Mutineer

CHAPTER NINE

An old lieutenant at OCS had warned the candidates, ''Being in transit is the closest thing to being a civilian you can get while in uniform. And don't you smile at me. It's hell. And if you're Senior Officer Present, it's worse.'' Kris had only been in transit once; between Wardhaven and High Cambria. A commander had been Senior Officer Present. He'd spent most of the passage in a corner of the bar he alternately designated Naval HQ and the O club. Kris had buried her nose in anything Nelly could dig up on the Kamikaze-class and hadn't surfaced until the liner docked.

Now she wished she'd taken better notes. This trip, Kris was Senior Officer Present.

There weren't a lot of officers to choose from, first two, later four boot ensigns. But Kris graduated a seat ahead of Tommy, mainly because of her rifle range scores. The two ensigns who joined at Pitts Hope were a whole week junior to Kris. Kris found that out from their files because the two of them came aboard, went straight to their adjoining rooms, and never came out, except for meals.

''Doubt the door between their rooms gets closed too often.'' Tommy scowled. The door between Kris's and his rooms stayed closed… except when Kris needed help on official duties, like going over all the vaccination records of her personnel. Kris signed for all the Navy personnel that came aboard, as if they were sacks of potatoes. She also had to verify everyone was up to date on their shots and had all they needed for Olympia. Unfortunately, those requirements were subject to change. Conditions on Olympia were bad and getting worse. Not only was the planet incubating all kinds of new bugs, others that healthy humans kept under control were turning pandemic.

''Typhoid,'' Tommy yelped. ''I thought we wiped that out a couple of hundred years ago.''

''So did I, but there must have been a carrier on Olympia, cause now people are getting sick.''

That particular problem left Kris pacing the dock at High Pitts Hope, waiting for a hastily ordered shipment of vaccine as the good ship SS Lady Hesperis prepared to raise the gangplank and leave. The vials arrived just seconds before the ship's Third Officer's fourth deadline expired, so Kris was not left on the station as the ship pulled away. Kris was none too sure she would have minded that.

Kris doubted the Hussy, an ancient wreck of a liner, had ever been a good ship. Although none of the merchant crew advised them to, Kris quickly learned to strap herself into her bunk at night and hold tight to her mess gear. It seemed that Hussy's engineers had trouble maintaining a steady burn. The ship's accelerations and decelerations were subject to wild excursions from a small fraction of a g to three g's and back again, without benefit of warning.

The civilian crew's laughs and jeers left the passengers feeling more like zoo exhibits than naval personnel on their way to save a planet.

A glance through their records showed Kris why the rest of her shipmates took so long to learn how to survive the Hussy's wild ways. For many, this was their first time in space. Most were raw recruits fresh from boot camp. Some had not even finished basic training, as their confusion on even how to wear the uniform showed. Kris flagged down one of her third-class petty officers and ordered him to square away a few of the worst offenders. He said, ''Aye aye, ma' am,'' and headed for the problem child. Yet when Kris looked back, the PO had taken a hard right into the bar, and the recruit was still as much a wreck as before.

Now Kris took a deep dive into the personnel folders at her disposal. She came up shaking her head and knocking on the door between her and Tommy's room.

''Come on in,'' he shouted. She found him deep in a reader.

''Have you seen our troops?'' she said, waving her own reader.

''I believe so. Sad to say.''

''No, I mean their records. We've only got two second class and four third class POs. All are in their second or third enlistment and were pulled from advanced schools for this job. Wardhaven dollars to donut holes, under the latest policies, they'd never have been shipped over.''

''Kind of makes you suspect that a posting to Olympia is the Navy's way of telling all involved to shape up or get out,'' Tommy said, not even looking up from his reader. ''Maybe just get out.''

Kris did not ask him what he thought that said about the two of them. Was Father trying another approach to getting her back where he wanted her? No way, Mr. Prime Minister.

''Did you know the Olympic system has seven jump points?'' Tommy asked as the pause lengthened.

''No,'' she said, coming over to glance at his reader. It showed Olympia and its surroundings.

''Thing is, from those seven jumps you can get to just about anywhere in human space in two or three more.''

''That would make it a great trading point,'' she mused.

''Would seem so, so why are they sending the dregs of the fleet here to do a bit of this and a bit of that for it?''

Now Kris did frown. ''Nelly, what's the organization on the ground for this mission?''

Nelly took longer than usual to start populating Kris's reader with an organization chart. ''I am sorry,'' Nelly apologized. ''The daily reports do not balance and change from day to day with no explanation.''

Tommy raised an eyebrow at that. Even as boot ensigns, they'd learned that the Navy took daily reports—or, for that matter, any reports—very seriously.

''Who's running this show?''

''Lieutenant Colonel James T. Hancock, SHMC,'' Nelly said.

''Him,'' Tommy breathed.

''Must be two of them,'' Kris assured him, but she didn't have Nelly check that out. There were some things better seen first. Instead, she glanced over the Table of Organization. Mercy missions like this one didn't have to follow any definitive structure; commanders were free to improvise on the ground. However, they usually followed the structure of a battalion or regiment, depending on the size of things. Olympia wasn't close to battalion strength, say 200 plus or minus the 30 the daily reports couldn't agree on. But the org chart looked like amoebas doing one of Tommy's Irish jigs around the CO's box.

''Communications, medical, intelligence, finances, supply operations, MPs,'' Tommy said, ''all reporting direct to the CO, and then there's this huge Admin section with most of the personnel.''

''Notice what's missing?'' Kris said.

Tommy looked up at her, then rolled his eyes at the overhead. ''All tail, no teeth.''

''Right, all tail, no hands giving a handout.''

''Maybe it's all in Admin,'' Tommy suggested.

''We wait and see.'' Kris sighed. Father might be right, today's troubles were enough to keep her busy. Maybe tomorrow's troubles would solve each other before they got to her.

Kris wondered if maybe her father really was an optimist.

***

Two days later, Olympia was large in the view port, giving Kris her first look at the mess she'd drawn. The orb reflected brightly, about what Kris expected when an island thirty klicks long and a dozen wide blew itself to dust. Despite the gunk in the atmosphere, she could see another line of storms blowing in from the ocean to add more to a ground already saturated from big, weeping clouds trying to make it over an inland mountain range. The desert behind showed recent signs of flash floods. Even the rain shadow was getting soaked.

''You the woman in charge of those hellions wrecking my boat?'' Kris turned to find a potbellied man who hadn't shaved in days lumbering down on her, what might pass for a grimy captain's hat barely hung to his head, a flimsy in his hand.

''I believe I am Senior Officer Present,'' Kris admitted.

''Sign here.''

''And this says…''

''I'm delivering ninety-six enlisted and four of you officers to the Olympia Emergency Services Command, per my contract.''

''Nelly, do we have ninety-six enlisted personnel?'' Kris had studied their files; she'd never done a count.

''Yes.''

''Kris, shuttle is loaded,'' Tom called over the net.

''Do you have ninety-six enlisted personnel on board?''

''I don't know.''

''Have' em count off.''

Tommy's voice disappeared for a long minute. Then he was back with a crisp ''Ninety-six enlisted personnel present, ma'am. Me and the other two ensigns are waiting on you.''

''Be there soonest,'' Kris said and signed. ''I want a copy.''

The captain produced a second flimsy from beneath the first. Kris's signature had carried through. ''Thank you, Captain. With luck, we won't be sharing a ride again.''

Kris hefted her bag. Marine battle dress was the uniform of the day, the night, and next week for this operation. The ancient warrant officer on Wardhaven who briefed them had taken great delight in pointing out that new ensigns were permitted to get their hands dirty on this tour. From the looks of things, there would be plenty of chances.

The shuttle ride was bad, made worse as one after another of the new recruits lost his or her lunch. If Kris hadn't strapped herself in so tight, she might have gone up front and relieved the pilot. Then again, flying a skiff was one thing, a hundred-passenger shuttle was quite another.

As it was, they were lucky; Port Athens was in between the worst of its daily parade of storms. The landing, however, was a whole new experience. Upon dismount, Kris found a rutted runway dotted with potholes.

''Don't these people have any pride?'' a recruit snorted.

''Back on Hardly's Heaven, we'd never let concrete get this bad.''

''Your runway might not look so sweet after a year of acid rain,'' a local unloading the cargo bay snapped back.

''Natives appear to lack a sense of humor,'' Tommy noted.

''I think it washed off with most of those buildings' paint.''

Between red streaks, the terminal showed patches of its original paint. It might once have been a gay jumble of blues, greens, oranges, and others. All were dull now.

Two buses rolled up to the shuttle, but their doors stayed closed while Kris's troops collected in the rain. Only when the trickle from the shuttle cut off, did the bus doors open.

A couple of dozen troops made a dash for the shuttle through the rain. There was no order in their leaving, no structure in their mad stampede for the freedom ride. Few had any attention for their replacements other than an occasional obscene shout or gesture. Tommy watched them, then gave Kris a shrug.

With the buses empty, the other two ensigns grabbed the front seats on the nearest one. ''Are they avoiding me or ignoring me?'' Kris muttered, standing in the rain as she oversaw the boarding of her ninety-six enlisted personnel.

''Maybe they've noticed that things can get lethal around you,'' Tommy said, a lopsided grin taking only part of the sting out of his words.

''And you?'' Kris shot back.

''I have the luck of the little people,'' he assured her.

''Then you and your little people take charge of that last bus. I'll handle the one with our prima donnas. Didn't anyone ever tell them that seniors enter a vehicle last?''

Tommy glanced up, blinking into the pouring rain. ''Whoever made that rule didn't spend much time on Olympia.'' Tommy headed for his bus, and Kris took the other and found herself stuck standing, the fifty-first person aboard a bus intended for forty-eight. A young spacer with a badly broken-out face offered her his seat. Mother or Father would have taken it without a second thought; Kris couldn't picture Grampa Trouble doing the same. She stood for the fifteen-minute ride.

The drive was as dismal as the port. The roads were more potholes than road; all the buildings showed the effect of water's constant assault. Somewhere a sewer main had broken, adding its slink to the misery. People plodded along, heads down, shoulders hunched against the latest downpour. Several windows gaped broken; a store had been burned out. Kris's crew grew quiet as the sights of desolation and despair accumulated.

They pulled into a compound, rusting barbed wire setting it off from the buildings around it. To the right was what might have once been an office building. Society's green and blue flag had been painted on the plywood that filled a broken window. Across a drowned and muddy park, two hotels rose, one to four stories, the other to ten.

The driver demanded Kris hurry her charges off his bus; he had other places to go, other fares to earn. Kris doubted that, but the buses were civilian, and the Navy always kept its people moving. Unfortunately, that just meant her troops hurried off the bus to stand in the rain. The truck that had followed them with their gear pulled up behind them. Its two civilians started tossing duffels into the deepest puddles around.

''Okay troops, let's form a line, single file,'' Kris ordered, ''to draw your baggage. You, you, and you''—she pointed at the biggest men in the ranks—''go help those civilians unload the truck. See that the kits land on dry land.'' That helped; the duffels started landing on their bottoms, standing where Kris could read the names on them. She rethought having the troops file by. Calling out names might work better.

''Is anybody in charge here?'' Tom whispered to her.

Kris's curt answer died in her throat as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The Admin building's door opened. A marine officer in battle dress strode out, back ramrod straight, a battle board slapping purposefully against his hip. There was no question who was in charge. From the scowl on his face as he took in this new addition to his command, there was also no doubt about his opinion of them.

''Atten-hut,'' Kris ordered.

''Who's in charge here?'' came from the officer, more a challenge than a question.

''I am, sir,'' Kris fired back, not hesitating a moment to take on her responsibility.

''And who might you be?''

''Ensign Longknife, sir.''

''Right.'' He eyed her for a moment, didn't seem to care much for what he saw, then turned his back. ''Form your personnel into two divisions, Ensign.''

An easy command, but one there was no way Kris could obey properly. By all that was good, holy, and Navy, Kris should turn to a chief and order him or her to form divisions. Anything else was unofficer. But all Kris had was a pair of second-class petty officers who'd shown no initiative on board or since arriving. No, what delusions of leadership as was here consisted of her and maybe Tommy.

What had Grampa Trouble said the morning he picked her up for her first skiff ride…without clearing it with either of her parents? ''If you're going to be damned if you do and damned if you don't, then do it—with panache.'' She turned to Tommy. ''Ensign Lien, form a division of your bus team.''

He saluted. ''Yes, ma'am,'' did a snappy about-face, and stepped into a deep pothole. Still, he kept his balance as he marched away.

Kris turned to face the milling group of sodden spacers and marines. ''My busload, form on me. Petty officers will form files to my left.'' As a suggestion, she pointed to where she wanted the few crows among them to stand. They took the hint and did so. Kris had one second-class and two third-class; that gave her enough for her first file. ''Dress right, dress'' got the petty officers' arms out. It began to dawn on the rawest recruit that they should have somebody's fingers touching their right shoulder. It caught on.

Twenty meters to Kris's right, Tom's busload went through the same drill. In a surprisingly short time, the mob transformed itself into two divisions of three ranks. They were still getting soaked and growing more miserable, but they looked Navy.

The other two ensigns watched all this from a dry overhang as if this was for their entertainment. Kris followed Hancock's lead and ignored them as she did her own about-face, saluted, and reported. ''Divisions are formed, sir. All new arrivals are present.'' The lieutenant colonel turned, a scowl still occupying most of his face. ''You have a manifest, Ensign?'' Kris dug it out of her pocket. She could just as easily have beamed it from her computer to his battle board, but he was doing this the old-fashioned way, and he had the rank.

The officer took the paperwork. Without a glance, he pocketed it. ''Welcome to Port Athens Marine Base. I am Lieutenant Colonel Hancock, and that is all the welcome and thanks you can expect to get here.

''Those of you who joined up to do good, look around. This is as good as it gets. Enlisted will be issued web gear and rifles. Carry them with you at all times on duty or on base. You will not take them off base while off duty. Officers.'' His glower got worse, if that was possible. ''You will also draw web gear and side arms. If you are smart, you will draw a rifle, too. If you don't know how to use one, learn.

''I've shipped three of you ladies home,'' he growled at the massed troops. ''One may actually get to keep that arm. I've shipped three people home and the only return fire so far has been from a young woman who managed to shoot a local with his own gun. She says it was self-defense. He has witnesses to the contrary. She's being tried by a jury of his peers, since she did it off base and on her own time. My advice to you boys and girls is to stay on base and consider all your time my time. Do it, and you just might make it home to your mommies.''

He turned to her. ''Ensign Longknife, is it? You one of those Longknifes?''

Kris turned her head just enough to look him in the eye. ''Yes, sir.'' She didn't add, General Trouble sends his compliments, despite the temptation. Trouble would not send any kind of compliment to Colonel Hancock. Not that Hancock.

''Figures.'' He scowled. ''Well, Ensign, have your booties report to Admin, then draw their web gear and check into their billet. If they hurry, they just might get some chow before the mess hall closes for the night. Admin will see they get issued ration chits and work assignments. I advise you to turn in any cash you're carrying as well as your personal credit cards. It's worth your life to carry them around here.'' He redirected his scowl from the troop formation to the two ensigns, then Tom, then Kris. ''You officers see me when you're done.''

''Yes, sir,'' Kris saluted. The wave she got in return might have been aimed at an annoying insect.

Kris turned back to her troops. They looked as stunned as she felt. If that was what passed for leadership around here… But that was not their problem. The rain was coming down harder, and Kris looked to be the only officer around that gave a damn about them.

''Petty officers, fall out and call the names on those duffel bags,'' Kris ordered. On that bit of guidance, the troops got organized. Kris set up a smooth flow as troops collected their duffels, lugged them into the office building in front of them where Admin took up the ground floor. From there they moved to the armory to draw their web gear and weapons. With no bunching up, her new arrivals proceeded fairly smoothly to their quarters and from there to chow. Of course, the last to have their name called would be soaked to the bone.

As luck would have it, the two other ensigns' names were called very quickly. They took their gear and headed inside. Kris's bag was also called early. She made a note of where it lay in the mud and stayed with her shrinking command, taking over from a name-caller when he found his own bag. With a pained expression, Tom took the place of the second caller to find her duffel. When the last person's name was called, Tom and Kris followed the sopping-wet spacer into Admin, their own ‘waterproof' boots squishing and contributing a liter or two to the deep pools flooding the tiled hall.

''Did we have to do that?'' Tommy asked.

''Grampa Trouble would have tanned my hide if I'd left them out there alone in the rain.''

''No one in my family would have complained. What do you say next time we flip on it? Heads we follow my family, tails we do it your way.''

''You two are late. I finished with those other officers an hour ago,'' a hulking first-class petty officer whined. ''You're making me late for dinner.''

''You would have had to wait for all these,'' Kris waved at the rest of the crew checking in.

''Nope, I just had to wait for you officers. Colonel told me to make sure you got your quarters, orders, and chits. Then I'm done for the day.''

''Thought the Colonel suggested we work sunup to sundown. It was safer,'' Tommy pointed out.

''Who wants to live safe? Listen, there's a lot of desperate women out there. Amazing what a little hard cash can buy.'' The first-class glanced at the papers he was handing Kris. ''Oh, right, you're a Longknife. You can always buy anything,''

Kris signed her chit and kept her money to herself. ''Where's the leading chief, the armory, and the chow hall?''

''You're looking at the closest thing we got to a leading chief, ma'am. We enlisted swine ain't drawing half pay during this cluster fuck. Nobody comes here ‘less they pissed somebody off big time.''

''And you?'' Kris asked.

He ignored the question. ''The armory is across the way in the short quarters. The chow hall's in the tall one. They close in thirty minutes, so I'd shag my ass over there pronto.''

''Thanks for the advice.'' Kris looked at her orders. ''I'm reporting direct to Colonel Hancock?''

''Hardcock wants to keep down the overhead. Besides, he ain't got all that many officers. Couple of do-gooders. Most senior officers would rather go on half pay than go here. You'll see soon enough. Now, I'm done, and I'm out of here.'' He turned for the door. ''Somebody turn off the lights when you're done.''

Tom stuffed his orders and chits into the pockets of his battle dress. ''It's so nice working among happy people. Think it'll get better?''

Kris stowed her paperwork, then hefted her duffel. ''Don't know, but I think I'll draw a rifle and side arms first, then risk eating.'' Kris drew web gear, rifle, and side arm, stowed her gear in her room, locked her rifle down in the floor's weapons bay, and raced into the chow line five minutes before it closed down for the night. What they slapped on her tray would win no awards, except maybe from a pig swill purchaser, but it filled an empty stomach. She and Tom were just getting the first forkful in their mouths when their beepers went off. Kris waved Tommy to keep eating. She had a strong suspicion what this was all about.

''Ensigns Longknife and Lien here. What can we do, sir?''

''What the hell's keeping you two?'' Colonel Hancock growled.

''Just enjoying a delicious, nutritious meal, sir, in the dining hall. Exactly what a growing girl needs, Colonel.''

''I told you to report to me as soon as you were done.'' Tommy started to get up. Kris waved him back to his seat.

''Yes sir, I planned to do that, sir. We saw that the new arrivals were processed properly, got our assignments and chits, drew our web gear and weapons, stowed our gear and got our weapons locked down, and were just enjoying the first mouthful of this wonderful meal they're serving in your dining hall, sir. We should be with you in another thirty minutes.''

''What are you going to do, take a walk in the moonlight?''

''Might, sir. It's actually stopped raining for the last two minutes.'' Tommy's eyes were bugging out. Kris just smiled.

''Longknife, get your ass over here in fifteen minutes or keep walking.''

''Understood, Colonel. See you in fifteen minutes.'' Kris said, punched off, and reached for her second bite of dinner.

''We can be there in five.'' Tommy gulped.

''And add heartburn to our problems? Nope, I'm eating it nice and careful.''

''Like a Longknife?''

Kris studied her tray as she chewed unidentifiable and probably indigestible food. ''Don't know. Maybe I am letting myself be guided too much by a couple of Grampa Trouble's sea stories. But, Tom, when you draw hell for a billet, you can either run with the demons or run at them. Got an opinion?''

''One who battles with demons needs a dragon at her side.''

''Is that some old Irish saying?''

''No, mine, based on spending too much time too close to you.''

Kris rapped on Colonel Hancock's door exactly fifteen minutes after she rang off. He was seated, feet up on his desk, face in a reader. She and Tommy filed in and came to attention in front of his boots. He glanced up, took in a clock on the wall, then went back to his reader. ''Took you long enough.''

''Yes, sir,'' Kris answered.

''The warehouse is a shambles,'' the Colonel said, not looking up from his reader. ''Straighten it up. For some reason, we're only issuing bags of rice and beans to the people hereabouts. There's got to be a better diet in that warehouse. Find it.''

''Yes, sir,'' Kris said. Waited. Nothing further happened.

She saluted the Colonel's boots; Tom joined her. Colonel Hancock threw her another wave. She led Tom in an about face, and they marched from the office.

''What was that all about?'' Tom repeated his earlier question of the evening.

''A game,'' Kris said.

''Do you know the score?''

''I think we're ahead on points,'' Kris guessed. ''Where's the warehouse?'' Nelly had no answer to that question, so Kris went looking for the duty section. Down the hall from the Colonel's office they found what might be one…two guys sleeping in their desk chairs. ''Where's the warehouse?'' Kris asked. Twice.

One woke up, looked around, saw Kris, reached for a sheet of paper, and tossed it her way. Kris eyed it; it did show an arrangement of streets. She rotated it slowly, trying to match the streets to what she had seen on the drive in. The map worked best if you held the paper at a thirty degree angle. ''Looks about two blocks that way,'' Kris concluded.

''You going there tonight?'' the only slightly awake sleeping beauty asked, getting comfortable again in his chair.

''Planned to,'' Kris answered.

''Take your pistols.''

Kris left the two to their dreams.

''A sloppy bunch. Think we should have woken them up?'' Tom asked.

''If they feel safe sleeping just down the hall from the Colonel, do you think two boot ensigns could get them excited?''

''What kind of Navy is this?''

''I thought you'd recognize it, Ensign Lien. This is the Navy your preachers talked about. This is hell's Navy.'' Kris stopped by the locker to collect her M-6. She had to remind Tom how to lock and load his weapon. Together, rifles slung over their shoulders muzzle down to keep the rain out, they walked the two blocks to the warehouse. Actually several warehouses, all surrounded by barbed wire. A civilian guard stood at the gate, his rifle also muzzle down against the beating rain.

''Who are you?'' greeted them.

''Ensigns Longknife and Lien. I'm in charge of the warehouse facilities here in Port Athens. I've come to inspect them.''

''You can't. It's dark.''

''So I noticed,'' Kris said, taking in the warehouses. The area was bathed in light; several trucks were backed up to the loading docks. ''Looks well enough lit to me.''

''Listen, I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing here, but you don't belong here. Get lost while you can, or I'll…'' The rifle started coming Kris's way.

Kris doubted she could outrun a bullet, but at the moment, the rifle looked within reach. Without thought, Kris grabbed for the muzzle. Her hand wrapping around the cold gun metal sent a shock through her. You're crazy, woman. Still, it seemed like the kind of thing Trouble would do. The guard looked just as shocked to see her hand on his gun as she was. He struggled for a second, but she yanked the weapon from his grasp and brought the butt up under his chin.

''Looks like we need to have a little talk,'' Kris growled. Up close, under the lights, Kris got her first good look at the guard. A kid of maybe thirteen, he stared through wide, round eyes at his rifle in her hands.

''What's going on here?'' Kris demanded. Running her brother Honovi's campaign, she'd walked into some messes.

Course, most of Honovi's campaign crew didn't carry guns and looked a lot less hungry. For an answer, the kid started screaming out names. Kris brought the butt up hard on the erstwhile guard's jaw, just like they did in the vids, and to her surprise, his eyes rolled back and he slumped into a mud puddle. However, heads popped out of trucks and loading dock doors. Kris had the attention of a good twenty or thirty folks. Time for a campaign speech.

''You are trespassing on government property,'' she shouted—and ducked as a rifle came up. The round was high, but Kris felt a distinct lack of cover. Ducking, she brought her own M-6 up and snapped off a three-round burst, likewise over her targets' heads. People piled from the warehouses into trucks. Motors came to life.

''Is there any other way out of this warehouse?'' Tom asked from his fighting position at the bottom of the largest pothole available.

''I don't think so.''

''So they'll be leaving right over us?'' he squeaked.

''Oh God,'' Kris breathed. She need not have worried.

Trucks turned away from her and, with a few more shots over her head, smashed a hole in the fence opposite the formally agreed-upon exit. Kris stood only after the last truck was long gone. She glanced down at the kid.

''What are you going to do?'' the terrified youngster asked.

''Send a message,'' Kris said, using the muzzle of her M-6 to signal the boy to stand. He looked painfully thin. His clothes needed patching. ''Who hired you?''

''I'm not gunna tell you nothin', lady.''

''What's your pay for this?''

''A sack of rice. My mom, brothers, sister, they're hungry.''

''Come by the warehouse tomorrow. You work for me, I'll see your people get fed. And tell the folks you were working for that if they come back here tomorrow, I'll see what kind of jobs I can find for them. They come back tomorrow night, there'll be armed marines walking the perimeter. Tell them there's a new broom in the warehouse. They can change and eat, or try to do it the old way and starve.''

The kid's face changed as she spoke. Terror drained out. Dismay and shock were there for a while, along with a large dash of doubt. But he was nodding his head as she finished. He started backing away, careful like. Kris watched until he disappeared into the dark.

''What do we do now?'' Tom asked.

''Well, unless you want to spend the rest of tonight walking fence, I say we go back to our rooms and get some sleep. I strongly suspect tomorrow is going to be a bitch of a day.''

''But the fence, it's wide open.''

''So I noticed. And likely to stay that way until we get it patched. Kind of inviting to anyone who wants to wander in. Hungry women, kids, anyone at all. Check me out on this, Tommy. We are here to feed people, right?''

''Right.''

''Well, if a few people want to help me in the distribution of the food, that's fine by me.''

''Then why did you shoot at those trucks?''

''Because they had guns. How much of that food do you think they were planning on sharing?''

''Right,'' he snorted. ''Count on a politician to care more about how they do it than what they do.''

Kris thought she was just being practical. With a shrug, she turned and headed back to the main compound, now shouldering two rifles. ''What else can you do, Tommy? Nine times out of ten, perspective has more to do with the final result than anything you do. Perspective…and getting some results.''

At the base, Kris paused in the rain. The Colonel's window was still lit, the only light showing in the Admin building. ''What is it with him?'' Tommy asked, shaking his head.

''There was trouble on a planet, Darkunder,'' Kris said. ''Farmers didn't think they were getting fair trade for their crops. Happens every once in a while. Hancock led a battalion of marines dispatched to keep order. Some reports say he was too friendly with the money interests. Others say he just had a bunch of battle-sharp troops. Anyway, standard crowd control methods didn't seem to be working, and somebody thought machine guns would be better. Lots of recriminations. Hancock was brought up on charges, but the court-martial found him not guilty.''

''So he is that Hancock. Yeah, even on Santa Maria we heard about him. Media about went ballistic. How could the man be found not guilty when a hundred unarmed farmers died?''

''You know many farmers on Santa Maria?'' Kris asked.

''A few.''

''I know a few generals. They felt Hancock did his job. He stopped a bunch of anarchists from murdering, raping, and pillaging in the streets.''

''You agree with them?''

''No, but I understand them. I also wonder if the Navy had sent two or three battalions to Darkunder if the crowd wouldn't have seen the wisdom of going home early before anything got out of hand. Anyway, Hancock was exonerated by the court, but you can see what kind of assignment he drew next.''

''Yeah, but I don't understand it.''

''Brass won't hang him because the civilians want him hung. But they don't want any other officer making the mistake of thinking they can get by with that kind of failure. Since he didn't do the honorable thing and quit, he's here having his nose rubbed in the fact that he's a failure.''

Tom glanced around at the compound. ''Does look a mess.''

''And I suspect it will only get worse. When I was in college, I read an essay on leadership by Grampa Trouble. He had a lot to say, but the thing that struck me was his idea that leadership depended on belief, maybe even illusion.''

''Belief? Illusion?'' Tom didn't sound like he was buying. ''As the commander, you have to believe that you are the best person to lead, that you can get the mission done with fewer casualties, less grief, better than anyone else can. And your troops have to believe the same. Even if it isn't so, you all have to buy into the illusion that it is.''

Tom shook his head. ''No illusions here.''

''Right,'' Kris agreed. ''And that, more than the rain, is making this place hell.''

''What are we going to do?''

''I don't know,'' Kris said slowly. ''Well, yes, I do. We are going to see that these people don't starve. Beyond that, we'll just have to wait and see.''

''Why do I find waiting to see what an Ensign Longknife will do very frightening?''

''Oh, you ain't seen frightening yet, Tommy me boy. Now, what do you say we get out of this rain.''

Back in her room, Kris did a quick survey. Standard hotel fare: bathroom with shower, bedroom with closet, easy chair, desk, and beautiful-looking bed. So long as the hotel's self-contained energy, water, and sewer continued to work, Kris's own personal matters would be taken care of. Her duffel stood in a puddle of water-soaked carpet. She dragged it into the bathroom; most of its contents were soaked. For a moment, she considered leaving it to the hotel's staff to clean up. However, a glance at the mildew on the tile suggested there was no staff waiting on her every whim, no matter how big the tip.

With a wry smile, Kris fed her battle dress through the washer, dryer, and presser in the bathroom. She wondered how many other debutantes on Wardhaven knew how to do their own laundry. There were things to do while her hands were busy. Having to ask for a map to find her own warehouse was ridiculous. ''Nelly, did Sam pass you any new routines before we left?''

''Several.''

''Can you get yourself synched with the military system?''

''I have several routines that should do that.''

''See if you can hook into the military network here.''

''Searching,'' Nelly responded obediently and maybe just a wee bit enthusiastically, if Kris was reading her AI's inflections. By the time Kris had her undress khakis and one set of dress whites ready to hang up and was wondering why she hadn't taken the warrant officer's advice and left them home, the presser was overheating and threatening to scorch her fingers. Nelly picked that moment to respond. ''I now have access.''

''Nelly, can you turn off the warehouse compound lights?''

''Yes.''

Kris thought for a second. ''At oh two hundred local, turn the warehouse lights out. That ought to give the folks in need enough time. Can you lock down the warehouses?'' Kris took a moment to pull off her sodden uniform and hang it in the shower, soaked boots, too. She turned the humidity down to the minimum. Taking Nelly off, Kris set her carefully on the desk.

''That information is not in the military net.'' There was a short pause. ''I can access it on the warehouse system.''

''The warehouse has its own system?''

''Yes, ma' am.''

''Lock them down at oh two thirty,'' Kris ordered, crawling under the covers and pulling the blanket up. Her feet were cold, but that wouldn't last long. ''Nelly, what time is reveille?''

''The Administrative Division's handout welcoming you to Olympia Support Base says reveille is at oh six hundred.''

Not Port Athens Marine Base. Kris noted the discrepancy between Hancock's greeting and his Admin Division. Another thing to look into tomorrow. ''Nelly, wake me at oh five thirty.''