Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  “She commands the Admin Division.”

  “Last night’s sleeping watch standers,” Tommy remarked.

  “Looks like it. Can you imagine her and Hancock in a staff meeting?”

  “Why do I suspect we won’t have many staff meetings?” Tommy grinned at the prospect. “But did I hear right? She’s developing our policies?”

  “And probably will be for the next ten years.” Kris knew people like Pearson, both in volunteer work and on campaigns. They were usually too fixated on their minutiae to get in Kris’s way. “We’ll get everybody fed, with or without policies.”

  Courtney came to stand in the kitchen door, hands on hips. “Scrambled eggs and bacon is the fastest thing I can get out this morning. Any of you smiling faces ever flipped hamburgers or done some industrial-strength cooking?” Kris cringed at Courtney’s choice of words; the woman grinned unrepentantly. Several hands went up among the gathering troops. The new head cook waved them into her kitchen with a proprietary grin and a “Scrub your hands, then draw an apron and gloves.”

  While the place took on the smell of a kitchen in use, Kris circulated. Nelly gave Kris a heads-up about who had what assignments and how long they’d been on Olympia. With Nelly coaching, Kris asked a question here, made a neutral observation there, and managed to get most talking about their jobs.

  Then Kris listened. There was a lot of resentment, some at the locals, lots at the brass, but most of it was frustration, pure and simple. Olympia was a lousy place to be, and they were just sitting on their thumbs while it got worse.

  “Who is in charge of the warehouse?” she asked the first person who admitted to working there.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I think we’re in Admin, like most of the rest here. There’s a third-class petty officer that shows up sometimes, but most of us just sit over there and stack supplies when a shipment comes in.”

  “Who built the fence?”

  “A local contractor. Why, ma’am?”

  “ ‘Cause there’s a hole in it that needs fixing.”

  “Wasn’t there yesterday when we knocked off, ma’am,” the able spacer assured her.

  “Nope, a truck drove through it last night when I was shooting at it.”

  “You went there at night!”

  “You shot at them!” The woman beside him added.

  “Seemed like the thing to do. They were shooting at me. You know about the nightly shipments from the warehouse?” The two looked at each other, palpably uncomfortable.

  The woman answered, “We know things are gone most mornings. Nobody told us to do anything about it.”

  “I think we’ll be doing something about it,” Kris said.

  As they walked away from those two, Tom shook his head. “I’m starting to think the smartest move I ever made in my life was stopping to tie my shoe during that obstacle course. I can’t tell you how glad I am you graduated a seat ahead of me at OCS.”

  “And all the time I thought it was that final exam on military etiquette,” Kris said, nudging him in the ribs.

  The cooks returned from the showers to impromptu applause and turned to under Courtney’s watchful eyes. Two of the volunteers asked to stay on. Kris started making a list of things she was going to need forgiveness for. She definitely wasn’t about to ask permission first. Father always said it was a lot easer to get Parliament to forgive what was working than get those prima donnas to approve what might blow up. Everything she’d seen in the last four months convinced her that, at least in that one respect, Father and the Navy Way

  were the same.

  Her meal done, Kris went through the line again and took a tray and coffee mug across the way to the HQ. Pearson was bent over her workstation, moving a paragraph from one part of her document to another. Hancock was still asleep in his chair. Kris set the tray and mug on his desk and turned to go.

  There was a snort behind her as snoring halted, then the sound of boots hitting the deck. She turned. The Colonel looked at her through red-rimmed eyes for a long moment, then reached for the mug. A long swallow later, he put it down. “What you looking at, Ensign?” he growled as he attacked the plate.

  Kris flipped a coin. As Billy Longknife’s daughter, she’d gotten away with a lot. As an ensign, it might be a good idea to at least let the Colonel know what direction she was headed off in. “Nothing, sir. I was wondering if I might ask for some guidance, or whether I should wait for Officer’s Call.”

  “No way I’m going to…” The Colonel decided not to finish that sentence. “Okay, Longknife, what do you want?”

  “Am I in charge of the warehouse?”

  “Yep.”

  “I report directly to you.”

  “I told you so.”

  “There’s a hole in the warehouse fence where a truck drove through it last night. Who do I talk to, to get it fixed?”

  “Pearson,” he bellowed. “Get in here.”

  The lieutenant did not rush to her commander’s call. Adjusting her khakis, she came to stand beside Kris in the Colonel’s doorway. Her “Yes, sir” came out with a mixture of pain and disdain.

  “Ensign here wants the warehouse fence mended.”

  “I’ll have to inspect it, sir. The warehouse is under my division.”

  “Not anymore. The ensign has it all to herself, her and that freckle-faced boot.”

  “Sir!” Pearson didn’t quite squeal. Kris had heard similar bureaucratic shrieks when her father shaved a sliver off someone’s empire. She waited to see who wore the boondockers in this command.

  “The girl has the warehouse. I gave you the other two ensigns. Maybe the three of you can finish your policies.” The Colonel eyed the eggs, took another bite, then bit off a piece of bacon. “This breakfast is damn good. New cook?”

  “Yes sir,” Kris cut in. “Second-Class Blidon had some culinary training on the outside. She’s willing to oversee the kitchen.” Kris turned to Pearson. “With the lieutenant’s permission.”

  “My toast tasted as good as always,” Pearson sniffed.

  “Well my eggs are the best I’ve tasted in too damn long. Ensign, you want the mess hall assigned to your division?”

  “Not if you and the lieutenant don’t want it that way, sir.” Even a prime minister’s daughter learned a little bit about tact.

  “I want it that way. Also, see if you can’t do something about the quarters. They’re filthy. Pearson, turn the budget for them over to Longknife here, and let her run with it.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I think I just did. Now, you two women get out of my face. I need a shave.”

  Kris saluted and backed out of the way. Pearson stopped her in the hall. “Just remember, Ensign Longknife, I’ll be the one auditing your expenses, and people can go to jail for misappropriating government funds, no matter what their name is.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand completely,” Kris said and marched from the HQ. “Nelly,” Kris whispered, “is there anyone unassigned with accounting training?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone have an accountant in the family?” Some other scion was going to hate her for dragging them into a profession they’d learned to hate at their parent’s knee. “That’s just life, kid,” she whispered to whomever her next victim was.

  Kris had Nelly inform her warehouse personnel to form division, under arms, at 0800. Uniform of the day was battle dress and rain ponchos. She passed up the temptation to put her five marines in battle armor. Somehow, she doubted heavy stuff had been landed for a mercy mission. Kris delegated the dining hall and quarters to Tom, which left her just enough time to interview a pair of third-class spacers who shared the same views of the accounting profession and their rarely home accountant parents. Tom and she flipped to see who got which. To loud protestations that “I didn’t join the Navy to count beans,” Kris told Petty Officer Spens he’d be doing just that for her.

  At 0800, Spens formed the division and marched them for the warehouse; if he�
�d ever learned drill commands, he’d forgotten them. Spens made up some pretty creative replacements to get the division moving; the troops got the message, even if they didn’t keep in step. “Count cadence, count,” Kris shouted.

  The “one” was pretty weak, mainly marines in the rear ranks. “Two” got stronger. By the second “four,” even the worst offenders had managed to get their feet in step with the others.

  “Lift your heads and hold them high,” sang out from the rear rank where the marines marched proud and tall, “Space marines are marching by. One, two, three, four.”

  Her spacers, heads thrown back and shoulders straightened by the cadence call, joined in the count from force of inexperienced habit, unaware that they’d just been had by the marines.

  Spens was fully aware. He waited a short four beat before bringing on the same call, ending it with “Your space Navy’s marching by.” Well, a bit of competition never hurt anyone, and the troops were starting to look a lot less like drowned puppies and a bit more like Navy. A very wet Navy, but Navy. Kris hoped the Colonel had heard them. Even he might smile.

  Around Kris, civilians were out, hunched in upon themselves against the latest downpour. At the shouted cadences, their heads came up, too, some with mouths agape, others curious. A few took a good look and took off running, carrying what message to whom, Kris had no idea. But anyone spreading the word that a new day was dawning at the warehouse was fine by her.

  There were shouts from the crowd already gathered at the warehouse fence as they approached; people milled around the gate and the hole in the fence. Others raced to join them from inside the warehouse yard. Apparently the building lockdown had been successful; the runners came empty-handed. Only as the divisions came to a halt did Kris have Nelly unlock the warehouses.

  She turned to face her first real command. Some knew her; she’d done her best to get them out of the rain as fast as was humanly possible last night. Others were old hands, stationed here for up to a month…a long time to serve in hell. They looked at her like drowned rats, wondering if she might have a straw for them to cling to. Kris reran some of the pep talks she’d given campaign crews, did a quick edit, and began.

  “Crew, I don’t know how some of you feel about the work you’ve been doing. Maybe you’re happy about it. Maybe you’re not. That doesn’t matter. Today, here and now, we start the mission to Olympia. There are hungry people out there. We’ve got the food. We’re gonna see they get fed. Those of you who’ve been working at this for a while, you take the lead for these new hands. I’ll be circulating most of today. You got a problem, see me. You got a solution, see me, too.

  “Most of you are new to the Navy. If you’d drawn ship duty, you’d be someplace dry and warm.” That drew a rueful laugh. “You’d also be a small cog in a very big wheel, doing what you were told to do. Here, you’re critical to saving people’s lives.

  “We are all in this together. I need ideas. You come up with a good one, you’ll find I’m a good listener.

  “Any questions?” Kris spoke the inevitable end to these kinds of talks. Just as inevitably, there were none.

  “Petty Officer, dismiss the division to workstations. See that those needing assignments get them.” Oh, that sounded so easy. Maybe with a few good chiefs it would have worked. Her third-class petty officer was just as over his head as she was. Still, she left him to do a by-guess and by-God bit of detailing while she did her first of many walk-arounds in the mud and rain.

  The warehouse area opened on a large bay; muddy, choppy water lapped at the seawall. A marine railroad on the left had hauled a large unmanned drop ship out of the water. It lay like a beached whale, open and half empty. Bags of rice and beans were getting soaked. A young spacer led a group of recruits in dropping hundred-pound food bags on waiting shoulders and lugging them to the nearest warehouse. Backbreaking labor; that couldn’t be the way it was usually done.

  At the break in the fence, people stood in the downpour. They needed food, work, too. She needed laborers to get the food to them. “Nelly, can I hire local workers?”

  “No, ma’am. There are not funds in this mission for local employees.” Of course, Navy all the way. The more debited to the emergency appropriation, the more left over for the rest of the fleet. Kris had heard that some commands even kept an extra ship in commission, betting that enough expenses would be soaked up by emergencies to fund it.

  “Ma’am,” a quiet voice called to Kris as she walked toward the tom fence. Kris turned to face a thin, gray-haired woman in a slicker and kerchief. “Are you the new person in charge?”

  “Yes,” Kris said; then, when the woman seemed unable to respond, Kris softened. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Ester Saddik. My church runs a soup kitchen. Lots of men lost their jobs when the crops failed. Families are going hungry. We’re seeing they get one warm meal a day.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Kris offered to the woman when she seemed unsure how to go on. None too sure how to help, Kris at least could give the woman a listening ear.

  “We’re out of food.” Kris knew that was coming; she nodded. The woman’s words stumbled on. “We’ve been buying food from this Navy man, but we’re out of money.”

  “Third-class petty officer?” Kris asked, remembering what she’d heard about the warehouse leadership. The woman shrugged; rates were a mystery to civilians. Kris wondered if she could arrange a lineup but suspected the culprit would be long gone, if he hadn’t managed to ship out on the Hussy yesterday. No, Kris’s problem was how to go forward, not look back. She wiped the rain from her face as she puzzled her problem. She was here to feed people, but she couldn’t just hand out food. Obviously someone had been, for a price. But I’m a Longknife. Oh joy.

  “Nelly, who can hire local civilians on missions like this?”

  “Nongovernmental organizations are the usual employers of the local labor forces.” The woman listened, dripping in the rain, as Kris continued her conversation with her assisting AI.

  “Do we have any here?”

  “No.”

  Not a surprise. This place was the inglorious hind end of everything. But Kris had volunteered as a counselor for a handicapped kids’ summer camp her freshman year in college. She’d gotten them their tax-exempt status. “Nelly, what does it take to set up an NGO?”

  “I have just completed the paperwork to set one up. Before I send them off world for registration, what should I name it?”

  “Nelly, you’re wonderful,” Kris grinned, and the woman across from her actually cracked a chip of a smile. “Make it the Ruth Edris Fund for Displaced Farmers,” Kris said. Now, that would make her great-grandmother’s day.

  “I went to school with a girl named Ruth Edris,” the woman muttered, “a long time ago on Hurtford. We were fun kids, then.”

  “I hear Granny Ruth still is. She was from Hurtford, a long time before I was born. Nelly, are those papers served?”

  “Done. How large do I endow this fund?”

  “What would I have to pay you to do what you’re already doing?” Kris asked Ester.

  “If you feel you must pay me, I am willing to work for an Earth dollar a month,” the woman answered. Kris tried not to show a reaction to that. With just a week’s earnings from her trust fund she could probably hire every person on this planet for a year. Nelly’s last upgrade had taken two months’ worth of income, and that in Wardhaven dollars.

  “I can get volunteers to work for free,” the woman went on, mistaking Kris’s silence for disapproval. “If you arrange the release of food to the soup kitchens, a lot of men will work for you. Not just my church’s kitchen. There are many others in town.”

  “I think we have a deal,” Kris said quickly to reassure the woman. Then she added subvocally to Nelly, “Put a hundred thousand in it for starters.” To the woman, Kris continued, “Let me run this by my boss. Nelly, page the Colonel.”

  “Hancock,” came from Kris’s commlink a moment late
r.

  “Colonel, Ensign Longknife here. I need some more advice.”

  “And you expect good advice from me?” Kris ignored the question and quickly ran down what she’d done.

  “This displaced farmer fund is a legitimate NGO?” he asked as she finished.

  “I have it on the best legal advice,” she said, grinning at Ester. The old woman did smile this time.

  “Yeah, we can release food to soup kitchens, food banks, and the likes, so long as we’ve got some NGO vouching for their legitimacy. This gig ain’t the most popular show on Earth, so you may have noted the lack of media coverage and NGOs. If you got one, do it, Ensign,” and he tapped out.

  Kris pulled a Wardhaven dollar coin from her pocket and handed it to Ester. “I guess that makes you the fund’s first employee. You know anyone else who might help me?”

  Ester glanced around; a man stepped forward. His boots had holes in the top of them; his pants were soaked. “Name’s Jebadiah Salinski. Jeb to most. I was a foreman at this transfer station before the rains came and management hightailed it off planet. I see your guys lugging bags of beans around. I know the folks who used to work here. We know where the lifts and carts are, though they don’t work so good since the rains came. Acid rain damaged them, the boss said before he ran.”

  “You’re hired,” Kris said and fished in her pocket for another dollar. Like the prime minister, Kris always carried a couple of dollar coins. You could never tell when you’d want a soda and the net would be down. As she hired her second employee, she asked, “Either of you know anyone who used to work at the hotel that’s our barracks?”

  “Millie uZigoto was the head housekeeper there,” Ester said. “When people quit coming, the hotel folded, managers left.”

  “Sounds like a lot of people left?”

  “Not a lot. Only all who could.”

  “Well, for those still here, this is the drill.” Kris rushed out her words before anyone could change their mind. “The pay’s a dollar a month.” Kris handed her third and last dollar to Ester. “Give that one to Millie. The rest will have to wait a while for pay. Also, they get all they and their family can eat at the nearest soup kitchen. That sound like a fair deal?”