Mutineer

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kris missed the sonic booms of the incoming landers, what with the rattle of the wind-whipped rain on the side of the bus. She kept her eyes on the end of the runway; sooner or later they'd have to break out of the mist and scud. The weather folks had promised rain and warm for today. As usual, the rain was here, but warm was not. Kris wore a sweater and undress khakis.

Despite the injunction of the commander back on Wardhaven who'd briefed Kris for this operation, she'd brought along two sets of khakis and one set of dress whites. Upon return from her river trip, Colonel Hancock ordered her, effective immediately, only to wear them for the rest of her stay on Olympia. ''Maybe you'll get in less trouble if you don't dress for it.'' He might be right; for the last thirty hours she hadn't caused or gotten into anything the Colonel didn't approve of.

Of course, the Colonel hadn't gone off base, and Kris was restricted to it. Well, maybe not restricted, more like grounded. When her parents grounded Kris, it wasn't an excuse to skip soccer or ballet or any of their stuff, only her stuff; same with Colonel Hancock. She could run the warehouse. Indeed, she was expected to get it in shape to turn over to the Highlanders. Tommy was still running the motor pool. He likewise was cleaning up the loose ends for a transition. It was just that neither one of them was supposed to take a step out of the warehouse or base or the direct line between them. And the Colonel had taken to dropping by at odd times to make sure. Five or six times a day.

It was as if he didn't trust Kris any more than her mother or father had when she was sixteen. Then, the Colonel had better cause for that certain lack of trust. Accompanying the rented buses and vans was Kris's first trip beyond her short leash. Kris had asked Tommy if he wanted to meet the Highland battalion; he'd jumped at the chance. Kris also asked the Colonel if he'd like to go.

''Who's riding shotgun?'' he asked without looking up from the reports on his desk.

''A couple of contract riflemen from the soup kitchens.'' Again today, just about the entire navy detachment was on the road delivering food.

''You going to start a war or do anything else that will increase the amount of paperwork on my desk?''

''No sir. Definitely not, sir. Straight boot ensign stuff, sir. No Ensign Longknife stuff either, sir,'' she grinned.

''Get lost,'' he grumbled. Then thought better. ''But leave bread crumbs. I want you back here for supper.''

''Yes, sir.'' She saluted. His return salute actually qualified as a military honor.

Both landers broke out of the scud at about the same time. Kris shook her head. This bunch were real hard cases; the landers were trying to set down side by side. On the collection of potholes Olympia called a duty runway, that was suicide.

Apparently, the pilot of the second lander took one look at the runway and came to the same conclusion. He added power and climbed into the overcast for a go-around. The first lander went long, missing the worst potholes, and did a reasonably smooth run out. It was taxiing toward the number-one parking slot when the second lander touched down. Unwilling to be soaked, Kris waited on the bus to see what happened next. Only when the second lander was at a full stop did both landers lower their aft loading hatch.

Two men in plaid kilts and tall fuzzy hats marched smartly to either side of the hatch. Then the most interesting noises began.

''What are those women doing to those poor cats?'' Tommy asked on net.

''Be careful who you're calling a woman,'' came from the Colonel, apparently monitoring the net.

''And that racket you're complaining about is bagpipes,'' Kris added.

''I thought all you Santa Marians were fake Celts,'' Hancock said. ''Don't tell me you don't know what a bagpipe is.''

''And didn't it not survive the hungry survival years?'' Tommy answered in the thickest brogue she'd heard him manage. ''And don't we thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph every day for that small grace.''

''And I thought I was shipping you off planet because you were too tied up with that Longknife person. Ensign Lien, you're not going to survive the night.''

''And am I supposed to be afraid of men in skirts?''

''Ladies from Hell.'' Kris had read a bit of history. ''Now Tommy, me lad, you can either start walking back to the base—'' The heavy rain picked that moment to get heavier—''or you can move your two buses around to Lander Number Two.'' Kris pointed to her driver, and she got in gear. ''I'm bringing my three buses to Lander Number One. Don't worry, Colonel, we'll manage this evolution real smooth.''

''And why have I come to doubt a Longknife's definition of smooth?'' the Colonel asked in a brogue all his own. ''Hancock out.''

Kris ignored the last canard; her driver led the other two buses onto the apron and parked well behind the first lander.

Now troopers were filing off both landers, rifles on their shoulders. Under the influence of the pipers, their on-board route step quickly fell in sync as they marched, cutting each corner, to their places in formation under the watchful eyes of sergeants. Their kilts were mainly red, with a bit of green, black, and white in the mix. They wore bonnets of, the same tartan and tan jackets that, in the rain, were quickly turning to a deep brown. As far as the sergeants and men were concerned, though, it might as well have been a balmy summer day back at the cantonment. Their heads were high; their steps were sure. They were on parade, and the devil take the wind and rain.

Officers dismounted from the forward hatch of Lander One. They also were smartly dressed, with no concession to the rain. Kris shrugged out of her poncho and opened the door. A gust promptly splattered her khakis, but she quick-marched for the rapidly forming command section. A tall, dark-skinned woman in full kilt came to meet her. Kris saluted as they met. ''I'm Ensign Longknife, your liaison with Port Athens base.''

''I'm Major Massingo, Battalion Adjutant,'' the other said, returning the salute. The major saw to Kris's introduction to Colonel Halverson, Battalion Commander. Kris had already checked; Halverson was six months junior to Hancock, so there shouldn't be any trouble on that account. Halverson seemed jovial and happy to be here. Kris suspected he'd never been anywhere he wasn't happy to be.

''Major, let's get the troops aboard the buses the good ensign has been so kind as to provide us. A few weeks ago when we got our orders, I feared we might have to march into town. Under arms, no less.''

Kris brought the Colonel's briefing up to date while the major passed the order to the regimental sergeant major, who shouted the Colonel's orders to the company sergeants. It was a thing of beauty to watch the workings of a chain of command that had probably been in place when Bonny Prince Charles was learning escape and evasion in the original Highlands of Scotland.

''I understand that you require an officers' mess,'' Kris said as the troops marched in single file to their assigned buses. Hancock had informed Kris that the informal approach to meals that the detachment had been following would not meet the Highlands' standards.

''Quite right, Ensign,'' the Colonel nodded. ''Mixing officers and other ranks simply is not done.''

''I've found a suitable facility only two blocks from the base,'' Kris assured him.

''Good. We are coming up on the anniversary of one of our proudest battle honors, Black Mountain on Savannah. Colonel Longknife sent us up that bit of real estate.''

''I have the honor of being Colonel Longknife's great-granddaughter,'' Kris told him.

''We will be honored to have you as our guest at our Dining In, Ensign.''

Kris nodded at the offer, then decided she'd better get it all off her chest. ''General Tordon is also one of my great-grandfathers,'' she added.

''Good God, ma' am! Trouble and Ray both in your family tree.''

''Quite an honor,'' she assured the Colonel.

''If it isn't a curse.'' He chuckled, leaving Kris to wonder if the two Colonels' had already put their heads together. Once Kris got the troops back to the base and took Halverson to Hancock's office, the two rapidly made it clear that they had old-time ground-pounder talk unsuitable for an ensign's delicate ears, so Kris headed back to her office at the warehouse.

Jeb met her at the gate with Sam Anderson. ''Longknife, you mind adding a couple of more foremen to the staff? Nights are getting kind of long for me.''

''Sam, you want to work for me?''

''Kind of hard to run cows on a sunk ranch. Folks here around have found space for me and my people to squat, but we got to work, even if the food is free.''

''Pay's not all that great,'' Kris pointed out. ''A Wardhaven dollar a month.''

''Beats nothing. After that miracle, we figure we owe you.''

''Wasn't my miracle,'' Kris shook her head. ''You folks were working as hard as us to climb that cliff.''

''I don't mean the climb out, ma'am. The miracle was you even knowing we were in trouble. That radio we were hollering into. It was good for talking up and down the canyon, but what with the cliffs and all, we never talked to anyone more ‘n say fifteen, twenty miles away. Had a repeater on the top of the canyon, a land line running along the bottom. Both got washed away six, seven months ago.''

''Satellites?'' Kris asked. The prime minister always said miracles were what lazy folks used to explain perfectly understandable happenings… once you applied logic to them.

''Too low on the horizon. So long as we had the repeater, it weren't a problem. Once it was gone, so were we. Can't tell you how surprised we were that you heard our call for help.''

Not as surprised as Kris was fast becoming. She hired Sam and one of his foremen to work with Jeb overseeing the warehouse. Several of Sam's men were also available. Others were joining a road-building team that would work with the Highlands' engineering platoon, putting things like the runway into better shape, knocking together bridges for the supply convoys and, in general, starting to put the planet's infrastructure back in order. Ester and Jeb saw real growth opportunities for the Ruth Edris Fund for Displaced Farmers. Kris would have to put the fund on a formal basis before leaving Olympia.

There were a lot of things to think about as Kris settled down to her new desk in her new office on the other side of the building from the burned-out wreckage of her old one. Spens was again at work, checking accounts and keeping her legal. Lots of things to worry about.

So why did her mind keep gnawing at the question of a radio signal that took a few extra bounces? No question, the atmospheric conditions on this planet had to be way beyond weird. So, no one had ever succeeded in getting a direct message out. Probably, no one had ever been so desperate, so unrelenting in their efforts. Right. A miracle put together by elbow grease and a volcanically hashed E layer or F layer or whatever radio waves bounced off. Easy explanation.

''Nelly, when did the Peterwald ship break orbit?'' Might as well eliminate the first question Aunt Tru would ask.

''The yacht Barbarossa broke orbit Thursday, 11:37 A.M. local.''

''When did you intercept the message from the Anderson Ranch?''

''Thursday, 9:42 A.M. local.'' Okay, so Auntie Tru would get to ask a second question.

''What time did I first activate the liquid metal boat?''

''Thursday, 10:12 A.M. local.''

Kris gnawed on her lower lip. There was one more question Tru would ask. ''Nelly, did the Barbarossa have a line of sight down into the canyon?''

''The yacht Barbarossa was in an unusually elliptical orbit that gave it a one hundred-percent probability of a line of sight on the bottom of the Little Willie Canyon three orbits a day, and better than fifty percent for four more orbits.''

No use beating around the bush with her own computer. ''Nelly, did the Barbarossa have a line of sight on the canyon while we were intercepting the Anderson message?''

''Yes.''

So there it was. That ''miracle'' could well have been someone on the Peterwald ship, maybe Hank, maybe not, sending her up a deadly river in a boat with a big potential hole in it. But just because Hank had the potential for killing her didn't mean that he wanted to kill her. She couldn't have been that bad of a first date. Kris tried and failed to laugh at her own joke. It made no sense. Why would Hank Peterwald or his dad or granddad want Kris Longknife dead?

One thing was clear: her mother or father wouldn't consider that question. ''Nelly, search the net for similar instances of liquid metal boats failing.''

''I have conducted that search. There are no instances of similar failures in any of the 53,412 boats manufactured to date. Likewise, there have been no reports of similar failures by spaceships, either during their manufacture or operations.''

''Thank you, Nelly, and thank you for thinking ahead of me,'' Kris told her AI. Tru must have passed along some real interesting upgrades last time.

''You are welcome. I will endeavor to do similar searches in the future.''

Kris leaned back for a moment and stared at the ceiling. Once was chance. Twice was coincidence …maybe. Three times had to be enemy action. Question was, who was the enemy? Kris really didn't want to think a nice young guy like Hank already had an enemies list. Of course, Kris considered herself a nice young gal, and she sure was on someone's enemy list.

''Kris,'' Nelly said tentatively.

''Yes.''

''Are you aware a five hundred thousand dollar, Wardhaven, donation has been made to the Edris Fund?''

''No, Nelly, I've been leaving the money handling to you. Who made the donation?''

''It is anonymous, but since it came in, I have been backtracking the money transfer. It is very likely that it came from Hank Peterwald.''

''Before or after his ship broke orbit?''

''I cannot be sure, but it appears afterward.''

Kris mulled that over. Hank would not be putting money in the bank account of a dead gal. Not likely. This planet was a major potential nexus for trade. Per Nelly's financial report, Wardhaven financed half of Olympia's start-up costs, the rest spread around liberally. How things were now that someone was stealing IDs and selling property off planet, Kris would check on later. But if Hank knew anything about what his papa was up to, he would not be giving Kris money to make things better.

Kris was surprised at how much better she felt, deciding that Hank was not out to kill her. But if Papa Peterwald wanted Olympia's jump points, just how far would he go? What more should she do before she left?

The rain pounded against the window of her new office.

The windowsill showed caked dirt along with the streams of water running down it. Right, there was volcanic ash in the rain. What else? ''Nelly, has anyone visited the volcano that blew up and caused this mess?''

''No.''

Then, of course, why visit the volcano when it was coming to you? ''Has anyone done an analysis on the ash?''

''There is no report in the public record of such a study.''

Kris spotted an empty can next to the coffeemaker. Maybe she was crazy, but maybe it was time to be a bit paranoid. Outside, coffee can in hand, she studied the flow of water. There was a ditch behind her building; rusted pipes from the roof tried to keep up with the rain, dumping what fell into the ditch before the weight of the rain collapsed the roof of the warehouse. Jeb came up as Kris was staring into the ditch's muddy waters.

''Can I help you, ma'am?''

''How much volcanic ash was in the early rains?''

''Quite a bit.''

''Think some of that original ash might be down in that ditch?''

''Wouldn't be surprised if some was. You want a souvenir?''

''Ought to have something. Might have it made into a vase or ceramic pretty. You know.''

Jeb studied her for a moment, then got the attention of a youngster, no more than twelve. ''Lady here wants some of the ash from our volcano. You mind getting a bit muddy?''

The kid looked like he'd been asked if he wanted to go to heaven. In no time he was up to his knees in water, using the coffee can to collect from the lowest part of the culvert.

''This what you want, ma'am?'' he said, presenting Kris with a brimming can of mud surely as proud as any suitor handing a diamond ring to his girl.

''Certainly is,'' Kris said, slipping the top back on the can. From her pocket, she pulled a dollar coin. ''For you, thanks.''

''My mum would never let me take it,'' the boy said, bobbing his head and not touching the money. ''You been feeding us. She'd wallop me if I took it.''

Kris pulled out a second coin. ''This is for your mother for raising such a good boy. Now take both of them, and run along.''

The kid did not look convinced, but a nod from Jeb did the trick. He grabbed both coins and ran for the gate, dripping muddy water all the way. ''The least I could do for messing up his clothes,'' Kris chuckled.

''And for humoring a woman that's got to be as crazy as any two coots on this waterlogged planet,'' Jeb said.

Kris looked down at the coffee can in her hand, wiped some of the mud from it, and turned back to her office. ''We'll see who's crazy,'' she muttered.

Two evenings later, Kris followed Colonel Hancock into the officers' mess of the Fourth Highland Battalion, LornaDo Planetary Guard. Their invitation was as much due to what Kris and Tom had done for the battalion in the last forty-eight hours as for who Kris was. With the help of Kris's friends among the local craftsmen, a run-down and abandoned restaurant and lounge was now a spick-and-span officers' mess and club in the full and traditional meaning of the word. Overstuffed chairs were scattered around the room in tasteful conversational groupings. The walls now displayed photographs of past battalion commanders and groups of officers as well as the battalion's victorious soccer teams. One drop ship had actually delivered carefully packaged oil paintings of several battle scenes from the battalion's honor roll. The place was heated nicely, carpeted, and smelling of new paint, and Kris could hardly believe it was the abandoned dump they'd started with. Or that such a place could exist in the mildew and swamp that Olympia had become. The books Kris read as a kid told of how a bit of England had been transplanted to India. She'd wondered how that could be. Wardhaven was no Earth and proud of it. Now she saw how…and why…a battalion might transplant LornaDo, or maybe England, to Olympia.

A new wall pierced by double French doors set off the club from the dining area and the bar. Still, as Colonel Halverson met Colonel Hancock, a young private in full dress blues and kilt hovered at his commander's elbow to take orders.

Commander Owing, Hancock's XO, was already in a corner, deep in an overstuffed chair with a scotch and immersed in a discussion with the battalion's medical and supply officers of the best single malt in human space. Lieutenant Pearson had passed on the offer with a sniff. Kris had heard her exclaim loudly to the duty section outside the Colonel's office about drunken debauchers. The Colonel's hearing must be going bad; though at Kris's elbow, he didn't seem to hear a word. Both the other ensigns drew the duty, leaving Kris, Tommy, the Colonel, and all the officers of the Highland battalion free to drink and/or debauch, so long as they dressed properly for the occasion.

The Marine Colonel and his Navy pair apparently were the last to arrive. Kris's white choker and pants had been an interesting fashion statement at the recognition reception on Wardhaven against all the bustiers and petticoats; here she was one of the few not showing off knees. But Colonel Halverson made sure that his visiting Marine Colonel in his dress blue and reds and the navy types in their whites were made right at home.

''What will you have?'' the Colonel said, greeting them jovially, then turning to the private at his elbow. ''Pass the word to all servers: these people's money is not good in the mess tonight. Yon woman's great-grandfather went up Black Mountain with the battalion. He was a Marine, but for someone ashamed of his knees, a damn good fighting man.''

''Yes, sir,'' the boy said, looking at Kris as if she might have just stepped down from Mount Olympus.

''And pity be if their glasses go dry.''

''Yes, sir. What are you drinking, ma'am?''

Kris had gotten comfortable ordering nonalcoholic drinks over the last ten years, but clearly, a soda would put her out of step with these men and women. The Colonel's scotch hadn't dragged her into a bottle. Grampa Trouble might be right. Maybe she wasn't an alki. With a swallow and a smile, Kris said, ''A seltzer with a twist of lime, please.''

Tom ordered Irish whiskey, neat; Colonel Hancock ordered what Colonel Halverson was drinking, and the boy marched for the other room. The new Colonel turned to the old.

''You said she had guts in a fight. Now I see she can be just as stalwart in the mess.'' The Highland Colonel turned back to Kris. ''By the by, young woman, you'll not be the only one walking that line tonight. There's one or two others in the mess that know that beastie. Now, Colonel, I've a mind to show you a few things.'' And with that, the two senior officers left Kris and Tommy standing in the middle of the club.

Kris stood there for about two seconds before a young woman in full kilt was at her elbow. ''I'm Captain Rutherford. I understand we share the same luck.''

''I'm Ensign Longknife. What luck might that be?'' Kris did not want to spend the evening comparing seven- and twelve-step programs and arguing which was better.

''Your great-grampa and mine both walked off Black Mountain with their balls still attached.'' The woman grinned. ''Otherwise, we wouldn't be here. I'm Emma,'' she said, holding out her hand.

''I'm Kris,'' Kris said, shaking the offered hand. ''This is Tom. He's from Santa Maria, but don't hold that against him.''

''Ah, then you like our pipes.''

''Love them, a wee bit of home so far from the old sod.''

Kris almost choked on the first sip of her newly arrived drink.

''It can't be that strong,'' Emma said.

''Exactly the way I ordered it,'' Kris assured Emma and the young soldier who'd brought it, while eyeing Tommy like the rat he was.

''We always have choices,'' Tommy reminded her.

''Social coward,'' Kris whispered back.

''Politically astute. I thought, being a politician's daughter, you'd have more appreciation.''

''Am I walking into the middle of something?'' Emma asked.

''Only something that started at OCS when he stopped to tie his shoe in the middle of the obstacle course,'' Kris said, nudging Tommy in the ribs.

Emma studied them for a second longer, then smiled and shrugged as much as the heavy woolen doublet allowed. ''Let me introduce you to some of the battalion's other junior officers.''

Kris found herself trying to remember a blizzard of names made easier by a regimental tendency to give everyone a nickname. Chalky was Second Lieutenant Sutherland who had an unruly thatch of white hair. Tiny was, of course, well over two meters tall. In general, the junior portion of the officers' mess seemed comfortable with their place and delighted to meet Kris.

It was when Emma passed Kris to Major Massingo for introduction to the senior members of the mess that things got complicated. The corner with Commander Owing had acquired several more officers by the time Kris was pointed in their direction. Kris wasn't sure, but it seemed the mess server had made quite a few trips to this circle to refill empty glasses. The doctor looked unlikely to be vertical by the time supper was announced. After the obligatory round of names, Kris was prepared to bow out and return to the juniors when the supply officer, a major, blurted out, ''And what does a Longknife think of devolution? You aren't going to stand with Earth, are you?''

A bit surprised, still, Kris found that an easy one. ''I'm a serving officer, sir, I stand behind my commanding officer and in front of my troops,'' she said, deflecting the question.

''So you'll just do whatever you're told,'' the doc said, leaning forward in his chair and almost falling out of it. A friend helped steady him.

''I'm kind of new at this, just a boot ensign, but I understand that we're supposed to follow orders.'' Kris smiled and took a step back. It wasn't enough to get her clear of the conversation circle, however.

''But what if a greater good is involved?'' put in a major with crossed muskets on his doublet. ''If some idiot orders me to charge a heavily defended bunker, it's usually understood that I can use smoke and hunt for a flank.'' That got nods from his messmates. ''So what's our duty to the greater good? It was a Longknife who killed President Urm. Was he following orders?''

''No,'' Kris agreed.

''So, when evil's rampant, the soldier, for the greater good, may have to act on his own?''

''The books I've read said Urm was pretty bad,'' Kris pointed out. ''I don't see anybody around like him. Do you?'' Kris wanted out of this discussion. It didn't look like anyone was taking notes, but you could never tell when someone might have their personal computer set to record. ''Nelly,'' Kris said subvocally, ''start recording.'' At least she'd have a transcript of this conversation if it did hit the Wardhaven media.

''Yes, evil as barefaced as Urm makes it easy to know a soldier's duty. But what if it's an insipid, tepid evil, wearing away the soul and psyche of humanity a little at a time? Evil that seeks to turn virtue into vice and pass vice off as virtue a bit today, a bit more tomorrow?'' That didn't require an answer from Kris; she'd learned long ago to keep her mouth shut. No reporter ever got a sound bite from silence.

''Yeah,'' another officer filled the dead space. ''When did you ever hear a civilian say anything good about duty? I don't even think honor's in their vocabulary. My kid's going to college, got her a new set of writing gear. Damn computer asked her how to spell honor. Wasn't in its database.'' That got snorts all around. Kris couldn't believe it was true, but it made a great story.

''Strange, it was in mine,'' Kris said before she knew her mouth was open. Damn, Judith said she had too much fight in her for her own good. And after all those therapy sessions, it was still there.

''Your father is rather high in the government. Your grandfather is running Nuu Enterprises. Some might see you…'' A hand waved diffidently as if searching for words.

''As part of the evil,'' Kris supplied.

''More like allied with its sensibilities,'' the major countered. ''Listen, we soldiers know the score. The game is rigged from the top. When common people don't like it, we're the ones that get called in to keep them placing their bets at the table. Look at your Colonel Hancock. Some farmers on Darkunder don't like the way the cards are falling, him and his battalion get called in. Dumb farmers don't know when to call it quits; so a lot of them die. Hancock did what he was told to do, and see what it got him. He had the power on that mud ball. When they ordered him off to face a court-martial, he should have marched his battalion down to that bunch of fat money men that passed for a parliament on Darkunder and sent them all scurrying for their rat holes. Then the media would have made him the farmers' bloody messiah rather than their murderer.''

Kris couldn't say she was shocked. Back at the Scriptorum, there'd always been the right-winger, ready to call for war.

''What people need is fire and duty to purify them from the greasy money men and their cheap, easy ways.'' The vets on Wardhaven had said the same thing. Why was hearing it from a serving officer sending chills down Kris's spine?

Because these are the blokes that are supposed to stand between civilization and the rack of war, not the ones to bring it. The real question for Kris was, was this guy serious, or was it just the whiskey talking? Was he just pissed that his battalion was stuck in the mud on do-gooder duty, or might he really want to march down the street and take over Olympia's government? Kris suppressed a smile. He'd have a hard time finding any government to take over. The exhibit barn the legislature shared every three years with the weekly cattle auction had collapsed months ago.

If this guy was for real, he wasn't Ensign Longknife's problem. Colonel Hancock would have the job of facing him down. And if it was only talk, whether drink- or anger-inspired, it still wasn't Kris's problem. She'd faced kidnappers' guns and roving bands of heavily armed hungry. She'd shown she had the stomach for a real fight. This kind of O club bull session seemed rather tame now.

''Excuse me. Nature calls,'' she said and wound her way out of the group to head for the ladies' room. Facing the stalls, Kris concluded her heavily starched whites would come away looking like an accordion, and wondered if Wardhaven had any Highland units. A transfer might not be a bad idea, except these guys charged machine guns when they went into battle, and the Navy was smart enough to take along a nice bunk and good chow when they went to a fight. Kris splashed water on her face, told Nelly to quit recording, and prepared to go public again. Major Massingo and Captain Rutherford were waiting for her.

''That fellow is a blowhard,'' the major assured her. ''You did well to let it roll off your back.''

Kris snorted. ''I kept wondering if someone had a mike recording. I learned long ago to be careful what I say.''

''Must not have been easy, growing up a politician's daughter,'' Emma said.

''Not many realize just what a pain it was,'' Kris agreed. ''Can I dodge Blowhard for the rest of the night?''

''Shouldn't be any trouble,'' the major assured her.

''We have a skiff racing team, one of the best on LornaDo. The coach and pilots are dying to talk to you.'' Emma said.

''Let's talk racing!'' And that provided plenty to fill the time until dinner was announced, and announced in a most unusual way. One of the servers stopped to whisper in Major Massingo's ear. She rose, adjusted her tunic, and faced the door. ''Pipe Sergeant, pipe us to dinner.''

A sergeant in full regalia presented himself at the door, doing one of those strange double jumps that the Highlanders seemed to do as they came to a halt. ''Ma'am,'' he shouted. After the most pregnant of pauses, he continued. ''Pipes and drums, dinnerrrr paaa-rade.''

With that, the sergeant marched forward, followed by two pipers and a drummer. At the spaceport, the sound of the pipes had carried. In the confines of the officers' mess, it threatened to crush skulls. Almost, Kris had Nelly do a double check on the structural integrity report they'd gotten on the building, but she was having too much fun watching Tommy.

His mouth hung open, his eyes were larger than dinner plates, and his ears were hanging on by a thread. ''Take that, you liar,'' she mouthed at him. She could have shouted it, and no one would have heard her. But Kris could only relish Tommy's shock for so long. The officers were moving, some none too steadily, to form a parade behind their music. Major Massingo led off, as president of the mess, with the Colonels right behind her. Lieutenant Commander Owing and the majors were next, the battalion's company commanders, captains, right behind. Kris figured she and Tommy, as junior ensigns, would bring up the rear, but Emma gently took Kris's elbow and led her to join the company commanders and their first lieutenant execs. Tommy fell in somewhere with the platoon leaders.

And thus they marched into a dining room resplendent with linens and crystal, china and silver. The smell of roast beef almost knocked Kris off her feet, but a crescendo from the pipes carried her away. The walls were hung with battle flags. The Society flag held pride of place behind the head of the table with LornaDo's flag, but other flags the battalion had carried or captured hung along the wall as well.

Unity's red and black was there, along with several planetary flags that must have been captured in the wild days ninety years ago before Unity brought its brutal order to the Rim, then went down in defeat before the Society of Humanity's massed power. Did devolution mean a return to the days when every planet fought its neighbor for trade, for resources, for reparations that were little more than extortion by the more powerful from the weak? The battalion's battle flags were a visual reminder of humanity's history among the stars, and not the best part of it. Too bad something like that wasn't hung along the walls of the Scriptorum. Now, that would be a real education for the students.

Kris took the place Emma pointed her at. The chaplain offered grace, half thanks and half proud highlighting of battles won. The mess president followed the prayer with a toast, ''To absent friends,'' that seemed as much a prayer as the chaplain's. Then, as the pipes paraded out, the soup was served.

''I understand you've had an exciting time of it,'' one of the captains said to Kris. With that opening, Kris provided all listening a quick overview of what she'd done and discovered about the local situation.

''So the fighting is pretty much over and done with,'' another captain summarized the most salient point of Kris's brief.

''Some of the farms still won't give the swamp runners the water off their septic tanks. You can spot them easily. They've got more bunkhouses than people in line to draw food. Others are just the opposite. Long lines of hungry, and you'll have no idea how they sleep them.''

''How do you think it will shake out when this is all over?'' a different captain asked.

''Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just glad that is not part of my mission. If you don't mind some advice, I'd suggest you don't let it creep into yours. There are some real nasty things at work here that you're not going to solve with a rifle.''

That drew nods. ''No surprise there,'' Emma added, ''considering the strategic value of this system. You know you can reach almost fifty systems from here. Most of human space is less than three jumps away.''

''I came across that when I was boning up on this place. It has great trade potential.''

''Or military value,'' a captain added.

''Military value is nice, but it only pays when you're at war,'' Kris pointed out.

''You haven't been paying much attention to the media, have you?'' the captain said.

''When you're up to your neck in snakes and wildebeests, it doesn't leave much spare time,'' Kris replied.

''You might want to bone up on the news on your trip back,'' Emma suggested.

''What's happening?''

''There's a lot of unhappy people in the Society,'' a captain said.

''And getting unhappier,'' another one added.

''You know that little girl you rescued?'' Emma said. Kris nodded. ''Hardly a day goes by that she or the criminals that grabbed her aren't in the news.''

''I thought that would have blown over.''

''It's not blowing over,'' Emma assured Kris.

''Or isn't being allowed to blow over.'' Kris's comment was greeted by shrugs from her messmates.

The pipes were back, escorting the fish to the table. When it quieted to the dull roar of table conversation, Emma went on. ''Several planets have already set up travel restrictions. Anyone born on Earth or the Seven Sisters has to request a visa to enter them. No visa, no entry. Some Earth business types are screaming its just a way to restrict trade, cut them out of business.''

''Let me guess,'' Kris cut in. ''Anyone serious about business writes ahead for a visa. The ‘One Flesh, One Galaxy' types or those more interested in media attention, don't.''

''Got it in one.'' A captain grinned. ''I always said Longknifes did, too, have the brains God promised a billy goat.''

Kris flashed a toothy smile at her supporter.

''Some planets already have taken ships back,'' Emma said, ''painted on their flags, and declared their fleet not subject to Society orders. Earth is demanding the ships back or payment.''

''A lot of those ships were built by the planets that manned them,'' Kris pointed out. ''Wardhaven has several squadrons we paid for. Have we withdrawn them from Earth command?''

''No, your father has dodged the issue so far. But you're right about the problem. The planets that have taken ships back say they don't owe anything. They built them because Earth didn't provide enough to patrol the Rim. Earth says the ships were gifts in lieu of higher taxes and wants cash.'' So it was back to the tax issue that had put Kris on the beach and the Typhoon in stand-down mode. In college, Kris had been surprised to discover that Earth's tax burden was about the same as Wardhaven's, 30 percent on average. But much of Earth's tax money went to social services. Earth investments were usually where there were cops on the beat. Wardhaven spent a much higher percent of her taxes on research and extra military ships, which were mainly used to patrol the new start-up worlds where much of Wardhaven's private investment capital went.

Earth and the Rim, even after eighty years, still had very different ways of looking at things and different ideas about what was important. Question was, could her grampas find enough shared interests to manage the change coming without it all coming apart with a big boom? Different officers at the table had different opinions. Kris kept her own to herself.

Sometime during this discussion, a piper had begun a tune. Several junior officers took claymores from the wall and began sword dances. Tommy was out of his chair, watching one dancer real close. There were shouts for Tommy to join in. Kris suspected the dancer had more to do with Tommy's attention. That particular second lieutenant had a lightness to her step and a particularly broad smile when her whirling brought Tommy in view.

Emma bent close to Kris's ear. ''Your ensign seems to have found a friend.''

Kris shrugged. ''Plenty of my friends have friends,'' she assured her. The story of my life.

The dancing was interrupted as the beef was announced. This particular animal got major honors. Sergeant, pipes, and drums led the way as two servers carried a full roasted carcass in on a pole. The mess cheered as the first slice was cut and offered to the president of the mess. She deferred to the Highlanders' Colonel, who in turn deferred to his Marine guest. Hancock accepted it, cut a large portion off and, with his fork still in his left hand, bit into it. Only after he declared it perfect did the servers begin to cut and distribute choice cuts to the rest of the mess.

''You have a very interesting way of doing things,'' Kris told Emma when the pipes marched out again.

''It's our tradition.''

''When we are done with this fine beef, I have a question about your traditions.'' A thick slab of roast beef was soon set before Kris. She discovered that Yorkshire pudding looked more like a roll and that at least the English tradition of stewing their vegetables had not survived. That was one bit of merry old England that Kris would not mourn. When the cheese and fruit were brought in with much less fanfare, Kris turned to Emma.

''Was it traditions like these that took your battalion up Black Mountain?'' That got nods from all in hearing. ''My Colonel suggested I hear from Regimental Sergeant Major Rutherford the story of Black Mountain, the way he told it to you both before and after you put on the uniform. Colonel Hancock thought he'd tell me about it during the Dining In.''

''Oh, no,'' Emma shook her head. ''The Regimental Sergeant Major would never enter the officers' mess. Certainly not during Dining In.'' Kris was beginning to suspect there was the right way, the wrong way, the Navy Way, and the Highlander Way. No wonder the Society of Humanity was having so much trouble keeping them all together.

One of the captains turned to Emma. ''Why don't you tell her the story. I've heard you enlighten your new lieutenants. It wasn't just the nuggets that were spellbound in the mess those nights.''

It took a bit more coaxing, but soon Emma turned from her selection of cheeses and fruit. She patted her lips with an immaculate white linen napkin, laid it down, then started. ''If you paid attention in civics class, you know the situation on Savannah was bad. The old government had used its army to beat the civilians into submission. The soldiers spent more time on rape and murder than drill. More hours roaming the streets with knives and clubs than on the rifle range.

''Then Savannah had its first free elections, thanks in no small way to Kris's dear, if not yet departed, ancestors. The big players ran for the exits, taking with them their numbered bank accounts on Helvetica. That left just the little people, the ones who did the raping and the murdering, not the ones who ordered it. The army, such as it was, retreated back to its cantonment in the hills above the capital. Most folks were glad to be quit of them. Let them stay up there and starve was the mood of the man on the street. Unfortunately, the man in command knew there was a dam up there under First Corps control. Open those sluice gates, and the capital, with most of its people, would be washed away. They'd made Ray Longknife a general, but put few troops at his command. Those he had were professionals. And those he had included the Fourth Highlanders of proud LornaDo.''

''Hear! Hear!'' rang out up and down the table, and Kris discovered that the mess had grown very quiet. Glasses were raised in toast. Embarrassed to share this sacrament of her hosts with seltzer water, Kris followed their lead, then flagged down a server. ''Whiskey, please.'' She'd be ready next time.

''There's a lot of gadgets in modern war, gizmos that can make a man think he's a soldier when he's not. The First Corps had them all, and if their people were none too sure how to work them, they could hold guns to the heads of technicians who would. There would be a bloody butcher bill for any and all who tried to invade their camp.

''Never trust an enemy to play fair, and never trust a Longknife, period,'' Emma said with a smile for Kris. ''If he couldn't beat them with new soldiering, he figured to take the bastards down the hard, old-fashioned way. So he came to the Ladies from Hell, and the fancy Marines that held the line beside us. He offered us a night black as the devil's own heart, full of rain, thunder, and lightning. Then he added his own bolt from hades, an electromagnetic pulse that stripped a thousand years of contrivances from every soldier within fifty miles. Radar, radios, even night-vision goggles became just more dead weight for the poor booties to lug. With a will, Highlanders and Marines stripped their rifles of computers and vision gear. It was iron sights and cold steel for the rest of that night. So two hundred brave Highlanders and fifty dumb jarheads took off for a walk in Satan's rock garden.''

''Hear! Hear!'' again rang out. Kris's drink had just arrived. Glasses were raised all around. In proud blue and red, Colonel Hancock raised his glass high. ''Dumb is right. Dumb as fence posts. Nobody smart would take the job.''

Before the glasses were down, Colonel Halverson was on his feet. ''To the bloody Marines. The only ones man enough to take the Ladies from Hell to that dance.''

Kris raised her glass, and took no offense. Grampa Trouble had many a woman in his platoon on that hill. There were men, and then there were men.

''In the teeth of the storm, we went up Black Mountain. The first line hardly knew we were there before they had to choose: fight and die or surrender and take their chance with a jury. The second line was warned by the flash of our guns. Machine guns spat and mortars belched. Cannon spoke…all blind. Men lived and men died by the throw of a demon's dice. Here a platoon, there a squad moved forward across death's ground. They found their way into fighting holes and trenches. Men fought and men died while the fiends piped their own wild jig until the second line was ours.''

''Hear! Hear!'' again was answered with a toast. Kris drank, but the warmth in her stomach could not dispel the chill that made her shiver. Emma's words had transported her, the entire mess. They were there, in the lightning-streaked dark, in the shell-shattered rain. The troopers of the battalion that dark, distant night weren't men but gods.

''Our own cannon cockers applied themselves to their work with a will, lashing the second trench, then lifting for the third. Not a man of rifle and steel that night could help but bless the gunners who made the cowards duck and cry and throw their hands up at the first sight of steel or kilt.

''But as we closed on that final goal, the gunners did not lift their brimstone fire. Our Colonel fired the agreed-upon flare, but the enemy was waiting and drowned his proper color in a shower of lying hues. The gunners looked in despair to fathom the bayonet's intent. Runners were sent, but feet could not outfly bullets. Three men ran with the Colonel's words. Three men died.

''Then up stepped Color Sergeant McPherson, he whose twenty years were up, who carried his discharge papers in the pocket over his heart. ‘I'll carry the message, Colonel. If an old fox like me can't cross that ground, no angel in God's heaven can.'

''The Color Sergeant slipped out of the trench like a ghost. Like a mist on the moors, he flitted from shell hole to shell hole. When flares turned stormy night to tempest-torn day, he froze like a rock. Shells flew at him, bullets reached for him, the enemy grabbed after him—and missed. No minion of hell could touch that messenger of our God.

''But fortune is not mocked, and the devil must be paid. A stone's throw from the first trench line, a rocket caught the brave Color Sergeant, picked him up, and flung him broken into the trench. With his dying breath, he passed the Colonel's message to Private Halverson. Now the torch was his. Without a backward glance, the private raced. Like a fearless hind he crossed the shattered field to where the gunners plied their trade.

''On the word of a private, the guns stood silent. At the word of the private, Black Mountain seemed split by quiet. And with a cheer we rose, each man and woman still able to slog through the mud. Those of the third trench who didn't run died where they stood or lived with their hands grasping for the clouds. We, the Highlanders of LornaDo, with a handful of brother Marines, took down a division that storm-racked night.''

Once more the cry of ''Hear! Hear!'' was raised, and the glasses held high and drunk deeply. Emma seemed exhausted, as if she'd climbed Black Mountain herself. She certainly had taken the mess there. When she began again, she was subdued.

''In the morning, when those who boasted they led a corps saw our flag atop Black Mountain, they despaired. They say you could walk from one end of their cantonment to the other without touching the ground, the tossed-off uniforms were so thick. And those of you who know how mankind fought the long-tentacled Iteeche and know what a close-run thing it was, ask yourself if we could have held on until that last desperate battle if not for the weapons forged in the mills of Savannah? So when you gather for a drink, raise your mug with a thought to those fine Ladies from Hell who went dancing that night up Black Mountain.''

The glasses were up and drained, and Kris immediately knew she'd made a mistake. There was no hearth in the mess to smash glasses that now were too sacred to ever be used for mere drinking. But as in so many things, the battalion would survive.

Colonel Hancock cleared his throat in the silence. ''When did you first hear that tale, Captain?''

''At my grandfather's knee.'' She smiled. ''I couldn't have been as tall as his swagger stick. He was Regimental Sergeant Major, as my father is now after him.''

''You took a commission.''

''Yes, sir. Both Pa and Grandpa agreed the family had worked for a living long enough. This time they wanted an officer.'' That brought snickers from along the table, louder at the lower end where Kris suspected Emma's own platoon leaders found humor in the thought that they and she did not work for their pay. As silence returned, the Marine Colonel continued.

''The day you pinned lieutenant's bars on, I suspect your father had some advice for you. As misfortune would have it, there was no one there to perform that sacred duty for Ensign Longknife. Would you be kind enough to share with her what your father or grandfather gave to you?''

''Sir, that would be telling, and the Regimental Sergeant Major is not one I would choose to cross. He might not forgive me.''

The sober looks exchanged among the officers at the table showed agreement. The RSM was one few officers would cross.

Colonel Halverson stood. ''I think I can arrange the proper absolution for you from the Regimental Sergeant Major,'' he deadpanned. The mess broke up in gales of laughter but quickly fell back to silence when the Colonel did not join in but stood, his demeanor most serious. ''If the ensign who bears the weight of a name like Longknife has neither had the blessing nor the admonitions appropriate to her calling, I can think of none better than the words the Regimental Sergeant Major shared with you.''

Emma nodded. She stood and turned to Kris with a solemnity that brought water to Kris's eyes and a tremble that she had not felt at college graduation or Navy commissioning, or for that matter, even under fire. Kris found that to be the center of such intense attention made her skin burn. But that was not what made her tremble. To look into Emma's eyes was to face a goddess; and there is nothing so frightening in the world as the face of absolute truth.

''These are the words of the Regimental Sergeant Major,'' Emma began softly. ''The stories are true, I have not lied to you. Now you will command people, men and woman just as scared, hurt, tired, and confused as those in the stories. The difference between just anyone scared and tired and a soldier is you, the leader. It will be your duty now to help them find, deep within themselves, the courage and the will to go on, to do what you determine must be done.

''Never abuse that power. Waste that, and you waste not just the moment, but a life, and all that life could have held for some trooper.

''When that moment they have trained and lived for comes, you hold the power of life or death for your people. To earn that, you must be their servant. Are their feet dry? Is their food decent? Do they have a place to sleep? You answer for them before you seek an answer for yourself. You have been given authority over them. You waste it if you use it for anything that doesn't prepare the both of you for that critical day when death is at your side.

''You and they will live, or you and they may die. Despite all the care that you put into your training, chance may call the time when the moment comes, but that is no excuse to leave anything more to chance than the laws of the universe demand.

''Despite all you've heard in the stories, there is no room for heroes. You do not make yourself a hero. If you chase after glory, you waste your time and their lives. Glory will find you on its own. If you must spend time thinking of future glory, pray that you and yours will be ready for its heavy burden when it falls upon you in the heat of battle.

''And lastly, remember, we tell the stories not to entertain or bask in others' glory. We tell them because we must. We tell them to keep faith with the faces that haunt our nights and shadow our days. They gave up all they might ever have had—love, children, sunsets—not for a ribbon but for a faith. Not for a planet but for comrades. Not because they were ordered to but because they chose to.

''If you choose this uniform, you enter into that faith, lived and died for by so many before you. Break that faith, and though you breathe, there will be no life within you.''

Done, Emma folded into her chair as if some spirit were going forth from her. Kris sat in a silence more sacred than she had ever touched. Somewhere the Colonel called for the pipes. They marched in, but their skirling did not break the silence in Kris's heart. Kris had gone through college graduation still in the heat of the words she'd passed with her mother and father over her Navy choice. She'd gone through OCS commissioning mad that her parents hadn't bothered to find time in their busy schedules to come. Her thoughts both moments had not been on what she was doing but rather on where she was from. Those moments she'd been wrapped up in being one of those Longknifes.

But here, these strangers with their traditions had kept alive something that brought her closer to what it meant to be a Longknife than she had ever touched. Yet, rather than making her smaller for it, it had grown her into something much more. Something was growing inside her, something she could not begin to fathom. Understanding would come with time. Time she had plenty of.

No longer hungry, Kris sat, hands folded into her lap. Around her, the mess went about its celebration. Pipes played. At some point, Tommy did try his hand, or rather feet, at the sword dance, and did it, if not with grace, at least competently enough not to bring opprobrium on the Navy. Kris's messmates left her in her silent bubble, like a child swimming in its mother's womb. And as with such a child, sounds, feelings, actions impinged on her and were taken into her, not so much by eyes and ears and fingers but somehow grasped whole.

When all was done and the pipes returned to march them from the mess and to brandy and cigars, Kris leaned close to Emma. ''Thank you for sharing what you've treasured in your heart.''

''I hold them there until it is time to pass them along to my daughter or son.''

''I hope they won't mind the loan of them to me.''

''There's something magical about them. Shared out, they're just as strong.''