Praise for Kris Longknife MUTINEER
“A whopping good read. Kris Longknife is a gutsy, complex character with a twist of wry humor to leaven the kick-butt attitude. Fast-paced, exciting, nicely detailed, with some innovative touches.”—Elizabeth Moon
“Solid writing, exciting action, and likeable characters.”
—S. M. Stirling, author of Conquistador
“Mike Shepherd has written an action-packed, exciting space opera that starts at light speed and just keeps getting faster.”—Midwest Book Review
“This is a fast-paced adventure.”—Booklist
“You don’t have to be a military sci-fi enthusiast to appreciate the thrill-a-minute plot and engaging characterization.”
—Romantic Times
“I’m looking forward to her next adventure.”
—Philadelphia Press/Review
Ace titles by Mike Shepherd
KRIS LONGKNIFE: MUTINEER
KRIS LONGKNIFE: DESERTER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KRIS LONGKNIFE: DESERTER
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass market edition / December 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Mike Moscoe.
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1
“Okay, Engineering, let’s see if we can finish the test run this time,” Captain Hayworth announced.
“And let’s try not to blow up the ship,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Kris Longknife added under her breath. Still, she nodded agreement with the Captain of the Fast Attack Corvette Firebolt as did the others on the bridge around her. The crew attended to their duties, faces professionally bland in the reflected reds, blues, and greens of their underway stations. The cool, processed air didn’t actually smell of fear. Not quite.
The Captain turned his attention to Kris. “Lieutenant Longknife, match your board to Engineering. Inform me if you see anything wrong. And this time, only use Navy-issue gear.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Kris tapped her station, converting it from offensive weapons to a copy of the ship’s engineering station a hundred meters aft of the bridge. Everything was green. Question was, would the board show anything red before the Firebolt was nothing but a glowing cloud of dust?
The Kamikaze-class corvettes, with their smart-metal armor, were great ships to serve on during peacetime. Rather than keep the ship a cramped and crowded man-of-war, the armor was thinned out and used to expand the vessel. Kris liked her private stateroom. For the last five years as more ships of this class joined the fleet, that had not been a problem. Built as large “love boats,” they rarely converted to thick-skinned warships.
But Earth’s Society of Humanity was only a memory along with the eighty years of peace it had brought. Every newscast told of rumors of war. Wardhaven needed fighting ships.
And the last few conversions of Kamikaze-class ships into tight, small, war fighters with thick battle armor had shown a disturbing tendency to catastrophic problems with their reactors.
So the Firebolt had spent much of the last two months tied up to the Nuu shipyard docks converting itself back and forth between large and small and trying to figure out what didn’t work quite right. Solve that problem, and Wardhaven had forty good warships to contribute to the United Sentients Navy. Fail, and Wardhaven’s allies would have a very small stick to face the other six hundred planets of fragmenting human space.
And Kris might very well end up dead.
“Engineering, I show your board green,” Kris said.
“Aye, aye. Bridge sees no problems,” the Chief Engineer drawled with carefully measured sarcasm. Kris had less than a year in the Navy and had yet to meet a Chief Engineer who valued any viewpoint that originated outside his domain of reactors, generators, and the maze of superconductors that connected them.
Still, Kris had closed down two of the last five tests.
NELLY, Kris thought. ARE THE ENGINES STABLE? Facing guns and mutiny had finally convinced Kris that subvocal talk between her and her personal computer was too slow and subject to problems. In the last upgrade of Nelly’s hardware, Kris had submitted to a direct jack into her brain. What Kris thought, Nelly heard, and what Nelly heard, she was very likely to make happen. The pet computer around Kris’s shoulders might weigh less than a quarter kilo, but she was a hundred times more capable than the combined computers of the Firebolt—and fifty times more expensive.
ALL ENGINEERING READOUTS ARE NOMINAL. Nelly verified Kris’s own assessment.
WATCH THEM. IF YOU SEE ANYTHING DEVELOPING THAT THREATENS THE SHIP, TELL ME. IF TIME’S TOO SHORT, ACT ON IT YOURSELF.
THE CAPTAIN DOES NOT LIKE IT WHEN I DO THAT.
THAT’S MY PROBLEM. I JUST WANT TO BE ALIVE TO HAVE IT, Kris thought, noting that the latest upgrade seemed to have added something unplanned to Nelly’s repertoire: backtalk.
“Helm,” the Captain ordered, “hold her steady on course at one g acceleration.”
“Aye, sir. One g acceleration, steady as she goes.” The Ensign at the helm wore the relaxed expression expected, but one eyebrow lifted toward Kris. Was he counting on her to save them all, no matter what the Skipper said?
“Engineering, give me eighty percent.”
“Reactor coming up on eighty percent. At eighty percent . . . now, Captain.”
“Helm, put on one point five g’s. Steady on course.”
As the helm answered, Kris did a full review of her board. Nelly was doing the same review many times a second,
but Kris did not trust any man-made device with her life, not even Nelly. All was green. Around Kris, the ship groaned as it took on more weight. One of the freebies with the smart metal was now happening. Without human intervention, the ship automatically thickened up scantlings, added an extra millimeter to decks, prepared itself for the growing weight of equipment and crew.
“Crew, prepare for high g’s,” the Captain announced. Kris’s chair, which a moment before looked solid, began to grow a footrest for her. The headrest stretched out to match her height, a full six feet; its cushion inflated. On a Kamikaze-class, the crew didn’t require high-g stations; they made them when they needed them. And if the crew had to move, their stations just flowed along with them. Too cool!
“Engineering. A hundred percent on the reactor, please.” No sooner had the Chief Engineer reported full reactor than the skipper ordered the helm up to two g’s. Kris held her breath and eyed her board. The Firebolt’s first test cruise had ended at this benchmark; the Engineer himself scrammed the reactor.
Five seconds into two g’s, Kris let her breath out . . . and everyone on the bridge seemed to breathe easier. The Captain held this course and speed for a long five minutes as every station reported in, not just Engineering. No problems.
“Lieutenant Longknife, is space clear ahead of us?” the skipper asked.
As quickly as Kris could at two g’s, she converted a small portion of her board back to weapons and did a search sweep. “Nothing ahead for two hundred and fifty thousand klicks, sir.”
“Discharge all four pulse lasers, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” Kris answered and walked her fingers over all four of the Firebolt’s main weapons. Twenty-four-inch pulse lasers shot out into empty space, deadly for 25,000 kilometers, then slowly diverging. “All pulse lasers fired, sir.”
“Recharge lasers,” the Captain ordered.
Energy flowed from Engineering into the laser capacitors. Kris checked; there was still plenty of power to keep the fusion containment field up and direct the flow of superheated plasma to the massive engines accelerating the Firebolt at two g’s.
NO PROBLEMS, Nelly reported unnecessarily, but Kris was not about to squelch a good report.
“No problems,” Kris announced to the Captain after a thorough check of her board.
“All systems working well within their safety margins,” the Chief Engineer reported.
Captain Hayworth cracked a tiny smile; test runs two and three had not got past this benchmark. “Helm, take us smartly up to three g’s acceleration. Steady on course. Engineering, put us in the red.” Aye, ayes answered him. Kris locked her eyes on her board, now back to mimicking Engineering as her seat settled into a bed and the board slanted up to where she could easily see it. Except for the three master switches on her seat’s armrest, it would take a major physical effort to get to any of her controls. The reactor scram button was right under her thumb.
“Power flow to the lasers is decreasing. Recharge will take two extra minutes at this acceleration,” she told the Captain.
“No problem,” he muttered, his eyes on his own board.
“Three g’s it is, sir,” the Helm answered through gritted teeth. Kris didn’t much care for weighing over 170 kilos. The Helmsman, a footballer in college, was easily approaching 400. Great for crashing a line, lousy for deft movements on a control board now in his lap.
Again the Captain went down the department list. Every station reported itself nominal, if a bit on the heavy side. That put them past test four’s failure point.
“Four g’s if you will, Helmsman. Keep her very steady on this course.”
“Reactor heading into one hundred and eleven percent overload,” Engineering reported, his voice heavy with strain. “One hundred and twelve percent . . . No problems. One hundred and thirteen percent . . . All stations steady. One hundred and fifteen percent and everything is as good as it gets.”
“Very good, Engineering. We will hold the reactor there. Let me know if anything changes,” the Captain said.
NELLY? Kris thought.
THERE ARE SOME INTERESTING ANOMALIES IN CERTAIN SYSTEMS, KRIS. NONE SHOULD BE A THREAT TO THE SHIP.
Interesting words for a computer. “I show all green,” Kris said after checking her own board to verify Nelly’s report.
“Strangely enough, so does mine,” the Captain answered.
“We are at four g’s,” the Helmsman announced weakly.
Kris watched the seconds tick away on her board for a full minute before Hayworth spoke, and then it was to the entire crew. “All hands, this is the Captain. The Firebolt has now done what no other Kamikaze-class ship has done before: held four g’s for a full minute. We will complete our scheduled quals after two more tests. Helm, turn right forty-five degrees smartly.”
The Helm whispered, “Aye, aye, sir,” as his fingers stabbed at his board. Kris did not feel the ship bank around her, accommodating its human occupants’ needs at four times their weight. “On new course.”
Everyone breathed a sigh. One more test to go.
“Helm, execute jinks pattern A.”
“Jinks pattern A, sir. Executing now.”
The ship rose suddenly, attitudinal thrusters adding more weight to Kris. It jinked right, then left, then left some more, dodging imaginary laser fire.
PROBLEMS ARE DEVELOPING IN THE . . . Nelly began. Kris’s board showed green. Sucking in air, Kris’s gaze raced from green gauge to green gauge, searching for any sign of something going wrong. Nothing!
SCRAM! Nelly shouted in Kris’s head.
Kris was weightless in the dark as the ship went dead around her.
“Where are those damn auxiliaries?” the Captain snapped. Ventilation hummed as Engineering corrected the problem with the backup power. The bridge took on light as boards came alive. Emergency lights cast long shadows. Systematically, Kris studied her board; nothing told her why Nelly had shut down the test.
“Engineering, are you on-line?” the Captain asked into his commlink.
“Yes, sir. We lost no test data. I’m organizing it while my team initiates a reactor start-up.”
“Am I to understand that you did not initiate that scram?”
“No, sir. We did not hit the button down here.”
“Thank you, Engineering. As soon as you have a rough handle on your data, report to my day cabin.”
“Aye, sir.”
“XO, you have the conn. When we get systems back on-line, set a one-g course for Nuu Docks. They should have our usual berth waiting for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Longknife, you’re with me.”
“Yes, sir.” NELLY, WHAT HAPPENED? Kris demanded as she pushed away from her station and swam, weightless, after the Captain to his day cabin off the bridge. Normally, that cabin was quite roomy. Under combat conditions, it was little more than a table and four chairs. The Captain settled into his place at the head of the table as a boson announced the ship was getting under way. Kris closed the door, rotated herself as she took on weight, and stood at attention.
“Have I missed something about my ship, Lieutenant? Last time I checked, there were three scram buttons on this boat. Mine and the Chief Engineer’s, the two every ship of this class has. I know the Firebolt has a third, authorized to you because of your job as coordinator of this smart-metal test, and, I suspect, because of your unique relationship with the yard.” That was a rather original way of saying her grandfather owned the shipyard that made all the Kamikazes.
“Yes, sir,” Kris agreed, stalling, praying the Engineer would show up with whatever reason Nelly had for stopping the test only moments before the Captain could have declared them done and over.
“The Engineer tells me he did not hit his scram button. I know I did not hit mine. Did you hit yours?”
Kris’s board would show no contact between her and the red button. No use claiming she had. “No, sir. I did not scram the reactor.” Stall. Stall.
�
�Who did?”
Kris stood board straight, dreading the answer but unwilling to lie to her Skipper, certainly not going to tell a lie that would be disproved as fast as she said it.
“Whoever scrammed my engines saved our butts,” the Chief Engineer said, opening the door . . . and saving Kris’s butt. “Pardon me, Captain, am I interrupting a private counseling session?”
“No, Dale, take a seat. You, too, Longknife,” the Skipper said wearily. Dale Chowski, Chief Engineer, a half dozen oversize readers under his arm, settled into one chair. Kris took the chair across from him.
“What went wrong this time, Dale?” the Captain asked.
“Specifically, the superconductors on the containment coil for plasma headed for our number-one engine were four nanoseconds away from losing the super part of their name when the reactor scrammed.” The engineer ran a hand through his crew cut. “I take it that it was that fine computer around your neck, Lieutenant, that we have to thank for this bit of grace.”
Kris nodded. “My personal computer spotted the developing problem. It tried to advise me, but the problem came on too fast for me to react.”
IT! Nelly spat in Kris’s head.
SHUT UP, Kris ordered.
“So your pet computer was working faster than the ones in my engine room,” the Engineer finished, not missing the Captain’s scowl as he did. “Skipper, I know you don’t much like the idea of nonstandard software roaming around the innards of your ship. Can’t say I like it much either, but rather than look the gift horse we got in the mouth, why don’t we tell BuShips that we need a computer like she’s got. Hell, if she transferred off the ship tomorrow, I swear I’d go out and buy one for myself. What would a gadget like yours set a guy back?”
Kris told him the cost of Nelly’s last upgrade, minus the surgery to get the jack into her head. He let out a low whistle. “Guess we keep you around for a while.”
The Skipper’s scowl got even deeper. “Dale, what exactly went wrong from a systems point of view?”
Kris Longknife: Deserter Page 1
