Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  Ester and Jeb glanced around at the others standing farther back in the rain. Here a head nodded a bit, a finger twitched, a hand raised a little. They came forward when Jeb motioned them in. Under Ester and Jeb’s direction they began hand-unloading the just-landed supplies. A check of the three trucks in the yard turned up only one that worked.

  Kris tapped her commlink. “Tom, how’s the barracks?”

  “Lousy. Kris, I couldn’t keep my room clean in an environmental- and humidity-controlled asteroid station. How am I supposed to clean up this place?”

  “I think our local nongovernmental agency just hired someone to take over the barracks for you.”

  “I didn’t know there were any NGOs here.”

  “Wasn’t this morning. Is one now.”

  “Why do I so not want to know how that happened?”

  “Just pray to your ancestors and Saint Patrick that Hancock is happy not knowing, too. Now, I’ve got three trucks out here, and only one will turn over. I’ve got lifters and loaders damaged by the acid rain. You got any ideas about how to cure them?”

  “Probably damaged their solar panels. Don’t have much sun to start with, got to make good use of what you got. I could probably reprogram the nanos I’ve got keeping my brightwork shiny to rework the solar panels.”

  “You’re using nanos to polish your uniform brass?”

  “Of course, doesn’t everyone?” came back pure startlement.

  Kris rolled her eyes at the sky…and got rain in them for her dramatics. Blinking, she turned back to her commlink.

  “Tomorrow morning, Tom, you turn over the barracks to someone who knows them, and you get your tail over here and put your leprechauns to work on my broken gear.”

  “I’ll bring the ancestors’ kami along, too.”

  “Believe me, we need all the miracles you can spare.”

  The lone truck was loaded. Kris peeled off three armed, able spacers to guard the cargo while they dropped off food at the kitchens Ester listed. Ester promised to get the guards back unharmed and before dark. The spacers might be the ones carrying M-6s, but they looked much relieved by the woman’s assurance of safety. With all her pocket change gone, Kris had Nelly arrange to ship in a box of Wardhaven dollars with each relief ship, inconspicuous like, and finished the day feeling pretty good.

  The next morning started bad and got worse. First, for Millie uZigoto to take over managing the hotel required a meeting with both the Colonel and Lieutenant Pearson. The Colonel immediately went on record as not caring who did it, so long as barracks got cleaned. Pearson insisted on a signed contract and only withdrew her long list of objections when it became clear that this service was being provided under the Society’s Apprentice Training Volunteer Program and no Navy appropriation would be tapped.

  Nelly’s fast law search found that bit of legal fiction while Kris stalled. The Colonel seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as Kris tap-danced around Pearson’s opposition.

  Once free of the HQ red tape, Kris got Tommy doing an inventory of what they had mechanical and what they needed to convert it from wet and rusting junk into something useful. Kris assigned herself the miserable job of getting a full, complete, and honest inventory of supplies on hand, separating Navy issue from relief goods. She had barely touched the surface that afternoon when a breathless runner skidded to a halt beside her. Armed thugs had held up a soup kitchen, cleaned it out of food—and pistol-whipped Ester Saddik for reasons that escaped Kris.

  Kris stopped herself two steps into running down to Ester’s kitchen. That would do no good. In this rain no one left tracks, and if things were usual, no one saw anything. While Kris struggled with lousy options, Jeb took over the inventory. Free, Kris stepped outside to let the pouring rain cool her off.

  There was no use rushing across town; the boy said Ester was already being bandaged by the best doctor available. It was tempting to take a dozen armed spacers to chase down the culprits. Fat chance she’d have. That left her with the less pleasant problem of how to make sure it didn’t happen again. She spent a good hour pacing up and down in the rain. The problem wasn’t all that different from trying to clean up a sour campaign office. Of course, it often was wiser when all hell broke loose to have hit up the nearest so-called adult leadership before she did too much on her own. And getting that adult leadership to agree to what Kris wanted often took a bit of finagling.

  That evening at supper, she set her tray down across from Colonel Hancock, shrugged out of her poncho, and settled into the seat. “I need your advice, sir.”

  “I’m starting to get scared when you start misusing that word, Ensign. What bridge you trying to sell me this time?”

  Kris updated him on the warehouse. He nodded, satisfied, as he buttered a croissant that looked fit to melt in his hand. Then she hit him with the problem of food being ripped off by guys who beat up old ladies. His bread went down uneaten as he looked at her. “And you expect me to do something about that?”

  “Sir?” Kris left the question hanging there.

  He leaned back. “I don’t doubt you are aware that I’m not the most popular field-grade officer in the Corps, charged with using machine guns for crowd control.”

  “I am aware, sir.”

  “You’re also aware of the quality of the recruits we’ve got, Ensign Longknife.” The two of them eyed the room full of new, half-trained Navy and Marine personnel.

  “Not really, sir, but—”

  “But what?” he interrupted her. “The people who settled this mud ball chose to have every home incomplete without a weapon, preferably automatic, in the closet. A nice trigger lock to keep the kiddies from hurting themselves. Good God, do these idiots really think their pop guns could stop a fleet of raving bug-eyed monsters if one charged through their jump point?” He snorted. “Well, there’s all hell to pay and the devil fully armed to beat the band, and I’ll be damned if I’ll put my troopers out there for anybody who wants to take a potshot at them.” He looked hard at Kris, then went on more softly.

  “They said those farmers were only throwing rocks. I swear to God I heard automatic fire. But we didn’t find guns in the wreckage, and no one believes marines. Except marines. But I’m still in this hellhole, and I’ll be damned if I’ll put anyone else in a worse spot.” He balled up his napkin, threw it down on his half-eaten supper. Scowled at it. Then looked up at Kris.

  “So, Ensign Longknife, what are you going to do about thugs that steal food from soup kitchens and beat up old ladies?”

  “I intend to post a constant guard on the warehouses.”

  “Put our poor booties out slogging in the rain and mud. Makes them easy targets, too.”

  “No, sir. One warehouse has a business tower, four stories high. Its roof should give our duty watch clear fields of vision all along the fence.” And fire lanes. “I’ve recycled rice bags into sandbags and built a bunker up there. That should give our personnel protection. I’ll need a searchlight.”

  “I can scare one up for you.”

  “I’m also asking locals—ministers, officials, small business types—to share the night watches.”

  “So they can give the order to fire?”

  “No, sir. To serve as witnesses in any local court when and if one of our petty officers does give the order to fire.”

  The Colonel eyed Kris for a long moment. “Not bad, Ensign. You know, they’re starving on the farm stations.”

  “Yes sir. We’re due for a dozen trucks sometime this week. I’ll start spreading out then.”

  “First convoy is bound to get shot at, maybe even raided.”

  “I’ll be leading that one, sir. Unless you want to.”

  He snorted. “Sorry, kid. I’ve been in that barrel. Once you’ve been hung out to dry by the chain of command, you learn to take what minor advantages delegation offers you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” seemed the only answer to that. The Colonel stood, abandoning his unfinished meal. “One more thing, sir,”
Kris quickly added. “That NGO that’s helping me. I hear it’s hiring locals with guns to guard the kitchens.”

  That got her a long, measuring stare before the Colonel finally picked up his tray. “What the locals do to each other is their own damn business,” he said slowly. “Just don’t you go spending too much time on it.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Chapter Eleven

  First thing next morning, Kris checked in at the warehouse; Jeb and a dozen of his team had worked through most of the night. They expected to complete the inventory by noon; Kris left them to it.

  Tommy showed up a few minutes later. Millie had appeared at the barracks front door that morning with a small army of ex-hotel employees. “We can handle things from here, Kind Sir, if you will just get out of our way, Kind Sir, we should have everything spick-and-span by supper, Kind Sir, now, Kind Sir, please, get lost.” Tommy had several ideas about how to get the rolling gear rolling, so Kris left the “Kind Sir,” to himself and concentrated on what she wanted to do.

  Ester was back at her soup kitchen, a spick-and-span building in need of paint on the outside but as homey as could be on the inside. The woman sported a bandaged head but didn’t let it slow her down one bit. Nelly had discovered a local bank with rolls of Wardhaven dollars in its vault. Kris plopped four rolls, a hundred dollars, on the table in front of Ester. “How long will it take to get armed guards on each kitchen?”

  “They’re already here,” Ester answered. Behind the serving table, two young women smiled and produced rifles from under the table. “My daughters,” Ester explained. “Their husbands are out front.”

  “And the other kitchens?”

  “All have guards today. No man wants his wife put through this,” she said with a wave at her head.

  Kris pointed at the rolls of dollars. “See that everyone gets his or her pay. And Ester, it will be a problem for me if my Colonel is embarrassed by something done by our guards. Could you see that they understand that while they take our dollar and eat our food, they are…?”

  “On their best behavior,” Ester smiled. “Yes, I will let them know that Grandma Ester expects only the best from her men.”

  That was not exactly Kris’s words, and it certainly wasn’t the way a Marine Colonel would express his expectations for discipline within the ranks. Still, it was probably the best this lash-up would allow. Kris hiked back to the base.

  Somehow word had gotten out that Tom needed machinists and mechanics; the warehouse fence was already lined with men and women with automotive skills seeking employment. For a repair shop, Tommy identified a large building next to the warehouse that could be easily included in their perimeter fence. One of the hires was the owner of a failing truck firm halfway across town. He was painfully eager to sell his inventory for ten cents on the dollar. Kris was uncomfortable at the idea until the man admitted his off-world bank was selling him off just that cheap. If Kris would buy him out, he could pay off his debt and be in a position to buy it back from the Navy when they left.

  Under those conditions, the Displaced Farmers’ Fund happily wrote a check and got the gear moved inside the fence.

  While the actual work was quickly done on a handshake, the paperwork required Kris to coordinate with both Supply, Finance, and Administration. Kris quickly discovered why Supply and Finance wanted nothing to do with Admin. She had no problem getting the petty officers in the two sections that usually would have reported to Admin to sign off on all the required paperwork. Getting Pearson to approve anything turned into a Herculean task.

  “Why do we need all this stuff?” the lieutenant sniffed.

  “If it’s broke, we have to fix it.” Kris had to go to the Colonel to get that answer declared acceptable. Still, five, times the Admin chief bounced Kris’s paperwork for minor corrections. Five times Kris resubmitted it.

  “Why are you putting up with this?” Tommy asked.

  “I wouldn’t, if we had some trucks to work on, but the ones due yesterday still aren’t even in orbit,” Kris sighed and played the lieutenant’s game. When the dozen trucks finally did arrive, Kris was glad for her pre-work. Donated rigs, the newest truck had a hundred thousand miles on it. The mechanics took one look at them, shook their heads, then turned to and totally rebuilt them, using every machine and tool Kris had laid her hands on.

  Kris didn’t let Pearson and her runarounds eat up all her time. Mornings she quickly did her Navy duties. Afternoons, she devoted most of her time to the Ruth Edris Fund. If she failed to hitch a ride with a supply truck, she hoofed it, making the rounds of soup kitchens, checking how everything was going. There were no more robberies, no more beatings. The rain still came down in sheets as Kris traveled the flooded streets of Port Athens, the people still hunched against it as they splashed from puddle to pothole, but now they seemed less beaten.

  Whether she hitched a ride or walked, she wound up soaking wet by sundown from the top of her hat to the soggy soles of her boots. The only thing between Kris and utter misery was the humidity controls in the barracks, and when Millie reported the entire unit ready to give up the ghost, Kris paid extra to hire the only man on planet able to nurse the collapsing system along. A dry, warm room each night was cheap at any price.

  Pearson was still developing policy when the mechanics wiped grease from their hands and declared six of the trucks as ready as they were ever going to get for the roads up-country. Kris didn’t intend to wait any longer for policy; the farm stations were starving. She collected the people she’d met on her rounds and put the question to them: “Where do we start?”

  “I think down south is having it harder,” a farm implements sales manager advised. “Up north, the land runs to hills and gullies. The gullies are taking up a lot of the water. Down south, it’s flatter. Water doesn’t have any place to go. It’s going back to swamp.”

  Across the table from her, a priest and minister nodded their heads. “That’s what we hear, too,” said the priest. “But young woman, the gangs are also worse down south. A lot of gunmen are running down there. And with the swamps, there’s no way anyone can trace them.”

  “We’ve got some pretty smart gear, Padre,” Kris answered.

  “I know you do, but I haven’t seen any of it flying around here,” the red-faced priest answered back. “Is it only my imagination, or is this whole effort being done on the cheap?”

  “Father!” Ester Saddik swatted his wrist. “My mother taught me to say ‘thank you’ when someone offered a helping hand, not count the fingers.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing I haven’t thought, Father,” Kris acknowledged. “Tomorrow, I’ll take a half-dozen trucks south. Should be back in a day. Thanks for your help.”

  “Do you want a few of our armed men with you?” Ester asked.

  Kris had been thinking a lot about that. Armed civilians riding shotgun for the Navy didn’t feel right. A few witnesses? No. “This is a Navy show, ma’am. We’ll do it the Navy Way

  .”

  ****

  The trucks were eight-wheelers. Each wheel was supposed to be good for both traction and steering; Kris was just happy if they turned. Each cab had a front and backseat.

  The days of troops riding on the truck bed were gone…no safety belts back there. Kris assigned three gunners to the backseat of each truck. That left room for a driver and a boss in the front seat. Kris would command the first truck. She should have assigned Tommy to command the last truck, but he asked to be her driver; there might be an advantage to having both officers up front. With her pair of third-class POs, that only put a supervisor in three of the six trucks. Her accountant insisted on commanding one truck. “I get out of the office, or the auditors are going to find really weird things,” was a threat Kris respected.

  Unfortunately, when you give in to one threat, you only get more. “Burnt toast if I don’t get a truck,” Courtney smiled. So she got a day away from the mess hall.

  The sixth truck was all m
arines.

  Her convoy on the move, Kris found herself with time on her hands and a puzzle that would not go away. Everyone here was supposed to be armed to the teeth; the city folks certainly were. So, how come the farm stations were off net with rumors they’d been beat up? The orbital photos showed most of them were in the middle of wide fields, clear lanes of fire as far as any shooter could sight. Anybody trying to rob a farm station should have been very dead five hundred meters out. Maybe someone could sneak up on one or two, but Kris was scheduled to stop at five. Five! Something was wrong here.

  To the three recruits riding shotgun in the back, there was definitely something wrong, but nothing like what worried Kris. “I didn’t join the Navy to be no errand boy,” one young spacer said, not caring if Kris heard.

  “Hell,” the next one agreed, “if I wanted to do deliveries, I could have stayed home and worked for my dad’s shop. At least there, after you put in your eight hours, your day is your own. No offense meant, ma’am. It’s not your fault we have to take night watch once a week.”

  “None taken,” Kris assured him, knowing full well that all the troops knew she was the reason for the night duty.

  “Wouldn’t do you any good to have spare time,” the third, a woman, chimed in. “No place to go, and if you do, it’s raining, raining, raining. Join the Navy and see the mud holes.”

  The first one was ready to come back in. “I joined up to be a gunner. I got the highest score on Tuckwillow in SpaceFighter. Nobody can zap those bug-eyed monsters like I can.”

  “We haven’t found any more aliens,” Kris pointed out. “Getting chow to starving people is a bit more pressing than getting ready for hostiles we haven’t met.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re an officer, ma’am, and you have to think like that. But me, just give me a four-inch laser and a squadron of incoming badasses, and you’d see what I can do. This stuff, it’s just making the do-gooders back in their overstuffed couches on Earth feel like they did something good when they paid their taxes. They ought to come out here and play around in this mud.”