Kris Longknife: Mutineer

by Mike Shepherd

  Under the ship’s normal configuration, Kris and Bo occupied separate staterooms at the opposite end of “the temple,” that space where the Navy housed its “vestigial virgins.” This was someone’s bright idea of how to keep men out of the enlisted women’s sleeping quarters. Kris assumed it worked; she’d never bothered to catch any males making the run in or out of the spaces the enlisted women shared two to a room, or, more often, one to a room thanks to the Typhoon being below even the skimpy peacetime crew authorization. Since it was work hours, Kris didn’t feel the need for a coughing fit before entering the enlisted women’s area. The iron and its board were easy to spot, and despite theatrical levels of shock and dismay among her fellow cadets at OCS that a Longknife would iron her own uniforms, Kris had gotten the hang of it quickly.

  At 1630, Kris joined the nine other ship’s officers in the hulking shadow of the Typhoon as a line of vehicles arrived to take them to the reception. The captain and XO shared a limo; Kris and Tommy piled into a reasonably clean all-terrain rig.

  At the general manager’s residency, the officers arranged themselves in rank order before entering a crowded, wood-paneled ballroom lit by several crystal chandeliers that would have been right at home on Wardhaven but seemed a bit out of place on a start-up world. Captain Thorpe in dress whites resplendent with rows of medals led his officers toward a formal reception line, civilian men in brightly colored formal wear, women in floor-length gowns from last year’s Paris designers. As the most junior members of the Typhoon’s crew, Kris and Tommy made sure no one got behind them. That didn’t last very long.

  “Longknife. Kris Longknife? That was you in that skiff this morning!”

  Kris looked around for the voice; she didn’t recognize it. A young man in a maroon tux and a drink in both hands headed for her. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “Recognize me?” he beamed.

  Raised on politics where everyone was your best friend, at least until the door closed behind them, Kris had plenty of experience watching Mother or Father fake eternal friendship. “Long time, no see,” she said, taking the offered drink.

  “Hey, Anita, Jim, you have to meet this girl. Come on over. This has to be the woman Edith says saved her.” At that shout, the receiving line disintegrated just as Captain Thorpe extended his hand to the general manager. Leaving the skipper’s hand waving in empty air, the man and woman at the front of the line headed for Kris, with everyone else only a step behind.

  “Are you the woman who rescued my Edith?” Behind the sequined gold lame dress and expensive coif, Kris saw the woman who had slogged through muck to her child this morning.

  “I led the ground assault team,” Kris answered, trying to avoid letting her small area of responsibility impinge in any way on Captain Thorpe’s overall command.

  “I told you there was a Longknife flying that skiff, didn’t I?” Kris’s unidentified friend went on. “She beat the pants off me two years running at college. I’d recognize those smooth curves anywhere. Ought to, I studied them damn near every night. Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you again.”

  Beneath that umbrella of continuous chatter, the mother introduced herself as Anita Swanson, wife of Jim Swanson, Sequim’s general manager and sister to the magpie. A servant was dispatched to wake Edith, who had gone to bed early under protest at not being allowed to come to the party. Through all this, Captain Thorpe stood ignored at the elbow of Jim Swanson’s powder-blue tux. Watching the red rise on her skipper’s neck, Kris did what she’d better do if the entire crew was to be saved from a miserable week, month, and year. “General Manager Swanson, may I present to you the commander of the ship that saved your daughter, Captain Thorpe.”

  Jim Swanson turned to shake the captain’s offered hand. “I want you to know that as the planetary leader of this colony, I have recommended Ms. Longknife for the Distinguished Flying Cross. I may not be the afficionado of skiff flying that my wife’s brother Bob here is, but I want you to know that I’ve never seen the skills that this girl put into her skiff flying this morning.” Kris started backing up, looking for a convenient place to hide. Mr. Swanson sounded like one of those politicians who knew just enough about the military to make it really miserable for anyone he took an interest in. “We were watching on the secure hookup you provided us, Captain. I was hardly breathing when your skiffs started their drop. Then this kid’s skiff takes off doing loop-the-loops, and even I can tell it’s burning reaction mass in all the wrong directions. How much did she have left when she got down?”

  “I will have my executive officer look up what the fuel situation was on Ensign Longknife’s Landing Craft Assault,” the captain said, emphasizing that it was no racing skiff Kris flew that morning. “The skill Ensign Longknife displayed today,” the skipper continued with a nod in Kris’s direction, “was in the highest tradition of the service. However, Mr. Swanson, the DFC is out of the question. That is a combat medal, sir.”

  “And those kidnappers weren’t more heavily armed than anyone the Navy’s come up against in years?” Mr. Swanson observed dryly.

  “So it seems, sir, but we were here in support of a police matter, not a military combat drop.”

  Even Kris, just getting used to being a subordinate, could read the captain’s cutoff as clearly as a brick wall. However, Kris had witnessed several of her father’s failed conversations with military types. This had all the markings of a massive one.

  “I should think, Captain Thorpe, that as the skipper of the good ship Summer Morning Breeze, you would be happy to have one of your crew recommended for a distinguished medal by the senior political official on a rapidly growing colony planet.”

  Oh boy. Kris glanced around for a place to hide. As the daughter of a prime minister, this might be fun to watch. As a very junior officer at the center of all this attention, she’d gladly forgo the honor. The ship out at the spaceport might be the Fast-Response Corvette Summer Morning Breeze to the politicians who paid for her, but she was the Fast-Attack Corvette Typhoon to the officer who commanded her. Kris had heard several variations on both names among the enlisted, but they didn’t count. She’d heard her father say, after a long, bitter budget battle, that he’d call a ship any damn thing he needed to get the votes to fund it, and if the votes were for Warm, Cuddly Koala Bear, by damn, he’d have a nice little old lady commission it that. What the Navy officers chose to call it once they took possession was their own damn business.

  It had only taken two nasty incidents before the prime minister learned to keep careful track of who he was talking to and call the ship by the appropriate name for the listener.

  Mr. Swanson was about to have such a learning experience.

  “Is that her? Is that the ‘arine that came for me?”

  Said learning experience was forestalled as a tiny form in a white nightdress with pink ribbons dashed into the room. Kris found herself gazing down into familiar wide blue eyes. This time, there was no red rim from tears. The face had been washed and was about as angelic as a six-year-old ever got. Edith now had a cuddly teddy bear in tow. Her mom bent to pick up Edith, but the girl made a beeline for Kris.

  Handing her untouched drink off to Tommy, Kris stooped, starched uniform crinkling, to swoop up the child. Edith gave Kris a hug that had to be worth all the medals the Navy ever minted. “You have a beautiful little girl, here,” Kris said to mother and father. “It was my pleasure to return her safe and sound to you. I know I speak for my marines, and the entire ship, when I say it was our honor and joy to see her in your arms.”

  That drew a unanimous round of applause.

  Made unsure by all the noise, Edith decided she wanted her mother’s arms around her. As Anita took the girl from Kris, she muttered, “If only all such horrible things ended so happily.” Then the mother blanched. “You’re Kristine Longknife. You lost your… Oh, I’m sorry!”

  Breath went out of Kris like she’d been kneed in the belly. It was so easy to handle people and their fights. Tha
nks to Father, she had plenty of experience there. But solicitous people, people who thought they knew the pain she’d been through, that was more than daunting. Steeling herself to put on the required face, Kris nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m that Kristine Longknife. And I am very glad that your family’s ordeal ended very different from mine.”

  Anita seemed at a loss for words; her husband stepped in. “I think we’re about ready to serve dinner. If Edith is ready for Miss Lilly White’s party, Nurse can put her to bed and the rest of us can discuss matters further over dinner.”

  Edith left with backward waves for all. Kris excused herself, claiming rest room necessity. There was an exit just past the ladies’ room; Kris took it. Outside, the air was warm, but an evening breeze cooled the expansive grounds of the general manager’s mansion. Hands stiff at her sides, Kris fought to organize the emotions ripping at her gut.

  That was what Judith said. Know the dragons coming at you out of your darkness. Name them if you wish, but get familiar with each and every one of them. Some were easy. The captain she knew.

  He needed his ship and the authority it gave him. He needed control of his domain. If he hadn’t chosen the Navy, he’d be a senior manager by now, maybe running his own business. But he’d chosen the Navy because it did Important Things That Mattered!

  Kris understood Swanson as well. He was Building Things! People looked up to him for what he did. Someday, they’d put a statue of him in the planet’s capital, when it had an elected legislature and full membership in the Society of Humanity.

  The captain and the general manager were Very Important People, and Kris had watched her father take the likes of them apart, leaving them bleeding career-wise and begging for help. Yes, Kris knew big men like these could be made very small.

  So why was she in the Navy where Thorpe could order her to risk her life using two-bit equipment to rescue Jim Swanson’s daughter because he hadn’t funded his own police well enough to do the job?

  Because today I did what I couldn’t do when I was ten. Today I saved Edith. If only I had been there to save Eddy.

  There it was. Still the survivor’s guilt. No matter what she did, she’d always be alive and the little boy she was supposed to take care of would always be dead.

  A knock at the door yanked Kris out of this all too familiar round of self-flagellation; Tommy stuck his head out. “Thought I’d find you here. You should get back. They’re about to officially seat us, and you don’t want to make a grand entrance.”

  “Already made one today. Think I’ll save the next one for tomorrow.”

  “By my ancestors’ count it’s already two today. And yes, even the wee people would be saving up the next one for several tomorrows from now.”

  Kris gave Tommy the grin his mixed-up mythology deserved and slipped back into the dining room before the movement to the tables was so pronounced as to make her absence noticeable. Kris was seated well away from the head table, although Bob, the magpie brother-in-law, somehow managed to seat himself next to her; that settled the table’s conversation on skiffs. Kris found that if she played it right, she did little of the talking. Magpies did have their benefits.

  Late in the meal, a marine brought message traffic for the captain. The officers grew silent at something so important it required the old formality of the captain reading a flimsy; though talk among the civilians continued undimmed. Captain Thorpe signed the receipt, then pocketed the message. The officers would learn about it in the captain’s good time.

  When Mr. Swanson stood to lay more profuse praise on them, the captain asked if he might say a word. As the skipper rose, he pulled the message flimsy from his pocket. “The Typhoon has been ordered back to base,” he said curtly, glancing around the room. “Due to the failure of the President and the Senate to arrive at a budget resolution, all ships of Fast Attack Squadron Six will stand down for a three-month storage period. Officers will be placed on half pay. Enlistments that will be up in the next ninety days will be processed immediately. I regret to say that all requests for reenlistments have been declined at the highest level. We will be raising ship at oh-six-hundred tomorrow.” That said, the captain sat down.

  “That’s impossible,” Mr. Swanson sputtered. “The Senate and the President agreed on the full Navy bill. That’s what my contacts on Earth informed me.”

  The captain did not stand, but his command voice carried to the farthest corner of the room. “You are correct, sir, as far as your information goes. However, to fund the full appropriation required an increase in taxes. The rim got the Senate to pass it. The Earth-born president vetoed it. While we are authorized to write enough checks to operate the Navy, Treasury lacks the money to cash them all. Rather than kite checks into next year, the Navy Department is ordering a stand-down.” Thorpe paused for a moment before adding, “Be glad your daughter was kidnapped this month. Next month there wouldn’t be a ship to respond.”

  Mr. Swanson stumbled back a step, as if hit by a wayward asteroid. The captain wasn’t exactly correct. Supplemental appropriations were available for emergency activity. Indeed, this entire response might be debited to that account, leaving more money to cover naval operations, but Kris was not about to correct her captain. On that note, conversation around the room limped on. Ten minutes later, Captain Thorpe asked the hostess’s leave to depart, and the ship’s officers left as a group. As the door closed behind Kris, the civilians’ conversation took off like thunder. She could easily imagine the topic.

  The Executive Officer was waiting for Kris as she crossed the quarterdeck. “Ensign, a moment.”

  Kris stayed with him as the other officers went to their quarters; he said nothing until they had the space to themselves. “Captain Thorpe has forwarded a recommendation that you receive the Navy Marine Corps medal for your lifesaving effort today. Swanson was kind enough to provide us with a copy of his write-up.” Kris nodded, but the XO wasn’t finished. He stared off across the port to the city lights of Port Swanston, Sequim’s largest city. “I hear Sequim is trying to get Wardhaven to finance some new mines along their asteroid belt. Got to look nice, him putting the daughter of Wardhaven’s prime minister in for a fucking medal,” he spat.

  Stunned at the hatred in the XO’s voice, “Yes, sir,” was all Kris managed to sputter. She’d risked her neck to save a kid’s life, not for a medal, and all anyone could see was that she was one of those Longknifes. Dismissed, she stumbled through the unfamiliar passages to her room, slammed the door behind her, then pounded on it a few times for good measure.

  “Don’t think that door will be bothering anyone for a while, ma’am,” a quiet voice drawled in the darkness.

  Kris whirled: the dark of her room showed nothing. “Lights, dim,” she ordered, trying to keep the emotions strangling her throat from turning her voice into a series of squeaks. The overhead came to life, casting low light around the rearranged quarters. Right, I’m sharing a damn room with Chief Bo.

  “I’m sorry, Chief, I forgot. I’ll be quieter. Lights, out,” Kris ordered, to hide herself.

  “Lights on,” the chief said as she threw her covers aside and sat up in bed. Worn pajamas were missing the two top buttons, and the pants were cut off at the knees, revealing more wrinkled yellow skin than Kris wanted to see as the old chief settled cross-legged on the lower bunk.

  “Honey, you look like you been rode hard and put away wet,” drawled the small, Oriental-looking woman. The question, Don’t you want to talk to your Auntie Bo? was left hanging. As far as Kris was concerned, it could hang there until it strangled. She turned to her locker to get her pj’s and to hide her face.

  Her locker wasn’t there.

  “Damn it, where is everything?” Kris exploded.

  “Scattered around the ship, as best I can tell,” the chief answered easily. “You know, ma’am, I don’t think they quite have the hang of rearranging the ship in flight. At least this time, we didn’t space anyone.” Kris was kicking her way along the panels under h
er bunk, hoping a door would pop open. Mainly just kicking. “They haven’t actually spaced anyone during a reconfiguration,” she said, then added, “have they?”

  “The Navy has its stories, and old chiefs do love passing them along to the young ‘uns. Like today. It’ll make quite a story; boot ensign goes out, saves a squad of jarheads with some fancy flying, then saves the whole damn platoon when she flies them over the minefield Gunny and the skipper were enthusiastically planning on dropping them into. Great story. So tell me, why you look like somebody stole your puppy?”

  “XO says the skipper is putting me in for the Navy Marine Corps medal.”

  “Hell, dearie, everyone on the boat knows that. Skipper ordered it about ten hundred this morning.”

  “He’s not doing it because Sequim’s general manager wanted to put me in for a medal?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Then why’d the XO…” Kris started to form the question, then stopped. Never ask a question you already know the answer to was the prime minister’s Rule One.

  “I expect the XO is riding you. Like the skipper is, maybe was. Wants to know what you’re made of.”

  A panel flew open at Kris’s last kick. The drawer was upside down; underwear cascaded onto the floor. Kris pulled a pair of gym shorts and a college sweatshirt from the pile, shoved the rest back inside, and stripped quickly. When she turned to the sink, toothbrush in hand, the chief was still eyeing her. “Why you here? If you don’t mind the question, ma’am?”

  “I wanted to do some good,” Kris said, smearing paste on the brush. “Think I did, today,” she said, jamming the brush in her mouth to cut off further discussion.