Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  The shuttle ride was bad, made worse as one after another of the new recruits lost his or her lunch. If Kris hadn’t strapped herself in so tight, she might have gone up front and relieved the pilot. Then again, flying a skiff was one thing, a hundred-passenger shuttle was quite another.

  As it was, they were lucky; Port Athens was in between the worst of its daily parade of storms. The landing, however, was a whole new experience. Upon dismount, Kris found a rutted runway dotted with potholes.

  “Don’t these people have any pride?” a recruit snorted.

  “Back on Hardly’s Heaven, we’d never let concrete get this bad.”

  “Your runway might not look so sweet after a year of acid rain,” a local unloading the cargo bay snapped back.

  “Natives appear to lack a sense of humor,” Tommy noted.

  “I think it washed off with most of those buildings’ paint.”

  Between red streaks, the terminal showed patches of its original paint. It might once have been a gay jumble of blues, greens, oranges, and others. All were dull now.

  Two buses rolled up to the shuttle, but their doors stayed closed while Kris’s troops collected in the rain. Only when the trickle from the shuttle cut off, did the bus doors open.

  A couple of dozen troops made a dash for the shuttle through the rain. There was no order in their leaving, no structure in their mad stampede for the freedom ride. Few had any attention for their replacements other than an occasional obscene shout or gesture. Tommy watched them, then gave Kris a shrug.

  With the buses empty, the other two ensigns grabbed the front seats on the nearest one. “Are they avoiding me or ignoring me?” Kris muttered, standing in the rain as she oversaw the boarding of her ninety-six enlisted personnel.

  “Maybe they’ve noticed that things can get lethal around you,” Tommy said, a lopsided grin taking only part of the sting out of his words.

  “And you?” Kris shot back.

  “I have the luck of the little people,” he assured her.

  “Then you and your little people take charge of that last bus. I’ll handle the one with our prima donnas. Didn’t anyone ever tell them that seniors enter a vehicle last?”

  Tommy glanced up, blinking into the pouring rain. “Whoever made that rule didn’t spend much time on Olympia.” Tommy headed for his bus, and Kris took the other and found herself stuck standing, the fifty-first person aboard a bus intended for forty-eight. A young spacer with a badly broken-out face offered her his seat. Mother or Father would have taken it without a second thought; Kris couldn’t picture Grampa Trouble doing the same. She stood for the fifteen-minute ride.

  The drive was as dismal as the port. The roads were more potholes than road; all the buildings showed the effect of water’s constant assault. Somewhere a sewer main had broken, adding its slink to the misery. People plodded along, heads down, shoulders hunched against the latest downpour. Several windows gaped broken; a store had been burned out. Kris’s crew grew quiet as the sights of desolation and despair accumulated.

  They pulled into a compound, rusting barbed wire setting it off from the buildings around it. To the right was what might have once been an office building. Society’s green and blue flag had been painted on the plywood that filled a broken window. Across a drowned and muddy park, two hotels rose, one to four stories, the other to ten.

  The driver demanded Kris hurry her charges off his bus; he had other places to go, other fares to earn. Kris doubted that, but the buses were civilian, and the Navy always kept its people moving. Unfortunately, that just meant her troops hurried off the bus to stand in the rain. The truck that had followed them with their gear pulled up behind them. Its two civilians started tossing duffels into the deepest puddles around.

  “Okay troops, let’s form a line, single file,” Kris ordered, “to draw your baggage. You, you, and you”—she pointed at the biggest men in the ranks—“go help those civilians unload the truck. See that the kits land on dry land.” That helped; the duffels started landing on their bottoms, standing where Kris could read the names on them. She rethought having the troops file by. Calling out names might work better.

  “Is anybody in charge here?” Tom whispered to her.

  Kris’s curt answer died in her throat as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The Admin building’s door opened. A marine officer in battle dress strode out, back ramrod straight, a battle board slapping purposefully against his hip. There was no question who was in charge. From the scowl on his face as he took in this new addition to his command, there was also no doubt about his opinion of them.

  “Atten-hut,” Kris ordered.

  “Who’s in charge here?” came from the officer, more a challenge than a question.

  “I am, sir,” Kris fired back, not hesitating a moment to take on her responsibility.

  “And who might you be?”

  “Ensign Longknife, sir.”

  “Right.” He eyed her for a moment, didn’t seem to care much for what he saw, then turned his back. “Form your personnel into two divisions, Ensign.”

  An easy command, but one there was no way Kris could obey properly. By all that was good, holy, and Navy, Kris should turn to a chief and order him or her to form divisions. Anything else was unofficer. But all Kris had was a pair of second-class petty officers who’d shown no initiative on board or since arriving. No, what delusions of leadership as was here consisted of her and maybe Tommy.

  What had Grampa Trouble said the morning he picked her up for her first skiff ride…without clearing it with either of her parents? “If you’re going to be damned if you do and damned if you don’t, then do it—with panache.” She turned to Tommy. “Ensign Lien, form a division of your bus team.”

  He saluted. “Yes, ma’am,” did a snappy about-face, and stepped into a deep pothole. Still, he kept his balance as he marched away.

  Kris turned to face the milling group of sodden spacers and marines. “My busload, form on me. Petty officers will form files to my left.” As a suggestion, she pointed to where she wanted the few crows among them to stand. They took the hint and did so. Kris had one second-class and two third-class; that gave her enough for her first file. “Dress right, dress” got the petty officers’ arms out. It began to dawn on the rawest recruit that they should have somebody’s fingers touching their right shoulder. It caught on.

  Twenty meters to Kris’s right, Tom’s busload went through the same drill. In a surprisingly short time, the mob transformed itself into two divisions of three ranks. They were still getting soaked and growing more miserable, but they looked Navy.

  The other two ensigns watched all this from a dry overhang as if this was for their entertainment. Kris followed Hancock’s lead and ignored them as she did her own about-face, saluted, and reported. “Divisions are formed, sir. All new arrivals are present.” The lieutenant colonel turned, a scowl still occupying most of his face. “You have a manifest, Ensign?” Kris dug it out of her pocket. She could just as easily have beamed it from her computer to his battle board, but he was doing this the old-fashioned way, and he had the rank.

  The officer took the paperwork. Without a glance, he pocketed it. “Welcome to Port Athens Marine Base. I am Lieutenant Colonel Hancock, and that is all the welcome and thanks you can expect to get here.

  “Those of you who joined up to do good, look around. This is as good as it gets. Enlisted will be issued web gear and rifles. Carry them with you at all times on duty or on base. You will not take them off base while off duty. Officers.” His glower got worse, if that was possible. “You will also draw web gear and side arms. If you are smart, you will draw a rifle, too. If you don’t know how to use one, learn.

  “I’ve shipped three of you ladies home,” he growled at the massed troops. “One may actually get to keep that arm. I’ve shipped three people home and the only return fire so far has been from a young woman who managed to shoot a local with his own gun. She says it was self-defense. He has witnesses
to the contrary. She’s being tried by a jury of his peers, since she did it off base and on her own time. My advice to you boys and girls is to stay on base and consider all your time my time. Do it, and you just might make it home to your mommies.”

  He turned to her. “Ensign Longknife, is it? You one of those Longknifes?”

  Kris turned her head just enough to look him in the eye. “Yes, sir.” She didn’t add, General Trouble sends his compliments, despite the temptation. Trouble would not send any kind of compliment to Colonel Hancock. Not that Hancock.

  “Figures.” He scowled. “Well, Ensign, have your booties report to Admin, then draw their web gear and check into their billet. If they hurry, they just might get some chow before the mess hall closes for the night. Admin will see they get issued ration chits and work assignments. I advise you to turn in any cash you’re carrying as well as your personal credit cards. It’s worth your life to carry them around here.” He redirected his scowl from the troop formation to the two ensigns, then Tom, then Kris. “You officers see me when you’re done.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kris saluted. The wave she got in return might have been aimed at an annoying insect.

  Kris turned back to her troops. They looked as stunned as she felt. If that was what passed for leadership around here… But that was not their problem. The rain was coming down harder, and Kris looked to be the only officer around that gave a damn about them.

  “Petty officers, fall out and call the names on those duffel bags,” Kris ordered. On that bit of guidance, the troops got organized. Kris set up a smooth flow as troops collected their duffels, lugged them into the office building in front of them where Admin took up the ground floor. From there they moved to the armory to draw their web gear and weapons. With no bunching up, her new arrivals proceeded fairly smoothly to their quarters and from there to chow. Of course, the last to have their name called would be soaked to the bone.

  As luck would have it, the two other ensigns’ names were called very quickly. They took their gear and headed inside. Kris’s bag was also called early. She made a note of where it lay in the mud and stayed with her shrinking command, taking over from a name-caller when he found his own bag. With a pained expression, Tom took the place of the second caller to find her duffel. When the last person’s name was called, Tom and Kris followed the sopping-wet spacer into Admin, their own ‘waterproof’ boots squishing and contributing a liter or two to the deep pools flooding the tiled hall.

  “Did we have to do that?” Tommy asked.

  “Grampa Trouble would have tanned my hide if I’d left them out there alone in the rain.”

  “No one in my family would have complained. What do you say next time we flip on it? Heads we follow my family, tails we do it your way.”

  “You two are late. I finished with those other officers an hour ago,” a hulking first-class petty officer whined. “You’re making me late for dinner.”

  “You would have had to wait for all these,” Kris waved at the rest of the crew checking in.

  “Nope, I just had to wait for you officers. Colonel told me to make sure you got your quarters, orders, and chits. Then I’m done for the day.”

  “Thought the Colonel suggested we work sunup to sundown. It was safer,” Tommy pointed out.

  “Who wants to live safe? Listen, there’s a lot of desperate women out there. Amazing what a little hard cash can buy.” The first-class glanced at the papers he was handing Kris. “Oh, right, you’re a Longknife. You can always buy anything,”

  Kris signed her chit and kept her money to herself. “Where’s the leading chief, the armory, and the chow hall?”

  “You’re looking at the closest thing we got to a leading chief, ma’am. We enlisted swine ain’t drawing half pay during this cluster fuck. Nobody comes here ‘less they pissed somebody off big time.”

  “And you?” Kris asked.

  He ignored the question. “The armory is across the way in the short quarters. The chow hall’s in the tall one. They close in thirty minutes, so I’d shag my ass over there pronto.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” Kris looked at her orders. “I’m reporting direct to Colonel Hancock?”

  “Hardcock wants to keep down the overhead. Besides, he ain’t got all that many officers. Couple of do-gooders. Most senior officers would rather go on half pay than go here. You’ll see soon enough. Now, I’m done, and I’m out of here.” He turned for the door. “Somebody turn off the lights when you’re done.”

  Tom stuffed his orders and chits into the pockets of his battle dress. “It’s so nice working among happy people. Think it’ll get better?”

  Kris stowed her paperwork, then hefted her duffel. “Don’t know, but I think I’ll draw a rifle and side arms first, then risk eating.” Kris drew web gear, rifle, and side arm, stowed her gear in her room, locked her rifle down in the floor’s weapons bay, and raced into the chow line five minutes before it closed down for the night. What they slapped on her tray would win no awards, except maybe from a pig swill purchaser, but it filled an empty stomach. She and Tom were just getting the first forkful in their mouths when their beepers went off. Kris waved Tommy to keep eating. She had a strong suspicion what this was all about.

  “Ensigns Longknife and Lien here. What can we do, sir?”

  “What the hell’s keeping you two?” Colonel Hancock growled.

  “Just enjoying a delicious, nutritious meal, sir, in the dining hall. Exactly what a growing girl needs, Colonel.”

  “I told you to report to me as soon as you were done.” Tommy started to get up. Kris waved him back to his seat.

  “Yes sir, I planned to do that, sir. We saw that the new arrivals were processed properly, got our assignments and chits, drew our web gear and weapons, stowed our gear and got our weapons locked down, and were just enjoying the first mouthful of this wonderful meal they’re serving in your dining hall, sir. We should be with you in another thirty minutes.”

  “What are you going to do, take a walk in the moonlight?”

  “Might, sir. It’s actually stopped raining for the last two minutes.” Tommy’s eyes were bugging out. Kris just smiled.

  “Longknife, get your ass over here in fifteen minutes or keep walking.”

  “Understood, Colonel. See you in fifteen minutes.” Kris said, punched off, and reached for her second bite of dinner.

  “We can be there in five.” Tommy gulped.

  “And add heartburn to our problems? Nope, I’m eating it nice and careful.”

  “Like a Longknife?”

  Kris studied her tray as she chewed unidentifiable and probably indigestible food. “Don’t know. Maybe I am letting myself be guided too much by a couple of Grampa Trouble’s sea stories. But, Tom, when you draw hell for a billet, you can either run with the demons or run at them. Got an opinion?”

  “One who battles with demons needs a dragon at her side.”

  “Is that some old Irish saying?”

  “No, mine, based on spending too much time too close to you.”

  Kris rapped on Colonel Hancock’s door exactly fifteen minutes after she rang off. He was seated, feet up on his desk, face in a reader. She and Tommy filed in and came to attention in front of his boots. He glanced up, took in a clock on the wall, then went back to his reader. “Took you long enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kris answered.

  “The warehouse is a shambles,” the Colonel said, not looking up from his reader. “Straighten it up. For some reason, we’re only issuing bags of rice and beans to the people hereabouts. There’s got to be a better diet in that warehouse. Find it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kris said. Waited. Nothing further happened.

  She saluted the Colonel’s boots; Tom joined her. Colonel Hancock threw her another wave. She led Tom in an about face, and they marched from the office.

  “What was that all about?” Tom repeated his earlier question of the evening.

  “A game,” Kris said.

  “Do you know
the score?”

  “I think we’re ahead on points,” Kris guessed. “Where’s the warehouse?” Nelly had no answer to that question, so Kris went looking for the duty section. Down the hall from the Colonel’s office they found what might be one…two guys sleeping in their desk chairs. “Where’s the warehouse?” Kris asked. Twice.

  One woke up, looked around, saw Kris, reached for a sheet of paper, and tossed it her way. Kris eyed it; it did show an arrangement of streets. She rotated it slowly, trying to match the streets to what she had seen on the drive in. The map worked best if you held the paper at a thirty degree angle. “Looks about two blocks that way,” Kris concluded.

  “You going there tonight?” the only slightly awake sleeping beauty asked, getting comfortable again in his chair.

  “Planned to,” Kris answered.

  “Take your pistols.”

  Kris left the two to their dreams.

  “A sloppy bunch. Think we should have woken them up?” Tom asked.

  “If they feel safe sleeping just down the hall from the Colonel, do you think two boot ensigns could get them excited?”

  “What kind of Navy is this?”

  “I thought you’d recognize it, Ensign Lien. This is the Navy your preachers talked about. This is hell’s Navy.” Kris stopped by the locker to collect her M-6. She had to remind Tom how to lock and load his weapon. Together, rifles slung over their shoulders muzzle down to keep the rain out, they walked the two blocks to the warehouse. Actually several warehouses, all surrounded by barbed wire. A civilian guard stood at the gate, his rifle also muzzle down against the beating rain.

  “Who are you?” greeted them.

  “Ensigns Longknife and Lien. I’m in charge of the warehouse facilities here in Port Athens. I’ve come to inspect them.”

  “You can’t. It’s dark.”

  “So I noticed,” Kris said, taking in the warehouses. The area was bathed in light; several trucks were backed up to the loading docks. “Looks well enough lit to me.”