Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum Read Online Free PDF Page A

slight twinkle in his eye. “No pun intended.”
    Kris rolled her eyes as he turned away.
    None taken .

Z-Day minus 39
LSS Trafalgar, on-orbit;
Epona, Cygnus Sector
    Forty-eight hours later, supported by a cocktail of carefully blended painkillers and duly admonished by the ship’s doctor about her immoderate behavior, Kris walked into the wardroom with one arm in a sling but under her own power. The nanocytes had done their ticklish work—a not exactly painful process but one that produced a singularly annoying crawling sensation—and were now breaking down and being flushed out of her system as fast as her overworked kidneys could manage. They had given her some pills to help with that, along with strict instructions to scrupulously avoid rich food and strong drink—clearly someone’s idea of a bad joke.
    In truth, it wasn’t as much of a joke as Kris had first thought. The atmosphere of rejoicing that flooded the carrier after the battle had been tempered by the loss of many friends, but it was rejoicing nonetheless. There was no shame in feeling elation at still being alive, and if there were friends to be mourned, that mourning could go forward just as well, or even better, in good fellowship and strong drink as in sorrow and tears.
    This certainly was the opinion of Trafalgar’s medical director, Dr. Stanton, who entered the wardroom the evening after the battle, triumphantly bearing aloft four gallons of genuine Kentucky bourbon. Having seen that the wounded were as comfortable as his keen ingenuity could make them under the present crowded conditions, he did not scruple to prescribe for his other shipmates. Bolstered by this Hippocratic sanction, affairs proceeded at full tilt, to the point where a young lieutenant-JG treated them to a rousing rendition of—of all things— John Peel . This was followed by the unofficial version of Farewell Hyperion , the Navy anthem, with earthier lyrics that seemed more to the point, and somehow culminated in Lights Out, Miranda .
    Now, as she entered the wardroom, Kris saw her flight mates gathered at their usual places, joined, as they often were, by Senior Lieutenant Geoff N’Komo, the recon wing’s Foxtrot squadron leader and Huron’s best friend. A full day of celebration and its aftereffects had rendered them a relaxed group, except for Tole, who’d made it out of sickbay a day-cycle ahead of Kris and was looking glum. From this, Kris deduced someone must have brought up his relatively minor but embarrassing wound.
    She was right. N’Komo was laughing as Lieutenant-JG Krieger expounded on the details of the incident while consuming enormous forkfuls of food. He was just completing his recitation of Tole’s ejection and recovery when Kris limped up to the table. They all greeted her with genuine warmth, and as she sat, slowly and with extra care, a mess steward slid a bowl of translucent, tepid, colorless glop in front of her and handed her a spoon.
    Kris regarded it skeptically. “What’s this crap supposed to be?”
    “Doctor’s orders,” N’Komo said with a leer.
    “My ass,” Kris muttered.
    The leer deepened. “Nah, it’s actually just amino acids spiked with a few complex carbs.”
    And everyone laughed. Even Kris.
    Then Huron, wearing his usual look of smiling, affable reserve, leaned back, enfolding a steaming cup of coffee in his two hands. “Have you seen the report yet?”
    Kris, consuming a spoonful of glop, shook her head. Tole, welcoming the interruption, skated a xel across to her. “Ya made the highlight reel, that’s fer damn sure. Check it out.”
    Kris did. She swallowed hastily. “It was Banner.”
    “You want to know what else?” Huron asked, sipping slowly. Kris, scanning through the report as she obediently took another spoonful (the stuff wasn’t as bad as it looked), shrugged.
    “You don’t see it?”
    A slow deliberate headshake.
    “Here, let me enhance it for you.” Huron took the xel and fiddled with the display for