Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks (17 page)

The exercise was intended to teach navigation, proper stealth-approach technique and hit-and-run tactics. It was not expected, or even desired, that the replenishment ships should be destroyed—a mobility kill was what was called for—and the fighters and the corvette were there to make the odds too high to allow a conventional attack. But among cadets, the real objective of this exercise was the fabled sweep: disabling both ships and the corvette and destroying all three fighters. It could be done—it
had
been done on a tiny handful of occasions—but not by Kris. She’d come close several times, but the last success was decades ago; the cadet who’d done it was Rafael Huron.

She had come close this time too—but even if she got this last fighter, she would fall short of the mark. Although her stealth attack on the corvette had been a brilliant success and she’d taken down two of the fighters in short order, they’d gotten in several hits that had reduced her shields to thirty percent and damaged a drive node, and her attack on the replenishment ships had left one limping away while the last fighter fled. She had given chase in the hope of destroying the fighter and then returned to finish off the crippled ship. That hope had disappeared long ago, and now Kris was determined to nail the chase if it was the last thing she ever did, which—as far as the simulation was concerned—it very likely would be.

She pushed her engines harder; the alarms rose to a shriek and a flashing red warning filled almost her entire forward screen. Ignoring both, she drew a final bead on the chase, squeezed the trigger of the plasma cannon and held it. Plasma bursts lanced towards the fleeing fighter, exploding in searing white flowers, far-distant, as the alarms built to a crescendo and the chase suddenly yawed.

Instantly, she released the trigger and eased back on the throttle. The alarms paused, recomputed and resumed their former, less urgent tones. The chase had lost a drive node—whether to her fire or overloading she could not tell—and was wallowing. She ghosted into neutron gun range, opened fire, watched the twin purple-silver lines stab him in the spar roots. His armor boiled and in a flash, he was gone. But she did not feel the rush, the burst of exultation she usually did when she scored a victory, and it was almost a relief when, moments later, the claxon sounded, the screen went dark and the simulator cracked open.

Kris climbed out of the simulator and kicked across the bay to find Basmartin waiting in the simulator ready room, studying the scoring display. She handled the gravity gradient outside the hatch with ease, coming down on her toes and walking into the room without a bounce.

“Nice,” Baz said as Kris sank down on a bench and unsealed her flight suit. “Awful long way to swim home though.”

“It wasn’t a scoring run,” she muttered, dissatisfied and provoked.

He came over and sat next to her. “They’ll log it anyway. Might have been better to finish up with that victualer and let the fighter go—he wasn’t coming back, and you would have made it home with plenty to spare.” He shied from the look Kris gave him. “Just an opinion.”

Kris looked away as she wrenched one boot off and then the other.

“Look,” Baz offered against her silence. “I think it’s gonna go okay tomorrow. They can’t throw the book at you just cuz you outsmarted ‘em—I mean not
really
.”

“That just another opinion?” She extracted her arms from the bulky suit and jammed it down over her hips. “You don’t believe me either—do you?”

“Well, it
is
kinda hard to believe, Kris.” Baz spread his hands apologetically. “I mean, no one’s ever
done
anything like that.”

“I didn’t know that!” Kris kicked herself free of the suit, went to her locker and jammed it inside with barely contained violence. Slamming the locker shut, she turned on him. “I didn’t
know
it was such a big deal!” Her chest heaved and her voice quieted, dropped a tone. “I thought lots of people could do it.”

CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol

Commander Buthelezi was habitually an early riser. She liked to have an hour or so to do a light workout, enjoy her coffee and contemplate breakfast—a meal she hated to rush—before settling into the day’s work. So it was a rather unwelcome surprise when her xel lit up with a priority message from Commandant Hoste just as she had finished her
iaido
kata and was pouring her first cup of coffee while considering breakfast options. Something hearty (bacon would figure prominently) as it promised to be a long day.

She picked up the xel and activated the voice-only circuit—she never bothered to dress for her morning’s exercise—and when the connection was established, said, “Yes, sir?” in the most professional tone she could manage.

“Apologies, Naomi.” Hoste sounded sincere. “I know the hour is quite unorthodox, but I wonder if I might see you before the inquiry this AM. I’ve received a communication that is—how might I put it?—surprising.”

“Certainly, Ambrose. Shall we say twenty minutes?” That would just give her time for a quick shower. Breakfast could wait.

“That would be ideal, Naomi. Much appreciated.”

True to the minute, Naomi walked into Ambrose Hoste’s Deimos office, and if she felt refreshed by the shower and the coffee, the Commandant, who had made the two hour flight up from Cape York the night before, appeared not to have slept at all. As she sat in response to his nodded invitation, he retrieved a printout and handed it across to her.

“This arrived some hours ago in follow-up to my request for background on Ms. Kennakris. I stretch a point by sharing it with you—you will have noticed the markings.” Indeed she had. Such a request would normally have been forwarded by the Bureau of Naval Personnel to the Office of Colonial Affairs under the Department of Human Services, who would have supplied the relevant information. This response had come straight from the Office of Naval Intelligence, without even the normal BuNavPers cover.

Naomi looked across the desk at the Commandant. What was the word he’d used?
Surprising
? “ONI sent this response?” That a cadet’s personal records would be held by ONI was unheard of. But then, she had to acknowledge, the whole situation was unheard of . . .

“I was obliged to acquaint them with the background for my request, naturally,” Hoste explained as she flipped through the flimsies, “and you see that they refer to a report—there’s a summary on the second page—submitted by Captain RyKirt when he had the
Arizona
, with a follow-up endorsed by Admiral PrenTalien.”

Naomi had noticed that, but she’d already returned to the first paragraph. “No family?”

“All DHS has is an immigration record from Parson’s Acre that identifies a father, Nathan Kennakris—no prior info on him either—who committed suicide on Tolliman in the year ‘31.”

“And after that, she was sold as a slave.”

“Yes. On a contract slaver for eight years, I gather, during which she seems to have developed some, ah . . . curious talents.”

“
She
was the source for the d’Harra operation,” Naomi remarked, scanning farther into the document. A CEF detachment had cornered a sizable slaver fleet at d’Harra last year. “And”—reading quickly through the last page—“she was also the one who gave PrenTalien the key to rolling up the slaver network in the Inner Trifid Boundary Zone?” That sparsely settled space between the Inner Trifid and Sagittarius had been a hotbed of the slave trade. Dismantling the slaver network there was a major triumph, but it was generally assumed to have been the result of information obtained from the ships taken at d’Harra.

“Indeed,” Hoste said with a deep nod. “Specifically—although it is not noted there—what she provided was a map: their routes, nodes, favored efficiencies and supply points for the whole operation. Or almost all of it. It would seem that, in addition to her other talents, she has a prodigious memory, since it was from memory that she reconstructed it aboard
Arizona
.”

“Good lord,” muttered Naomi, putting the report back on the desk. “So she
is
telling the truth.”

“So it would appear. A truth SECNAV has deemed highly classified.”

“And we turned her loose on a boggart.” Boggarting the best cadets was a longstanding but unacknowledged tradition that served not only to test their character but to drive home the point that no one was unbeatable. It also helped defuse some of the tensions and jealousies that War Week inevitably produced. That the tradition could backfire had never been considered, even remotely.

“Yes. It seems Fred Yu was not speaking in the hyperbole of the Corps this time.”

“Indeed not. Holding an inquiry under these conditions might be . . . problematic.”

“Quite,” Hoste agreed. “But I don’t believe we have a choice. You will note—third page, penultimate paragraph—that we are directed to take such action as is consistent with security while maintaining the integrity of our institution. Unquote.”

Naomi barely cracked a smile in response. Directives of this type were almost reflexive in the Navy Department—
enemy force shall be engaged with utmost aggression while strictly maintaining own-force security
was a classic—and did not really merit comment. But here, they were much more on the mark. She assumed Hoste had something in mind. He would not have been spending the hours since the message arrived in idle worry, and he certainly wouldn’t have called her merely to commiserate. “Have we an idea of how to handle this?” she prompted.

“To cancel the inquiry now would smack of a cover-up and only feed the rumor mill—which is already working double tides over this, I gather—and even if we just delay it, it will still seem rather suspicious, especially as most everyone is here. Yet an open inquiry is clearly out of the question.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m considering holding a closed inquiry—fortunately we haven’t announced the protocols yet—and inviting a sufficient number of cadets of influential character that their combined word might, even without specifics, calm the rumor mongering to something like a dull roar.”

Naomi nodded; it seemed a feasible approach—perhaps the only feasible approach—given the circumstances.

“And I would look to you, if I might, to select the cadets who would attend. We still have a couple of hours to send out a notice.”

“How many cadets?”

“As many as you feel necessary. A substantial number, I think, lest finesse be suspected.”

“That would amount to two or three dozen, Ambrose. Difficult to maintain proper security for that many. If I understood that correctly”—she pointed to the report—“they will all have to be read into that compartment, which would be unprecedented.”

“Most unprecedented,” Hoste said, pulling at his jaw. “But precedents have been falling thick and fast over this business already, so I don’t think we can be squeamish about this one. But that is rather a lot. Suggestions?”

Naomi considered. Cadet politics were complicated and ticklish, and exquisitely tuned to any sense of manipulation. “Perhaps we could invite a larger group who would be briefed on the broad outlines of the situation without trespassing on the specific security aspects, and invite them to select a smaller number of representatives to attend the actual inquiry. That might do.”

Hoste’s expression lightened; he seemed to like the idea. “Twelve or sixteen, maybe?”

“Something like that.”

“Very well. If you could get me a list by 0900, that would be best. There are a number of upperclassmen waiting to fly up now, and that will give us time to make needed adjustments.”

“I will, sir.”

He smiled. “Much appreciated. I do regret intruding on your breakfast.”

“No need, sir.” Naomi smiled back as she checked the time. There was still about fifteen minutes before the instructor’s mess ran short of the critical items—tight, but she could make it.

*    *    *

At 1330 sharp, the Commandant, Commander Buthelezi, a quorum of instructors and a gaggle of cadets, fairly evenly divided between upper- and lower-classmen, gathered in the hall that had been set aside for the inquiry. One of the largest halls had been chosen to suit the size of the originally anticipated audience and it was not crowded—indeed, it echoed. Kris was not among those filing into their seats and glancing about the big, gloomy interior. She was stewing in her room, wearing her dress uniform and waiting alone for her summons—Baz, Tanner and Minx had all gone ahead—while feeling deeply annoyed.

Whether the inquiry being closed was part of that annoyance or a relief she couldn’t quite decide. She had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen, and while she despised the idea of being trotted out before most of the student body like a performing dog, at least it promised to settle the issue. A closed inquiry meant less of a floor show, but it raised the specter of still being treated like a performing dog, only this time, one that few people would believe could actually do the tricks. Whether this worst-of-all-possible-worlds outcome would in fact happen, she wasn’t sure, but the last couple of days had given her no reason for optimism.

Across the campus, her fellow students were suffering not dissimilar feelings of apprehension. The Commandant had opened the proceedings by introducing Commander Liam Kelleher, the chair of the Academy’s Department of Military Justice, as Judge Advocate and having him read out the 17 Articles on which naval law was based. Copies of the 17 Articles were liberally posted about the Academy, and although they were actually no more than headings phrased to suit the mariner’s taste for simple and direct prose (the full Code of Military Justice with all its addenda, amendments and provisions was a thick set of volumes), hearing them recited in Commander Kelleher’s solemn, well-practiced delivery did much to impress the hearers with a proper sense of the gravity of the occasion.

There followed a brief discussion of procedure, explaining that the inquiry would proceed according to the forms usual for courts of inquiry, less formal than courts martial but imposing enough. When this introduction had set the mood in the hall, Commandant Hoste dropped his bombshell. Until now, the prevailing opinion had been that the decision to close the inquiry proceeded from a desire to avoid embarrassment to the Academy, but now Hoste circulated a heavily redacted copy of ONI’s memo, with the classification markings prominent upon it.

“Unless things have changed drastically since I came through these hallowed halls,” the Commandant began when the memo had been appraised and its significance made clear to all, “the rumor mill will have tried and convicted everyone from the Secretary of the Navy to the mess-hall stewards in this matter, with suspicions about the Superintendent’s cat tossed in for good measure. If not, someone is falling down on the job.”

This sally from Hoste, not notable among the cadets for a sense of humor, was greeted with tentative grins.

“But you will now appreciate that the questions under consideration here have ramifications far beyond those we are accustomed to dealing with in this Academy. Here we venture into what is normally termed the
Real World
—perhaps you have heard of it.” A chuckle or two at that.

“For this reason, the decision has been made to restrict the number of those in attendance to the necessary minimum. Therefore, I am going to ask you to retire for thirty minutes and select sixteen of your number to attend.” He paused to let the implications sink in. “Understand that those chosen will have to accept the conditions imposed by the classification of the information they will be exposed to. Those conditions are serious and far-reaching, and if you have any reservations whatsoever about assuming them, do not consider attending.”

He stopped to observe the effect this news was having on the students before him. An hour was all he and Commander Buthelezi had had to vet the thirty-two cadets, half of whom they intended to read into a security compartment that few of the instructors had—Naomi, for one, did not until the Commandant had taken it upon himself to induct her into it. He expected no small amount of flak for his actions, but if that’s all that came his way, he’d be satisfied with it. Or almost satisfied with it.

The cadets appeared to be taking it about as well as he could expect; a deal of discreet murmuring was going on, but the tone gratifyingly serious. He dismissed them, set the time to reconvene and, as the cadets shuffled off into a side room for their deliberations, exchanged a private look with Naomi. It was no small thing hazarding one’s career on a decision that involved a bunch of kids, but she smiled back at him in a way that reminded him that in about six months, people would be hazarding their lives on the actions of some of these same kids. Real world indeed . . .

Kris therefore entered the hall to a mass of somber faces: the solid phalanx of instructors on the dais, the two sparse rows of cadets, and Commander Kelleher sitting a little apart where the court president would normally be. Baz, Tanner, and Minx made a small, forlorn block off to one side; they were there in the character of witnesses and were the only people she’d actually told how she’d accomplished the jump, other than the instructors at the debriefing. All three seemed to have kept it to themselves—even Minx, which surprised her—for reasons of their own: Baz she thought might be trying to protect her; Minx probably expected her to make an ass of herself in public and did not want to spoil the surprise. Tanner, for all his jovial nature, simply didn’t talk a lot, and although he was older, he had a tendency to follow Basmartin’s lead.

As she stepped through a side door, Baz and Tanner looked over and each gave her a furtive smile; Minx looked pointedly away. The other cadets seemed to think the occasion demanded they stare stonily ahead after taking a quick glance, and the instructors, while less rigid, were not noticeably less grim. The big, echoing room itself added to the imposing atmosphere, but she walked between the dais and the first row of seats feeling more irritated than imposed upon.

Stopping immediately before Commandant Hoste, she executed a neat right-face turn, saluted crisply and stood at attention while Commander Kelleher read a preamble about swearing in, rules of evidence and some other things. As he spoke she covertly surveyed the array of instructors, all sitting under a row of large auditorium displays, now blank, and whose vaguely shimmering gray glare added to the officious mood. She knew all of them except Commander Olson, who taught astrogation, and Commander Kelleher, and she’d never actually met the Commandant. She hadn’t run afoul of any of them that she knew, but of them all, she thought Commander Buthelezi was probably most favorably disposed towards her. But then, it was Buthelezi’s exercise she’d defeated . . .