“No problem, Chief. Send my regrets to the Commodore for missing tonight’s beer bash.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want my coat?” the Chief asked. Kris wasn’t cold. Then she heard the shutters and saw the flashes. Twenty, thirty camera crews waited outside. The Chief wasn’t offering a coat to keep her warm but a hood to hide her face.
“No thank you, Chief, this is all part of the drill,” Kris said. She raised her head high and stepped across the brow of her boat without missing a step.
That was important. Not to look like a prisoner. That was the impression to project. That was what she’d always planned for this moment.
Her guards moved along, and Kris moved right with them. Let the commentator report she was their prisoner. Let the image show Princess Longknife advancing to meet the people with her honor guard. Kris set her face neither in a smile nor a scowl. Neither frown nor blank stare for this moment. Dare you to use these pictures.
Just please, dear God, don’t let my knees give out.
She made one exception to her no-reaction policy. There, off to the left, peering through a mob of newsies, was Mr. Singh with his two kids, a boy and a girl. They stared at Kris through eyes gone wide—in fright? Wonder? What must their three- and five-year-old world make of this? Kris chipped a smile off the marble she’d hardened her lips into. She nodded a centimeter in their direction. They waved enthusiastically, all joy at the attention. Goran Singh gave her a thumbs-up.
A moment later she was at the door of the waiting station cart. She settled inside, then turned back to the cameras to give them the required princess smile. Just another day of doing that royal thing. The sergeant slammed the door shut with unnecessary violence, leaving her alone with her guards as the electric cart motored off quietly.
Now, with the cameras gone, Kris would find out just what her chances were of living until morning.
2
“You Print-cess Longa-knife?” the guard asked.
Kris blinked away exhaustion as she took inventory of her three-by-four-meter brig cell. It was cold, gray on gray, concrete floor and walls, unpadded slab for a bed, toilet without the courtesy of a seat. It stank of old vomit, but nobody was here but her.
She let go of her knees; she’d pulled them up to her chin for warmth and the feel of something human. She allowed herself a sleepless stretch. Her blue shipsuit identified her as a Navy Lieutenant; it properly displayed the name Longknife over her right breast. She swallowed several cutting replies that she doubted the guard had the good sense of humor to take and settled for, “I am Kris Longknife.”
“Somebody finally showed up to sign for you.” The Corporal snickered and signaled to a security camera. With a buzz, the cell door opened.
Kris reminded herself that whatever that camera recorded would show up in the media to the worst reflection on her, her father the Prime Minister, and, more importantly, Grampa Ray, the king. Hungry, tired, madder than she’d ever been in her life, Kris stood with as much grace as her aching muscles allowed and carefully paced the distance to the door. “Thank you,” she told the man as if he had done her royal person a great service.
“You’re welcome,” he said, then glanced up at the camera and made a sour face as if he might somehow take back those words. There was more than one way to get even, Kris reminded herself.
He made up for that mistake by grabbing her elbow and trying to rush her along. Kris was too tired, ached too much, and had too many other problems for that to end up well. “Could we please slow down?” she asked. “My shoes don’t have any laces, and if I walk too fast, I’ll walk out of them.”
“Oh.” The guard looked down, slowed. “Sorry.”
Kris doubted that was what his superiors wanted on the record, but she’d often found that a bit of human kindness in the worst situation encouraged human kindness in return. Today, it had worked. She wouldn’t take it personal if tomorrow it didn’t.
The prison maze she’d been led through last night was now done in reverse. It coughed her up in the booking room. A new desk sergeant was looking at his monitors and camera feeds; he studiously ignored her. NELLY, YOU GOT THE BADGE NUMBERS?
YOU BET.
Kris was a naval officer, but she’d been raised a politician’s daughter. There would be payback for this night.
From flimsy plastic chairs across from the desk sergeant’s cage, two familiar figures rose. Jack was no surprise.
Special Agent Montoya, the head of her security detail, should have been able to arrange her release by a quick flash of his badge. No badge was in evidence.
Rising to his feet beside Jack was Great-grampa Trouble. He had another name, but he’d been Trouble to so many people, not all of them enemies, during his long Marine career, that now he was Trouble even to Kris’s mother. In name and fact. Former chair of several different planetary general staffs, he was now semiretired. Today he wore slacks and a three-button shirt. And if someone mistook his ramrod back and burr cut for just any retired officer, they deserved what they got.
Kris had several million questions, but a glance at Jack and Grampa showed that they had no intention of saying a word under the watchful eyes of the security cameras around the rooms.
NELLY. WHAT’S THE NEWS?
KRIS, I STILL CANNOT ACCESS THE NET. NO MAIL, NO NEWS, NOT SO MUCH AS A RADIO WAVE. THERE’S A SHORT RANGE, ALL-FREQUENCY NOISE JAMMER THAT HAS BEEN FOLLOWING US AROUND SINCE YOU WERE ARRESTED. I CANNOT CUT THROUGH. I DO NOT HAVE THE POWER FOR IT. DO YOU WANT ME TO MAKE A TRY? IF I FAIL, I COULD BE LEFT SURVIVING ON JUST A TRICKLE.
NO. WE’LL BE OUT SOON ENOUGH. THEN WE’LL FIND OUT WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT. Kris held her tongue while the sergeant ran Grampa Trouble’s IDent through his machine, glanced at the results he got . . . and blanched.
He fled to the other side of his cage and turned Kris’s processing over to a cheerful woman sporting Spec 4 strips. She actually gave Kris a wan smile as she produced Kris’s personal effects. “I’m sorry about this. We got very explicit orders from the Chief of Staff on how to handle your case.”
“From Mac?” Kris knew she had caused General McMorrison one or two problems, but this!
“No, ma’am. Admiral Pennypacker, the new Chief of Staff.”
Kris thought she knew most of the senior serving officers by name; Pennypacker was a blank. She glanced at Grampa Trouble.
“Please finish clearing the Lieutenant,” he ordered. “Mr. Montoya and I do not have all day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Montoya! Not agent!
The Spec 4 went through Kris’s wallet. “You are ordered to surrender your diplomatic passport within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You have my ship,” Kris snapped.
“Ma’am, I’m just following orders. There will be a pre-trial hearing a week from tomorrow. You will be notified of its exact time and location when we send you the charges against you. If you cannot afford counsel, the Navy will appoint counsel for you,” the woman said, then looked at the file and added, “Oh, right, you’re one of those Longknifes.”
“Tell the Navy I want them to appoint me counsel.” Kris would hire a lawyer, too, but the quality of counsel the Navy provided would tell her as much about the outcome of the court-martial as the verdict.
Five more minutes of this agony, before Jack stepped aside to open the door for Kris . . . and she found herself facing the last person in the world she wanted to see. Adorable Dora, host of The Real Talk of the Town—at Two, blocked Kris’s way.
Surgeons had repaired that perfect nose from the last time an interviewee had broken it. Two men, both sporting several tiny cameras about their hunky frames, backed Dora up. Kris really didn’t feel like decking the woman; she was way too tired for that. She just wanted to get home and find a quiet corner where she could dig a hole and crawl into it for an hour or two.
But if the woman stayed between Kris and that quiet hole, Kris might reassess her priorities.
“What do you think about your dad selling out the farmers?”
“I didn’t know he had,” Kris said, smiling like she’d been taught, while sidestepping to the left. Grampa Trouble imposed himself between Dora and Kris. Kris took two steps forward before she found herself stopped by one of the hunks and the realization that she didn’t know where she was going. None of the cars in the lot were any of the limos or armored town cars normally assigned to Nuu House.
“That rental over there is ours,” Jack said, rolling past Kris and blocking camera one while pointing at a five-year-old baby blue town car. Kris took the opening provided and quickly walked for the car. But Dora was coming up on the outside.
“How do you feel about being charged with misappropriation of government funds by your former commanding officer?”
That caused Kris to miss a step, giving Dora and her two cameramen a chance to gain position. Kris took a breath, glanced at Jack, who was rolling his eyes heavenward, and risked a question. “Does this former commander of mine have a name?”
Kris had a number of former commanders. Some were actually still alive. A few were still serving honorably.
“Lieutenant Pearson, your commander on Olympia. She says you pocketed large sums of money from the emergency funds provided to feed the starving farmers and townspeople there.”
Kris missed two steps this time. That allowed Jack to catch up, muscle one cameraman aside and away from the car. Grampa opened the door for Kris. She positioned herself to finish the interview and vanish into the car. Taking a breath, Kris organized thoughts that were at once both exhausted and spinning.
“I served with Pearson, never under her. She was more concerned with writing policies that I don’t believe she ever finished. I saw to it that people got food to eat . . . and they did.” Kris started to duck into the car.
Dora would not call it quits. “She says she has proof that money was missing from many accounts.”
Kris held herself erect by holding onto the door. “No doubt money disappeared from her unit. She stayed holed up in her office for days on end and never went out to see what was actually happening. She did love her policy. Me, I donated money out of my own pocket to get people off their backs, out of the mud, on their feet, and back to work. Check my tax returns. They’re part of the official record. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired, and this interview is done.”
“Do you think your dad will win the election?”
That required no thought. “Of course. His party best represents the hopes and aspirations of the people of Wardhaven,” Kris said and pulled the door closed.
“Sorry about that,” Jack said as he settled into the driver’s seat. He waved at the car. “And this. It was the only one we could get on short notice that had the armor and security we needed. Your dad and brother took the new ones.”
“If someone doesn’t start talking to me,” Kris said between clenched teeth, “I’m going to break my promise to my big brother not to kill anyone this month.”
“Hold your horses a moment,” Jack said—and produced a bug locator and burner.
“I am tracking three bugs,” Nelly said. “Two are standard newsies, but the other is more expensive. Kris, I have a full news download from the net. Would you like me to brief you?”
Two sparklings in midair showed where Jack had nailed all but one of the problems. Kris gritted her teeth and waited. Nelly was good for news, but Jack knew what interested Kris. He’d tell her what she wanted to know before she had to ask.
A third nano finally went down in flames, trailing wispy smoke toward the carpeted floor.
“Jack, Grampa, what happened?” Kris said in what she considered an amazingly restrained voice.
“At ten thirty yesterday morning,” Jack said quickly. “Your father’s government lost a Vote of Confidence over the farm subsidy program cutbacks that he was pushing through to reduce the level of deficit brought on by the increased defense spending.”
“That’s impossible. Father had a solid understanding with the farm wing of his party to support the cutbacks.” Kris might spend most of her time Navy, but she couldn’t hold down a princess’s social calendar and not have her ear bent by things as politically hot as the budget and farm wing.
“Apparently, the family farmers weren’t as solidly in my grandson’s pocket as they told him,” Grampa said. “For what it’s worth, it came as a really big surprise to your dad.”
“So the opposition forms a caretaker government until elections,” Kris said, leaning back in her seat. She knew how these things went. Politics 101. She’d learned it along with how to eat her porridge back before she was out of diapers, though for all her life, her father or grandfather had been the Prime Minister, and the opposition had been little more than a voice crying in the wilderness of the back benches.
Kris reviewed what she knew. “But a Pro Tem government isn’t supposed to change policy . . . or appoint a new Chief of the General Staff like Pennypacker . . .”
Jack came in right on the downbeat. “But this caretaker government got a solid majority to vote it full powers, things being what they are in human space at the moment, and with that vote behind them, they got King Ray to sanction them.”
“How’d Father take this?”
“Rather poorly,” Jack said.
“I’ll say,” Grampa chuckled. “My, but the old boy was spewing venom. Quite a sight. It will be the classic text for how not to lose a vote of confidence in the future.”
“Well, we Longknifes aren’t all that practiced at losing,” Kris observed dryly.
Jack ignored her quip and went on. “And the opposition had a good point. With all the wars and rumor of wars, this is not a good time to have the government of Wardhaven treading water. A lot of your father’s allies sided with them. They promised to vote with your old man again if and when he’s got the warrant to form a new government, but just now, they felt they had to vote to juice up the Pro Tem government. I think that’s why King Raymond supported their claim and need to appoint a cabinet and take the full reins of government. Anyway, what’s done is done.”
“And what is done, Mr. Montoya?”
“Oh, that.” Jack actually seemed embarrassed. “Since you are no longer the Prime Minister’s daughter, you don’t rate protection. Therefore, I was recalled and reassigned to the new Prime Minister’s youngest daughter.”
Kris glanced at her watch, something she could do faster than asking Nelly what time it was. “When’s your next shift?”
“I declined the reassignment and am on terminal leave,” Jack said briskly. “I’ll rescind my resignation when your father is reelected, Princess, but Tilly Pandori is a real snot, and I’ll be damned if I’ll take a bullet for her.”
Having spent too many hours listening to the daughter of the opposition leader drone on and on at parties, Kris couldn’t object to Jack’s tastes. But it was the first evidence she’d had that his professionalism had its limits.
It also left her wondering if there wasn’t more to Jack being at her side than, well, Jack being ordered to be there.
Time to change that topic.
“Am I really being charged with misappropriation of government property?” Kris struggled to keep her voice calm . . . and almost succeeded. “That bloody mission to that swamp cost me a small fortune.” Not to mention her life . . . almost . . . twice.
“Must be true,” Jack said. “Pearson was on all the talk shows saying so. She has printouts to prove it. Was waving them, though she didn’t let anyone get a close look at them.”
All Kris could do was shake her head. “No good deed goes unpunished. Yes, I took a solid tax deduction for the money I donated, but the idea that I’d stooped to stealing the rice, beans, and survival biscuits we shipped to those starving farmers . . . While getting shot at for the privilege . . . Nelly, how’s the Ruth Edris Fund for Displaced Farmers doing on Olympia? Are we still sending them money each month?”
“No, Kris. There are
now more local donations coming in than money going out. I asked the board of directors to consider either closing it or coming up with proposals for investing the money in low-interest loans to help folks start up small businesses or homestead on abandoned farmland. They like that idea and will get back to you with a business proposal that may involve rechartering the fund as a credit union.”
“Well, if Pearson plans to try this thing in the court of public opinion while my father is in a run for his political life, Nelly, you better drop a note to Ester or Jeb and ask them to arrange some interviews with their local Olympia media. Maybe some with the ministers, priests, and rabbis we worked with, too.”
Grampa Trouble shook his head. “Girl, a nice canned interview in some podunk place fifty light-years away won’t count for much when the other side’s got people running from talk show to talk show right here.”
“Hold it, Nelly,” Kris said, knowing that Grampa was right, and she’d never have needed a reminder if she wasn’t so tired. “Send a check to cover four or five tickets and per diem for folks, and ask Ester if she could get some volunteers to come.”
“You paying their way won’t look all that good,” Jack said.
“So, if I don’t, I look bad. If I do, I look lousy. Give me a break. Some breakfast, a nap, a shower, not necessarily in that order. This is about the worst morning I’ve ever had.”
“If that Pearson woman wasn’t your boss on that rain-sodden planet, maybe you could have who was speak for you,” Grampa said.
“Colonel Hancock was my CO, and I reported directly to him. He had as few people as possible report to Pearson.”
“Sounds like a smart man,” was high praise from Grampa.
“Colonel Hancock,” Jack said slowly.
“Yes,” Kris said with a nod. “Lieutenant Colonel James T. Hancock, SHMC.”
“Oh, him!” Grampa Trouble shook his head. “The opposition’s talk show hosts will be foaming at the mouth to get him on as your character witness.”
“Am I missing something?” Jack said, looking away from where the car was taking them. “I should think a Marine Colonel would be a perfect character witness.
Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant Page 4