Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant

by Mike Shepherd

  “I’ll take my chances with a Longknife. Especially since I suspect that when we head out for those battleships, we’ll be following in her wake. You will be leading us, Your Highness.”

  “Damn right I will,” Kris said. There were times when princesses did not mind their language.

  Her words went around the table. They answered a lot of the doubt behind the eyes, but not all. Kris had to have them behind her all the way. “Wardhaven is my home. I’m fighting for everything I love. Some of you are from Pitts Hope, Santa Maria, elsewhere. You could say this isn’t your fight.” No one nodded agreement with her, but she could see some think it.

  “For better or worse, Wardhaven is in this mess because we went to the aid of a planet in trouble. Now we’re the one in trouble. We have to fight together, side be side, all for one. If we don’t, the ones who pulled the strings at Boynton, at Wardhaven, will be pulling the strings at Pitts Hope, Lorna Do, Turantic, next month. Next year. We take our stand now, together, or there soon may be no place to stand at all.”

  “Go tell the Spartans,” Heather Alexander sighed. “I knew there was a reason I hated history class.”

  “It’s not fair,” Babs said. “These odds are—”

  “Lousy,” Kris agreed. “I know. And all we’ve got is our twelve boats.”

  “And my Halsey,” Sandy pointedly added.

  “Don’t forget the Cushing,” the Commodore said. “If the old reactor isn’t good for one more high-speed run, I’ll have the snipes out pushing.” That got a smile from the PF skippers.

  “And the target decoys,” Kris said.

  “Target decoys?” came from both the senior Navy types.

  “Not as battleships, but maybe if we dialed them down to look like light cruisers and the destroyers towed them, they could draw some of the intruders’ fire.”

  “Anything that has them waste a few shots isn’t a wasted effort for us,” the Commodore agreed.

  “Every shot not aimed at the PFs increases our chances of getting our hits in,” Kris said. Now, despite herself, she was grinning. “We’ve got three days to do what we can to improve the odds. The Nuu shipyard is right next door. If Grampa Al won’t open it wide for us, I’ll find another way to get around, under, or over the fence. Chandra, you’ve talked about putting rockets on the boats. Using the Foxer launchers for something deadly.”

  “You think we could get access to the Army’s new AGM-944 high-acceleration rockets?” the mustang asked.

  “Has to be some way. Last time I checked, the Army was on the same side as us,” Santiago said.

  For a second there was brightness behind Singh’s dark eyes; then she shook her head as if to recover from a dream. “Our engines are cold steel. Our motors have been shut down for nearly four weeks. We don’t know if our electronics are still good. These boats were not intended for storage, not without preparation, and the way we got shut down, they got none.”

  “Then we’d better start testing them, finding out their problems, and getting them back on-line,” Kris said. “We commissioned these boats. We can recommission them.”

  “In three days?” Ted Rockefeller said.

  “In less, if we have to,” Kris snapped. “There’s a whole shipyard over there. If it can’t be had at Nuu Docks, it ain’t been invented yet. They got it, you want it, it’s yours.”

  “And who’s paying?” the Commodore asked.

  “You leave Grampa Al to me.”

  “And don’t I think I’m getting the easy job here, just a boat to put back together with tape and glue and bubble gum,” Tom said, brogue and grin back in place.

  “I don’t think there are any easy jobs,” Heather said.

  “I will recall all temporary work details from the Naval base,” the Commodore said, standing and bringing the meeting to a close. “Captains, I want a full report on the status of your boats no later than oh eight hundred tomorrow. Princess Kristine, can you tell me by the same time what resources Nuu Docks will make available?”

  “Yes,” she answered, noting the delicate way the Commodore issued orders to his usurper. Just once, she’d like to go into battle with a chain of command that wasn’t Swiss cheese. She wondered if that kind of a fight might actually be fun.

  8

  Kris wanted to bury herself in getting the 109 into fighting order. What she knew she had to do was find the manager of Nuu Enterprises on station and see just how far she could bluff him. “Jack, you’re with me. We’re borrowing the Cushing’s station runabout. Penny, you want to tag along with Tom. The 109’s new intel station needs checking out.”

  “You don’t see a problem, me being on Tom’s boat?” Penny said, her eyes following her husband of only a few hours.

  “Don’t see why not. And the 109 may need someone soon to do that battle intel job you did for us off Turantic.”

  “Yes,” Penny said, worrying her full lower lip. But she set her shoulders and hurried after her new husband.

  Kris turned to Jack. His eyes followed Penny with a sad smile. “Some honeymoon those two are getting,” he said.

  “At least they’re together. Now, speaking of together, I need for you to sneak me through the gate at Nuu Docks.”

  “Shouldn’t your stockholder’s IDent do that for you?”

  “Rather not leave a trail. Remember, I’m not up here, as far as the local net is concerned.”

  “So I’ll just talk my girl in there,” Jack promised. But that turned out to be easier said than done. The guard there was not a newly hired rent-a-thug. The clear-eyed bantam brunet sported a sleeve with corporal strips and two service hash marks for six years plus on the job. She listened to Jack’s song and dance . . . smiled . . . and called a supervisor.

  The sergeant sported a scowl. And five service hash marks, three good conduct medals, and several more medals for sharpshooting that added emphasis to the automatic slung at her waist. Her right hand never got very far from its well-worn grip.

  She cut off Jack’s bit of fiction fast. “You’re Jack Montoya. You were Kris Longknife’s Secret Service agent before the latest brouhaha,” she said, consulting her clipboard.

  She eyed Kris. “And you don’t want to show me any ID.”

  “I would prefer not to.”

  The sergeant’s frown deepened. “You understand this is a secure area, governed by forty eleven laws passed by several parliaments not all of which were run by Longknifes.”

  “Yes.” Kris nodded.

  “Princess Kristine, I could lose my stripes for letting you in, but I’m going to assume that you’ve got a good reason for what you’re doing and it don’t include messing with my already miserable day.”

  “I do, and it doesn’t,” Kris said simply.

  “Okay, you may pass,” the sergeant said, then turned to the other guard. “Corporal, what you just saw, you forget. You don’t talk about it tonight to no one. When it hits the newsies, you express surprise. And you suck it for all the free beers you can get a few years from now.”

  But as Jack drove around the corner, Kris glanced back. Now the sergeant was following her with her eyes, and talking to thin air . . . or someone on net.

  Jack drove straight to the admin center. It was a Saturday, and battleships were inbound; Kris didn’t expect to see much activity. So she was surprised to find every fourth desk busy. The work on the Firebolt’s drive had taken her to the dock superintendent’s office, so she walked straight to it.

  It was empty, but the deputy superintendent’s office was next, and the door was open. She entered to find him head down over a cluttered desk. She rapped the doorjamb for attention.

  “You made good time,” he said without looking up.

  “Not a lot of traffic.”

  “You should see this place at shift change Monday.”

  “What will it be like this Monday?”

  He looked up. “Now that is an interesting question. How should I address you, Shareholder, Princess, Lieutenant?”

 
; Good man, rather than assume he knew her, or worse, force her into his own pigeonhole, he asked. “Princess at the moment. Shareholder if I have to be. What do you know of the situation?”

  “Nothing that I much like. Battleships headed our way, threatening to turn my place of employment into drifting space junk. Present political lash-up is running around in circles. Military seems to have been told to stand down, don’t do anything that eliminates political options. Did I miss anything? By the way, would you like to sit down? You too, Agent Montoya.”

  “Got it all in one,” Kris said, moving toward the offered chair. Jack shook his head and remained at the door where he had a better view in all directions.

  A small wooden sign, half buried on the desk, identified its occupant as Roy Buanifanesto. When he stood to offer Kris a hand, he came up short a foot on her and appeared comfortably middle-aged. Hand shaken, he sat back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, his hands behind his head, and smiled. “So, what are we going to do while Roma burns and Nero’s grandkids fiddle?”

  “Keep more of Rome from burning, if we can,” Kris said. “There’s a dozen fast patrol boats docked over at the Navy base.”

  “The mosquito fleet Pandori says are toys for playboys?”

  “They need to be brought up to fighting trim. Fast.”

  Roy pursed his lips. “Small matter-antimatter motors. How are they running?”

  “Cold steel.”

  “Ouch. Properly mothballed?”

  “Turned off like a light switch. After all, nobody needed those stinking playthings,” Kris mimicked the bad press.

  “Double ouch. You’ll need to get them over here for work.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Nothing we do can look hostile to the battleships coming in or the politicians on the ground.”

  “Oh, right. That general stand down order. We don’t have much military work in the yard just now. Anything that could be gotten out was rushed off to Boynton, and we’re kind of trying to put all the pieces back together of what we begged, stole, or borrowed to get them there. You’re telling me we’re back in the beg, steal, and borrow business again, but pianissimo,” he said, bringing two fingers together softly.

  “Very quietly.”

  “Who pays?”

  Kris knew that question had to come next. If it hadn’t, the shareholder in her would have had to recommend the man be fired. Still, the princess in her wouldn’t have minded him bringing it up later. “Do you have a secure line to Grampa Al?”

  “I suspect he’s waiting to find out why you were sneaking into the yard with no data trail. Computer, is Mr. Longknife on-line?” A holographic image of Grampa Al appeared over one of the few clear places on Roy’s desk.

  “Hi Grampa,” Kris said.

  “I won’t say it’s nice to see you. You only seem to pop up when you want to cause me trouble,” said Alex Longknife, paternal grandfather to Kris and the wealthiest man on Wardhaven. Probably one of the ten richest men in human space.

  “You really should organize some family picnics or beach parties so we can get together for some quality time.”

  “And where would the quality be in wasting time with my father or my son?” Kris could agree with him where her father was concerned. What it was between him and Grampa Ray was something she couldn’t even begin to grasp.

  “You know we have a problem?”

  “Looks like the Peterwalds have got some Greenfeld warships headed our way, and that bunch of dunderheads at Government House have really screwed up this time.”

  “You know it’s the Peterwalds. I’d heard that the ships weren’t sending any IDs.”

  “They aren’t. But who else would put together that problem on Boynton and turn out my son’s government? I’ll bet you when things are done that we’ll find some Peterwald money behind several of those votes that turned at the last moment. I should have known it.” Which left Kris wondering if Grampa Al ever paid for any particular votes he wanted. Hmm.

  Kris shrugged. “Whoever the battleships belong to, they need to be stopped. You don’t happen to have a few spare battlewagons stashed anywhere in the yard, do you?” When last they’d talked, Grampa Al had bragged about making his own personal world safe and secure. Making himself untouchable. Living on a world run by Peterwalds didn’t sound all that safe for a Longknife. Definitely not for Kris Longknife.

  “No. Something I’ve overlooked. One has to expect that you’ll get something back for your taxes.”

  “I’m going to lead the PF squadron out against the intruders,” Kris said.

  “You can’t. That’s suicide.”

  “I think the odds are better than that. I’d like to make them better still. The boats are in cold storage. They need some quick maintenance. Can we call on Nuu Docks?”

  “You can have anything Nuu Docks has.” The hologram image turned toward the deputy, “Roy, you hear, they can have anything they need.” Then the image was back, eye to eye with Kris. “But only, Kris, only if you agree not to go out with them.”

  “Grampa, I can’t.”

  “Why not? You’re not going to tell me that you’re the only person who can skipper a fast whatever-that-thing-is. There are other skippers. They’ve got deputies or assistants backing them up. I pay to get the boats back up and running. I get to keep my granddaughter out of this damn crazy shoot-out.”

  Kris blinked. Good Lord, Grampa Al made it sound so logical. He’d trade his money for her life. Simple negotiations. For a second she wanted to say yes.

  Only for a second. She saw herself on the dock, standing maybe with Chandra’s kids, waving bye to their mom. Kids did that. And civilians like Chandra’s husband.

  Lieutenants did not.

  Not Lieutenants who commanded one of those boats.

  “Sorry, Grampa. No deal. Like everyone else, the boats had orders to stand down and make nice-nice. I’ve already invoked Princess to take command of the entire squadron. To order these preparations. If I don’t lead them, they don’t go.”

  “God damn it, young woman, you’re sounding like my father.”

  “Sorry, Grampa, it’s the only way.”

  “That’s what he’d always say. ‘It’s the only way.’ Damn, damn, damn. Just once, I’d like to see someone come up with another way.”

  “I know a whole squadron full of folks who’d love to see someone come up with another way,” Kris said. “Besides, Grampa Al, if you buy me out, what are you going to tell Gates and Rockefeller and Alexander next time you see them? They aren’t getting a chance to buy their sons, their daughter out of this.”

  The hologram of Grampa Al looked away for a long moment. When he looked back, he looked very old. “Roy, my yacht is tied up somewhere up there. It’s got defensive lasers of some sort or another. Get it out of wherever it is, shanghai a crew for it, and let the princess here use it for anything she can dream up. Talk to the captain of my yacht. He may know the skippers of other armed yachts who aren’t bugging out for other planets. Maybe Wardhaven isn’t as defenseless as some people think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call back anyone you need to work on the boats. Give the princess here anything she wants. Do it carefully; the last thing we want is to have the newsies sniffing around. We have to keep it quiet from those damn gunboats and from what passes for a government down here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Grampa. That’s very—”

  “Patriotic of me,” Grampa Al snorted. “It isn’t just you folks in uniform who believe in what the flag stands for. We all do, just in different ways. Oh, Roy, keep a running tab on what this all costs. If my son gets his act together and wins this election, we can probably get his government to pay for this.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roy said, looking a bit embarrassed at Kris. But only a bit. He was a businessman.

  “Anything else?” Grampa Al asked.

  “Nothing I can think of. If I do, I’ll have Roy call you.”

  �
��My boss is on vacation. Should I call him back?”

  Al’s hologram shook his head. “If he comes back, we’ll be raising a red flag. No, Roy, you get to handle this one. Enjoy it. You’ll be working directly with a young, hot-blooded Longknife. You got any boys her age and marriage high?”

  “No sir, I just married off the last boy.”

  “Lucky man. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to liquidate some real estate holdings a certain busybody pointed out that I own. Amazing what pops up when someone goes digging.”

  “Sorry about that,” Kris said.

  “I doubt you are. Do you really think it will make any difference to the people living there who owns them once I’ve sold my holdings?”

  “You could keep them and improve their condition.”

  “Survive this crazy charge of yours and drop by my place. We’ll spend some quality time with me explaining to you the marketing realities that make slums happen.”

  “I’ll do that,” Kris said as the hologram collapsed.

  Roy sat up in his chair. “We just had to redo the bathroom on the boss man’s yacht, so I have the specs on my own computer. Won’t have to access any database, raise any flags. Now, Your Highness, let’s go see what we can do for your squadron.”

  “Let me drive,” Roy said, slipping into the front seat of the runabout. Instead of heading for the front gate, he headed elsewhere. “I bet we can open Gate 5,” he said as he drove a large six-lane street that headed straight for a four-meter-high fence that loomed between the Navy base and Nuu Yards. As they approached, a gate started rolling open.

  “Yep, Navy forgot to lock down their side.” Roy flashed a smile. “Guess the new hired security missed a check box once we closed down the gate on our side.” Well, at least Kris wouldn’t have to fake her way through the main gate again.

  In the Cushing’s wardroom was another surprise. Poring over readers with the Commodore and Commander Santiago was Captain van Horn, the Navy station commander. He looked up, took in Kris with Roy at her side, and scowled as if they’d committed a particularly aromatic social blunder.