Kris Longknife: Defiant: Defiant

by Mike Shepherd

  “Yes!” Tom shouted beside Kris.

  “Don’t go celebrating,” Kris growled. “I just made the target harder to hit. Damn it all.”

  “But we hit it.”

  “Yes, we hit it.” Kris pushed hard on her commlink. “Get in close now. Get in close and get them while they’re trying to figure out which end is up.”

  “What the hell is going on?” the future governor of Wardhaven demanded as he was thrown against the restraints on his seat, then thrown half out of his chair.

  “We seem to have taken a hit,” the Admiral muttered.

  “They fired off all their pulse lasers at once,” his Chief of Staff said, “but they only winged us. We can handle this.”

  “But why would they waste a pulse on a 5-inch turret?” the Admiral mused, flexing his body with the bucking of the Revenge.

  “They were desperate?”

  “And they are still closing.”

  “They can’t change course that fast this close?” the Chief of Staff suggested, but there was little force behind his words.

  The Admiral frowned; there was something missing. Something he needed to know but had not been told. Had that Longknife girl pulled another trick out of her bag? The destroyer was commanded by a Santiago. Story was the Longknifes and Santiagos went way back. Let’s see what happens if we take a shot at killing that Santiago woman. “The destroyer withheld its fire. Order Revenge, Retribution , and Retaliation to take it on with 18-inch fire as soon as they can steady on course.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the Duty Lieutenant.

  “Close with the battleships,” Kris ordered. “You can’t do anything against their armor, so don’t waste a full pulse unless you can fire right up their stern.”

  “Don’t fire until you’re looking up their kilt at their hairy balls,” Luna chortled. “Come on, you damn chunk of ice. Quit jigging around and give me a peek.”

  Luna and two of her friends now hounded the third battleship in line; Kris kept an eye on the fourth one as Tom danced around it. His efforts to find a way in were hampered by the evasive program that seemed to only let them take one step closer before they dodged and dipped two steps back. But the evasion overrides kept the 5-inchers missing. That was the choice: stay in position for a good shot, or stay alive. No good options.

  “Kris, the main battery on the battleships are activating.”

  “What could they be aiming for?” she asked no one.

  “One just fired,” Penny said. “It went for the Halsey!”

  “Nelly, look for 18-inch turrets opening on the battleship. Give it a 20 percent pulse.”

  “Our battleship’s not firing. It’s the one up the line.”

  “Change target,” Kris ordered even as Nelly was saying, “Changing target,” and “Firing Laser One. 20 percent.”

  “Tell me how we did, Penny, Moose.”

  “Looks like you got that turret,” Moose said. “Bad things are going on inside that ship. Really bad things.”

  Captain Luna was getting tired of this June-bugging around. She danced; her battleship did a jig right with her. Nobody stepped on anybody’s toes. This was getting boring.

  But the next battleship down, the one that belonged to Princess Kris, was not paying all that much attention to what went on around the next boat up. Paying real close attention to what Kris and those with her were doing, but not that much to what the boats hounding its buddy did.

  “Seeing how the princess just poached on our boat,” Luna muttered; she hit the override, squelched evasion, and swung her boat around just as that battleship presented her stern quarter.

  Luna mashed the Fire button, sending twin 12-inch lasers up the rear of her target. For a second nothing happened; she frowned.

  Beneath her, her boat bucked as a 5-inch laser cut into it. “Damn,” Luna growled as she twisted the stick for evasion . . . nothing happened.

  “Looks like we bought it, folks,” Luna ordered. “Time to go,” she said, reaching for the handle on her high-g station that would turn it into a life pod for a few hours.

  But her boat still had power, and before it failed, she saw the most lovely sight as her target started to bubble, first at its stern, then amidships, holes opening in its ice as plasma shot out from reactors no longer contained.

  “We done did it,” Luna smiled. Then a 5-inch laser cut through her bridge.

  “There she goes,” Tom said. “Luna got her.”

  “And they got Luna,” Penny reported.

  “Let’s get that one,” Kris said, switching targets to the next battleship up the line.

  “We just got dinged,” Tom reported. “Nothing we can’t handle, but those damn 5-inchers are a pain.”

  “Nelly, take out a few secondaries on this one. 10 percent shots if you see a chance.”

  “Will do.”

  “Let me know if any more of those main turrets are powering up. How’s the Halsey doing?”

  “Not so good,” Penny reported.

  “Engineering, what can you give me?” Sandy asked.

  “Not much, Skipper. They got our main feed line. I’m sucking reaction mass from the secondary line, and not much of it. 15 percent at max, ma’am.”

  “XO, you have the conn. Use what we’ve got to evade.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “In a moment, I’m gonna ask you to hold her steady. You ready to do that?”

  “If you’re finally gonna off-load our pulse lasers at that bastard, you bet, ma’am,” came back cheerfully.

  “Sensors, talk to me. How’s the flag doing at recharging his main battery?”

  “They ought to be coming up real soon now.”

  “Pulse, you got a bead on them?”

  “Dialed in, ma’am. At least, as dialed in as I can with us doing all this bouncing.”

  “Hold your horses. I’m about to give you a steady shot. You better make it worth our while.” It would be a him and us situation. The Halsey would get one good shot at him. He would also get one good shot.

  “We’ll make him regret he ever came here, ma’am. Ever thought the Halsey would be a pushover.”

  “Make us proud.”

  “They’re charged, ma’am.”

  “XO, one more dodge, then launch Foxers and hold steady.”

  “Bouncing now, ma’am. Steady now.”

  “Fire.”

  “All pulse lasers firing, ma’am.”

  The lights went dark in the Halsey’s CIC. “We’re hit aft, ma’am. Engine room’s off-line. Hit forward, ma’am. Bridge is off-line. So are lasers.”

  Then a laser cut through the CIC, and Sandy had just enough time to reach for the activation handle on her survival pod.

  “The Halsey’s off net, Kris,” Penny said softly.

  “But they got the flag. It’s really cooking,” Tom reported.

  Two more 18-inch turrets had taken hits while they were open, aiming for the Halsey. The battleship beside them was sparking into space. One of the yachts, freed from chasing the ship Luna had nailed, cut in to slice off two engines. Raw plasma shot into space . . . and for that moment, as the ship slowed in its evasions, Phil ducked the 106 boat in for a solid shot up its stern. He got it, but the next warship in line got a shot at Phil, and his boat shot away, out of control and spewing life pods as its plasma slowly ate it from the rear.

  It was a melee of the worst order, with small boats going at the large ships like dogs against bears. The bears were hurting, three of the battleships were now vapor, but there were oh so many dogs down, too. “Tom, we’ve got to get the flag.”

  “I hear you. Fintch, move us up the line.”

  They danced into the fight around the middle surviving ship, dodged several shots from its 5-inchers, took out a turret that offered them a shot, and wound themselves into the battle royal around the flag just as the survivors of Kris’s old Division 2 blew out the last battleship in line.

  It cost them. Only one, the 108 boat, was still in good shape . . . and
it was about drained dry. “Rendezvous with a tug that’s close at hand if you can,” Kris ordered. “Recharge.”

  “Kind of makes them a target,” Tom said.

  “It’s up to the rest of you to keep that other battlewagon too busy to bother the 108,” Kris said.

  They piled in, but one yacht was immediately shot out, and the last runabout died as well. Still, the others hung at its neck, dogs gnawing at a bleeding bear. The bears were dying, but so many of the dogs were dying with them.

  Kris dialed her commlink to a guard channel. “This is Princess Kristine Longknife, commanding forces defending Wardhaven, calling to those forces that have invaded our orbit and demanded our surrender. You are defeated. Only two of you survive. Are you prepared to surrender?”

  “Never,” the possibly not future governor of Wardhaven said.

  “You are still shooting at us,” the Admiral said, waving the governor to silence. “Are you offering me a cease-fire?”

  “Not unless you dump your reactors to space,” came right back at him.

  “Then how can I leave orbit?” he said, closed his commlink, and turned to the Duty Lieutenant. “Track this signal.”

  “Your ships are never leaving this orbit. You and your crews can arrange transportation on any number of liners out of here. Certainly the guy who sent you will pay your fare.”

  “We have her, sir!”

  “Fire.”

  “Kris, you’ve talked long enough to triangulate on.”

  “Evade, Nelly,” Kris ordered. “Fire at what shoots at us.”

  The 109 dropped out from under Kris, all lasers firing, but something was wrong. Even as a cheer went up on net, the hull of the 109 rang like a bell, then groaned as lights flickered.

  Tom shouted, “No!” as the overhead bent above Kris and bowed. The skipper of the 109 launched himself from his seat. In the failing light, Kris was just able to see him hit the quick release on Penny’s seat restraint, knock her from her station as the overhead reached down to meet the deck.

  Then power failed, even auxiliary, and Kris was plunged into darkness. Beside her, Fintch gasped in pain. Somewhere others were screaming. And on her face Kris felt the wind of air racing out into the vacuum of space. NELLY, SEAL THE HULL.

  KRIS, I CAN ONLY MOVE THIS DUMB METAL ONCE, WHAT IF—

  SEAL THE HULL NOW, OR WE’LL ALL BE DEAD.

  HULL SEALED.

  CAN YOU TURN ON SOME LIGHTS?

  THE NET IS DOWN. I COULD ORDER THE RAW MOLECULES OF THE HULL, BUT I CAN NOT TALK TO ANYTHING SMARTER ON THIS TUB. Nelly sounded in a real huff.

  Kris felt around. Nothing on her station responded. She reached for Fintch’s station; it was knocked sideways. Kris found Fintch’s hand; it was slippery. Blood? “Nelly, I could really use some light. A little hologram, please.”

  A tiny ball danced in front of Kris. It gave almost no light, just enough to see a bloodied hand protruding from the wreckage. Kris spotted an emergency light where the bulkhead should have been. It floated free now on wires. Kris had to fight free of her own seat; the release handle was bent double. Out, she worked her way, hand over hand, through the wreckage of the bridge to the unit. Its switch said it was on. She grabbed it by one handle and switched it off, then back on. Nothing. Holding it solidly in one hand, she hit it hard with the other.

  She was blinded as the light came on.

  Blinking, Kris looked around. The 109 must have been hit and folded double somewhere between the bridge and her weapons bay. Kris ignored the hanging gear and wires and looked for people. Penny was pushed up against the hull by the caved-in overhead. Where Penny’s station had been, Kris saw . . . No!

  She kicked off from the bulkhead and reached Tom in a second. His lopsided grin was there, but his chest disappeared under piping and power lines that belonged on the overhead, not down, crushing breath from him.

  Kris checked for a pulse, for breath. For any sign of life.

  Nothing.

  “I can’t see,” Penny whimpered softly between chattering teeth. “Is Tom okay?”

  A glance over the wreckage showed Kris where it held Moose. Blood had quit spurting from his throat but hung in strange art about him and the wires of the station he had brought aboard such a short time before. Kris turned to the one person on the bridge who could benefit from first aid.

  “Your leg looks broken. Does it hurt?” she asked Penny.

  “I guess it does. I can’t move it. I can’t move much of anything. Could you move me where I could hold Tom’s hand? I can’t see him. I can’t hear him. Is he hurt bad?”

  Kris searched through all her years of glib political chat. “Tom’s not in any pain,” was what she finally said.

  “I’m glad,” Penny said softly, apparently not surprised at the answer. Then added, “I wonder why they haven’t blown us out of space. Finished us off. They always gave the coup de grâce to the other ships they damaged.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’m intel. I’m supposed to notice things like that.”

  “Then maybe we won,” Kris said.

  “I wish winning didn’t hurt so much.”

  “Is there anyone there? Anyone who can help us?” Kris called. No one answered.

  A forever time later, with the air tasting stale, there was noise along the outside of the hull. First a scraping, then a drilling. Finally there was fresher air.

  And sound. “PF-109, this is Tug 1040 again. We’re gonna put you in a salvage bubble before we try to open any of you up. Hold on tight. Can’t be more than five minutes more. Trust me, the Johanson Brothers Salvagers are top-notch. They’ll be with you in no time.”

  Kris couldn’t get any answer through her dry throat. Past the ache that bound her chest in iron straps. It was as much as she could to lie carefully along Penny’s mangled body as close as she dared, sharing what body warmth she could.

  Kris tried to avoid the cheerful stare frozen on Tom’s face. She had no answer for him any more than she’d been able to find one for poor Eddy. Why are you there . . . dead? Why am I here . . . alive?

  It had been a while since Penny did anything but shiver.

  “Hold on, gal, just a bit more,” Kris whispered. “Tom wouldn’t want you to give up this close to help. Hold on.”

  20

  Kris lay facedown on her bed, listening to her breathing, the beating of her heart, the crinkling of her dress whites. Listening for anything . . . doing nothing.

  The back of her ribbons bit into her flesh, but that sharp prickle was almost a friend. Not at all like the dry hurting that ate big chunks out of her heart and would not go away.

  Tom’s funeral had been beautiful.

  Kris had never attended a Catholic funeral. Father didn’t feel they were a good family photo op, so Kris had been spared the empty political eulogies. In something both poetic and ugly, the young priest who’d come all the way from Santa Maria for Tom’s wedding was there to say his funeral Mass. No. The priest had been quick to point out this was a Mass of the Resurrection, a celebration of Tom’s life and all their hope for the life to come. That was when Penny lost it.

  Penny had struggled so hard to be the solid Navy widow, stiff upper lip and all, but the promise of life to come and the way the woman priest included Penny’s own minister in this Celebration of Hope was too much. Maybe it would have been different if Penny’s sight was still gone, but it was back, and the day was spring beautiful, the sky that horribly deep blue that seems to go on so far that you can almost see heaven. And fluffy white clouds, perfect for the angels themselves to perch on. And the saints, too, said the priest in her Irish brogue.

  And someone found a piper to play “Amazing Grace” and “You’ll No Come Home Again.” And a bugler played taps.

  And everyone cried. Everyone but Kris.

  She stood, dry-eyed through it all, a good Longknife, watching yet another brave soldier who’d died for the Longknife legend go down into the grave. How many had Grampa Ray burie
d? Grampa Trouble? How many more would Kris bury if she followed the family trade? She dared not let herself feel for every one of them. Cry for every one of them. There’d be nothing left of herself if she did. Maybe she’d risk crying in private.

  Only now she was alone, and her eyes were no more damp than a desert. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel. Good God, the pain in her chest was almost unbearable. But of tears—nothing.

  “You in there, Kris?” Jack called from the door.

  “Go away.”

  “Thought I’d find you here. You voted yet?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to.”

  “Your dad won’t be too happy about that.”

  “He can win or lose without me. He better.”

  There was a jiggling of the door handle. “Door’s locked.”

  “I like it that way.”

  “Nelly, would you please unlock the door?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “No, Nelly,” but Jack had the door open already.

  “Sorry, Kris.” The door clicked back to locked.

  “Fat good that does, Nelly. The horse is in and the barn’s burned down.”

  “Sorry, Kris,” Nelly repeated but she didn’t sound at all contrite. One more thing Kris needed to talk to Auntie Tru about fixing. Assuming even Tru could fix Nelly now.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Jack asked, taking a chair at the foot of Kris’s bed.

  “Year or two ago,” Kris guessed. “None of your business.”

  “Well, based upon early returns, your physical well-being just might become my business again, despite your refusing to vote for your dad.”

  “Maybe the party will choose a different Prime Minister?”