“I went to Turantic to break a friend loose from a guy who kidnapped him. And then I found myself running for my life. The rest just kind of happened. I went to Hikila to hold the hand of one of Grampa Ray’s old war buddies who was dying. Somebody kidnapped several hundred people, started killing them. By now you’ve probably figured out I don’t like kidnappers. Some of you may know why.” Around the table there were nods.
“Wardhaven? Well, like Chance is your home, Wardhaven is mine and I fought to defend it. So did a lot of other folks who had other plans that particular week.” Kris knew her face was hard, but she didn’t know how to talk about that battle in a soft way. She shivered at the memory of faces she’d never see again.
“You want to know why I’m here?” Kris said, turning a face as open and honest as she knew how to wear toward Ginjer. “I’m here because I’ve gotten in a lot of people’s hair and they want me as far away from their hairdo as they can get me. This may come as a surprise to you folks born and raised here, but in the Wardhaven Navy, Chance duty is not a plum assignment.”
Beside her, Jack grinned and nodded emphatic agreement.
“If you doubt me, talk to Steve Kovar. Navy officers are not supposed to retire as lieutenants. Not supposed to spend fifteen years in the same billet and never get a promotion.”
The table took that in and weighed it. The eyes that looked back at Kris seemed devoid of conclusion. All but one.
“That is why you’re here, isn’t it,” Alice said, once again massaging her future daughter.
“Alice, I’ll warn you,” Kris said. “I just told you the best of all lies.” Eyebrows raised around the table at that. “I told you a truth no one will ever believe.”
The table chuckled, unsure at that.
“May I put in two cents,” Jack said, breaking his silence. “For as long as I have known this woman, she has never gone looking for a fight. Never set out to start a war.” He paused, grinned, then said, “Though I have known her to shut a few down.”
There were snickers around the table at that.
“No, this Longknife does not go looking for trouble,” Jack said. “But I must also tell you. I have never known trouble to not find her.” Jack eyed Hank’s table across the room. “I have never known trouble to miss a chance to ruin her day . . . or mine.” Those around the table grew silent, intent on digesting the rather large chunk of raw, red truth they’d been served.
Then the music started and Kris was not surprised to find Ron beside her chair. “I think you promised me the first dance.”
It took Kris only a moment on the floor to remember why she enjoyed dancing with the man. He led, but not too strongly; she followed, but not too willingly. They were a good match.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about our dinner conversation with Hank?”
“Was there anything more to it than ‘You need to get on the bandwagon before it runs you down.’”
“He didn’t exactly threaten us, but you got the gist of it.”
Kris looked around the dance floor. It was filling up with couples, mostly locals. Here and there Kris spotted a young local girl in the arms of a junior Greenfeld officer . . . the most ancient form of sedition at work. Across the room, Hank and Marta had their heads together in conversation.
“And you left your poor mother to baby-sit Hank?”
“More likely to warn any available young woman that here is an available young man you don’t want to get anywhere near.”
“You’ve changed your opinion of Hank!” Kris said in perfectly feigned shock.
He scrunched up his face as if in deep thought. “Yes, I believe I have. Most definitely. I didn’t much like him in college. I like even less the little twerp leading warships into my home planet’s orbit.”
The music ended. No one made to break in, and they went smoothly into a second dance. Something from old Earth that allowed them to stay close and talk. “You aren’t upset that he was once a potential suitor for my hand, are you?”
“The hand with the gun, or the one with the hand grenade?”
Kris squinched up her face in deep thought. “I think both.”
“Foolish young man,” Ron said.
“Speaking of, here he comes,” Kris warned through a smile.
“Mind if I cut in.” Hank did not ask.
“Of course not, Commodore. This shindig is in your honor. But don’t tie up all her dances. I think a line is forming.”
“Strange, I didn’t see anyone,” Hank said, putting his arm around Kris’s waist and feeling around a bit before they began to move to the music. “What, no assault rifle?”
“I escrow heavy artillery when I come the dainty princess.”
“Well, I’ll assume I’m safe from kidnapping when with you.”
“And I feel oh so much safer from the odd and sod assassin when in your arms,” Kris shot back.
“You know, it doesn’t have to be this way between us.”
“It doesn’t?” Kris said. No need here to play the coy innocent. The two of them knew exactly the way things were.
“No. My dad is not the monster you make him out to be. Yes, he has some subordinates that got out of control. But weren’t you the one that pointed out that your own grandfather was a slumlord?”
“I most certainly did.”
“And did he do anything about it, but sell off the embarrassing property, no improvements made?”
“The old guy is guilty as charged.”
“Well.”
“You’re talking about the splinters in my family’s eye that I’ve been hollering at them about, but I have yet to hear you say a word to your old man about the I beam sticking out of his.”
“There you go again, insisting that it’s all our fault.”
“And there you go insisting that none of it is. Want to tell me how your father arranged that attack on Wardhaven?”
“There’s no proof at all my father was involved.”
Kris had been doing her best to let Hank lead, but he tried to send her into a deep back bend and there was no bend in her. She took two steps back, her own back ramrod straight, and right there, on the dance floor, they came uncoupled. “Of course there’s no proof. All the survivors from six honking-big battleships died.”
“You shot the prisoners,” Hank shouted, his voice breaking.
“Somebody jiggered their survival pods,” Kris shot back, her voice low and deadly.
“Commodore, Commodore, didn’t you promise me a dance?” Marta Torn was there, at Hank’s left, leading him into a turn away from Kris. And Jack was at Kris’s left, turning her away from the red-faced youth in the Commodore uniform.
“Well, that went well,” Jack offered.
“Think he’ll want another dance?”
“I think we better arrange our own ride up to the station.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. You Princess. Me Chief of your security. Me making this call. Any argument is hereby ruled out of order.”
Kris sighed. “I guess this is another date I end up walking home from.”
“Didn’t your momma tell you a gal’s mettle is determined by the ones she walks home from, not the ones she rides back with?”
Kris scowled at the mention of her mother. “Nope, I think that escaped her.”
“Aren’t you glad you have a security chief to teach you the most basic things about being a young woman.”
Kris leaned her head against Jack’s shoulder. “Yes, I’m glad,” she said. Unfortunately, she could never tell him just how glad she was to have him there.
Jack expertly led them to the far edge of the dance floor, Kris did not see Hank for some time, and when she did he made a point of ignoring her. Kris did notice that the woman he danced with wore a wedding ring. Part of Marta’s plan?
When the next dance was new and far too frantic for Kris, she and Jack made their way back to their table. Ron was there, and the expectant mother, her feet up on the chair next to
her.
Kris eyed the empty chairs. “Are they off carrying my possibly true words to the entire gathering?” Kris asked.
“I think the entire gathering tracked every word you and the commodore exchanged. What’s that about you shooting prisoners?”
“We didn’t,” Kris said, taking her seat and draining a water glass. One of the servers appeared and immediately refilled it. “Just a rumor the Peterwalds spread that doesn’t add up.” Kris didn’t want to shout exactly how with the music so loud. The next song came up soft and gentle; Ron was again waiting.
“Care for another dance if I pledge myself to defend possession of your delicate body with tooth and nails?”
“Be warned, I’m armed with this cake slicer,” Jack said darkly adjusting his sword at his side. “Oh, and a pistol, too,” he said as if just remembering his service automatic.
“If the woman says to let you cut in, I’ll consider not putting up too much of a fight,” Ron agreed.
Kris danced with the mayor, and with her security chief, and with several other young men from Chance who migrated to her table and asked for the privilege of risking their toes to her missteps. She did keep an eye on Hank and his blue suits, but nothing happened. The junior officers danced, as did Hank and his young captains. The three older skippers did not, but sat together, talked quietly, and sipped wine.
It was a pleasant evening, right up to the moment when Ron and Jack both cut in.
“I think we need to leave,” the mayor said.
“Problems,” Kris said after just one glance at their faces.
“My Chief of the Peace has a problem. Hans isn’t too happy, either. I’d like a Naval officer’s opinion as to what is just sailors blowing off steam and what is an assault on my city.”
Kris collected her wrap and left quickly. Steve Jr. was waiting for them and, the injunction about speed having expired, headed for the Oktoberfest at only slightly below light speed.
Hans and the Chief of the Peace were waiting outside a large daub-and-beam building signed the Edelweiss. One light post down four sailors were cuffed and laid out on the ground while a dozen good-sized men looked on. All twelve sporting a red armband with a hastily sewn, gold cloth star that, apparently, identified cops tonight. This might have passed for a normal night when the fleet was in. What didn’t look normal were a couple of dozen sailors standing around giving the cops dark glowers and occasional encouraging words to their buddies on the deck.
Kris could tell a riot looking for a way to happen.
She did a quick survey of the street. Cops walked in pairs or foursomes. Other locals moved up and down row upon row of tables and benches that covered the street, handing off foaming glasses to sailors shouting for them. There were a lot more sailors shouting than hands passing out beer. “I don’t see any women,” Kris said. “No barmaids on Chance?”
“We sent them home,” Hans said. “We run family businesses. The women working here are our wives, daughters, their friends. Some of the things the sailors said to them . . .” He shook his head.
“It was better to send the women home before they started dumping more beer over sailors heads than they put on the tables in front of them. Or their sons and husbands started fights . . . and I know we don’t want no fights,” Hans said to Ron.
“Mayor,” he continued, “we really need more guys to shell out the beer or there’s going to be a riot. Half those men Gassy has wearing armbands have worked here. I need them.”
Ron eyed his Chief of the Peace. “I have barely enough, Boss. And if things get any worse, I won’t have anywhere near enough. These guys keep drinking and things are only going to go downhill. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you better close down the Beergartens.”
To Kris’s surprise, Hans’ only comeback to that was a weak “I hope you don’t do nothing like that.”
“Who’s paying for the beer?” she asked Ron.
“The city’s paying some, and Hans’s friends are selling to the sailors at half price. About midnight, we’re going to let them tap out the older stuff that’s gone stale. What we usually make them pour down the gutter.”
“Well, if you don’t have a riot before midnight, I’ll bet on one after that,” Jack said.
“We thought they’d be too drunk to notice,” the garten owner said with a shrug. “The way they’re swilling my best, they can’t have any taste left by then.”
Kris did a second look around. Yep, most were going through their large glasses as fast as she’d come to expect of college boys—or girls, but there were no girls on a Peterwald ship. On closer study, she spotted, here and there, a fellow who looked a bit too old to be an able seaman. And those few were nursing their glasses. Come midnight, at least a few would know what was being served. And a shout would . . .
“Jack, you see what I see?”
He nodded. “There’re troublemakers out there.”
Gasçon following where Kris looked and scowled at what he saw. “You think we’re being set up, Princess?”
“That’s what the Peterwalds do. I don’t see any Shore Patrol. Have they checked in with you?”
“There is no Shore Patrol,” the Chief of the Peace said.
“I think now would be a good time for you to call Hank,” Kris said to Ron.
The mayor nodded, a deep scowl on his face. With a sigh and a shake, he turned his face to pleasantly friendly. “Oh, Kris, you better get over there,” he said, pointing to a piece of pavement well in front of him. She and Jack did.
Ron held up his wrist and said. “Ron Torn here. Connect me to Marta Torn.” A moment later he was talking to his mother. “Things going well on your side?”
“No blood on the carpet. I guess that counts for success tonight. You out on the street, Mr. Mayor?”
“Yes, Mom. Is our visiting commodore close? I need to talk to him.”
“I figured you would when I saw the company you left in. How many times have I told you, son, if I’m ever going to have any grandkids, you have to leave with just the girl. Not her papa, not her best friend. Find one girl, and leave with her.”
Ron scratched his forehead. “You’re right, Mom, I blew it again,” he said, casting a not-all-that-brotherly look Kris’s way. She returned it just as enthusiastically.
“I always tell guys, listen to your mother,” Kris whispered.
“Here’s the man you asked for, Mr. Mayor,” Marta said, the mother gone, the senior manager solidly in place.
“I missed you, Ron,” Hank said, effusively. “Last time I looked around for you, you were no where to be seen. I’ve been dancing with all your old girlfriends it seems.”
Jack elbowed Kris. She tossed him a glare before turning a wide-eyed, innocent face to Ron. He was trapped by the camera on his wrist and Hank.
“Didn’t know I had that many old flames,” Ron said, maybe for Kris, then cut straight to the chase, “but you, Commodore, have lots of sailors. Now, I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves, but quite a few of them can’t seem to handle their beer. We’ve had fights, sailor on sailor, sailor on innocent civilian.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure those civilians are innocent. There’re Longknife provocateurs everywhere. Longknifes throw money around like it’s water when one of our ships is in port. If our sailors don’t protect themselves, they’d be tied up and hauled off to some pig farm in the backwoods.”
“Our judges will help you sort that out tomorrow.”
“Judges?”
“Yes. From where I’m standing, a couple dozen of your boys will be sobering up courtesy of the sovereign city of Last Chance, and talking to a Court Commissioner in the morning.”
“I should hope not, Mayor,” came in a voice devoid of all the Hail and Good Fellow that Hank had been projecting.
“What would you hope for, Commodore? My Safety people can’t just leave them on the street to start another fight.”
“What does the old song say, Mayor, ‘roll’em up and put
’em in the longboat?’ Run them out to the liberty launches. We’ll take them from there. I’m certain you’d provide such a courtesy to any visiting U.S. ship.”
“Don’t most U.S. ships have a Shore Patrol to work with the local Safety folks . . .” Ron started and trailed off.
“Sorry, son, he just turned his back on me and stomped off.”
“Didn’t anyone teach that man manners?” Hans muttered.
“Apparently not,” Ron growled. “Gassy, it’s up to you.”
“What can you give me for back-up, Boss?”
“Most of what I’d normally back you up with is up there,” he said, giving a thumbs-up that Kris suspected meant her station. “But I do have some reserves.”
“Not the boys,” Hans and Gassy said together.
Ron’s hand was back up and he was talking to his wrist. “Coach, I need all the help you can give me.”
“You want just the wrestlers, or should I call in the football teams as well?”
“Everything you got, college and high school level.”
“You going to let high schoolers into the Oktoberfest?”
“I got Gassy right here beside me. I promise that none of your underage kids will be busted for either serving beer or waltzing through the gartens twirling a nightstick.”
“Bad precedent, Ron,” said the coach.
“We get through this visit and I’ll visit every school and explain why I did it and tell them we’ll give them unshirted hell if they do it again.”
“I’ve got the call tree already going. My wife and kids are calling as we speak. My teams ought to start showing up in five, ten minutes.” There was as chuckle. “I think some of them may be just down the street, waiting for word to come.”
Ron rang off. “Wrestlers, football players?” Kris said.
“That was Randy Gomez, head coach at University of Last Chance. He’s calling every kid involved in any of the ever-popular, nasty contact sports played at our local schools.” Ron looked up the street. A pick-up with a youngster at the wheel and more in the back rolled up to the yellow tape that excluded traffic from the five blocks of Oktoberfest. Those that jumped down were uniformly tall, bulky, looking eager and mean enough to chew red-hot steel for breakfast come morning.
Kris Longknife: Resolute Page 22
