Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative (21 page)

“It was, sir.”

“Got Corporal Vasquez, did you?”

“She was suggested to me, sir.”

“I remember her from back-when. Such a thumping she gave
me.” PrenTalien laughed quietly at the recollection. “General Perry was
wondering why some of his best people were filing police reports about
witnessing breaking-and-entering.”

“Officially?”

“No. Zeke Perry can connect the dots too. He’s not an overly
rigid sort and he’ll tolerate an off-the-books Op every now and again. He’s
tolerating this one
now
, so let’s just hope it doesn’t happen
again
.”
He favored Huron with a telling grin. “Or
we
may end up explaining
ourselves to a Grand Senate subcommittee.”

Huron inclined his head.

“Alright, Lieutenant. That is all. I’ll leave the ticking
time bomb in your care for now.” PrenTalien shook his head, perhaps at what he
considered his own folly. “Just keep her the hell away from these goddamned
hearings.”

“Very good, sir.”

CEF HQ, Mare Nemeton
Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

Trin Wesselby put her feet up on a vacant chair and
leaned her nose over a cup of jasmine tea. “So you talked him into it?”

“d’Harra talked him into it.”

Wesselby tilted her head sideways. “Not a bad argument.”

“And what’s between the Admiral and Taliaferro? They seemed
quite chummy.”

“You didn’t know?” Huron shook his head. “They served
together—they were sparring partners. Somebody probably saved somebody’s life.
The usual.”

“Oh.” He paused to digest the tidbit. “So are you making
progress with Taliaferro?”

She nodded, sipping absently. “Some good data we didn’t have.
That Mankho person is even more of a piece of work than I knew.”

“Any conclusions?”

“Yeah. He likes to blow shit up—as they say.”

That was hardly news. “Okay.”

“Look”—she gestured a little carelessly with her teacup—“Mankho
spent most of the war climbing the terrorist food chain. You remember how he
got rid of Azrael Mureyev? That cruise ship? The
Haarlan
? He doesn’t
just blow shit up. He blows shit up in a way you’ll
remember
it.”

“So you’re sure it’s Mankho.”

“Worst-case scenario. Any run-of-the-mill terrorist, the
security in-place could handle.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“So the Nedaemans foreclosed on the Black Army. Mankho wants
payback. What’s the most spectacular thing he could do?”

“Okay . . .” Huron made a little clucking noise with his
tongue, considering. “He thinks he’s an anarchist, right? So, uh . . . the
Archon gets up, recites a
mea culpa
about his role in universal
oppression and cosmic injustice and blows the whole place with a nuclear
suicide vest?”

Wesselby didn’t seem to find the suggestion at all humorous.
“And that would require what?”

“What’s in that tea, Trin?”

“Huron”—she put it down—“about the only thing we can’t
protect against with physical security is a plant. That, and their sense of
humor, is why slavers love plants.”

Huron’s face settled into a grimace. “Kris doesn’t have
anything to do with these meetings.”

“But Mariwen Rathor does.”

“What?”

“Kennakris and Mariwen Rathor were noticed to be a little .
. . cozy on the
Arizona
.”

Huron did not like where this was going at all. “So?”

“So what if Kennakris
suggests
to Ms. Rathor that she
bring along a special guest—a
real
slave, not just a briefly held paid
pick, but a slave who was held longer than anyone we’ve ever recovered—to give
her own heartrending testimony.”

Huron leaned back, crossed his arms. “So where does Kris get
the nuclear suicide vest? Mine’s at the cleaners.”

“Look, Rafe.” Wesselby regarded him, a shade more tense than
usual. “I know this sounds crazy. But think
who
we’re dealing with.”

Huron shook his head; bit back a reply. “Alright.” He
drummed his fingers on his leg. “What if she says no? Doesn’t your little
scheme imply they should implant Mariwen Rathor too? And after all, she was on
that slaver ship.”

Trin shrugged and picked up her tea again. “That would be
ideal but as I told the Admiral, they didn’t have time.”

“How long would they need?”

“Several weeks to have any chance at all. Maybe that was
their plan but we cut it short. Besides, we tested Ms. Rathor just to be safe
and she’s clean.”

Huron digested all that. It didn’t go down well. Mostly to
cover up the feeling, he asked, “So how do these implants actually work?”

Trin raised an eyebrow as she sipped. “Well, you should ask
one of your doctor friends if you want details, but it’s not that complex,
conceptually.” She cleared her throat before going on. “Implants are
morphological structures artificially induced into the appropriate brain
center. They trigger certain actions in response to a given stimuli.” She
paused for another sip as Huron nodded. “But mostly they remove your
inhibitions against whatever the response is, assuming you have any. That’s how
we find them, by the way. Not by detecting the implant itself—that’s almost
impossible without knowing exactly what it is—but by testing behavioral
inhibitors for evidence of tampering. That’s why the tests piss people off so
much.”

“Oh.” Hard-faced, he crossed his arms and considered as she
watched him over the rim of her cup. “So how do you break them?”

 “Well, that depends. If the target is a good friend, the
inhibitions are much more powerful. I’ve heard you can still do it but it takes
a long time and you need to know some details of the relationship. Otherwise,
conflicting impulses arise and the implanting might to be broken.”

None of this was improving his mood. “So if Kris is a plant,
why’d she give us d’Harra? And why’d they try kill her? Twice?”

“Rafe, how do we know they knew she
could
give us
d’Harra? That’s not a talent she paraded around. No, let me finish. Let’s
assume they did know—that in implanting her they found out she had that
talent. What if they decided to use it? Even make sure she’d give us enough—not
d’Harra specifically because they couldn’t have planned that—but something to
establish our trust in her. After all, what’s losing some slaver assets—assuming
those were Mankho’s people, which we don’t actually know—they could’ve even
been competitors—compared wiping out a whole gaggle of high-ranking officials
from a few dozen governments?”

“And after all this fancy plotting, they try to kill her?”

“Maybe they didn’t.” Trin held up her hand against his look.
“Maybe the first time was to get you out of the way—we have no idea if they
knew she was with you or not—and the second time was an abduction attempt to
prime her for the Op.” She raised an apologetic eyebrow. “You’re thought to be
kind of cozy with her too. And we didn’t exactly get a chance to ask her
assailants their motives.”

“Jesus
Christ
, Trin.”

“Sorry.” She sounded genuinely pained. “This is my job.”

*     *     *

Huron left in a black mood and it didn’t noticeably
improve as he flew back to his suite at Xanthus Towers. After his meeting with
Admiral PrenTalien he’d moved Kris into his suite, given her strict
instructions not to call anyone and made sure the bots would anonymize any
requests she made or any cloud surfing she did. She hadn’t been happy about it
and he hadn’t had the time to explain.

Letting himself in unannounced, he walked into the main
atrium, a high-ceilinged noble room with the two main residency wings off to
the left and right, and a larger and even more splendid exedral room straight
ahead, connected to the atrium by an arched narthex. Unsealing his uniform
jacket, he dropped his service sidearm, wallet, and some cards and keys on an
antique side table before crossing to the narthex, where he activated a large
console in the wall over a stately carved mantle and paged Kris. She came out
of the southern residence wing and he saw her agitated look hadn’t changed much—a
bit more sullen now. As she approached, she returned his scrutiny.

“What happened?”

He tossed his jacket toward one of the curved couches in the
exedra, now full of delicate evening light, and it landed a yard short.
Ignoring it, he stretched, joints popping. “Long day,” he answered. “I need a
drink. Can I offer you one? No obligation.” Kris’s experiences with alcohol had
been brief and unpleasant. She shook her head. “You mind if I do?” Another
headshake. He went to the bar cunningly worked into a cabinet in the opposite
wall and tapped a request. A snifter of cognac appeared. He took it, swirled,
inhaled the vapor but did not taste it.

“Look, Kris . . . It’s getting ugly out there. May I ask you
a few questions?”

She fought down an urge to retreat. “About what?”

“Mariwen.”

“Why?”

He gave her a condensed and suitably edited version of his
conversation with Trin Wesselby. When he finished, her face was a hard as a
slammed door. He met her eyes with difficulty. “So, did Mariwen say anything
about the hearings to you?”

“She said she doesn’t want to go. Lora wants her to, though.
Says it will do a lot of good.”

“She doesn’t want to testify?”

“No. She just wants to forget the whole thing. Lora’s
insisting—I think she wants the money.” Kris sounded waspish.

Huron ignored the comment. “Has she asked you to go?
Suggested
you
testify?”

“No!” Kris took a deep breath to calm herself. “She never
said anything like that.” She paused, trying to get her nerves under control.
“All she ever said was I could get rich selling my story to
producers
”—she
spat the word—“but that was when we just met.”

“When you went out with her that night, I noticed your xels
and cards were off—”

“People kept calling. The media were hassling us so we
turned ‘em off and blocked the trace.”

“Did she talk to anyone? Mention where you lived? If you
were alone? Anything like that?”

She looked into Huron’s averted face and hated the
suspicions she saw there. Her hands clenched into fists. “Mariwen’s didn’t do
anything
!
That
wasn’t
her fault!”

“Alright, Kris.” He straightened, the snifter tilting
forgotten in his hand. He paced over to the big console, checked his messages.
Nothing seemed to interest him. Coming back, he seemed more thoughtful. “Have
you heard from her at all since the second attack?”

“No.” A sad heavy shake of her head. She went and sat on the
edge of one of the little elegant fragile chairs that were spaced along the
atrium walls. “I tried to call her once. She didn’t answer.”

“Why’d you call? Did you want to go to the hearings with her?”
Kris shot him a vicious look. “Sorry. I have to know.”

“So how do you
know
I’m not lying to you?” Her tone
was acid bright and sharp.

“Because I trust you?”

Stupid fuck’n answer
. Then aloud: “I called because
Lora’s got her scared and all freaked out, on meds, all this shit.” She looked
down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “I just wanted to talk to her—not get
her more upset. She said she’d call after the hearings. But I . . . I’m afraid
she won’t.”

“Okay, Kris. That’s all. I’m sorry about this.” He finally
lifted his glass and sipped the cognac. “I’m gonna get something to eat—want
anything?”

“No.” Kris rose. “Thanks.” She took a step; looked back.
“That woman’s wrong about this.”

“Who? Commander Wesselby?”

“Yeah.” Kris’s eyes were hard and opaque. “She’s wrong about
me—about Mariwen. About everything. She’s doesn’t know shit.”

*     *     *

Back in the south wing, Kris sat on her bed, feeling
her heart flutter and her stomach cramp and churn over what she’d heard,
especially about implants—
Mariwen did
not
set me up!
—and
the added weight that, whatever she’d led Huron to believe, what she’d told him
was not quite
all
.

She had not told him that after she called Mariwen’s card
and got no answer she’d tried to leave a message on her public line, but Lora
Comargo had answered instead. Lora had been a shade too chipper and too
pleasant and the condescension Kris heard in Lora’s voice made her dislike
harden into something not too far from hatred. Lora explained that they were
terribly sorry but Mariwen was at an appointment now and with her testimony
tomorrow would not be free then either—which Kris already knew—but when Kris
asked Lora to convey the message that she hoped to talk to her after the
hearings, Lora had assumed a pained expression.

“I’m not sure that will be possible,” she’d said.
Unfortunately they were leaving immediately afterwards—an important
opportunity had come up—and were unlikely to return anytime soon. Mariwen
wanted to go home—to Terra—Earth—where she had family she had not seen in
years. Lora was deeply regretful. That ended the conversation.

Kris believed none of it. Except the part about leaving.

Mare Nemeton
Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

Lora Comargo came into the bedroom carrying a cup of
tea and small plate with two pills and some slices of purplish-red star-shaped
fruit. “Feeling any better, sweetie?”

Mariwen, lying on her stomach amid a tangle of rumbled
sheets, gave her a faint nod. Lora put the tea and plate on an end table and
watched as Mariwen stretched across the bed to reach them. She swallowed the
pills, sipped the tea and bit into a slice of fruit. As she dabbed at the dark
juice trickling down her lower lip, Lora sat on the bed and caressed her bare
hip.

“Big day,” she said. “Nervous?” Mariwen shrugged. Lora
leaned over and kissed her back. “It’ll be fine, sweetie—
really
. Just
think of all the good you’re doing.” Then she playfully slapped one flawless
buttock and slid off the bed. “Got to get ready though. You need to leave in an
hour.”