Kris Longknife: Redoubtable Page 3

  “Running won’t do you no good. The planet below is our country,” the pirate growled, as the LACs came in view and were mistaken for evacuation pods.

  “We’re not running,” Kris said, mashing her commlink. “Pirate off our starboard beam, this is the Wardhaven Armed Corvette Wasp, and this is Commander Kris Longknife. Cut your engines and throw your weapons over the side. Surrender peacefully, and you can plead your case to a court. Keep this noise up, and we’ll reduce you to ash. Guns, run out the lasers.”

  There was a slight motion on the ship as the four 24-inch pulse lasers were run out of where they hid under the Wasp’s merchant paint job.

  The sight must have been appalling to those hanging on to the balloot. Machetes quit waving, pistols and rifles just kind of hung there in midspace.

  “Good God, what’s a Longknife doing out here?” came over a live mike among the pirates.

  “I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

  “We can’t outrun them.”

  Suddenly, the pirate ketch took off at full power.

  Unfortunately, it was still aimed right at the Wasp.

  “Get us out of here,” Captain Drago demanded.

  “I’ll try, Skipper,” Sulwan replied from the navigation station. “But they’re awful close.”

  “Shoot ’em, Longknife!” he demanded.

  “They’re too close,” Kris answered. “I can’t bring the lasers to bear.”

  The Wasp’s lasers all were pretty much limited to targets straight ahead of her. Kris could swing the ship . . .

  This close, whatever she did would be a mess.

  “Collision,” she shouted into her commlink. “Prepare for collision.”

  And Kris remembered she hadn’t yet put on her own seat belt.

  The petty officer second class grabbed at Kris’s waist as the two ships came together.

  The collision point was well off both ships’ centers of gravity. The balloot filled with reaction mass did a passable job as a bumper, absorbing some of the force, spreading it out.

  And sending both ships reeling away from each other in drunken twists and spins.

  For someone with a working inner ear, it was bad. For Kris, not yet recovered from her last session as the duck in a shooting gallery, it was worse.

  Kris’s vision went gray, with the weirdest pink and purple polka dots. Her recently enjoyed breakfast, fortunately light, got an eviction notice and left hastily.

  The petty officer must have seen it coming; she had a burp bag over Kris’s mouth before Kris knew she needed one.

  On the forward screen, cameras still tracked the pirates and their perils. Several were knocked loose from the balloot. A few collided with the Wasp and grabbed handholds. Several did not and began what would be short-lived careers as independent satellites.

  And, of course, there was one guy in every crowd who couldn’t get with the program.

  One pirate had a rifle and intended to use it. He brought his weapon up to take aim—something not easily done with his standard-suit gloves and helmet.

  You had to respect his commitment. Three Marine sharpshooters in the LACs showed him all the respect his folly deserved. They put him under fire even as he struggled to make his senseless move.

  The pirate’s shot went wild. The rounds from three different Marines cut through the bull’s-eye that was his heart. Six streams of pulsing blood jetted him away from the pirate craft, twisting and spinning his quickly freezing body.

  The other pirates followed this display of Marine accuracy and gently shoved any weapons they still had off into their own orbits.

  “Jack, can you and your Marines police up this mess?” Kris asked, wishing for some water to clean out her mouth. The petty officer must have qualified at mind reading because she had a water bottle at hand.

  “Don’t expect we’ll have any trouble, Commander,” came back from Jack, as Kris added a mouthful of filthy water to the burp bag and handed it to the second-class with a grateful smile.

  Kris strapped herself into her station chair as she considered her next problem. For some reason, Kris’s ears were happiest when her fanny was firmly strapped to something. Especially now that the Wasp was in zero gee.

  A zero gee that Sulwan announced was acting on a ship now steady in orbit.

  It was nice of other people to solve Kris’s problems. Now it was time for her to solve a few herself. “Penny, can you and the chief raise me someone dirtside with even a tiny bit of authority?”

  “We can try,” the Navy lieutenant said.

  Five minutes later, they had someone on the radio.

  “I’m freeholder Annam son Jendon,” the deeply tanned face on the main screen said for identification. “Only reason I have my own radio station is because I have got this pond we occasionally use for a backup lander drop.”

  “What’s wrong with the main airport?” Kris asked. The largest town on Kaskatos did have a port with a ten-thousand-meter runway, but it had yet to say a word or show a beacon or light.

  “Ma’am, you have to understand, Lander’s Rest has had a lot of folks dropped on its runway lately. I can’t really say whether or not the place is just busted up or unwilling to take another empty belly. It could be both.”

  “What’s the situation on Kaskatos?” Kris asked.

  “Ma’am, I really don’t feel comfortable talking on an open radio. The powers that be spread the word real fast when you showed up at the jump point that it wouldn’t be smart to make any signals to you. Now that you done for the pirates, I’m willing to talk to you, but there’s no telling who’s listening and what offense they might take. I’m just a farmer trying to keep flesh and spirit together in times gone bad.”

  “Would you mind if I dropped down and talked with you?” Kris asked. “I’ve got a couple of containers aboard of famine biscuits. Taste can be monotonous, but they do keep body and soul alive.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I don’t mind if you do,” he said, then added in a soft whisper. “I just wish you hadn’t mentioned the food on the radio. I expect I’ll be getting visitors besides you.”

  4

  Six hours later, Kris was in undress whites and strapped into a longboat, shuttle to non-Navy types, as it dropped away from the Wasp. Jack was beside her, in khaki and blues, and studying his battle board. Kris paid attention as he moved a stylus over the map it now showed.

  “Last pass we dropped the four LACs, sixteen Marines total. We’ve got an observation post with a sniper on this hill on the far side of the lake. I’ve got a second one covering the south side of the lake near the dam and its road. The third one covers the approach road from town. Nobody comes to visit Mr. Jendon without us getting a good look.”

  “It’s Mr. Annam,” Kris said. “son Jendon actually does mean he’s the son of his father, Jendon.”

  “I see your getting more information about this place.”

  “The fourth LAC dropped Penny and Chief Beni right in Annam’s lap.”

  “They giving you much information besides what order the name goes in?”

  “Not really,” Kris said, cinching in her belt tighter. “Just that it is bad down there. Worse than Penny has ever seen.”

  “She wasn’t with you during the Olympia Humanitarian Mission?”

  “No, she ran into Tommy after that.” There, Kris could say his name now without a shiver.

  Jack turned back to his board. “I’ve split first and second platoons between the four longboats. Famine biscuits fill up the rest of the boat’s cargo.”

  “Hello, fellow pilgrim,” Kris muttered, “we come bearing stale bread and loaded M-6s. We’re here to help you.”

  “Cause we’re the only help you’re going to get,” Jack finished.

  The longboat dropped free of the Wasp, and Kris found herself occupied with the unheard-of priority of keeping her stomach from embarrassing her.

  Kris had survived a lot of botched assassination attempts. She had considered herself a su
rvivor of the last one when she checked out of the hospital. Recovery, however, this time, was turning into a process with no end in sight.

  Annam’s lake gave plenty of room to land, but the actual landing was at a T-shaped wharf. That only left room for two longboats to unload at a time.

  Jack ordered the two shuttles with first platoon to dock first and unload their Marines. The other two shuttles held in the air as long as they could before settling onto the lake and staying out in its middle. Lieutenant Stubben, the lone surviving officer of the original company, deployed first platoon and checked in with Penny. Only then did Jack let the last two shuttles, with him and Kris, come alongside the pier, swapping places with the first two.

  And second platoon was well into its deployment before Jack got out of Kris’s way so she could exit the craft.

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that the senior exits a vehicle first,” Kris snarled through a smile . . . just in case there was a local watching.

  “I seem to remember reading that somewhere, too,” Jack admitted easily, without appearing to draw any conclusion from it that might apply to their situation.

  Kris led her never-subordinate security chief out of the longboat. Marines were still trotting off the wharf from both shuttles. Coming out to meet Kris was Penny in whites and a thin man with salt-and-pepper hair. His clothes were worn shorts and a plaid shirt, his feet sported woven sandals. His hand was out to shake, but his smile was thin, and his eyes were clearly skeptical.

  “Why are you here?” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “We bring food,” Kris said, shaking his hand. That wasn’t really an answer to the question. Still, Kris hoped it was a welcome opener.

  Behind Kris, a work detail of Marines removed bags of biscuits from the longboats and stacked them on the wharf. Kris waved at the gifts. The freeholder nodded, then turned, and, as the last of the Marines trotted from the pier, a stream of civilians broke from the dozen outbuildings in sight.

  Penny’s eyes said “I warned you,” as Kris took in the oncoming humanity. Clothes ranged from the wreckage of finery to rags that barely maintained civilization’s minimum for public decency. Not that anyone noticed. People moved with a minimum of effort, shuffling forward as if each step might be the last they could manage.

  But it was the children that grabbed at Kris’s heart. They stumbled forward on bony legs, their bellies distended. Children weren’t the only bellies stretched in that grotesque lie. Many of the women who held a child’s gaunt hand were hardly in better shape than the children beside them.

  “We try to distribute what food we have evenly,” Annam said, as if somehow he might expiate the sin that had allowed this to happen. “We try, but the gunmen come and demand food. We’ve hidden what we can, and if we have warning, we try to hide in the woods,” he said, even as he shook his head. “But there is so little.”

  Kris had expected that the locals would haul the food away from the wharf. After all, each bag was only ten kilos.

  Some of those approaching would probably be able to help. Some, but not many.

  “Jack, we better carry a load of these out to the landing. If people have to walk out on the pier, there’s going to be pushing and shoving. Someone’s going to drown.”

  Jack was already issuing orders as he trotted for the longboat that had brought them. Up the way, Marines who had last come ashore turned about and double-timed back the way they’d come. At the door of the longboat, Marines paused in the stacking of sacks and looked ashore. Mouths got thin as sergeants ordered men to grab some food and double-time for the beach.

  Kris took the load of the first Marine that reached her, sent him back for more, and jogged as fast as she could for the end of the pier, praying that dizziness would stay away for a few minutes. She still carried her cane, but there was no time to use it.

  Kris got to solid ground about the same time the first refugees reached the pier. She pulled the string like the instructions said, and the bag easily came open. “Grab a handful to eat now, then go help the Marines carry the food ashore.”

  Eager hands emptied her first sack. There was pushing and shoving, but Kris just leaned into it. It wasn’t anything that a well-fed person couldn’t handle. Penny came up on her right. Annam on her left.

  “Don’t push. Don’t shove,” he shouted. “There’s plenty for all. Those of you who can, take some back for the others. Those of you who are strong, help unload the bags on the T-head.”

  The raw need of the hungry was strong. Their panic was so close to the surface, pleading from empty eyes. Desperate hands reached out from mothers or fathers, grasping for something for themselves, or their children.

  The Marines arrived and gently, carefully, edged the crowd back. Back from the water. Back from the few giving out handfuls of biscuits and full bags. The Marines could have driven the crowd back with rifle butts. Instead, they moved them with a shove here, a gentle word there. When a woman turned away with a couple of biscuits for her family, a Marine stepped forward into the hole.

  Other Marines worked their way into the crowd, urging people to form lines. To leave room for people who had something to move to the back. When some young thugs knocked over an old woman and grabbed her handful of food, two Marines materialized as if by magic. The thugs went down hard.

  From the crowd, another youth helped the old woman up while others saw that the woman’s food was handed back.

  “There’s plenty for everyone,” Gunny Brown shouted. “Just wait your turn.”

  “We’ve got a whole shipload of food in orbit,” another Marine added.

  “Commander, we got the first two longboats empty,” came from the lead longboat pilot on net.

  “Take them back up to orbit. Reload.”

  “Half and half, Marines and biscuits?”

  “No,” Kris said, empty of food and turning for more. A heavily loaded Marine was just coming up behind her. She grabbed a couple of bags. “Drop the rest here. Go get more.”

  The private did.

  “What kind of load?” came again from the pilot.

  “Jack, can we distribute just one platoon among the next four shuttle loads and leave room for more food?”

  Kris’s security chief was busy distributing food at her elbow. “That’s acceptable,” he said, “just so long as we keep one shuttle on the deck to get you out of here.”

  “We’ll have two,” Kris pointed out.

  “Better.”

  Kris handed over a full bag to a man pleading for his family, who were too weak to walk. Maybe he was lying, but he looked barely able to stand. “Shuttle 3 and 4, launch for orbit. Return as fast as you can. Bring down one squad of Marine reinforcements each and as much food as you can carry.”

  “Aye, ayes,” came back at Kris, and the two empty shuttles moved from where they bobbed in the lake to takeoff position.

  A second squad of Marines returned from wherever they’d been posted for defense, slung their rifles, and joined in the food-distribution work. Around Kris, things were no less hectic and desperate, but order had taken hold, and the hungry throng sensed that there really was enough food for everyone. Now they waited patiently for their turn.

  Kris stepped aside for a Marine to take her place, then tapped Jack, Penny, and Mr. Annam. “Can we talk now?”

  “Yes. Yes, now would be a very good time. May I invite you to my home?” the farmer suggested.

  Kris suspected that was a formal invitation. “Yes, I would be grateful for your hospitality,” she answered, using the words Nelly suggested. The plantation owner smiled with satisfaction, folded his hands, and gave Kris a little bow.

  The crowd parted for them as Mr. Annam led them to the big house. That was a clearer sign of respect than Kris could have asked for. She hoped it cut both ways.

  In the cool shade of the house’s veranda, Mr. Annam slipped out of his sandals. Kris removed her shoes, and her team followed suit. Inside, they were offered seats in wicker chairs, and
a woman quickly offered cups filled with a thin tea.

  “This is my wife, Pinga. Without her careful husbandry of our meager resources, few would have lived to eat your gifts.”

  “My husband is too kind,” said the short woman, wrapped in a colorful cloth. But she settled into a chair at his right and smiled at Kris. “If my husband has not thanked you for your generosity, then let me assure you that you and your men will have an eternal place in our hearts and in our prayers,” she said, folding her hands and bowing her head.

  “Thank you,” Kris said, and found herself folding her hands and bowing in like fashion.

  For a moment.

  “How bad is it?” she asked, head coming up.

  “My grandfather told me tales of famine on Earth and when he fled the Iteeche. He prayed that my young eyes would never see what his old eyes had seen. Now I know all too well what he saw. Maybe worse.”

  “What is your crop situation?” Penny asked.

  “Our land is rich,” Pinga said. “We can get three crops in. Rice, barley, millet, wheat all grow here fast enough for a spring, summer, and fall crop.”

  “But that is not enough to feed all those who flee to us,” the husband added.

  “We have switched most of our land to potatoes. Before, we only grew them for vodka, which sold well on New St. Petersburg. You know of that planet?”

  Kris did. It was one of Greenfeld’s most populous industrial centers. They liked their vodka there. She nodded.

  “Sadly, New St. Petersburg knew all too well of us. People from there doubled, then redoubled our population. Then doubled it again and maybe again,” Annam said.

  “At first, those who came here tore at our heartstrings,” Pinga said. “They had nothing but were willing to work. We were glad to take them in. Thank heavens we did. Those early arrivals expanded our crops and made it possible for us to help the next and the next who came.”

  “And warned us when the bad ones arrived,” Annam said.

  “Bad ones,” Kris echoed.

  “The ones with guns,” Pinga said, voice sharp with disapproval. “We were sharing all that we could. They laughed at us and demanded the best, and all of it.”