Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “Just so,” Rhimer agreed. “I’d clap a stopper over the whole lot, but we offend against the Emir at our peril. Winnecke 4 sits right across our supply lines, and the Emir, if you’ll pardon me, is a touchy bastard. A right touchy bastard. But we can’t appear too friendly towards him either—that would offend the Porte. You know the Porte?”

  “Not really, sir.” Meaning she wasn’t up on any new developments with that difficult ally.

  “The Sultan’s court,” Commander Sayles broke in suddenly, in a superior tone. “The Sultan of Andaman and Nicobar. His court is called the Porte. Often the Sublime Porte.”

  “Yes. Quite. Thank you, Commander,” Rhimer said. “The Porte—the Sublime Porte, if you will—strongly suspects the Ivorian Emir of wanting to set up as an independent ruler. He practically is one now, but the Sultan fears he will declare as open break, given the opportunity. And he surely would, no question. The Sultan would replace him if he dared—I am told that there is a writ already signed and sealed—but he does not because if he serves it, the Emir would certainly rebel and the Sultan is not assured of not coming away with the mucky end of the stick. The mucky end of the stick, I say.” He peered at Kris. “You follow?”

  “I believe so,” Kris answered, assuming the quaint expression implied that the Sultan did not like his chances in any open conflict with the Emir. That in itself was news and Kris filed it away in case it should have future relevance.

  “So the Sultan contents himself with hostages,” Rhimer went on, “a wife and son, I believe, and the Emir awaits his moment. And we, Commander, are right in the thick—in the middle of it.”

  “A difficult position, sir,” Kris deadpanned.

  “Quite so,” said Rhimer with emphasis. “Truer words. That brings me, Commander, to our purpose here. And yours.”

  “Sir?” Kris twitched her head slightly, as if something dangerous had just scented the air. “I thought we were simply enforcing the economic sanctions until Iona complies with our accords.”

  Rhimer shook his head, resuming his perch on his desk. “Iona has no interest in complying with the accords, Commander. They’ve no interest in peace.” He glanced back at Commander Sayles who nodded gravely in support. “Iona has its eye on the Winnecke IV junction, with the Emir’s connivance and I doubt I miss my guess. And Halith’s too, if need be. Ionians are all pirates at heart.”

  “Halith, sir?” Kris looked sharply at the admiral. That leap was a long one.

  “I believe that, yes. These past two years, they have been building ships hand over fist. Our yards should do half so well. Small attack craft mostly, but capital ships also. They’ve got four new destroyers fitting out as we speak, and a battlecruiser—their second and damned heavy too, gunned like a battleship we hear, hardly a battlecruiser at all—almost ready for shakedown. They can hardly have armed so quickly without external support, and Port Mahan is just a jump beyond Winnecke 4. Convenient, I’d say. So I would.”

  Port Mahan was notable having a pragmatic (that is, mercenary) mentality and they possessed excellent shipyards. They saw tech transfer as a business opportunity, viewed security of something you could buy. That attitude hadn’t served them terribly well in the last war, but maybe they were just determined to get a better offer this time. If Halith wanted a go-between with plausible deniability, Port Mahan would be very likely to oblige.

  But to suppose that the Halith were aiding and abetting Iona’s military buildup in the hope of inciting a war behind the League’s most crucial sector was a stretch, but perhaps not as much of a stretch as it first seemed. It would a bold stroke, if it were possible. She wondered if Rhimer had data to back up this supposition, or just an overactive imagination, too long idle.

  Regarding any of this, Kris chose to say nothing.

  Rhimer took no notice of her contemplations. “A year ago, we could have dealt with the Ionian Navy without difficulty.” He zoomed the omnisynth’s display, a dizzying shift of scale, and now it showed Iona’s patrol bases and orbital dockyards. “Even now, I rate the odds somewhat in our favor. They have sheer tonnage on their side, certainly, but they can’t afford to risk their whole fleet in action and I’ll give them two ships to our one and take the odds happy.” He looked hard at Kris, who still said nothing. “Not that their ships aren’t well served. Don’t underestimate them.”

  “No sir.”

  “But when they get those new ships operational, things will change. We might yet take them, but we’d be mauled—perhaps badly. I’d by rights have to send to the admiral for reinforcements, and with the current situation, well . . .” He spread his hands. “You know the likely response as well as I. So the sooner we get on with the business the better.”

  “Sir?” asked Kris, surprised. The conversation had been leading in this direction for some time, but the enormity of what Rhimer seemed to suggest was still shocking. The admiral could not be seriously thinking of attacking Iona independently unless he was seriously unbalanced. Even if he had proof of Halith intervention—which Kris did not believe for an instant—authorization to take offensive measures had to come all the way from Hesperia itself. Did he mean to goad Iona into striking first, so he could “defend” himself? That would mean taking casualties, perhaps losing a ship. But then there was the matter of the hot drives . . . Kris wavered slightly on her feet, struggling to keep her face suitably blank. Over Rhimer’s shoulder, Commander Sayles smiled. Most unnerving.

  “Surely I made myself clear,” the admiral said when Kris continued to stand silent.

  “Perfectly, sir,” Kris said quickly. “But I was given the understanding that the Envoy’s mission was to reach some agreement with the Ionians so our forces here could be freed up to fight the Doms.”

  “You may have been given that understanding, commander,” Rhimer answered. “And there may even be people back in the Homeworlds who believe it. But believe me, Iona is only playing us for time. Once they get their fleet in order, they’ll come for us, without a doubt, most likely with Halith support.” Rhimer’s voice was harsh, disappointed at Kris’s reticence. “So the sooner we nip this thing in the bud, the better. I argued that when we deployed here, I argue it now. I’m afraid Mr. Loews has gotten himself a fool’s errand. And we’re running out of time to act.”

  “May I ask how this affects my assignment, sir?” Kris was sure she knew but she wanted him to say it.

  “Mr. Loews has not a military mind. He must certainly rely on your estimate of the local situation. There you have it. The sooner he gets done with this little charade, the better. You take my meaning?”

  “I believe I do, sir.” Shit hells. “But . . .” Kris bit her lip.

  “But what, Commander?”

  “This seems to me to be a matter for ONI, sir. Or for CID. If Halith is—”

  “I wasn’t aware you were a spokesman for the Central Intelligence Directorate, Commander,” said Rhimer, eyes going cold and flinty. CID, the League’s civilian intelligence agency, was famous (or infamous) for its lack of regard for the Navy’s own intelligence apparatus. “Have you some credential I should perhaps be aware of?”

  “Nosir.”

  “But you have some other reservation.”

  Kris took a deep breath and let it out slow. “I’m not sure what you’re asking is within my authority. Sir.”

  Rhimer’s eyes narrowed. “You are to appreciate the situation, aren’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well then I don’t see how a question of authority comes into it. Just do your job and do it quickly. There’s no time to be lost.”

  “Yessir,” Kris repeated mechanically.

  Rhimer considered her a moment longer, trying to tease additional meaning out of that flat utterance, or perhaps just wanting to make her uneasy. “Another thing,” he said at last, in a more conversational tone, “these talks are to be held downside. I’m sure you’ve thought of this”—meaning I’m sure you will once I tell you—“but your shuttle must necessa
rily transit their shipyards and docking facilities. I know you wouldn’t do anything to cause an embarrassment to the Navy, but I’ll point out that an keen eye and an attentive ear can learn a great deal. A great deal.” He threw her a significant look that could fairly have been observed from the cheap seats.

  Kris compressed her lips. So he wants me to do a little freelance spying as well. Oh holy joy . . . “I understand that, sir.”

  “Good,” Rhimer said, rubbing his palms together. The flinty demeanor was gone; the shallow smile back. Kris preferred the former; it at least was authentic. “Good. That’s all I had. Any questions, Commander?”

  “Nosir.”

  “Capital. Very good. I’m sure this will work out fine. Just keep in mind, commander,”—here he paused for transparent effect—“you represent the Service. And as the only officer in Loews’ party, your visibility is quite high. Quite high. We run a tight squadron here. By the numbers—no playing it high, showing away, that sort of thing. Even though you aren’t officially attached, it won’t do to give the rates a bad example.”

  “Nosir,” said Kris, with perfect, and perfectly unfeigned, blankness.

  Rhimer read the look, squinted at her and said, “I’d understood your flight rating was suspended.”

  “No sir,” Kris replied as enlightenment spread, “my fighter rating was suspended. My small craft rating is not affected.” Yet. She didn’t bother to add that.

  “Ah. Ah–hmm. I see.” Rhimer did see and was clearly displeased. “Well, all the same, rates don’t always make such fine distinctions. Discipline’s discipline. Technicalities are for lawyers. I don’t much care for lawyers, Commander. Do you?”

  Kris struggled to preserve her blank look. “Don’t know any, sir.”

  “Excellent. Capital. Keep it that way.” He slid off the edge of the desk. “Well, I’m afraid duty calls. I’m happy we had this chance for a little chat. Good day, Commander.”

  “Best fortune to you, sir.” Kris snapped a precise salute, received a negligent hand bob in return, turned smartly and left.

  “Well,” said Admiral Rhimer after the hatch irised shut behind Kris. “What do you think of that?”

  “Can’t say I like it, sir,” his chief of staff replied. “My cousin on St. Vincent knew her. She’s a gunslut, sells her wingmen cheap—anything for kill. A loose cannon firing every which way. My cousin said no one in the squadron could stand her. But Huron keeps an eye out for her, they’re . . . you know. CO’s are afraid to touch her.” She shook her head. “A colonial.”

  Rhimer did know all about the you know part, but what he’d heard otherwise was rather different, both in tenor and in content. He said nothing.

  “You were right to set her down some, sir,” Commander Sayles added and smiled, showing artificially pearly teeth.

  “Had to be done,” Rhimer said with an odd lack of conviction. “Had to be done. But still, I think she might be just the thing. A loose cannon, all right. But a loose cannon might be just the thing.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 170

  LHS Leander, in company

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Discipline’s discipline, Kris fumed as she sat woodenly in the copilot’s seat of Leander’s No 2 shuttle. The pilot, a master’s mate from Polidor who’d been waiting for her when she got to the boat bay, snuck a sideways glance at Kris as if he’d heard something, but in truth he’d been sneaking glances ever since they’d boarded whenever he thought Kris wasn’t looking. Caught at last, the pilot kept his eyes solidly on his instruments.

  Technicalities are for lawyers, she fumed on. Underneath her irritation at Rhimer’s eccentric manner—a Homeworlder to the bone if ever there was one—she was deeply disturbed. She was aware of Rhimer’s reputation among the junior officers and the rates; his court martial had been the subject of much muted gossip (openly discussing such service matters, especially in the mess, was frowned upon most strongly) and she’d expected an unhappy contentious officer. But Rhimer’s hankering to restore his tarnished reputation had disordered his judgment to an extent Kris thought exceptional and she was worried about the probable contagion should his meddling be discovered. Rhimer was known to have senatorial connections and some degree of influence, but it would count for nothing against a man of Loews’ stature. If Loews got Rhimer in his sights, the blast radius would certainly encompass a few junior officers like Kris.

  Yet it would be as damaging—even more damaging, in the sense of what truly mattered—to lay her impressions before the Right-Honorable, nor did Kris think she could ever meet a fellow officer’s eye again if she sunk so low as to do such a thing. Commander Sayles’ pretty, spoiled face came instantly to mind and she shook her head angrily to clear it. The woman was a sycophant of the more odious variety; it was all too clear how she kept the admiral’s attentions.

  “Leander coming up, ma’am,” the pilot said, even as the Leander’s hail overlaid his last syllables. Kris nodded faintly, not trusting herself to speak. The pilot had nothing to do with her black temper, but any target of opportunity . . .

  Leander, serving as a Navy-hired vessel, had quite a few fleet men in her crew and, with a few careful alterations to maintain her inferior status, kept to naval discipline including the standing of watches. As a member of Loews’ party, Kris had no place on the ship’s watch bill, nor would she have had in any event, being SRF. In fact, she had nothing in the way of regular duties at all, and thus had much more time on her hands than she was used to—and in her present mood, much more than she liked. Few of the mariner’s tried-and-true diversions were available to a squadron on blockade and those that were—drinking and rec-room feelies—did not have much appeal to her. Leander could do little better, though what she did have to offer was probably of better quality. Perhaps there was something as yet undiscovered in Leander’s library . . .

  When Kris came aboard, thanking the pilot with what grace she could muster, she went first to her cabin to change out of her good coat and tunic. Dinner, which would cause her to put both back on (Loews was likely to attend), was not for several hours yet and in the meantime she might as well be comfortable. In the midst of changing she noticed Vasquez had left her a note, blinking on the cabin console. It merely said she had news to convey to the commander. Kris hit the page icon, somewhat awkwardly since she was half into her undress jacket. By the time she got it on and the front sealed, no reply had arrived. She frowned and deleted the note. It had not been marked urgent and she suspected it involved a reminder of something—probably an unpleasant something, the way her day had been going.

  But tracking down the corporal would occupy a few minutes and—who knew?—perhaps she was wrong about the message. On Leander’s bridge, Kris encountered the Officer of the Deck, who asked politely if he could be of any assistance. Kris inquired after Vasquez’s whereabouts with equal politeness, if not equal elegance of address.

  “I believe you will find her in the rec-spaces right aft, commander. If I saw you I was to say, she had news for you.”

  “Good news, I hope.”

  The OOD smiled. “I can’t say one way or another. But I wish it may be so.” Kris thanked him, took a lift ladder to the spinal passageway—it ran full length down the centerline of the ship—and walked unhurriedly aft.

  As she approached the rec-spaces, now just ahead with the hatch open, she was surprised to hear a meaty thump, like a carcass falling from a height—a considerable height—laughter and Major Lewis’s unmistakable voice calling out, “Oh, that was sweet—neatly done! Oh Ouch!”

  Kris poked her head through the hatch. There at the far end of the room were Corporal Vasquez, Major Lewis, and a thick-set bull of a man of middle height she recognized as Lewis’s color sergeant but whose name escaped her. Lewis was sitting on the mat rubbing the small of her back while Vasquez stood over her, looking pleased with herself, and Kris realized the carcass that produced the thump must have been the major’s.

  “Point to the corpor
al, ma’am,” the sergeant called out in a hieratic voice. “All even at six falls. Advantage to the corporal on style points.”

  Vasquez took several steps back on the mat and stretched. She was dressed in tight black shorts and a tank top, identical to the major’s but for being several sizes smaller, and her fine tawny skin glowed with perspiration. “One more, major?”

  Minerva Lewis was herself a healthy shining pink. She wiped her forehead with a wristband, pushed back a few strands of dark, damp, bronzy hair—normally wavy and shoulder-length, now captured in a neat ponytail—and shook her head.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Corporal, I think I’ve had my spine flexed enough for one day. Hello Commander.” This to Kris, whom she’d noticed standing quietly by the hatch. Vasquez and the sergeant snapped to and saluted, abashed that they had not noticed her presence.

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting,” Kris said, returning the salute. “You left a note, Corporal, and the OOD mentioned where to find you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Vasquez said crisply, despite being somewhat out of breath. “We have some news we hoped might please you. I wanted to be sure you heard.” Both Vasquez and the major looked at the sergeant expectantly—his name was Ulloa, Gabriel Ulloa, Kris suddenly remembered. He took the hint and with a broad smile on his mahogany features announced, using nearly the same voice with which he’d declared the fall, “A match, ma’am. Between the Corporal and Major Lewis. To be held on the PM after Anson’s Day.”

  “We hope you can attend, ma’am,” Vasquez added. “The gunroom specifically requested it.”

  “I’ll certainly try, corporal,” Kris answered, surprised to have such credit with a gunroom she didn’t know. “Mr. Loews might have other plans”—by then the talks should be in full swing and Loews would likely be requiring her downside—“but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “It would be an honor if you could, ma’am,” Sergeant Ulloa seconded Vasquez in somewhat more human tone. “We are very much looking forward to this. When the crew heard the Major and the Corporal were on the same station . . . Well, ma’am, permit me to say they would not be denied.”