Orion's Price (Loralynn Kennakris Book 6) Read online

  Mariwen arched one eyebrow. “Chris, are you telling me this Captain Wesselby was a ‘wet girl’?”

  Antoine sat back. “How do you know that term?”

  “Oh for god’s sake, Chris. I didn’t always live in a bubble.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Yes. That’s what I heard.”

  “Are you telling me she might not talk to me because she used to be an assassin?”

  “No, Mara, please.” Somewhere in the conversation, the tenor had changed and his sister was now dry-eyed and more than that, there was a hardness in those eyes he’d not seen before. “It’s just that people in her line of work aren’t—”

  “Chris, I know something about assassins. I promise I won’t cry on her shoulder about the woman I love being tortured to death by a sadistic fuck like Heydrich.”

  Antoine slumped, feeling defeated even though he had no idea what he’d been fighting for or which side he was on. “You never used to talk like that.”

  “Thanks, big brother. It’s the company I keep. Now, will you make that call?”

  Chapter 3

  IHS Belisarius, in orbit

  Amu Daria, Epsilon Aquila, Aquila Sector

  “Is he alive?”

  The short, dapper and quite serious looking man in the uniform of a full admiral sat down across the table from Kris. She had no idea why an admiral of the Halith Imperial Navy would want to see her—the last one she’d encountered had very specific things in mind, but this guy didn’t seem that type. However, she really didn’t give a shit. On the rocky flight up from the POW camp, they’d kept her locked to a jump seat in a forward compartment barely big enough for her and three guards. What they’d done with Rafe, she had no idea. Until they brought her to this near-featureless room, her captors’ mode of communicating hadn’t extended beyond gestures and the odd monosyllable.

  “Commander Huron, if I take your meaning?” His voice sounded exactly like he looked.

  “Yes.”

  “His situation remains . . . grave. The delay in treatment was imprudent.”

  “Well, if I’d known how nice this shit-can of yours is, I’d’ve made a fuck’n reservation.”

  That brought out a shallow smile to acknowledge the bravado and nothing more. He placed his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers, exactly as Captain Wesselby often did. She wondered what they’d think of each other.

  “I am aware you have a certain reputation, Commander. I see I was not misinformed.”

  So he knew about her ‘reputation’? That could mean all sorts of things, none of them very promising. “Congratulations. Will I be allowed to visit Commander Huron?”

  “You will be kept apprised of his condition.”

  Just what she’d expected. “I’m gonna take that as a no.”

  He did not object, but continued to appraise her. “I give you my word that we are doing all we can for Commander Huron. And it is my order that you be made as comfortable as possible.”

  As possible? As in comfortable until it was time for the steel table and a bunch of needles? Or was he gonna outsource that? To the late Admiral Heydrich’s brother, maybe?

  “I don’t want special treatment.”

  “Very commendable. However, your unique position dictates the present course. And allows me to pay you a professional compliment. It is nothing more, but I would be pleased if you did me the honor of accepting it. If you feel that impugns your integrity to an unacceptable degree, I will do my best to make you less comfortable, but conducting you to the common holding cells is out of the question at this time.”

  At this time. Was he gonna get to the point now?

  “Great. Now that we’ve had this fun little chat, ya wanna get down to the ugly shit? Or can we take a rain check on that?”

  At that, the smile took on a hint genuine amusement. “As much as I am enjoying your performance, Commander, please understand this is not an interrogation nor a prelude to one. I merely wished to meet you. And introduce myself.”

  Which she realized she had not yet let him do. “Okay.”

  “I am Joaquin Caneris. One might say that we have already met—in a manner of speaking.”

  One also might say that Kris had beaten him at the Battle of Apollyon Gates. “Okay,” she repeated.

  “Our profession does not often afford the opportunity to meet an . . . honorable adversary.”

  “You’re short a few honorable adversaries. I had a lotta help.”

  “Gracious as well.” He slid his palms flat on the table and leaned back. “That, I had not expected.”

  Fuck you very much.

  “I should like to ask if you would be willing to indulge me in a small matter,” he continued. “You are at liberty to refuse, of course, and should that be the case, the matter will be considered closed. No action shall be taken against you. It is merely personal request, and I hope it may be taken as a mark of respect, for that is how I intend it.”

  Mark of respect? Now that’s charming.

  “Yeah, alright. Ask.”

  Admiral Caneris took a sheet from a pocket of his uniform, unfolded it and slid it across the table to her. She made no move to touch it, but merely looked at the creased paper abstractedly.

  “That is our official estimate of your order of battle at Apollyon Gates”—making an open-handed gesture at the sheet. “I have my doubts as to its accuracy. Given conflicting and ambiguous data, there is a regrettable tendency in our intelligence apparatus to cast things in, shall I say, the . . . most favorable light.”

  Yeah, the art of ass-covering is pretty much universal.

  “Truth serves much better, I think you will agree?” Without waiting to see if she did or not—her expression stayed fixed in a cool, almost-smile that conveyed nothing—he finished, “If you feel you are able to do so without compromise, I would ask you to correct that estimate.”

  Without compromise? What a quaint way to put it. She reached out, flipped the sheet around and scanned it. He wasn’t shitting her. A straight-up shot of the truth couldn’t hurt anything, could it? Her lips tweaked up in a smile for the first time.

  “Got something to write with?”

  He took a stylus from another pocket and handed it across.

  “Thanks”—an automatic reaction as she addressed herself to the list.

  Battlecruisers? Not one, but two? One of those had to be Penthesileia, the flagship of the Tanith Rangers, the mercenary outfit that made up the bulk of her force that day. She was only a heavy cruiser, but she fought like a battlecruiser, it was fair to say. Where they dreamed up the other one, no telling. She lined them both out and wrote “CG (heavy)” in the margin, in case the Doms used slightly different designations than the CEF did.

  LSS Polidor—her flagship, another heavy cruiser. They had that right. But then she was Halith-built: a capture that had been refit. She’d hope they’d recognize her. She put a check mark by the name.

  LSS Osiris, a light cruiser. Such a sweet ship—fast and beyond nimble. She’d gone above and beyond too, and—this was the best part—survived. Another check mark.

  Four more heavy cruisers? Yeah, those would’ve been stellar to have. Either they’d done a better job than she thought of confusing them, or somebody on his side really was fudging the numbers. She lined them out.

  “Suspected light carrier.” Seriously? She suppressed a chuckle. They had employed a shit-ton of drones during the battle—the best the Ionians could provide. Did his intell guys think some of those were actually fighters? She’d have to send the Ionian Navy a thank-you note at her next opportunity. Striking out the “light carrier”, she added an exclamation point after it, just for fun.

  “Stealth frigates/destroyers – 6 to 8.” Really? Commander Yanazuka would be overjoyed to know her four stealth frigates had been doubled in number and jumped up in weight class. After the hurt they laid on Caneris’ fleet, though, maybe the estimate wasn’t all that farfetched? But didn’t the Doms know the CEF didn’t have any
stealth destroyers? They were working on a new class of stealth cruiser, but they’d skipped the whole stealth-DD experiment. Feeling generous, she circled frigate and corrected the number.

  Working her way down the list, the urge to smile overcame her. What? No frigates? She’d had five, one of which, LSS Ariel, was especially near and dear to her. The cheeky little ship, armed only with a few torpedoes and 4-inch pop guns, actually disobeyed orders to get in on the fight, although her chief engineer had had to disable all the safety interlocks on his drives to do so. He’d gotten away with it, too, lucky son of a bitch that he was. She scratched out a whole squadron’s worth of fictional destroyers and wrote “5 FF” in the margin.

  When she got to their assessment of the relief force Huron had led, whose arrival had sealed the final victory, she had to keep from shaking her head. It began: “2 battleships, 1 fleet carrier . . .” Those had been unarmed two fleet tenders and a hospital ship. The rest of the estimate was similarly overblown. She didn’t change it. If they wanted a fig leaf for ass covering or face saving, let ’em have that one. Besides, it wouldn’t do to give the whole game away.

  Finishing, she shoved the list back across the table. It showed less than half the number of ships, and in most cases, those were lighter than estimated. The end result was the greatest disparity of naval fire power since the ancient battle of Samar during the Leyte Gulf operation in the mid-20th Century, by the old reckoning.

  “There,” she said succinctly, laying the stylus across the paper.

  Caneris moved the stylus deliberately and read the list. The corner of his mouth twitched once, but otherwise his expression hardly changed. After a long minute, he refolded the sheet but left it on the table.

  “Most illuminating. Your candor is much appreciated.” Interlacing his fingers again, he once again regarded Kris over them. “I shall destroy that paper personally—now, if you wish—so you need not be concerned for its existence. Its information, I shall retain as my private possession.”

  She shrugged. They could get nasty if they wanted, that paper or no. But it was a nice gesture. The admiral seemed to put a lot of stock in gestures.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Picking up the sheet and tucking it back into a pocket, the admiral stood. “Then I shall dispose of this in my quarters at once”—tapping the pocket. “If possible, I should like to offer you something in exchange. Is there a service I may render you?”

  Mariwen’s necklace rose in her mind. Shoulda tossed it into the fuck’n ocean when I had the chance. But she pushed the thought away quickly with a twinge. “I’d like to see Commander Huron.”

  His mouth crimped for an instant, then resumed its normal, rather tight-lipped, state. “I shall arrange it.” Without a pause for her to acknowledge the gesture, he said, “Thank you, Commander. This has been an enjoyable conversation.”

  That made her question the admiral’s definition of enjoyable. But he seemed a decent enough sort. For a Dom admiral. “Don’t mention it.”

  He gave her a slight parting nod. “You may be assured of that.”

  Chapter 4

  ONI Liaison Office

  Terran Navy HQ, Cheyenne Mtn, Colorado

  Western Federal District, Terra, Sol

  “Ms. Rathor, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said Captain Trin Wesselby, extending her hand.

  Mariwen took it: the captain’s hand was warm and smooth but not particularly soft. That seemed to be in keeping with her character. Trin Wesselby was a short woman with a build that was either sleek or wiry, depending on how charitable one felt. She was not aged but far from young—Mariwen thought she’d lost her youth early on—and had long dark hair and pale gray eyes that were unnervingly direct. Those eyes dominated her rather thin face, their calculating nature such that Mariwen couldn’t quite decide how attractive she was. She could be attractive with a little effort, but Mariwen got a strong impression that her efforts were bent in the opposite direction. Based on what she’d heard about Trin Wesselby, Mariwen imagined that was probably inevitable.

  “I very much appreciate you taking the time to see me.” She smiled, a deliberately muted expression, as she let the captain’s hand go.

  “It’s my pleasure.” Captain Wesselby’s answering smile was all professional politeness. “Please be seated.”

  Mariwen took the indicated chair and the captain resumed her seat behind the desk, leaning her elbows on it and interlacing her fingers. It appeared to be a pose of long habit and it gave her a rather strict, even censorious demeanor, rather like a headmistress or women Mariwen had known in more exotic professions. It also meant, Mariwen sensed, that she was not entirely at ease. Which was entirely understandable.

  “I understood from your message that you wished to discuss the situation regarding Commander Huron and Lieutenant Commander Kennakris?”

  “Yes. I was hoping you might be able to give me some . . . insight into what happened. And what has become of them.”

  Trin nodded. “I also gather you have a brother working in OTI?”

  “Yes. Christopher. Christopher Antoine.”

  “I see.” Trin’s eyes wandered for an instant. Was that a nervous gesture too? Probably not. Trin Wesselby tended to avoid eye contact, using it instead for effect. And it could have quite the effect, Mariwen had no doubt. “Then I imagine you have been made aware of the current state of the POW exchange protocols?”

  Mariwen hadn’t known exactly what to expect but this was not leading in a promising direction. She nodded.

  “Then you will appreciate the difficulties of the current situation, especially given the circumstances under which they were captured. Obviously, Commander Huron’s involvement raises the issue to new levels but I’m afraid there’s nothing in that regard I can comment on.” Trin looked appropriately pained at Mariwen’s expression. “I’m very sorry I don’t have more for you, Ms. Rathor.” Her face softened for the first time. “Rafe—Commander Huron is a very old friend and I have the utmost respect for Commander Kennakris. Please know I do appreciate and share your concerns.”

  And you made that slip deliberately. Why?

  “I can tell you that we believe Commanders Kennakris and Huron are still in the custody of Admiral Caneris, Commander of the Prince Vorland Fleet. Joaquin Caneris has a reputation as an extremely professional officer. I believe we can be confident they will be well treated as long as they are in his charge.”

  Mariwen detected the slight emphasis and wondered why the captain was keeping her cards in so tight. She obviously knew a great deal more than she was saying and while Mariwen certainly did not expect her to delve into state secrets, the subtexts swimming just beneath the calm surface weren’t at all clear. She seemed to know that Mariwen was also fairly well-informed and Mariwen wondered if she’d talked to someone. Perhaps Huron’s father himself? Antoine had said she was a family friend and this meeting was taking on more the aspect of a performance than a conversation.

  Mariwen composed her features and smiled.

  “Beyond that, I’m very much afraid there is little this office can do for you.” This office? “Of course, if anything new develops I will certainly tell you whatever I can.” Trin Wesselby took a card out of her desk, wrote a short note on it and slid it across to Mariwen. “Again, I’m very sorry I could not give you better news.”

  Mariwen put the card into a pocket without looking at. “I really do appreciate it, Captain. I understand how busy you must be. I will not take up any more of your time. Thank you again.”

  The two women stood and Trin came out from behind her desk to see Mariwen to the door, where they shook hands once more. As they did so, she smiled—a genuine smile—and said, “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a driver for you. Getting a taxi to respond all the way out here can be such a bother with all the security and they charge a ridiculous amount.”

  “Why, thank you.” Mariwen returned a like smile. “That is extraordinarily thoughtful.”

  “Oh, n
ot at all. It’s nothing—don't mention it.”

  Once outside the building, Mariwen was met by a bulky marine corporal with a face from an Easter Island statue, who greeted her politely and gestured to an armored groundcar. After conducting her into the back seat, he got into the driver’s side and then turned to her when the doors sealed.

  “May I see the card the Captain gave you, ma’am?”

  Puzzled, Mariwen took it out and handed it over. The corporal waved it across the car’s console and a map reference appeared. “Captain Wesselby said I was to see you to this here map-ref, ma’am, and wait with you until relieved, unless you objected. If you did, I was to take wherever you asked, ma’am.”

  Mariwen squinted at the display. “What is that place?”

  “Can’t rightly say, ma’am. Not one of my haunts. I do believe there’s lotsa bars and suchlike thereabouts though.”

  Bars? Mariwen gave her head a little twitch. What was Captain Wesselby playing at? Clearly something important enough to her to take some rather extreme-sounding measures.

  “What’ll it be, ma’am?”

  Mariwen exhaled and ran her tongue across her upper teeth. “Yes, that would be fine. Please follow the Captain’s directions.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” He engaged thrusters and the car accelerated steadily.

  * * *

  It was a bar—and not a bar Mariwen would have been caught dead in under normal circumstances. A lurid sign announced it as the Main Chance and the girls Mariwen saw hanging about the entrance made that meaning clear. Strictly speaking she wasn’t about to be caught dead in it now either, for she did not venture inside. She stood on the corner, where the milling crowd of whores and their prey glanced, stared or gaped at her, according to their manner and wit. She was very glad of her marine escort.