly taken aback, Mariwen dropped the hand she had started to raise. “Zorya, are you—? This is—too much honor.”

  “No, it is you who do us too much honor. You know”—she smiled again and it was pensive, even a touch shy; strange to see on such a martial face—“when Paavo told me of your coming, I thought of the woman on the periodical covers—do you know, when I was sixteen I nearly worshipped your covers?” She chuckled. “And I thought someone must be mad.”

  Well, maybe it is mad, Mariwen silently agreed.

  “I thought: poor Paavo is finally gone in the head. I have rarely been so wrong . . . and never so happy to be so. Please do me this favor.”

  Mariwen extended a hand, palm up, and Zorya carefully coiled the necklace in it.

  “Thank you, Zorya. With your permission, I will bring this back to you someday.”

  Zorya shrugged—those probabilities did not bear thinking on. “As you wish. The Lady keep you always, Mariwen Rathor, and give you gentle rest.”

  “And you, Zorya Vechernyya. Or as we say, may She always light your path.”

  Zorya dipped her chin in salute, sealed her jacket and started the bike. As she resettled her helmet, she smiled and said, “Remember, always look to the back and never lean forward. Make him come to you.” The visor clicked shut before Mariwen could do more than smile in reply. Zorya gunned the bike’s engines, spun it in a tight circle and was gone.

  Mariwen watched the mouth of the empty alley for the space of a slow breath and then hung the medallion around her neck, along with the one Kris had given her. What was it that Kris had asked her that night in Taos; the night before she bought it for her? Something in Hamlet? A sea of troubles? That’s right . . .

  . . . take arms against a sea of troubles,

  and by opposing end them?

  To die, to sleep—No more;

  and by a sleep, to say we end the heartache,

  and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to?

  ‘Tis a consummation, devoutly to be wished.

  It was getting late. She turned to go find the car.

  Chapter 38

  Heydrich Villa on Tsalko Island

  Halith Evandor, Orion Spur

  General Tristan Heydrich closed the orange-lit annunciator window on his desk and tried to keep his hands still. The messa
ge was from his security team, notifying him of Mariwen Rathor’s impending arrival and the joyful anticipation that had been bubbling inside him all day was threatening to overflow. That would never do. There was no reason to be hasty. He already had his welcome for Ms. Rathor all worked out. All would proceed according to plan. Soon . . .

  He stopped his thumb from unconsciously rubbing his palm and released a breath through his dilated nostrils. There was also the matter of his surprise. He had one in store for her, a brilliant surprise, and that gave him almost as much pleasure as the evening’s activities he had in mind. And he looked forward to even greater pleasures in the future. Looked forward to them most extremely.

  Mariwen Rathor and Loralynn Kennakris. His brother had managed to get both these extraordinary women under his control and bungled it. If his sainted brother had a flaw, it was that he never appreciated the value of randomness. He saw a randomness as the grit in the great vast intricate machinery of the plots and schemes he liked to assemble.

  Take the Alecto Initiative (a ridiculous name, in his opinion). That was the epitome of what his brother loved, a masterpiece to be destroyed at the moment of its completion. Mariwen was to be the centerpiece of this great artwork; the divinely beautiful article whose very adoration required her destruction. The denouement of the plot was to be her grand funeral pyre, and the more practical effects that were to follow, her monument.

  The admiral had labored over it for years, refined and polishing; doing all he could to remove any trace of ‘grit’. But at Arutyun’s suggestion, they brought in Nestor Mankho (whom he’d always found a somewhat boorish person—odd that he and Arutyun got on so well) to arrange Mariwen’s kidnapping and carry out the final operation . It made sense, that being the kind of thing Mankho excelled at, but it inevitably introduced uncontrollable factors—randomness.

  Loralynn Kennakris. Since Arutyun had brought her so strongly to his attention, he’d learned all he could about her. She was the irremovable grain of sand in the machinery—no, that wasn’t it. Better to describe her as the rouge celestial body abruptly entering their system and disrupting all his brother’s plans. She’d blown up the Alecto scheme, played a significant role in the catastrophic defeat at Wogan’s Reef (which his brother had brought about by engineering a change in the strategic direction of the war), and when she and the admiral came in direct contact, he had not survived the encounter.