Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum (9 page)

The gentle light of the new-risen sun filtered through the heavily laden boughs of the peach trees to fall across Mariwen’s face, accentuating the eloquent curve of her cheek and the perfect shape of her lips, while emphasizing the extraordinary warmth of her flawless latte complexion. It was a famous face—indeed, one of the most famous in charted space—revered for its beauty. Such an inadequate word. To say Mariwen Rathor was beautiful was to state that which was blindingly obvious, and indeed, the multitudes
were
blinded by the captivating trademark smile, the lambent sensuality, the penetrating look in the dark eyes that could kill at a mile. But those were merely the tools of her trade. The essence went much deeper than that; a sublime quality, richer and more invisible, that defied description—and it was gone. In its place was a look of peace, as serene as this perfect morning with the dew-scented air barely stirring and the tiny droplets on the leaves catching the light in a myriad rainbow glints.

To Antoine Rathor, standing at his sister’s shoulder as she gazed up at something that had caught her attention in the branches above, that was the cruelest cut of all. The peace was manufactured, the serenity medically induced. This early walk in the peach orchard was actually a medical exercise: Mariwen’s time sense remained dislocated and carefully planned excursions like this were calculated to steady her perception of the passing days and hours, and help her sort prior memories from present existence.

And it did seem to be working. His sister now smiled and talked much more easily, and if there was still a certain feeling of going through the motions about it, it was a definite improvement over the mechanical responses of the first year. The medical staff was quite pleased. Mariwen had weathered the dangerous period where lucid episodes combining with shattered memories often moved patients to suicide, and they now talked openly about attaining a significant degree of self-sufficiency.

There were all the usual caveats, of course, and Antoine had done his own research. He knew they were far from out of this mental desert and a ‘significant degree of self-sufficiency’ was very much in the eyes of the beholder—what the doctors considered
significant
and what was acceptable to him and their mother, and to Mariwen herself, could be wide apart. His reading told him that Mariwen had already recovered better than eighty percent of patients in like circumstances, but to see his sister condemned forever to this placid wandering in the wastelands of her mind—a sort of waking death—was not a fate he was, as yet, prepared to accept.

It was a touchy issue. Her doctors had made him aware full recovery was next to unheard of, and in the rare cases it happened, it was the result of a spontaneous crisis, most often happening late in the rehabilitation process. It was not something to be sought after, they strongly cautioned. The usual outcome was a relapse into deep catatonia, rapidly degrading to a persistent vegetative state and death. In fact, at this point, with Mariwen showing such improvement, the primary focus of her treatment had shifted to seeing that this potential crisis would not occur.

The family had acquiesced to this approach; on sober reflection there was really no choice. Nothing in Antoine’s personal makeup or profession predisposed him to put much stock in miracles, and while their mother’s older faith might have been more generous in this regard, it did not preclude being realistic about Mariwen's prognosis.

Such thoughts were ever-present, but he pushed them into the background now as he looked up to see what absorbed his sister so. It appeared to be a blossom on one of the nearer branches, coming in late. The trees of this orchard bore both summer and winter fruit—with the last of the former ripening, the latter were just beginning to bud.

Looking closer, he saw that this late bloom was unlikely to make it that far. One fragile petal had unfurled and it was already starting to fade, the telltale crinkling of the edges and faint stain of rust heralding the inevitable. It struck him with particular poignancy this morning, and left him wholly unprepared when Mariwen suddenly spoke.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

The words were shocking enough, but the
way
she said them more so. No one had heard such animation in her voice at any time during her rehabilitation.

“Who is?” He kept his tone deliberately cautious, to mask the surprise she’d given him, and because he was half afraid of the answer. Mariwen’s late wife, Lora Comargo, had been murdered by Nestor Mankho’s people during her kidnapping on Hestia over two years ago, but his gut told him that wasn’t who Mariwen meant.

“Kris.”

“Kris isn’t dead”—wishing his gut had been wrong.

“But—” Mariwen took her eyes off the blossom and looked into his face, a look that pierced to the bone. “I . . . Didn’t—I—?”

Her eyes defocused and he had barely a second to react before she collapsed into his arms.

*     *     *

“What happened?”

Dr. Alistair King, head of Mariwen’s medical team, shifted uneasily at Antoine's question. This setback had caught them all by surprise, and Dr. King was finding it harder than usual to maintain a pose of proper professional detachment. Antoine wished he’d just give it up: the way he kept twitching his shoulders while trying to keep his folded hands still wasn’t helping anything.

“I’m afraid it’s still too soon to say with certainty. Until her condition stabilizes, we can’t take the necessary measures. However . . .” The doctor cleared his throat—never a good sign. “You are familiar with the role of an associative anchor, I trust?”

“To a degree, yes.”

“Key memories, I believe they are called in the popular literature. Not the best term. But critical, especially in a case such as your sister’s—critical, that is, to reconstruction. Anchors—particularly strong anchors—cannot be readily modified, even for therapeutic purposes, as doing so risks unraveling, as it were, an entire memory stack. Thus, we are unable to loop them out, as we could other memory structures, if they are . . . problematic. This creates certain—difficulties.”

“Yes.” Antoine was sure there was a point to all this.

Dr. King was flexing his hands now. “What we have been able to determine is that there’s been a considerable degree of transference—that’s to be expected, of course, when someone has been subjected to such extensive memory manipulation—but in this case, the
specifics
are, ah—” He stopped and, unclasping his hands, leaned back in his chair. “At this time there exists in your sister’s mind serious confusion regarding the nature of her relationships with her late wife and this other woman, Loralynn Kennakris. Normally, this would be straightforward to deal with, by suppressing the improper associations. But your sister is also cognizant that her wife died. And unfortunately, one of the strongest anchors we’ve been able to identify relates to the events immediately before the neural implant was broken.”

When Mariwen was pointing a gun at Kris and about to squeeze the trigger
. Antoine had seen the classified government surveillance video, not just the blurry long-distance recording the media had released.

“You are saying,” he began stiffly, “that Mariwen believes she was married to Loralynn Kennakris, not Lora Comargo and, knowing her wife is dead, thinks
she
killed her.”

“Not precisely. Or I should say, that cannot be determined at this time. But the conflicting perceptions—her wife’s death, her emotions in regard to Loralynn Kennakris, the events of—yes, those appear to be the cause of this episode.”

“But it’s easy enough to demonstrate that Loralynn Kennakris is alive. Wouldn’t that help?”

“I’m afraid not.” The doctor leaned forward on his desk again. “You sister’s ability to properly process sensory input is still compromised, and with this setback, we cannot be confident of what effect a given stimulus will have—when she regains consciousness, that is. As far as we can tell, your sister did not suffer a full cascade failure, as happened when the implant broke. But extreme caution is required at this point.”

“I see.”

“Yes. In view of that, there is another topic I feel it necessary to raise.”

Given the direction of their conversation, Antoine had been expecting this. “Loralynn Kennakris.”

“Just so. I understand this woman is a fighter pilot?”

“She is a flight officer, yes.”

“Indeed. I would imagine that you are much more aware than I that a flight officer’s life—that is, that the risks involved are extreme?”

Antoine, not liking where this was headed at all, nodded.

“By that, I mean the risks to your sister’s recovery, should this woman become a fatality,” the doctor added, somewhat too hastily.

“Doctor,” Antoine interrupted brusquely, “are you about to suggest that Ensign Kennakris be expunged from my sister’s memory?”

“Such a course might be advisable. Under the circumstances. Given the nature of the attachment.”

The medical lexicon apparently did not admit the word
love
.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concerns, Doctor,” Antoine began slowly. “But is it not also important that my sister’s love for Loralynn Kennakris has been a primary factor in her recovery? Especially in view of this setback? The transference issues should be resolved in time, shouldn’t they? Or does the current prognosis not envision that?”

“We must be guarded as to the prognosis, of course. For the time being. But my concern here encompasses the out-years as well.”

It wasn’t like Doctor King to be so evasive. Clearly there was more behind this than the simple worry about what would happen to Mariwen should Kris be killed in action.

“Out-years. By that, you mean the possibility of a future relationship.”

“Mr. Rathor, we had spoken before of certain rare instances where full recovery was attained.”

“We had.”

“You understand, I trust, that any such possibility is now precluded?”

At this, Antoine could do no more than nod. Dr. King accepted the nod with something like a muffled cough and looked down to retrieve a sheaf of hardcopy from a desk drawer. Placing it on his desk between them, he drew his hands back and regarded Antoine with an air that appeared to contain more uneasiness than might be expected in a medical professional of his prominence.

“Given the new circumstances,” he began, in a slow voice, weighted with proactive justification, “and the significance of this Loralynn Kennakris to your sister’s mental state—” Pausing abruptly, he glanced briefly at the document before meeting Antoine’s eyes again. “Have you met her, by the way?”

“I’ve had a conversation with her, yes.”

“Ah. As I was saying, in view of current circumstances, I felt it necessary to make certain inquires. I imagine you have not heard of a Dr. E.E Quillan?”

“No. I have not.”

“A naval commander, but quite well-regarded.”

Antoine tightened his jaw at the gaffe but let it slide by without comment.

“Considered a specialist in these matters,” Dr. King went on, conscious he’d overstepped. “We have consulted a time or two. As it happens”—here, he tapped the pages—“he performed the initial psychiatric evaluation on Ensign Kennakris, immediately upon her recovery—you are aware of her history, of course?”

“Certainly.”

“Yes. Obviously, it would be out of the question for him to divulge details, but he did supply an overview, conforming to a standard professional—well, here it is.” With that, he pushed the papers across the desk to Antoine.

Antoine lifted the coversheet and scanned the first page. His face hardened. “He’s essentially calling her a psychopath here.”

“That’s not quite accurate—unfortunately imprecise,” Dr. King replied uncomfortably. Gesturing at the document, he added, “If you refer to the second page, you will see that he describes certain indicators, possible latent tendencies, a certain—” Seeing that Antoine was making no move to view the page, he broke off, pulling his hands once again into his lap. “Mr. Rathor, I realize this is a delicate subject. I cannot, of course, endorse all of Dr. Quillan’s conclusions, as I have no direct knowledge of the woman. But I can say there is compelling evidence of serious instabilities.”

“Doctor—” Antoine also leaned back, leaving the document between them. “I understand your concern. But I cannot consent to any course that would tend to suppress my sister’s feelings toward Loralynn Kennakris.”

With a shallow nod, Dr. King picked up the document and returned it to his desk. “We shall of course be responsive to your wishes. However—”

“Yes?”

“Permit me to say that any direct contact between your sister—once she recovers from this present episode—and such an individual would, for the time being, be extremely ill-advised.”

Coming slowly to his feet, Antoine signaled the end of the meeting with a curt acknowledgement. “That, I shall take under advisement.”

Kris, wearing tight black exercise shorts and a matching tank top, sprinted up the simulated incline of a treadmill in
Trafalgar’s
forward rec spaces. Her long muscular legs flashed and her bare feet pounded out a swift rhythm as she attacked the ‘hill’ created the artificial gravity gradient, and her flushed skin was glistening with sweat. Today, this was not about the exercise: it was Stage 3 of the physical she needed to pass as a first step to getting back her flight rating.

There was more to it than mere stamina—much more. The treadmill projected a facsimile of a HUD in the holographic space just before her, and ‘targets’ popped in and out at random intervals. For some, she had to take the appropriate action by tapping the HUD’s virtual controls; others she had to locate in the space about her and actually touch, and since these winking multicolored spheres were just projections, they could scamper about with a fine disregard for inertia. A few were to be ignored; they were just distractions from targets that actually mattered. Every time she missed one, the treadmill made life more difficult for her. If she scored three or more in a row, it eased off. Overall, it was a grueling test of stamina, coordination, reflexes, and situational awareness.

And it felt like it was killing her. She needed an 85-percent score to pass and right now, she was hovering between 83 and 84. She had less than four minutes left, and if she nailed the remaining targets and beat the standard course time by at least 30 seconds, she figured she’d get to 86 percent—barely. Gritting her teeth, she forced her pace up another notch.

Huron, dressed similarly, was on the adjacent treadmill, matching her stride for stride. Bastard that he was, his score was perfect. He wasn’t even breathing all that hard. But then, he was reaping the benefits of never missing.
Son of a bitch
.

A cloud of targets appeared high and right. Her hand shot out, fingers tapping precisely, but a touchable one skittered past, forcing her to twist to swat it and she almost stumbled. At that moment, a fugitive shot right over her head. She had to pull up to make a desperate stab, but the little fucker winked out a split-second too soon.

Goddammit!
That miss was all she could afford. Her success with the others bought her a respite though, and incline lessened. Sucking in great lungfuls of air, she lengthened her stride as she came onto the ‘flat’. There was barely a minute left. Three more targets appeared, but they were top-dead-center, and the spacing wasn’t bad. She dealt with each methodically. The course timer chimed and treadmill slowed down, allowing her to lope to stop.

Bending forward with her hands on her shaking knees, Kris breathed deep and slow. Her healed ribs hurt; her chest was one massive crushing ache and her trachea burned as if she’d been drinking molten metal. Her vision was shot through with sparks that danced and whirled like fireflies. None of which enlarged her appreciation any when Huron said cheerily, “Not bad.”

She blinked until she could make out the scoring display. It read
85.4
.

“Skin of my fuckin’ teeth,” she wheezed.

Huron adopted a conciliatory mien. “SMS is no cakewalk, Kris. You just need to give it time.”

“I just need to beat somebody’s ass”—glowering savagely her exercise readouts. A month ago, she wouldn’t have just hammered this course, she would have actually made it beg for mercy.

“Think you could?” One of
those
smiles was flirting with the corner of his mouth.

“You makin’ an offer there,
sir
?”
Gimme just five minutes to get my breath back
.

Huron cracked his knuckles with a keen-edged grin. “If that’s how it is, Ensign, let’s clear the compartment and see whatcha got.”

Ten minutes later, the compartment cleared and wrestling mats deployed, Kris and Huron locked forearms and waited for the timer. They’d agreed to full contact, of course, but only to the third degree—one shy of no holds barred—and best two out of three. The timer beeped, Huron swiveled and snapped one knee up between Kris’s arm and torso, catching her in a flying armbar. Twisting expertly, he slammed her to the mat hard. Kris grunted as he released his hold to put a knee against her exposed throat. She tapped out.

Getting to her feet slowly, he grinned at the unyielding look in her yellow-turned hazel eyes. They locked arms again, and when the timer sounded, Kris smashed her elbows out hard, breaking contact and darting a shin into his midsection. He moved to dodge and two quick straight lefts caught him squarely on the chin, dropping him to one knee.

Moving easily now on the balls of her feet, Kris laughed. “How’s that, sir?”

He smirked and wiped the back of his hand across his split lip. “Better.”

Climbing to his feet, he slipped another combination and tried to wrap up her left arm. She broke the hold and kicked high, but he closed, cutting off the angle and caught her with a blow to the abdomen. Grunting, she opened the range, throwing a series of jabs, but her left hand drifted low. He slid to her off-side and dropped her with a wicked right cross.

“Gotta watch that hand,” he commented unhelpfully.

“Yeah. I’ll do that”—spitting blood on the mat.

“How much more of this do you want?” he asked as she scrambled back up.

“Dunno yet”—shaking her head and rolling her shoulders as she bobbed and weaved in front of him. He feinted high, went low to sweep her leg. She twirled, he missed, her heel rammed into his chest, knocking him back a meter. Instantly, she closed, throwing a vicious flurry rights and lefts that he mostly blocked. Grappling high, he tried a hip throw, but she writhed around behind him and drove a knee into the small of his back. They toppled together and she got her legs in a scissors lock around his throat. He tapped out.

“You taking it easy on me?” Her eyes were sparkling as he staggered up, rubbing his neck.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They took their stance, and broke at the sound of the timer. A stunning head butt snapped her upright and his flying round kick sent her spinning backwards into a bulkhead. She slumped to the deck, gasping.

“Unless you want me to, of course,” he added.

“No. Never.” Her voice was a weak, hacking rasp. She lifted an arm with difficulty. “Ah,
shit
. Help me up, would’ja?”

He crossed the mats and lifted her gently. For a minute, she just lay limp against his chest, panting shallowly. Her firm body was unusually warm through the thin exercise rig, the heat coming off in dense waves. He smoothed some damp strands of hair back from the side her face and neck.

“Did you get what you want?”

She straightened, wavering slightly as he helped support her with one arm.

“Not entirely”—pressing the back of her forearm to her bleeding lips and wincing as she smiled. “But close.”

“You’ll get even next time”—continuing to steady her with one hand.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Count on it.”