The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris Book 5)

by Owen R. O’Neill

  “Licorice?” desperately working some moisture back into her mouth. “You named her that?”

  “Uh huh. It’s my favorite. Like her. Don’t you like licorice?”

  Kris had tried it once and found it odd, cloying, too sweetly strong and gummy. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

  “We oughta go,” the girl pronounced, smiling. “They’re waiting.”

  “Who’s waiting?”

  “The man and the other man and short lady and the other lady.” When that didn’t seem to make the proper impression on Kris probably because her facial muscles still weren’t working quite right the little girl elaborated, “They came looking for you. They came to our steading and said you were lost, and I said we’ll find you. And we did! First go! Licorice knows everything in this forest. She always finds the new ones. I told ‘em she would.”

  “Right.” It was just possible her legs would support her now. “So where is your place?” hauling herself unsteadily to her feet.

  “Hop on! I’ll show you.”

  “Hop on?” The kid could not mean . . .

  Sticking two stubby fingers in her mouth, the girl let loose a whistle that could cut glass. Licorice huffed and slid down flat on her belly. Grabbing her scruff, the child scrambled up. Grinning from atop the cat’s withers, she repeated, “Hop on!”

  Oh gawd . . . Grabbing a fistful of long fur, Kris gave a short leap onto the broad back and hauled herself into a sitting position behind the girl. Another piercing whistle, and Licorice reared up, causing Kris to sway precariously, but taking a firm grip on the roots of the long blue-black tufts, she managed to right herself. If Mariwen could see me now . . .

  The cat set off at an easy gliding lope, covering ground at a surprising rate and with hardly any noise. It was full dark now, and Kris could barely see the trunks as they passed close on either side.

  “What’s your name?” asking to distract herself from the absurdity of the situation: getting lost and having to be rescued by a house-sized cat and a tiny child. Never gonna live this down. Not in a million fuck’n years. . .

  “Tayla!” the child shrilled as the cat took a flying leap over an unseen ditch that brought Kris’ heart into her mouth. “You’re Kris!”

  “Yeah.” A grunt as Licorice landed on the far side and picked up the pace so the air whistled past her ears. “And this is a larl?” The briefing packet hadn’t said anything about them being domesticated.

  Tayla looked back with her cherubic face scrunched into a frown. “A course, she is. Don’t you know anything?”

  “Um . . . maybe not.”

  * * *

  Hunched forward, Kris stared with intense concentration at the soft white globe on the end of the long fork, taking care not to hold it too far above the fire in the big iron stove so that it would melt and fall off like the last one had, nor too low where it would burst into flame like the one before that. This one was developing a fine tawny crust, more like Tayla’s, sitting next to her with a beaming grin on her little face. Hers always came out perfect.

  “That’s much better,” Tayla chirped as she withdrew her latest masterpiece from the fire and popped it into her mouth. “Aren’t these so good?”

  Withdrawing her own attempt, Kris sucked off the toasty outer skin to reveal the creamy, nearly molten center. She’d been instructed that was the proper way to eat this delicacy. At least, at first. Devouring them whole, as Tayla had just done, was acceptable after you’d had a couple. Either way, Kris had to admit the kid had a point.

  Behind her, Rafe said something that made Vasquez chuckle and Captain Gomez laugh, which evoked a muffled response from her fiancé, Captain Troy Anders, which in turn earned him what sounded very like a swat. Kris, wholly focused, missed the details. But Robyn Gomez had a delightful laugh. Something about the warm, intensely comfortable and even cozy atmosphere of this rambling homestead with its massive welcoming solidity, invited people to laugh. Kris’ furious mood, shocked out of her by meeting Licorice and then, on arrival, discovering the cat was in fact a kitten, whose full-grown parents towered over her had recovered to a state of rare benevolence, helped out being a large bowl of a hearty stew from Tayla’s smiling parents (a couple who seemed very much the human embodiment of the home they’d made) and close to half a liter of dark, rich ale, the husband’s pride.

  Now, under Tayla’s tutelage, she was enjoying dessert. Finishing the treat and licking her fingers, she pierced another one Tayla handed her from a basket between them. As she prepared to introduce it to the fire, Tayla’s mother appeared next to her.

  “More tea, Commander?” The stout woman hovered the kettle over the big cup at Kris’ elbow. Being addressed as commander jarred with the relaxed surroundings, but Kris smiled as she looked up.

  “No, thank you. I’m good.” Between the ale and all the tea after dinner, Kris was feeling fully hydrated, and she reckoned her bladder had gotten enough of a workout. Tayla’s mother understood, winked, and made the rounds at the table where Rafe, Vasquez, Robyn and Troy all sat.

  A moment later, Kris heard Tayla’s father’s voice raised in greeting, and a cheerful answer in a rich Lodestone accent. “In here, Colonel,” he said, and Kris swiveled round to see Minerva Lewis breeze through the big, open archway into the room.

  “Hey there, my little Fortunella!” This to Vasquez as Min came up and they shared a frankly amorous kiss. Setting the corporal back on her feet, she greeted Rafe and Robyn, then noticed what Kris was engaged in. “Hot damn! Marshmallows! Haven’t toasted those since I was a wee thing.”

  The father urged a tankard of ale on Min (not that any serious urging was required) and Kris, smiling at Tayla, gestured with her fork. “How ‘bout it, Chief? Wanna let her have a go?”

  Tayla, smiling at Min, nodded animatedly. The colonel had that effect on people when she was in a bubbling good humor. Needless to say, there was the reason behind the bubbling good humor. A few things could be counted on to put Min in high spirits, and under the circumstances, Kris had formed a fair idea of what this one might be.

  Kris stood to relinquish her spot by the fire. “Here. You can use my fork.”

  “Don’t mind if I do, then” accepting the fork. Introduction were made; both Min and Tayla were charmed at the acquaintance, Min congratulated the girl on her culinary skills, received suddenly shy and blushing thanks, and hunkered down. Kris took a seat at the table next to Rafe. During a break in the hushed consultation on marshmallow-toasting theory, Rafe asked the question that had been hovering in the air since Min arrived.

  “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Colonel?”

  “Seems there’s a bit of a situation on Amu Daria,” Min said offhandedly. “They want us back at Ahvaland for a brief. Fred’s on his way with the rest of the team. Transport’s waiting, but finish your tea. We’ve got a few yet.”

  Ah, hell. Vacation was over.

  With that inward sigh, Kris watched the colonel consume a perfectly toasted marshmallow.

  And I was just getting the hang of that.

  Chapter 20

  Ahvaland, Karelia

  Karelian Republic, The Perseids

  At the head of the table in LSS Athena Nike’s wardroom sat a baldish, broken-down looking man in a CEF marine major’s uniform so new the creases were still fresh. His skin was so pale and translucent as to resemble white glass, and his hands looked fragile. Resting on the table, they showed that slight tremor Kris knew as “GQ” (said to be short for “Gee Ague”), a condition which afflicted people who made long null-gee voyages, especially those who’d been planet-bound for years, and most especially when those voyages involved numerous jumps. The thinning hair and pale skin were infallible signs of an immunocyte implant gone too long without tune-ups, and combined with the GQ, the overall impression was one of advancing decrepitude. This impression was much strengthened when the man struggled to stand and Min waved him back into his seat.

  “At ease, Major,” she said in a kindly, compani
onable voice. “No ceremony today.”

  The man sank back in the chair, accepting the license with a bob of his head and a shaky smile. He looked more suited to be the guest of honor at a funeral than a meeting; should certainly be in sickbay. Kris could not imagine why he wasn’t.

  After the other participants filed in, Min introduced them all: Huron and Sergeant Major Yu, then Kris, followed by Master Sergeant Burdett and finally Troy Anders. Kris could understand, or at least rationalize, the presence of everyone else in the room, but what she was doing there was a mystery. A mystery that spawned a particular frown, with the arcs of her brows drawn faintly together and a set look about the eyes, for mysteries of this kind had rarely boded well for her. Who the major was, or at least how he was connected with Amu Daria, was less mystery. His condition was a dead giveaway, and Min confirmed her conclusion once they all sat.

  “Everybody, this is Major Jon Sutton, Colonel Christina Yeager’s executive officer.” No one seemed very surprised by this revelation, and the colonel carried straight on. “Major Sutton comes to us from Amu Daria with a report that at the time of his departure, Colonel Yeager and thirty-six of her people were still alive on-planet.” That earned a chorus of nods. “Now I’ll just mention for form’s sake, cuz I know it’s obvious” here Min slipped back into her Lodestone brogue “that the Major’s presence here is off the radar. The admiral knows, obviously, and the KIA folks who brought the Major in from the cold.” As usual, there were a few muted grins at the Karelian Intelligence Agency’s unfortunate acronym. “That’s it, besides us here in this room. Now that I’ve talked too much, I’ll let the Major bring us up to speed.”

  Without preamble, Major Sutton began to unfold what had befallen his unit since they touched down on Amu Daria. It was a succinct and patient recapitulation, told in a thin, threadbare voice with the air of an impersonal history not necessarily his at all, but of another man who happened to be named Jon Sutton.

  During the first part, dealing with their abortive attempts to make nice with the Amu Darian separatists, a number of hair-raising escapes, and a wave of deaths caused by accident, a near-disastrous raid (after which they changed their tactics), and immunocyte implants going out of tune, he kept his fragile hands with their protruding knuckles folded in front of him. It wasn’t until he spoke of the night he left to meet the separatist group that his tone warmed out of the staid official delivery and he eased back in his chair.

  The separatists were not one of the local groups but came from far across the continent, and: “They didn’t seem quite happy to see me”, thinning his lips across his teeth in a kind of smile. Unsure what to make of him, they spent the night in spirited debate (none of it especially heartwarming, he added), and finally decided to take him along to this big confab in the vicinity of the capital, where the issue of his fate could be resolved.

  “Not that they ever said that where they were headed,” Sutton explained, “but stars don’t lie.” Telling Kris that he had paid much more attention to the survival-techniques manuals than she’d bothered to.

  “Any indication as to the purpose of this gathering?” asked the sergeant major who, being personally acquainted with the separatists, knew more about them than anyone in the room, and therefore more than almost anyone, anywhere. Large meetings involving such widespread groups were unusual in the contentious realm of separatist politics.

  “They weren’t forthcoming on that topic,” Sutton answered. After a few day’s cautious travel, he’d found an opportunity to part company and took it. He also took some native kit and what he called a “road stake” from his careless guards. “I didn’t figure they’d miss it badly, though they might’ve gotten a trifle cold that night.” He covered the rest of the distance on foot. As far as he could discern, his erstwhile hosts made no great effort to find him. “I guess they didn’t crave my society.”

  Once at the capital “and if you can smoke it, drink it, shoot it or fuck it, they’ve got it” he knocked about for almost three weeks before talking his way aboard a tramp freighter. “Glory knows, I’ve been in and out of ships since I was knee high to a short dog. You can always find a tramp that’ll let you crew for O2 and vittles. As long as you’re not particularly fussy.” Sutton’s state attested to his lack of fussiness.

  Three tramps and a courier packet later, Sutton made planet-fall on Ilmatar, the third planet in Karelia’s system, got a message to the local KIA station chief through means known only to himself, and thus here.

  “That’s the bones.” The major slumped slightly, as if the recitation had depleted him. Then, with a visible effort, he leaned forward over the table again. “What can I answer for you all?”

  “When we send a team” Huron did not waste any time with nonsense about if’s “how would we locate your people?” That was really the only pertinent question. Given Sutton’s disappearance, Colonel Yeager would certainly not be operating anywhere near their accustomed haunts, and not being on speaking terms with the separatist movement, they were unlikely to have news of her, even assuming Fred still had useful contacts there. The only real hope was that they had a working transceiver their xels would be years out-of-date for secure comms and Sutton hadn’t said anything about that. Huron therefore regarded the possibility as doubtful at best. That left unreal hopes, but before Huron could even begin to contemplate these finding a handful of people roaming at large on an entire planet was about as unreal as things got Sutton curved his mouth into a genuine grin.

  “That’s the easy part. We’re all core-jacked.”

  Kris and Anders looked expectantly puzzled while Huron, Min, and the members of Cat 5 registered varying degrees of surprise. Core-jacking was perhaps the most closely guarded of the League’s technologies and normally reserved for the V-est of VIPs. As Speaker of the Grand Senate, Huron’s father would have gotten one, had not his recalcitrant genome prevented it. Huron himself had been offered it but declined the honor, just as he had declined to be trip-wired (as far as he was concerned, an immunocyte implant was all the technological meddling he cared to inflict upon his system). He’d never heard of it being used on such a scale before.

  Kris and Anders continued to look expectant, Kris with that cocked eyebrow he knew so well. He and Min exchanged a look, and she gave him an open-handed gesture. “Be my guest, Commander.”

  “It’s an implant,” he explained, “that works like a calling card. It’s administered by injection. Embeds itself in the recipient’s mitochondria, very much like a virus. You can’t actually communicate with it, but you can locate others who have a matching implant. I believe you can also receive basic impressions through it get a feeling for the someone’s state of health, warnings, that sort of thing.” He lifted a hand to Sutton. “Do I have that right, Major?”

  “Pretty near, Commander. If you’ve been around your mates long enough and know ’em well enough, you can read their state of mind better than fair get a grasp of what they want you to do, or not do. It’s not always easy though. Takes a lotta concentration.”

  “How good is the localization on these?” asked Burdette. There were different species (as it were) of the implant, adapted for different situations. Some allowed the recipient to be pinpointed much better than others.

  “Not great,” Sutton answered. “This ain’t the deluxe model. About a tenth of a radian or so.”

  “Could you detect your people from orbit?” Min wanted to know.

  “Never tried it. Angular velocity is a problem, so it’d have to high orbit, and getting a fix up there could be tricky. But I think so.”

  “How confident are you?” Huron asked.

  Sutton folded his hands again. “Detection’s not really the issue. It’s the implants. The Amus don’t have what you’d call modern medicine. Basically anything that’s more than herb tea, you can’t get for love or money, unless you’re on the government list. You can steal it, but not often, and even then it’s not like a proper tune-up. So the people’s immunocyte i
mplants are pretty well whacked by now. And when immunocyte implants get outta tune, they tend to see a core-jack as an ‘infection’ and go after it. Most of the people have lost theirs, on account of that. For the rest, gettin’ the core-jack to wake up can be an issue. When I left, maybe eight or nine of us were still online regular, but losing a couple more since then would not surprise me.” A pause as he considered. “Still, I’d think there ought to be someone up. At least to get us in the ballpark.”

  “The colonel? Is she one of those eight or nine?”

  Sutton shook his head at the sergeant major’s question. “Nope. Hers has been dead gettin’ onto half a year now.”

  “So no way to get a direct read on her when we arrive.”

  “Not direct . . .” The slanted look on Sutton’s face spoke volumes. “But once I get dialed in on the people, we’ll know well enough how things lay there.” The question on the faces of his listeners needed no further articulation. “Well . . . I said detection was the easy part. The Colonel . . .” His teeth came out to scrape his thin upper lip, and he caught Huron’s eye down the table. “I don’t know what she was like when you knew her, sir. But she can be a mite touchy these days.”

  Huron could well believe it. After almost three years on a planet like Amu Daria, a soul much more tranquil than Cristina Yeager had ever owned could well be “a mite touchy”.

  When no more questions were forthcoming, Min thanked Major Sutton and closed the proceedings. The major, making it clear he neither needed nor desired help, cordially took his leave and shuffled to the wardroom’s entryway. Reaching it, he stopped for a moment, and they could hear him breathing.

  “Not as bad as it looks,” he remarked, an offhand response to the carefully inattentive attention he was getting. “Name the time and place, and I’ll be there with bells on.”