Read Online Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum by Owen R. O'Neill, Jordan Leah Hunter - Free Book Online Page A

not quite thirty.
    She herself was forty-three, old for a captain, but like many officers—especially the young ones commissioned near the end of the last war—she’d put her commission in abeyance during the peace to pursue other avenues. In her case, those avenues led to employment in a couple of mercenary outfits before accepting a commission in the New UK’s marine corps, where she rose to the rank of colonel. Five years ago, she’d returned to her native Service, still at her former rank of first lieutenant, and received an immediate promotion to captain for her “record of accomplishment while on foreign service ”—a polite term for soldiers in her situation—“tending to reflect well on her capabilities as an officer.” There she stayed, while the Oren Kerr’s of the Service passed her by.
    In peacetime, she would have likely retired a captain, perhaps with an ex post facto promotion to major to pad her pension, for she was a colonial with no interest (rather the reverse, her father—an inveterate smuggler—being a guest of the state at the penal colony on Paradise), while Kerr would make bird colonel in two years and brigadier in five, set to retire at her age with the full benefits of an eleventh-hour elevation to major general.
    War, however, was the great leveler, and the freshly minted Lieutenant Colonel Kerr no longer had an assured inside track on promotion, as railguns, 10-mm slugs, and shrapnel took no notice of social standing. Of course, Kerr could get her killed through inexperience, arrogance or plain idiocy—or all three—and she had no wish to die that way. If it came down to it, she’d told Anders after last month’s bloody debacle at Anandale—where they’d lost twenty percent of the battalion, with another half wounded or missing, and Colonel Hatch and Major Walker had both bought it—she was gonna die “her own fuckin’ way.” So she had a deep interest in taking the young colonel’s measure.
    At the moment, Kerr was perusing her service record and being rather too ostentatious about it, leaning back in his chair, with his left index finger idly stroking a drooping mustache which was a shade darker than his hair. That style had recently been revived by some marine officers, but Lewis thought Kerr had probably grown it to make himself look older.
    His right forefinger traced down the display of his unfurled xel as he spoke slowly under his breath. “Anson’s Deep, Second Miranda. Ilmatar, Pohjola, Saari. Two years in Probyn’s Irregulars, six years with the Tanith Rangers. Seven in the Royal Caledonians, 95th Rifles. Pathankot, Durwan Station. Rejoined and promoted. New Madras. Awarded the League Order of Merit with wound stripes there”—she’d paid for it with a bullet through the lungs—“Chiron. Themiscyra. Order of Merit augmented”—two dozen pieces of shrapnel pulled out of her torso and left leg—“Novo-Rangoon”—she’d lost an eye there and had worn a dashing black patch until they cloned a new one—“Najema . . .” His voice dropped to inaudibility at this point as he flipped to a new page and the finger continued its trace until it reached Anandale .
    He set the xel aside. “No doubt about it, Captain, you’re an interesting officer.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “And twice All-Forces Unarmed Combat Champion in the bargain. It’s not often that you meet one of those.”
    “Depends on the company you keep, sir.”
    Kerr swiveled his chair gently from side to side. “Yes, I see you operated with the Strike Rangers a time or two.” Or six . But only twice on the open record. “Know Fred Yu well?”
    “We’ve met”—tersely, as Kerr had not yet earned that familiarity.
    “And Corporal Vasquez, of course.”
    This time, Lewis contented herself with a nod. Assigning her to this prick was the reason they’d fucked her furlough sideways? Anders thought he’d be okay. What okay-ness had he seen in him?
    “What went wrong at Anandale? I hear