Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks by Owen R. O'Neill, Jordan Leah Hunter
Authors: Owen R. O'Neill, Jordan Leah Hunter
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Nedaema. Stayed a week. Met with all of ‘em.” The other boot went crashing into the locker. “My mom said she was really sweet. Really sweet.”
Kris, rolling on her back and staring up at the overhead, nodded. The locker clicked shut. Grunting, Basmartin stretched out on his thin, hard mattress.
“Baz?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s a pope ?”
Chapter Eight
LSS Ardennes, docked
Cassandra Station, Nedaema, Pleiades Sector
Commander Russell R. Raven, staff operations officer to Admiral Joss PrenTalien, CinC-PLESEC, paused outside the door of his boss’s stateroom on the LSS Ardennes to catch his breath. He’d made a hasty trip all the way from CIC, deep amidships, to here, far aft on O1-Deck—a good three-hundred meters on the big dreadnought—at as close to a jog as a senior officer’s dignity would allow, but his physical exertions weren’t entirely to blame for his state. Running a hand through his thick silver-white hair, he pressed the entry pad. The door slid aside and he stepped in, holding out a hardcopy order in his left hand.
“Did you authorize this, sir?”
Admiral PrenTalien, finishing up a late, unhurried breakfast at the long table—real wood—which would seat twelve or even fifteen fellow officers or other guests when he chose to entertain, and which dominated the large, luxuriously-appointed day cabin (lush carpet underfoot, elegant chairs in the sitting area just forward and real paintings along the bulkheads, the situation displays cunningly tucked away now that they were in port), was unfazed by the abrupt question. He set down a bone-china coffee cup that looked absurdly small in his huge hand and reached out to take the flimsy and glanced at the heading, which read General Order No. 1 , issued by Third Fleet’s CO, Vice Admiral Hamish Burton.
“I did.” He handed his fleet commander’s order back to Commander Raven, who received it with the look of a man being offered a poisonous snake.
“Admiral, this order is damn near a declaration of war!” he snapped, holding the document away from his corpulent body.
“Oh, calm down, Russ. That’s just a training order,” PrenTalien replied testily, nudging away the plate decorated with the last of his meal: soused trotters with mustard, bacon and hash browns.
“Training order, sir?” Raven stared at the words on the flimsy incredulously. “Admiral Burton says here, ‘All mounts are to be authorized a full loadout of live ammunition. Fighters are to be kept fueled and armed. Each carrier is to maintain at least one squadron on Alert-Ten status. Comms are to be maintained in Condition Charlie . Task Group 34 is to keep its drives in hot-standby until further orders, and the rest of the fleet is to keep fuel status Tango .’”
“That’s right,” PrenTalien agreed, less sharply than his prior comment. “Like I said, training.”
“But sir,”—Raven’s voice rose half an octave—“what about these patrol orders? Pushing this far down the transit lanes? Intercept authorized for any ship that fails the initial challenge-response order or whose vector is more than fifteen percent off nominal? The merchant houses are going to scream bloody murder the first time we drop down on one of their skippers who’s trying to make a deadline!”
PrenTalien frowned at his gifted but excitable Ops officer. “Was there a memo I didn’t get, Russ? Did we get subordinated to the merchant houses without anyone telling me?”
“No, sir.” Commander Raven flapped the flimsy. “Of course not. But how the hell can we justify this as training ?”
PrenTalien leaned his heavy six-four frame back in his chair so that it creaked, and interlaced his fingers behind his head with an edged smile that was all too familiar. “Simple. I like my training to be realistic.”
Chapter Nine
CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol
“But I have to see her.”
The woman at the admissions desk raised her eyes without lifting her head. “You
Kris, rolling on her back and staring up at the overhead, nodded. The locker clicked shut. Grunting, Basmartin stretched out on his thin, hard mattress.
“Baz?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s a pope ?”
Chapter Eight
LSS Ardennes, docked
Cassandra Station, Nedaema, Pleiades Sector
Commander Russell R. Raven, staff operations officer to Admiral Joss PrenTalien, CinC-PLESEC, paused outside the door of his boss’s stateroom on the LSS Ardennes to catch his breath. He’d made a hasty trip all the way from CIC, deep amidships, to here, far aft on O1-Deck—a good three-hundred meters on the big dreadnought—at as close to a jog as a senior officer’s dignity would allow, but his physical exertions weren’t entirely to blame for his state. Running a hand through his thick silver-white hair, he pressed the entry pad. The door slid aside and he stepped in, holding out a hardcopy order in his left hand.
“Did you authorize this, sir?”
Admiral PrenTalien, finishing up a late, unhurried breakfast at the long table—real wood—which would seat twelve or even fifteen fellow officers or other guests when he chose to entertain, and which dominated the large, luxuriously-appointed day cabin (lush carpet underfoot, elegant chairs in the sitting area just forward and real paintings along the bulkheads, the situation displays cunningly tucked away now that they were in port), was unfazed by the abrupt question. He set down a bone-china coffee cup that looked absurdly small in his huge hand and reached out to take the flimsy and glanced at the heading, which read General Order No. 1 , issued by Third Fleet’s CO, Vice Admiral Hamish Burton.
“I did.” He handed his fleet commander’s order back to Commander Raven, who received it with the look of a man being offered a poisonous snake.
“Admiral, this order is damn near a declaration of war!” he snapped, holding the document away from his corpulent body.
“Oh, calm down, Russ. That’s just a training order,” PrenTalien replied testily, nudging away the plate decorated with the last of his meal: soused trotters with mustard, bacon and hash browns.
“Training order, sir?” Raven stared at the words on the flimsy incredulously. “Admiral Burton says here, ‘All mounts are to be authorized a full loadout of live ammunition. Fighters are to be kept fueled and armed. Each carrier is to maintain at least one squadron on Alert-Ten status. Comms are to be maintained in Condition Charlie . Task Group 34 is to keep its drives in hot-standby until further orders, and the rest of the fleet is to keep fuel status Tango .’”
“That’s right,” PrenTalien agreed, less sharply than his prior comment. “Like I said, training.”
“But sir,”—Raven’s voice rose half an octave—“what about these patrol orders? Pushing this far down the transit lanes? Intercept authorized for any ship that fails the initial challenge-response order or whose vector is more than fifteen percent off nominal? The merchant houses are going to scream bloody murder the first time we drop down on one of their skippers who’s trying to make a deadline!”
PrenTalien frowned at his gifted but excitable Ops officer. “Was there a memo I didn’t get, Russ? Did we get subordinated to the merchant houses without anyone telling me?”
“No, sir.” Commander Raven flapped the flimsy. “Of course not. But how the hell can we justify this as training ?”
PrenTalien leaned his heavy six-four frame back in his chair so that it creaked, and interlaced his fingers behind his head with an edged smile that was all too familiar. “Simple. I like my training to be realistic.”
Chapter Nine
CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol
“But I have to see her.”
The woman at the admissions desk raised her eyes without lifting her head. “You
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