''You want crossed sabers?''
''I think she would like it. You know, I'm not sure if she intends to wear a white dress or dress whites.''
''Just be glad we're keeping this whole affair a secret from my mother. If she got ahold of it…'' Kris shivered at the mere thought of Mother planning a wedding.
Maybe that was the best reason for staying single. ''So,'' Kris pointed at the intel station. ''Any idea who might crew it?''
''How about Penny?'' Tom said, almost sounding serious. ''She knows just about all there is to know about the warships a Wardhaven fleet might face. She has a full range of intel skills. You can't keep holding her duty of interrogating us ‘mutineers' against her.''
''Don't even use that word as a joke,'' Kris said, blanching.
''Then you hire a PR firm to come up with a nice short term for what we did on the Typhoon,'' Tom said. ''Anyway, we'll need someone with all Penny's skills, so why not ask for Penny? She's done enough desk time. She'd love some ship duty.''
And Tom would love to have his wife stationed right behind him. And the minor fact that Penny had held her Lieutenant rank for a whole year longer than Kris shouldn't cause any trouble in the chain of command of a ship as tiny as PF-109.
Yeah. Right.
But Penny had done fine work on Turantic when Kris had needed some very fine work if she was to stay alive. She could do worse than have someone like Penny backing her up. The chief might be right; any real targets they went up against might well be shooting back with a whole lot nastier stuff than the antiques that the Commodore had them training against.
But PF boats defending Wardhaven! Who was kidding who? If they were lucky, they'd all be shipped off to some backwater planet. Ordered to defend some place that no one thought needed all that much defending when things changed suddenly and …
Hmm, maybe having a full intel officer and a full intel report might not be a bad idea for wherever they ended up having to show that these toys could fight.
Three hours later they were all tucked right in behind the flagship, tiny ducklings following in the wake of the Cushing, an antique destroyer, the last of her class not yet sent to the breakers, kept around only to nursemaid this harebrained idea that you could use penny boats to blast dollar bill battleships.
Stan brought Kris the list of ship deficiencies. It was long. Nelly's list was longer, but fell four short of exceeding the Chief's list by half. ''Nelly, pass your list to the Chief.''
Stan looked at the longer list, pursed his lips, then went to check it out.
''So I don't get to mess with the rock chip,'' Nelly said, sounding as sad as a computer could. ''Auntie Tru would be so happy if I discovered whatever secrets of the Three races that built the jump points that might still be recoverable on that data source. She might even cook you up a batch of chocolate chip cookies.''
''Nor can you bring up the topic for a month,'' Kris said, ignoring the rest of the blandishment.
''A week,'' Nelly countered. ''You didn't specify a length when we made the bet.''
''Two weeks,'' Kris said. Nelly went quiet in her head. It's really weird when you can tell your computer is pouting by just the way your skull feels.
''Is that the way it works?'' Tommy asked.
''What works?''
''Keeping Nelly under control?''
''She is never under control.''
''You got that right, Your Skippership.''
''Sorry I asked,'' Tommy said, swallowing something halfway between a snarf and a chuckle.
''Nelly, I want you to research the best helmets for the crew to reduce brain damage and neck strain when we're whipping around at high-g's on evasion. Then reprogram the battle stations to secure the head and neck supports tightly on the helmets so our heads don't take as much battering as we did today.''
''If you'd just let me run the ship, you could all stay home,'' Nelly said.
Fintch at the helm did a double take.
''Yes, Nelly, but the Navy Way is old-fashion about that. So you just do what I tell you, and we'll get along fine.''
The rest of the cruise back was quiet as all hands turned to make right as many of the deficiencies on the Chief's list as they could without a dock to help. The list was noticeably shorter when Kris ordered all hands to pier detail.
Kris watched over Fintch's shoulder as she brought the boat smartly alongside the pier, caught the bow lockdown on the first try, and followed it as it smoothly pulled the boat to the pier.
''Well done,'' Kris said, giving Fintch a well-earned pat on the shoulder.
''Power line passed to the pier,'' the chief reported from his special space detail station at the quarterdeck amidships. ''Air, comm, and water connected. The hatch is opened.''
The pressure in the boat changed the tiniest bit. No ship ever managed to maintain the same atmosphere as the station, even for only a one-day out and back in.
''Captain, we've got—'' was cut short.
''Chief, do we have a problem?'' Kris demanded as her eyes went over the board. All lights were green. There was nothing wrong with the boat. Nothing showing.
Nelly?
''I'm being jammed,'' the computer said, surprise flooding its voice. ''I'm trying to…''
Kris turned in her command seat as five MPs in Army khaki marched onto her bridge, a major in the lead.
''Are you Lieutenant Kristine Anne Longknife, sometimes styled Princess?'' he demanded.
There are some moments in your life that you know are coming for you. Moments that, when you are just a kid, you know will happen to you before you die. It's probably different for different kids. If your folks are farmers, maybe it's a plague of locusts at harvest time or that one great crop that will never be equaled. If you're an army brat, you know that somewhere out there is a battle, a fight for your life, that will find you.
Kris was a politician's daughter; somehow she knew that they would come for her one day. As a kid of nine, she'd watched a vid of Marie Antoinette and wondered what it had been like to face that first arrest, to walk those final steps to the guillotine.
All her life, Kris had wondered how she'd handle this moment, so it both surprised her… and failed to.
She stood, faced her accuser, and answered simply, ''I am Kris Longknife.'' Strange, at the moment, how all titles fell away.
''I have orders to relieve you of your command and place you under arrest. Sergeant, cuff her.''
Kris's mind raced. What to do next? She turned to Tom. ''You have the conn,'' she said. The command had to be transferred clearly. That was the Navy Way. Then she turned back to this Army invasion on her bridge.
''May I ask what for?'' Kris said, keeping her hands at her side. Resistance was futile … worse … undignified. But she'd be damned if she'd help them.
An Army Sergeant, no Marines or Navy in sight, whipped out a pair of cuffs and shoved Tom aside. The Navy Lieutenant reached for the ruffian.
''Stand down,'' Kris ordered.
Tommy did, though tiny Fintch took a step forward and slowed down the other Sergeant charging in on Kris's other side.
The major whipped out his sidearm as did the two MPs behind him.
''Stand down,'' Kris ordered, louder. ''Neither I nor my crew are under arms. We cannot nor will we offer you any resistance. Fintch, let the men through, even if they are barging around on our ship without so much as a by-your-leave.''
Kris had dreamed this scene asleep and awake too many times. Sometimes it ended peacefully. Other times not. She knew how she wanted it to end.
The MPs had their guns out; they nervously eyed the bridge crew. ''Major, the only people on this bridge armed are your people. No one is going to resist you, so relax.'' Kris tried to make that last sound like an obvious invitation. ''But would you mind telling me what this is all about?''