Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks (54 page)

CEF Academy Main Campus
Cape York, Mars, Sol

Goddammit, I am late
, Kris fumed as she hurried down the corridor to her next session, stuffing strands of still-damp hair into her undress cap. Neither the topic, Advanced Astronautics, nor the instructor, Commander Calvin Mertone, were congenial, and in this case, the feeling seemed to be reciprocated. But at least this was the next to the last session; after this week they wouldn’t have to worry about getting on each other’s nerves.

Kris stopped at the door, took a deep breath, released it, and twitched her tunic straight. She tapped the entry pad, took two steps through as the door opened and snapped a salute. “I regret and apologize for my unpunctuality, sir. No excuse, sir.”

She felt the eyes of the class on her and steeled herself for one of Mertone’s salvos regretting her inevitable slackness, her lack of dedication or at least ability to tell the time, and compassing her many other sins and perhaps those of her foremothers as well. But Mertone merely smiled at her with his odd cat-gold eyes, the heritage of his pure-blood Messian genome, and motioned for her to take her seat. “Commander Huron has already read you in, Cadet. Do be seated.” The room seemed to let go a collective sigh—in disappointment, or so it felt to Kris.

“As I was saying, cadets,” Mertone resumed as Kris slid into her seat, “our time here is nearing an end. And,” here he paused for effect, “in view of the satisfactory results of the last form—the highly satisfactory results—it has been decided to forgive the final sessions and extend a liberty period to you all. Well done.” A half-stifled unmilitary cheer erupted. “Certs will be issued at the regular time. That concludes for today and for our class.”

The class bounded to its collective feet and thirty-six right arms snapped in salute. Mertone returned the salute and added, “Until I see you all at graduation, good luck and good hunting.”

They began to file out with considerably more noise and chat than was normally countenanced, but two weeks before graduation standards were apt to grow a bit lax. The exit was not as orderly as usually expected either, and Kris was in the middle of the jostling crowd at the doorway when she heard her name. Swearing inside, she sidled out and began to salute but Mertone waved it off with a smile. He was a short, thick-set man, round-faced and heavy-featured, and smiles did not sit naturally on him. Even with the best intent, surmounted by those yellow eyes they always seemed forced or cynical. He lifted his hip onto his desk and gestured in an open-handed way.

“At ease, Cadet. Strictly unofficial.”

“Yessir,” Kris said mechanically. She assumed the approved stance but did not relax.

“I got a glimpse of your last flight today. Most impressive.” Kris quirked her brows together. Mertone had been a fighter boss before joining the Academy, so he knew what he was talking about, but such open praise was not encouraged.
Maybe he just doesn’t like Huron
. That wouldn’t surprise her. For one thing, Huron was just a grade below him but at least a decade younger. “I wanted to mark my appreciation of your flying. Just a training run of course, but I’m sure that your career will be, ah—as I think Admiral Nelson said—damn good for your friends and damn bad for your enemies.”

“Thank you, sir!” Kris hadn’t actually meant to bark but it was mostly habit by now. Mostly, but not all. Something gave her the feeling Mertone was trying to butter her up.

“Anyway,” he continued, and Kris could definitely detect the butter now, “we are having a small get-together later tonight; something of a tradition. A few select cadets—very informal. And as your classes are over with, there’s no question of impropriety.” He held out a card. “I’d be pleased if you’d accept the invitation.”

Kris had heard of these informal pre-graduation parties but had never considered that she might be invited to one. The Academy instructors hosted them but senior officers, even ship captions, also attended, and those introductions could be invaluable for landing a good post, especially now. It would almost certainly be worth it, even if Mertone was hosting this one.

“Thank you, sir,” she said in a more human tone and held out her hand for the card.

*    *    *

Informal, as understood in the context of a naval gathering, was not of the sort of informal that most civilians would recognize. The senior officers’ undress whites still sported a splendid amount of gold braid, and while most decorations were discouraged, service ribbons were not and exceptions were made for the very highest honors, such as the Senatorial Cross, three of which Kris saw as she circulated with an untouched drink warming in her hand: one on a thin, grizzled flag officer and another worn by a tall, imposing female captain of the elite 101st Marine Special Operations Brigade. Huron wore the third.

It was not a large gathering, but it was not particularly small either: a few dozen of her classmates and a lesser number of other guests; but large or small, it was certainly the most glittering Kris had ever attended. The Academy Commandant made a brief appearance, and in addition to the Senatorial Crosses she saw several officers, two of them star captains, wearing the Anson’s Deep medal on its heavy scarlet ribbon. There was also another marine officer with the Hesperian Order of Merit, and she even saw the Legion’s Honor with Wound Stripes on the chest of a very senior NCO with hash marks past the elbow.

Kris was introduced around, faintly praised in the manner of the service, hands were shaken—no saluting allowed—and cards exchanged. One of the Anson’s Deep Captains, a burly man named RyKirt, showed her particular attention. Huron had served under him aboard the LSS
Arizona
, the cruiser that had taken her off
Harlot’s Ruse
, and Kris had met him in the course of a formal dinner on that ship which, although this was nowhere recorded, had been held partly in her honor for her contribution to the D’Harra operation. RyKirt clearly remembered her and their conversation went well beyond that demanded by mere politeness. As he left, RyKirt gave Kris his card, a firm farewell handshake and an invitation to call, once repeated. Huron, following him shortly afterwards, gave her an equally significant look.

The encounter with Captain RyKirt warmed Kris to the gathering and a few hours later, with the crowd beginning to thin out as most of the active service officers took their leave, she was genuinely enjoying herself. She was sipping a drink now, something smooth and smoky over ice, and being careful. Alcohol affected her oddly and this was no time to risk overdoing it. Some of her classmates were distinctly rosy by now and being quite careful in their enunciation.

“Enjoying yourself, Kennakris?” The question startled her. Mertone had come up on her blind side.

“Uh-huh. Yes, sir.”

Mertone had a drink as well, not his first by any means, but he was perfectly composed, although Kris thought his eyes a bit brighter than usual. “I saw you talking with Captain RyKirt.” He took her elbow in his free hand in a companionable fashion, guiding her away from a gaggle of cadets who were laughing and threatening to become loud. “He had
Arizona
, you know. Made a bit of a name for himself.” The affected friendliness in Mertone’s voice sent a tiny chill working through her gut. “They’re giving him
Trafalgar
now.”

In spite of herself, Kris’s brows went up. LSS
Trafalgar
had just completed her final shakedown cruise and would finish fitting out by the end of the month. She’d already heard several times tonight how keen competition was for the available billets, and it was unusual to award such a prime carrier command to a captain who’d spent much of his career in cruisers. RyKirt must have a lot of pull or be exceptionally well thought of. While she considered the new implications of having RyKirt’s card in her pocket, Mertone entertained her with some specifics leavened with a good bit of speculation about her likely operations and loadout, and the obvious benefits that would accrue to an exceptional flight officer who could get posted to such a ship.

Then leaning close, Mertone spoke confidentially. “I’ve . . . ah . . . applied for the DSRO billet.” His hand slid up to her shoulder and Kris grit her teeth against the assumed familiarity. “Not official yet, of course. But there’s a pretty good understanding, I think.”

“Congratulations, sir,” Kris said, feeling she had to say something.

Mertone chuckled. “Thanks, but that’s not what I was getting at.” They had been walking slowly as he talked, and Kris realized they were now quite a distance from the others and the party had dwindled to the knot of laughing cadets, a few holding onto each other for mutual support at this point. “The squadrons will fill up fast. They’ll take mostly established wings, of course, but a few new ensigns might be selected. If they are exceptional,
of course
.” They had stopped in front of a dim alcove and Mertone was now quite close. Kris felt her heart skip and begin to race; that chill had just run down to her toes. “And if, ah, the right strings were pulled.”

Mertone’s hand began to move questingly down towards the small of her back while the other, still holding his now neglected drink, reached across her as he leaned against the alcove wall. Kris shrank back half a foot, her shoulders fetching up against the corner of the alcove’s entrance. Mertone’s eyes were hot gold. “If you’d like,” he said, his voice dangerously slow, “we could talk this over in a more private—”

There was a blinding snap behind her eyes that left them full of sparks and her ears ringing, and pure spinal reflex brought her knee up hard into Mertone’s groin. She never heard his gasp, didn’t see him crumple and fall, didn’t feel the door as she hit it, bursting through, running—running without thought or feeling into the thin cold frozen drizzle of the Martian night.

*    *    *

Commandant Hoste had had better days—much better. There was nothing uglier than these nasty
he-said-she-said
affairs, with no close witnesses and the recollections of those who were present blurred by an alcoholic haze, and complicated by the fact that the
she-said
part of the equation had key parts missing. Kennakris had not actually accused Commander Mertone of sexual assault or even serious impropriety—she’d said hardly anything at all. Her deposition was a bald recitation of the facts and awkwardly truncated. She claimed not to remember the act or what immediately preceded it, and Hoste could get no sense if this assertion was genuine or merely tactical. For his part, Mertone had lodged a complaint, but he’d stopped short of making a formal assault charge.

Almost nothing excused a cadet striking an officer, but sexual assault was included in that minute category, and where a playful grope crossed the line into assault was very much in the eye of the beholder. As a matter of policy, the Service did put more weight on the views of the gropee, especially in a case like this, involving a young female cadet and senior male officer. But young female cadets were also expected to be able to handle these situations without resorting to physical violence. An unwanted sexual advance would get an officer severely reprimanded, in some cases cashiered, and it was not considered necessary to deck one unless he obviously failed to take
no
for an answer.

How Commander Mertone had come to forget all this was a mystery to the Commandant. Mertone was proud and could be touchy—a trait he shared with many Messian aristocrats—and he denied there was anything sexual in either his actions or his intent. The latter was certainly open to question, and Kennakris’s deposition did not allow him to reach much of a conclusion on the former, but that was all beside the point. Mertone should have known better than to pull such a stunt with any cadet, and especially with
this
cadet.

But at least Kennakris was still officially a cadet. Had she been a commissioned officer, there would have been no way to avoid a formal inquest and it would be supremely difficult to get around court martial proceedings. As things were, it was just possible that they could still deal with this whole unfortunate episode right here—if Mertone could pull his head out of his ass, Hoste thought dryly,
and
if Kennakris was willing to go along. He thought there was a decent chance Mertone would do so. With the war heating up, Mertone might prefer to eat a serious helping of crow rather than run the risk of being permanently sidelined should an inquest go against him. What Kennakris might do, he had no notion. She was sitting there now, absolutely rigid, her spine a good six inches from the back of her chair, and he could not plumb her thoughts at all.

From that chair, Kris was watching Commandant Hoste with equal intensity and finding him equally opaque. She believed the Commandant to be a fair-minded man, but she also knew he had a strong aversion to controversy, that Mertone was a very senior officer of some influence, and that she could not recall exactly what he’d said or done in that final instant. That—not tactics—was the reason for her truncated deposition. While she had no doubt what had been on Mertone’s mind, the only clear evidence was against her, and how far the Commandant would be willing to go to defend a lowly colonial cadet against a Messian aristocrat made her sick to think about. Certainly it did not look especially promising, she thought, noting the lines in his face which were graven deeper still and his pale eyes hard as glass.

As Kris fought to maintain her composure, Hoste’s frown got deeper as he scanned and rescanned her deposition, and his eyes harder and colder. At last, he tossed the papers—real papers—onto his huge, ornate, imposing desk and rocked back in the tall, imposing chair.

“Cadet Kennakris, have you anything to add to your deposition?”

“Nosir.” Her voice was weak, barely audible. Hoste’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “No. Sir.”

Hoste nodded, stirring the pages with his right hand. “Commander Mertone. Do you have anything to add to your deposition?”

Commander Mertone was standing to her left, not close, in a stance that was by no means
at ease
, although officially that’s what it was called. “I do not, sir,” he answered, his inflection utterly flat and his tone metallic.