“That girl!” Kris snarled and the man actually tried to shrink into himself, pulling his head down into his shoulders and scrunching against the bulkhead. “You mean—mean—Chloe?”
“Chloe?” Kris’s bark echoed down the passageway and a strong hand closed on her upper arm. “Commander?” Kris wrenched away and turned on the speaker—Lieutenant Arles. The man against the wall, suddenly released, sagged briefly, catching himself with an effort.
“Commander, please,” Arles said calmly. Trembling, chest heaving spasmodically, Kris drilled the lieutenant with look of utter malevolence. “Commander, may I speak to you, please . . .” He held his hand wide of her right arm in a shielding motion and gestured down the passage.
Kris unclenched her fists with difficulty, the impressions of her nails deep in her palms. But she allowed herself to be guided and the lieutenant shepherded her down the passage. When they turned the corner and had gone safe distance, Arles said in a conversational tone: “Y’know, Commander, you really scared the piss outta Mr. Elayeus there.”
Kris, just getting her breathing back under control, made a dangerous sound. “What the fuck is that girl doing here?”
Arles diplomatically schooled a look of mild embarrassment off his face. “That’s Chloe.”
“Yes, Chloe.” Kris felt her blood rising again and Arles held out a placating hand.
“She’s a neotenous courtesan from New California.”
“She’s a what?”
“A neotenous courtesan,” Arles repeated as the depth of Kris’s ignorance became apparent. “Engineered to look young. Very specialized. Rich as Croesus too. Must be pushing ninety. She and Loews have been together for about 50 years now, I’d guess.” He searched Kris’s face for a glimmer of understanding—saw only angry blankness.
“Engineered? To look like a kid . . . So a guy like Loews can . . .” her voice trailed off as Arles’ discomfort became more and more evident.
“Well, I suppose it is a little disconcerting—if you don’t know, I mean . . .”—he waved a finger at one eye—“with the tears and everything. Y’know, duct implants.”
“Duct implants,” Kris echoed in a flat voice. So she can cry big fat fake pretty tears . . .
“Sorry, Commander. But try to understand. They’ve been together for—”
“Fifty years.” So not fake then—not exactly fake, just . . . enhanced.
“Right. So it’s not like um . . .” Arles couldn’t find what it was not like and spread his hands.
Kris took in a long deep breath in through her teeth. “Very well, Lieutenant. I . . . apologize for my behavior. You will please convey my deepest regrets to Mr. Elayeus—and any witnesses—and tell him I will tender a formal written apology at the earliest possible moment, should he desire it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Arles touched his cap brim. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but it’s quite handsome of you and I will convey your message.”
“Thank you. Lieutenant. Good day.” Kris acknowledged with a stiff salute, turned and stalked off, muttering fucking Homeworlders under her breath. But not so much under her breath that Lieutenant Arles did not hear it, and he let his go as he watched her leave.
Jeezus Fucking Christ, he thought as he exhaled, I’d rather stare down the muzzle of a primed railgun with a drunken money at the switch than do that again.
~ ~ ~
Day 197
LSS Polidor, in free space
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
Within the hour, Loews had been installed in Leander’s fastest shuttle and was on his way to Dr. VelSilinjes’ clinic, with Leidecker in company. How this was arranged, Kris neither knew nor cared. Her mind was taken up with consequences: the Mission was now at a stand until a new Envoy could be sent, and where such a person would have to come from, she had no idea (Terra was several weeks away at best); how Rhimer might react without Loews to hold his leash: would seeing the man he’d come to regard as hated enemy brought soothe or inflame his unpredictable behavior?
But most of all, she’d heard nothing yet from Min. Personal feelings had nothing to do with the acid clench in her stomach. Enforced inactivity and the feeling of worthlessness it raised might, but the major had survivor encoded in her DNA. Worrying about her was worse than foolish. No, the problem was Rhimer. If the op failed, Kris had no doubt what he’d do. But if it succeeded, they’d counted on the Envoy’s weight to make him accept a fait accompli. Lacking that, would the Yellow Admiral give full play to his predilections?
That would mean taking full responsibility for the consequences. And the Council would send someone—early or late. Did Rhimer have the guts to pay the freight on that? Her mind wandered back to their first conversation: give them two ships to our one and take the odds happy . . . the sooner we get on with the business the better. How serious had he been?
No answer, just fruitless wearing speculation. A sleepless hour and then another. No refuge or respite from the apprehension nibbling with tiny sharp teeth at the edges of her composure. Picking up her xel; setting it down in annoyance. Checking the last update on Vasquez, now in the care of Leander’s medical director: still sedated, resting comfortably.
Lucky corporal, whispered an ignoble thought from a corner of her restless mind.
Just before the middle of the morning watch, Kris gave up and went to find a breakfast of coffee and orange juice, her stomach having closed itself to solid food. As she finished her second glass, one of Leander’s yeoman approached her, carrying a folded flimsy. “Hyperwave for you, ma’am.”
Kris snatched it out of his hand before he got the last syllables out. It read:
The eagle has landed.
She’d done it. Min had actually fuckin’ done. The flimsy crumpled in her hand. The yeoman swallowed and passed his tongue across his lips. “Have you any reply?”
“Yeah”—looking down at wadded plaspaper. “Send: Many happy returns.”
* * *
Kris did not, in fact, think Min’s return would be a happy one, and her reply was intended to warn her of that. More she did not dare sending by hyperwave; details could wait until the major was maser range. Before that could happen, a message from Rhimer’s chief of staff to the Mission came through, demanding explanations. The marines were at that moment, disembarking from Polidor for transfer to the light cruiser Osiris, which would convey them to the captured merc fleet. This led to a tense scene between Captain Anders and Commander Sayles, who initially refused to accept the writ of consular authority. But, there being little she could do in the face of a full company of determined marines, she gave way with ill-grace, and the transfer proceeded.
That tension had not abated, still being visible on the faces of admiral’s staff—most especially Commander Sayles—when Kris reported aboard to answer Rhimer’s summons. She expected him angry, even savage, at having been kept in the dark but he received her cordially and listened to the after-action report with great good humor.
When she finished, he rubbed his hands briskly. “Excellent, Commander. Very well done. Damn fine work. Orietta”—turning to his chief of staff—“this is what we’ve been waiting for. Assemble my staff at once. I want to finalize plans for neutralizing Iona’s navy, in port if possible—or if they succeed in deploying, then according the key variants we last discussed. We must give them a day’s grace, but after that I intend to bring them to action within forty-eight hours . . .”
Kris could not believe what she was hearing. The blood mounting in her face, she cleared her throat. Rhimer glanced over at her as if surprised she was still present and Sayles shot her a hostile look. “My thanks again, Commander. You are excused.” Rhimer’s tone was just short of snappish.
“Sir,” Kris said as he turned away, her voice thick.
“What is it, Commander?”
“Sir, this op was intended to remove an imminent threat and strengthen our position—”
“Just so—”
“—in the negotiation
s without putting us in the wrong, sir.”
Rhimer’s eyes went flinty. “In the wrong, Commander? Do you suggest that—”
“Without making us the aggressor, sir—that’s what I meant.”
“I believe I understood what you meant, Kennakris.”
Kris took a deep breath and a firmer grip on her temper. “Sir, I am bound to state that attacking Iona is directly contrary to the Mission’s objective.”
“So you presume to speak for the Mission, do you?”
“Sir, as senior military advisor to the Mission and in view of the Envoy’s incapacity—yes, I do.” Was he truly contemplating hostilities with Loews in an Ionian hospital?
“Very well, Commander.” Rhimer turned away to hunt for a document on his desktop, a tick starting at the side of his mouth. “Then you’ll be happy to know that I have relieved you of that responsibility.”
“Sir, I am not under your command.”
Rhimer spun around, nostrils flaring. His hand actually began to rise before he mastered the impulse and pulled it to his side, clenched to a fist. “You’re damn right you are not, Kennakris! Or I should have you under close arrest!” Jaw working, his visibly calmed himself. “And as you are not, I shall have you removed from this station. Commander!”—this without taking his eyes from Kris—“see that Ms. Kennakris is escorted back to her ship and post an order that, starting now, she is not to set foot on any vessel under my command.”
* * *
“He did what?” Minerva Lewis, who’d come aboard Leander a bare half hour ago, took her booted feet off the table between them and sat up—the first time Kris had seen her genuinely alarmed. It was in itself, an alarming sight. “He’s around the fucking bend!” Flopping back in the chair, she passed a hand over her eyes. “He’s gone fucking Ahab on us. Jesus Christ . . .”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Kris said, perched uneasily across from her in the close quarters of Min’s stateroom.
Min drained whatever she’s been drinking and put the glass between them. “We have a saying back home—goes like this:
I am wide awake,
My fortune is in my hand,
I am ready to go with you.”
She stood and went to tall cabinet set in the bulkhead, adding, “We say it at weddings, mostly.”
“Weddings? How is this like a wedding?”
Min found the bottle she was looking for on the top shelf, and pulled the cork with her teeth. “Cuz I think we’re gonna get well and truly fucked afterwards.”
~ ~ ~
Day 198
Presidential Retreat, Port Lisbeth
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“. . . grant authority to conduct unbridled inspection of ports, customs facilities, munitions depots . . . etc. All vessels, named below, to be surrendered for . . .” The President paused, his sonorous voice trailing off with a breath. “And rather more in the same vein. I’m sure you get the drift.”
Bill Roquelaurie, joining the president with General Avery and the Director of ISS, in the small, cheerless situation room at the heart of the president’s Port Lisbeth retreat, certainly did. He’d expected the worst when they received the twin blows of Loews’ incapacity and the capture of the mercenary fleet, and his expectations had been exceeded. The next AM, they would gather the full cabinet and the senior members of the General Staff at the capitol’s spacious war room, better known as Sinai (for the “commandments” that were handed down from it), and this much more intimate, if rather grim, gathering was establish the parameters of tomorrow’s meeting. Rhimer’s ultimatum demanded a response within a day and his unit were already deploying.
“What are our resources, Bill?” President Marquardt asked. “What do we have to work with?”
Roquelaurie drummed his fingers on chair arm, weighing options, calculating. Using the table’s central console, he brought up some fleet figures, added reserves, popped up timelines and then stirred his hand through them, so they were comfortable arranged for his three companions.
“Port defense is in reasonable shape, but we have only one task force ready to sortie at present. Without Corhaine’s units, we can’t match his numbers and we’re constrained in how we deploy.”
“Rick?” The president looked to the Chief of Staff.
“Given our respective numbers, he’ll expect us to stay close to our base, where we have the benefit of orbital defenses and can employ trans-atmo fighters against him. With his freedom to maneuver and ability to form a tighter defense, engaging in long-range attritional warfare works strongly to his advantage. I also expect he means to profit from us making a hasty deployment.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Attack, of course.”
Edgar Fellows, the Director of ISS turned in his chair. “Rick, be realistic. The correlation of forces just went all to hell.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
Fellows shook his head. “I don’t think I follow you, General.”
“Eddie, I think you’re neglecting a critical advantage we still hold.”
“Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us as to what that might be, then?”
General Avery did not smile often, and it was debatable if he was smiling now, but the corners of his mouth twitched up.
“Surprise.”
~ ~ ~
Day 201
INS John Paul Jones, entering the deep-space zone
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
Standing stoop-shouldered in the CIC of his flagship, the battlecruiser INS John Paul Jones, with his shock of unruly black hair nearly brushing the overhead, Commodore Ibrahim Bainbridge (“Ichabod” to his mariners, who very nearly worshiped him), surveyed the omnisynth with growing satisfaction. Tall and lean as a scarecrow, his dark face marked by deep crisscross lines, with a broad thin mouth and sunken eyes separated by a blade-like nose, his crews took pride in considering him the “ugliest man in the Navy”. Beside him stood the cruiser’s skipper, Captain Farnham Haskell and his TAO, Lieutenant Commander Barlow Rogers, and the commodore’s deep-socketed black eyes glittered as he turned to Captain Haskell with an improbable smile.
“Well, Frank, the reception committee is forming”—gesturing at the omnisynth’s holographic volume in which icons representing Admiral Rhimer’s forces showed him forming up to meet this most unexpected thrust. “I think we can expect a warm welcome.”
“Undeniably, sir,” the captain answered in a mellow baritone that might graced an opera had not the Navy beckoned irresistibly. “And may I say, we are all looking forward to it.”
“As am I,” Commodore Bainbridge echoed, rather unnecessarily. “Keep an eye on the people, Frank.” As senior captain, Haskell was acting as the commodore’s de facto chief of staff. “We want there to be something of a muddle, but not too much.” Their entire plan hinged on presenting a slight but telling disorderly appearance, and since mariners delighted in deception, the commodore’s concern was that they might tend to overact their parts.
“Yes, sir,” Haskell replied, the shade of a wink in his voice. “A credible muddle it shall be. We are mere colonials, you know.”
“Quite so, Frank. Quite so”—with an answering nod.
“Permission to retire to the bridge, sir?”
“By all means, Captain. Enjoy yourself.”
“I’m sure I will, sir.”
As Captain Haskell departed, smiling like a man going to his nuptial bed, Bainbridge addressed the TAO. “This is your show, Mr. Rogers. You may raise the curtain on it whenever you please.”
* * *
Aboard LSS Polidor, Admiral Rhimer observed his adversary with no less interest and a similar degree of satisfaction. His plans were as perfect as diligent staff work could make them, and his deployments had gone more smoothly than he expected for a squadron so long on blockade, and his people were performing admirably. If he was bereft of marines, the entire complement having been detached (at the vehement insistence of their commandant) to se
cure the merc fleet, he’d also left the Mission behind, Leander having departed for the system’s outer reaches, taking the mercenaries, marines and most of his cares with it, leaving him free—finally—to settle the matter as it should have been settled long ago.
Next to him, his chief of staff’s visage fairly glowed with happy expectation. Commander Sayles had never been in action before. Neither she nor the admiral had ever entertained the slightest doubt the Ionians would reject the ultimatum and fight: with the Mission out of the picture, they’d taken great pains to make the wording as insulting as possible. Now their plans were coming to fruition and the prospect of a smashing victory in her virgin fight enthralled her.
“Just as you said, sir,” she remarked with deep approval, one slim elegant hand indicating the Ionian formation.
“Quite,” Rhimer agreed. Pleased though he was, it would not do to give in to overconfidence. The Ionians had done a credible job of picking their battlespace: a pocket in one of the planet’s icy rings. A thick eddy of dust covered their right flank, leaving the right partly exposed but not untenable. That is, it would not be untenable if the Ionians had taken more care with their dispositions. Instead, he saw a certain laxity in their station keeping—a general raggedness—indicative of units not used to executing such evolutions under real combat conditions.
“Those fellows might look smart on the test range,” he added, “but get them out here at the sharp end and they can’t come up to the mark.” The comment was for Sayles benefit, but in truth he had a healthy respect for Ionian technology, especially their countermeasures, which accounted for their compact formation. Even if it reduced their available firepower, it also rendered a conventional attack with torpedoes and missiles ineffective. To inflict damage, missiles and torpedoes had to first defeat the target’s shields (achieve “burn-through”, the in common phrase), which meant several of them striking almost at once. Once the shields failed, missiles—and especially torpedoes—were devastating. But if the strikes could be spaced out, giving the shields time to recover, the attack would be defected. This is what countermeasures sought to do: attenuate an attack, not stop it cold.
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 40
