Kris Longknife Audacious

by Mike Shepherd

  “I’m too mean to let a little leakage put me down,” the captain grumbled, but his words were slurring.

  “Gunny,” Kris said into her commlink, “we need a rig here fast for the captain.” She glanced around the field. There were several casualties that looked to have been hit hard by the auto-gun. More that had been hit too hard and were beyond aid.

  “I got one rig able to roll. That whale of yours needs a new tire. Once the driver changes it, I’m sending it back to the embassy with the walking wounded.”

  “Do that,” Kris agreed. “Just get me something back here that can handle four,” she said, eyeing the medic. The woman held up a hand with all fingers spread. “Five stretchers.”

  “Damn, was it that bad back there?”

  “It looks it,” Kris answered.

  A Marine rig quickly arrived, shot up and limping, but going nevertheless. Tailing it were a pair of private rigs driven by loyal members of the Fraternal Order of Proud Caballeros.

  And a newsie made to jam a mike under Kris’s oversize nose.

  Inspector Johnson got in the way. “You can’t interview her.”

  “Why not?”

  Martinez stepped forward. “Because he doesn’t want you to know the only thing that stood between the liquidation of all our leaders and the survival of the few who did was these Marines from Wardhaven.”

  “That’s not true,” Johnson insisted.

  “Pan your camera over this field,” Martinez went on. “Who do you see down? Not Eden troops. You drove by the wreckage of our rapid reaction force. How close did it get?”

  “Not very,” the reporter said.

  “You’ve taken pictures inside the hall. Did you see any of our guards still alive?”

  “My producer isn’t allowing us to show those pictures.” The reporter shivered at a memory. “It’s too bloody, but I can say that all I saw were Marines and a few private guards still alive. And some of their patrons,” she hastily added.

  “You can’t say that,” Johnson insisted.

  “I just did,” the reporter shot back. “And I said it to the”—she tapped her earbud—“to our ten million subscribers, including the nine million that just joined us tonight.”

  “I’ll have your license canceled,” Johnson snapped through gritted teeth.

  “You and what government?” the reporter snapped back. “Shirley Chisel of the opposition has already called for new elections.”

  “They can’t make such a call.”

  “They can if they’re not the opposition,” the reporter said with a grin. “A lot of them weren’t invited to this shindig tonight. And just making an educated guess at the survival rate of those that were, I’d say the majority party doesn’t have anything like a majority anymore. How many votes do you think they’ll have in the morning?”

  Johnson paled.

  And Kris did a quick look at her options.

  Eden was changing. It could never be the same after this night. Oh, people like Johnson and his boss might try, but this tide was in full flow, and only fools got in the way of a riptide.

  So what did that mean for her?

  King Ray would probably try meddling in these people’s affairs. Kris was no longer blind to some of his less socially desirable habits. But she was here and he was not.

  These people did not need a Longknife. Or rather, they’d had about all of a Longknife that they could take.

  With a shrug, Kris made up her mind.

  “If you will excuse me, I have wounded Marines I need to get to care before we lose them.” Kris saluted the reporter and the police lieutenant, and turned away.

  “And my cops and caballeros are searching the great hall for any living soul,” Martinez said. “What do you say we get more pictures your producer can try to edit for public consumption?”

  “Who did this?” the reporter asked as they left.

  “We’ll be a long time investigating that question,” the cop said carefully. “Things like this aren’t accidents that just blow up one day. But at the bottom of it all, I think we’ll discover that we did this to ourselves.”

  Kris went about her duty, hunting through every nook and cranny where a Marine might have fallen. She would leave no one behind. No one for the civilians to stumble across.

  The wounded were dispatched to the embassy at first. But Doc was quickly overwhelmed. When Kris’s limo took off with the walking wounded like Penny, it headed for a hospital.

  The search went through the night. The embassy sent a team of Foreign Service officers to hunt for the ambassador. They found him, along with the third political officer, a lovely middle-aged woman who had taken Kris’s place on his arm. They were among the dead on the ground floor. The attackers hadn’t even considered him important enough to herd upstairs.

  Wardhaven’s officers took their leader back to the embassy.

  Grant von Schrader was also found. The bronze foot of one of the landers had taken him full in the face, smashed his skull, and pinned him against the wall. They identified him by the contents of the wallet in his hip pocket. Kris ordered him left to hang there. “Let Eden pick up its own trash.”

  The Marines gently collected their own honored dead on the grass in front of the west portico. The last of them was gently laid out just as sunrise colored the dawn sky. The pink of the reborn sun blushed their cheeks, tried to make them look warm and alive. The lie was painful to observe.

  One of Martinez’s men showed up with blankets to give them decent cover.

  And Kris had her final run-in with Inspector Johnson.

  58

  “The President wants you and your Marines out of here,” Inspector Johnson started without preamble. “Off this planet. Out of the reach of these newsies and their cameras.”

  “Your president is dead,” Princess Kristine, daughter to Wardhaven’s Prime Minister, reminded the inspector. It had been a rough night. Was the obvious slipping out of focus?

  “The third vice president is not dead, and he is taking charge.”

  Kris knew that such transfers were often automatically assumed by the uninformed. But there were procedures to be followed. “Has he taken the oath? You know, being third in line is still third in line until you raise your right hand and swear the words.” Politics turned on such fine distinctions.

  That seemed to give Johnson pause. He blinked several times.

  Kris gave him a moment to absorb that, then went on. “Besides, if the blond bimbo I saw him with right after the shooting stopped wasn’t his wife, I suspect your man is as politically dead as your president is physically.” Kris, after all, did grow up on politics.

  Now Johnson blanched.

  “I have my orders” had to be the final fallback of any poor bureaucrat.

  “Is your third vice president aware I have dead and wounded to take care of?”

  Another blank stare. Of course this politician had no idea what price had been paid by fighting men while he was up with his bimbo. Of course Johnson had no idea what Kris owed the wounded or fallen. Guys like Johnson wouldn’t have thought they owed them a dime.

  “Nelly, get me Doc if you can.”

  “Doc here” came back immediately.

  “You in surgery?”

  “No, Your Highness, I’ve got the worst of them stabilized. Which doesn’t mean we won’t lose a few more. Your Commander Mulhoney is in bad shape. I won’t know until this evening.”

  “Should I come for a visit?”

  “Your Highness, it’s not for me to tell you what to do, but everyone I’ve got here is asleep and needs to be. If you came, they wouldn’t know you had.”

  “I’m being ordered off the planet, dumped into the first taxi in line,” Kris said.

  “Ain’t that the way it goes. I keep telling folks that doing good deeds is a waste of time and effort, but who pays attention to a doctor.”

  “I may call you back, Doc.”

  “I’ll probably be too busy to take it.”

 
; And Kris rung off.

  “Can you get Penny?” She was on the line in a few seconds.

  “What’s it look like back there?” the intel officer asked.

  “Quiet at the moment. What’s it look like your way?”

  “We got an entire wing to ourselves. They’re getting around to the last of the walking wounded now.”

  “You still lugging that bit of statue?”

  “Yep, but they gave me happy juice, so I’m feeling no pain.”

  “I’m being ordered off the planet,” Kris said.

  “Well, that didn’t take long,” Penny said with a snort.

  “I need to know if you and yours are safe.”

  “About as safe as we can be. A couple of Martinez’s Gay Caballeros are posted at our doors.”

  “I think that’s Proud Caballeros,” Kris corrected.

  “Well, they look pretty happy to me. I’m told they’re to keep the newsies out, but they’re doing a lousy job of it. I got one newsie at my elbow. We’ve been getting to know each other. Good woman. She’s looking forward to things changing so she can marry the father of her son.”

  Beside Kris, Johnson looked to be having an epileptic fit.

  “You’ll need to paint me a better picture than that,” Kris said.

  “Seems that her baby has voting rights so long as she doesn’t marry or name his father. If she does, the kid’s franchise goes poof. If that dead horse goes away, she’ll marry, but not until.”

  Kris smiled at Inspector Johnson. “Sounds like a lot of people are rooting for a change.”

  “Sounds that way,” Penny said.

  Johnson just shook his head. At the inevitable?

  “So I take it that you’re as safe as you can be?” Kris said.

  “Looks that way to me. How far they running you off.”

  “I don’t plan to go farther than the Naval base on the space station.”

  “Then you go make arrangements and us walking wounded will stumble in over the next couple of days. If we need rescue, I’m sure we can count on a Longknife.”

  Kris glanced around as her net went silent. A new day was dawning, both literally and figuratively for Eden. There were a lot of newsies reporting it. She could spot at least six within her own field of vision.

  With her wounded secure Kris asked the last question.

  “How do you propose getting me out of here without a media zoo?” Kris said. She didn’t expect an answer to that one.

  Silly her.

  “There is a shuttle in the boathouse just north of here. It was there should the president ever have an emergency need of it.”

  And the killers were trying to flee to the north. Now that was explained.

  Kris had just one more show stopper. “How many Marines will this shuttle hold?” It was bad enough that she was leaving. She would not leave her company to slink back to the embassy.

  They’d come here as a fighting unit and that was the way they would leave.

  “The shuttle is a Boeing 2737. It holds a hundred.”

  The inspector had her there. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was an attack of common sense. But Kris said, “Then we shall see how many form up,” and called on Gunny Brown to form the company. Johnson might order her out, but there was one remaining duty Kris would not leave undone no matter how ungrateful this nation was to its saviors.

  The Marines came when they were summoned. Some were still searching among the dead for any that might still live. Others had been standing guard because, after the horror of the night, people had discovered a need to guard themselves again.

  The medics and lifesavers came with bloody hands and drawn faces.

  They formed under Gunny’s watchful eye: First platoon. Second platoon, technical support. There was no spit and polish left on them. Those who had begun the night in bright red and blues finished it as blacked and worn as those who’d charged from the river in full, dripping, muddy, battle gear.

  They found their place in rank and file to stand, exhausted, used beyond reason or measure. And counted off.

  The count came out painfully short, so they put their heads together to fill it up to its proper measure. Some were on the list of Marines dispatched to hospitals. Others lay under blankets or in the body bags that had been required to collect what could be found.

  So when the platoon leaders turned and reported all present or accounted for, Kris could see pride in Gunnery Sergeant Brown’s face as he turned to her and passed along the word.

  “Ninety-eight Marines present, ma’am. Forty-seven dispatched to the hospital. Twenty-nine dead.”

  It was a bloody butcher bill.

  Among the Marines of the Technical Support Platoon stood Bronc and eight of his young buddies. If Gunny Brown said they were Marines, who was Kris to gainsay.

  “I suspect I make ninety-nine,” Jack said.

  “And I make one hundred. Kindly tell Inspector Johnson that we will be taking his blasted shuttle out of here. He’d better have the Naval Station on High Eden ready to receive us.”

  “Where will we go from there?” Jack asked.

  “The Wasp came through Jump Point Delta six hours ago,” Nelly reported. “It’s boosting for High Eden at one point five g’s. It will dock in twelve hours.”

  “A bit late, but not that bad,” Kris said.

  “You ordered them here!”

  “I figured a couple of days ago that I’d need a ride out of this mess,” Kris agreed.

  The Marine first lieutenant trotted off to let the local cop know that one Kris Longknife would go quietly.

  Well, fairly quietly.

  “Sergeant, will you please have the company change front.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Gunny said, saluting. Kris returned the honor.

  “Company” was followed by “Platoon.”

  “About. Face.” And ninety-eight survivors turned to face their dead.

  Kris repositioned herself to the new front of what she could only think of as her command.

  Softly she said, “Gunny, prepare to render honors.”

  There was nothing soft about what she said next. Her words rang out across the lawn. On the west portico news cameras from a dozen different viewpoints and persuasions recording the Marines’ farewell to Eden.

  “Before you lie men and women, Marines all, who fought, and bled, and died that Eden might be free. That a new day of hope and liberty might be yours. May God have mercy on your souls if you break faith with these soldiers who gave their tomorrows for your today.”

  Kris paused to let the words sink in. To let the realization dawn on millions of watchers.

  “These Marines paid a price for all of you,” Kris continued. “Rich and poor. Voters and disenfranchised. Landers families and yesterday’s arrivals.”

  Another pause.

  “Your failed policies and attempts at dodging the obvious brought you to this night. A night of guns and bombs and murder. It brought you here with no defense for your future, your liberties, your freedom, but a handful of strangers from distant stars and those among you that were willing to step up to the plate. Tonight, neither wealth nor voter card nor history mattered.

  “These men and women laid out here cared. They tried. And they paid a heavy price for you. You owe them your future. For God’s sake, make it worthy of their sacrifice.”

  Kris wanted to reach through the recording cameras. To get her hands around every man and woman who had sat comfortably, uncomplaining while their nation bore down on this crisis point. There was no way she could do that. There was really nothing more for her to do for Eden. Or for her company.

  She paused for a long moment, then whispered, “Render honors.”

  “Hand salute,” Gunny ordered.

  A hundred men and women commanded their stiffened and used up bodies to pay this final respect to those they had worked with. To those who had fought and bled beside them. To those who had stopped a bullet or thrown back a grenade for them.

&n
bsp; From somewhere came taps.

  None of the Marines had brought a bugle to this battle. But one of the caballeros had. He paid the ancient honor to the fallen as beautifully as ever was done.

  On the last note, one that quivered in the morning air, Gunny Brown called, “Two,” and one hundred hands came down.

  “Gunny, march the company for the boathouse.”

  “Yes, ma’am” was quickly followed by the orders to make it so. We march a dirge to graveside. But we always quick march from it. Wasn’t that the old saying?

  And the Marines moved off. Kris never knew who started it. Was the first voice from among the battered ranks of her company? Or did the song start up there on the west portico? It really didn’t matter. The song started.

  “From the halls of Montezuma” was a single, clear voice.

  “To the shores of Tripoli” grew in volume.

  “We will fight our country’s battles on the land, space, and the sea.”

  59

  The killing wasn’t over. Or at least it was a close run thing for the next couple of hours.

  An admiral from Eden’s fleet met Kris at the door to the shuttle when it docked at High Eden. He demanded she immediately board an outgoing liner. Kris didn’t much care for the way he was rushing her out…or separating her from her Marines. And she had at least one major deal breaker.

  “Is a certain Victoria Peterwald booked on that ship?”

  The admiral was nonplus toward the question. But he did check. “Why yes, she will be.”

  “Then I won’t. Haven’t you heard? Longknifes and Peterwalds don’t play well together in the sandbox. People tend to get suddenly dead around us.”

  The admiral failed to understand that. Gunny Brown was wise enough to have four hulking Marines, stinking from sweat and battle, edge the Navy puke out of Kris’s sight before Eden lost more of its ruling elite.

  Then it turned out the Navy base was unprepared to offer hospitality to a hundred tired, hungry, and war-weary Marines.

  Kris got angry when an Eden chief with a huge gut told her the mess hall would not open for anyone until 1130 hours, two hours from now. She got outraged when a voice on the phone insisted the transient barracks didn’t accepted new sign-ups until after 1500 hours.