Kris Longknife: Resolute

by Mike Shepherd

  “And the volunteers just did it for the friendship, too?” Kris said. Just how altruistic was everyone here?

  The chief and Ron exchanged glances, the kind thieves do late at night over beers. “Friendship, helping out big sis, and Steve did manage to pay them a bit under the table,” Ron said.

  The chief was grinning from ear to ear. “Every morning down on Chance, the lieutenant would fill the shuttle’s tank with reaction mass. Up at High Chance, he’d unload all but what he needed to get home that night. We all did it. And sold the reaction mass at a premium to ships going through. The proceeds paid a stipend to our volunteers. Worked great.”

  “No accountants ever noticed,” Kris said dryly.

  “Nobody from any headquarters ever came by to check the books,” the chief grumbled.

  “Ah, this might not be the best approach for you, Your Highness,” Ron said. There it was, the princess thing was back on the table. “I understand that you recently had trouble about using your own money on a relief mission. This informal staffing solution definitely wouldn’t pass anyone’s idea of a smell test.”

  “I’m glad we agree on that.”

  “However, my mother said to tell you your shuttle is topped off on reaction mass. Please unload the extra mass to the station’s tanks to the account of High Chance Welfare and Aid Fund, a certified charity here on Chance.”

  “And you think that is legal?” Kris paused before asking Nelly for her opinion.

  “Defense personnel are authorized to render aid to certified charities, per 18 U.S.C. 8525. I am prepared to stand up and swear in any court of law that this is such, my mother serving on the board of said charity,” Ron said, the crinkle back around those blue eyes. No question, the crinkle was for the game.

  NELLY, IS RON A LAWYER?

  HIS LAW DEGREE IS FROM THE PUBLIC NET. Public net degrees didn’t get a lot of respect. Still, they were recognized before the bar as equal to anything from Earth’s near-mythical Harvard. She might not hire Ron to present her case, but she’d definitely be glad for his testimony.

  “Nelly, do everything you can to set up legal barriers between me, my command and the High Chance Welfare and Aid Fund.”

  “Doing that, Kris.”

  “So that’s the other head you sport,” Ron said.

  “Very helpful on things like this.”

  “Well, tell me, are you as hungry as your chief?”

  “Breakfast was abbreviated.”

  “At least the part we risked,” Jack said.

  Everyone stood. “Well, I know a great place for a steak dinner. Maybe a bit more. And our local civic theater is doing a revival of Gilbert and Sullivan, I think this month’s feature is HMS Pinafore. The reviews say the humor has aged well. Would both of you care to join me? I have three tickets.”

  For someone who had not filed a flight plan, Kris had the very strong suspicion she was very much expected.

  Dinner proved that Chance’s beef industry was easily the equal of any, certainly Wardhaven’s. Ron ordered one of the local wines, but made nothing of Kris sticking to water. Jack praised the vintage lavishly enough for both of them. Dinner was down to the bones well before time for the local theater, even if it did have an early curtain, “So all could be early to bed and early to rise.”

  But there was a live band and a full dance floor even at this hour. “Folks with desk jobs have to get their exercise somehow,” Ron offered as he stood and reached for Kris’s hand. She humored him, but found no reason to regret the move; Ron was a fine dancer. He, unlike so many “official” partners Kris had survived, did not endanger her toes. After two dances, Ron handed Kris off to Jack with a smooth motion that came so suddenly and seemed so natural that Kris found herself dancing with the Marine.

  “I guess it’s not fraternizing,” she said as they went into the second dance.

  “It’s quite public and certainly above board,” Jack said. “And so much more modest than the last time.”

  Kris frowned at the reference, then remembered the rescue mission on Turantic that involved passing herself off as a working lady of the night and Jack as her trick. Of several possible replies, Kris chose, “All in a day’s work.”

  “If you work around Longknifes,” Jack agreed.

  “What are you two talking about?” Ron asked as he cut in near the end of that dance.

  “Top secret stuff,” Kris said darkly.

  “Right,” Ron agreed, taking Kris into his arms. “If you told me, you’d have to kill me.”

  “No, draft you,” she said, laughing.

  “As a citizen of Last Chance, a sovereign polis of Chance, I am not subject to your laws be they drafty or otherwise.”

  “But you are subject to current events, Ron.”

  “Every day we get out of bed, Longknife, we take a risk,” he said, twirling her out to arms length. Then he pulled her back close. “Your idea of my risks and mine are seen from different perspectives. What do you say we avoid this argument tonight?”

  They did for another dance, and then he passed her back to Jack. “Should I ask what you two were talking about, or is it top secret? And remember, you already drafted me.”

  Kris accidentally stepped on his toe, marring his Marine-perfect shoeshine. After that, they just danced. Kris spent the better part of half an hour on the floor, being passed between the local man and her official protector. When Ron called time for the theater, her feet didn’t even hurt.

  The local theater was pure amateur. Still, the sets were well done, several of the leads had good voices and they seemed to have a clear eye for what they wanted to do with the ancient comedy. Kris was not surprised when she was gently nudged in the ribs at the reference to making Admiral by polishing up the handle on the front door. She elbowed Ron right back.

  To her surprise, she didn’t even get a raised eyebrow at the line about the junior partnership being the only ship she ever did see. Apparently Ron had done his homework. That was good for him, because she’d planned to do major damage to his kneecap if he didn’t respect her ship time.

  But Kris didn’t make any defense when Ron added his own emphasis to the stage’s reference to never thinking of thinking for herself at all. Her hard-won independence from the Longknife shadow, and the voluntary surrender she had finally chosen to make to her name and the legends attached to it was not something she could explain in a whisper during a libretto.

  Intermission came with Kris wondering at the fate of women who had to struggle against arranged marriages, and doing her own measuring of the difference between her mother and the Captain’s leaning on his daughter. No wonder the humor stayed with us. Some things hadn’t changed nearly enough for one girl.

  Ron suggested they get something to drink at intermission. Jack maintained his careful two steps behind her, and 360 degrees of concern. The two of them were the only ones in uniform and, though the khakis might have blended in with dust, they didn’t blend well with the suits and dresses tonight. Ron had failed to mention that theater was an occasion for showing yourself in style.

  The refreshment line was an ambush, but not one Jack could protect her from. They joined the back of the line, and were immediately mugged by three elderly folks leaning on canes and proudly displaying lapel buttons earned for valor in the Iteeche Wars. Kris spotted them as they closed on her at a fast hobble. Of late, her father had been using her to meet with the veteran wing of his party, a portion of his constituency that, until the present troubles, had never been his strong suit.

  Kris smiled, and froze that smile as the white-haired woman on the right said, “What you going to do with that wreck they got swinging around our space station?”

  “Now Mabel, that’s no way to talk to the woman,” the bald man on the left said, spruced up in a suit two sizes too large for his sparse form. “Not if we want anything out of her.”

  A more substantial man, hobbling on two canes between the two, now showed that he could manage without either. He elbowed
both of them. “You two hush.” He squinted at Kris, now leaning on his canes. “Lieutenant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Kris agreed.

  “We hear that you have an old Iteeche War General class cruiser docked at High Chance.” He paused, but his watering eyes fixed on Kris and held her.

  “Yes,” Kris said. “The Patton is a veteran of all three of the Iteeche Wars, as well as the Unity War. I understand she helped put down the pirate outbreak after the Unity War.”

  “Good ship,” the woman muttered.

  “Bad ship. She can’t even hold air,” the left man snapped.

  “Oh, I’ve been aboard her. She holds air. At least part of her does,” Kris made quick to point out.

  “But does she smell like a fighting ship?” two canes asked.

  That was about the last question Kris had expected. She paused for a moment to reflect on the smell of the Patton, then to compare it to the blend of ozone, air conditioning, motor oil, and human sweat that Kris had come to expect of a working man-of-war. She shook her head.

  “That’s what I expected. She’s dead. Lost her soul,” the left man said sadly.

  “Well, she hasn’t had any people to loan her their souls since we were kids,” the woman pointed out.

  “There’s no chance you’re planning on fighting her are you?” the man with two canes asked.

  Ron had deserted Kris, moving ahead with the line toward the order counter. Jack was still at Kris’s rear, guarding her from the wrong dangers it seemed tonight, snickering softly at the question. Kris apparently let the question hang there too long, because the white-haired woman took a stab at answering it.

  “There is no way this young woman could fight that ship. The second reactor is deader than my late husband, and the main propulsion system has two engines bad out of seven. No doubt the laser capacitors won’t hold a charge. And she’s got no crew.”

  So much for the brilliant idea of some desk-bound commando back at Main Navy that putting a ship in orbit around every planet would make its people feel protected. “We were kind of hoping to keep that a secret,” Kris whispered.

  “Maybe from someone born yesterday,” the man leaning on two canes snorted. “Not from us old maintainers of warships.”

  “It’s been a long peace,” Kris said as her only contribution to a conversation that was headed she knew not where.

  “That’s what bothers us. Kids aren’t learning anything about our wars in school,” the woman snapped.

  “Don’t know what they’re teaching them these days,” the man on the left added.

  “We aren’t going to be around forever,” the man in the middle added softly. “We have great-grandkids we’d like to show what it was like to fight an Iteeche Death Sun, to close with a Burning Star knowing half your squadron wouldn’t be coming back.”

  “Not like they see in those vids they make nowadays.”

  “All kissing and boom boom shoot’em up,” the woman finished.

  “I certainly agree with you,” Kris said.

  “Good, then you won’t mind us doing some work on that cruiser of yours.” “Not like we could do it any harm.” “Any worse than it is already.” The three shot at Kris in rapid succession.

  “We have grandkids that need to put in civic-duty hours to graduate from high school. Why not have them do them with us. Listening to our stories.”

  “We could show them how to get a ship into fighting shape.”

  “My grandson has a couple of his buddies working on their engineering degree in power systems. They’d love to fix up the reactors on that bucket. It would look great on their résumés.”

  “Or so Mabel keeps telling him.”

  “I bet we could get that old tub in good enough shape for a trip out to the moon and back. We could.”

  Kris held up her hand, to slow the machine-gun-fast patter. These old vets wanted to fix up her warship for some pleasure cruises. No. “You want to turn the Patton into a museum!”

  “Yep.” “Pretty much.” “You got it, Lieutenant,” came back.

  “It’s not like you ever planned on commissioning her and taking her out for a fight,” Jack whispered softly behind her.

  “That was supposed to be a secret between the two of us,” Kris whispered back. The three oldsters in front of Kris grinned from ear to ear.

  “It’s not just us that want to work on your ship,” two canes offered, careful to use the “your” where the ship was concerned. “There’s fifty, sixty of us old farts chomping to get our hands on that bit of history, scrap of our youth, if you don’t mind me putting it that way. It’s not just our kin alone that will be working on it. There’re several high schools, and not just those around Last Chance. We could do it up nice.”

  “And put some fight back in the old girl,” the woman added with a faraway smile. “Just cause she’s old don’t mean she don’t still have some fight in her.”

  “Mabel, don’t scare the lieutenant. Ma’am,” two canes added quickly, “we’re old, but we ain’t fools. We just want to fix up the old boat. Nothing more.”

  Kris nodded, not risking words. Kris had been finding humor in the idea of these old folks painting the Patton and maybe putting some of the circuits back in working order. But Mabel’s words had struck an echo, a reminder of enthusiastic volunteers Kris had led out against battleships. Those wonderful optimists had fought and, too often, died.

  No, Kris was not interested in a bunch of superannuated vets and their adoring great-grandkids turning the wreck of a ship into a false facade that would crumble on them when put to the test. Well, there was one quick way to squelch this: “Nelly, as the Commanding Officer of Naval District 41, am I authorized to accept the donation of labor and equipment in the performance of my official duties?” A quick no should end this.

  “Your Highness, you are,” Nelly said simply.

  “What!” NELLY, THAT’S NOT THE ANSWER I WANTED.

  SORRY ABOUT THAT. YOU ASKED ME. YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED ME BEFORE YOU DRAFTED JACK, BUT YOU WOULD NOT EVEN LET ME GET A WORD IN EDGEWISE. “Your Highness, as a member of the Royal Family, you are authorized to accept donations of labor and products for the defense of the realm and for historical purposes. It is not for me to say which covers the offer these fine people are making, but it does fit into one of these options in 10 U.S.C. 21215.”

  “Let me guess,” Jack said from behind Kris. “A new reg.”

  “Promulgated after the attack on Wardhaven,” Nelly added. “It seems that several of the donations of equipment, even the ones that were intentional, were not legal.” Was Nelly sassing Kris for some of the more piratical ship acquisitions she’d made in her three days of sweating before that battle?

  Ron returned with sodas for Kris, himself, and Jack. His timing was perfect for catching the final offer of the vets . . . and Nelly’s take on current events. The crinkle around his eyes and lips looked potentially terminal. He handed Kris her drink. “I’d heard of the famous Nelly, but I hadn’t really believed the stories. Is that what we all have to look forward to in a couple of more years?”

  “Not if I have Aunt Trudy reboot her,” Kris scowled.

  “She is always threatening that,” Nelly said primly. “She never does. And I personally think Aunt Tru and her own computer are enjoying me too much to ever let Kris harm me.”

  “Some day I’m going to let Tru wear you for a week. Then we’ll see what you’re sounding like.”

  “You could not survive a day without me.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Ron said, “but there is a motion on the table to let these fine people donate supplies, and work for the repair and maintenance of a warship in Chance orbit. Considering how concerned Lieutenant Longknife is about Chance’s defense, I should think she would jump at the chance to improve them. What say you, ma’am. We need a decision.”

  “Ron, the Patton is not a warship. It’s a wreck looking to happen. It is not contributing anything to your defense.”


  “Then let us turn it into a museum,” two canes shot back.

  “You want our people to be more aware that the universe out there is a dangerous place,” Ron pointed out so reasonably. “What better way than to have these old veterans passing along to our young the true stories of what they faced.”

  Kris did not like being manipulated. Father did it. Mother did it. And Grampa Trouble had just done a superb job of it. She wanted to take this bunch and tell them to stuff their idea where the sun didn’t shine.

  “And if we’re working on the Patton up on the station,” two canes added, “we’ll need food, things like that. Tony Chang has agreed to reopen his New Chicago Pizza and the Chinese Waffle House for us. I understand you’re living on tight rations.”

  Kris glared at Ron. “I didn’t tell them,” he insisted.

  “I ran into your chief at The Old Camp Store,” the white-haired woman said. Surrender did not come easy to a Longknife. But clearly, this was one of those times when surrender was an option, and best done quickly.

  “We,” Kris was careful to use the royal pronoun, “are glad to graciously accept your donation toward the common education of the youth of your planet.” Education. Not defense. Never would Kris let that ship sail into combat.

  After intermission the rest of the play went quickly. The guy got the girl, or maybe it was the other way around. Ron drove Kris and Jack to the port late that night. He turned on the runway lights and did not try to kiss Kris good night but he did surprise her.

  “Hank Peterwald never would have let those people mess with a ship of his. But then, I’d never expect to see him out here with just a hulk.”

  “You know Hank?” Kris got out.

  “I had a scholarship to Peterwald University on Greenfeld. Took classes with him. You are not at all what I expected.”

  NELLY?

  YOU DIDN’T ASK AND YOU WERE BUSY AND HOW WAS I TO GET A WORD IN?

  Kris got the shuttle back to orbit and safely docked. She left the men to put away the groceries and got to her room before the shakes started. I spent the day with a buddy of Hank’s. What was the real story of this planet? And where was a ship when she needed it?