Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum (21 page)

*     *     *

The console lights were swimming by the time they got the tender into the deck clamps; smears of color cavorting before her eyes, some blinking of their own accord, the rest just randomly fading in and out. Baz popped the hatch seal; air rushed in as the pressure equalized. She got her helmet off and was drinking deep of its sweetness as Warrant Officer Angel Moreno, the crew chief, stuck his jubilantly ugly round head in.

“You done for there, kid?”

“Fuck off, Chief,” Kris growled, fighting with the straps. The buckles were putting up a heroic resistance and her eyes stubbornly refused to focus but that didn’t give Marino the right to call her ‘kid’.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Marino said, pushing her fumbling hands out of the way and expertly popping the releases. “Lemme give you a hand outta there.”

Kris nodded, gripped the thick, hard-calloused hand and pushed with her legs but they betrayed her as cramps bloomed through both of them. Her vision went from fuzzy to a startling nothingness in which her heartbeat was improbably loud although she could still hear people talking over it and there was a very strange sensation like swimming through something impossibly heavy and when her vision came back, it came back unevenly, full of dancing lights.

A medtech pulled back the light he’d been shining in her pupils and ripped a lead off the inside of her now exposed wrist—someone had removed her gloves. “She’s okay,” he said to the probable someone off to her right. “Just fatigue and dehydration. Hell of a swim and they didn’t figure on people
riding
in that tender. Damn long time to be living off suit environmentals.”

There was a sharp jab in her wrist where the patch had been. “
Ow!
What the hell?”

“Hydration pack,” the tech said with a grin, wrapping a length of bandage around her arm to keep it in place. “Give it a few minutes and it’ll fetch you around nicely.”

Kris became aware that she was sitting on a wing spar with Baz on one side and Marino on the other. Running a hand across her eyes, she asked, “Did I pass out?”

“Nope,” the tech said, snapping his case shut. “Just a brownout—that’s all. All good.”

It didn’t feel
all good
—it felt like warmed-over shit with a deep, hot tearing ache in her neck and shoulders, descending her spine and burning along the front of both thighs, flaring into her knees and spiking down her shins.

“Don’t try to get up for bit. Let the pack get a handle on those cramps. Just breath slow—it helps.” Kris did as she was told—it
did
help.

So how long’s a bit
? she wondered as the tech stood and left. She didn’t want to sit here letting the pack get a handle on anything. She wanted out of the goddamned suit that was making her feel mummified, she wanted—well, a bath was out of the question, but at least a shower; she wanted . . .

“How long’s a
bit
?” she grumbled out loud this time, feeling for the nearest support—Marino’s brawny shoulder. “Help me up, dammit.” With Baz on her other side, they eased Kris to her feet.

“You got her there, sir?” Marino asked as she stood between them, wobbling.

“Got her, Chief,” Baz answered, and then to Kris, “How do you feel now?”

“Been worse.” She took an experimental step, staggered and he caught her. She straightened, her arms shifting around his shoulders, and dropped her face alongside his. “Look, Baz . . . sorry I sounded like such a bitch back there. Thank you. Thanks for comin’ back for me.”

“Don’t mention it, Kr—” But she covered his lips with hers and he stood there, suddenly frozen and his face going stiff. She broke the contact gently, pushing away half an arm’s length while his arms still supported her mechanically. No flush could show on his dark skin but his breathing was choppy as he said, “It’s okay—really.”

“I mean it,” Kris replied, low. “Really.”

“Yeah.” His mouth twitched in an uncertain grin. “I—
um
—I should— Good morning, sir.”

This last was directed over her shoulder and Kris turned her head to see Commander Huron approaching, smiling with his hand held out. “That’s an damn fine thing you did, Basmartin. I’ll see that the CO hears about it and a copy of the report is attached to you file.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, sir.” Basmartin’s face went through a strange contortion as he tried to sort out the conflicting impulses to salute, hold up Kris, and shake the offered hand. Kris solved part of the problem by stepping back from between them, keeping one hand on Baz’s shoulder to steady herself. Huron solved the rest by taking Basmartin’s hesitant hand in his firm grip.

“There’ll be an ops briefing after chow at 1830,” Huron went on, stepping back a comfortable pace. “Go get some rest until then. You both deserve it.”

Kris detected a latent wink in Huron’s eye and a look of something almost like panic in Basmartin’s.

“Yessir,” Baz said hastily. “I—that is, I should really go explain about the bird first.” He nodded at Kris. “Would it be okay—that is, I think Ensign Kennakris could use some assistance, sir.”

The faint movement at the corner of his mouth told Kris that Huron was keeping a look of either surprise or amusement out of his expression. Maybe both. “Of course, Ensign. And no worries about the bird—taxpayers’ money never better spent. If someone makes a fuss, tell ‘em to send the bill to me.”

“Yessir. Thank you again, sir.” He saluted as Huron stepped over to Kris and they watched his brisk retreat until he was lost from sight.

“He’s a good kid,” Huron said when they were out of earshot. “Didn’t scare him away, did I?”

“No. I think it was me that did.”

“So you two aren’t, um . . .”

“Nope. Would you gimme a little help? I want out of the this fucking suit. Like
now
.”

“Well, you did just swim over five million klicks in it. Ever think of taking up a nice safe sport like say . . . moon diving?”

“Huron, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about half the time. More than half.”

“My apologies. What do you say we get you to your quarters first? For form’s sake?”

She nodded and Huron held out his arm to her. As she took it, his expression changed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to sickbay, Kris? I can call an orderly.”

“No. Not sickbay.”

“Okay.” He paused. “Don’t take this wrong, but my rack’s open if you’d like to rest in peace.”

As a lieutenant commander, Huron had a stateroom to himself. Going to her berth meant dealing with Krieger and Dance. Getting a few hours sleep by herself
would
be nice.

“Um—sure. If you’re all good with that.”

Of course, he was good with it. It’d be red meat for the rumor mill, though. “A yeoman can see you there—if you like.” That might help—a bit.

She shook her head, leaning on his arm. “So how are we really doin’?”

“Still sizing up the dance card. Don’t figure to open the ball until tomorrow AM.”

“Tanner?”

“In sickbay—doing well.”

“Good.” Then, haltingly: “Diego didn’t make it.”

His arm shifted to hold her a little tighter. “I know. Don’t let it ride you, Kris. You did fine.”

“Thanks.” It was taking all her concentration to keep putting one foot in front of the other and his answers weren’t really sinking in yet. “You don’t mind if I lean on you a little more, d‘ya?”

“Not at all, Kris.” He slid his arm around her waist.

“Y’know how they talk.” She put her arm over his shoulder and felt him take the weight. It was nice . . .

“I know.”

“Thanks, Huron.”

*     *     *

They made it to his quarters and Huron helped Kris into his rack. The hydration pack started beeping and he removed it as she tugged at the suit seals. “Let me,” he said and before she could say
yes
or
no
, he had her boots off and was easing the suit off her shoulders. The skin beneath was splotched with angry red where it wasn’t a puffy mottled white and gray, and clammy everywhere with suit gel and perspiration.

“Goddammit,” Kris muttered as her arms came free. She sat up to reach for the leg seals, but the dizziness overcame her again and she sagged back. “Shit . . .”

“It’s okay, Kris. Here—just shift a little.”

She did, and he had her out of the suit with a trio of yanks.

“That better?”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes because bulkheads kept going to and fro in a most disconcerting manner. “Better.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a sec.” A sec or a minute or minutes—it was all the same to her. Then he was back with a wet, warm cloth in his hand and was rubbing it all over her body, clearing away the sweat and gel, and it was slightly rough in a way that made her skin tingle. It felt wonderful. But not as wonderful as the clear, highly viscous oil he poured into his palm and then began rubbing into her shoulders and upper arms.

“What is that stuff?” she asked when he finished with her arms and started massaging her left thigh where the ghost of the burn was being exorcized by his ministrations. It had a mild, slightly piquant, unfamiliar scent with just a hint of sweetness.

“Just a medium-chain triglyceride with some phytosterols.”

“Huh?”

“Coconut oil.”

“What’s a coconut?”

“A bad thing to have fall on your head. I don’t care for it in chocolate, either.”

“Huron . . .”

“That help?” His hands were on her ribcage now, rubbing firmly and quite expertly. Her assent was three-quarters moan. “Roll over.”

She rolled. The things his oil-rich fingers did were not things it had occurred to her that fingers could do. They sank deep into her overused muscles and it
hurt
as he seemed to pull the stress out by the roots—but it hurt in this marvelous way that left warmth and lightness and something even more astonishing behind: a kind of release that made her bite her lip even as it dissolved everything all the way down to her toes.

And when he finished, she rolled on her back and looked at him, though her eyelids had grown terribly heavy, and in the dimness of the cabin she could not make out his expression at all. With an effort just short of infinite, she reached up and pulled him close until their lips touched, and she took the pressure of that kiss openly, nuzzling his lips apart and sharing a lazy caress that asked nothing but promised much.

At last, her hands slid down his neck to his shoulders and her head fell back against the pillow.

“Rafe?”

“Yes?”

“There’s something . . . would it be okay if—? I mean, I’d like it if you’d . . .”

“What?”

“Get me some potatoes. Real potatoes.”

She saw the gleam of his smile in the shadow now.

“How would you like them?”

Nothing could prop her eyelids open anymore and she gave up trying; the lassitude was swamping her in an overwhelming, resistless tide, and it was all she could do to whisper
mashed
as she fell asleep.

“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters”—so ran the old quote. And ever since
they
had—probably ever since someone first paddled a log canoe, thought Admiral PrenTalien—others had likewise gone down to the sea in
armed
ships, to “sink, take, or destroy” those who did business in great waters (as the ancient naval sailing orders put it—or so his flag lieutenant claimed). In each age, these attempts to sink, take, or destroy had seen their signal innovations—from the new strengthened bow that allowed for a effective armored ram, to the rotating gun turret, to railguns and modern missiles—along with their epic victories: Themistocles luring the Persian fleet to its death at Salamis; Nelson’s pell-mell triumph at Trafalgar; Tōgō crossing the Russian ‘T’ at the Battle of Tsushima Strait; Nimitz outthinking and outfighting Yamamoto at Midway; Kiamura surgically dissecting and then crushing piecemeal the combined Halith fleet at Anson’s Deep. Each rewrote both history and doctrine, providing a ‘last war’ to be fought over again—a new dogma to be repeated to death.

Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat its mistakes
.
Those who do learn will find new mistakes to make
. He was fond of that well-worn maxim, which he liked to connect with another:
Victory in battle goes to him who makes the next-to-last mistake
.

Who would that be today?

As if to address his admiral’s unspoken question, the Captain of the Fleet gestured at the broad forward screen that showed the Halith fleet coming out from the cover of the plasma disk. The video they were watching telescoped the last five hours of observations. The Doms had arrived that long ago (at midnight, ship-time) and the fleets were still about ninety minutes from contact.

“It’s a cool customer we have over there,” Bolton opined, as the evolutions unfolded.

PrenTalien could not but agree, and Adenauer’s deployments filled him with professional admiration. He was taking things judiciously, no reckless hurry, maneuvering with methodical precision. With another commander—Vansant for example—he might have hoped for some complicated, artful-looking maneuver, such a pincer movement to attack the rear area which PrenTalien had no intention of defending. That would’ve played right into his hands. Adenauer knew he had a strong hand; he didn’t need to flaunt it.

His deliberation had another cause, as PrenTalien well knew: the strike against Outbound and the chimerical tanker fleet. Adenauer needed to bide his time, and hopefully let PrenTalien exhaust himself with his initial attacks—then push hard, forcing Third Fleet back to Outbound where he would be ‘trapped’ (in the Doms’ estimation) and Adenauer would have the use of his carriers. (He could not bring the monitor with him, having no way to retune the multiple grav plants here.)

That’s why PrenTalien figured Adenauer was leading with the monitor. Otherwise, it would’ve seemed a peculiarly brash move, exposing the monitor to assault. It could be tactically justified by saying that putting a strong screen out ahead would mask the monitor’s firepower, and Adenauer was there to attack, not defend. But in essence, the monitor’s role here
was
defensive: it was to anchor the center of Adenauer’s position. Still, defense could be active.

By sticking it out there, Adenauer was using it as bait, inviting his opponent to hit him with his best shot. Based on everything he knew, the chance PrenTalien could land a knockout blow was slim. Adenauer expected to absorb it and then counterpunch.

It made impeccable sense in the Doms’ overall strategy. But PrenTalien knew something else Adenauer didn’t know: the state of the ‘weather’. PrenTalien had turned his astrogation section into ‘weathermen’ and ever since they’d known where the battle would be, he’d had a small section deployed just out-system observing Wogan’s Star. They’d gotten a good handle on its behavior and they were predicting a burst of weather at about 0800. That would nicely mask his planned assault on the monitor, scrambling sensor data and shutting down lightspeed communications. His weathermen gave it only a seventy-percent chance of happening, but he was willing to gamble on it. (The star had been quite active for the past couple days, which meant it was due for a nap. So this was probably the only shot at helpful weather they were going to get.)

It appeared Adenauer hadn’t considered this angle, or he didn’t think it important. PrenTalien disagreed with him on that. If Lieutenant Colonel Kerr had his people up to the mark, he had every intention of scoring a knockout with his first shot.

And there was another thing. PrenTalien had been examining Adenauer’s right-flank, and from the way they initially cuddled up to the safe edge of the plasma disk, the way they were now being tucked into the reef, and especially because Adenauer had shifted his force to support that flank when they’d maneuvered into their current formation, PrenTalien had concluded that whoever held the right flank over there, Adenauer didn’t fully trust him.

That was interesting. It opened up the possibility of applying pressure there by threatening a close engagement. If the right flank contracted in response, that would create a gap in Adenauer’s position, allowing Admiral Jesse Wallace (on PrenTalien’s left) to make a hard thrust between Adenauer’s right and center, freeing Admiral Belvoir to swing around the Bannermans in a deep flank attack.

On seeing PrenTalien chart this option out, Geoffrey Reynolds, his historically minded flag lieutenant, had likened it to Admiral Rodney breaking his line at the Battle of the Saintes. Whether that was an apt comparison to not, it would isolate the monitor and allow more time to neutralize it.

Or it would be a colossal mistake. Like ignoring the weather? Or basing an entire strategy on independent battles in different systems without the ability communicate? Or trying to defeat that strategy with half a carrier task force and some slight of hand with a phony tanker fleet?

Those might
all
be mistakes. So the question was: which would be next to last? And who was making it? Him? Or his unusually tall and grave opponent over there?

*     *     *

Over there, Admiral Adenauer was in his quarters, sipping tea, and observing his opposite number’s dispositions was every bit as much keen interest as PrenTalien was examining him. If he was not privately expressing quite the same degree of admiration for PrenTalien’s actions, it was because PrenTalien had not yet tipped his hand.

Temperamentally, the two commanders could not be more different—at least by reputation. Adenauer, who had studied his opponent for years, believed PrenTalien’s penchant for being bold to the point of rashness was overstated. He was aggressive, certainly, and if he had a weakness, it was not taking much care with his lines of retreat. But then, he hadn’t yet had occasion to retreat.

Adenauer’s one unshakeable rule never was to delegate the drafting of battle plans to his staff. Nine hours ago, as soon as he’d received the final estimates of the opposing forces, he’d set to work. Finishing, he had summoned Vice Admiral Shima and the Bannerman commander, Admiral Romaan Voorhees, to explain his plans and solicit their comments.

That had led to a painful two hours as Shima had offered his comments and offered them again. Admiral Voorhees had little to say, or maybe just had trouble getting a word in edgewise. Adenauer at last shut down his prolix deputy and the plan was approved, with Shima citing one substantive concern: he was not happy with his torpedo loadouts, which were light in view of the forces they were facing. It was agreed that Shima’s combatants would keep enough torps in their ready hoists for three salvos, and save the rest for engaging the
Ardennes
Strike Force when it entered the battle. With that, the two admirals returned to their flagships, and final copies of the plan were beamed to the fleet. (Aware of his deputy’s habits, Adenauer had already ordered advance copies distributed to his captains, so they and their staffs might familiarize themselves, awaiting the final version to put it into effect.)

Remaining behind, and with him now, were Captain Raoul Alexander, Adenauer’s aide-de-camp, and
Marshall Nedelin’s
captain, Armand DuPlessis, sharing tea and a platter of biscuits. He knew both men well and liked them. Raoul, especially, who’d been with him for years. Nonetheless, strict protocols were observed at an admiral’s table, and even senior captains were not at liberty to speak out of turn. Since the end of the meeting, Adenauer, lost in thought, had said very little, casting the stateroom into silence.

Perhaps feeling this, he raised his head, smiled down the table and reached for a biscuit. They were perfectly ordinary biscuits, and something of a tradition with him. Dipping it in his tea, the admiral spoke casually. “I do not like to count game that has awhile yet to run, but I think we may do rather well today.”

“I have every expectation of it, sir,” replied Captain DuPlessis.

“That is not to say it will be easy,” the admiral added, consuming the moistened biscuit.

“Certainly not, sir. I have no doubt Admiral PrenTalien will give us a most satisfactory encounter,” his aide put in, with an echoing smile. “I also look forward to our broadening his horizons.”

“Quite so.” Adenauer refreshed his tea. “Yet I would not be so forward as to beg a dispensation from Providence.” The admiral rarely engaged in humor, and his choice of the word
forward
—for he was indeed a most
forward
admiral, while some others they knew were decidedly
rear
, whatever their rank—was about as close as he ever came to a joke.

The rest of the sentence they understood to mean that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy. The adage was profoundly true, but they felt that perhaps today they might get as close to it as Providence would allow. The plan was simple enough: they had to hold PrenTalien here and string him along until CARDIV I had done their work. Then a hard, sharp thrust would knock him off balance and force him back to Outbound. Once there, they’d combine forces with CARDIV I to finish the job.

As Adenauer had maintained all along, CARDIV I’s role was the heart of it and he had confidence in Admiral Vitaliy Tomashevich. It was true he could be high-strung and irritable at times, but Adenauer respected his abilities as a carrier admiral. At Miranda, Vansant had put him in a next-to-impossible position and considering that, he hadn’t done too badly. But CARDIV I had two new light carriers, and Tomashevich was unfamiliar with the division, so coordination would undoubtedly suffer. Not badly enough to spell defeat, but it could affect their timing. It was imperative that the tanker fleet be destroyed and Outbound taken out of the equation in accordance with the schedule for his main assault.

He looked at the chrono. By the schedule, Tomashevich should have launched his first strikes an hour ago, and they ought to be arriving at their targets now. Still, it might be wise to allow some extra time. The issue was he couldn’t know how much. He had no way to monitor the progress of the battle at Outbound: as the first and greatest military historian put it, he had to abide the outcome in the dark. If he waited until news of that outcome could be transmitted to him, PrenTalien would also receive word.

That absolutely would not do: if PrenTalien learned he was trapped
before
Adenauer could consolidate all his forces, there was no telling what he might do. He might even attempt to break out and attack Novaya Zemlya—there was a fuel depot there. And then, refueled—

Adenauer shook his head at the thought. No, PrenTalien must be forced back to Outbound, where lack of fuel would render his fleet unable to embark on any such desperate measures. He could afford to stretch the timeline another fifteen percent—perhaps twenty—even though it meant accepting higher losses. Another twenty percent . . . How would the Bannermans hold out? Would PrenTalien choose to risk a close engagement?

Lifting the thermal carafe, he gauged the remaining contents. “Anymore tea?” The two other men smiled and demurred. “Very well. Take a biscuit with you. That’s the last of them.”

Ceremonially, each man selected a biscuit, rose and made his bow before turning to leave. His aide stopped just short of the entrance. “Sir?”

Adenauer lifted himself out of his study. “Yes, Raoul?”

“I’ve already secured your effects, sir. Is there anything you should like me to add?”

“Oh yes.” The admiral put down his teacup and slipped off his wedding ring. “This, if you would.”

His aide re-crossed the carpet to the table and accepted the plain band of white metal. “Very good, sir.”

“Thank you, Raoul.” As the man left, Adenauer poured the last centimeter of tea into his cup.

No, not twenty. But fifteen percent—that was tolerable. He would inform Shima and Voorhees personally.

Right now, however, the main thing was the monitor. He’d set the bait. Would PrenTalien take it?

*     *     *

“This is it, people.” Lieutenant Colonel Kerr’s amplified voice filled
Bellerophon’s
hanger deck easily. “This is what you’ve trained your whole mind and body for . . .”

Pre-battle exhortations weren’t Kerr’s strong suit. But to be fair, thought Minerva Lewis, standing behind and to one side of him, wearing an expression of appropriately grim-lipped resolution, this was probably the first real one he’d given. Kerr had come along better in these past weeks than their first meeting had suggested, and he had a decent XO in Major Bradshaw, now standing on Kerr’s right, looking especially tall and impressive. The physical dissimilarity of the two men—with his fine blond hair and smooth (almost glossy) skin, Kerr couldn’t look anything but dandyish—probably wasn’t helping Kerr’s nerves, which were on edge. She thought Bradshaw sensed it too, from the overly rigid set of his shoulders.

Of course, Bradshaw would be leading this op, not Kerr—there’d been no more of that
follow-me
-
once-more-into-the-breach
bullshit since that ill-fated exercise back in Tenebris—and that also might have something to do with it. Kerr, warming to his text, exhorted away.