Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks (36 page)

“Yes. Pleasure,” she murmured with a frozen smile. Close to, he indeed showed the clear stamp of Mariwen, but rendered in shining black and not as tall; as near to beauty as a man could well be.

She recalled Mariwen telling her she had a brother named Chris—almost the first thing she’d said when they met—and Kris now noted his badge said
C. Antoine Rathor
, below the initials of one of the Terran security departments. Automatically, she extended her hand and he took it, not shaking it firmly but gently squeezing and bowing with his head a little.

“I’m sorry this is so haphazard, but when I learned from Commander Huron’s agenda you were going to be here, I felt I shouldn’t waste the opportunity, as I understand you’re leaving soon.”

He spoke with the flat Terran accent that most inhabitants of Sol seemed to have (except Belters, who clung fiercely to their distinctions); so different from Mariwen’s soft, liquid lilt. She’d gathered from things Huron had said that Mariwen’s brother was older—perhaps quite a bit older—and it seemed he must have been raised under very different circumstances, but she’d had no idea he was with Terran security. The image she’d formed of Mariwen’s family certainly did not fit with government connections. Old money was more what she’d imagined: large estates, pampered living, servants, lots of leisure travel and yes, a bit spoiled—not a family that would have an elder son as a mid-level official in one of the many security organs.

These were odd reflections to be having, and Kris’s ears got warm as she realized he was still speaking and she’d completely missed at least one full sentence, maybe two. “. . . impossible to adequately express our gratitude or repay the debt we owe you. But I hope you have some sense of what saving Mariwen’s life means to us. To say someone is the light of your life sounds pitifully trite, Ms. Kennakris, but with Mariwen that’s almost literally true.”

That
would
have sounded pitifully trite for anyone but Mariwen, and it congealed in Kris’s stomach like a lump of ice. Light was what had been so horribly missing last time she saw Mariwen—the husk of Mariwen—propped up in a hospital room on Nedaema, surrounded by equipment racks: smiling, physically perfect; eyes dull, flat, and utterly empty. Utterly unlit.

“Thanks—thank you,” she managed to say in spite of the constriction in her throat. “Is—ah . . . How is Mariwen?”

Antoine’s lips curved in a slightly forced smile. “She’s . . . she is back in California. Well taken care of. We still have hopes.”

Still
have . . . The qualification snatched at some chord deep in Kris’s chest and, haunted by the image of the pretty thing in the bed, but even more by the memory of the dazzling, brilliant vibrancy that had translated Mariwen’s beauty out of the realm of mere physicality into a quality much more sublime, she replied with something low, indistinct, and (she hoped) appropriate.

“Thank you,” Antoine said. He offered a card. “If there’s ever anything I or my family can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She took the card, smiled and slid it into a breast pocket. He gave her another of those slight nods. “I hope that someday we will have the pleasure—the
honor
—of your company under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Of course,” Kris murmured and, looking over his shoulder, noticed Huron coming down the hall. “Certainly, sir. Most appreciated.”

Antoine Rathor followed her look and advanced the pensive smile he had greeted her with. “I see I’ve detained you. I won’t take up any more of your time. Good afternoon, Ms. Kennakris.”

Huron was waiting patiently by the conference room door, holding it open for her. They entered wordlessly and resumed their seats. The meeting lasted another two hours but Kris, full of restless feelings, took in almost none of it.

Northern California Territory
Western Federal District, Terra, Sol

Antoine Rathor piloted his groundcar into the drive of the modest residence nestled in the midst of a landscape of rolling hills dotted with oak trees in full-summer leaf, the late afternoon sun throwing sharply cut shadows across the surrounding fields, their tall pale stalks nodding in the southerly breeze that always came up at this time of day.

Personally, he preferred this place in spring, when the fields added their own diverse notes to the symphony of green—the acres of dry dead grass lent a strange air of being passed over, or being used up; physically identical to their former verdant state, but with all the color bleached out. He found it depressing and it would have been trivial to change, but the medical team had suggested that strong visual cues regarding the passage of time would be beneficial, so they’d decided not to improve on the cycles of Nature.

He submitted his codes and the purely decorative gate retracted as the security enclosure opened a portal for him to guide the groundcar through. That was little more than a formality; he’d already passed through several layers of security, including (but not limited to) a squadron of surveillance drones overhead backed up by a constellation of dedicated micro-sats in low Earth orbit. The Terran government paid for micro-sats; they were footing the bill for the drones themselves.

Cutting the power, the car settled down in the cobbled parking area, and his xel alerted with a call from his escort. “All correct, sir?”

He activated the voice circuit. “Yes, Shawn.”

“Will you be needing anything else this evening?”

“I don’t think so. I believe I’m going to stay the night this time.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Who relieves you?”

“Wallace and Martin. Be along at 1930, sir.” That last detail was reflexive precision.

“Thank you, Shawn. Tell them I expect to be here until 0900 tomorrow. I’ll catch a flight back from Beale at 0930. Perhaps you could let them know.”

“Will do, sir. Good evening, now.”

“You as well, Shawn.”

Signing off, he stepped out the car and walked down through the new garden to the front entrance, letting himself in without ringing first—the security system would have informed the occupants of his impending arrival as soon as he locked on to the local traffic grid, and tracked him all the way to the gate.

The young-looking—but not that young—tech just inside greeted him with a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Rathor.”

“Hello—” He was embarrassed at realizing he did not recall her name. One the newer people, from Venus. A recently graduated post-doc, excellent references. “Are they finished yet?”

“Very close.” Her smile took on an apologetic tinge. Mirjean—that was her name. Mirjean Thorne. “Things took slightly longer today.”

“I see.”

“I believe there’s been some progress. Can I get you something while you wait?”

“No thank you, Mirjean”—attempting to atone for his lapse.

She gave her round head with its loose cap of feathered silvery hair a bob. “I’ll go see how long they think they’ll be.”

As she proceeded down the hall toward the room, its door opened and a troupe of techs emerged, coming along one by one, and each giving Antoine a polite smile as they passed. Their careful expressions revealed nothing.

At last, the doctor came out and advanced, hand extended in greeting. “Mr. Rathor. Good to see you.”

“Doctor”—accepting the hand and shaking it. “How is she?”

“Improving,” the doctor said, with that medically significant frown they must all be taught in school as being the approved way to convey ‘good news’ with proper gravity. He took out his xel and unfurled it, bringing up a trio of displays for Antoine. “You can see, the overall index is much better. Her lucid periods are improving. Erratic, still, of course . . .”

A few months ago, Antoine had barely heard of Chalmers’ Hypothesis of Meta-consciousness, Knots-and-Splices Theory and associative axial Q-coding. Now they were part of his daily speech. Not that he understood the details fully, by any means, but their relevance to Mariwen’s treatment was certainly clear. The deep irony was that Mariwen
had
understood them fully—before starting her modeling career, she’d gotten a graduate degree in biophysics. She and the doctor could have had a rare old discussion—

He suppressed that thought and concentrated on what the doctor was saying.

“. . . we’ve been able to loop out the worst of it, so I believe the episodes should be decreasing.”

Antoine nodded. He’d been present for a number of those
episodes
.

“So I’ve dialed back the paralytics. It’s good if she can have a fuller spectrum response. Her time sense remains severely dislocated—that’s to be expected.”

“Will that improve? Eventually?”

“Too soon to tell.” The professionally approved dodge, fooling no one. “What matters is that we’re seeing to real improvement in a few key indices. That’s very good.”

Clearing his throat twice at the doctor’s casual reduction of his sister’s personality to
a few key indices
, Antoine kept any hint of his reaction off his face. He was an excellent doctor and he certainly meant well. But sometimes Antoine thought he was a little vague on the distinction between the person, the patient, and puzzle they presented.

The doctor was perspicuous enough to discern his wording might have left something to be desired. He furled his xel and advanced a more human smile. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.”

“Are you—ah—remaining long?”

“I’m spending the night, yes.”

That considering frown again, with a solemn nod. “I think you should have a quiet time of it. Mirjean is, of course, well versed in all the protocols. And you have my card.”

“I do.”

“Then, good evening, Mr. Rathor.”

They shook hands in parting but Antoine stopped him as he began to leave. “It’s all right to go in then?”

The doctor quickly scanned a bank of monitors over Mirjean’s station. “Oh, yes. She’ll be coming out of it in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

Easing the door open, Antoine slipped into the dim room. He knew full dark was to be avoided and that the overhead luminates had been programmed to a therapeutic spectral-intensity profile. They probably didn’t want him messing with it. He reached out and tweaked the light up anyway.

Mariwen lay in the middle of the bed, the equipment around it all discreetly stowed in elegant wooden cabinets—she tended to react badly if she saw the consoles. Right now, her eyes were open, seeing nothing. As the light slowly brightened, her head turned mechanically, and the exquisite mask of her face—a visage that might have been created by a sculptor who was a genius at capturing every detail but had no idea what
life
was—produced a smile.

“Hi Antoine,” that mouth with its perfect lips uttered. “How was your day?”

He crossed the room and sat in the chair next to the bed, taking her slack hand in his.

“Mariwen . . .”

The dark eyes lost their glassy look and a frown creased the smooth forehead. “Chris?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

She blinked. Her hand squeezed his. “Keep—
dreaming
.”

“I know. It’s okay”—his voice suddenly hoarse.

“
No
.”

“It’ll get better.”

Struggling, she tried to sit up. He helped her with a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes swept and reswept the room. “Where is she? Is she still here?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“No? We were going to—she said—” Mariwen blinked and he saw her swallow.

“She had to go.”

“Oh. Didn’t—think—it would be so—soon.”

“She couldn’t help it. She’s thinking of you, though.”

“You—saw her?”

“Yes. Just today, in fact.”

“How is she?”

“She’s doing well.”

“Will she be coming—back?”

“I’m afraid she can’t.” He took a shallow, halting breath. “Not soon.”

“Oh.” Slim fingers clenched and unclenched in the covers. She looked at him. “Help—”

“Help?”

A sketchy nod.

“Help you with what?”

“Write.”

“You want to
write
? What do you want to write?”

Slowly Mariwen sank back against the pillows, eyes closing. After a moment, they opened again.

“Hi Antoine. Did you have a good day?”

NAVSUR HQ
Lunar 1, Tycho Prime
Luna, Sol

With Mankho located, General Perry, true to his word and prompt in execution, dispatched the operational section of CAT 5 to Lunar 1. Now they gathered in the small undistinguished space on the first basement level of NAVSUR HQ they’d taken over as an ops room. Naval Survey Command was something of a kingdom unto itself, staffed with officers who’d been in it all or most of their careers, often from families who’d been in Survey for generations. A few anomalous marines stalking about the premises might be noticed, and an eyebrow or three elevated, but they would not be recognized, and survey types were famous for keeping to themselves. The same could not be said for CAT 5 being observed in the CGHQ Main Annex, and using an ONI space would be a dead giveaway.

Commander Wesselby had duly relayed the results of the meeting with Lieutenant Sanderson to Admiral Westover via the privileged channel he’d set up, along with her own assessment, and had given Huron the
yea
he’d been looking for a day later, allowing them to assemble the rest of the team and proceed with full operational planning. With the compressed schedule they were working against, Huron had allowed three days to come up with an acceptable plan and work out the details, and so far it wasn’t looking too good.

He waved his hand at the mound of data on the table around which they were squeezed in tight. “That’s about the size of it. Either we go in light or with a full reinforced company, commit an act of war and probably kill the fucker—assuming they don’t pick up our wakes inbound twelve hours out, in which case we’ll have just spent a few million of the taxpayer’s funds to capture an empty villa.”

“I suppose we could blow up a few mud huts on the way,” offered Lieutenant Elkins, CAT 5’s new ops planner. “You know, just to round out the bill.”

The remark was not well received, and Huron was finding he didn’t like the new Marine lieutenant much. Robert Elkins was young, fussy, and relatively inexperienced. He hadn’t jelled with the rest of the team yet, but that wasn’t completely his fault, and he had a reputation for competence or he would not have been given the position. Officers weren’t assigned to CATs to lead them as much as to learn from them, to get experience that would serve them well in their later careers and, in the case of a young lieutenant like Elkins, to understand what carrying out the orders they would later give really involved. This was why junior officers were assigned to CATs as operations planners, and also why they were the only commissioned officers who were officially part of the team. For the same reason, they were rotated out regularly, rarely staying more than a year.

So if Elkins went by-the-book more than Huron liked, and leaned on Yu more than a little, that was only prudent, but he was also rather too fond of his own wit and a shade too positive. Worse still, he’d shown a tendency to be touchy, and while he listened to Yu respectfully, he seemed to try to make up for it by being stiff and almost dismissive with the other team members, as if his reliance on Yu was a weakness he had to defend by asserting his authority elsewhere. He hadn’t grasped yet that a covert action team was an extremely close-knit unit; that for the men and women in it, the CAT was their life, not just their career. No one expected an officer to fully master what CATs did, but they were expected to contribute what they could and, especially, to not get in the way. By his actions, Elkins was not yet reconciled to this role and if he didn’t catch on quick, Huron was going to have to do something about it.

Personally, he’d have preferred Lieutenant Crismon, who was sharp and meticulous, and who he’d come to like these past weeks, but naval officers rarely served on CATs, and in any case, she wasn’t field qualified. Huron had attached her in a support capacity, along with the two ensigns, McCaffrey and Jaelin, thereby stepping on Elkins’ toes somewhat. It was the team ops planner’s job to, among other things, identify the outside experts needed for any particular mission, bring them on board and interface with them. In this case, Huron had taken that role onto himself, given that Elkins was new and Crismon and her people had been involved from the start. It wasn’t the most politic approach but he didn’t have time for hand-holding. Elkins would have to deal or fold.

“It all comes back to pinning the bugger down,” Lieutenant Crismon broke in on Huron’s thoughts. Trin liked to say
bugger
too, and that amused him. “If we can’t know where he’ll be, when and for how long—and be sure he’ll stay there—this whole thing’s academic. Isn’t that just about it, sir?”

Huron, recovering from the momentary distraction, nodded.

“Flush him and bounce him when he makes orbit?” offered Lieutenant Elkins.

Ensign McCaffrey shook her head. “I’ve been through the traffic in and out of there. We’d need a whole fleet and a full sys-load of small craft. Even so, he only needs one smuggler smarter than us.”

“I belled a cat before,” commented PFC Marko Tiernan, CAT 5’s designated sniper, smiling at the no-doubt-intentional pun. “That were a piece o’ cake compared to this. I don’t think we can count on stopping all his bolt holes even if we could find ‘em. Not there. Labyrinth ain’t in it.”

“It could work if we tagged his bird. Mark, flush, snatch,” insisted Elkins.

“How do we get someone in there to do the tagging?” McCaffrey countered. “He’s got what? A dozen vehicles? More? What’s his rotation? Schedules? How’d we hustle him into the one we want? Without real-time surveillance? Maybe he calls for a ride?” McCaffrey fanned a hand through the fog of difficulties. “We don’t know how deep his hooks go.”

“Maybe use a dragonfly to drop him?” Elkins tried again. He had persistence. “Catch him when they try to move him?”

“Been tried,” answered PFC Rachel Cates, the team’s sniper/scout and medic.

“Hasn’t about everything been tried by now?” asked Gunnery Sergeant Antoinette Lopez. “Short of an engraved invitation in Iambic pentameter.”

“That might work,” Huron drawled. “How ‘bout it, Trin?”

Trin Wesselby did not reply but looked over at Elkins. “They used dragonflies on the Lacaille op.” She flicked a report across to the lieutenant. “We have to assume he’s primed to look for them.”

Elkins leafed through a screen or two and closed the report without comment.

Silence. Then PFC Kyle Argento, frankly exasperated, commented, “Is there
anything
this son of a bitch will stay put for and where he’s not alone?”

Huron looked up, the story Kris had told him about her loan coming back to his ears and the blood starting to leave his cheeks. Trin noticed.

“You have something, Huron?”

Huron looked at her woodenly. “We’ve moved a lot of air around here today but not much else. I think we should break for the PM—see if maybe we can get a different perspective tomorrow.”

*    *    *

Alone with Commander Wesselby in her private office ten minutes later, Huron shook his head. “No.”

“Rafe, I didn’t mean
send
her,” Trin snapped. “Don’t be an idiot. But it’s almost the
only
thing that hasn’t been tried yet—”

“For damn good reasons—”

“Like we’ve never had access to the necessary
insight
before now.” Trin leaned back and folded her arms. “For god’s sake, Rafe. We just need the info. To
evaluate
this.”

They waited out the rigid silence between them that lasted for more than a handful of tense breaths, and then Huron looked over at the time. It was just coming up on the first dogwatch. “Fine. I’ll talk to her. I’ll let you know what she says. But I’m not going to order her to do this.”

“I’ll accept that.” Another beat. “For now.”

He nodded, his expression fixed, palmed the door open and stepped through.

Trin hesitated a moment and then followed Huron into the corridor. “Rafe?”

He turned, face still set in sour discontent.

“Are you sure you’ve got a good handle on this?”

“Meaning what?”

Trin’s expression could have been either frustration or hurt, or some of both. “Look, you two weren’t exactly invisible on Nedaema. I’ve seen her file. She’s the best pilot candidate to come through the Academy since you, she made the Academy S&T staff look ridiculous over that stunt with the boggart, she blew Mankho’s plot without any help from us, and I’ve gone over the data dumps from the
Harlot’s Ruse
. Did you know she was this close”—raising her hand before her eyes with thumb and forefinger two millimeters apart—“to taking that boat down by herself? She had complete control of the environmentals and she was about to crack the jump convolver.” One corner of Trin’s mouth slanted down as she lifted an eyebrow. “And she’s drop-dead gorgeous. I mean . . . a girl like that, what’s not to like?”

“I think you left out what she did to Anton Trench.”

“Rafe . . .” Her expression softened and she put a hand on his arm. “Everyone’s objectivity has limits. Even yours.” Huron said nothing, knowing full well that there was nothing
to
say. Trin glanced quickly down the hall, stretched up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Look, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought I should say something . . . as your friend.”

That cracked Huron’s stony expression. “Don’t apologize, Trin.” She settled back on her heels with a careful nod. “But if she agrees, you ask the questions. Okay?”

Trin gave his arm another squeeze. “Okay. Deal.”

*    *    *

Twenty minutes later, Huron rang at the entrance to Kris’s quarters. As the door opened, she looked into his face and assumed a blank expression. “Yes, sir?”

“Hi, Kris. May I come in?”

Her lips pinched together. “Ah . . . sure.”

Huron smiled. “No ranks during the dog watches. Navy tradition.”

Her look became suspicious—no such tradition had been mentioned at the Academy. “Are you making that up?”

“Well, maybe it’s a very
local
tradition.”

That earned a smile and she ushered him in. “Have a seat,” she offered, indicating one chair while she took another.

“Thanks. Is Kym here?”

“No. She’s at another orientation seminar. Be back tomorrow.”

“How’s she handling it?”

Kris shrugged. “Okay. This place pisses her off some, though. Did’ja wanna see her?”

“No. I came to see you.”

That did not appear to be a surprise. “So what is it? Did the meeting go okay?”

His bantering smile died. “It went fine. I think we may have a shot but . . . we need more info. On Nestor Mankho.”

“Info.” She stared into his face, her eyes suddenly like yellow flint.

“Yes.” He held her gaze; it was difficult. “That loan. You were with him for what? Two weeks?”

“Eighteen days standard. Thirteen local.”

“Okay.” His eyes slid from hers. “What we need is . . . We need to know what he’s like—and what he
likes
. Habits: when he eats, sleeps—does he follow a personal schedule or not? If he likes to entertain and how. Does he sleep alone? What occupies him? What’s important to him? What he allows interruptions for and especially . . . what he doesn’t.”

Kris’s eyes had gone so hard Huron thought you could strike sparks off them. “Huron, you want me to stand up in front of these people and tell them what it’s like to get fucked by Nestor Mankho. That’s it, right?”

Her look made him feel like a rapist. “Yeah . . . that’s what we need.”

“Shit.” She dropped her face into both hands and her shoulders began to shake, but she wasn’t crying. She made no noise at all. When her head came up there were no tears—just a withering coldness. “
Fuck
.” One syllable, very soft and impossibly savage. He saw her exhale. “Alright. When?”

“Tomorrow. Oh-eight-thirty.”

She nodded, eyes unfocused. He rose, thanked her in a quiet voice and let himself out.

Kris sat for long minutes, staring not at a place, but a time—a cloud of memories she’d have given anything to be rid of. How could she possibly put what happened during those days into words suitable for a briefing? She didn’t even know how she’d survived them. With Trench, when things got ugly, she had a trick of falling
down
—falling
into
herself: a cottony nothingness where the pain barely touched. She’d used it with Mankho too, especially that night he came back in such a bestial mood, but she couldn’t do it all the time.

She remembered his leer, the games he made her watch, how he’d used a neural transmitter and an array of microcams to show her things no one should ever see—the silky cold sound of his voice in her ear as he kept up a detailed running commentary, the endless supply of studs and exotics she’d performed with until he became aroused enough to join in, the hot feeling of his rough skin and calloused hands . . . The girl she’d put on a show with and what he’d done to her afterwards, making them flip a coin to see who it would be—a weighted coin, because Trench had to have her back in one piece—and what was left over and how he made her clean up the mess.

Her stomach heaved and she bolted for the bathroom. The door was already open or she never would have made it in time.