Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative (10 page)

“Kris?”

“Yep! Oh—Ms. Rathor too.” Walsh laughed again. “Of course.”

Huron chuckled privately.
Of course
. “I’ll see to it.
Thanks Walsh.”

“Thank her!” He turned and jogged off the passageway.
“Goddamn, this is a beautiful day! Put this fucking day on the calendar . . .”
The joyous expressions echoed off the bulkheads until Walsh turned a corner and
Huron heard the vigorous opening and closing of a hatch.

By noon, the invitations had been given and accepted—with
some hesitation on Kris’s part, who would have demurred had Mariwen given her a
choice. The primary concern was finding proper attire but this was not the
obstacle they’d feared, due to the purser’s ingenuity and the considerable
number of female crew.

The carefully boxed options, presented by white-gloved
orderlies, ranged from subdued to surprisingly flamboyant. Kris chose one end
of the spectrum and Mariwen, the other. Mariwen’s choice—the flamboyant end,
of course—turned out to be a commander’s formal ball gown with the insignia
removed and a rather daring slit up one side of the long elegant royal blue
skirt. Seeing Mariwen twirling delightedly in it made Kris rethink certain
ideas she’d formed about the Navy.

Her choice was also elegant, if sober: a female lieutenant’s
dark blue full dress suit—pants, no skirt—without the cap. A couple of rates
tailored it to fit her perfectly in less than half an hour and Kris, observing
herself in it, self-consciously admitted that it sat pretty well.

At the appointed hour, Huron arrived to escort them and also
to explain a few aspects of the proceedings. After detailing the number of
courses, the toasts, and the Navy’s notion of polite conversation, he said:
“And as this is a formal dinner, no ranks, no saluting, and first names only.”

This earned a pair of quizzical looks and Huron elaborated.
“You see, in the Navy we are very formally informal. Except for the Captain, of
course—who is still
Sir
—and the Admiral, unless he chooses to be
otherwise, as he is not part of the ship.” This he further clarified by
explaining the admiral was only a passenger and not acting in any official
capacity.

This was the first Kris had heard about an admiral, part of
the ship or no, but certainly not the last. He was a short wiry gentleman, bald
but for a fringe of gray hair with a goatee and papery skin that showed the
veins, especially on the backs of his hands. He was a rear admiral; his name
was Nathan Byng—Sir Nathan Byng, for he was Hesperian—and he was on his way
home. Captain RyKirt introduced him at the opening of the dinner, where it was
revealed he had indeed elected to be known to the company by his first name,
not his rank or title; this was understood to be a mark of respect for their
role in the victory. Kris found his way of speaking eccentric and more than a
little decided, but he was the first Hesperian she’d met and one of the few
Homeworlders—Huron and Mariwen being two of the others—so she admittedly had
little to go on.

Admiral Byng soon settled in, talking mainly with the senior
officers near the head of the table, and the courses started arriving, hot from
the galley, on a truly astounding service of plate made from asteroidal
iridium. The courses were many, which quickly reduced Kris to nibbling, just as
it quickly outstripped her ability to identify the dishes being served, the
names often being foreign to her as were, in some cases, the foodstuffs
comprising them.

The talk was general, pleasant, and if a trifle banal at
times, it still made for a cheering noise with all the officers looking
splendid in their very best—a glittering company. Mariwen shined, entirely in
her element, able to speak charmingly on most subjects and having a dazzling
smile to fall back on if she chose not to. The adoration of the officers was
certainly of a more refined order than that of the crew, but it was adoration
nonetheless and offered with great respect.

Huron and Mariwen talked a good deal. They seemed to be
among the very few Terrans here and the only two from the States. Kris recalled
Mariwen saying she hadn’t really known him personally but they certainly seemed
to have a lot in common, although Kris noticed that every now and then Huron
would allude to something that Mariwen did not seem to catch; she would just
dip her head and smile. A couple of times, she was sure Huron noticed it too,
but of course he did not say anything. Once, though, she did detect him
tactfully changing the subject.

Kris, on the other hand, was not called on to say much at
all, which suited her just fine—if they treated her with a certain respectful
reserve, she was grateful for it. The only truly awkward moment came when the
captain rose to offer a solemn toast in her honor and Mariwen had to chivvy her
out of her seat to accept it, all the while whispering guidance in her ear.

It was among the first toasts, being the proximate cause of
the occasion, but far from the last. Captain RyKirt maintained an excellent
cellar and bottle after bottle was brought in and circulated, always clockwise
in the time-honored fashion. The admiral was especially fond of wine and at one
point remarked, rather loudly: “This is capital claret. Antiguan, it is?”

“No actually, Nathan. It comes from the north of California,
on Terra.” RyKirt smiled down the table at Huron. “One of your brother’s
vineyards, isn’t it, Rafe?”

“Indeed so, sir. A small valley slightly to the east of
Napa.”

“Well, it’s damn fine,” said the admiral, “though I do not
set myself up as true connoisseur. My compliments to your brother. Been in the
business long, have you?”

“Not long, Nathan. A few generations only.”

 “Well, it does go down most gratefully.” The admiral, who
for some time had been letting it go down very gratefully indeed, held his
glass up to the light and intoned: “History shows us that winemakers and the
military are the only two reliably competent and generally honorable
professions that humanity has ever produced. Well, I suppose I might add
firemen and shipwrights—have never known an incompetent shipwright—but beyond
these noble few
and
our esteemed guests, of course,”—here he raised his
glass and bowed to Kris and Mariwen at the other end of the table—“humanity has, I’m sad to say, sometimes
seemed to have damned little to recommend itself. So it is wherefore that the
Navy always has and always will drink wine. And if we do so at times
immoderately, let that be taken as a token of our love and respect.”

“Hear! Hear!” the table cried and Huron, hiding his smile
behind his glass, winked.

“I’m afraid that might have been a trifle tedious for
you,” Huron remarked confidentially when, retiring to their quarters an hour
later, they found themselves alone in the passageway. Kris’s “That’s alright”
clashed precisely with Mariwen’s “Oh, not at all” and they laughed together.

“Well,” Huron went on in the same tone, “the admiral can
tend to get a little prosy. He’s on his way home and, ah . . . well, shifting
the weight of responsibility, shall we say, can have that effect.”

Neither Kris or Mariwen had a clear idea what he was talking
about but where Mariwen had the diplomatic sense to politely incline her head,
Kris blurted, “Was he relieved?”

Huron looked a trifle embarrassed; his eyes darted left and
right. “He
is
close to retirement—he may in fact choose to retire. Or
he may have something lined up with the shore establishment.”

“Oh.” Kris, now aware of committing something of a
faux
pax
, reddened.

“He’s a kindly gentleman,” Huron finished, “and if he does
retire, it is well deserved.”

That struck Kris as a rather odd thing to say: surely being
a
kindly gentleman
was at best a weak compliment for an admiral. Admiral
Joss PrenTalien, the one League admiral Kris had heard mentioned regularly,
would never be described by anyone as
kindly
, and the only other one she
knew of, Rear Admiral Lo Gai Sabr, had once caused the evacuation of an entire
moon, just on the rumor (the false rumor, it later turned out) that he was
operating in the area. And that
well deserved
remark could certainly be
taken in more ways than one. But this obviously wasn’t a fit topic for the
middle of a passageway and they ambled on, Kris keeping what part she took in
the conversation, now grown remarkably insipid, to the most neutral of
subjects.

As they reached the hatchway to their quarters, Huron said,
“We should be translating near the end of the middle watch—not terribly
convenient, I know—but the captain wants to clear into orbit in the late PM
tomorrow. So this will be the last night you’ll spend on board. Unfortunately”—he
sounded a trifle apologetic here—“you’ll just be exchanging our hospitality
for that of the rehab center on Cassandra, but I have it on good authority that
it’s at least a shade more comfortable.”

Mariwen laughed and put her hand on Huron’s arm. “Oh,
Lieutenant! Surely you don’t think your company has been anything short of
delightful.”

Huron smiled in that lopsided way he had. “I would never
presume to contradict, but you are too gracious.”

“Will we have the pleasure again, or are you leaving us at
Cassandra?” Mariwen’s voice was all politeness.

“I believe you might, should you wish it,” Huron returned,
equally gracious. “We are due for a refit and crew rotation. So if things are
handled with their usual swift efficiency, we’ll be on station for about a
month. If they are not, six weeks is probably more like it.”

“Then we shall certainly see you again, Lieutenant”—Mariwen
squeezed his hand and leaned slightly forward in her most alluring manner—“when
your
duties
allow.”

“That will be the greatest pleasure.” Huron touched the brim
of his peaked cap to both of them. Kris gave him a nod in return and Mariwen an
elegant bob. “Good night, Ladies.”

The hatch opened in response to a light knock, and as they
stepped through Mariwen looked at Kris and giggled.

“What the hell was
that
about?” Kris demanded. She
hadn’t understood much of the comedy of manners she’d just witnessed (maybe it
was a Homeworlder thing?) but she could swear they were flirting. Given
Mariwen’s predilections she didn’t see the point.

Mariwen giggled again and gave her eyes a little roll. “Rafe
Huron is an
outrageous
flirt. He’s slept with god-knows-how-many girls
from Sol to Cygnus. If he wanted to, he could have a planet named
Dad
after him.”

“But he
knows
, doesn’t he?”

“Of
course
he knows. Everyone
knows
. That’s
what makes it so much fun!”

Kris shook her head, puzzled and on the edge of being
irritated. Mariwen knew the look and put a hand on her wrist. She leaned over,
gave Kris a little kiss on the temple, and said softly, “Don’t worry. I’d
never
take him over you.”

“
Mariwen!
” Kris hissed.

Mariwen dissolved into giggles, her hand over her mouth. At
length, she mastered them and waved at Kris apologetically. “I’m sorry! It must
be the wine.” Then she sobered a bit, took Kris’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t
be too hard on us, Kris. Please? I know—I’m rich and I’m silly and I’m
spoiled. And yes, Rafe Huron
can
be such a
fucking
paragon.” She
laughed, soft and with a note that hinted at things beyond Kris’s reach—things
that seemed far from cheerful. “So we play games, Kris. We act out silly little
parts. I know it can seem maybe just a little . . .” She looked down and Kris
could swear she was embarrassed. “. . . stupid.”

Watching Mariwen, Kris had no idea what to think. “I . . . I
never meant that. I just—I just don’t get it sometimes.”

Mariwen reached out and gave her a hug, a strong lingering
hug, and whispered, “Don’t.”

At around six bells of the middle watch, Kris drifted
from a deep sleep into a light doze. Like most longtime mariners, she was
acutely sensitive to gravitational disturbances like
skeer
or
rip
,
or the odd subtle shifting feeling of impending translation. Breaking the
surface of consciousness, she wondered if the skeer had awakened her—they’d
hit a little just as she was falling asleep. That was to be expected: skeer was
caused by gravity-wave phase shifts and non-isotropic rotating mass
distributions in a star system were the most common source, so it was usually
worst at the end of a trip. Skeer was rarely a threat to the ship but it did
make some people profoundly uncomfortable. Kris wasn’t one of those—in fact,
she found the sensations mildly pleasant in an edgy sort of way—but after
laying still for a couple of minutes, she was sure it wasn’t skeer she’d
sensed. No, they were approaching translation.

She stirred and as her hand fumbled for the bunk straps—it
was usual for a ship dropping out of hyperlight to kill the gravity and she
expected a warning any minute—she became aware of agitated breathing next to
her and opened her eyes just as Mariwen touched her forearm.

“What?” Kris whispered. “What is it?”

In the faint illumination, Mariwen’s shadowed face was
pinched and drawn; she was chewing her lower lip. “Sorry—I didn’t want to wake
you . . . but we’re going to translate soon, aren’t we?”

Kris nodded, rising up on her elbows.

“I, umm . . . I—can’t stand it. I have to . . .” Kris sat
up in her bunk, reached out for Mariwen’s arm; felt the tense muscles jumping
under her fingertips. “I always take something for it.” She paused again and
Kris could see she was fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. “I did—but—but—it’s
not
working
.”

“Not working?”

“No!” Mariwen was hugging herself tight with her head sunk
between her hunched shoulders as she shivered. “Something’s wrong! It’s
not
working . . . like something’s blocking it and—” A claxon cut the sentence
off. The null-gee warning.