Intrepid

by Mike Shepherd

  “Not at this speed,” Krätz agreed.

  Nelly went back to gnawing on her modeling problem. Kris glanced around the room. Sometime during the last eternity, Vicky had come in and made herself small in a chair against the wall behind Abby. Vicky tossed her a look, as if expecting to be shooed away, but begging for a chance to stay.

  Kris dredged up something like a smile, and Vicky settled back, relieved.

  Kris’s brain spun, hungry to force a conclusion from the data laid out before her but wanting to wait until everything was there. Her belly was a vacuum, threatening to swallow her up, spin her away to somewhere where she was nothing and no one.

  Kris Longknife held on to herself with her fingertips and felt the blood begin to flow as her fingernails dug into the flesh of her hands, her fists were clinched so tightly.

  With a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. Fists, arms, legs, belly. For a moment, she swayed, about to fall, but she tightened up just enough to keep herself on her feet.

  How long can a computer take to solve a simple problem in hydraulics? Kris demanded.

  It’s not simple. It’s never been done before, she snapped back at herself.

  “This solution is not pretty,” Nelly said, “but I think it conveys the general results.” A schematic of the Tourin appeared on-screen. Fractions of seconds ticked off as the ship heeled. Then it seemed to right itself as the second set of jets was shot off. But the slow spin ground on, now adding a twist to a hull more and more out of alignment. Within the huge reaction tank, a tsunami formed, slamming itself first against one side of the tank, then another. Chunks of tank wall broke off. The tidal wave shot off needles of water that speared into the rest of the ship, taking down walls and girders.

  For two, three seconds, the ship came apart until, finally, the crushing wave of reaction mass blew out the bottom of the tank, slammed into the reactor containment equipment, and let loose the plasma to devour the wreckage.

  “Either way, the ship blows up,” Kris said, her voice dead with exhaustion.

  “I should have recalculated my assumptions,” Nelly said, “once the scientists told us the ship was under spin.”

  “I didn’t tell you to, and I didn’t think of it,” Kris said.

  “None of us did,” Captain Drago said.

  “None of us wanted to admit what that meant,” Vicky said.

  “That any way it went, five thousand people were doomed.”

  “The only question was if my dad died,” Vicky added.

  “And we had a horrible, horrible war,” Kris said.

  Vicky walked over to stand beside Kris. “Once State Security let those hijackers board the ship, take it over, every solution involved deaths. Lots and lots of them.”

  “Don’t let General Boyng hear you say that,” Captain Krätz said. Vicky said nothing.

  55

  The Wasp returned to High Birridas at a gentle one gee. That allowed plenty of time for matters to develop on South Continent. A hurricane blew itself out. Several plots to kill Henry Smythe-Peterwald were uncovered. Some people sang under interrogation, leading to further arrests. Others died.

  Kris wondered what leads died with them.

  Vicky sent several coded messages to her father. She got several replies. Kris personally made sure all copies of those messages were wiped from the Wasp’s logs.

  Call it professional courtesy, one princess to another.

  Kris seemed to be getting along very well with the scion of the Peterwald family. Just how good was quickly put to the test.

  No sooner had the last pier tie-down locked on to the Wasp than the State Security colonel demanded to see Kris on the bridge. See her with his entire detail backing him up.

  “Ignore him,” Vicky said.

  The look on Captain Krätz’s face did not agree.

  “It’s critical that you get in touch with your father,” Kris said. “Captain Krätz, can you get a security detail up here from your ship?”

  He tapped his commlink. Then shook his head. “I’m jammed.”

  “So are we,” Captain Drago said, answering Kris’s question before she asked it.

  Kris reached for the Greenfeld ensign. “Vicky, if something happens to you, I won’t have a chance. Jack,” Kris said, turning to the Marine captain.

  “Kris, I’m your security chief, not hers.”

  “But my safety lies with her. See that she gets back to the Surprise. I don’t care if it takes Gunny and half the Marines, but get her home safe.”

  There was noise at the bridge hatch; Kris had just enough time to organize a bland face for herself . . . ignoring the near mutiny on several others . . . before the colonel in State Security black marched onto her bridge.

  No, not marched; it was more a confident prance.

  “Longknife, you will accompany me,” he demanded.

  Kris considered the prospects of bloody slaughter on her bridge, then dismissed them. They were pinned to the wharf. Breaking free unaided from pierside would be nearly impossible. Kris would not leave Marines and Navy on the pier so that she could escape.

  Still, there was room for drama. Why not make him earn his pay? “And why should I accompany you?” Kris said.

  “Shall we start with the murder of five thousand loyal citizens of the Greenfeld Alliance and destroying a million-ton liner.”

  An ensign began to open her mouth; a far from gentle nudge in the ribs from her captain shut her up. Vicky fumed.

  The colonel ignored the ensign. Why did Kris suspect that was a mortal mistake?

  “Your attitude intrigues us,” Kris said regally. “It pleases us to go with you. May this ship depart in peace?”

  “The sooner the better,” the colonel said, playing into Kris’s own hand.

  She turned to Drago. “If I’m not back in three hours, go. Alert Wardhaven and both my grampas. General Trouble should enjoy this place.”

  “Your call, Your Highness, but maybe you better take this,” he said, and handed Kris a large envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “The conclusion of the board, suitable for framing, and all the supporting documentation.”

  “It won’t matter where I’m going,” Kris was pretty sure.

  “We’re stalling for time, right?”

  Kris let State Security escort her from her ship. Along the hatchways, sailors and Marines were conspicuous by their absence.

  The boffins turned out in hordes. Some who’d never talked to her said, “Hi.” Others were three deep and slowed the colonel’s progress to a crawl. The third time Kris spotted a dyed-in-the-wool member of the opposition party, it became clear to her what her brain trust was up to.

  There was nothing high-tech here. They knew all the routes of the Wasp. The colonel didn’t. No sooner had Kris said a tearful good-bye to one, than he would race for an end around and be waiting ahead of her to shout “Good luck” a minute later.

  It took the colonel ten minutes to figure the ploy out. Then, in a loud voice, he told Kris, “If I see another one of these wellwishers for a second time, I’ll have my corporal shoot him in the knee. A third time, and I’ll shoot him in the head.”

  Professor mFumbo took the lead of the troupe, and they progressed to the gangway more quickly. Kris crossed the gang-plank of the Wasp to calls of “See you soon,” “Good luck,” and “Mazel tov.”

  Free of the crowd, the colonel hustled Kris to the escalator to the station’s main deck. Riding up, Kris looked back. Except for the two Marines at the Wasp’s gangway, the dock was empty.

  That didn’t prepare Kris for the main deck of the station. It was also vacant as far as the eye could see. Admittedly, the long vista was broken up by some station structure amidships; still, up and down and around the curve of the main deck, no one stood or moved.

  On High Chance, Kris had been surprised to find herself alone. Here, with over a dozen ships in port, the vacancy was spooky. The security colonel seemed to sense that, too, and urged his
men on. With heads swiveling to spot any threat from any direction, the men did.

  What frightens men whom everyone was supposed to be scared of? Kris wondered, and marched head high and eyes straight ahead.

  The amidships structure was their destination. The colonel piled his men into a large freight elevator, spoke one word into his commlink, and it rose. From her loss of weight, Kris estimated that they were about a quarter of the way to the center of the station when the elevator stopped.

  The door slammed open, and the colonel found himself facing a brigadier general. “What took you so long?”

  “The Longknife did everything she could to delay us.”

  “And you let her,” the one-star sneered. Behind him, double the number of machine pistols stood at the ready. It would not have surprised Kris if she’d been gunned down right there with the others in the elevator. The bobbing Adam’s apples around her attested to the fear of her former escort.

  Instead, the general waved Kris out of the elevator, the colonel to stay, and barked something that closed the door. Kris now had a new escort, but at least her old one lived.

  For now.

  Without a word spoken, the larger team in State Security black formed around Kris, and all of them marched off. Her file must attribute true ferociousness to her if all this was felt needed to get her from point A to point B. She considered taking a flying leap at the guard next to her, or maybe rolling on the floor, foaming at the mouth. A quick glance at the men around her showed the distinct lack of a sense of humor.

  She marched along, “Not a lot of reporters,” she remarked.

  “You think this is Wardhaven,” the brigadier snapped.

  “That’s where I was when last I was arrested.”

  “You will soon see we are different,” he growled. “I would say more efficient, but you might not find us as easy as those people.” Kris hadn’t found “those people” all that much fun, but she held her own counsel.

  She and the State Security men put on quite a parade, to no one’s delight or even notice. Again the halls were notably empty. They stopped outside a door that was unremarkable.

  “Here you go, Longknife,” the brigadier snapped, opening the door for her.

  Kris moved, quickly enough not to be shoved, slow enough not to be mistaken for a threat, through the door. The general followed her into an outer office, empty except for two guards at an inner door.

  “That is for you,” the general said, but made no effort to lead her. Kris carefully marched across the outer room to the door, squaring her corners. At the door she paused for only a moment. The one-star general cackled.

  She opened the door and entered.

  The room was unlit. Kris closed the door behind her, and it went totally dark. Backing up to the door to keep her bearings, Kris felt around the wall for a switch.

  She found none.

  “Lights on,” she said.

  And the lights came on to show her a rather large office furnished in dull shades of tan. Its focus was a heavy wooden desk with a comfortable leather chair behind it. The only other chair in the room was over against the wall with the door.

  Kris flipped a mental coin, decided that she would most likely soon be talking to someone seated at that desk . . . and moved the chair to the side of the desk. She took a moment to take in the other furnishings, which were mostly noticeable by their absence: no bookcases, no books, no other seating, no place to organize an informal meeting.

  There were several oil paintings. Mostly landscapes and sunsets, two featured ancient gibbets with corpses hanging on them and crows feasting. Kris refused to flinch at the tastes of her host but noted them.

  A door opened, and Lieutenant General Boyng entered. “You are early,” he growled.

  “You are late,” Kris said. She kept her words light but gave no ground.

  “Generals are always on time. Lieutenants are early or late.”

  “I’ll meet your three stars and raise you a princess,” Kris said, wondering how long she could banter words with a man who probably considered a day lightly started if he hadn’t sentenced a dozen men to death before breakfast.

  Just don’t choke on a word, she told herself, swallowing hard.

  “We’ll see how you banter with your betters when you’re wearing a pain collar,” the general said, and, pulling one from a drawer, tossed it onto his desk. “Put it on.”

  “I’d rather not. It’s not the fashion on Wardhaven. So why should I?”

  “Because I ordered you to.”

  “Our chains of command do go in somewhat divergent directions.”

  “Then maybe your Wardhaven sensibilities would be better served if I told you it’s the perfect fashion statement for a mass murderer.”

  He pinned her with his eyes, challenged her to deny her guilt.

  Maybe yesterday she would have accepted the punishment, but not today. She had been cleared by a court of her superiors. “Sorry, you have the wrong princess.”

  “Didn’t your ship fire on the Dedicated Workers of Tourin? Aren’t you responsible for the work of your ship’s weapons officer?” He smiled at that, sure of her entrapment.

  “General, I was the gunnery officer.”

  “You personally killed those five thousand innocent people!”

  Kris leaned on the desk to go eye to eye with the shorter man. “Yes, I did.”

  “Oh,” he said, and settled into his comfortable chair. He eyed Kris as one cobra might another, one from another territory . . . maybe threatening his . . . maybe not.

  “My field agents seem to have misjudged your stomach for killing.”

  Not likely, but this was no time to disabuse this man about her taste for blood. “Your field agents may have misjudged me in many ways. It would be interesting to see how much is correct in the file I keep hearing about.”

  That brought a laugh from the mouth of hell. “No, no. You are in my power. Not the other way around. And no, I have no intention of playing with you. Didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food?”

  “No, my mother taught me not to eat people. They are much more fun to rule when free and sovereign.”

  “Words, words,” he said, reaching into his desk and removing an ancient revolver from a drawer. “Put on the pain collar.”

  Without thought, Kris had put on a spider-silk body stocking that morning. Abby laid one out; Kris put it on. Just another day in the life of a princess. If the general shot her in the chest, he’d be surprised at the results.

  Then again, if he shot her in the face, she’d be dead.

  It was hard to tell exactly where he was aiming.

  If Kris dropped for the floor, she might get facedown below the desk before he drilled her where she wasn’t protected. No one had frisked her; her service automatic was still in easy reach.

  Kris went through the options, options she could almost see mirrored in the general’s eyes.

  The phone rang.

  56

  “Put on the pain collar,” the general demanded.

  The phone rang again. There were two phones on the desk, one white, the other red. The red demanded attention.

  “You need to answer your phone,” Kris said, taking a seat in the available chair.

  “Put on the pain collar, or I will kill you.”

  The words were harsh, demanding. Kris stared them down.

  “Your master’s leash demands attention.”

  “You could be dead before ever he says a word.”

  Kris knew that only too well. “If I am dead before you answer that phone, you will be dead before sunset.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Why don’t you answer the phone and find out?”

  It had rung twice more while they debated their respective fates.

  The general reached for his phone, pistol steady on Kris. She did not budge. Win or lose, that call would decide it.

  Well, if she lost, she’d go down doing her best to kill this murde
rer. Her hand edged closer to where her automatic rode snugly at the small of her back.

  “Yes,” the general said.

  “Yes, sir,” he snapped immediately, and leapt to attention, gun still in his hand but no longer aimed at Kris.

  “You are well, sir. Thank God, sir” was followed by a long pause as the general listened. “Yes, sir, the girl is safe with me. I was examining options for her final disposition.”

  So Kris was of interest to the old man. Now, was he thinking about the son she was supposed to have killed, the five thousand she’d just killed . . . or the fact she’d saved his life?

  “Yes, sir. It will be so, sir. Long life, sir,” the general said rapidly, then slowly put the phone in its receiver.

  “You are a very lucky girl,” he said.

  “Those who survive have to be,” Kris said, standing up.

  “You are free to go. Your ship may leave as soon as you return to it.” The voice was stripped of emotion, like a skeleton stripped of flesh.

  “And how will I find my way back to my ship?”

  “However you may. Greenfeld is not so populous that we can detail escorts to every girl with pretensions to importance.”

  Kris was about to turn her back on the general when he reached out. “I’ll trouble you for that automatic you were edging for a few moments ago.”

  Kris shook her head curtly. No way would she face this station unarmed. “You can tell your thugs to be careful. I’m no easy takedown.”

  “I’ll tell my men what I choose to,” the general said, but he kept his pistol arm at his side. Kris turned, caught the general’s reflection in one of his paintings, and strode to the door. His gun arm stayed down, and Kris did no drop and roll and recover with automatic in hand as she had mapped out in her mind.

  At the door, she turned. The general did not look like he had so much as twitched a muscle. “See you around,” Kris called.

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  Kris was through the door in a blink and slammed it behind her. The two guards actually jumped at the noise, or at her presence. She doubted many people who went in that door came out again under their own power.

  “Bye, guys, it’s been a great time,” Kris said, and covered the distance to the outer door before they recovered.