Defiant

8

Kris wanted to bury herself in getting the 109 into fighting order. What she knew she had to do was find the manager of Nuu Enterprises on station and see just how far she could bluff him. ''Jack, you're with me. We're borrowing the Cushing's station runabout. Penny, you want to tag along with Tom. The 109's new intel station needs checking out.''

''You don't see a problem, me being on Tom's boat?'' Penny said, her eyes following her husband of only a few hours.

''Don't see why not. And the 109 may need someone soon to do that battle intel job you did for us off Turantic.''

''Yes,'' Penny said, worrying her full lower lip. But she set her shoulders and hurried after her new husband.

Kris turned to Jack. His eyes followed Penny with a sad smile. ''Some honeymoon those two are getting,'' he said.

''At least they're together. Now, speaking of together, I need for you to sneak me through the gate at Nuu Docks.''

''Shouldn't your stockholder's IDent do that for you?''

''Rather not leave a trail. Remember, I'm not up here, as far as the local net is concerned.''

''So I'll just talk my girl in there,'' Jack promised. But that turned out to be easier said than done. The guard there was not a newly hired rent-a-thug. The clear-eyed bantam brunet sported a sleeve with corporal strips and two service hash marks for six years plus on the job. She listened to Jack's song and dance… smiled … and called a supervisor.

The sergeant sported a scowl. And five service hash marks, three good conduct medals, and several more medals for sharpshooting that added emphasis to the automatic slung at her waist. Her right hand never got very far from its well-worn grip.

She cut off Jack's bit of fiction fast. ''You're Jack Montoya. You were Kris Longknife's Secret Service agent before the latest brouhaha,'' she said, consulting her clipboard.

She eyed Kris. ''And you don't want to show me any ID.''

''I would prefer not to.''

The sergeant's frown deepened. ''You understand this is a secure area, governed by forty eleven laws passed by several parliaments not all of which were run by Longknifes.''

''Yes.'' Kris nodded.

''Princess Kristine, I could lose my stripes for letting you in, but I'm going to assume that you've got a good reason for what you're doing and it don't include messing with my already miserable day.''

''I do, and it doesn't,'' Kris said simply.

''Okay, you may pass,'' the sergeant said, then turned to the other guard. ''Corporal, what you just saw, you forget. You don't talk about it tonight to no one. When it hits the newsies, you express surprise. And you suck it for all the free beers you can get a few years from now.''

But as Jack drove around the corner, Kris glanced back. Now the sergeant was following her with her eyes, and talking to thin air… or someone on net.

Jack drove straight to the admin center. It was a Saturday, and battleships were inbound; Kris didn't expect to see much activity. So she was surprised to find every fourth desk busy. The work on the Firebolt's drive had taken her to the dock superintendent's office, so she walked straight to it.

It was empty, but the deputy superintendent's office was next, and the door was open. She entered to find him head down over a cluttered desk. She rapped the doorjamb for attention.

''You made good time,'' he said without looking up.

''Not a lot of traffic.''

''You should see this place at shift change Monday.''

''What will it be like this Monday?''

He looked up. ''Now that is an interesting question. How should I address you, Shareholder, Princess, Lieutenant?''

Good man, rather than assume he knew her, or worse, force her into his own pigeonhole, he asked. ''Princess at the moment. Shareholder if I have to be. What do you know of the situation?''

''Nothing that I much like. Battleships headed our way, threatening to turn my place of employment into drifting space junk. Present political lash-up is running around in circles. Military seems to have been told to stand down, don't do anything that eliminates political options. Did I miss anything? By the way, would you like to sit down? You too, Agent Montoya.''

''Got it all in one,'' Kris said, moving toward the offered chair. Jack shook his head and remained at the door where he had a better view in all directions.

A small wooden sign, half buried on the desk, identified its occupant as Roy Buanifanesto. When he stood to offer Kris a hand, he came up short a foot on her and appeared comfortably middle-aged. Hand shaken, he sat back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, his hands behind his head, and smiled. ''So, what are we going to do while Roma burns and Nero's grandkids fiddle?''

''Keep more of Rome from burning, if we can,'' Kris said. ''There's a dozen fast patrol boats docked over at the Navy base.''

''The mosquito fleet Pandori says are toys for playboys?''

''They need to be brought up to fighting trim. Fast.''

Roy pursed his lips. ''Small matter-antimatter motors. How are they running?''

''Cold steel.''

''Ouch. Properly mothballed?''

''Turned off like a light switch. After all, nobody needed those stinking playthings,'' Kris mimicked the bad press.

''Double ouch. You'll need to get them over here for work.''

''That's not going to happen. Nothing we do can look hostile to the battleships coming in or the politicians on the ground.''

''Oh, right. That general stand down order. We don't have much military work in the yard just now. Anything that could be gotten out was rushed off to Boynton, and we're kind of trying to put all the pieces back together of what we begged, stole, or borrowed to get them there. You're telling me we're back in the beg, steal, and borrow business again, but pianissimo,'' he said, bringing two fingers together softly.

''Very quietly.''

''Who pays?''

Kris knew that question had to come next. If it hadn't, the shareholder in her would have had to recommend the man be fired. Still, the princess in her wouldn't have minded him bringing it up later. ''Do you have a secure line to Grampa Al?''

''I suspect he's waiting to find out why you were sneaking into the yard with no data trail. Computer, is Mr. Longknife online?'' A holographic image of Grampa Al appeared over one of the few clear places on Roy's desk.

''Hi Grampa,'' Kris said.

''I won't say it's nice to see you. You only seem to pop up when you want to cause me trouble,'' said Alex Longknife, paternal grandfather to Kris and the wealthiest man on Wardhaven. Probably one of the ten richest men in human space.

''You really should organize some family picnics or beach parties so we can get together for some quality time.''

''And where would the quality be in wasting time with my father or my son?'' Kris could agree with him where her father was concerned. What it was between him and Grampa Ray was something she couldn't even begin to grasp.

''You know we have a problem?''

''Looks like the Peterwalds have got some Greenfeld warships headed our way, and that bunch of dunderheads at Government House have really screwed up this time.''

''You know it's the Peterwalds. I'd heard that the ships weren't sending any IDs.''

''They aren't. But who else would put together that problem on Boynton and turn out my son's government? I'll bet you when things are done that we'll find some Peterwald money behind several of those votes that turned at the last moment. I should have known it.'' Which left Kris wondering if Grampa Al ever paid for any particular votes he wanted. Hmm.

Kris shrugged. ''Whoever the battleships belong to, they need to be stopped. You don't happen to have a few spare battlewagons stashed anywhere in the yard, do you?'' When last they'd talked, Grampa Al had bragged about making his own personal world safe and secure. Making himself untouchable. Living on a world run by Peterwalds didn't sound all that safe for a Longknife. Definitely not for Kris Longknife.

''No. Something I've overlooked. One has to expect that you'll get something back for your taxes.''

''I'm going to lead the PF squadron out against the intruders,'' Kris said.

''You can't. That's suicide.''

''I think the odds are better than that. I'd like to make them better still. The boats are in cold storage. They need some quick maintenance. Can we call on Nuu Docks?''

''You can have anything Nuu Docks has.'' The hologram image turned toward the deputy, ''Roy, you hear, they can have anything they need.'' Then the image was back, eye to eye with Kris. ''But only, Kris, only if you agree not to go out with them.''

''Grampa, I can't.''

''Why not? You're not going to tell me that you're the only person who can skipper a fast whatever-that-thing-is. There are other skippers. They've got deputies or assistants backing them up. I pay to get the boats back up and running. I get to keep my granddaughter out of this damn crazy shoot-out.''

Kris blinked. Good Lord, Grampa Al made it sound so logical. He'd trade his money for her life. Simple negotiations. For a second she wanted to say yes.

Only for a second. She saw herself on the dock, standing maybe with Chandra's kids, waving bye to their mom. Kids did that. And civilians like Chandra's husband.

Lieutenants did not.

Not Lieutenants who commanded one of those boats.

''Sorry, Grampa. No deal. Like everyone else, the boats had orders to stand down and make nice-nice. I've already invoked Princess to take command of the entire squadron. To order these preparations. If I don't lead them, they don't go.''

''God damn it, young woman, you're sounding like my father.''

''Sorry, Grampa, it's the only way.''

''That's what he'd always say. ‘It's the only way.' Damn, damn, damn. Just once, I'd like to see someone come up with another way.''

''I know a whole squadron full of folks who'd love to see someone come up with another way,'' Kris said. ''Besides, Grampa Al, if you buy me out, what are you going to tell Gates and Rockefeller and Alexander next time you see them? They aren't getting a chance to buy their sons, their daughter out of this.''

The hologram of Grampa Al looked away for a long moment. When he looked back, he looked very old. ''Roy, my yacht is tied up somewhere up there. It's got defensive lasers of some sort or another. Get it out of wherever it is, shanghai a crew for it, and let the princess here use it for anything she can dream up. Talk to the captain of my yacht. He may know the skippers of other armed yachts who aren't bugging out for other planets. Maybe Wardhaven isn't as defenseless as some people think.''

''Yes, sir.''

''Call back anyone you need to work on the boats. Give the princess here anything she wants. Do it carefully; the last thing we want is to have the newsies sniffing around. We have to keep it quiet from those damn gunboats and from what passes for a government down here.''

''Yes, sir.''

''Thank you, Grampa. That's very—''

''Patriotic of me,'' Grampa Al snorted. ''It isn't just you folks in uniform who believe in what the flag stands for. We all do, just in different ways. Oh, Roy, keep a running tab on what this all costs. If my son gets his act together and wins this election, we can probably get his government to pay for this.''

''Yes, sir,'' Roy said, looking a bit embarrassed at Kris. But only a bit. He was a businessman.

''Anything else?'' Grampa Al asked.

''Nothing I can think of. If I do, I'll have Roy call you.''

''My boss is on vacation. Should I call him back?''

Al's hologram shook his head. ''If he comes back, we'll be raising a red flag. No, Roy, you get to handle this one. Enjoy it. You'll be working directly with a young, hot-blooded Longknife. You got any boys her age and marriage high?''

''No sir, I just married off the last boy.''

''Lucky man. Now, if you don't mind, I have to liquidate some real estate holdings a certain busybody pointed out that I own. Amazing what pops up when someone goes digging.''

''Sorry about that,'' Kris said.

''I doubt you are. Do you really think it will make any difference to the people living there who owns them once I've sold my holdings?''

''You could keep them and improve their condition.''

''Survive this crazy charge of yours and drop by my place. We'll spend some quality time with me explaining to you the marketing realities that make slums happen.''

''I'll do that,'' Kris said as the hologram collapsed.

Roy sat up in his chair. ''We just had to redo the bathroom on the boss man's yacht, so I have the specs on my own computer. Won't have to access any database, raise any flags. Now, Your Highness, let's go see what we can do for your squadron.''

''Let me drive,'' Roy said, slipping into the front seat of the runabout. Instead of heading for the front gate, he headed elsewhere. ''I bet we can open Gate 5,'' he said as he drove a large six-lane street that headed straight for a four-meter-high fence that loomed between the Navy base and Nuu Yards. As they approached, a gate started rolling open.

''Yep, Navy forgot to lock down their side.'' Roy flashed a smile. ''Guess the new hired security missed a check box once we closed down the gate on our side.'' Well, at least Kris wouldn't have to fake her way through the main gate again.

In the Cushing's wardroom was another surprise. Poring over readers with the Commodore and Commander Santiago was Captain van Horn, the Navy station commander. He looked up, took in Kris with Roy at her side, and scowled as if they'd committed a particularly aromatic social blunder.

''We used to have mines in orbit,'' the Commodore was saying. ''I remember them being removed, thirty years back, as a hazard to navigation in peacetime. Are they in storage somewhere?''

''They were,'' Captain van Horn said. ''Sometime before I took over the station, they were sold as overage and dangerous. I think they were turned into fertilizer.''

''Oh,'' said both commanders.

''You're back,'' the Commodore said, spotting Kris.

''Grampa Al was available and authorized full cooperation by Nuu Docks,'' Kris said.

''Though he would prefer if she were left on the pier when these boats sail on their suicide mission,'' Roy pointed out.

''Hurrump,'' van Horn said. ''So you'll lead, Sandy?''

Santiago ignored the question. ''What'll it be, Longknife?''

Kris swallowed. Was it pride, folly, a death wish driving her? ''I sail on the 109.''

''Assuming she sails,'' the Commodore said.

''Boat got a problem?'' Roy asked with an eager grin.

''Total failure in the magnetic containment field.''

''No problem,'' Roy said, bringing his commlink up. Then stopped. ''You got a runner that you can send to the yard?''

''Enlisted. Officer. My XO if necessary?''

''Your XO, if you don't mind. I've got a new deputy running the Planning and Estimations Branch. I'll have him get over here with everything he's got awake, clean, and sober this afternoon.''

''Helen,'' the Commodore hollered.

A gray head, another retread back from retirement, appeared in the wardroom doorway. ''You bellowed, sir.''

''Shag it over to the yard. Planning and Estimations. Wake their boss, his crew, and tell him his boss wants him over here five minutes ago.''

''On my way,'' Helen said with a half salute.

''I've got your runabout,'' Jack said. ''I just came from there. I can probably get you there and back fastest.''

''Take you up on that,'' Helen said, and they both were gone.

''So the PF skippers aren't waiting until morning to let you know their status,'' Kris said, joining the circle.

''Not for show stoppers,'' the Commodore said. ''I got four boats so far with major problems: 109 and 105 engines, 103's laser capacitors, and 102 started tearing out its lasers.''

''We can manage all that,'' Roy said.

''Grampa Al also donated his armed yacht,'' Kris said.

''So you can lead from the lap of luxury,'' van Horn growled.

''No,'' Kris said. ''But I wondered if the target drones might be a bit more persuasive if their gear was working from a gunned yacht rather than towed behind a destroyer?''

''There'd be more power for the jammers and maskers,'' the Commodore said, rubbing his chin.

''The yacht's two small 12-inch burst lasers are pretty distinctive and not much use at long range,'' Kris said.

''We could add some 4-inch secondaries I have lying around the supply depot,'' van Horn said. ''If Al Longknife won't mind us mussing the finish on his toy, we could hitch them in.''

''My understanding is that we can do anything we want,'' Roy said. ''Now, you don't want to move any Navy into my yard, and any civilian boats can't show up at your piers, so I'll park any yachts at the piers right next to your fence.''

''We'll have to open Gate 5,'' van Horn said with a frown.

''Nope, not necessary.'' Roy grinned and filled the Captain in on the shortcomings of his rent-a-security.

''If I had my Marine detachment,'' the Captain sputtered, then paused. ''But if I had my Marines, we wouldn't be in this mess. Very good, Superintendent. However, Commodore Mandanti, I think we can do better than using your MK VI decoys. We've got some spare MK XIIs lying around the station now that the fleet's out. I'll talk to the skipper of the reserve squadron that runs them.''

''Another person to bring into our strange twist on our stand down orders,'' Sandy said.

''I'll have my XO talk to her. She's his wife. I'm sure she can persuade her ragpickers that now might be a fun time to put in some active duty to help us close down the base. Make it nice and properly unthreatening,'' he finished with a snarl.

So civilians who'd kept a uniform in the closet would be asked to crew lightly armed yachts, faking it as light cruisers, intentionally drawing the fire of battleships to distract them from the fast patrol boats that might—just might—do the battleships some damage.

We're all crazy.

Wonderfully crazy.

Van Horn brought in an Army Colonel, head of the supply depot and armory next door to the Naval station. And brand-new AGM 944s were towed through another improperly locked down gate to be parked under lock and key in a building across from the PF piers. Even boats that had no power to move got ready to be deadlier than they ever had been before.

Exhausted, Kris accepted Santiago's offer for a place to crash that night. She found herself back in the stateroom she'd had for the trip out to Hikila and back, with Jack across the narrow passageway from her. She checked in at CIC before calling it a night. The lead battleship was still broadcasting its demand that they surrender. ''You want a news feed?'' the Duty Lieutenant asked as Sandy ducked her head in the CIC.

''Nelly could do it better and faster,'' Kris said.

''Yes, I could. The space elevator was closed at 8:30 p.m. for technical difficulties.''

''Right,'' Kris said, ''but that's going to make it harder to get work crews up to the yard.''

''Not really. They have to make test runs while making repairs,'' Santiago said. ''We'll see who are on those runs.''

''King Ray has requested assistance from all United Sentient members,'' Nelly said. ''No reaction yet. There are unconfirmed reports that two squadrons, twelve battleships, have been ordered back from Boynton, but no one at Government House will comment. This is interesting. There was a background briefing from a high military official saying that all President-class battleships in human space are accounted for so that the rumors that these ships approaching are super battleships must be discounted.''

''Someone has more faith in intel than me,'' Santiago said.

''And hasn't seen my passive electromagnetic take,'' a tech said, tapping his readouts.

''Wonder who fed that leak?'' Kris muttered.

''Wardhaven stocks are plummeting on the interplanetary markets, Kris. This being the weekend, markets here are closed, but after-hours trading has been suspended. There are reports that automatic tellers are restricting withdrawals.''

''Sounds like standard financial protections,'' Kris said. ''Any specific reactions from people?''

''No, they're going about their weekend,'' Nelly reported.

''Half probably don't even know about this. Won't know until Monday. Any more info on the intruders?'' Sandy asked.

''Not much, Captain.''

''Nothing to match them to any specific warship construction over the last five, ten years?'' Kris asked.

''Well, maybe, maybe not,'' the Lieutenant said with just the hint of a grin. ''Beni, talk to the ladies.''

''Yes, sir, ma'ams. Well, electronic countermeasures take a lot of data analysis. And you can't analyze data without moving it around. That makes noise.'' The young technician rapped a screen where a dozen colored columns moved up and down spasmodically. ''Every design of storage media is just a bit different. My old man analyzes them for Consumer's Union to see how long they last, but he and I've been doing a bit more work. Seeing if we could get a signature off them.''

''From here you can't ID storage media!'' Kris said.

''Ma'am, I got an ID on you and that fancy computer around your neck when you were two piers down.'' The kid grinned.

''Who made the storage on our intruders?'' Santiago snapped.

''Peterwald Computing Unlimited,'' the technician shot back.

''Peterwald,'' Kris breathed. ''Grampa Al thought that we'd find a Peterwald at the bottom of this. I thought he might just be seeing old family ghosts.''

''Sometimes old family ghosts don't stay in the closet where you want ‘em,'' the skipper said. ''Don't take it personally, Kris. If Greenfeld can occupy Wardhaven, they'll take over most of King Ray's United Sentients within a year. Add ninety planets to their sixty, seventy, whatever their count last was, and they'll have Earth in five years. Damn, they played us but good.''

''I need to get this to my father.''

''Call on my phone,'' Beni said, offing his commlink.

''I'm not sure,'' Kris started.

''Ma'am, me and my pop don't much like folks listening in on our conversations. Trust me, what you say on that link will be private. And besides, who's gonna bother listening in on a phone that belongs to some 1/c Electronics Tech? The newsies got better things to do with their time.''

''You can bet on Beni,'' the Duty Lieutenant said.

Kris took the phone, asked Nelly for her security code, then for the special number Honovi reserved for calls from his wife. It was a lousy trick to use Rose's number, but…

''Things are really busy here, honey,'' Brother said a moment later. ''I'll have to call you back.''

''Things are busy here, too, but we need to talk,'' Kris said.

''Where are you?''

''That's not something we need to talk about just now. But someone I'm talking to just told me something about the approaching luxury liners that I thought you might like to know.''

''Luxury liners?''

''Yeah, the ones transmitting love letters,'' Kris said, trying to use code obvious to her brother but not-something that would attract the attention of search bots.

''Oh, those liners.'' Brother might be slow; he wasn't dumb.

''Seems the recording media they use was all made by Peterwald Computing Unlimited.''

''Them,'' Honovi said, not repeating a word that might raise a flag to the wrong searchers.

''Yep. Grampa Al thought they might have an oar in our troubled waters. Here's another vote for that.''

''Father won't be happy to hear about that.''

''How are things going on that?''

''Not as well as I might wish. Father is insisting on calling a session of the ‘old folks' home.' Obviously the new guy doesn't want to. Knows he can't face a vote. Father is leading a march on the ‘old folks' home.' He's got a lot of members behind him, a majority. The new guy will have to do something.''

''What?''

''I only wish I knew. This is a horrible situation. Remember how old Doc Meade used to say we'd chosen the worst of the British model?''

Kris did; she hadn't agreed with her political science professor. If the opposition managed to bring down a government, it was only fair that they had to either form a government or hold the hot potato until after elections. But he'd brought up hypothetical situations—none of them as bad as the present—and argued the old government should be left in place until a new one took over. ''The British Empire survived two hundred years on old Earth doing it that way. Mark my words, sooner or later, our chickens are going to come home to roost.''

Next time Kris was around Wardhaven U, she'd have to look up Doc Meade and tell him she'd met his chickens—and they weighed in at a hundred thousand tons.

If she ever made it back to her old college.

''So, what will you do now?'' Kris asked her brother.

''Get back to the head of this line and say a word to Father. Keep him from digging this hole he's in any deeper. Father knows he's right and the new guy's wrong, but the other guy holds all the cards at the moment. Being right and powerless is not a good combination. Meek would do just fine right about now, but your father does not do humble pie at all well.''

''My father!''

''Well, he's certainly not acting like my father, that calm, cool, collected, and consummate politician.''

''Love you, Brother. Take care of things at your end.''

''What end are you taking care of?''

''You know that little ‘yacht' of mine I showed you around?'' Kris said, using the newsies' derogatory name for the PFs.

''Good God, woman, you're not up there, I mean around there.''

''Selfsame.''

''That's suicide.''

''I don't think so, not if I can help it. Besides, Brother, if you and Father can get your act together, remember, the alternative is either throwing in the towel or sending out the Davids to take on the … ah … big things.''

''Sweet Jesus, Sister, you almost make me want to lose this.''

''You can't lose, Brother. I'm counting on you. Unless you can pull something out of your political top hat, I'll be leading out a bunch of rebels. Don't make us be rebels against what we're fighting to defend. Please don't do that to us.''

''Sorry, Sis. I hadn't thought that through. Dear God, what a mess we're in.''

''In spades. Brother, you do your job. I'll do mine.''

'' ‘Bye, I got to run. Catch us on-screen.'' And he was gone.

Kris hung up, glanced around. ''What news do you have?''

''Three takes,'' Sandy said. The Duty Lieutenant turned them on. All three showed the Parliament Building. Scores walked. No, the camera on one screen panned back, and Kris could easily count hundreds of somber men and women in the old-fashioned suits customary to those who held seats in Parliament. Yep, Father had well over half of the members behind him. He marched at their head up the fifty steps leading to the formidable oak doors that were always open when Parliament was in session.

Today they were closed.

Father reached the top of the stairs and quickly crossed to the doors. They refused to open for him. With full drama, he pounded on them. They stayed closed. He turned to face the gathering throng of members and newsies, an old-fashioned piece of paper pulled from his pocket the only notes he'd need for what Kris knew would be one barn burner of a speech.

And Honovi caught up with him. Brother stood close and whispered something in Father's ear. The waiting media tried to capture it, but all they got was a soft buzzing. Honovi had taken the unusual step of turning on his jammer. Father must have noticed; he snapped something at his son.

''Your old man don't like your brother using a jammer, do he?'' Beni said, grinning.

''No, Father truly believes that government should be transparent. What you see should be what you get.'' Course, what you didn't see was wide open.

Honovi didn't budge. He kept the jammer on, and he kept talking. After a moment, Father put on his seriously listening face. Not the one that showed he was listening to you, but the one that meant he was hearing every word you were saying. He actually let a frown cross his face.

Father never frowned. ''Who wants to vote for a gloomy Gus,'' was his constant warning to Kris when she was new to the campaign trail at four, six. Father's frown got very deep before he nodded and let Honovi move behind him. When he faced the newsies again, he stuffed the notes of his prepared speech in his pocket. Face deadly serious, he took a deep breath.

''My fellow citizens, these are strange and perilous times, but you don't need me to tell you that. It's pretty clear to anyone with eyes to see. Ears to hear.

''These unique times call for unique measures, from you, and from those you have called upon to govern you. I came here today thinking that all of these fine people with me could jump-start the wheel of government turning.'' He turned to glance over his shoulder.

''It's pretty clear we can't.

''But as much as I'd like to hear from you, the people, the elections aren't until next week, and those ships demanding our surrender and threatening horrible destruction if we refuse, will be here in just three days.

''We need a government now.

''My son,'' he said, turning to Honovi, ''a more educated man than me, tells me that back on Earth, in perilous times such as we face, they would form governments of national unity, governments where political gain was put aside when national survival was at stake.

''Mojag Pandori,'' Billy Longknife, the consummate politician, said, waving across the street toward Government House, ''it is time we tear down the wall that we have built between us.

''Mojag Pandori, I call upon you to meet with me by noon tomorrow so that we can work out the necessary procedures for forming a coalition government so Wardhaven may face this time of crisis not divided by its past but united for its future.

''Mojag Pandori, I stand prepared to make any concessions necessary during this critical period so that we can put our people's interests first where they must be. Have to be, if there is to be any Wardhaven interests at all in the future.

''Thank you, my fellow citizens, and may God help us all.''

Applause swept the steps of the Parliament Building. Beside Kris, Sandy brought her hands together and slowly clapped. So did the Duty Lieutenant. The 1/c sat at his station, mouth open.

''He did that with no notes. I mean, I heard you talking to your brother. I saw your brother talk to your dad, but you mean to tell me that in the time it took those two to talk, and him to face the camera, he came up with that?'' the enlisted man said, eyeing Kris in disbelief.

''He is one of those damn Longknifes,'' his skipper reminded her technician.

''Yeah, I know. I heard about it. Read it in the history books. Figured it was crap and legends.''

''Sometimes it's harder to hate my father than others.''

''Yes,'' the Duty Lieutenant agreed, then flinched away from his skipper's glare.

''All right, folks, tomorrow will be an early day, and I don't give us better than two-to-one odds of getting uninterrupted sleep, so if you got a rack and eight hours off, I recommend you use them,'' Sandy ordered.

Good advice, Kris decided … and took it.