“In case you haven’t noticed, the Longknife name has developed a new and rather special cachet. Not that you had anything to do with it.”
Kris shook her head. “Hardly.”
Jack shot her a frown. “Listen, seeing how I’m likely to be responsible for that body of yours again, and seeing how it’s melting away to nothing, it seems to me that you ought to eat something. Now, you can walk out of here like a lady, or I can toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you out. What’s it gonna be?”
“All the way downstairs to the kitchen?” Kris said, measuring those strong arms and wondering how it would feel to be held by them for a few moments, even if it was only . . . But he was threatening to toss her over his shoulder, not carry her off in his arms. Nothing dignified or fun there. She rolled that image up, shut it away in a small lockbox she had for such . . . very small lockbox . . . and sat up in bed.
“Actually, I was thinking of a certain dive. A place where working folks like you and me might get a bite to eat and a drop to drink. Nothing private or special.”
“Should I change?”
“Sailors eat free.”
“Officers?”
“Well, they may have to pay. Don’t know. Come on, let’s go before all the greasy spoons are taken.”
Kris let herself be cajoled out of her room and into Jack’s car. He wasn’t kidding when he said the place was a dive. The Smugglers Roost was on the rougher side of town, near the old shuttle port and close to the space elevator’s industrial loading station. Jack parked across from it. An unsightly thing, it filled the basement of an ancient brick building. The steps down were broken and uneven. The wooden floor was dark and worn by several hundred years of workers’ boots. The walls were hung with glowing signs offering several kinds of beer on tap. Their light only highlighted where raw bricks showed through chipped plaster. Kris had been in college pubs that attempted this ambiance. There was no attempt here; it was pure original.
As she took in the empty tables, she spotted several up front occupied by huddled men and women in hard working clothes. It was the booth in the back that told her she’d been had.
She whirled to leave and ran right into Jack. “You can’t go now.”
“Watch me.” But he had his hand on her arm, and it was amazingly strong, and he was turning her around. She half walked, half was pushed across the floor.
“Hi, Kris,” King Ray said.
“Howdy, Lieutenant,” Great-grampa Trouble put in. He was in dress greens today, probably attending funerals for Grampa Ray.
“Good to see you,” Sandy said.
“Hello,” Kris answered, voice flat.
“It that bad?” Ray said.
“Seems that way,” Jack said, urging Kris into the booth beside her Great-grampa Trouble, then pulling up a chair for himself to blockade her from making a hasty exit. The king wore a flannel shirt and slacks. Sandy was in cut-offs for her leg cast. A tank top left room for her arm cast. They fit right in.
“You doing the round of funerals?” Trouble asked.
“Tom today. The same priest that did his wedding last week did his funeral today.”
Both men shook their heads and took a long pull on their beers. “Bloody shame, that,” Trouble said.
“Beautiful funeral,” Jack said.
“There’s no such thing as a beautiful funeral for a twenty-three-year-old man,” Ray said softly.
“No, sir,” Kris agreed.
“You drinking what the rest of these decrepit wrecks are, Navy?” an old man in a checked shirt and jeans, gray ponytail half down to his thick black leather belt asked.
“Soda,” Kris said.
He raised an eyebrow but wrote Kris’s order and Jack’s beer and left.
“Honey, I still think it was all the pills your mother was stuffing you full of,” Trouble said.
“And not the brandy I was sneaking out of Father’s liquor cabinet or the wine from Mother’s supply. Sorry, Grampa, but I won’t wake up a week from now and find out I drank my way past how many funerals?” she eyed Jack.
“A lot,” he said.
“Chandra Singh’s husband called me today, asked me if they’d found her body. The Sikhs are very particular about their funerals. I told him we were still hunting for the wreckage of the 105 boat. We’ll keep hunting.” Kris shook her head. “I have no idea what’s going on up there in orbit. They pried us out of the 109 and shot us off to the hospital.” Unconsciously, her hand went to the flaking bandage over her right eye. “I don’t know what’s going on up there.”
“You’re Squadron 8’s Commodore; you should check in. Ask,” Sandy said.
“No I’m not. Mandanti’s the Commodore.”
“By right of blood, by right of title, by right of name, I’m taking command,” Jack intoned. “I was there.”
“Yeah, when I stole his command.”
“Looked more like you asked and he passed you the baton,” Sandy said, “with my hearty support.”
Kris blinked. “I didn’t give you much choice.”
“That mess we were in didn’t give anyone much choice,” Ray growled at his beer. “I was so busy trying to be evenhanded with this dumb troglodyte who’d just ousted my grandson that I ended up bending over and kissing my own ass.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Your brother, Honovi, dropped by yesterday, had a long talk with me. We’ll have to change the way Wardhaven handles temporary governments. With a smart boy like that in the family, maybe there is hope for us.”
The king took a long pull on his beer, then fixed Kris with a firm eye. “Kris, when people like me screw up, dumping hot potatoes on people like you, battles like you ended up fighting, we got two choices. We can eat our heart, day by day, bite by bite. Or we can accept that what we did was what looked like a good idea at that moment. Was what had to be done just then. In the case of me and your old man, we just about blew the whole ball game for Wardhaven.
“But you saved our necks. You rallied some damn fine people to step up to a near-impossible job. The best dropped what they were doing and came running.” He paused, seemed to lose himself gazing off past Kris’s head. “Why is it always the best we lose?”
Trouble cleared his throat. Ray blinked twice and went on. “You and they did what had to be done. Some of you survived, despite the odds. Some didn’t. There’s nothing right or fair about it. Your Tommy had more choice, I hear, than most. He chose for his wife to live.”
Grampa Ray shifted in his seat. “Now you’re sitting where all of us have sat. Stuck among the survivors. For now. Tomorrow, there will be another dustup somewhere. There’s always another crisis somewhere. So you can crawl into a corner, eat your heart out and die, or order something to eat and stay with the rest of us living.”
“Such encouraging words from your very own great-grandfather,” Sandy said. “How can you but choose to go on?”
Trouble slapped Kris on the back. “What do you want to eat?”
Kris ordered a hamburger when the drinks arrived. The barkeep left the drinks and a vid controller. “Thought the likes of you might want to know what’s going on out there.”
“I was kind of hoping to ignore it,” Ray said as he hit the selector switch and the beer ad switched to news.
“So, with the critical information I passed along to the Wardhaven Flagship, plus my own right-on analysis of the threat against us,” Adorable Dora was saying to the camera, “our forces launched their assault on these unidentified attackers.”
Jack exploded with a very bad word, then went on, still steaming, “Like hell she did. She was hiding in the runabout’s bathroom, clutching two life pods. I don’t know how she planned on using both, but she had two survival pods, one in each hand.”
“I thought you were far enough behind us that you weren’t in any danger,” Kris said.
“We were, but don’t tell that to Adorable Dora. And don’t tell me that she saw any of the fight. She was in the bathroom, with the door l
ocked. Glad the rest of us didn’t need to go.”
Ray hit the channel switch again. “From such things are the history books written. So Kris, you had poor Jack following two steps behind you and you didn’t even need him.”
“Couldn’t tell what might have happened while we were behind Milna. Had to have a relay boat. Unfortunately, I picked Dora’s boat, and she insisted on riding along. Doesn’t Jack deserve a Wound Medal?” Kris joked. Then she remembered the price others had paid for their medal and felt sick at her stomach.
“A Wound Medal and a Meritorious Service Cross,” Grampa Trouble jumped in. “Plus we need something for heroic displays of self-control under combat conditions. After all, he didn’t throttle that reporter. How about instituting the Ray Cross.”
“How about a Right Cross.” Ray waved a fist at his friend.
“Stop there,” Sandy said. “That’s Winston Spencer, of the AP, my newsie. Let’s hear his story.”
The screen showed a man with a cast on his left arm. “At this point the Halsey had closed to within five thousand kilometers of the enemy flagship. She was hurting, but still fighting and hadn’t fired her ten pulse lasers. Captain Santiago was looking for a good shot, but with the battleship now bouncing around as well as the destroyer, that just wasn’t happening.”
His picture vanished to show a view of tiny ship images dodging and jinking their way through black space.
“I was in the Combat Information Center, the ship’s command hub,” the reporter’s voice went on so calmly, so matter-of-factly, “when the skipper risked taking her ship out of its evasion maneuvers to get that good shot. Before she could get back into evasions, the Halsey was hammered, and we lost all power, but I’ve constructed what happened next from other sources after they brought us survivors out of the wreck of the Halsey.”
Sandy fidgeted with her own casts and eyed the floor.
“We know the enemy flagship was in bad shape, hurting from the Halsey’s attack and many others. At this point, Princess Kris Longknife, the acting Commodore of Fast Patrol Boat Squadron 8 called to offer the intruders a chance to surrender.”
Kris sat up straight.
“That’s how you’re going into the history books, kitten,” Grampa Trouble whispered.
“While negotiating, the enemy apparently tracked the signal and, while still talking surrender, fired off a blast at our flagship. Lieutenant Tom Lien, the skipper of PF-109, in which Princess Kris was riding, was watching for just this. He had his helmswoman, 3/c Mary Fintch, dodge away while he fired back at the battleship. Meanwhile, the ancient destroyer Cushing, under Commander Mandanti, called back from retirement, managed to limp into range and fired off their six pulse lasers. Or maybe three. I’m still trying to find out how many of them actually worked. That was all it took. The enemy flagship blew up even as PF-109 was heavily damaged. Lieutenant Lien, 3/c Fintch, and several others aboard the 109 boat are among the heroes who paid the full measure to save Wardhaven from this unprovoked attack.”
“Where do we find such people?” Kris asked no one.
“We don’t find them,” King Ray said slowly. “They find us. They step forward when we need them. I don’t know what we do to deserve them.” He paused. “And God help us if we dam up that special well from which they come when we need them so desperately.”
None at the table could add to that.
On-screen, the reporter struggled with the question topmost on everyone’s mind. “Where did those ships come from?”
“There are no survivors from any of them. A check among the larger chunks of wreckage shows their survival pods were defective. We’ve recovered bodies in them, but being in them didn’t help the crew. Now, Todd, as someone who spent several hours in one, awaiting rescue from the CIC of the Halsey, let me tell you, they are very simple and easy to operate.
“The Navy complains about using the lowest bidder,” the anchorman said. “Sounds like someone used an even lower bidder.”
“It does sound like that. Meanwhile, the Navy is going over what wreckage they can to identify who made it. However, I’m told that they aren’t optimistic that it will tell them much. Designs have been shared across the Society of Humanity for eighty years. Items from one planet are used in other planets’ products and built into other planets’ finished ships. Whoever did this didn’t want to be known, and now it seems that dead men will tell no tales.”
“Hmm. Well, thank you for sharing your harrowing voyage, the last voyage, so it seems, of the good ship Halsey.”
“I shared it with a lot of good men and women. The best we have, Todd. I hope we never forget that or forget them.”
“And now, at five minutes before the hour, we’d better update you on the election returns.”
“Let’s don’t and say we did,” Ray said, and flipped the channel. Ten flips later, he put it back on the beer sign.
“What are you grumping about?” came from behind Kris. “It looks like my vacation is gonna be canceled on account of election results.” So saying, General Mac McMorrison, the former chairman of the Joint Staff, slipped into the seat beside Ray.
Kris started to jump to attention, something hard to do with a table in front of her. Especially with the barkeep trying to slap a plate of hamburger and fries in front of her and another one in front of Jack.
“Relax, Commodore,” Mac said.
“I’m sorry about that Commodore thing,” Kris said.
“I’m not,” Mac said. “Somebody had to rally the troops. I couldn’t. My resignation had been requested, and I was on terminal leave. Admiral Pennypacker had always wanted my job in the worst way. I just didn’t know how badly. He came out of retirement to take it and did just about the worst job anyone has ever done of it.” Mac shook his head.
“Well, if you’re retiring,” Trouble started, “I’ve got this chicken ranch up in the foothills of the North Range. Hardly ever visited. Perfect place; your wife will love it. Ruth does. Keeps asking me when we’re going to retire to it.”
“Don’t be too quick to sell off that old place,” King Ray muttered. “This mess has got me thinking I need reps on every planet, watching them closer than I can. Maybe doing a better job. How’d you like to be Duke Trouble of Wardhaven?”
Trouble made a rude sound, but Kris noticed he didn’t say no. Was poor Grampa Trouble ready to let a Longknife draft him into another rough job? Did Grampa Ray need help that bad?
Mac shook his head. “I hate to get between you two old war buddies, but Trouble, I don’t think I’m in the market for a retirement business. I got a call a half hour back from this young Lieutenant’s father. Seems he thinks his party is going to win the election, and he might be moving back into Government House. Wants me to take my old job running Wardhaven’s military. Expand the fleet some more.”
“How are the farmers going to take to that?” Kris asked.
“Farm coalition is one of the stronger movers on that. Seems someone passed around the farm policy that they have on Greenfeld. Not a nice one. What you grow, you sell to the government at the price the government sets.”
“Why the Greenfeld farm policy?” Sandy asked.
“Well, while that guy you were listening to might be towing the official line that we don’t know where those ships came from, there’re an awful lot of folks who are hearing through the grapevine that a lot of that stuff has a distinctly Greenfeld flair to it.”
“We find some Whistler & Hardcastle lasers?” Ray asked.
“Chunks of them.”
“Father intend to do anything about that?” Kris asked.
Mac worried his lower lip. “Do you really want to be in the Navy of ninety planets that’s fighting eighty planets?”
Kris took a drink of her soda. The thought of a long war between two evenly balanced and powerful alliances made her shiver. “Not really, but, blast it, I don’t want to do nothing. If we do, won’t the Peterwalds just come back?”
“The JO has a point,” Trouble s
aid.
“A good one.” Mac nodded.
“I understand the threatening fleet has withdrawn from Boynton,” King Ray said.
“Slipped away real fast once Kris nailed our attackers,” Mac agreed. “Boynton is officially applying for membership in your union, Ray. Moving real fast now. I understand they and six other planets out that way are all coming in together.”
“And Kris has Hikila ready to come in,” Ray mused, swirling his beer and studying the bubbles. “Three other planets out that way will follow them in. Once the word gets out that Henry Peterwald tried for Wardhaven . . . and fell on his face . . . there ought to be several more planets joining, too.”
“So we grow,” Trouble said. “Grow faster than Greenfeld. And maybe, over time, cut out a few of their worlds.”
Sandy raised her glass in salute, left-handed. The others joined her.
Kris frowned. “That’s a lot of territory to defend.”
“Boynton’s asking us for the specs on the fast patrol boats,” Mac said. “I intend to send them.”
Kris opened her mouth. “But,” Mac went on, raising a hand to silence Kris, “we’re changing the design. Make ’em out of smart metal. With smart hulls and upgraded computers so they can repair themselves when they take hits, fill in battle damage.”
“If we had...” Kris said softly.
Mac cut her off. “I just read the full salvage report on the 109. You think I came over here just to jabber with these old farts? Young woman, your having that fancy computer of yours seal the 109’s hull saved the lives of the three survivors forward, and at least four of the crew aft who had their survival pods damaged in the fight. If you’d waited five seconds to analyze things, you’d all have been breathing vacuum. You made a snap decision, and it was the right decision.
“As for the three on the bridge, they were dead before the lights went out, crushed when the 109 bent in the middle. There was nothing you could have done to save them. You can hear what I’m saying to you, or not, but it won’t change anything.”
Mac shook his head. “Even if I hadn’t let the damn bean counters talk me into having the experimental squadron made out of that damn semi-smart metal. Even if that brassy computer of yours had been ready to start ordering the metal around as soon as you took the hit, we would have lost five good men and women on the 109.” His voice slowed, went low. “You were good, but nobody’s that good, and those battleships were big honking mothers.”
Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant Page 39