The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris Book 5)

by Owen R. O’Neill

  Across from her, Rowan had unbelted her coat and taken it off (incidentally confirming Kris’ assessment about what she wore underneath and that her tattoos indeed went from top to toe). Kris stood up to follow suit. The silk slipped over her bare skin, cool and slick and smooth in way that sent a sensual little shiver scampering across her shoulders and down her flanks. It warmed almost instantly to her touch, but as she moved the cooler parts brushed against her, surprisingly pleasant.

  Reclining again on the couch, she watched the others resettling themselves, smoothing and smiling while Rowan circulated to see that no one’s glass was empty. She looked quite fetching doing so, her top belted loosely; so much softer than the girl in the trench coat.

  “Can’t let it go to waste,” she said to no one in particular as she poured the last glass full. Kris duly drank with the rest. Although her reaction to alcohol tended to be unpleasant, she hadn’t gotten to that point yet, and so far the cool crispness of the champagne lent no more than a pleasant warmth. The conversation started up again, jumping topics in a way that didn’t always logically connect, until Harlyn said, “What’dya think those two are up to?”

  “Dunno.” Rowan flicked her eyes in the direction Kenzie and Mariwen had gone. “I think it must be interesting lingerie.” Then she caught Kris’ gaze for a moment, with a buried wink.

  Kris glanced into her remaining champagne, unsure how or even if to respond. She knew just how interesting that lingerie was, but in the next moment, Mariwen and Kenzie solved her dilemma by reappearing and showing how inadequate the word interesting was, along with a host of other adjectives.

  It took more than a lot to overshadow Mariwen, but if it could be done, Kenzie in that lingerie came closer the anything Kris had ever seen. The sudden stillness in the room reinforced that feeling, and Kenzie stood there under the amazed concentrated scrutiny, the dancing light playing across her, looking shy and pink and radiant.

  “How does it do that?” someone breathed in the tones of one receiving a revelation. For the garment did not, in a sense, seem to be there at all: what they saw; what they marveled at (even Kris, who’d been told about it, but hadn’t witnessed it yet) was Kenzie clad from low on her neck to the tops of her thighs in a mist of light that tricked the eye as if looking through clear but swiftly moving water. It seemed to borrow all the colors in the room, refract and spin the inconstant illumination into something near tangible, a touch of the fey, at once at home and otherworldly in the surreal atmosphere.

  “It responds to touch,” Mariwen replied in the collective silence. “The fabric changes according to your mood and . . . circumstances.” Kris suppressed a knowing smile at the last word. “It takes a while to become acclimated to the person wearing it.”

  “Does it always look like that when it’s on?” asked Janice.

  “No.” explained Mariwen, a subdued impish expression in her eyes. “It fits like a second skin when it’s . . . activated. A sensitized second skin. It doesn’t exactly amplify touch but, well . . . plays with it. Then it relaxes. Like now. Once you take it off, it goes back to looking like cloth again.”

  “I guess we’re not going to get to see the activated mode,” Rowan commented, grasping the inferences. She’s also noticed that a certain velvet pouch was missing from Kenzie’s stack of gifts. Kenzie, who’d been standing there mute, clearly tongue-tied and perhaps a bit overwhelmed, gave her friend a shy grin with an imprecise writhe of her shoulders.

  “So I guess it was a satisfactory purchase? We don’t have to ask for a refund?”

  “You don’t.” Kenzie’s reply was barely audible as she sidled over and resumed her place on the bed. Those who had not yet tumbled to the implications now did, and amid the general gaiety this added to the party, Kris shared a covert smile with Mariwen who, taking advantage of the momentary distraction, had gotten changed.

  “Nice,” Kris said in a undertone as Mariwen came near. “Now I get what you were talking about.”

  “Would you like one?” spoken softly with an arched eyebrow. “I’m sure they can produce another.”

  “I’d like you in one” dropping her voice still further and reaching out to squeeze Mariwen’s hand.

  Responding with a slight tsk-ing noise and shake of her head, Mariwen returned the squeeze. “What do we have to do you get you outta your shell?”

  Kris pretended to consider. “I might give that loop a go.”

  “Really?!” Mariwen’s eyes lit with a wicked sparkle. “It comes with a remote, y’know.”

  “Yeah, well . . . we’ll talk about that part.”

  “I can’t wait” with a hidden stroke of her forefinger across Kris’ palm.

  “What’re you working on now?” Chelle asked Kenzie as Mariwen let Kris’ hand slip from hers.

  “There’s a new project,” Kenzie offered, self-consciously fiddling with the hem of her lingerie, now subduing itself to a more natural state, which perversely seemed to make it more revealing.

  “Is it related to your current series?” Kazia asked this time.

  “Um . . . no?” Kenzie temporized.

  “Yes,” Rowan corrected.

  “Sorta,” Kenzie admitted. “It’s more . . .”

  “Personal,” Rowan supplied.

  “Like a memoir?” Chelle asked.

  “Her adventures.” Rowan grinned openly at the Kenzie’s mischief-making pout.

  “I knew it.” Harlyn leaned forward. “Those stories are real.”

  “Based on reality,” Rowan interjected helpfully.

  Kenzie bit her lip. “Some of them.”

  “Most of them.”

  “Ohhh . . .” At least three sets of lips Kris could see uttered that; there might have been more. Then Chelle asked, “The scene with Jae and Cole by the fire” naming the two principals of Kenzie’s long-running series “is that based on reality?”

  The cloth around Kenzie’s breasts stirred faintly, moving with more than her breath.. “Well . . . it wasn’t by a fire.”

  “It was on a beach,” added Rowan.

  “You did that on a beach.” Harlyn sounded breathless.

  “In a thunderstorm . . .”

  Kenzie gave Rowan a gimlet stare, but the intensified shimmer of the gauzy material as it began to adhere more closely to her body sent a different message.

  “Who?” Chelle’s voice, contracting even more than Kenzie’s outfit, almost squeaked. “Who was with you on the beach?”

  Kenzie bit the inside of her cheek as Rowan grinned, ready to pounce. “Go on. Spill. Untold millions are gonna read about it anyway.”

  “All right.” Kenzie’s pout unclamped. “It was Rafe Huron.”

  Amid the loud answering exhalation, Mariwen licked her lips and gave Kris a decidedly wicked look. “Well . . . he does like sex on the beach.”

  Kris sharpened that look and sent it back. “You should know.”

  “Wait a sec . . .” said Harlyn, digesting the exchange. “You mean there’s three people in this room who've fucked the Rafe Huron?”

  From behind her glass as she drained the last of her champagne, Rowan smirked. “Only three?”

  Chapter 10

  St. Gregory’s Cathedral

  Singapore, Terra, Sol

  “You may kiss,” pronounced the chaplain in his soft, solemn, warm voice. They did; Kenzie stretching up on her toes to meet Baz leaning down, his resplendent black full-dress SRF uniform contrasting sharply, beautifully, with Kenzie’s sleek cream and pearl dress, the faint tremor in his muscles barely visible. That he stood at all, much less walked down the aisle under his own power, was scarcely conceivable a year ago, when an encounter with two Halith stealth destroyers left him in a revivification unit (colloquially known as a “box”), unable to so much as smile without the aid of software.

  He was smiling now grinning actually and crushing Kenzie against him smiling, too and their abundant joy lit the chapel more brightly than the sun streaming through the expanse of noble stained-gl
ass windows behind them. Someone broke into applause, touching off an ovation that made those stained-glass windows shake.

  Kris, from her position as Best Man on Baz’s left flank, and Huron, holding down the extreme right as head of the unit’s honor guard, executed a neat simultaneous turn and stepped smartly off the dais. Walking shoulder to shoulder with a precise deliberate parade-ground stride to their appointed place midway down the aisle, they stopped and faced off as the noise died. Their companions, forty-eight pairs as demanded by military tradition, all in full-dress black and silver, came forward to line the aisle, standing at strict attention, and Kris, watching Huron’s eyes intently, unsheathed with a flourish (easier said than done it was maybe the third time she’d touched the ceremonial saber in her career), touching sword tips with him. The metallic ring of blades meeting signaled the others; sabers flashed on either side, rippling out from the center to form the ceremonial arch.

  It was well done, and Kris exhaled silently at not having disgraced herself. Arm in arm, the newly married couple walked slowly down under the gleaming arch of keen-edged steel. As the pair passed by, Kris detected the sheen of perspiration at Baz’s stiff white collar from the effort, and her eyes pricked with tears. Huron, eyes following the couple, his look of sober happiness unchanged, pretended not to notice.

  Baz and Kenzie reached the end of the aisle, where he accepted the waiting lift chair. The cathedral’s wide double doors opened to reveal the cavalcade waiting to whisk them to the reception and thereafter to the suborbital transport that would take them to Kalava’ska in Greater Finland for their honeymoon.

  Kris sheathed her saber. Huron, sliding his into its gleaming scabbard so the sound of their blades going home exactly overlaid one another, dipped his chin to her in a private, barely perceptible nod. One pace back, a neat about-turn, and the line dispersed as everyone breathed again and the general hum of conversation rose to banish the sacramental quiet.

  Kris felt Mariwen’s hand alight gently on her waist. “Beautiful,” she murmured, her dark eyes showing a matching wetness and a few glistening trails down her dark cheeks.

  “I didn’t know you cried at weddings,” Kris said, blinking.

  Mariwen caught a tear trembling at the corner of Kris’ eye. “Maybe it’s the company I keep.”

  “Maybe so.” Kris gathered her into a warm embrace.

  Smiling, Mariwen laid a fleeting kiss on her cheek. The ushers appeared and began to direct everyone to the waiting vehicles. Arms about each other’s waist, Kris and Mariwen joined the stream of exiting guests. As they reached the curb of the broad cobbled parking apron, a gleaming black aircar sidled up and spread its gull-wing doors considerately. Getting comfortable in the plush interior, Kris gave Mariwen a thinly veiled look.

  “So how long’s it gonna take to get to this place we’re going?”

  “The Raffles Imperial?” asked Mariwen, sizing up the look. “Maybe thirty or thirty-five minutes.” It was no great distance from the cathedral of St. Gregory the Illuminator to the Raffles Imperial, but the wedding procession would traverse the old city at a stately pace; a pace laid down by its mounted equine escort, two hundred fifty-six strong, complete with gleaming cuirasses and plumed helmets.

  “Oh . . . half an hour, then?”

  “I’d say that’s safe” charting Kris’ grin with a forefinger. “Something on your mind?”

  Kris answered the purely rhetorical question by maneuvering Mariwen into her lap. “Be a shame to waste an opportunity.” A notice had come through early the previous AM, saying her deployment was imminent, which meant within 48 hours, and she had to allow for getting from Singapore to the main CEF naval base at Pearl Harbor.

  “It would.” Straddling Kris, Mariwen lifted her hips as Kris’ hand engaged in a reconnaissance beneath the elegant skirt and found only smooth warm flesh waiting.

  “You were thinking ahead” catching Mariwen’s forefinger and sucking gently.

  “I like to be prepared for any . . . eventuality” the catch in her breath caused by Kris’ fingers finding their way home. That brought something like a growl from Kris’ throat and a gasp, followed by a groan from Mariwen’s as Kris worked those fingers in deeper.

  “I think I’ve created a monster . . .” A throaty whisper as she abandoned her hips to the rhythms set by Kris’ increasing impetuous explorations.

  “Yeah . . .” Kris used her free arm to pull Mariwen in close for a devouring kiss. “Your monster.”

  * * *

  “Good lord,” Kris said as they walked into the grand ballroom of the Raffles Imperial.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Mariwen replied, taking in the magnificent interior with warm appreciation. The Raffles Imperial was more than Singapore’s premier hotel; indeed, it was one of the finest on Earth.

  “I’ll say. How’re we gonna eat all that?”

  With a start, Mariwen realized Kris wasn’t talking about the architecture at all, but the extraordinary creation at the room’s center, resembling nothing so much as a scale model of the Matterhorn, done in rich dark chocolate and complete with glaciers of whipped cream.

  Mariwen covered a giggle with a fan of fingers. “Didn’t you work up an appetite?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” It wasn’t simply the colossal chocolate Matterhorn, but the vast array of other food; enough to feed Greater Singapore, Kris thought, had they been invited, and considering the scale of the celebration, she almost wondered why they weren’t. This was all Baz’s family’s doing overdoing really determined to see that their son’s wedding would be on such a scale as to make the very heavens throb. That might been have literal, but Kenzie told them privately after her party that Baz had drawn the line at a display of fireworks.

  There he was now, sitting down and receiving guests affably (the hint of embarrassment at all the extravagance invisible to all except to those who knew him extremely well) while Kenzie stood by him, looking (Kris felt) graciously overwhelmed but bearing up with great good humor.

  “Shall we?” asked Mariwen, accepting a small plate of hors d'oeuvres from a wandering server but declining a glass of champagne. Kris declined both (it would be a while before she could look at another glass of the bubbly stuff), acutely aware her duties were as yet unfulfilled, Hitching her belt (now swordless, thank gawd the thing was bloody awkward), she gave Mariwen a half-smile. They crossed the gleaming floor, alive with myriad reflections an ethereal touch and Baz and Kenzie broke into fresh smiles. They embraced, the four of them, and Kris said, “Your folks really cut loose on this shindig, didn’t they?”

  “You know Phaedrans,” Baz chuckled. “Give ’em a micron, they take a klick.” Kris did know that Phaedrans did not live on their famously uninhabitable homeworld, but around it on an orbital ring, 86,900 kilometers in diameter. Despite the mind-boggling size of this incredible structure one of the principal wonders of human engineering space was very much at a premium there and Phaedrans, when they got out-system, tended to get a little carried away. The topic occupied them for a few minutes, and then Baz said, with a sideways nod, “Have you tried the cake?”

  Kris followed the direction of the nod, wondering if she’d missed something, but he was plainly indicating the frosted Matterhorn. “You call that thing a cake?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged with that old crooked smile that stopped just short of a wink. “It’s all truffles. Except for the whipped cream, of course.”

  “Chocolate truffles?” Kris had had enough food adventures to not make any assumptions.

  “Yeah. Eighteen or twenty different kinds. My sister’s idea. How the hell we’re gonna get through the whole thing, I’ve got no notion.”

  The serving staff had been handing out large crystal goblets full of what Kris now knew to be truffles and whipped cream since they arrived, with hardly any noticeable diminution of the ‘cake’.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way?” Kris suggested. “Make people take it with them? Invite the rest of the islan
d in?”

  “Might have to,” Baz agreed. “Hell of a thing to let it go to waste.” If he meant to say more, it was cut off by a fanfare by a company of buglers. Kris felt a faint tingle in her cheeks at the sound.

  He gave Kris a wink. “Rather go toe-to-toe with a couple of tin cans? I'm with you there.” Then, looking up at his bride, “Told’ja we should’ve eloped.”

  Kenzie giggled like a ripple and squeezed his shoulder. “There’s no harm in following tradition now and then. You’ll do beautifully, Commander.” This last directed at Kris with a smile.

  “Thanks.” When she signed up for this duty, they’d neglected to inform her that as Best Man, she’d be obliged to deliver the first of the obligatory speeches. As an expectant quiet descended, Kris took her place at the rostrum set up by the head table with the fixed smile of one going bravely to the gallows.

  Drawing breath as if it were her last, she looked out at the now silent crowd. “You probably all know Baz saved my life. Then, he did again. But marrying Kenzie proves that he does have some sense . . .”

  She carried off the rest of the delivery well enough, her voice nearly drowned by the thump of blood in her ears, and finished to a round of cheering and cries of “Here! Here!”, “Up and at ’em!”, “Storm and board!” and other encouragements muddled by the joyful noise, during which Kris retreated to her seat next to Mariwen, not even stumbling. Under cover of the bright white tablecloth, Mariwen squeezed her hand. “You did do beautifully.”

  “Uh huh,” Kris grunted low, squeezing her hand back. “No more surprises, right?”

  “No more surprises. You’re in the clear now” with a wink.