''My grandson has a couple of his buddies working on their engineering degree in power systems. They'd love to fix up the reactors on that bucket. It would look great on their resumes.''
''Or so Mabel keeps telling him.''
''I bet we could get that old tub in good enough shape for a trip out to the moon and back. We could.''
Kris held up her hand, to slow the machine-gun-fast patter. These old vets wanted to fix up her warship for some pleasure cruises. No. ''You want to turn the Patton into a museum!''
''Yep.''
''Pretty much.''
''You got it, Lieutenant,'' came back.
''It's not like you ever planned on commissioning her and taking her out for a fight,'' Jack whispered softly behind her.
''That was supposed to be a secret between the two of us,'' Kris whispered back. The three oldsters in front of Kris grinned from ear to ear.
''It's not just us that want to work on your ship,'' two canes offered, careful to use the ''your'' where the ship was concerned. ''There's fifty, sixty of us old farts chomping to get our hands on that bit of history, scrap of our youth, if you don't mind me putting it that way. It's not just our kin alone that will be working on it. There're several high schools, and not just those around Last Chance. We could do it up nice.''
''And put some fight back in the old girl,'' the woman added with a faraway smile. ''Just cause she's old don't mean she don't still have some fight in her.''
''Mabel, don't scare the lieutenant. Ma'am,'' two canes added quickly, ''we're old, but we ain't fools. We just want to fix up the old boat. Nothing more.''
Kris nodded, not risking words. Kris had been finding humor in the idea of these old folks painting the Patton and maybe putting some of the circuits back in working order. But Mabel's words had struck an echo, a reminder of enthusiastic volunteers Kris had led out against battleships. Those wonderful optimists had fought and, too often, died.
No, Kris was not interested in a bunch of superannuated vets and their adoring great-grandkids turning the wreck of a ship into a false façade that would crumble on them when put to the test. Well, there was one quick way to squelch this: ''Nelly, as the Commanding Officer of Naval District 41, am I authorized to accept the donation of labor and equipment in the performance of my official duties?'' A quick no should end this.
''Your Highness, you are,'' Nelly said simply.
''What!'' Nelly, that's not the answer I wanted.
Sorry about that. You asked me. You should have asked me before you drafted Jack, but you would not even let me get a word in edgewise. ''Your Highness, as a member of the Royal Family, you are authorized to accept donations of labor and products for the defense of the realm and for historical purposes. It is not for me to say which covers the offer these fine people are making, but it does fit into one of these options in 10 U.S.C. 21215.''
''Let me guess,'' Jack said from behind Kris. ''A new reg.''
''Promulgated after the attack on Wardhaven,'' Nelly added. ''It seems that several of the donations of equipment, even the ones that were intentional, were not legal.'' Was Nelly sassing Kris for some of the more piratical ship acquisitions she'd made in her three days of sweating before that battle?
Ron returned with sodas for Kris, himself, and Jack. His timing was perfect for catching the final offer of the vets… and Nelly's take on current events. The crinkle around his eyes and lips looked potentially terminal. He handed Kris her drink. ''I'd heard of the famous Nelly, but I hadn't really believed the stories. Is that what we all have to look forward to in a couple of more years?''
''Not if I have Aunt Trudy reboot her,'' Kris scowled.
''She is always threatening that,'' Nelly said primly. ''She never does. And I personally think Aunt Tru and her own computer are enjoying me too much to ever let Kris harm me.''
''Some day I'm going to let Tru wear you for a week. Then we'll see what you're sounding like.''
''You could not survive a day without me.''
''I don't mean to interrupt,'' Ron said, ''but there is a motion on the table to let these fine people donate supplies, and work for the repair and maintenance of a warship in Chance orbit. Considering how concerned Lieutenant Longknife is about Chance's defense, I should think she would jump at the chance to improve them. What say you, ma'am. We need a decision.''
''Ron, the Patton is not a warship. It's a wreck looking to happen. It is not contributing anything to your defense.''
''Then let us turn it into a museum,'' two canes shot back.
''You want our people to be more aware that the universe out there is a dangerous place,'' Ron pointed out so reasonably. ''What better way than to have these old veterans passing along to our young the true stories of what they faced.''
Kris did not like being manipulated. Father did it. Mother did it. And Grampa Trouble had just done a superb job of it. She wanted to take this bunch and tell them to stuff their idea where the sun didn't shine.
''And if we're working on the Patton up on the station,'' two canes added, ''we'll need food, things like that. Tony Chang has agreed to reopen his New Chicago Pizza and the Chinese Waffle House for us. I understand you're living on tight rations.''
Kris glared at Ron. ''I didn't tell them,'' he insisted.
''I ran into your chief at The Old Camp Store,'' the white-haired woman said. Surrender did not come easy to a Longknife. But clearly, this was one of those times when surrender was an option, and best done quickly.
''We,'' Kris was careful to use the royal pronoun, ''are glad to graciously accept your donation toward the common education of the youth of your planet.'' Education. Not defense. Never would Kris let that ship sail into combat.
After intermission the rest of the play went quickly. The guy got the girl, or maybe it was the other way around. Ron drove Kris and Jack to the port late that night. He turned on the runway lights and did not try to kiss Kris good night but he did surprise her.
''Hank Peterwald never would have let those people mess with a ship of his. But then, I'd never expect to see him out here with just a hulk.''
''You know Hank?'' Kris got out.
''I had a scholarship to Peterwald University on Greenfeld. Took classes with him. You are not at all what I expected.''
Nelly?
You didn't ask and you were busy and how was I to GET A WORD IN?
Kris got the shuttle back to orbit and safely docked. She left the men to put away the groceries and got to her room before the shakes started. I spent the day with a buddy of Hank's. What was the real story of this planet? And where was a ship when she needed it?
Chapter 3
Kris woke next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs. She showered and dressed quickly and went in search of the source of that wonderful aroma. Jack had a small corner of the huge kitchen working; a griddle sizzled with the source of Kris's aromatic joy. ''I thought you said you couldn't cook,'' she said, filling a mug with coffee.
''I asked my computer how to scramble eggs and fry bacon and, surprise, surprise, those instructions were in memory.''
''Of course,'' Nelly sniffed. ''Every computer knows how to cook basic items. I kept wondering why none of you asked for instructions. I assumed you doubted you could follow them.''
''You really do want a session with Aunt Tru, don't you?'' Kris muttered.
''You're looking awfully chipper this morning,'' a bleary-eyed Chief Beni said from the mess door. In bathrobe and flip-flops, he looked like he'd had a rough night.
''You didn't sleep well?'' Kris asked, sipping her coffee.
''She really did sleep through it,'' Jack said. As Kris would have expected, he was showered, shaved, and impeccably uniformed, the damage to his shoeshine repaired. But closer observation showed dark edges under his eyes.