Kris Longknife: Furious

by Mike Shepherd

  “There is no originator on the message,” the captain shrugged. “It’s also very cryptic. I almost trashed it, but I thought you might be able to make something of it.”

  He handed it to Kris. The message was brief.

  Meet me at My Old Haunt.

  T

  “Does that mean anything to you?” Captain Tidings asked.

  It might, but Kris was not going to share it with anyone who wasn’t walking in her own footsteps.

  “I’m not at all sure,” Kris said, folding the message to keep it out of sight.

  The captain accepted Kris’s vagueness, and went on, “I strongly suspect that you don’t want to use your own credit chit here.”

  “Captain, I’m not sure my credit chit still works here.” The discovery that Nelly, Mimzy, and Sal were barred from the net gave Kris a strong hunch that her money was no good either. Kris was none too happy to be going down to Wardhaven with no plan. Now she couldn’t even go down. She had no way to pay for her and Penny’s beanstalk tickets.

  “I thought you might find yourselves in that situation. Here are some gift chits. They’re sold to encourage people to spend them on just what they cover. Here are several to pay your travel, elevator, bus, even taxi fares. These should let you eat for a while and these last two should cover a hotel room for a few days. These kind of things are popular in the travel industry. If you give people money, they’ll spend it just the way they want. Give them some of these, and they’ve got to take the vacation they need. Great idea.”

  “It sure is,” Kris said, suddenly seeing options opening before her.

  “Again, I want to thank you for saving my daughter. She’s married now, and I expect to see my first grandchild when this voyage is done. Her mother and I can’t thank you enough for all the joy we feel just now.”

  What could Kris say to such gratitude? “I’m glad Jack and I were there and could do what we did.” Even if it had hurt like hell for the next couple of days.

  With that, the captain took his leave.

  “So, what’s the massage mean?” Penny asked, as soon as the door was closed.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Kris said, unfolding the message and studying it.

  “Could T be General Trouble?” Nelly asked. “Your Grandma Ruth hinted that she’d get him involved.”

  “She did,” Kris agreed slowly, not at all sure she wanted any help that came from that branch of her family tree. The general was Trouble. Trouble to his enemies. Trouble to his troops, and double trouble to his superiors. What he’d been to Kris was a whole lot of trouble.

  When Grampa Trouble suggested that she needed a good security team and hinted at Jack, Kris had drafted him into the Marines one very distinctive rank below her. Then Trouble took a very angry Jack out for drinks and showed him the new law that allowed the security chief of a serving member of the royal blood to countermand any order he considered dangerous to his primary’s survival.

  Her survival, there being no other member of the royal family then on active duty. Then or now.

  Kris had thought she had a great way to keep Jack just where she wanted him. Once Jack returned from Trouble’s briefing, it was an open question as to just who had who, where.

  It had been fun, arguing with Jack over just which of her orders he could countermand. How Kris would love to argue with Jack just now.

  Which reminded Kris of an argument she had with Jack. It was right after the Battle of Wardhaven. Election day, to be exact. Kris was so mad at her father that she’d refused to vote for him. She wasn’t willing to vote for the opposition, not after the mess they’d gotten Wardhaven into during their brief interregnum, so she’d just not voted. Besides, she’d been rather busy at the time, attending the funerals of all those who had died under her first command, of sorts.

  It was Jack who dragged her out of her funk and took her down to a dive on the wrong side of the tracks from the space elevator. There she’d found Grampa Ray and Trouble. Them and a whole lot of folks like them.

  Even the barkeep seemed like an old friend of Trouble’s.

  That was the first time Kris didn’t wait for orders but insisted that she be sent out on training duty to teach other planets how to use their fast patrol boats. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, after two assassination attempts, it had seemed like an even better idea for her to go someplace far, far away.

  Which led to another set of problems.

  But what was the name of the bar?

  “Kris, I’ve searched my stored archives,” Nelly said. “There’s no place by the name of My Old Haunt on Wardhaven. Well, there is, but it only opened four years ago. I don’t think General Trouble could be talking about that one.”

  “No, no I don’t think he means that. Penny, let’s get our game faces on. Thanks to the generosity of Captain Tidings, we are going down the beanstalk.”

  “And then where?”

  “I’ll know it when I get there.”

  17

  Putting their game faces on took a bit longer than Kris had expected.

  With just the gift chits the captain had given them, it would be very hard for “Mrs. Travaford” to play the role of a wealthy widow out to see human space and spend her late husband’s money. The fake jewelry went into Abby’s steamer trunk.

  There they found just the worn dress needed to bring Penny down five or ten social levels from the wealthy “Mrs. Travaford” to poor pensioner “Mrs. Travaford.”

  They also found spider-silk bodysuit armor. The new kind, backed up with liquid metal to absorb and spread some of the kinetic and traumatic force of being hit.

  To Kris’s delight, she slipped right into her armor. When Kris pointed that out to Penny, she made a face at Kris as she continued donning her gear and dress.

  After burying herself in the padding of her disguise, Kris found a wig. It turned her hair dowdy and brown but lowered her forehead and was armored as well.

  They were going to war. Now Kris felt ready.

  No one remarked on them as they left the Yellow Comet. The station trolley line ran close by; they quickly caught a ride.

  Penny hobbled into the elevator station, making good use of her cane. Kris shambled along behind her, head down, shoulders hunched over. The steamer trunks rolled along haltingly behind them. Somewhere in the short trip, the luggage went from spotless to banged up and dented.

  DID YOU DO THAT NELLY?

  I CAN’T GET US ON THE MAIN NET, BUT I CAN HANDLE MY LOCAL ONE, KRIS.

  The ferry station was on night routine; two attendants watched a football game. Old Mrs. Travaford inserted her credit chit backward, so Kris stepped forward to help her. The flub drew only a glance from the two watchers. Once they saw that things were back on track, they went back to their game.

  Penny and Kris toddled toward the ferry. With each step Kris expected the security alarms to go off. People might be distracted, but automated security cameras never were. Her face and her body were being scanned dozens of times a minute.

  There was no sudden flood of security guards. No alarms. No nothing.

  They made their way aboard and found an out-of-the-way corner to huddle down in. Just two lonely women traveling with all their worldly goods in the beat-up trunks beside them.

  Penny fell asleep as befitted her apparent age. Kris stayed nervously watchful, eyeing anyone who walked by. Her disguise continued to work its magic; no one looked at her twice.

  Glad for the uneventful ride, Kris still found herself with a problem as they made their way off the ferry and into the Wardhaven down station. Abby’s steamer trunks were far too large for any cab. The answer to that was found off to a side. There were lockable storage bins. No papers required, just swipe your credit chit and take the key. One of the captain’s gift chits was accepted.

  Load lightened, one old lady and her unremarkable granddaughter were left trying to hail a cab on a dark and rainy night. Five empty cabs splashed by them before
one stopped.

  “Where you ladies want to go?” the cabby asked as Kris hastened to stake her claim on the car by settling a complaining grandmother in the backseat.

  “The Smuggler’s Roost,” Kris said.

  “That dive! You ladies really don’t want to go there. You’ll never get out of that neighborhood alive at this time of night.”

  “My son says he will met us there,” Mrs. Travaford snapped. “I have not heard from my son in twenty years. He says to meet him there. I will meet him there, young man,” Penny told the driver, who was at least ten years older than she.

  Kris held back a grin. No question about it—Penny was a quick study.

  “That’s a really bad neighborhood, ladies.”

  “That is why I bought my granddaughter a pistol at a pawnshop back home. You have the gun, don’t you, Stephanie dear?”

  “Yes, Grandmother, but I really think you should have let me fire it a few times. They say you should practice with something as dangerous as a gun.”

  No one said Kris wasn’t a fast study, too.

  “We only bought the six bullets that were in it. We can’t go wasting them.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Kris said, dutifully.

  The cabby just shook his head. “Be it upon your heads,” he said, and took off into the rain and dark. Kris had been too self-absorbed in her own problems to pay much attention to the ride when Jack brought her there. It had also been a sunny day. Tonight, in the rain, the cabby was right.

  This was no place for a little old lady.

  Kris was glad she wasn’t carrying some cheap six-shooter from a pawnshop. She had her Navy-issue sidearm. Despite the layers of disguise, it was in easy reach.

  They pulled up to a shabby building in a block of redbrick buildings that looked even more the worse for wear. If there was a streetlight, it was dead. There was no light but the flickering neon lights of beer signs. Even the bar’s own sign, SMUGGLER’S ROOST, was blacked out and faded.

  Clearly, people came here because they knew what was here, not because something attracted them.

  “You sure you want to get out here?” the cabby asked one last time.

  “Yes,” Kris said, looking as dubious as the heavy makeup allowed.

  “I can wait here for you. I won’t even turn on the meter.”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Travaford insisted. “My son said he’d meet us here. I will not leave until I see him.”

  “Or they throw us out at closing,” Kris added under her breath.

  Mrs. Travaford shot Kris a dirty look.

  The cabby turned to take Kris’s gift chit and run it through his net connection. When he handed the card back to Kris, there was a second card with it. “If you need a ride, just put that next to your commlink. It will dial my company. Some of us don’t like coming into this part of town at night, but I’ll tell the dispatcher to call me. I’ll come get you, no matter what.”

  “Thank you so much,” Kris said, and meant it. The driver was dark-skinned, and the hanging from his rearview mirror proclaimed that Allah was merciful. Once again, Kris had run into a Moslem cabby willing to go out of his way to help her.

  Kris closed the door, hoping that driver was right. Tonight, let Allah be merciful. Kris could use all the mercy she could beg, borrow, or steal.

  She helped Penny hobble into the bar, holding the door open for her. The scene inside was smoky and warm, lit mainly by the colorful beer signs flickering along the walls. There were plenty of empty tables. But several had extra chairs pulled up around them, making for cozy familiarity. One table broke into loud guffaws as they entered.

  Few people bothered to take in the newcomers. None of them gave Kris or Penny a second look. The barkeep looked them over, frowned, but quickly went back to filling an order. Having established a basic awareness of the scene, Kris started examining the dark nooks at the corners and the back. All the people in the front were strangers to her.

  Great-grampa Trouble was fairly easy to spot. Even in the dim light, his ramrod-straight back was distinctive. Penny spotted him about the same time as Kris and needed no urging to start working her way slowly toward him.

  There might be no security cameras here; still, a suddenly spry hundred-year-old might make folks talk, and talk to people Kris didn’t want talked to.

  Beside Grampa Trouble sat another soldier, distinctive by the haircut even out of uniform. Colonel Hancock hadn’t changed a bit. He was eyeing them as they approached. The general turned to follow his gaze and studiously took Kris’s measurements. Neither looked away.

  A third man sat deep in the shadows of the booth. It was hard to make out his features. but Kris saw enough.

  Jack was here!

  18

  Senior Chief Agent in Charge Foile of the Wardhaven Bureau of Investigation put on his coat. They’d gotten their serial killer before she killed her weekly victim. His computer was organizing all the evidence and preparing his report. He’d sign it in the morning and turn the complete package over to the county prosecutor. It would be nice to get home early at least once this week.

  The chatter in the squad bay was happy, as was to be expected. His team prided themselves on always getting their man. This week’s “man” was a serial killer and a woman. They had a lot to be proud of.

  “Hey, I got a hit on Princess Kristine,” Leslie Chu remarked. Leslie had met the woman once and become a fan of the Longknife princess, even if she did seem to get into more trouble than any woman could. Leslie’s computer was set to report anything on the net about the princess, and it had become a team joke as week after week passed without Leslie’s getting her princess fix.

  “What’s that troublemaker up to now?” Agent Mahomet Debot asked.

  “I don’t know. She’s just disappeared from wherever it was they sent her after her thing with the aliens,” Leslie said in a puzzled voice. Unusual for her.

  “Isn’t there an arrest warrant out for her?” Rick Sanchez asked.

  “She hasn’t done anything illegal,” Leslie said, jumping to her princess’s defense.

  “Starting a war,” Mahomet offered.

  “You’d have gone in shooting if you’d been there, and they fired first,” Leslie snapped.

  “Boys and girls, let’s keep it professional,” Foile put in to lower the temperature.

  “There’s been an arrest warrant issued for her,” Rick said, bringing said warrant up on the main screen in the squad bay.

  “That’s not much of a warrant,” Mahomet said, noting that the code violation was blank. The write-up only added more vagueness to the whole thing.

  “I’d hate to have to serve that if there was a lawyer present,” Rick said, and drew a grunt from everyone.

  “Well, I’m going to make it home in time for supper tonight,” Foile said, and turned to go.

  And was almost run down by the division chief’s personal assistant.

  “Good, you’re still here. The Prime Minister wants to see you immediately.”

  “Me?” Foile said. “Don’t you mean the boss?”

  “No. He wants you. Now. The division chief says for you to report to her immediately when you return.”

  “I take it that neither she nor you know what this is about.”

  The personal assistant shook his head. “All they said was they wanted you, and they wanted you ten minutes ago. Go.”

  Foile went. Outside the doors, he hopped one of the two wheelers. Usually, he preferred to walk. It was good exercise for a man his age and gave him time to think. With a summons from on high this vague and demanding, thinking would not be a good idea.

  He wheeled through pedestrian traffic quickly for the four blocks from the Justice Ministry to the Prime Minister’s offices. He was greeted at the door by a rushed young woman who fairly snatched him off his ride and hustled him through normal security and into an elevator.

  They arrived breathless in the foyer of the Prime Minister’s office, but the senior secretary there gav
e him no time to catch his breath as he ushered Foile into the Prime Minister’s presence and immediately closed the door.

  It took all of two seconds for Foile to discover why even his private secretary did not want to share space with the Prime Minister.

  “How could any bunch of imbeciles have screwed this up worse?” the Prime Minister demanded, waving several flimsies at Foile.

  The agent took this for a rhetorical question and offered no answer as he closed the distance to the Prime Minister’s desk.

  “I can’t believe that we’ve got idiots of this caliber working for my government. Heads are going to roll, I tell you. Heads will roll.”

  Foile was glad that he wasn’t the subject of the Prime Minister’s anger. Unfortunately, he suspected his presence meant he was next in line to be added to whatever list was taking shape.

  “You called for me?” Foile said. He’d rushed there; he strongly suspected whatever job awaited him would have a very short fuse. While it might be fun to watch the famously cool Billy Longknife explode, it was burning time.

  “One and a half hours ago, ninety minutes, my daughter’s pet computer tried to attach to the Wardhaven net. Ninety minutes ago!”

  Billy Longknife was also famous in his speeches for repeating for emphasis. Foile frowned. He did not need repetition.

  “This is important how, sir?”

  The Prime Minister opened his mouth, looking ready to explode at Foile, but then seemed to think better of it. He took several deep breaths and began again.

  “We sent her someplace safe after that last fiasco. If she just stayed there until things blew over, matters could be made to work out. But no, she can’t stay put for two minutes. My daughter had to bust out of her safe planet, and now she’s charging around space, no doubt causing trouble with every step she takes.”

  “You’ve issued a rather vague arrest warrant for her,” Foile put in.

  “Yes, yes. What do you say about someone who can be everything from a public nuisance and pain in the neck to the center for undescribable public murder and mayhem?”