Kris Longknife: Resolute

by Mike Shepherd

  “Have they been trained in police procedures?” Jack asked.

  “One hour last week. I had my best deputies show riot-control techniques to their classes,” Gassy muttered. “But I’ll team five of them with two of my deputies or reservists. With luck a drunk will take one look at their prospects and give it up. If not, well, things may get interesting before those liberty launches lift off.”

  Ron’s wrist chimed, he gave it a “what now” look and tapped it. “Please be kind to your ever-friendly mayor,” he said.

  “Don’t know how kind this is, but we’re having trouble getting the Highland Games started. Could you stop by and maybe offer some insights into what I’m doing wrong. What is it with sailor suits? This is always so much easier when the guys and gals wear kilts.”

  So Kris, Ron and Jack turned for the college two short blocks away. But the walk got longer because the stadium was on the far side of the campus. And the sidewalks meandered around trees and a fountain. “Is this supposed to isolate the jocks from learning, or those who want to learn from anything resembling physical exercise?” Jack asked the rising moon.

  “I think it’s lovely,” Ron said, putting an arm around Kris. It wasn’t that cold, but his touch sent a shiver down Kris’s spine. She leaned against his shoulder and enjoyed the walk.

  A shot ended that.

  They’d just come around the south side of the bleachers to the track. They spotted the source of the shot before Jack had his Navy-issue pistol out. Unfortunately, Kris had raised her skirt, showing a lot of leg, and the weapon hiding in her garter.

  “That’s where I figured it for,” Jack said, but all three of them were mesmerized by the sight of manly excellence before them as runners raced around the track . . . or whatever.

  One sailor had come out of his crouch at the sound of the gun, stumbled for two steps, and fallen on his face and was now adding vomit to the blood that speckled the track. Others were worse. Two charged down the track, bounced off each other, and took off in directions that had nothing to do with the chalk lines drawn for the race. One seaman started fast. Stopped. Looked around at the shouting crowd . . . and turned tail. He was now racing the wrong way as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Three, no, four sailors were still galloping along in the right direction at speeds that put the Interstellar Track and Field records well out of reach.

  “I ask ya’, is this normal?” said a thin old fellow, a few wisps of white hair combed over his sunburned scalp. The clipboard in his hand and the kilt that didn’t reach to his knees identified him as someone in charge. “I mean, I heard tales of some mighty god-awful drinking at Paris when they finished up the Society, and there was mention in our newsletters of the worst sporting events in the history of the Games, but this. ’Tis . . .” he seemed at a loss for words and settled for “disgusting.”

  “I’ve heard that beer and physical excellence don’t mix, but I never saw such solid proof,” Jack said, covering a smile.

  “I had other fun and games at Paris,” Kris said vaguely.

  Ron did the introductions. Douglas MacNab ran the city’s annual Highland Games. “Not sure that qualifies me for this. We finally locked up the stones and hammers. I’m afear they’d do more damage to themselves and my school if I hadn’a.”

  “You going to Caber?” Kris asked, eyes lighting up.

  “No,” Jack said.

  “I’m still trying,” Douglas said, “but it’s no easy to get these boys to even line up, much less listen to how it’s done.”

  “What if I show them?” Kris said through a widening grin.

  “What if you don’t,” Jack said.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Ron added.

  “But I’ve always wanted to toss a caber. I can’t tell you how many times I had to shake hands through a Highland Game for Father’s campaign and never got to tossing one of those poles.”

  MacNab ran a hand through what was left of his hair. “We let the kids play at this because they do what I tell ’em, and their parents sign waivers. I don’t see anyone around to sign a waiver for you, lassie.”

  “I’m over twenty-one,” Kris said eagerly.

  He eyed her over his spectacles. “And will you listen to what I tell ya.”

  “Of course,” Kris said.

  “No way,” Jack said.

  “I’m not too sure about this,” Ron said again.

  “Where’s the caber toss?” Kris asked.

  “On the other side of the seats,” MacNab said, and led the way. Beside them, the four remaining runners were losing speed at a rapid clip. One of them shouted for a beer and took a hard right into the infield toward an honest-to-God beer wagon, complete with four beautifully groomed horses.

  “Aren’t those horses lovely,” Kris said.

  “Let’s detour for an hour or two and say hi, Princess.” Jack’s suggestion almost reached the level of an order.

  Ron’s “Yes” was merely civilian-strength suggestion.

  Kris kept walking; they reached the end of the seats just in time for Kris to catch something out of the corner of her eye.

  She did a quick jump back. A long, thick pole slammed down in front of her, exactly where she’d been. If her oversize nose had been a hair longer, it would definitely have been shortened.

  “Oops,” said a sailor at the other end of the caber.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” said a second. A third, one of those older types Kris was spotting now and then, said nothing as he stepped back and disappeared into a milling crowd of sailors around a second beer wagon, complete with horses.

  “Princess, I strongly suggest you go get acquainted with that team of horses,” Jack said, undoing the flap on his holster. “Ron, Douglas, who’s the head of security for this layout?”

  There was a delay while Kris was introduced to Hilo Kalako, Chief Deputy, and the two men and four boys at his side. But while they talked their line of business, Kris spotted a half dozen cabers laid out and walked over to make their acquaintance.

  “How do you lift one of these?” she asked Douglas.

  “Da I not recall you saying you’d do what Ah told ya?”

  “I did.”

  “Then stick those fine pale fingers of yours in this,” he said, holding a bucket of strong smelling black stuff for Kris.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t ask questions. So, what is it?”

  “Tar and other stuff you’ll be needing to hold on to the caber when you want to be holding on, and let it be slipping a bit when ya need that.” Kris sank her hands into the goo.

  “Abby would not approve,” Jack said, coming up behind Kris.

  “I think you’re right on that,” Kris agreed.

  “Who’s Abby?” Ron asked. “Your mother?”

  “Close,” Jack said. “Her maid.”

  Ron said nothing to that. Kris eyed the long wooden pole and frowned. “Which end of the pole do I pick up first?”

  “Normally you wouldna be asking that,” MacNab said. “The last one to make a toss is supposed to stand the caber up for the next. But you’re first, and me old back isn’t up to this kind of lifting no more.”

  “So I’ll do it,” Kris said, and stooped down, lifted one end into her lap, then stood up the rest of the way, carefully using her knees for the lift.

  “Ya did that one right, lass, but ya remember ya tellin’ me that you’d do what I told ya to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that also means waiting for me to tell you what ta do. For now, ya just go hand over hand until ya got the caper standin’ tall.” She did. Soon, she found herself with her hands high over her head and her strapless gown playing an interesting game of show and tell. She managed to get the caber standing straight up with little shown and less to tell about it. A few wolf whistles soon changed into a ragged cheer as she finished. Leaning against the caber, she did the cute curtsey she’d learned at four or five . . . and the cheer grew louder.

  Through a wide grin she
whispered to Douglas, “What next?”

  “The hard part, lassie.” He quickly whispered to Kris how she was suppose to go from leaning on the caber, it’s butt on the ground, to holding the bottom of the caber in both her hands, leaning it against her shoulder while she leaned her shoulder against it. “Ya got that?” Kris measured the expectant shouts from the crowd of Greenfeld sailors, males all, and her own expectation of success and found that the only future ahead for her involved either a successful caber toss or going down in flaming failure. Had that agent planned this as his fall-back plan if he didn’t succeed in driving her into the turf with that falling pole? Nah, this is just another one of my dumb stunts.

  Someone shouted, “Hey, that’s Princess Longknife. How many of you want to toss a caber like her?” And a line began to form.

  That cinched it, walking away was not an option.

  Kris reviewed the old fellow’s instructions and squatted down, thanking her mother for the ballet lessons that had kept her supple all those years. “Gee, Mother, I do owe you.”

  Fingers interlaced around the pole, shoulder against it, she felt the top of it begin a wild weaving pattern that threw the weight of it first right, then left, then front, then back. She held it there until it steadied for a moment, then made the lift from the knees, feet widespread. She felt all kinds of things go wrong in places she hadn’t expected to feel until that undefined future day when she might give birth to some poor girl with a nose too long. Kris struggled to shuffle her legs closer together. Oh, and somehow, she also kept the caber upright enough to not get out of control and lay her and it out flat.

  Douglas had called this the spider dance and said she’d understand it when she was doing it. Yes, it would have been nice to have eight legs at the moment, but she only had the two God gave her and she was busy working them like four. For a second, the caber took off on its own, but she managed to stutter jump to her left and catch the center of gravity again.

  I’ve flown ships to orbit, standing them up on just a pillar of flame. Surely I can balance a five meter pole in my own hands. Course, the ship had an inertial guidance platform and all I have is my head. I am not gonna let a machine beat me!

  The dance went on for a couple of weeks, maybe less. It was still dark and the moon was about in the same part of the sky when Kris found herself where Douglas said she should be. She stood. The butt of the caber was in the palm of her hands. She leaned against it while it leaned against her left shoulder.

  Oh, and her dress had all kinds of tar streaks on it. Abby was not going to be happy.

  “That’s some Manual at Arms your doing, Princess,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

  “I don’t see you in line to try it yourself,” Jack shouted back. While Kris got her breath for what had to be an easier finish, MacNab sent the kids with armbands to form the sailors into six lines to match the six cabers they had. Since the crowd of gawkers in front of Kris got very thin, most everyone around must have gotten in line.

  Kris had her breath back . . . and her arms and legs were beginning to scream at the abuse . . . when MacNab was back at her elbow. “You’re going to want to let the caber begin to topple over,” he pointed downfield. “Ya go along with it, picking up speed. When ya feel you’re in the best spot, ya put everything ya have into lifting up the butt of it and tossing it up and out. The idea is to have the other end of the thing land first. If the butt lands first, or it just kind o’ lays down lengthwise, it no been tossed and it no counts. Understand.”

  “I’m not doing this again.”

  “You’d have to wait in a long line to get another chance,” Ron said, looking back where Kris didn’t dare spare a glance.

  Kris let the caber begin to fall. Slowly at first, then faster, she chased after it. She’d calculated ballistics since she was in middle school. She’d flown orbital skiffs by the seat of her pants. Certainly this couldn’t be worse than those.

  But orbital skiffs only took a flick of a finger to send them turning. This caber was dragging along her whole body, sucking every ounce of strength she had. One misstep on this grassy field, one stumble in the dark, and all she’d done would be for nothing. She’d be a joke to all these Greenfeld sailors.

  Worse, she’d be a girl.

  Kris found all the strength she had . . . plus an extra boost from anger . . . and hurled the caber high.

  MacNab dropped a marker where Kris’s foot was when she hefted it, then watched as the pole arched high and executed a perfect ballistic flight to slam down, nose first, in the grass.

  “Well done. Well done, Lass,” he called. “That won’t be a record, but it would be a good finish in any game I’ve bossed in my thirty years of doing the honors.”

  Now there were cheers from the crowd behind Kris. She turned to them and did a formal curtsey. The cheers got louder. Ron presented Kris with a towel. She tried and failed to clean the mess off her hands as they headed back for the racetrack. The sailors opened a path for them, to shouts of “Good going,” “Good shot,” “Great doing, for a girl.”

  Before Kris could make a comeback, a sailor provided one for her. “My sister could have done just as well. We ought to let the girls have chances like that.” That started an argument, that, fueled with beer, was best left to the sailors to resolve.

  “We should get back to the port,” Jack suggested. “We do have a shuttle to catch.”

  “And you don’t want to be there when Hank and his mob start filling up the sky,” Ron said. “I’m not sure there’s a designated driver in the batch.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone to take the drunks off your hands at the liberty launches?” Kris said.

  “The first report back said the launches are deserted. No one standing guard. No pilot standing by.”

  Kris shook her head. “What are your security people doing with the drunks?”

  “‘Rolling them up and putting them in the long boat.’”

  “But,” Kris started, then stopped.

  “Oh Lord, but those boats are going to stink come midnight,” Jack said, almost in pain at the thought of it.

  “I’m sure you want to ride up in the work shuttle.”

  “Please, Mr. Mayor,” Kris said.

  They took a different way back into the Oktoberfest that put them at the opposite end of the street. With a guy on each arm, Kris looked forward to the walk. Farthest from the busses that had brought the sailors was the Heidelberg. A glance inside showed Kris several wide, smiling women working the taps . . . ensconced behind an equally wide bar.

  She brought her men to a halt, ending the happy stroll. But before she could open her mouth, she spotted the difference between the Heidelberg and other Beergartens tonight. The tables, row on row, were filled with chiefs, older, maybe a bit more sober, but definitely quieter.

  “So that’s where all the NCOs are,” Jack said.

  “In there, not drinking with their own men. Not making any effort to keep discipline or order,” Kris mused.

  “I thought having a separate club for the chiefs was normal. At least that’s what Hank’s contact man told us,” Ron said.

  “Right,” Kris said. “Still, you’d expect them to keep an eye on their men, hold them to a certain level of behavior. Maybe not as high as their moms and dads, but . . .”

  Kris looked up the street. A fight was just being broken up by the armbands. Here and there men, hardly more than boys, emptied their stomachs into gutters, bushes, whatever. Not a view to make you proud of your fighting men.

  The next beergarten, the Happy Bavarian, held the senior petty officers. That only men manned the taps showed they were only marginally better behaved than the seamen on the street.

  Gassy was headed their way, a bespeckled man in a rumpled suit at his elbow. “Thought you might want to meet Pinky here.”

  “Harvey Pinkerton,” the man said. “I own the only remote-controlled observer system in Last Chance.”

  “You of the Pinkerton Security
Family?” Jack asked.

  “Doubt it. Family story is that great-great however-many was shuffled off Earth in lieu of prison. I don’t work for Gassy if there’s just some enterprising young fellow involved in an exchange of property,” the guy said with a grin at Gassy, who seemed to be studiously looking elsewhere. “Mostly I track wandering husband’s, wives, teenagers. Not that Ron wants you to know his wonderful Chance has those oh so normal human problems.”

  “Pinky, show her what Gasçon told me about,” Ron said dryly.

  Pinky handed Kris the oversize reader he carried. It showed an aerial view of the Oktoberfest. He tapped it and it zoomed down. “Gassy told me there’s some ringers circulating among these fun-loving sailor boys. Wondered if I could spot them.”

  “They’re just sailors like the rest. But a bit older.”

  “There’s two of them now. They usually travel in pairs.”

  Kris eyed the screen. White uniformed sailors filled most of the enlarged picture. But two were in gray sailor suits.

  “Something go wrong in their wash?” Jack asked.

  “Spider silk doesn’t look at all like cotton when you catch it in the right light spectrum.”

  “Spider silk,” Kris said with a growing frown. “Somebody’s not willing to take chances with the rest of the poor dumb sheep they’re setting up for a fall.”

  “Looks that way,” Gassy said. “Anyway, we’ve isolated ten pair of off-white sailors and we’ll take them out of circulation come eleven thirty. We’ll give them a ride to the airport in our very own paddy wagons and see that they are on the first liberty launches down the runway.” He flicked his eyebrows up twice. “The smelliest ones.”

  “Kris, I think we better get gone.”

  “Jack, I agree. Ron, I want to thank you for showing a girl a great time,” Kris said, giving the mayor a kiss on the cheek.

  “I thought you said I showed you a great time,” Jack said in wounded male pride.

  “You did, but this is the best time I’ve had that didn’t involve wrecking a space station.”

  Ron gave Kris a hug and a kiss of his own, and it wasn’t on the cheek. “Someday I really want to read about your love life.”