“This is just an old Engineer’s personal guess, but I’d say the calculations the metal is supposed to do automatically as to what this or that part of the ship needs for high g’s was off a bit for our rocket motors that are farthest from the center of the ship. Engine one and six got whipped around by the jinking the most. Number one failed. I think we’ll find six wasn’t that long for the world.”
“So we need to adjust the automatic algorithm for redistributing metal,” the Captain said.
“Could do that,” the Engineer agreed, his face going sour. “But I stand by my last recommendation. Take Engineering off the smart-metal regime. Set the specs for our reactor, machinery, and plasma containment fields, then freeze it in place.”
“You’d freeze Engineering in the tight combat structure?” Kris asked.
“No can do,” the Engineer said, shaking his head. “Right now, I can’t get to half of my gear to maintain it. Whoever designed the combat format for my spaces was either a midget or expected us to expand back out if we needed to repair or maintain anything. We’ll need a middle ground, something small enough to fight but big enough to work in.”
“How much bigger?” the Captain asked.
The Engineer slaved the skipper’s table to one of his readers. A schematic of the Firebolt’s engineering spaces now took up most of the tabletop. It quickly sequenced through the change from large and comfortable to combat-ready and cramped. As it expanded back out, Dale froze it. “That’s about what I think we’ll need.
“Computer, calculate the metal requirements to armor that area. Post it to the schematic.” A second later, Nelly added a list of weights to the graphic. Again, the Engineer whistled.
“A hundred tons of smart metal. You’d need that much to cover fifteen extra meters of Engineering space?”
“After the damage the Chinook took,” Kris said, damage she had done the targeting for, “BuShips wants the Engineering spaces well protected.”
“How much does a hundred tons of smart metal cost?” Dale asked.
Kris told him. He didn’t bother whistling at that one; he just looked at the Captain and groaned. “I guess I know why we’re out here trying to solve this problem.” The Engineer leaned back in his chair, stared at the lowered combat ceiling of the Firebolt, and took in several slow breaths. “Could we replace some of the smart metal with regular old metal? I mean, if I’m not going to go around rejiggering my engine rooms, we don’t need that fancy stuff.”
Captain Hayworth raised an eyebrow in Kris’s direction. She shook her head. “Nuu Enterprises has done some testing. Mixing regular and smart metal together on the same ship only seems to confuse the smart metal. They can’t recommend it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Dale snorted. “When they can charge us an arm and a leg for smart metal, why figure out a way to do something on the cheap?” Both officers carefully avoided looking at Kris. That her grandfather Al was the CEO of Nuu Enterprises and that her own portfolio was centered on several hundred million of Nuu Enterprises’ preferred stock did not prevent them from holding the usual low opinion fleet officers held of corporate practices. The Skipper was good about not saying it to her face.
Kris saw no reason to pussyfoot around her birth connection today. “My Grandfather Al is working on something that might save my father, the Prime Minister, a chunk of the Navy’s budget if you decide, Commander, the Navy should freeze the Engineering space on the Kamikazes.”
The Engineer chuckled, and the Captain rolled his eyes at the overhead. “They warned me that neither cowardice nor common sense had ever been mentioned in one of your fitness reports, Lieutenant. So, what might save me from telling BuShips that it has to totally unbalance the Prime Minister’s latest budget proposal?”
“Nuu Enterprises is testing something it’s calling Uni-plex metal. This stuff holds its shape for the first two times it’s organized, then forgets it the third time you change it.”
“Forgets it. Metal’s metal.” Engineering frowned.
“Yes, sir, but the third time, it’s more like liquid mercury than armor plate.”
“Who would want such a damn death trap?” Dale growled.
Somebody who wanted somebody dead, Kris knew from all too personal experience, but she just shrugged for her fellow officers. She still was none too sure how she felt about Grampa Al’s making a profit from the stuff that had almost killed her.
“Produced in thousand-ton lots, the Uni-plex costs about one-sixth of smart metal,” Kris told them. “When you add in the savings by it self-fabricating itself on ship, its competitive.”
“Spoken like a true Longknife,” the Captain drawled dryly.
But the Engineer was eyeing the schematic. “How much of my engine room is smart metal?”
“Computer, answer the man,” Kris said aloud. Numbers appeared on the table.
“Three hundred fifty tons,” Dale said thoughtfully.
“Plus a hundred tons of extra protection,” Kris added.
“But if we gave back three hundred fifty tons of smart metal . . .”
“And drew four hundred fifty tons of not quite so smart metal . . .” Kris added.
“Then the Navy would actually be saving money by converting the Engineering space of the forty Kamikazes,” Captain Hayworth finished with a chuckle.
“Sixteen thousand tons of smart metal would build us five or six more boats, sir,” Kris concluded.
“Got to love it when you can make everyone happy.” Dale sighed.
“From way out in left field,” the Captain agreed.
“Maybe, maybe not.” The Engineer sat up. “Has your Grandad Al checked how smart metal gets along with its retarded cousin? If I can’t order this Uni-plex stuff to fix battle damage, I’m going to have to spray in smart metal around dumb metal.”
Kris shook her head. “They aren’t that far along.”
“We can’t have this Uni-plex migrating around the boat,” the Captain added. “It could make for thoroughly unpleasant surprises.” All three officers nodded at that conclusion.
Dale got to his feet. “I got to check on the rest of my snipes, see if they’ve dug up anything new on our test.”
“Keep me informed.”
Kris stood to follow the Engineer out. “A moment, Lieutenant.” A knowing smile crossed the Engineer’s face as he closed the door behind him. Kris turned to face her Captain, going back to a brace that would have made her DI at OCS proud.
“Once more, Lieutenant Longknife,” the Captain began,
“you have succeeded in turning insubordination into a virtue.”
Kris had no answer for that, so she kept her mouth shut. “One of these days, it will not be a virtue. One of these days you will discover why we do things the Navy Way. I only hope that I will be there when you discover that . . . and that too many good spacers don’t die with you.”
Again, Kris had no answer for her Captain, so she used the Navy’s all-purpose response: “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Kris went. Once more she’d been raked over the coals for doing the right thing the wrong way. Still, the Captain hadn’t been as hard on her as he could have been. At least he had dressed her down as “Lieutenant,” not “Princess.”
2
NO surprise, the yard had saved the Firebolt’s usual space alongside Pier Eight. Tied up snug by 1530, the crew settled into the along-side routine while Kris followed the Skipper and Chief Engineer into the yard to their usual meeting with the usual dock managers at the usual conference room. After two months, too much of this job was becoming “usual.”
Today, the yard team included new faces. “We watched your run,” the yard’s Project Manager said. “Figured we’d better add a few scientists to our meeting.”
“Lieutenant Longknife told me about your not-quite-so-smart metal,” the Captain said, taking in the four new members. “You working on that?”
A woman leaned forward in her seat. “My team has been see
ing what we could do with Uni-plex since Princess Longknife arranged for us to get a sample of it.” Kris gritted her teeth.
“How does it work around smart metal?” Dale said, getting right to the point. “I think my engine room is a good candidate for Uni-plex, if you can keep it contained. You can understand my Captain’s reluctance to discover the bulkhead between him and space might have acquired a bit of this stuff the next time he changes ship.”
“Our testing hasn’t gotten that far,” the woman admitted with a sour frown directed at one of her subordinates.
“When will it?” Captain Hayworth shot back.
“Two weeks, sir,” the subordinate replied. “Two weeks to finish our testing. Then another week to produce five hundred tons of Uni-plex. Say another two weeks working with you to design an approach to siphon out the smart metal and replace it with this stuff. Five weeks total.”
“Four weeks,” the Engineer answered back. “You and I can be refining the process while you’re doing your testing. Maybe less if you can get us this Uni-plex as it becomes available. I’d sure like to test this replacement process one step at a time,” he told his Captain.
“A lot of unknowns in this,” the Project Manager said, glancing at his wrist unit. “There’s also a matter of costs. These tests have already exhausted their cost centers. Who’s going to come up with the extra money?”
Captain Hayworth shook his head. “I’ll have to check on that. Who’s paying for this metal development?”
“Nuu Enterprises,” the Project Manager said and Kris nodded. Grampa Al was footing the bill for the work on Uni-plex both because he was still hoping to pin down who tried to kill Kris and, if Nuu Enterprises paid for the research, NuuE got all the profits. Grampa Al was such a warm-hearted type.
“Okay,” the Skipper continued. “That gives me one week to get approval for funds, another week to get them transferred. I’ll get back to you in a week.”
“I’ll check with you tomorrow to see how it’s coming,” the yard man said with a smile that had the proper blend of predator and supplicant that a government contractor needed.
Meeting over, they started back to the ship. “Dale, you have any questions?” got a quick negative from the Engineer. “Longknife, we might as well stand the crew down. Anyone who wants leave can have it. That includes you, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll be here keeping a good eye on the yard staff, sir.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. They never know whether they’re talking to a Navy Lieutenant, a Princess, or a major stockholder of Nuu Enterprises. Until I get money approved, I can’t risk someone taking one of your nods as a work order.”
“Sir, you’ve never expressed that concern before.”
“I’ve never had anyone at the yard call you Princess before. I don’t know who this woman is, and I don’t want problems.”
Kris didn’t know how to answer that. “I don’t need any leave, sir,” she finally concluded.
“And we probably will need your ‘special’ relationship. Just keep your distance from that science crew. Now, don’t you have a commitment tonight?”
“A ball, sir.” Kris scowled. She’d hoped the test would take longer, give her a good excuse to be comfortably absent.
“Right. So why don’t you head dirtside.”
“Sir, did my mother—”
“No, the Prime Minister’s wife has not taken to issuing me orders for you . . . yet. But my wife did notice in the gossip columns that your absence at last week’s Ball for United Charities was commented upon at length. So my personal computer, nowhere near as smart as yours, is now searching the social pages for what I suspect are your social duties. Lieutenant, we all have our responsibilities. So long as you insist on juggling Navy duties with those of a Princess, I don’t expect you to short the Navy, but I can’t afford to report to the Prime Minister or his lady every time you short the other.”
“Sir, I joined the Navy. I got drafted into this Princess stuff,” Kris spat.
Hayworth actually smiled. “We all must bear our burddens, Lieutenant. The elevator is that way,” the Captain said, pointing Kris toward the trolley line that would take her from the yard to the central station hub and thence to the space elevator down to Wardhaven.
Kris glanced at her wrist unit, which was faster than thinking, WHAT TIME IS IT, NELLY? “My mother will be happy to know I have four full hours to get gussied up for her ball. I’ll tell her my Captain shares her concerns for my social calendar.”
“Or at least his wife does,” Hayworth added as he turned toward the Firebolt.
Kris scrambled onto a passing trolley and plopped herself down in a vacant seat. She could spend the time in a pity party, not a bad idea with the mess her ship assignment was turning into. General McMorrison, the Chief of Wardhaven’s General Staff, said he didn’t know where he could dump his least-favorite billionaire Junior Officer, Prime Minister’s brat, now Princess, and, oh yes, mutineer. But Kris hadn’t picked her parents! And she hadn’t had much more choice in relieving her last Skipper.
Still, Kris had asked for ship duty. Like every other Junior Officer, she wanted it in the worst way. And she’d gotten about the worst ship duty anyone could get. With the Firebolt tied up to Pier Eight going through change drills, the crew slept aboard the station . . . and Kris slept at home.
At least in college she’d gotten to sleep in the dorm. Here she was a grown woman sleeping in the same room she’d had as a kid. It could be worse; at least Father and Mother lived downtown in the Prime Minister’s Residency.
And for this I went to college and joined the Navy!
“Kris, would you like to go over today’s mail?” Nelly asked out loud, bringing her owner out of her funk.
“Might as well. Anything good?”
“I deleted most of the junk mail. Financial reports have been filed. I will give you a synopsis Friday. There is a message from Tom Lien. I did not review it.”
“Thanks, Nelly,” Kris said with a smile. Tommy was the one friend she’d made in the Navy. Problem was, he was still on the Typhoon, and she was now on the Firebolt. That was the Navy Way.
“Hi, short spoon,” Tommy started, a laugh in his voice. “I’ve got some leave to burn.” Kris knew just where she wanted him to burn it, too.
“There’s this new planet, Itsahfine, out past Olympia. They say they’ve found some old ruins, maybe from the Three. Anyway, I’ve booked cheap space on a tramp starship, Bellerophon, and I’m headed out there for a week.” Maybe Kris would take some leave. It’d be fun digging around in stuff left behind by the ancient races that built the jump points . . . with Tommy at her elbow.
“This leave,” Tommy continued, “I’m not going near a Longknife. With luck, no one will just miss killing me, and I can actually relax.” He was probably softening this with one of his lopsided grins, but Kris didn’t have him on visual. She felt slugged in the gut. It wasn’t her fault Tommy’d been too close during three tries to kill her. He’d only been at risk for two of them. Still, she couldn’t really blame him for distancing himself from the Longknifes in general, and her in particular.
“I am sorry that Tommy feels that way,” Nelly offered. Her latest upgrade was supposed to make her a better companion. All Kris had noticed was that the computer seemed prone to arguing.
Kris shrugged. I DIDN’T EXACTLY TELL TOMMY I WANTED TO SPEND MY LIFE WITH HIM, she told Nelly. What could she expect?
A toddler, defying gravity with each improbable step, hurtled by Kris, the string to a yellow toy duck clutched in his pudgy fingers. It followed him in fits and starts, quacking in his wake. The child rewarded its noise with happy laughs.
“Hold on tight,” Kris whispered. “That’s the only way you can hope to keep ’em close.” At home in her closet somewhere must be a speckled giraffe that had once been her inseparable pal. Would people talk too much if a Navy Lieutenant/Princess suddenly started showing up with a clicking giraffe in tow?
Kris was drawn
from further reveries by the elevator station. A ferry was in the final stages of loading. As usual, Kris headed for the observation deck, while most people settled into chairs that let them ignore the fact they were dropping 20,000 kilometers in less than a half hour. Kris loved the view.
As she settled into a seat, a man in a Vice Admiral’s uniform sat down across from her. She started to rise, but he waved her down. Kris concentrated on staying out of his face by looking out the window. No view yet. The window reflected Kris’s face . . . and the Admiral’s. He was watching her. He looked familiar. Where?
Right. Scowling, Kris turned to the Admiral. “I know with the crisis, promotions are coming fast, but three months ago you were a Commander. Rapid promotion”—she took in his ribbons and the rest of his uniform, no real information there—“even for the Intelligence Service.”
The man shrugged. “A Vice Admiral interrogating a mutinous Ensign, even an Ensign whose dad is the Prime Minister, might get people talking. I figured a Commander was about the right rank. What did you think?”
Kris thought she’d had enough of this man’s games and let the angry Prime Minister’s daughter and billionaire speak. “I didn’t much like the topic of conversation, no matter who was pushing it at me. I didn’t plan a mutiny. It just happened.”
“I know that now,” the Admiral said, leaning back into his seat as the car began to move. “We’ve finished debriefing those who took your side against your Captain, and its clear you did nothing illegal beforehand. Some damn good leadership in some tough situations, yes. Few men or women could have earned the trust and respect you did. And that fast.”
“Flattery from Naval Intelligence?”
“I like to think that truth is my business. Care to make it yours?”
Kris let her eyes rove out the window. The station with its piers and ships spun above her, then quickly receded as they fell away at one g acceleration. She spotted Firebolt, still in its diminished form. Ship duty! Right!
“This a job offer?”
“Mac still doesn’t know where to assign you. You’re one of his many hot potatoes. He offered me the chance to solve one of his problems and one of mine. I can use someone with your skills and unique opportunities. Unlike Hayworth, I don’t mind you using your own pet computer.”
Kris Longknife: Deserter Page 2
