Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative (9 page)

Kris rubbed the tense pain spot between her eyes. “Wait a
sec. How’d you get lift then? If you just pinch it off, don’tcha violate
topological conservation?”

“When the QBH goes inflationary, it sort of pulls the ship
along with it. There’s a coupling mechanism that bleeds energy across to give
you the lift potential. We call it
bubble up
.”

“
Fuck
me.” Kris blinked and then shook her head. “Who
the hell thought all this up?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Figures.” She turned back to the screen. “What else ya
wanna know about this?”

“It looks good to me, Kris.”

“Then can we bag it? I’d like to lay down.”

“Sure.” He reached over her shoulder, batched the files and
started to close the applications. As he typed the necessary commands, he
looked her over. She
did
look worn out. She’d been as fresh as daisy
when they started—bright; enthusiastic even. What had happened? Shock finally
setting in? Too much racquetball? Adrenalin suddenly wearing off? He verified
the files and cleared the display, then something unsettling occurred to him.
He asked suddenly: “Kris, how did you keep all this data in a slaver’s system
without them knowing about it?”

“Tagged it on the core files,” she answered muzzily. “Built
a deinterleaver into the purge command. Used a control code token to run it.”

“They never checked the core integrity? They never did a
search for system tampering?”

Kris laughed—a dry hateful sound. “Are you
fucked
?
Check the system—that’s jag. They
steal
this shit. They wouldn’t know a
diagnostic if one pissed in their beer.”

“So you learned to hack the OS too?”

Kris put her head down and rubbed her temples. “Yeah. The
shit comes with manuals, y’know—they just don’t read ‘em. They don’t purge
tutorials neither.”

“Why?”

“Why
what
?”

“Why did you go to all this trouble?”

Kris looked up at so savagely he almost took a step back.
“Are you just fuck’n
dense
? I was trying to
kill
‘em!”

“How were you going to do that?”

She rolled her eyes at his painful imbecility. “If I coulda
tweaked the jump convolver, I could’ve gotten ‘em in some real pretty shit, now
couldn’t I?”

“And yourself.”

Kris looked disgusted. “BFD. I wasn’t goin’ nowhere. If I
coulda killed that jag motherfucker with my bare hands, I woulda.” That brought
Huron up straight. “But you guys jumped me on that.” She sank back in the
chair. “Shit, my head hurts.”

Huron took out his xel, poked at it, frowning. “I’ll get you
something. Get some rest, Kris.”

“Yeah, fine. Okay.” She stood unsteadily. “Don’t know what
the fuck is wrong with me.”

“Stress,” Huron said. He helped her to the door; called for
a yeoman. Sharply.

One came at the double. “Problem, sir?”

Huron handed Kris over. “No, she’s just tired. Take her back
to her quarters, please.”

“Not sickbay?”

“No.
Not
sickbay.”

“Yessir.”

“Thank you, McKenna.” The female yeoman lead Kris away.

*     *     *

Huron went to sickbay himself, got the strongest
analgesic he could find, scribbled some directions on the coded envelop and put
it in a message tube. It would be waiting for her when she got to her berth. He
returned to his cabin, called up the data files and studied Kris’s handiwork.

Damned impressive. It laid out all the major routes, the
favored efficiencies, frequency of use, supply depots, nodes—the works. If it
checked out, they could shut down the slave trade in this sector. If it wasn’t
too
impressive. Slavers liked to play games, but he’d never heard of them trying
anything this sophisticated.

Quickly, he wrote a report, bundled Kris’s files with it and
linked it off to the captain’s system with an urgent eyes-only tag. Ten minutes
after he sent it, his secure line beeped. He keyed it up and Captain RyKirt’s face
appeared.

“That’s one hell of a report, Huron,” he announced without
preamble.

“Yes sir.”

“Is she straight?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“I don’t have to tell you what would happen if we ran with
this and it turned out to be a plant.”

No, he didn’t. Huron sobered distinctly. “No, sir. Didn’t
Quillan clear her?”

RyKirt paused uncharacteristically. “Well, yes and no.”

“Sir?”

“Medical Director Quillan found nothing concrete. But he has
some serious reservations about Ms. Kennakris.”

“Her condition is hardly surprising, sir. She was a captive
for eight years. And she did kill Anton Trench rather personally.”

“Both of which head the list of Quillan’s reservations. She
doesn’t remember killing Trench, you know. Thinks Cardinovich did him.”

“Yes sir. I know that.” Huron realized he was standing at
attention before a display. He relaxed and looked down at his boot tips.

“She also thinks she was born on Parson’s Acre and we know
that’s not true—her father’s immigration records state she was two when he
moved there. That at least looks solid, but we have no records of  Nathan P.
Kennakris prior to that. She doesn’t know her mother’s name and she gave two
different dates of birth without realizing it.”

“Is that surprising, sir? I mean considering everything. Her
father was a drunk and he did kill himself. I’m not sure what Quillan’s
neuroses-du-jour is, but don’t we owe her a little slack?”

“Neuroses-du-jour, Lieutenant?” RyKirt cracked an entirely
unpleasant smile. “I know your opinions of Quillan, Huron—and of his
profession in general. And I know his opinions of you. That’s not my problem.
This is my problem.” He waved a hardcopy of Huron’s report. “Damn good story:
eight years a slave, abandoned, obscure past. Real tearjerker packed with just
the kind of  info we’ve never been able to get. Just the kind of thing to cook
up and stuff into a nice pretty girl.”

Nice?
Huron recalled Kris’s look of a few minutes
ago.
Not exactly
. “May I ask what you’re planning, sir?”

“Nothing.” RyKirt dropped the hardcopy on his desk. “Nothing
further. I put it on the flash net to SIG and they’ll see that the Admiral gets
it. Hopefully SIG can corroborate at least some of it.”

“You think d’Harra’s a trap?”

“It had occurred to me. It damn well better have occurred to
you too.”

Huron chewed the inside of his lip. Of course it had. How
much did he believe in Kris? Thinking it over, he decided he believed in her a
lot.

“She’s straight, sir. She might be wrong—but she’s clean.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes I do, sir.”

RyKirt tapped his fingers in agitation. “Well, it’s academic
at this point, in any case. We can’t reach Shariati—she’s in too deep—and we
couldn’t do anything with all these people aboard even if we could.”

“When will she arrive?”

“Plan says 0400 GAT. She’ll have to burn it. That only gives
her about an hour to deploy before they show up—if they aren’t there already.”

Huron continued to study his boots.

“Comm lag’s about six hours to d’Harra,” RyKirt mentioned
offhandedly. “Don’t wait up.”

Like hell. Show me someone who’ll sleep tonight.

“Yessir.”

“Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Good evening, sir.” The screen blanked and stared at him
with a dull silver-purple eye.

*     *     *

Kris arrived at her quarters with her headache growing
steadily worse, found the packet Huron sent and gulped the medication without
water. Mariwen watched her worriedly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Kris croaked.

“Pardon me, but bullshit.”

Kris crawled into her bunk. “He asked me questions. I drew
him pictures.”

Mariwen frowned. If she said anything else, sleep blanked
it.

Kris slept and dreamed. Dreamed of Trench. Trench was
coming for her in the cabin they shared. She wore a silly little white dress—the
kind of dress her dad had made her wear on Sundays back on Parson’s Acre.
Trench wore black preacher’s cloth. He looked very proud of himself.

She curled up against the head of the bed, willing herself
into invisibility. Trench was not fooled—Trench could see in the dark. His
hands reached out and grabbed her.

She fought. Trench liked it when she fought. He laughed.

She got an arm free, started tearing at his face with her
nails. They ripped his skin easily; blood ran down her fingers.

Trench laughed. His hands began to rape her.

She reached for his throat. Her fingers sunk into it like it
was warm butter. She ripped and his throat came out—shreds of putrid, rotten
flesh giving way as though he were already dead and decomposing. Blood splashed
into her eyes, stinging. His rent esophagus dangled, drooling. She started to
go blind.

Still Trench laughed—still his hands raped.

Why is he laughing? He can’t laugh with his vocal chords
ripped out!

Kris started to scream. Trench’s hands clamped tighter. He
began hitting her.

“Shut up! Shut up!
Shutupwakeup! Wake up!
Wake up!”

Kris lurched awake, screaming. Mariwen’s hands were viced
around her biceps. Someone was slapping her.

“Ow! Fuck! Stop it! Lemme go.
Stop
it!”

Mariwen released her and caught the offending hand. “That’s
enough.
Enough
!” She pushed the hand away. Kris realized she was on the
floor with Mariwen sitting on her. Mariwen didn’t look so good. Other women
circled them in the dim red glow of the deadlights.

“Wha—wha’appened?”

Mariwen climbed off her stomach. “You were dreaming.”

Kris rolled over. She was violently nauseous.

“Bad?” Mariwen’s voice, stiff with concern.

The room rolled. Kris rolled with it. “I think I’m gonna be
sick.”

“Let’s see if we can get to bathroom first. Okay?”

Mariwen helped her to the head. Kris collapsed by a commode.
Her stomach roiled but she fought it down—grimly, tenaciously. Gritting her
teeth, she hung on to her writhing belly. Finally, she won. Mariwen came and
wiped the sweat off her face with a damp towel. “Better?”

“Better.”

“Must have been a hell of a dream.”

“It was.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“
Fuck
no!”

Mariwen looked hurt. “About Trench?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You kept screaming his name.” Mariwen handed her the towel.
“Was he that slaver captain? I never knew.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I bet.”

“
Fuck
you, Kris!” Mariwen hissed. “I’m a friend,
remember?”

Hot, salty liquid stung Kris’s eyes, just like Trench’s
blood. She blinked furiously, humiliated by the tears. Impatient fingers
flicked them away. “I know.” She reached a hand around the back of Mariwen’s
neck, pulled her close. “I know. Sorry. Don’t be mad.”

Mariwen kissed her cheek lightly. Comfortingly. “Alright,
I’m not. I’m sorry I snapped.” She laced her arms in Kris’s, leaned her head
back to where she could look into Kris’s face in the dim light. “Are you gonna
be okay? You were talking really strange when you got back. I was worried.”

“Slaver talk?”

“I guess.”

Kris tried to stand. She managed it with Mariwen’s help and
found her head hurt much less. “I was tired. And I guess I’m a little strung
out.”

“You could say that.”

“I just did.”

Mariwen smiled, a bit thin and wan. “Let’s get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

“No dreams.”

“If you say so.” Kris took a step, stumbled. “Help me along,
please?”

Mariwen put an arm about her waist. “Sure.”

Mariwen put Kris to bed amid ill-disguised murmuring and
sour looks, but the others soon retreated and Mariwen sat holding Kris’s hand
in both of hers while Kris drifted off to sleep. It was an agitated restless
sleep, so Mariwen waited for Kris’s breathing to slow and become even. When it
did, she rose silently and made to slip away, but Kris’s fingers reflexively
closed on her hand with shocking strength. With infinite care, Mariwen settled
back down on the side of the bunk.

Sometime in quiet hours near the end of the middle watch,
Kris woke from a charming dream that evaporated even as she left it. She did
not open her eyes or try to move; she felt heavy but not constricted and
besides, there was a warm sweet weight pressing against her back and an arm curling
protectively over her flank, with the hand between her breasts where her own
covered it.

She heard Mariwen’s soft breathing and felt it gently
stirring her hair. Kris shifted a tiny bit, settling ever so slightly deeper
into Mariwen’s embrace and receiving a sleepy murmur in reply. She squeezed the
shielding hand gently, sighed against the pillow and with a hint of the
tempting misty dream again teasing her thoughts, went back to sleep.

LSS Arizona
in the Kepler Transit

Huron rose early, breakfasted on coffee and orange
juice alone, and set about the day’s activities as calmly as he could. Everyone
was waiting on news of d’Harra and the ship had an overall expectant air. By
the middle of the forenoon watch, he was completing his inspection of the aft
weapons bays and as he stepped into the passageway, Walsh jogged up behind him.
“Hey, Huron! Did you hear?”

Huron turned. “Hear what?”

Walsh’s smile was electric. “About d’Harra. We bagged the
whole lot! They dropped outta the High Holy right into Shariati’s lap.” He
cackled. “That girl turned up gold!”

A deep happiness suffused Huron, spreading to his face as a
slow smile. Walsh clapped him on the back. “So the Captain’s ordering up a
special celebration for tonight. Spit and polish, white gloves, full kit. He
wants you to invite her—special.”