Asylum (Loralynn Kennakris Book 3)

by Jordan Leah Hunter

  “I see.”

  “She called this AM and asked to see me. I thought maybe it was a staff matter.”

  “You didn’t ask someone else to handle it?”

  “We’re not all prima donnas, Rafe.”

  “Apologies”—noting the lack of banter in her tone. “I only meant that seems an unusual way to handle a routine request.”

  “It wasn’t a routine request. She asked to see me, very specifically. When someone new we don’t know does that, I indulge them, if only to see what’s on their mind.”

  “And what was on her mind?”

  Trin summarized the brief meeting. “I wasn’t even aware of the request. I explained what must’ve happened—I confirmed it after she left—and, ah—”

  “She wasn’t satisfied.”

  “She believed there’d been a mix-up. I don’t think she accepted that our office—or I—don’t have a deeper interest in Anandale.”

  “So you think she was fishing.”

  “Rafe, you know what happened—her battalion took over seventy percent casualties there. I did some checking. The XO died of her injuries on the way back. She could have easily been saved, but she refused treatment because there weren’t enough medical supplies—or medics—to handle all the wounded.”

  “And she and Captain Lewis were close.”

  “Very.”

  “So she has a personal interest.”

  “Indeed, she does. Did you know she served in two mercenary units between the wars?”

  “I know she did a long stint in Corhaine’s Black Hats—the Tanith Rangers, if you’re feeling formal.”

  “Who specialize in black ops.”

  “And are quite proficient at them.”

  “She also operated with CAT 5 on at least half a dozen occasions—three of which were while she was with the Tanith Rangers.” CATs—Covert Action Teams—were the CEF’s elite special operations units. They were drawn from the Marine Corps, but officers from the other services might lead them—those frequently employed this way formed an unofficial “CAT Club.” Huron was such a one, owing to his long association with CAT 5, and especially its leader, the near-legendary Sergeant Major Yu.

  “We never overlapped, Trin, so I don’t know what her involvement was. But Fred Yu has a good opinion of her, if that helps.”

  “And none of this is of any concern to you.”

  Now it was Rafe’s turn to gnaw his inner lip. “What are you getting at here, Trin?”

  “You know what I’m getting at, Rafe. The last thing we need right now is a loose cannon with a wet chip on her shoulder, an extensive SPEC-Ops resume, and untraceable back-channels to a premier black-ops outfit snooping around Anandale!”

  “What do you think she’s gonna do, Trin? Mutiny? Go to the media?”

  “I don’t know what she might do, Rafe. That’s what worries me.”

  Huron sighed. “Trin. You’ve been pushing harder than anyone should for months now. Isn’t it time you pulled back a little and got some rest?”

  “There’s a war on, Rafe.”

  “Yeah.” He swept a hand through his hair, mostly to hide his expression. “I know that.”

  Z-Day minus 14

  Crystal City, Outer N-Ring;

  Gamma Hydras, Hydra Border Zone

  Von Williams’ Lark was a club, proclaimed as such by the flutter of a multispectral sign ascending (flirtatiously) the three-story façade, that occupied a prime location along Crystal City’s main concourse (sandwiched between an upscale bordello and a law office). This was due to seniority. When the edifice, constructed in and around a substantial asteroid near the system’s outer boundary, was auctioned off, garnering the original investors twelve percent of their outlay, the club’s owner, Von Williams, had been first to bid. Its notoriety, the club owed to Von himself, who was well into his second century and thus more than three times as old as Crystal City. His eccentricities were legion: he believed there were two kinds of beer, dark and other; he served whisky, a unitary class in his view, and it was best not to inquire about the origin; he hated tequila with a white-hot intensity and asking for it would get you tossed out on your ear. Lastly, his antediluvian views on female chastity meant the working girls kept a decidedly low profile.

  On the other hand, he loved champagne and the place bulged with the stuff. Rumor had it he liked to come out after hours and gaze on the collection with a beneficence that was almost paternal. If you could tell the difference between a Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin and a Pommery Cuvée Louise or a Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque, you got the bottle on the house. If you could distinguish vintages—and especially if you could pick out the sacred ‘26—you not only got all the champagne you could drink for free, but Von himself would come out and kiss you. For this reason, it was wise to keep such knowledge to yourself.

  Minerva Lewis, cruising through the tall, narrow, out-of-place art-deco doors in mufti, was there for an entirely different reason, which had two parts, both entirely civil. (Long gone were the days when she’d descend on the bar, slap down a credit chip and loudly demand tequila—the chip was for damages—just to see how many of Von’s bouncers were up for the exercise. After she’d cleared the house twice against one Pyrrhic victory, they came to an understanding.)

  The main part was the music. Min shared with the owner a passion for analog music, which stood in sharp contrast to the current rage for HARP, an acronym for the opaque (and non-euphonious) term Heuristic Anodyne Ratiocinative Polyphony. HARP composers did not compose music per se. Rather, they created a seed measure, phase, or even motif (though that was usually looked down on, as being too limiting) that they fed to an algorithmic tree, which they also constructed—that being the real work—and let a bot produce the actual music. The result was either akin to the Music of the Spheres or desperately insipid saccharine drivel, bordering on soulless cacophony, depending on your taste. Min and Von Williams both inclined to the latter view (which went far toward enabling their rapprochement.)

  The second part of the reason was the group old Von had hired to perform: a trio that went by the name of Raw, Silk & Jaz. They had been appearing at the Lark for a little over a year now, owning a regular contract—a most unusual occurrence. Min picked her way through the capacity crowd to a seat near the stage. The bartender saw her, smiled and waved, and although she was out of uniform, the club goers showed no opposition to her claiming her pick of the tables. The house lights dimmed and the trio came on stage for the opening number without announcement or fanfare.

  Right away, Min got an inkling of the reason behind the group’s popularity, and it was not entirely the music. The female vocalist was a tiny blond in tight Shiras leather pants and an obsidian swarm jacket built on a network of fine palladium chains, with large, loveable, opal-green eyes and a megawatt smile. Then she began to sing, and Min began to revise her initial impression.

  At first, she took it slow—a little too slow and a lot too sweet—but it was just a ploy. After that setup, she cut loose. Her top voice was a bright, reaching soprano that could pick you up and hold you right there, squirming on its pointed tip. Her top voice, because she was a triplet singer, capable of singing in three independent voices, each in its own range, allowing her to do multipart harmonies or be her own chorus. Whether she achieved this with laryngeal implants or had gone in for the full genetic modification, Min neither knew nor cared. When her accompanists—a dark, craggy sitar player and a young woman on the steel drums—added their own unique voices to the mix, the result was astounding to hear.

  Midway through the set, the singer made eye contact and shucked off the jacket in a move that a dozen strippers Min knew would have killed for. The thin shell of peach sharn silk she wore beneath adhered to the perspiration between her breasts and the peaks of her brazen nipples. At this point, Min decided she really needed a drink.

  Feeling the singer’s eyes on her all the way to the bar, Min ordered a beer and when it came stroked off a lavish tip into the accoun
t displayed on the menu interface. At the end of the song, the singer blew Min a big wet thank-you. Min took a deep, cold swallow and smiled back. The singer turned and said something to the sitar player, who flashed gleaming white teeth in a laugh.

  The first set came to a close, and Min watched as the singer walked over from the stage, parting the crowd like an act of God. She nudged the chair opposite her out with her boot.

  “Have a chair?”

  The small woman accepted the invitation with impeccable grace.

  “I gotta say, that was a shade beyond amazing,” Min said with her best smile.

  “Thank you.” At this range, she’d dialed down the heat considerably—to an attitude that struck Min as smoldering watchfulness—and switched to her lower voice: a lush, smoky contralto.

  “By the way, I’m Min. Which are you?” She glanced at the marquee with the trio’s name on it.

  “Min.” The singer repeated it as if she were filing the name away for reference. “You must’ve come here a lot.”

  “Why do you say that?”—allowing the redirection.

  “Zuni knows you”—she meant the bartender Min had exchanged greetings with on the way in—“and you took that seat like you own it.”

  “More of a long-term lease kinda thing.”

  “So Von must like you.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. We do share an appreciation for a coupla things, though.” It wasn’t the beer that was relaxing Min’s tongue—they both knew that.

  “But I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Y’know how life gets in the way of life’s little pleasures.”

  The woman’s smile took on a slightly icy stiffness. “You’re in the Service.”

  “I can’t deny it. Service is ‘bout the only thing I was ever good at.”

  That smile cooled another couple of degrees.

  Min’s smile was undimmed. “So what’dya say to having a drink with me?”

  “Sorry, I don’t drink when I’m working.”

  “Do you eat?” Min swiped the tip of her tongue across her smiling upper lip. The food offerings at the Lark were meager. The house specialty was bangers and mash, but informed people stuck with the finger chips and malt vinegar.

  Neither the gesture nor the double entendre were lost on the woman. She stood up. “Look—that was a really sweet tip. But I don’t go home with patrons either.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going home.”

  Slim fingers clamped on the back of the chair while the opal-jade eyes chilled. Her voice dropped another register and went perilously soft. “You’re pressing your luck here, Sailor.” The old term for mariner, delivered with such supple insolence, cut clean through the hiss and babble of the crowd.

  Min smiled wider. “That would be lobster. I’m a marine. And I always press my luck, cuz I live a charmed—life.” At the slight catch between the last two words, the singer’s eyes changed completely. Her hands relaxed on the back of the chair, and Min gave her head a slight negative shake as she added: “You wouldn’t reconsider if maybe I sent a . . . peace offering? When you get off?”

  The woman, catching the tone, raised one eyebrow. “You think I’ll roll over for a dozen roses?”

  “Three dozen. Orchids.”

  “Which are your favorites?”

  “I go for Phalaenopsis, mostly.”

  “Hmmm.” That smile breaking out, with a razor edge this time. “You like the pink ones, I bet.”

  “I try to be flexible about that.”

  “Right.” She straightened with a precise writhe of her torso. “I lean towards Satyriums, personally.”

  Min lifted her beer to the singer. “If that’s your taste. See what I can do.”

  “Enjoy the rest of the show, Lobster.”

  Min gave her a wink as she turned to leave. “Before I get another beer to put these flames out, tell me which one you are.”

  The woman stopped and fired a pointedly lambent half-smile over her shoulder. “I’m Silk.”

  * * *

  The hostelry’s scanner indicated a person approaching and Minerva Lewis’s xel, patched through the security system, showed that it was Silk. A moment later, she requested entry and Min opened the cubicle’s narrow door. The other woman stepped through and did not bother to look around. In truth, there wasn’t much to see except Min lounging on the bed, propped up by the pillows with her hands clasped behind her head. (If you wanted an actual room, you needed to look elsewhere.) The door closed automatically behind her and locked. About the only amenity these joints offered was privacy, and Min’s bots reinforced that.

  Silk had changed out of her work clothes into a shapeless jacket, loose-fitting pants and pair of well-worn half-boots. The jacket could have concealed any number of things, as could the bag over her left shoulder. She had both hands deep in her jacket pockets.

  Min erased the tense silence with a smile. “Glad you could make it. I guess you got the orchids.” The accompanying note had given the location of this hostelry and an access code to this cubicle.

  Silk cocked her head to one side like she was sizing up an opponent—which she might’ve been. Her attire wasn’t the only thing she’d left at the Lark: the blond hair was pulled straight back and the high-voltage smile had been replaced with a profound don't-fuck-with-me expression.

  “How’d you know who I was?” Her voice was clipped too—a sharp alto with a touch of brass, quite unlike the way she’d spoken at the club.

  “The General always has at least a couple of people here, to keep up on the loose talk and juicy gossip. I went through all the contractors for the popular spots until I got a hit. That would be you.”

  “I’m not on the active roster.” Silk hadn’t taken her hands out of the jacket pockets yet and Min could see them clenching. It would’ve been impossible to get any conventional weapons through the scanners.

  “That’s right.” Min shifted slightly, as if getting more comfortable. “After Durwan Station, they took you outta the line and moved you over to Chthonic branch. I don’t recall anything in your profile about singing though.”

  “How do you—” The hands were balling into fists and then Min saw the woman’s lips form the first syllable of her name. “Wait. You’re Minerva Lewis.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “You were the General’s right hand for—maybe . . . five years?”

  “Yeah, that’d be it—more or less.”

  Silk sighed and dropped the bag on the floor. Her jacket followed it. The light peach shell was still underneath. “Sorry. I shoulda figured that out sooner.” She thumped down on the end of the bed. “Didn’t mean to go full hostile on you like that.”

  “Sure ya did—till you got hard proof. It’s been years. We never actually met.”

  Radiating intense dissatisfaction with herself, Silk shook off the offered excuse. “We don’t use that test phrase anymore, by the way. Just so you know.”

  “Charmed—life?” Min enunciated it carefully. The test phrase had several variants: all included charm in one of its forms, but it was the slight catch between the two words, more than the words themselves, that was the critical part. Orchids answering roses was one of the confirmations. The test was designed for use in heavily surveilled or low-tech environments to allow members of the Tanith Rangers to recognize and acknowledge each other. In such places, it was a strict part of the protocol that had to be satisfied before any information could be exchanged.

  “We replaced it a few years ago. I wondered if maybe somebody copped it.”

  “I figured so. That’s why I was happy to see you.” But not the only reason. The Chthonic branch of the Tanith Rangers was their core intel unit, with its own special deep-cover field operatives. They were the only ones in the organization she could trust with the questions she had.

  “Okay. What do you need?”

  “I need background on Commander Trin Wesselby—”

  “The DSI here?” There was a note of c
autious surprise in the younger woman’s question.

  “A-firm on that.”

  “She’s cold.”

  “That she is. And she’ll cut you up faster than a Kychee butcher”—the Kychee being a (hopefully) extinct, genetically engineered, six-limbed warrior subspecies from the time of the Formation Wars.

  That did not seem to be news to Silk. “What sort of background?”

  “Where she’s been for the past year or so—what she’s been working on. Or who. Out-of-school contacts. Unexplained absences—pretty much anything interesting.”

  Silk shook her head. “I can’t go forward with just that. What’s this about?”

  “Anandale.”

  That got Silk to look over. “How was she involved?”

  Min answered with an off-kilter shrug. “Dunno. In the op itself—maybe not at all. But they’re covering something up, and she is involved with that. In fact, I think she’s the prime mover on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it women’s intuition.”

  “Sure it is.” Silk chuckled. “So if I can do this, what kinda timeframe are you looking for?”

  “A week—ten days. Before the shit hits the fan around here.”

  A strong negative headshake. “We can’t do a workup anything like that fast.”

  “No workup. I need this to go straight to the General. If it is what I think it might be, she’ll have a direct line on it, but this can’t go any further than her—no one else in the loop.” Min sat up, swung her legs off the bed and reached halfway to Silk before she thought better of it. “Look. They fed my people straight into the fuckin’ furnace there. I’m not taking ‘em back into hell again without knowing why and what-the-fuck. No one serves up my people like burnt offerings that way—not twice.”

  Silk held the fierce gray eyes with her shifting green ones. “Is it true what they say about you and the General?”

  That softened Min’s expression. “Alexis Corhaine is the best woman you’ll ever meet. But don’t believe everything you hear.”

  After searching Min’s face for a moment, Silk nodded. “It’ll take sixty-two hours to blink a message to her. I can’t promise anything in less than a week.”