Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative (19 page)

“If you’ll follow me, ma’am,” the chief said pleasantly and
he led Kris off. She glanced back at them twice before they exited.

N’Komo watched her go and poured himself his own cup of
now-tepid coffee. “You sure it doesn’t make sense, Boss? She hurt them bad.”

“They don’t know that.”

“Maybe they
think
she knows something they don’t want
us to know.”

“Something she hasn’t already told us?”

“Something she doesn’t
know
she knows?” Huron looked
hard at N’Komo. N’Komo looked uncomfortable. “She passed out on the way here.
You saw that scan. You know what the medicos have been saying about her.”

“Yeah, Quillan thinks she might be a plant. The shrinks here
have reservations. So what?” He looked off in the direction Kris had gone,
recalling uneasily the symptoms she’d displayed on the
Arizona
. “If she
wasn’t reasonably fucked up after what she went through on that boat, I
wouldn’t trust her at all.” He took out his own xel. His fingers tapped uneasily
as his frown deepened. “Why would you kill your own plant?”

“Damfino, Boss. I’m not cut out for this detective shit.”

“Yeah,” Huron said, “me either.” And more emphatically:
“Shit.”

*     *     *

Chief Inspector Taliaferro was reading a police report
when Huron was shown into his office. “Ah, Lieutenant.” He came forward with
one hand extended welcomingly, the other still clutching the report. “Thanks
for dropping by.” Huron shook the outstretched hand, his eyes on the report.
The Chief Inspector was being suspiciously ebullient.

Taliaferro did not allay his suspicions. The formalities of
greeting accomplished, he went back to his desk, hitched a hip onto it and
gestured broadly with the report. “Got a report here on a, ah
—
a
disturbance
last night.” He held it out and peered at it down his broad nose. “Mighty
interesting. Listen. It says here”—he pointed, rather too ostentatiously—“that
on witnessing a forcible entry and hearing a noise, a party of marines entered
the building at 1600 Delphi Prospect—not exactly your cheap flophouse address,
that—and found two
individuals
in a state of distress.”

He tossed the report on his desk. “Based on their keen
powers of observation, they stated that one of the individuals had fallen down
the stairs while the other, who was seen committing the forcible entry, had
tripped
on the threshold.” He fixed Huron with a gimlet eye that nonetheless might have
held the slightest glint of amusement. “Both
individuals
had broken
their necks.”

Huron, keeping his face carefully immobile, nodded.

“I suppose you are aware,” the Chief Inspector continued,
“that by a fascinating coincidence, 1600 Delphi happens to be the listed
residence of Ms. Loralynn Kennakris.”

“Yes, sir.” Now Huron let a bit of a smile creep out. “Were
you ever in the Service, sir?”

Taliaferro’s answering smile was ambiguous. “Pax River.
Class of ‘81.” By which he meant the Royal Marine Corps Academy on Hesperia.

Huron nodded again, more deeply. “Well sir, then I suspect
you can read a bit more into that report than most.”

“I can indeed, Lieutenant.” Taliaferro folded his arms and
looked at Huron in a way that gave him a sense of just how formidable he must
have been in his Service days. “And for the moment, I am officially quite
distressed at this business. Unofficially”—here his expression softened a bit—“I’m
none too happy either. Especially at having a couple of slaver crew from Mantua
wearing light body armor turn up dead at the residence of a witness to an
assassination attempt.”

“I’m not so sure she was just a
witness
to that
attempt,” Huron offered.

Taliaferro ran a hand over his bald scalp, fished absently
in his coat pockets until he found a cigarette, and scratched it to life. “I’m
not so sure about that either.” He raised the cigarette, sucked in a lungful of
bio-engineered smoke. “What do you say we sit for a few and talk about it.”

*     *     *

Huron knocked briskly on the doorframe of Trin
Wesselby’s office. She glanced up from her console and sighed theatrically. “
Oh
boy. If you actually knocked, it must be bad.”

“Heard about last night, did you.”

“I did.”

“Two slavers from Mantua, light armored.”

“Mantua? I didn’t hear that.”

“Kris nailed it. Taliaferro just confirmed it.”

“Kris?” Wesselby’s left eyebrow arched. “On a first-name
basis, are we?”

“If that was her first name, we would be.”

She let go a slim smile and bent to her console again,
fingers busy. “Mantua, you say? Well, well.” After a minute and a half, her
eyes widened and she sat back. “Bugger!”

Huron, smiling at the quaint expression, came and looked
over her shoulder.

“Here,” she said. “It’ll be easier if I put it up.” She
keyed on the display and the holographic map popped up over her disk. “See,
these are the known couriers, these are the lightspeed transmits, here are the
drones. That’s other ship traffic there.” She highlighted each in turn, turning
the display to show them more clearly. “Now here’s the time codes and here is
our traffic overlay. These are the dates the hearings were announced and when
the location was made public.
These
are the dates when some of the prime
attendees were announced.” She indicated each with her stylus. “And this—
this
is the date of the Cor Leonis meeting.” That, she stabbed with a glowing red
spot.

Huron squinted. “Just ten days after the first announcement
of the attendees. It would take about that long just to get the word and then
travel to the meeting. Assuming it was arranged in advance.”

“Indeed. Now look at this.” She batted the display to rotate
it. “These—these here—are Lacaillian diplomatic packets.
These
”—she
highlighted a small subset—“we’re pretty sure are packets used by their
security organs.” She smiled triumphantly. “See how they fill it in? Using Mantua
as a dead drop.”

 “Or staging out of there,” Huron added.

Trin nodded, tapped the stylus on her smiling lips. “Or
that. Or both. Probably both. Mantua’s prime for that. This
can’t
be
coincidence. God, how I’d
love
to know what was in those packets.”

Huron straightened and watched Trin smiling for a few
seconds. “So we believe the Ionians now? How’d they pulled off Arutyun being at
those functions then?”

Wesselby shrugged, her eyes not wandering from the display.
“Who knows? Visosculpt a double? A twin brother we don’t know about? A prime
job of video fakery?” She continued tapping the stylus on her lips, her mind
occupied with other problems. “It’s happened before.”

“Can we share this with Taliaferro? They did a lot of work
on the Black Army—may have even more to add to the picture.”

She snapped him a sharp look. “
Not
without
authorization. Don’t you
dare
, Huron!”

Huron smiled innocently, held up his hands. “Of course not.
No question about that.”

“Dammit, you
know
I can’t trust you when you sound
reasonable.” She refocused on the display, took the stylus and added a few
annotations. “No. We have to take this upstairs. This is way above our pay
grade.”

“Agreed. Let’s get the Old Man on the line.”

LSS Ardennes, on orbit
Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

With his white hair cut down to stubble and his deeply
tanned, heavy jowled, clean-shaven face, Admiral Joss PrenTalien looked like
nothing so much as a hard-bitten Senior Chief Petty Officer, which is exactly
what he once had been. But being the only enlisted man in the past century to
rise to the rank of full admiral was just one of several distinctions
PrenTalien owned. He was also the only colonial in history to make that rank
and his imposing 195-cm frame—they called it six-four back where he grew up—was
a strong hint as to the final distinction.

 That distinction was in the eyes of many the most
remarkable of all: the only flag officer in League history who was also an
All-Services Unarmed Combat Champion. Although his heavy, slab-muscled physique
had been considerably softened by paperwork and advancing years, PrenTalien
still liked to go to the mat with the occasional green ensign or cocky
lieutenant who thought it would be fun to take down a fat old man with four
stars on his shoulders. Almost all of them quickly learned their error and
those who did not were treated to bragging rights and a sumptuous dinner.

At the moment, PrenTalien was looking more frustrated than
martial as he pored over the last of several précis and memos that various
parties, both military and political, had urged on him. He had been compelled inform
at least the Archon and the Nedaeman Foreign Office of Commander Wesselby’s preliminary
findings on the possibility of a terrorist threat to the Human Trafficking Abatement
Hearings, and from those two incontinent centers, word of the meeting had gone
abroad and its size had swelled proportionately.

Finally, PrenTalien pushed the last report away and glanced
around the stateroom, the largest the LSS
Ardennes
’
had, and which at present contained only himself and Commander Wesselby, who’d
been waiting quietly as he read.

“I suppose it’s out of the question to just cancel the damn
thing.” His gruff voice was on the edge of being exasperated.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Wesselby replied diplomatically.
“Though I suppose we could raise the issue with the Archon. Possibly.”

“Possibly.” PrenTalien swept the reports to a sidebar with
an audible sigh and gestured at the stateroom door. “Very well, Commander, time
to open the ball. Go ahead and let the buggers in.”

Into the stateroom filed the chiefs of staff of five Grand
Senators and their attendants, the Archon of Nedaema in a plain suit instead of
his state robes and his aides, two senior reps from Nedaeman Foreign Office’s
security arm, Chief Inspector Taliaferro, whom PrenTalien greeted with a
familiar nod, three other staff officers, and Lieutenant Huron.

Even on a massive dreadnaught, staterooms were not intended
for a meeting of this size, so the more exalted sat on what chairs there were
and the CEF personnel stood, wedged into corners and wherever else they could
fit. The admiral rose to welcome the group, reserving a polite
Sir
for
the Archon. He was in his undress uniform to emphasize the informality of the
occasion and encourage whatever degree of plain speaking these gentlemen were
capable of. He suspected it was not much.

 “Gentlemen,” he began in a more subdued voice than usual,
“as you all know, there have been some alarming developments in the past
seventy-four hours, but I think we can all agree that alarm before the fact is
much better than picking up pieces after the fact.” There was a general nod and
murmur of agreement at this. “Therefore, I have asked Commander Wesselby to
provide us with a brief rundown of what we currently know and what it might
potentially
mean.” More nodding. “I would also like emphasize that what you are about to
hear is both preliminary and of a most sensitive nature and must be kept in
strictest confidence.” His eyes swept the room as he brought this introduction
to a close: “But before we begin, are there any questions on that or other
issues?”

The Archon, cleared his throat deliberately. “One point,
Admiral, if I may?”

“Of course, sir.” PrenTalien inclined his head to the Archon
as he sat again.

The Archon shifted in his chair, turning left and right to
fix his audience. When he began, his voice was low but polished. “These
hearings are the most forceful and important statement against the slave trade
yet made. Yet there have been suggestions that they should be postponed or even
canceled on account of recent develops.” PrenTalien hadn’t been expecting this
and despite wondering
Is the old bugger’s hearing really is that good?
he managed to keep his face impassive.

The Archon
lifted his head as he spoke as though on
camera, which of course he was not.
Probably force of habit
, PrenTalien
thought. “We cannot cancel such a critical event on the basis intelligence that
is not firmly actionable, although it is certainly of great concern. We
cannot be seen to yield to threats by the very people against whom these
hearings are directed. It would be most disadvantageous to consider any such
course at such a time.”

Politically
disadvantageous
, PrenTalien remarked
inwardly, sternly retaining the mask. He did not personally believe that
slavers stood much in fear of politicians making dire pronouncements about the
evils of their trade. He
did
believe that Nedaema coveted the various
benefits that having the primary role in the operations would confer, and he
could see that these hearings were a likely means of securing that role. But PrenTalien
was no politician, and strictly speaking that was none of his business. He once
more inclined his head to the Archon.

“Yes, sir. That question is, of course, well beyond our
remit. The point is certainly well taken, however. Now if there are no further
issues, I’ll have Commander Wesselby begin.”

There were not, and she did. Using the display in the
Admiral’s desk and projecting it out to where the audience might best see it,
Wesselby gave a redacted summary of the data and her preliminary conclusions.
She left out the Ionian report and any direct reference to the Bannermans, but
mentioned Nestor Mankho and his current hosts, and discussed some of the implications.
She emphasized that much of the evidence was highly circumstantial and
concluded with a few well-known facts about Mankho’s previous exploits and his
favored methods. It was a commendably brief summation, well adapted to the
audience, and on finishing it, she left the display active and returned to her
seat.