Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit
Page 52
“We will be monitoring you, of course.”
Great. So if this fuckin’ setup fries my brain you’ll have it all on chip.
“Ready?”
Kris grunted, and when that seemed not to be understood, she gave them a thumbs up.
VelSilinjes retreated to the main console where Trin waited with Huron. “Begin any time.”
Kris’s console had been loaded with all the latest data of the Apollyon Gates. All she had to do was work the navigation problems the way she normally did. They would record any response from the lithomorph. How Kris might experience it, or whether she’d be aware of it, was anyone’s guess.
The recording icon at top-right on her console lit red.
Alright, pop goes the weasel . . .
Picking a straightforward jump between AG-I and AG-IV, the entrance and exit zones to and from Iona, she tried to clear her head. First, she had to visualize the convolution operators properly. Then the trick was to harmonize them. She used a simple rhythm to begin with, gradually making it more elaborate until the operators took shape, touching and melding, and finally coming together into a cohesive whole; a locus of colored points that represented the finished convolution.
As the operators began to form, each governed by a unique melody, Kris changed the underlying rhythm. From the outskirts of her consciousness, another thread intruded, curiously insistent, as if trying to shift the keynote of her calculation. Irritated, she stopped, twitched her thoughts back in order and started again. This time, she kept the rhythm solid and no extraneous threads tried to hijack her efforts but as she began to harmonize the operators—carefully, one by one—swarms of glittering motes appeared around each, subtly distorting her well-behaved transforms.
“Fuckin’ weird,” Kris huffed under her breath. A strange insectile drone suddenly filled her skull, more felt than heard, a kind a metal itch. “What the fuck was that?” Aloud this time.
Dr. VelSilinjes, observing an angry tangle of orange lines the lithomorph had splashed across the main console screen, mouthed ‘Oh dear, oh dear” while Trin shook her head slowly.
Kris shook hers, her eyes feeling crossed. “Did the g’damned rock just gimme the finger?”
The console screen went black.
Kris blinked. “Oh shit.”
The doctor’s bosom heaved with a sigh. Trin shook her head more firmly. Huron’s immobility bespoke his desire not show his feelings which, to Kris’s tender mind, was pretty much the same as shouting them.
“I’m afraid the lithomorph . . .” VelSilinjes paused to master another sigh. “. . . can be a bit . . . temperamental.”
Fuckin’ great. I pissed off a seven-billion year-old temperamental piece ‘a—
“Helmet,” Huron interjected. He was watching the lithomorph’s traces on the master console, too.
Kris snatched it off. “I thought it wasn’t on-line.”
“It’s not talking,” Trin explained with a nod at the blank display. “We can’t be sure about listening.”
Oops . . .
Taking a deep breath, Kris took a rigid hold on her scattered thoughts. Could she salvage this?
Maybe . . . It was worth a shot, at least.
“Okay, look. Sorry. I got an idea . . .”
* * *
During her years as Trench’s slave Kris had built, grown, or perhaps evolved, a place—or rather a state—a dim, cool, protective numbness into which she could retreat when things got bad. It allowed her to cope from his more brutal moods, with the week he’d loaned her to Nestor Mankho, and above all, to survive three days as Admiral Heydrich’s prisoner on the Ilya Turabian. She gone down and down and kept on going down that time, trying to escape pain without limit, deeper than even Mankho pushed her; so far down she marveled at finding her way out again.
Other times, she used it as a refuge from intolerable boredom, or even as a kind of “parlor trick” (not that Kris had ever seen a parlor at that point in her life): resembling a death-like catatonic stupor, it tended to freak people out.
But it had another use: helping her calculate jump convolutions in her head. Away from distractions in the deep cottony nothingness, she’d first discovered how to manipulate the C-star algebra transforms on which jump convolutions depended. Later, she’d learned to do without descending into her refuge, but that still made it easier. More to the point, it might keep her from pissing off the lithomorph.
Okay . . . Let’s take a little run on the far side . . .
* * *
Time became elastic, the seconds sliding by like beads on a wire, in ones or twos or clumps, glinting fragments of eternity, each immeasurable . . .
Operators appearing—shifting forms and myriad colors—new harmonic progressions, swirling, building, flowing together; unknown scales, strange sliding rhythms . . .
Fingers tapping, seemingly without thought or effort, characters flashing on the console screen; a deep breath, a deeper dive. Fading into that close, eternal silence; waiting . . . tendrils of music purling, giving birth to now familiar shapes . . . Stranger harmonies, subtle elaborations. Tickling an operator, tugging it slightly out of round—
0.96 . . . 0.93 . . .
Colors over-washing, softly iridescent. Forms melding amid constellations of tiny brethren.
0.87 . . .
Breathe slow . . . cool air coiling deep in her lungs . . . eyes opening, refocusing . . . the click of keys. Eyes closing . . .
* * *
With the deep, loud gasp of a diver broaching the surface, Kris opened her eyes and gave her head a convulsive twitch—the glowing figures with their bizarre involuted contours no longer making luminous good sense; their harmonies dissolving in a clash of nonsensical chords.
Looking over, she saw Trin, face set like white marble, staring at the master console with VelSilinjes, who was biting her fingernails. Huron was staring at her.
“What? What’d I do?”—slurring her words as she rubbed her tingling cheeks.
“Look.” Huron pointed.
There on her console were the convolutions she’d worked out alone, followed by three she and the lithomorph had done together. All were highlighted in green.
“Looks okay,” Kris muttered. What was she missing?
“Check the times,” Huron enunciated.
Kris checked. A Class-1 navigator working with a full-up nav system was expected to produce a clean convolution in two minutes. Kris and the lithomorph had done three. In a minute, forty seconds.
“Thirty-three seconds a piece.” The emphasis Huron added probably wasn’t strictly needed.
“Holy sh—”
Trin cleared her throat. Dr. VelSilinjes clucked her tongue.
“Um . . . yeah. That’s good.”
“It’s very good.” Now Huron was smiling. “Just keep your mind on Job 1.”
“Right.” Kris scrunched her forehead. “Be nice to the rock.”
“The lithomorph.”
“Okay. Yeah. Be nice to the lithomorph.”
He gave her a private wink. “There ya go.”
~ ~ ~
Day 223
LMR Penthesileia, in orbit
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“Who’s gonna play Trumpet?” Minerva Lewis asked as they gather once more in Penthesileia’s CIC to discuss the plan that had evolved from the most recent simulations. The various units involved needed identifiers and Min, inspired (no doubt) by the name of the black hole which lurked at the center of all this, had decided the force assigned to engage Caneris ought to be named “Trumpet V”. Taking this theme to either its logical conclusion or its wanton extreme (depending on one’s point of view), led to calling the relief force “White Horse” and the raiding force “Red Horse”, while they christened lithomorph “The Lamb”. Unsurprisingly, Quinn was bestowed the title of “Seventh Angel”.
More prosaically, Min having had her fun, the three components of Trumpet V were designated “Pitchfork” (the command element), “Cloak” and “Dagger”, these
being the squadrons Corhaine’s fleet had been divided into. Commander Yanazuka’s group rounded out their order of battle as “Jester”.
Having made great progress on codenames, the command structure remained unsettled. Captain Swanepoel’s missive had done its work, and while a deputation of junior officers and enlisted had approached him the last time he was downside, wanting to serve in “whatever capacity he deemed suitable” (a formula calibrated to prevent them from being accused of mutiny), candidates for senior command positions had not come forward. Huron could understand that: Swanepoel had ensured they were damned if they did and damned if they didn’t. Little sense in getting killed over it, too. While a solution of a sort had occurred to him, it might prove unacceptable on several fronts, the first of which sat just across the table from him.
“How about it, Kris?”
She answered with a resigned look. “Fuck it. If you can’t find someone better, I’ll do it. It’s my dumb-ass idea, anyway.” Beneath that look, Huron detected visions of Gerald Swanepoel frying on hot coals. “You gonna take the big hat, then?”
Huron didn’t see that he had any choice. Trin was the officer senior to him on station; she was staff and even less suited to the role. Commander Yanazuka would be a good choice, but for this to work, they needed her elsewhere. General Corhaine had better qualifications than any of them, but she was a mercenary and Trumpet V being almost entirely her fleet, her place was with them.
Thus, by process of elimination . . .
“I think I’m nominated. Getting elected is another question. Have to talk to my campaign manager.”
Kris gave him that half-exasperated look that generally answered his more abstruse comments. “If you’re gonna go campaign, I’m gonna turn in for a while. Got another date later.”
Her date was with the lithomorph. Those session were going well, but they were taxing.
“Get some good rest, Kris. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that.”
As Kris left with a nod to Min, Huron took a final look at the latest wargame results. You’d get better odds at a craps table, but with Kris and the lithomorph working together, they’d moved the needle off zero. That those odds weren’t better testified strongly to the operation’s priorities. In a spirit of completeness, they’d investigated what happened if they sent the largest force the transit allowed first, combining Trumpet V with as much of the follow-on force as possible. This would cut the Ionians out of the plan which simplified the operation, and it did appreciably improve their chances of stopping Halith’s invasion fleet.
But it also meant giving up destroying the slaver fleet as an objective. Even if they halted the invasion by destroying the harbors—and appreciably improve did not mean good—the Emir would disperse his fleet as soon as word of hostilities reached him. Even if he didn’t for some inconceivable reason, they could not prevent Caneris from pursuing with his remaining force. No, the current plan was the only way to take out the slaver fleet, and even if they failed to impede Caneris at all, it would still work.
Which was not to say he liked it. Survival did not figure into the victory conditions, and having to sit and wait in Iona until the immutable laws of physics allowed him to play his part was the most disagreeable proposition he’d ever faced. On one thing, however, he’d made up his mind: physics or no, whatever fate awaited Kris in the Apollyon Gates, he was determined to share it.
Min had also been surveying the wargame results and now she looked over at him with a smile born of matured admiration and a growing appreciation she may no longer be the craziest person in the room.
“She really is relentless, ain’t she?”—waggling a thumb at the hatch Kris had just departed through. Following Min’s gesture, Huron gave back a knowing smile of his own.
“She doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Huron found his “campaign manager”—Trin, who was as yet unaware of her new calling—hip-deep in the day’s decryption products.
“Fun?” he asked as she sketched an offhand greeting without looking up.
“If we had time to properly analyze and assess all this, I’d be positively giddy.”
Huron thought he’d very much like to see Trin giddy. “Take what we can get. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“A simple favor.”
Trin added horns to the small figure she’d doodled on the corner of a document. “You know you make my blood run cold when you say that.”
“Wait till you hear it.”
“That certainly inspires confidence.”
With a familiar grin, Huron laid out his thoughts in their command problem.
“If Kris is going to command Trumpet V,” he concluded, “she needs a promotion, needs to be navy, and not on the walking-wounded list.”
“Obviously.”
“And I’d need to be navy to exercise overall command.”
“And your proposal to effect all this is what?”
Grin edging toward his ear on one side, Huron said, “Kris and I resign our commissions and are commissioned into the Ionian Navy. We volunteer and offer our services. You, as a navy captain and the senior CEF officer here, accept and offer me the command. I appoint Kris a commodore so she can lead Trumpet V. And your authority outweighs Swanepoel’s, so those crews who want to can volunteer without being accused of disobeying a direct order. You see? Simple.”
“Is this the way you guys run your company?”
“We try to be flexible.”
“Quite right.”
It was hard to tell but that might be a smirk he was seeing. “How ’bout it?”
“How do you plan to convince the Ionians to buy off on this?” Trin countered.
“President Marquardt is a politician. I expect him to yield to political arguments.”
Retrieving the stylus, Trin gave her head a brief shake. “What are you gunning for?”
“To make this work—since we’re dealing with Ionian Navy units—rear admiral.”
“And they’d commission Kris a captain?”
“Best we can do, given their citizenship requirement for flag rank.” He was counting on his Ionian mother to finesse that in his case.
“Oh. Right.” Trin rolled the barrel of her stylus between her teeth. “Well . . . go do your worst.”
“I intend to.”
~ ~ ~
Day 224
Whitehall, Caernarvon
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“There is precedent, sir—strictly speaking.” Lieutenant Anson shuffled his briefing materials to bring some relevant examples to hand.
“What sort of precedent?” asked President Marquardt, his unease clearly evident.
“Well, military officers of the British and American empires not uncommonly served foreign governments and were often given general officer or flag rank while doing so.” Anson displayed a list of names.
“British and American empires?” Marquardt recoiled in his seat, ignoring the list. “Good lord! That’s ancient history! You might as well drag in the Greeks and Persians too.”
“There is that precedent as well, I suppose, sir.”
“Preposterous. I can’t go before the Assembly and quote . . . ah—that Salamis fellow . . .”
“Themistocles.” Anson supplied the name with a cautious note.
“That’s right. I can’t hold up him as an example—looks idiotic.”
With the president’s neck beginning to show a flush, Bill Roquelaurie decided to step in. “I don’t believe the lieutenant was suggesting that, Seth. Only that the practice has a long history and nothing in the Constitution forbids it.”
“Doesn’t admit it either,” huffed Marquardt.
“Mr. President,” Anson spoke up again. “The wording of the enumerated powers clause does allow conferring temporary ranks up to rear admiral at your discretion under the power given the commander in chief. This conforms with t
he grade rule for brevet rule promotions. Below flag rank, nothing is said about the citizenship of the honoree.”
“I suppose.” Marquardt fingered his chin. “We might get Huron past them—he at least has roots here. But think what that woman threatened us with!”
“It might be good not to dwell on that point,” suggested the secretary of defense.
“You think they’d swallow that?” The president looked at Roquelaurie askance.
“Better than assigning our own officers, isn’t it?” Roquelaurie replied soothingly. “Consider the situation: we stand a chance to neutralize a clear and present threat with small risk to ourselves, and gain a very substantial benefit by controlling of Winnecke IV. If they fail—” The president snorted. “If they fail, we’re no worse off than otherwise. All for the cost of assigning two temporary ranks.”
That framed the question in a way Marquardt could find some comfort in. “Fine, then. Write the thing up as you say. I’ll announce it in a closed session. That ought to keep it out the media for at least three days.”
~ ~ ~
Day 228
Whitehall, Caernarvon
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
Three days proved optimistic and Bill Roquelaurie waved an exasperated hand over his desk. “Look at this! Your Commander Kennakris—seconded by Rafe Huron—have infected the Admiral and his staff with their hare-brained scheme and now those fine officers are spreading the contagion far and wide. Listen”—he held up a memo—“here’s a request that we reassign six hundred fifty techs from Transport Division to the dockyards to complete repairs on Osiris. They need them by 1600 today. This is a requisition for a few thousand tons of stores currently belonging to the Planetary Defense Forces—they have already dispatched lighters to affect the transfer by midnight. And here”—he brandished another—“I’m being requested to approve stripping five ships now in ordinary of their armament and electronics.”
Roquelaurie slumped back in his chair and scowled at his aide, who appeared in no way concerned. “And God help the person who’s found wandering the halls alone. I thought pressgangs belonged to the fabled past. It’s bedlam out there. Hancock’s crew threatened to mutiny if we don’t let them go.”
Lev Anson knew about that. Ever since Commodore Bainbridge had volunteered to lead the raid, with some high-flown and rather pointed oratory, essentially defying the government to stop him, the trickle of volunteers had become a deluge. Hancock’s crew were merely the most vehement.