“Okay.” She picked up her cold coffee and swirled it, watching miniscule bubbles swirl around and around . . .
“I should get going,” Huron said, sitting up. “There’s still a shit-ton to do out there.”
“Yeah.” And a shit-ton to do in here. “Good luck with that.”
He stood and gave her his off-kilter smile. “You too.”
~ ~ ~
Day 235 (PM)
IHS Condorcet, in orbit
Andaman, Antares Sector
“Truly, my dear Admiral, such catastrophe—the most grave misfortune, most terrible stroke of Fate. I cannot begin to express . . .” said the former Emir of Ivoria, now self-styled Sultan of Andaman and Nicobar for the fifth time. For that gentleman’s professed inability to express himself, he had been doing just that, nonstop, for a quarter of an hour. His sorrow was boundless, he was desolated, he lay in ashes.
Admiral Caneris had no doubt of that, and he’d grown tired of hearing it. His fleet lay at the entrance of Andaman’s main naval base, orbiting Andaman’s primary moon of Cor Leonis. His ships were not at anchor, and he’d so far declined the Sultan’s fervent offers, indeed pleas, that he should dock and accept “all aid in our power”.
Standing on Condorcet’s observation deck with the Sultan, that worthy’s entourage, Captain Hoffman and an admiral’s honor guard of marines in their shining best, Caneris surveyed the harbor before him while the Sultan babbled on. The Sultan’s flotilla occupied pride of place, at the center anchorage, dead ahead. To one side, berthed a squadron lead by a large but antiquated battleship; the other a gaggle of destroyers and cruiser at grav anchor, making an untidy heap. Small craft wandered between them, carrying out their errands with typical Andaman urgency.
Caneris’ ships, with Condorcet at head, stretched away in wings to either side, keeping close exact station. They had been here for six hours—a transit delayed by the need to make extensive and onerous manual checks to ensure the integrity of their nav systems—and sending ahead, the admiral had desired the Sultan come out to meet him. He had not desired the man to bring his large and pompously officious entourage and a flock of overdressed hangers-on, and when the Sultan did so, he directed Captain Hoffman, who directed his executive officer, to conduct these persons to the battleship’s aft gunroom, while Caneris admitted the Sultan and a select few of his most senior attendants to his presence. They had all been listening to the Sultan ever since.
The Sultan brought his flowery ramble to a close.
“Quite,” said Caneris succinctly. And after long beat, “Is all in readiness, Captain?”
“It is, Admiral,” Hoffman answered with equal concision.
“Then you may fire when ready, Grigori.”
Hoffman snapped a curt order to the bridge, followed by a ragged disbelieving gasp from the foreigners present as the import dawned on them, and moment after that by a shuddered of the deck as Condorcet, and her entire fleet, opened with full broadsides on the unsuspecting, stationery, and utterly defenseless ships in the harbor before them.
They concentrated their fury first on the Sultan’s personal flotilla and then worked outward to the vessels on either side; torrents of hypervelocity metal shredding the unresisting hulls. None of the targets’ fusion plants were hot, or the resulting explosions would have demolished the harbor and most of the base. Even so, a fine display of fireworks resulted and when Hoffman gave the order to cease fire, nothing remained but torn, twisted and melted scrap metal, drifting in swirls of molten debris, looking for all the world like dancing fireflies.
The Sultan wore a look of blank unholy surprise on his immobile dead fish-belly white face. Not even his slack mouth, with the lips turned flaccid bluish gray, moved.
Caneris paid him no attention. Glancing at a chrono after appraising the results of his fleet’s work, he noted with satisfaction that it had taken exactly one minute less than the Sultan’s apologies.
“Colonel Zimmerman”—to the officer leading his honor guard—“please put these gentlemen out of doors.”
The marines, primed for the order, instantly seized the squealing civilians by neck and arm and conducted them, squealing still, from the compartment. Two and a half minutes later, a portside airlock cycled open and closed.
With a quiet breath of satisfaction, Caneris took his eyes off the vista before him and turned toward Captain Hoffman.
“Now, Grigori, I believe it is time to go home.”
~ ~ ~
Day 235 (Late PM)
Isabelle Downs, Llanberis District
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
“Why don’t they leave?” asked Lieutenant Althea Quinn of the Tanith Ranger’s Chthonic Group. She was standing next to Captain Trin Wesselby and both of them were staring up into the lush tropical foliage that stretched up and up, far above their heads, adorned with blossoms of every color and densely inhabited with exotic birds more colorful still. Birds in the air, birds perching on nearly every branch; birds on the ground, too. A crowd of peacocks paraded a few yards to Trin’s left, magnificent tails outspread in full display, spanking the air with their raucous calls. Just above her and to the right, a bird of paradise with a tail nine feet long stayed mute; shaming even the peacocks, he needed no vocalizations to proclaim his superabundant glory.
And not all were birds, or not strictly so. Flying creatures from a multitude of other worlds flapped and soared and swooped; many thousands of individuals representing many hundreds of species, all living peaceably together. It was, Trin thought, an outstanding example of ecumenicalism between interstellar species.
Yet above all this profusion—for this was the famous free-flight aviary at the center of Isabelle Downs’ central park—there was nothing but the open sky. Hence Quinn’s question.
Trin, a little tame finch resting on her outstretched finger, watched the bird of paradise, who stared back with his strange oval, multicolored eye. “Food, shelter, plenty of space—all their needs attended to. The good easy life. Why leave?”
Quinn stayed looking up at the bit of sky visible through the gaps in the canopy. “I’d get bored.”
“Maybe some do.” Trin lifted her hand and the finch flew off with an audible flutter of short wings.
“What was that one?”
“A Clarage’s finch. Dr. VelSilinjes told me that if you spend time with them, their plumage changes color to reflect your mood.”
“That one’s blue.”
“She doesn’t know me well.”
Trin had never met Quinn before, their Seventh Angel; she’d arrived on LSS Kite late yesterday. The Tanith Rangers were in transit, therefore incommunicado, so Trin had made herself known to Kite’s captain, in case Quinn had anything she wished to report, and to give her what news she had.
Quinn did have things to report, and as Trin represented her employer and Quinn knew her by reputation, she had no misgivings about delivering her reports to Trin. They selected the aviary as the most eligible and convenient place for Quinn to make her report and Trin to deliver her news.
Their conversation was sparse and to the unaccustomed ear fragmented, but they spoke the same language and could fill in the gaps clearly enough.
What Trin came to understand was that Quinn’s qualities extended far beyond her looks and her voice, both of which might be legitimately called angelic; that is, above and beyond what Trin already knew. On top of what Quinn had accomplished for them in the intel gathering line, she’d also scored a rather spectacular coup. Becoming aware that some of her communications were being detected, and tracing this to another Halith agent residing on Ivoria—a person from one of those shadowy organizations who kept tabs on other intel organs—she deftly planted information in both the Emir’s personal files and those of the IRIS agent to make it appear the messages originated from them. This, she then augmented with other incriminating tidbits, bolstered by personal details she gleaned through methods of her own. Trin, who knew all about those methods, had no need to ask
for details. Taken together, these added up to a convincing picture of treachery, which Quinn assessed would be supplied to both Admiral Caneris and the IRIS agent’s handlers.
It was, leading to Caneris dispatching the Emir cum Sultan and destroying his flotilla along with a sizeable portion of the Andaman navy, and to the death of the IRIS agent who, finding himself hopelessly compromised, committed suicide.
To cap her coup, Quinn forged the order that released the Trifid Frontier Force.
It was one of the neatest and completest operations Trin had ever met with, and the beauty of it lay not just in the obvious results: the removal of the treacherous Emir, allowing the League to now install their own compliant sultan, along with a new emir; the securing of Winnecke IV, and the rescue of the TFF—all this in addition to her contributions to defeating the Halith invasion. No, the real beauty, in Trin’s eyes was that Quinn had also removed all trace of her activities and neutralized all the key witnesses, making it impossible in hindsight to discover how her coup had been achieved, and preserving the secret of how Halith’s codes had in fact been broken.
This struck at the very heart of Halith intelligence. It might even help flush out the mole (or moles) that had thus far eluded them, and Trin began to sense a glimmer of real hope for the first time in a long time.
In return, she told Quinn what she knew about the battle at Apollyon Gates and its immediate aftermath, repaying—in her view—diamonds with dross. Then she asked Quinn if there was anything particular she wished to know.
“Actually, yeah,” Quinn replied. “Would you happen to know anything about the status of Major Lewis?”
“Minerva Lewis?” Quinn’s tone made it clear her interest went far beyond the casual. Trin had only seen the preliminary casualty reports, which lacked detail. But the name of the task force’s marine commandant was prominent upon them.
“That’s right.” Quinn had read Trin’s tone as well as Trin had read hers, and her eyes had already begun to cloud.
“Then, I’m sorry to have tell you Major Lewis took a bullet to the chest.” Trying to get the words out evenly made the sound woundingly crisp, and Trin softened her tone as she continued. “She was reported to be in critical condition before they jumped out. That’s the last report.”
Quinn’s shockingly beautiful opal-green eyes misted, filled, overflowed. Seeing her about to wipe her nose on her sleeve, Trin produced a handkerchief and handed it over. Quinn blotted her eyes and blew her nose on it.
“Sorry. I’ll . . . um, get this—”
“Keep it. No apologies,” Trin interrupted. “Major Lewis is a remarkable person”—emphasizing the present tense. “She’s well worth a . . . wet handkerchief.”
Shaking her head, Quinn laughed and Trin understood, in a new and visceral way, why she captivated people so easily. She was the perfect operative.
She was wasted as an operative.
“The Major told me about you, y’know,” Quinn broke in on that thought.
“Did she?” Trin smiled, with a rare and genuine warmth. “What did she say?”
“She said you like to make people think you’re bookish, but underneath it all, you’re bookish as a bayonet.”
“I like that”—touching a forefinger to her smile. “The General told me something about you as well.”
“What’d she say?”
“That you . . . hate your given name.”
That astonishing laugh again. “That’s really true.” The following sniff hardly ruined it. “Thanks, Captain. It means a lot—you meeting me like this.”
“My pleasure. The fleet will arrive sometime tomorrow PM. Give the Major my best when you see her. And tell her I appreciate the compliment.”
Her breath hitched and Quinn glanced down for an moment. “Sure. If I . . . can.”
Opening her wallet, Trin removed a calling card. “Here”—holding it out. “If anyone gives you any trouble, or if you need anything”—she held Quinn’s eyes for a long moment—“call me.”
“Thanks . . . Captain.”
“Trin”—pressing it into the slim strong hand.
Quinn curled her fingers around it. “I’ll do that . . . Trin.”
Aftermaths
“He showed me a pure river of the water of life, clear as crystal . . .”
—Revelation 22:1
“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.”
—William Faulkner
One: New Horizons
Day 237
Carillion Naval Hospital
Iona, Cygnus Mariner
They had trussed Major Lewis into a specially configured bed that barely gave her liberty to move one arm. She was going to stay there until the matrix set for the broken sternum, whether she liked it or not. She did not like it, but the medical director had hit upon a singularly effective threat. The problem was not so much the sternum but her badly bruised heart and they were working to save it. The medical director explained in no uncertain terms—and in such a way as to make Min believe him—that if she gave them any more of her shit, he was going to yank it and install a new one. And he wasn’t going to be very goddamned particular where it came from.
Min liked her heart—indeed, she had a great sentimental attachment to it—and knowing the man was entirely capable of making good on his threat, had steeled herself to obey. She was still steeling herself when someone requested entrance to her private room. (The Ionians had concluded that, as one of the heroes of the hour, she rated as much. Min had concluded she’d be happy when that hour was up.)
Answering, “Come!” in a voice more like a command bark than an invitation—the last three visitors had been nurses (male nurses) intent on inflicting Iona’s peculiar “hand’s-on” style of medicine on her unresisting frame—she was surprised when the door slid aside to reveal Quinn.
“Sorry. Thought you were one of those goddamned nurses.” Min resettled into the position the conformal mattress and various active pillows insisted she assume. “They’re way too fuckin’ hands-y in this place. Can’t keep their paws to themselves.”
Quinn knew all about how Min felt regarding the male touch and that she was, in general, a wretched patient. She replied with a sweet smile.
Quinn and sweet smiles went together like stars and shine, but there was more to this one than met the eye. Even Min’s eye, although a throb in her chest that had nothing to do with taking a Halith 10-mm round there gave her an inkling. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to see you—not that I’m not overjoyed, of course.” She screwed up one side of her face. “Did that come out right?”
“Close enough,” Quinn said. “Captain Wesselby gave me your info and got me in.”
“You met Trin?”
“Uh huh. She said to tell you she appreciates the compliment.”
“Which compliment?” Min asked, looking narrowly.
“The ‘bookish as a bayonet’ compliment.”
“Oh . . .”—trying to recall which occasions she might have uttered that in public. “Who’d she hear that from?”
Me.” Seeing Min struggling to adjust her bandaged torso against the obstinate cushions, Quinn stepped over, lifted her a trifle and shoved a cushion into place. “That better?”
“Much.” Min started searching the bed with her free hand.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Bottle. I coulda sworn I had t’hand here . . .”
Bending, Quinn searched the room. Min sighed. Quinn’s casual outfit included tight pants.
“It’s down here,” Quinn reported. “You dropped it.”
“That’s what that noise was.” Sighing again as Quinn retrieved it and straightened up. “Does that actually have water in it?”
“ ’Fraid so.” She accepted the bottle and stashed it beside her. “Their notion of medicine don’t seem to include providing balm to a ravaged soul.”
“Poor you.”
“You can say that twice.”
“Min?”
Min sobered at the new note in Quinn’s voice. “Yeah?”
“I came to apologize.”
“For what?”
“Lying to you.”
“Damn. And here was me getting my hopes up”—with a mock frown.
Ignoring the banter, Quinn went on. “I’m sorry I lied to you about going straight. I was gonna go straight and the General did stake me—that part was true—but then, when—”
“Quinn?”—cutting her off.
“Yeah?”—brought up short because Min wasn’t bantering now.
“You don’t have to explain. We weren’t on the same team. You did an incredible power of good on this op. I’m not gonna resent that you had to shade the truth a bit.”
“I hated doing it. Lying to you.”
“That’s gonna happen in this business.”
“That’s what I wanna talk about.”
Min concluded that new throb in her chest was lying. But she said, “About going straight?”
Quinn got quiet and searched the walls, the floor. Then: “No. Not exactly.”
Damn that heartless throb, anyway. “Is this gonna be the Dear-Jane talk?”
“Min . . . how many people have you said goodbye to? I don’t mean just Kate, but Shiloh and all the others back to Tristan who were more than a one-night-stand?” When Min said nothing, she reached out a hand and laid it along the strong neck where she felt the pulse fast against her palm. “Don’t get upset . . . but I think you’ve gotten too good at farewells.”
“Not upset,” Min said quietly. “Maybe a trifle confused?”
“Look. You need somebody—who’s gonna be there. Who’ll fix your pillow and get that water bottle you fumbled. Who’ll rub your back and draw you hot baths and . . .” A swallow interrupted her. “And just do every damn thing for you. Always.”
“Okay. I’ll take that point.”
Loralynn Kennakris 4: Apollyon's Gambit Page 62
