Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  These philosophical concerns aside, there was also the practical aspect. What Caneris observed in the assembled company was not reality, but it bore a distinct relationship to reality, and showed him what he expected: a happy ship in good order.

  Progressing between the ranks in solitude and receiving their perfectly timed salutes (Caneris never came aboard with a train of followers, as some admirals now did), he approached Bolimov’s captain, Grigori Hoffman, waiting with his senior officers, and immediately to Hoffman’s right, Captain Augustus Dupré, his own chief of staff. Hoffman was an old acquaintance whose qualities he knew well. Dupré was a new one, whom he had not yet fully assessed.

  Shaking hands with Hoffman, they exchanged a pleasant greeting, and the captain introduced Caneris to those of his officers the admiral had not yet met. This formality accomplished, Caneris greeted his chief of staff, perfectly cordial but without noticeable warmth on either side. Looking past Dupré’s shoulder, he noted the tall, young lieutenant standing there, statue stiff. A most handsome young man—blond and blue eyed, the very pinnacle of aristocratic breeding—looking out of place among Caneris’ other staff officers (on the whole, a rather drab set). Caneris did not recognize him.

  Dupré, following his gaze, moved aside. “Admiral, allow me to present Lieutenant Terence Claude Isleman, your new aide.” Isleman saluted like a machine as his admiral appraised him.

  “What became of Lieutenant Commander Gunnarsson?” His former aide having rotated out two weeks ago, Caneris had selected Haakon Gunnarsson, an officer of excellent reputation whom he knew slightly, to replace him. Failing to honor an admiral’s request wasn’t unheard of, especially with a deployment imminent, but it was unusual and furthermore, he had not been informed. His recent question to Danilov and Danilov’s less-than-comforting answer resurfaced in his mind.

  “I’m afraid I was not told, sir,” the young man replied in a wooden voice. “I received my orders only this morning, when I reported in.”

  Isleman had been on-station then, and whatever happened to Gunnarsson had happened suddenly. Or been arranged to happen suddenly. Glancing at Dupré, Caneris found no enlightenment there.

  “Very well, Lieutenant”—returning his attention to his new aide. “You are welcome aboard. We shall have to get to know one another quickly, I think.”

  “Yessir.” The fellow was not unbending a fraction of a millimeter. There could be any number of reasons for that. It wouldn’t do to leap to conclusions.

  “Augustus, I understand there have been some additions to our orders. Perhaps we should see to those now, before other business.” His chief of staff nodded. “Grigori, after Captain Dupré and I have thrashed out what the Supreme Staff has seen fit to levy upon us at this final minute, perhaps you would be so good as to grant me a half an hour of your time?”

  “Certainly, sir. With pleasure.”

  With the glim of an answering smile, Caneris swept his eyes across his staff. “Then let us go work, gentleman. There’s not a moment to be lost.”

  * * *

  They did not lose a moment, but as the full import of their new orders became apparent, they did lose some of the joyful anticipation which most them had felt at embarking on this cruise. All had understood the objective to be a lofty one, promising a swift end to the war, and this understanding (and the implied promise) was reinforced by the knowledge they were carrying sealed orders. Sealed orders—written on real parchment and brought aboard by a marine escort bound in official red and gold tape—always betokened great things, and that weighed heavily in the operation’s favor.

  But this new assignment cast a pall over all that. Supreme HQ should have had the sense to leave well enough alone and not cave into purely commercial interests, as they had evidently done—or so the consensus ran among Caneris’ staff.

  Caneris himself concurred with that opinion, although he had not voiced it, and now, near the end of his promised half-hour with Captain Hoffman, he raised it only as a question.

  “What is your view of this new mission?”—extending a dish of walnuts to his guest. Hoffman took five and cracked them together in his powerful hand, signaling his answer.

  “I don’t like it. The people won’t like it either, when word gets around. It’s not fit work, playing nursemaid to these sorts.” These sorts referred to a large slaver fleet the Emir was in the process of assembling, to make a raid on the Outworlds of near-unprecedented proportions, and which they were to escort. This raid had been proposed as a means to ease the worsening “labor crisis.” Translated, that meant supporting the interests (and fortunes) of the powerful families who supplied fresh slaves to the wealthy, and whose support was in turn crucial to Jerome’s aspiration to declare himself emperor.

  Caneris did not suspect Hoffman of harboring abolitionist sympathies but, like most naval officers, he resented his calling being tainted by these purely pecuniary motives. Nor did he fully trust Jerome, Caneris thought, or entirely approve of his ambitions.

  “I don’t wonder they waited to tell us,” the captain continued, munching the walnuts. “But why the Ministry elected not to handle this is my real question. If they think the Andamans can’t be trusted with even this shoddy bit of escort work, I understand. Use their own forces, then—that’s their purpose in life, isn’t it? None of this smells right to me—not any of it.”

  Hoffman was correct that none of this smelled right, Caneris reflected. The only plausible reason the Ministry of the Internal Affairs had decided to not use MPS forces or rely on the Andaman Navy, was that they lacked confidence in the Emir and wanted their payoff up front. As long as the raid succeeded and they secured the Winnecke IV junction (the legitimate objective, as Caneris saw it) a victory could be declared regardless of what eventually happened to the Emir’s plans.

  Instead of sharing these thoughts, however, he offered another glass of port to go with the walnuts. “Would you have been tempted to refuse the command, had you known?”

  The question was delicate one, allowed only by their long professional association. Nonetheless, Hoffman took a moment composing his answer.

  “I have never refused a command, and I have no intention of considering such a thing now. But I don’t like it.”

  Seeing no point in pursuing the issue further, Caneris topped off his own glass. A great many things had to happen before their orders to provide an escort for the Emir’s slaver fleet would come into effect. Considering them, Caneris was far from regarding the business as a fait accompli.

  Perhaps Hoffman’s mind ran in similar directions, for after an interval in which they silently applied themselves to their port and walnuts, he changed the subject.

  “How do you find your new aide?”

  Caneris detected an ambiguous hint in the captain’s tone. “Do you know him?”

  “Never set eyes on him before he reported aboard. His family are big guest-labor brokers, as you know. Could that have anything to do with him replacing Gunnarsson, do you think?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Yet Caneris doubted it. The timing was too suspicious. Before his staff meeting, he had sent a most private and confidential message to Danilov, requesting any data he had on the young man. With luck, Danilov would reply before the day was out.

  “I understand he’s quite rich,” Hoffman added. “His own money.” Aside from the fact that it was somewhat unusual for a scion of a wealthy family to seek his own fortune, the remark was apropos of nothing much. True, the Isleman’s were a parvenu family and slave trading was not looked on with favor by those who controlled the meaningful offices, so if the lieutenant had higher ambitions, he might be trying to set himself apart.

  This was all rampant speculation, however, and Caneris brushed it aside. “So I understand. In any event, we shall know soon enough. I have invited him to dinner, and I look forward to informative evening.”

  * * *

  Admiral’s dinners could be touchy affairs and rarely succeeded as social events. Ca
neris was capable of being a gracious host and kept a fine table, but nonetheless, the evening failed to reach the usual low level. He had invited his chief of staff along with Lieutenant Isleman and a nearly invisible ensign, an assistant supply officer who uttered not a word the whole time, opening his mouth only to admit Andurian calipash and calipee, and replying to questions with nods or wags of his head. Isleman kept to a barely less strict interpretation of naval etiquette, speaking when spoken to and agreeing with whatever his senior officers proposed. Nor was the chief of staff a loquacious man, leading to a tedious meal marked by a few meager forays on generally insipid topics.

  Conviviality had not been the admirals’ aim, however. His interest was in sizing up Isleman and observing the relationship between the young lieutenant and his new chief of staff. This interest was all the more keen as the result of a chat he’d had with Danilov upon returning to his stateroom. He had expected a message at best, not request for a voice call, signifying Danilov must have found something of unusual importance.

  He had, and it was both unusual and important. Pressed for time, Danilov had been obliged to heavily abridge his report, but the upshot was this: a series of financial reverses and a disagreement with his family had left the lieutenant in a severely reduced condition. Threatened with ruin, he set about recovering the situation in a most bold and unexpected manner: proposing marriage to Lady Gwendolyn Devere-Heydrich, one of the richest and most eligible young women in upper echelons of Halith society.

  The only daughter of Admiral Christian Heydrich, Lady Gwen (as she preferred to be called) was renowned for her charm and beauty. Less well advertised was her deep antipathy for her uncle—her late father’s younger brother—General Tristan Heydrich, and internal conflict this had caused in the family since her father’s death. As chief of Halith Military Intelligence and head of one of the Dominion’s oldest aristocratic lineages, Admiral Heydrich had wielded enormous power. His eldest son not being old enough to assume the legal role of paterfamilias, much of this power had passed to his brother, along with the family seat on Halith’s governing body, the Council of Ministers.

  But where Christian Heydrich was as efficient, competent, and ruthless in his professional life as he was sadistic in his personal affairs, Tristan possessed only this latter quality in full measure. Overreaching in his attempts to assume his brother’s mantel, Tristan had opened the door for his headstrong niece to assert her independence. Forced by her father into an unhappy political marriage and then widowed when her husband was killed at Wogan’s Reef, Caneris knew that Lady Gwen was determined not to allow any such thing to happen again. The general was just as resolved to see his niece married and brought back under his control.

  Who made the initial proposal was unclear, nor did it matter. What mattered was that General Heydrich apparently felt Lieutenant Isleman a suitable candidate in this regard. As Heydrich was foremost among Caneris’ political enemies, his concern with the situation was far from academic. Nor was his connection with Lady Gwen as casual as it was intended to appear. He had been supporting her covertly in her struggles with her uncle, primarily through Danilov. If he were severely weakened—or better yet, removed altogether—Lady Gwen would lose her most powerful ally, General Heydrich would see his most formidable obstacle done away with, and Lieutenant Isleman would gain a wealthy new wife with access to the halls of power.

  Needless to say (although Danilov had said it), attaching the lieutenant to his staff on the eve of a risky operation owed nothing to coincidence. Throughout the meal, Caneris had been alert to signs of collusion between Isleman and his chief of staff. Captain Dupré was too senior and well connected to deal with in an offhand manner. But if his suspicions about Isleman were correct, he would be much better placed to sound out Dupré and, if necessary, deal with him in the fullness of time. Accordingly, as the dreary evening drew to a close, Caneris invited the lieutenant to stay.

  Such invitations cannot be refused, and Isleman accepted without much in the way of either words or grace. As he resumed his seat, Caneris calmly offered another rounds of drinks, which the young man was within his rights to decline, and did.

  “As we will be working closely together,” Caneris went on in the same placid tone, “I thought we should use this opportunity to begin to get better acquainted.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I find hobbies to be revealing of a man’s character. A man who cannot make time for other pursuits strikes me as uncultivated—apt to be narrow in his thinking. Would you agree?”

  “I would, sir.” Isleman’s mouth show a small twitch, signaling his disquiet more eloquently than his monotonous response.

  “Do you enjoy shooting?” There had been a note about pistol competition in the young man’s file.

  “When I have the opportunity, sir.”

  “What sidearm do you favor?” Per protocol, Isleman had come unarmed to his admiral’s table.

  “I find the service issue to be quite satisfactory, sir.”

  The very flatness of the absurdly politic answer caused Caneris to show a faint smile. “Ah. What do you think of this one, then?” Taking his own sidearm from its holster, he slid it down the table to the lieutenant. The young man bent forward to make a show of inspecting it. “Go on. Pick it up. Judge it by the feel.”

  Wrinkling his chin, Isleman took up the pistol gingerly. “Very fine, sir”—balancing it in his hand. Then, aware of the deficiency is his responses, he added, “Is it an heirloom?”

  “Not yet.” Caneris leaned back, his hands laced comfortably across his middle. “A graduation present. Not quite modern, I admit, but it suits me. I’d rather have an old reliable weapon than a new untried one.”

  “Yes, sir.” Isleman looked at the gun with greater interest. It was loaded and fully charged.

  “Reliability is key, don’t you agree? A weapon—or a man—who can be counted on not to fail in the moment is to be preferred, even if somewhat out of date?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Isleman laid the pistol on the table in front of him.

  “Do you know what is the prime cause of unreliability in men, Lieutenant?” Caneris watched as the lieutenant stiffened in his seat. “Divided loyalties.” He spoke without giving Isleman a chance to reply. “Unacceptable, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Eyes flicking to the gun, Isleman’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, sir.”

  “I think you do.” Caneris continued to watch, his hands unmoved. “Lady Gwen is a beautiful woman. To say nothing of her other assets. Many men have gone to the gallows for a lesser female.”

  Beads of sweat began to form beneath the young man’s blue eyes. “Sir, I must protest—”

  Caneris waved the protest away. “General Heydrich is a powerful patron. But do you truly believe him to be reliable?” Leaning forward, he placed a chip within easy reach of the now silent lieutenant, his face striated with tension. “That is my key. It will allow you to secure this compartment and leave the ship. I’m sure a young man of your capabilities can invent a plausible excuse. Within ten minutes of entering the station, you should gain the general’s protection . . . if you think him reliable.” Easing back, Caneris drew his hands into his lap. “For myself, I cannot accept you as a member of my staff. Do we understand one another, Lieutenant?”

  Lurching to his feet, Isleman snatched up the sidearm. As he brought it level, splinters exploded from the table as a storm of flechettes burst through. Blood blossomed in shocking carmine flowers across the chest of the lieutenant’s immaculate uniform. With a near-silent wheeze from shredded lungs, he toppled back into the chair, the galvanic twitch of his forefinger firing a single shot into the floor.

  Caneris rose from the table, holstered his backup pistol, and stepped over to the cabin’s console. Activating the desktop, he tapped Captain Hoffman’s icon. The captain’s visage swam into view.

  “Good evening, Admiral. Did your dinner go well?”

  “Well enough, on
the whole, Grigori,” Caneris replied without inflection. “But I’m afraid Lieutenant Isleman proved unsatisfactory. Would you be so good as to send a couple of corpsmen to my quarters?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 169

  ELSEC HQ, Tremontaine

  Vesta, Eltanin Sector

  Captain Trin Wesselby walked into the large oval glass-ceiling building that enclosed the base’s fifty-meter pool, a towel over her bare shoulders, and halted abruptly at the sound of a splash. She deliberately chose this godforsaken hour for her daily swim in order to have the pool to herself. The early worms usually didn’t start arriving until the beginning of the morning watch, over an hour from now, and Trin was typically enjoying her first light breakfast by then. Gifted with the ability to get by on minimal sleep—three to four hours a day-cycle was plenty during the five-day duty week—she could afford to indulge her eccentricities . . . or had been able to, until this AM.

  Willing the grimace off her face with a sigh, she flipped the towel off her shoulder and walked out on the pool’s broad tiled apron. A lean masculine form was almost halfway across the length of pool, swimming underwater with a smooth powerful undulation. That explained why she hadn’t heard any further splashing. On reaching the far wall, she expected him to come up for air, but when he turned and kicked off with without breaking the surface, she began to watch with greater interest. Few people could hold their breath for more than a hundred fifty seconds while swimming, so she sat down on the coping and began to count.

  When the swimmer touched off the near wall and turned, she guessed he’d been under for just shy of three minutes. Her pique quite forgotten, she followed him as he headed back on his third lap, candidly admiring the swimmer’s body; the play of strong, supple muscles beneath the lightly tanned skin. To complete this lap would take no less than another minute a the rate he was traveling—four minutes or so underwater. She’d never known anyone who could get within thirty seconds of that.