Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing here, but you don’t belong here. Get lost while you can, or I’ll…” The rifle started coming Kris’s way.

  Kris doubted she could outrun a bullet, but at the moment, the rifle looked within reach. Without thought, Kris grabbed for the muzzle. Her hand wrapping around the cold gun metal sent a shock through her. You’re crazy, woman. Still, it seemed like the kind of thing Trouble would do. The guard looked just as shocked to see her hand on his gun as she was. He struggled for a second, but she yanked the weapon from his grasp and brought the butt up under his chin.

  “Looks like we need to have a little talk,” Kris growled. Up close, under the lights, Kris got her first good look at the guard. A kid of maybe thirteen, he stared through wide, round eyes at his rifle in her hands.

  “What’s going on here?” Kris demanded. Running her brother Honovi’s campaign, she’d walked into some messes.

  Course, most of Honovi’s campaign crew didn’t carry guns and looked a lot less hungry. For an answer, the kid started screaming out names. Kris brought the butt up hard on the erstwhile guard’s jaw, just like they did in the vids, and to her surprise, his eyes rolled back and he slumped into a mud puddle. However, heads popped out of trucks and loading dock doors. Kris had the attention of a good twenty or thirty folks. Time for a campaign speech.

  “You are trespassing on government property,” she shouted—and ducked as a rifle came up. The round was high, but Kris felt a distinct lack of cover. Ducking, she brought her own M-6 up and snapped off a three-round burst, likewise over her targets’ heads. People piled from the warehouses into trucks. Motors came to life.

  “Is there any other way out of this warehouse?” Tom asked from his fighting position at the bottom of the largest pothole available.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So they’ll be leaving right over us?” he squeaked.

  “Oh God,” Kris breathed. She need not have worried.

  Trucks turned away from her and, with a few more shots over her head, smashed a hole in the fence opposite the formally agreed-upon exit. Kris stood only after the last truck was long gone. She glanced down at the kid.

  “What are you going to do?” the terrified youngster asked.

  “Send a message,” Kris said, using the muzzle of her M-6 to signal the boy to stand. He looked painfully thin. His clothes needed patching. “Who hired you?”

  “I’m not gunna tell you nothin’, lady.”

  “What’s your pay for this?”

  “A sack of rice. My mom, brothers, sister, they’re hungry.”

  “Come by the warehouse tomorrow. You work for me, I’ll see your people get fed. And tell the folks you were working for that if they come back here tomorrow, I’ll see what kind of jobs I can find for them. They come back tomorrow night, there’ll be armed marines walking the perimeter. Tell them there’s a new broom in the warehouse. They can change and eat, or try to do it the old way and starve.”

  The kid’s face changed as she spoke. Terror drained out. Dismay and shock were there for a while, along with a large dash of doubt. But he was nodding his head as she finished. He started backing away, careful like. Kris watched until he disappeared into the dark.

  “What do we do now?” Tom asked.

  “Well, unless you want to spend the rest of tonight walking fence, I say we go back to our rooms and get some sleep. I strongly suspect tomorrow is going to be a bitch of a day.”

  “But the fence, it’s wide open.”

  “So I noticed. And likely to stay that way until we get it patched. Kind of inviting to anyone who wants to wander in. Hungry women, kids, anyone at all. Check me out on this, Tommy. We are here to feed people, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, if a few people want to help me in the distribution of the food, that’s fine by me.”

  “Then why did you shoot at those trucks?”

  “Because they had guns. How much of that food do you think they were planning on sharing?”

  “Right,” he snorted. “Count on a politician to care more about how they do it than what they do.”

  Kris thought she was just being practical. With a shrug, she turned and headed back to the main compound, now shouldering two rifles. “What else can you do, Tommy? Nine times out of ten, perspective has more to do with the final result than anything you do. Perspective…and getting some results.”

  At the base, Kris paused in the rain. The Colonel’s window was still lit, the only light showing in the Admin building. “What is it with him?” Tommy asked, shaking his head.

  “There was trouble on a planet, Darkunder,” Kris said. “Farmers didn’t think they were getting fair trade for their crops. Happens every once in a while. Hancock led a battalion of marines dispatched to keep order. Some reports say he was too friendly with the money interests. Others say he just had a bunch of battle-sharp troops. Anyway, standard crowd control methods didn’t seem to be working, and somebody thought machine guns would be better. Lots of recriminations. Hancock was brought up on charges, but the court-martial found him not guilty.”

  “So he is that Hancock. Yeah, even on Santa Maria we heard about him. Media about went ballistic. How could the man be found not guilty when a hundred unarmed farmers died?”

  “You know many farmers on Santa Maria?” Kris asked.

  “A few.”

  “I know a few generals. They felt Hancock did his job. He stopped a bunch of anarchists from murdering, raping, and pillaging in the streets.”

  “You agree with them?”

  “No, but I understand them. I also wonder if the Navy had sent two or three battalions to Darkunder if the crowd wouldn’t have seen the wisdom of going home early before anything got out of hand. Anyway, Hancock was exonerated by the court, but you can see what kind of assignment he drew next.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t understand it.”

  “Brass won’t hang him because the civilians want him hung. But they don’t want any other officer making the mistake of thinking they can get by with that kind of failure. Since he didn’t do the honorable thing and quit, he’s here having his nose rubbed in the fact that he’s a failure.”

  Tom glanced around at the compound. “Does look a mess.”

  “And I suspect it will only get worse. When I was in college, I read an essay on leadership by Grampa Trouble. He had a lot to say, but the thing that struck me was his idea that leadership depended on belief, maybe even illusion.”

  “Belief? Illusion?” Tom didn’t sound like he was buying. “As the commander, you have to believe that you are the best person to lead, that you can get the mission done with fewer casualties, less grief, better than anyone else can. And your troops have to believe the same. Even if it isn’t so, you all have to buy into the illusion that it is.”

  Tom shook his head. “No illusions here.”

  “Right,” Kris agreed. “And that, more than the rain, is making this place hell.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Kris said slowly. “Well, yes, I do. We are going to see that these people don’t starve. Beyond that, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Why do I find waiting to see what an Ensign Longknife will do very frightening?”

  “Oh, you ain’t seen frightening yet, Tommy me boy. Now, what do you say we get out of this rain.”

  Back in her room, Kris did a quick survey. Standard hotel fare: bathroom with shower, bedroom with closet, easy chair, desk, and beautiful-looking bed. So long as the hotel’s self-contained energy, water, and sewer continued to work, Kris’s own personal matters would be taken care of. Her duffel stood in a puddle of water-soaked carpet. She dragged it into the bathroom; most of its contents were soaked. For a moment, she considered leaving it to the hotel’s staff to clean up. However, a glance at the mildew on the tile suggested there was no staff waiting on her every whim, no matter how big the tip.

&nb
sp; With a wry smile, Kris fed her battle dress through the washer, dryer, and presser in the bathroom. She wondered how many other debutantes on Wardhaven knew how to do their own laundry. There were things to do while her hands were busy. Having to ask for a map to find her own warehouse was ridiculous. “Nelly, did Sam pass you any new routines before we left?”

  “Several.”

  “Can you get yourself synched with the military system?”

  “I have several routines that should do that.”

  “See if you can hook into the military network here.”

  “Searching,” Nelly responded obediently and maybe just a wee bit enthusiastically, if Kris was reading her AI’s inflections. By the time Kris had her undress khakis and one set of dress whites ready to hang up and was wondering why she hadn’t taken the warrant officer’s advice and left them home, the presser was overheating and threatening to scorch her fingers. Nelly picked that moment to respond. “I now have access.”

  “Nelly, can you turn off the warehouse compound lights?”

  “Yes.”

  Kris thought for a second. “At oh two hundred local, turn the warehouse lights out. That ought to give the folks in need enough time. Can you lock down the warehouses?” Kris took a moment to pull off her sodden uniform and hang it in the shower, soaked boots, too. She turned the humidity down to the minimum. Taking Nelly off, Kris set her carefully on the desk.

  “That information is not in the military net.” There was a short pause. “I can access it on the warehouse system.”

  “The warehouse has its own system?”

  “Yes, ma’ am.”

  “Lock them down at oh two thirty,” Kris ordered, crawling under the covers and pulling the blanket up. Her feet were cold, but that wouldn’t last long. “Nelly, what time is reveille?”

  “The Administrative Division’s handout welcoming you to Olympia Support Base says reveille is at oh six hundred.”

  Not Port Athens Marine Base. Kris noted the discrepancy between Hancock’s greeting and his Admin Division. Another thing to look into tomorrow. “Nelly, wake me at oh five thirty.”

  Chapter Ten

  Kris woke to a splitting headache and a dry mouth. “Nelly, lights. What’s the humidity in here?”

  “One moment while I connect to the hotel network,” was not what Kris wanted to hear, but it told her another network had not been merged into the overall system. She was no computer whiz like Auntie Tru, but this was poor management all around.

  “Humidity is eight percent in your room, and your unit is approaching failure mode.”

  “Turn it up,” Kris ordered as she glanced around at the mess of hanging underwear and socks and took in the stink of fast-dried boots. She headed for the shower to try and get some moisture back into her head, then went back, made up her bed, and dumped everything that had dried out in the bathroom on the bed. Only then did she take some aspirin and a shower. Feeling almost human, she laced on her spare boots, pulled on her poncho, and at oh six hundred met Tommy in the hall on his way to chow.

  They stopped in their tracks, rain pouring off them, halfway to the other hotel. The mess hall was dark. Then again, no lights were showing in the hotel windows above them, either.

  “What gives?” Tommy gulped.

  “One place I want to check before I do something I’m going to regret,” Kris said with a shrug and trotted to the HQ. As she expected, the lights were dim; the duty watch slept at their desks. A light still burned in the Colonel’s office. Kris walked quietly to his door. The man slept, head thrown back in his chair, snoring. Tom frowned a question. Kris motioned him back down the hall.

  “So,” Tom said, “that’s the way it is. Nothing we can do.”

  “I’m hungry, and I intend to eat,” Kris said as they quick-marched through the rain to the mess hall. “Nelly, give all personnel’s rooms a wake-up call. Lights on everywhere. Locate the cooks. Tell them I want them down here now.”

  “Yes, Kris.”

  “Can your computer do that?”

  “Aunt Tru gave Nelly a couple of new routines. You’re the one who said I needed a dragon if I was going to fight demons.”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure I like the idea of someone else’s computer waking me up.” Tom’s frown deepened. “Ah, Kris, are we ensigns the only other officers here?”

  “Oh no!” Kris gasped. “Nelly, are there any senior officers here?”

  “Affirmative. In addition to you ensigns there is a Lieutenant Commander Owing, a Lieutenant Commander Thu, who is also a doctor, and a Lieutenant Pearson.”

  “Did we wake them up?” Kris asked in a voice gone small.

  “I hear no noise except snoring in Owing’s and Thu’s rooms.”

  “Turn off their lights,” Kris and Tom both shouted.

  “Done.”

  “Lieutenant Pearson’s room?” Kris asked.

  “She is showering.”

  “Two out of three ain’t bad,” Kris sighed.

  “Senior Boot Ensign, are we going about this right?” Tom asked, very respectfully and very junior.

  “Doesn’t look like I am.” Kris acknowledged as Nelly opened the door to the mess hall without bothering to ask. Kris reviewed her problem for a long minute. A kid sister strong-arming her brother’s campaign workers looked cute. How would officers react to her? Some might consider what she was doing a good exercise in initiative. Others could fall back on words like insubordination or mutiny. Upon further reflection, Kris decided on a new tack. “Nelly, locate yesterday’s arrivals. Inform them that they are wanted in the chow hall in fifteen minutes. Show me a list of the ones assigned to the warehouse.”

  In half a minute, Kris knew most of those she’d brought down would be in her department. Good. If she was going to play power games, it would be best if she started with a base she’d already looked after. Kris eyed the mess hall around her and scowled at her first impression. Upon further review, her scowl got deeper. The floors of the converted restaurant showed mud and the tables needed cleaning. She headed for the kitchen; it definitely needed a good cleaning.

  “Show me the personnel files on the cooks.” Nelly did; Kris was not impressed. Two third-class petty officers seemed to alternate being in charge…at irregular intervals. Hmm. Right, they had a tendency to divert potatoes to their own, as yet unlocated, still. Had this operation drawn the hind end of everything? Well, you’re here, aren’t you?

  “Nelly, do any of our other personnel have some cooking experience?”

  “Second-Class Blidon graduated from the New Towson School of Culinary Techniques. Father is a five-star chef. Second-Class Blidon is detached from weapons maintenance school.” Kris and Tom exchanged looks of pure joy. “Another kid trying to avoid the family curse,” Kris crowed.

  “He’s a second-class. That outranks two third-classes any day.” Tommy chortled.

  “Nelly, tell Mr. Blidon his presence is required in the mess hall immediately, if not sooner. And where are our cooks?”

  “Still sleeping.”

  “Nelly can you find any bugle calls in your files?”

  “Yes.”

  “Full blast into all mess hands’ quarters.” Even on the ground floor of the converted hotel, Kris heard the bugles. Two minutes later, PO 2/c Blidon appeared. To Kris’s surprise, Blidon was a short woman fighting a weight problem, which probably explained her assignment here.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said sourly.

  “Did you eat here yesterday?”

  “Yes, I did, and no, I didn’t much like it, but no, I’m not interested in cleaning up this mess.” After a long pause, she added, “ma’am.”

  “What’s your price?” Kris asked.

  “My price?”

  “Yep, everyone has one. Right now, I need you. In case you haven’t noticed, this outfit ain’t going to hell, we’re already fully established in residence. Food can change a lot for a spacer. We need to change things, and you look like the best change agent in town
.”

  Blidon scowled at the praise. “You’re a Longknife?”

  “Yep, and I don’t much like having what my father does thrown up in my face, so I suspect you don’t, either.”

  “How many cooks they have?” Blidon said, glancing around.

  “Two that like to drink the potatoes, and three renegades from boot camp.” Blidon wrinkled her nose at that. Slowly, she paced her way into the kitchen. That drew a disgusted grunt.

  “No wonder the food’s so bad.” She turned to Kris and offered a hand. “My friends call me Courtney. I’ll name my price later, and it won’t be cheap. For now, the challenge has hooked me. And I’m hungry. I want six volunteers to start cleaning this kitchen right now.”

  Kris volunteered the first six from the warehouse that came through the door.

  When the cooks finally meandered in, Courtney took one look at them and declared them unsanitary and unsafe in any kitchen. Kris peeled off another six of her crew, with a third-class in charge and orders to get those two clean if they had to use wire brushes. After last night’s meal, Kris had to turn down volunteers for that detail.

  Lieutenant Pearson showed up as the cooks were marched for the showers. “When is breakfast?” she asked. The voice was high, the handshake limp, and the dark roots showing in the blond thatch left Kris wondering if anything about the woman was authentic.

  “Give me a half hour,” Courtney shouted from the kitchen.

  Pearson didn’t hide her disappointment. As the lieutenant glanced around the mess hall, Kris could hear her grinding her teeth. “I guess I’ll be at my desk. I’m still trying to define the correct policy for who we help. There are so many in need, but so many of them have guns. What this place needs is a good gun control law. Really. Ensign, have someone bring over some toast when it’s ready, and some fruit, spring melons if there’s some left from yesterday. I’ll just start my day early at my desk.” Her exit, however, was slow, as if she expected Kris to stop her, do the proper junior officer thing of asking the wise senior to tell her all she needed to know.

  Kris didn’t have time for that; she headed for the kitchen and its scrub teams. That got Pearson moving in the opposite direction. “Nelly, what’s Pearson’s job?”