Defiant

9

Next morning Kris found a blue shipsuit outside her stateroom. After breakfast, Kris wanted to use the shipsuit as an excuse to bury herself neck deep in the recalcitrant innards of PF-109. Instead, she and Jack headed for the Halsey's CIC. The Duty Lieutenant, a diminutive blond, took Kris in with a glance, gave Jack a smile, and went back to applying silent encouragement to the three enlisted crew on the passive sensors.

The main display table showed the Wardhaven system. Six bogies, labeled Hostiles 1 through 6, blinked red not quite a third of the way from Jump Point Beta. They'd have to flip and start decelerating late today to make orbit in two days.

''If they don't flip, could they find a gravity well to slow them down?'' Kris asked.

''No,'' Nelly answered, a second ahead of the battle board.

''Good question,'' Sandy said from behind her. ''I hope you'll keep your computer out of my ship's innards. It may be standard Navy issue, but I've got it configured just the way I want it.''

''Nelly?'' Kris said.

''I wouldn't think of touching it without your asking.'' Nelly sniffed. Kris and Sandy exchanged skeptical glances.

Kris leaned on the battle board. ''I think it's best to intercept the hostiles late. Give the politicians time to come up with a formal policy. I'd much rather sail with authorization than as rebels.''

''Definitely,'' the destroyer skipper agreed.

Kris frowned at the board for a long minute. ''In the vids, the gallant heroes charge off to meet the evil assailants head-on in one great cataclysmic battle … that still manages to fill the last twenty minutes of the vid. Board, assuming we've been accelerating away from the station for ten minutes at one g, how long would we be in firing range of a battle fleet decelerating and carrying about the same velocity?''

''Large battleship lasers, three minutes from maximum range to minimum, to maximum. One-third that for secondary batteries.''

''And, of course, we'd then be on a reciprocal bearing with the battleships between us and the station,'' Kris said, grinning at Sandy. ''I did learn something during my tactical course at OCS. Not as much as I wanted, but the commander gave me one hell of a reading list. I got through most of it on the Typhoon.''

The destroyer Captain nodded. ''So you know enough not to use the vids to plan your battle.''

''And that you know a whole lot more and earned command of this destroyer when I was still doing term papers on Milton's poetry. Tell me, Commander, how do we fight this battle?''

Sandy eyed Kris for a long moment, then leaned forward to study the battle board. ''Sorry, Longknife. You played the princess card. You demanded the command. We gave it to you. You can't dodge out on it now.

''Besides, when those battleships are breathing down this station's neck, getting all dressed up to blast Wardhaven back to the Stone Age, the only thing between them having a field day and us maybe, just maybe, converting them to spare change, are those twelve PFs under your command. You're going to be the one who runs them in. You've already shown me you can do it.''

Sandy looked up, fixed Kris with eyes as sharp as any 18-inch laser. ''I watched you plan the rescue at Brisbane—and then juggle the plan as the fight came at you. The Commodore showed me the attack plan you used on him. I like that idea of going for simultaneous hits on the battlewagons. Face it, Kris, you've already shown yourself the natural leader of the PFs, and the other skippers showed they'd follow you.''

Kris opened her mouth to argue, but Sandy waved her off. ''Yeah, some needed more persuading. Hell, gal, even I did. But then you showed them how it was done. You've got them, Princess. They're yours to command, so you, by God, will command them.

''Yes, you and I and anyone else interested will come up with a plan, the best plan we can. But out there, when hell's overheating, it's gonna fall apart. And when it does, it's gonna be you and that collection of disorganized chips around your neck that are going to come up with a new plan that will work better.''

''I hope that wasn't a reference to me,'' Nelly snorted.

''You know what I mean,'' Sandy said, turning back to the board. ''Board, advance the intruders. Assume one g acceleration continues to flip point and one g deceleration up to making orbit at High Wardhaven's level. Show results.''

The board showed the track in yellow, putting time marks along the line at twelve-hour intervals. Then it adjusted the situation around Wardhaven. The yellow line met the planet just at High Wardhaven. ''Yep, they plan to take out our access to space on the first pass. Get the main yards, the beanstalk. All interstellar communications. Perfect timing.''

''Board,'' Kris said. ''Is there any other course and time track that allows for those results?''

''None that put them over Wardhaven before our fleet could return from Boynton,'' Sandy said. ''I already checked it.''

''So Mother Nature decrees where and when we fight.''

''It's often that way,'' Sandy said. ''You can't mess with the laws of physics.''

''So we fight in less than three days.''

''Yep.''

''How close to the station?'' Kris asked.

''Closer than the station folks would have it, but no closer than we have to,'' Sandy said.

''If the government chooses to fight, what're the advantages of fighting within range of the station's defenses?'' Kris asked.

Sandy frowned. ''Defense lasers have this equal opportunity attitude toward ships. If it moves, shoot it. Being Navy, I kind of object to being shot at. Really object to being shot at by my own side. No, let's back off a bit. What say we take as many bites out of the apple as we can. With luck, the station gunners will be left nibbling at a very thin core.''

''We could swing around the planet and hit the intruders as they come in. Us on an elliptical orbit.''

''That's one option. A popular one,'' Sandy said. ''But where's Milna?'' The battle board had been simplifying the situation, showing only the picture within immediate Wardhaven orbit. Now it backed off to show Wardhaven's single moon.

''Ah,'' Sandy said with a grin. ''Someone didn't do their homework, or someone set the timing without talking to a good ship driver and tactician. Poor sod. Plot me a one-g course from High Wardhaven around Milna and intercepting the intruders.''

The board did.

A green line reached out to the moon, swung around it, then headed back. It formed an acute angle with the intruder's course. ''Perfect,'' Sandy breathed. ''We can choose our place and time to intercept them. Here, three hours out. Or here, two hours out. Or here, an hour out. We decide. It's like having the weather gauge in an old sailing frigate battle.''

Kris loved to race sailboats. She well knew the advantage of the weather gauge. She also knew the risks of orbital skiff racing. ''If we engage too close to Wardhaven, on this course, any damaged and helpless ships will be on a straight course to crash and burn on Wardhaven.''

''Battle board, see what tugs are available on the station. Arrange to have them in orbit and available to rescue crews,'' Sandy said, all business in her voice.

And Kris remembered that there was a lot more to planning a battle than made it into the history books. But it would be a lot easier for her to ask her crews to give that last desperate measure if she knew … and they knew … there was a tug crew out there risking their necks to save their own. Details. Details. That was where battles were lost and won. Someone out there had six battleships and their crews working on their details. All Kris had was herself and a destroyer Captain.

A Longknife and a Santiago against six battlewagons.

Even odds.

A breathless quartermaster 3/c dashed into the CIC. ''The JOOD said I might find Your Highness here. There's problems at the Nuu Docks between the yacht crews and the reservists and their decoys. Captain van Horn and the dock superintendent suggest that you might really want to have a say-so in it.''

Kris sighed. She had a battle to plan, but she needed ships, too. Did Grampa Ray ever have to juggle like this? The history books didn't mention this kind of stuff. Well, maybe they had, and she hadn't noticed it. Maybe next time she got a chance to read some history, she'd have a lot less stars in her eyes.

Better yet, she'd have a nice talk with him real soon.

Kris turned away from the battle board. Jack came off of the wall he'd been holding up. ''The runabout's at the end of the gangway,'' he said.

Their passage through Gate 5 was delayed by a slow flow of monstrous constructs, all painted Navy gray. The 4-inch lasers Kris recognized. The huge teardrop shapes scattered among them puzzled her until Jack passed one. MK XII Training Simulator was stenciled in small letters in one corner. So that was what a real, honest-to-God target decoy looked like. It was at least four times larger than the MK VI they'd trained against.

The chief was right. They'd had it easy. Too easy?

Only time would tell.

Jack squeezed the runabout into a tiny space marked No Parking, Fire Zone, parked it, and Kris headed for what looked like a full-fledged knitting and debating society at the foot of a pier. As she approached, she spotted several medium-size hulls pulled into piers one after another. She counted five, but there might have been a sixth or seventh. Too small for freighters, they were too big for most yard craft, tugs, that kind of stuff.

Yachts? That many? That fast?

NELLY, ANYTHING IN THE NEWS ABOUT NAVY PREPARATION TO FIGHT?

KRIS, I HAVE IT FLAGGED. IF ANYTHING COMES UP, I WILL TELL YOU..

HOW'S THE POLITICAL SHOW COMING?

YOUR FATHER IS STILL TRYING TO GET A MEETING WITH PANDORI. THE ACTING PRIME MINISTER SAYS HE NEEDS MORE TIME. THERE ARE RUMORS IN THE NEWS THAT YOUR FATHER MAY HOLD A SIT-IN ON GOVERNMENT HOUSE STEPS STARTING AT NOON. HE HAS NOT ACTUALLY SAID ANYTHING PUBLICLY SINCE YESTERDAY'S STATEMENT. I AM NOT PRIVY TO ANYTHING. SHOULD I CONTACT YOUR BROTHER'S COMPUTER?

NO, IF HONOVI THINKS I NEED TO KNOW SOMETHING, HE'LL TELL ME.

Still, it was interesting. Father was keeping the pressure on Pandori but doing it at a lower level. Using the rumor mill to pressure the poor fellow rather than actually jacking him up. Father, or Honovi, was working the situation smarter, not harder.

Well, damn it, they better. I sure am.

Kris joined a mob of Navy and merchant marine sailors milling around among yard workers. They parted to let her through to the center where the real knitting, marching, and chowder society seemed to be in full session.

Arrayed on one side were six merchant officers in different uniforms, each more spectacular than the other. Yep, yacht skippers. Some were old, others young, split male, female. All looked competent and hopping mad.

Across from them was Captain van Horn. Behind him were two Commanders Kris took for his XO and his wife, the CO of the reservist detachment. Behind them in ranks were a half-dozen Lieutenant Commanders, all middle-aged, competent looking, split male, female. And if Kris's year with the fleet had taught her anything, the Navy was as steaming mad but hiding it well.

Between them stood Roy and two other shipyard types. Roy went from looking back and forth between his two hostile allies to beaming at Kris. ''So glad to see you, Your Highness,'' he said with a fervor Kris had never heard attached to those words.

''How's the morning going?'' Kris responded.

''In some ways, it couldn't be better,'' Roy said, his grin wavering at the edges. His greetings got a round of obscenities from the merchies and a gruff ''Hurumph'' from van Horn.

''Your Grampa Al got five, maybe more of his friends to donate their yachts to the present effort,'' Roy said, nodding at the merchant marine contingent.

''Glad to have you aboard,'' Kris said, with all the noblesse she could oblige.

''Maybe. Maybe not,'' a merchant Captain said stepping forward. ''I'm Elizabeth Luna, Captain of one of these tubs. We've skippered them where the owners wanted them, not always where the flight plan said, not always where it was easy to go. We know just what they can do… and can't. We can push them for as much as they'll give you. We and our crew are what you want to run these ships. Not those fancy-pants Navy types.''

''They're warships now. The Navy will crew them,'' van Horn said with about as much negotiating room as a baseball bat.

''Yes, Captain. Just a moment, Captain. May I speak with you yacht skippers, in private?'' Kris said.

She joined them in a hardly private circle, but she did have her back to van Horn. ''Listen, I can't talk openly about the battle plan, because, well, I'm still working it out. I can tell you that our plans for your ships involve those decoys that I passed on the drive over here. And we'll need these ships to follow very exact orders and draw the enemy's fire when and where we need them to. And once we've hung those decoys on your boats, they may not behave like they did yesterday. Do you understand?''

''You need people to follow orders,'' one skipper said.

''There's not going to be a lot of glory,'' another said.

''And the chances of getting killed are pretty damn high,'' finished Luna.

Kris eyed each of the six. ''I think you understand me pretty well.''

Luna turned to the others. ''Didn't expect much different when I heard a Longknife was leading it. Did you?'' All in the circle nodded. She turned to face Kris. ''Someone sold you a bill of goods, kid. You think the only ones willing to risk their skin for Wardhaven are the likes in that Navy uniform. Well, honey, as I see it, we're all up to our ears in bad. Anyone who's got a chance to do something about it ought to step up to the plate and do it. I can. I'm here. You're not gonna send me away. And me and my crew can do the best job of pushing the Archimedes through space of anybody there is.

''You got Navy gear you want operated, you put Navy folks on my boat. They do their thing. I do my thing. You give me an order, Princess Longknife, I'll do it. Or die trying. You want more than that?''

Kris swallowed hard. There it was. Solid and personal. Could she ask anything more? Could anyone? How had she become the personification of Wardhaven and freedom? She hadn't asked for it, but here it was.

''And the rest of you?'' she said, in the firmest voice she could muster.

''So say we all,'' said the one of the skippers. ''So say we all,'' said the rest.

Kris turned to face Captain van Horn. Without a word, he came to attention and saluted her. Then he did a smart about-face and addressed his contingent. ''You heard Princess Longknife. You will serve aboard the armed yachts, alongside their merchant crews. There will be opportunities for confusion and friction. I expect those challenges to be resolved. You will maintain an attitude that we're all on the same side and the enemy is out there, not here. Do I make myself clear?''

''Yes, sir,'' came loud and clear.

''Any problems that can't be handled aboard ship will be referred to your squadron Commander, and, if necessary, to me. If I can't solve your problem with your yacht's Captain, we'll bring the princess in on it. I don't recommend pissing off a Longknife. President Urm did, and they didn't find all that many pieces of him.'' Van Horn chuckled at his own joke. The Navy ranks and merchies joined in. Kris managed not to roll her eyes. Sandy smiled and gave Kris a wink.

There were times when lies served their purposes.

''You have your orders,'' the Captain finished. ''Commander, assign your officers to their ships. Chiefs, dismiss your sailors to work details.''

Chiefs began shouting orders, though Kris was none too sure just what they were. Being an officer, she didn't have to bother herself about that. Chiefs ran the Navy, and the officers just rode along. She joined the yard superintendent.

''How's your part of the job going?''

Roy shook his head. ''I have no idea. I spent all night poring over the schematics of the yachts and those MK XII decoys. The yachts fall into two main classes, but every one of them is a bit different. None have the internal space to absorb everything inside the MK 12.''

''So we weld the decoys on as some kind of figurehead.''

''Yeah. But that's gonna look as out of place as a yacht in a battle line as soon as those battlewagons get in visual range.''

''My Grampa Al would say you're telling me all your problems. You're not telling me my solution.'' Kris said. She tried to soften it with a smile.

''Yeah, I've heard the yard super quote me that, and I've quoted it down the line. Here's what we're going to do. We'll plate over this loose collection of junk into what looks to all the world like a real, live warship. By the way, what do you want? Why settle for light cruiser? Why not go for battleship?''

''Slow down, you lost me.''

''By noon today, we'll have all six yachts in air docks. In with them will be six MK XII decoys and six power barges. Those barges we usually put alongside ships that need to shut their reactors down but we don't have pier space for. This way, the yachts can use their reactors to go full bore on their engines, and the barges' reactors will feed internal power and the four-inch lasers. Maybe even those twelve-inch pulse lasers for a last gasp something. Who knows?

''Anywho. We're going to put all of this inside a false hull using up all the sheet metal I can lay my hands on. Van Horn says he has some spare lying around. Says I can have it.

''So, in say two days, we're gonna have six of the ugliest-looking ships in space, able to do God himself only knows what, with decoys aboard that may or may not mask the whole thing.''

''Good Lord,'' Kris said, ''and you came up with all this last night while I was getting a good night's sleep?''

''Sleep. You slept!''

''Yeah, it's that stuff you do in between gulping down caffeine,'' Kris said. Then something funny struck her. ''You're going to make an awful lot of changes to those yachts. I don't imagine they're going to handle anything like they used to.''

''No way in hell. Driving them will be like carrying an elephant on a skateboard while crossing an iced-over river.''

''But those merchie skippers insisted they had to keep command of their boats because they knew how to handle them.''

''Yeah.''

''Had you told them about all this rework on their boats?''

''Yeah, before you got here.''

''Van Horn knew about it?''

''Yep, that's why he started that song and dance about the Navy would be crewing the boats.''

Kris raised her eyes to the ceiling of the yard hundreds of meters above her. Had she just been had? Had they just let her paint them out of a corner they'd wanted out of?

Am I a princess or a pawn? Do I really want an answer?

''Roy, you need me for anything more?''

''Nope, don't see anymore crises on the horizon for, oh, five … ten minutes.''

She turned to Jack. ''Sir knight, would you please drive me to the 109. I need a few quiet moments getting my hands dirty.''

There was no one standing guard at the brow of the 109. No surprise there. With a crew of fourteen, everyone would be doing real work.

''I'll hang here,'' Jack said, staying in the runabout. ''If I see any MPs, I'll holler.''

''You do that,'' Kris said and boarded the elevator for the short ride down to the quarterdeck. No one there, either. She climbed the central ladder to the bridge.

Kris was wrong. There weren't fourteen in the crew. Penny was at the intel station, frowning at it as it did something. ''That didn't load right,'' she muttered, then spotted Kris. ''Captain on the bridge,'' she said.

''As you were,'' Kris said, to stop the other enlisted woman on the bridge from coming to attention, even though she was under the command console, then Kris added, ''And not really,'' to correct any misperceptions. ''Tom has the ship. Where is he?'' she asked, looking around and missing his lopsided smile.

''Aft, trying to figure out what went haywire with the damn motor,'' Penny said. ''I'd be helping him, but between him and the chief and Tononi's crew, they've maxed the engine room's space. Fintch is smaller than me, so she's with them. Me, I'm trying to make sure this mismatched collection of databases can talk to each other. Data, data everywhere, but not a bit of it will hook to anything. Oh, and getting the sensor feed to patch in. I'll be an old woman with grandkids before they talk to each other.''

''Grandkids?''

''No chance of that yet. Tommy and I have hardly managed to sleep, much less sleep together. You Longknifes sure know how to throw a honeymoon.''

''About as good as the wedding receptions you Liens throw,'' Kris said, heading aft for the engine room and uncomfortably aware that what for her was a crisis was for her friends a crisis with bloody inconvenient timing.

Now Kris climbed down the ladder. On the quarterdeck, she had to zig, open a hatch in the bulkhead that divided the tiny boat into two airtight compartments, and start down a ladder offset to one side. In the motor compartment, the matter-antimatter motor occupied center place. It also dominated the smell. In the rest of the boat, the faint hint of ozone and electronics accented the human sweat that processing could never quite get out of the air. Here, ozone and electronics blasted the nose. Today, however, human sweat dominated all.

''Damn it, that should have shown us something,'' didn't sound like her usual Tom. Maybe there was more than one reason Tom didn't want his bride down here?

''I got it where you wanted it Mr. Lien,'' sounded like a very contrite Fintch.

''She does, sir,'' was a protective Chief Stan.

''How's it going?'' Kris said, entering into the maze that passed for a PF's power plant. ''And as you were,'' she added.

''Good to see you, ma'am,'' the Chief said.

''Good to see all of you. Tom. You need a break?''

''Yeah. Chief, give everyone five. Make that ten. Can you scrounge me up a cup of coffee that's not older than I am?''

''Yes, sir. One for you too, ma'am?''

Kris didn't need more caffeine, but it hadn't taken her long to learn that, in the Navy, the exchange of coffee cups was a sacred ritual. ''Yes, thank you, Chief.''

The others left them alone. Kris took the only real chair at the motor mech's station. Tommy, no lopsided grin in sight, settled carefully on a thick bar of metal arching in a guard over a magnetohydrodynamics generator. He flipped a black box of his own design absently over and over in his hand.

Born in the asteroid belt of Santa Maria into a successful mining family, he'd learned early not to trust air, gravity, or any of the other things that mud hens like Kris took for granted. Still, Tom was the first friend Kris had made at Officer Candidate School. They'd fought their first firefight together, and he'd backed her up when she did the unthinkable on the Typhoon. And on Turantic.

And all the time, he'd always had that lopsided grin.

Not today.

''What's wrong, Tom?''

He didn't look at her. He looked everywhere but at her. Finally he scowled and looked her in the eye. ''I can't get the damn motor going. The 109 should be your flagship, and she's gonna spend the fight tied up to the pier, and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, we can't afford to be even one ship down.''

''So what do you need to get the motor going?''

''I don't know, Kris! They snuck a bunch of plumbers on board to shut down the motor. On a Saturday. When even the duty crew had been shanghaied off to straighten paper clips or some stupid duty around the station. Pandori really had it in for the PFs. Said they were just a—''

Kris had to cut this off. ''I know the political spiel, Tom. What do you need to get the ship up and running?''

''I don't know, Kris. I can't find out what's wrong. I'm trying, but I can't.''

''So we pull old components and replace them with new ones until we find the ones that are dead and the motor works.''

''That's—'' Tom started.

Kris cut him off. ''Not the way you do things on Santa Maria. I know. But Tom, I got the entire Nuu Dockyard next door with its whole workforce at our disposal. We got twelve PFs and half a dozen armed yachts to get battle ready. We got two, maybe part of a third day. Elegant ain't a word I want to hear. Quick, dirty, ugly. I'll take them all if it gets me ‘All power on-line. Ready to answer the helm.' You hear me, Captain?''

Tom breathed out what might have been an argument. With a shiver, he nodded. ''I hear you, Longknife. Loud and clear. How fast can you get me a dock crew with a full set of replacements for this haywire engine of mine?''

''How about before the Chief gets back with that cup of coffee. You can offer it to the yard boss. Tell him it was a princess's, but he can have it instead.''

''I'll do that. See what extra it gets me.''

Kris headed up the ladder. Jack didn't quite make the electric runabout lay rubber gunning for the yard with Kris's orders for not one but two engine overhaul teams, but he came close. With a sigh, Kris headed for PF-105. It was a coin flip as to how Babs Thompson would take having the dockyard folks take over her engine room. Wounded pride versus relief. Kris found the cheerleader and prom queen up to her elbows in engine room parts and studying schematics with her Chief of the Boat. She accepted Kris's transfer of a portion of her domain to Nuu Docks with poor grace, but not a word. Once the hatch was closed on Babs's exit, the Chief turned to Kris.

''Thank you, ma'am. There's nothing more dangerous in the Navy, not even battleship guns, compared to a junior officer with a screwdriver. If you'll pardon me saying so, ma'am.''

''I'll try to remember that, Chief,'' Kris said, suppressing a sigh as she remembered her own wish for a few moments alone with her boat, a chance to get her hands covered with honest dirt.