Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit

by Owen R. O'Neill

  “So this was all a big fuck’n charade.” Kris delivered her judgment once Min finished her succinct account of Operation Overlight.

  “Pretty much. The scenarios foreseen didn’t account for the Envoy dyin’. Theory was, he’d keep Rhimer on a short leash and Ionians at the table till it was all over but the shouting. ”

  “Some theory.” Kris rubbed a white-knuckled hand across her mouth. “Did he know?”

  “Loews? Nope. They kept his sort outta the loop on this one.”

  That was a circumspection Kris could only applaud. “Is that why they briefed you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So we’ve got our ass hung out to dry, is that it?”

  “Pretty much.” Min shifted forward, elbows on her knees. “Any thoughts on the matter?”

  Kris sighed. “Talk to me in the AM.”

  Lifting herself from the seat, Min stooped beneath the low overhead. “While you’re thinking about it, you sure don’t want me to have ’em send up something that resembles, y’know, actual food?” She glanced at the rat pack. “Seems like you could use it.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Well, officer to officer, you’ve looked better.”

  Reaching out, Kris stirred the high-caloric sludge in the rat pack. “I’ll work on that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Day 205

  Whitehall, Caernarvon

  Iona, Cygnus Mariner

  Bill Roquelaurie was born and raised on Iona but he had studied and worked in Sol for almost twenty years, rising high in one of the largest Terran nanotech firms—his doctorate was in programmable self-organizing inorganics—before returning Iona to form his own business and, within a decade, enter politics. He was an urbane looking man who got on well in private, in public, and with the media. The latter had often sought him out as an expert during his time on Terra, being enchanted by his provincial accent and the contrast it made with his decidedly non-provincial demeanor. He was on good terms with several presidents and prime ministers, understood the intricacies of senatorial politics, counted the former Speaker a friend and had a mistress from Rio de Janeiro. He’d always liked fashionable company, was not adverse to being seen with the better sort of celebrities, often serving on the boards of various philanthropic and educational organizations with them, and it was through one these that he had become acquainted with a young Mariwen Rathor.

  It was well that he had, because it kept him from staring foolishly when Kris appeared on his screen, something most people did on first seeing her, especially if they were unprepared, as he was: the briefing packet had not included a picture. Under the circumstances, he merely cleared his throat as unobtrusively as possible, and spoke in a voice that was calmer than he felt.

  “Hello Commander. I understand you are the senior surviving League officer and you have proposals that you wish to submit,” Iona’s Secretary of Defense began in his most diplomatic tone. “While this discussion is both informal and unofficial, I can assure you that any proposals will be given due consideration.”

  By “proposals” Roquelaurie had taken Kris to mean “terms of surrender,” given the state of her forces and the fact he was dealing with a junior officer. He had no wish to see any further causalities sustained, and was more than willing to negotiate terms that were reasonably generous and face-saving, as long as they guaranteed Iona’s freedom from blockade and any other meddling in his planet’s affairs. So he laid himself out to be magnanimous in victory, and allay any fears this young lieutenant commander might have that his government would follow up its success by imposing humiliating terms.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Kris replied, speaking in a surprisingly clear, determined, and even steely tone, “I understand the informality and unofficial nature of this discussion, but you must understand I see it as my duty to shift from myself any responsibility for further conflict.”

  His nascent hopes soared—this was going to work out exactly as he’d planned.

  “Therefore.” she continued in the same voice, “I require the government of Iona to release all our people and vessels currently detained, and submit to ending this war on terms I shall dictate.”

  “Excuse me, Commander,” the secretary said when he found his voice again. “But that sounded very much like you just asked us to surrender.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Secretary. You people started this thing and I am damn well going to finish it. One way or another.”

  Roquelaurie swallowed twice. “Commander, forgive me for being blunt. You no longer have an operational force. Your senior command, such as have survived, are all prisoners of war. I have no doubt you expect some form of relief to eventually arrive, but it would be disastrous if this conflict were to escalate into a full-scale war, most especially for your government. We have no wish to pursue such an escalation and trust you will see reason. It would be extremely unwise to force our hand.”

  Kris regarded him with a look of such shocking, feral savagery—Artemis having Actaeon devoured by his hounds—that he instinctively leaned back from the screen.

  “Mr. Secretary,” she began in a voice that cut to the bone, “I said I’m going to finish this one way or another, and I will. I guess it hasn’t occurred to you that I have a bunch of starships here—that merc fleet you hired—that I don’t particularly need. You might want to think about what would happen if those ships were revved up and sent your way at max boost on a hot hyperbolic. I know what your orbital defenses are like and they are not going to stop that much mass moving at near-relativistic velocity.

  “So I strongly suggest you stand your people down and come to terms, because if I detect just one combatant breaking orbit, it’ll be the last goddamned thing anyone over there ever does.”

  It took several moments for his brain to parse all that and when it did, he uttered, “You can’t be serious.” His voice sounded hollow and weak in his own ears and if he could have seen it, the pallor of face would have shocked him. “No one would ever—the League would never allow—you are threatening—you would be the . . . the most—”

  “Have your people check the drive status on those ships,” Kris interrupted coldly. “Your sensors will have no problem picking it up. And, by the way, if by full-scale war, you’re implying you might involve other powers, try to run a better bluff. That one really fucked the duck.”

  Roquelaurie found himself unable to answer; he needed all that remained of his self-possession just to keep his mouth shut. Kris watched him silently for a minute, her eyes narrow and unnaturally bright, her expression somewhere between deadly earnest and ferocious contempt. An entirely brutal expression: inhuman, merciless.

  “When you want to entertain my proposals, get in touch,” she finished when he failed to speak. “Kennakris out.”

  Bill Roquelaurie slumped back in his chair staring at the dull blank screen, shocked and appalled. Nothing in his professional career had prepared him for this. That would probably be true of anyone else, he reflected distantly, but the thought was no comfort. He drew a deep breath, settled his features and thumbed up the link to his adjutant. Lieutenant Anson’s face appeared, looking much calmer than his boss; unflappability was just one of his virtues. “Lev, did you get all that?”

  “Every photon, sir.”

  “Good. Who is this person?” Roquelaurie didn’t even try to mask the exasperation in his voice.

  “I ran a routine check, sir. She’s a senior lieutenant, SRF—a flight officer—last assigned to the LSS Trafalgar. She’s one of the most highly decorated officers in the SRF, top of the kills list for her seniority. We don’t have any record of a recent promotion, so maybe she’s been brevetted or we’ll see it in the next update—ISS isn’t updating their roster files as often as they used to. Officially, she’s on the semi-active list, out on a medical. We have no idea why she was attached to the Envoy’s Mission. She has no diplomatic experience and her accreditation looks to me like a crock—a reasonably artful crock. Other than that, we don’t h
ave much.”

  “A young hot-shot fighter pilot with so little back story? Why aren’t they parading her for the adoring public? PR—morale building—that sort of thing?”

  “I'm not sure, sir. They appear to be quite protective of her in many ways. There’s no personnel available for her, for example—just a note that her info is restricted. That’s pretty unusual. If we want to know more, I’ll have to do some digging.”

  His boss’s impatient expression clearly telegraphed the answer. “Then dig—dig by all means. And keep me in the loop, Lev, even you if have to backtrack later. We need to know what the hell’s going on here. And fast.”

  “You want me to go to the wall on this one, sir?”

  “I want you to break the wall. I want to know if she brushes her teeth sideways or up and down.”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  * * *

  Lev Anson appeared in Roquelaurie’s office early the next morning looking crisp and proper although it was obvious he hadn’t slept. He’d decided to bring the findings himself rather than email them or send one of the junior staff. Roquelaurie looked up from his console, his normally immaculate desk buried under drifts of hardcopy. He pushed some onto the floor to make room for his coffee cup and without greeting asked, “What have you got?” His tone was snappish; he hadn’t been to sleep either.

  Anson slid the xel on to the desk, upsetting more hardcopy which fell in Roquelaurie’s lap. He brushed that on to the floor too.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Anson said.

  Roquelaurie flipped through a couple of screens and muttered, “Oh hell.”

  Anson, unsure if he was meant to hear the sotto voce remark, grinned nevertheless: it was too early in the morning for official dignity. He went on. “First, I learned why she’s on the semi-active list: it’s neurological damage. Seems she mixed it up with two Halith stealth destroyers a while back—”

  Roquelaurie looked up from the data he was scanning: her squadron exchange ratios. “And lived?”

  “Better than that, sir. She took one down.”

  “Down?” Roquelaurie was sure he’d heard wrong. “You mean destroyed?”

  “Yes, sir. And she took the legs off the other. We’ve no clue how.” Words failing him, Roquelaurie just shook his head. Anson continued. “Shariati followed up and took the damaged one out.”

  The secretary leaned back and pushed the report away. “How old is Kennakris?”

  “I didn’t find a date of birth—kinda odd but maybe not so much in her case—and no tax records either, but then she’s a colonial. It appears that she was born around their year ‘19, which would make her about 24 years old, GAT.”

  “What’s up with no birth record?”

  “Well, she’s from Parson’s Acre.” The name did not register with Roquelaurie. “It’s a little colony way out in the Methuselah Cluster—second-gen out of Fredonia. There was a big flap there in ‘33—some colonial officials were involved in a slaving ring. The colony was hit with a secondary proscription and reopened to settlement a couple of years later. Played hell with their records.”

  “No family records at all, then? Where’d she show up from?”

  Anson looked up at his superior. “Ah, that’s where it gets interesting, sir.” Roquelaurie stiffened in his chair—interesting pretty much always meant bad. And this was already sounding bad. He nodded for Anson to go on. “There’s a father listed in the immigration registry—that’s where we got the estimate of when she was born—came out in their year ‘22. Seems to have been an alcoholic—got himself killed in an off-world mining ‘accident’. Court eventually ruled it a suicide. The last mention we found of her was in her school records from ‘30—that’s about seven or eight months before her dad offed himself. After those school records, we don’t have anything until she was taken off a contract slaver in ‘39.”

  Roquelaurie did the arithmetic. “That’s about eight standard years.”

  “Yes, sir. From what we can put together she was a slave on that boat for eight years.”

  “Jesus wept.”

  “Yes, sir. But then—”

  “Don’t tell me it gets even more interesting.”

  “Afraid so. Her records are sealed, but there are indications of, well . . . controversy. The medical establishment on Nedaema filed some reports—don’t know exactly what, they were suppressed—but she was admitted to the CEF Academy under the sponsorship of Grand Senator Huron.”

  “That’s damn rarified company. A colonial with friends in such high places, Lev?”

  “She’s been associated with his son since she was repatriated. She started out as his protégée and more recently they were in a relationship.”

  “Okay.” Roquelaurie filled in the blank for himself. “Go on.”

  “She graduated in the upper quintile of her class—near the bottom—but scored the second highest flight training marks ever and there’s a note about unusual mathematical abilities. We don’t know what that refers to. She was given the rank of midshipman and served on active duty for three months. We believe that something to do with anti-slavery ops. There was also some kind of incident that was hushed up just before she graduated. Oh . . .” Lev looked down and Roquelaurie raised his eyebrows. “I forgot to mention she played some role in foiling the Alecto Initiative. That’s sealed too but it looks like it was a main reason those medical reports were suppressed.”

  “Quite the academic career.”

  “Yes sir. She’s one of ten active pilots to make ace-in-a-day, and she’s done it twice. The second time was during the Battle of Wogan’s Reef, when she and Commander Huron attacked a formation of sixty enemy craft, unsupported—”

  “She was in on that lark?” That little exploit had added considerably to Commander Huron’s legend—he’d scored the most kills in a single mission in modern history that day. Roquelaurie recalled a wingman being involved but that pilot’s role had not been played up in the media.

  “She was. Commander Huron got eleven kills in that engagement and she got nine. She was promoted to jig after that. And then there was that business at Asylum.”

  “She was in on that too?” Asylum was the big coup that forced Halith to accept the Crucis Treaty. Lots of decorations, lots of media exposure in the League. Huron had also played a major part in that affair—Admiral PrenTalien had been the principle hero—but he didn’t recall her name being associated with it. Odd they’d kept her so low-profile. “What was her role there?”

  “Ah . . . not what the reports said.”

  “Okay.”

  “This came through our special channels, sir, but I believe it’s reliable.” Anson showed him the flimsy—the codewords in the header. “We haven’t been able to confirm it independently through any other source, although there is circumstantial evidence that seems to support.”

  Roquelaurie scanned the security markings. “Circumstantial?”

  “Yes, sir. Kennakris received a series of payments, quite large, in the wake of the Asylum affair. As you know, League practice with regard to prize money is to award one-eighth of the capture’s value to those involved, split into thirds: one third divided among the command authority and senior officers, one third among the junior officers and NCOs, and rest distributed to the crew by shares.”

  “Yes. Naturally.”

  “We tracked down an Admiralty Court ruling on the Ilya Turabian’s value—”

  “That fancy pocket dreadnought.”

  “The same, sir. And it appears that in aggregate, Kennakris received a full third of an eighth.”

  “She what?”

  “Yes, sir. That would be . . . unprecedented.”

  “I should hope so. What does your reliable source say happened?”

  Anson reached up and scratched an eyebrow, staring at the flimsy and looking like he was trying to phrase something with the utmost tact—either something that could not be expected to be believed or was extremely unpleasant—or both. “Our source
says she was ordered to undergo psycheval and assaulted another officer. Apparently, chemical rehab was being considered—”

  “Chemical rehabilitation? Seriously?”

  “That’s the report, sir. She was placed in close arrest, flight rating suspended. But because of Admiral PrenTalien had declared flash emergency over at Miranda, she was included in a convoy op.” Here Anson cleared his throat. “On the way, she—and it says Commander Huron as well—decided to mount an attack on the Asylum Station.”

  “By themselves? In fighters?”

  “Modified fighters—yes sir.”

  “What in the hell . . .”

  “The attack failed.”

  Again, Roquelaurie found himself just shaking his head.

  “Commander Huron escaped but Kennakris was captured and held prisoner on the Ilya Turabian.”

  Roquelaurie fixed Anson with a beyond-skeptical look. “And PrenTalien mounted an offensive to recover an insane junior lieutenant who went off the reservation to attack a major space station with a pocket dreadnought in company . . . in a fighter—”

  “Along with Commander Huron, sir. He was her wing commander.”

  “Well, that makes all the difference,” Roquelaurie snorted. “And PrenTalien just decided to destroy Asylum Station and capture the Ilya Turabian while he was in the area.”

  “Ah, no he didn’t. Exactly.”

  “He didn’t what—exactly?”

  “Admiral PrenTalien did not mount an offensive to engage Asylum Station. It appears he merely intended conduct a reconnaissance after—um . . .”

  “After what?”

  Anson took a deep breath, gestured with the report and said in a rush: “After Lieutenant Kennakris somehow got control of Ilya Turabian’s weapon systems and destroyed Asylum Station on her own initiative. Sir.”

  Roquelaurie leaned back in his chair very slowly. “You’re telling me—seriously—that one woman—a prisoner—took over a Halith pocket dreadnought by herself and blew up a space station on her own initiative?”