''Just how much has the Navy been ignoring this place?'' Jack muttered softly. Which gave Kris pause enough to eye the well-worn tug, overdue for a paint job. She scuffed the concrete runway. It was solid, but in need of recovering. This is Naval District 41's territory. Not Wardhaven, Lieutenant Longknife, she reminded herself.
Reassessment over, Kris reached for her wallet, went past the official Naval District 41 charge card she'd been required to oh so formally sign for and pulled out her own. When Kris signed for the District card, she'd asked what her limit was. The procurement agent 3/c said that depended on the appropriations approved for her District. All effort by Kris or Nelly to find out what that magic number might be had failed.
Kris offered her personal ID and credit chit to the tug driver. He fed it into a remote on his rig without even looking at it. At least he didn't until the remote beeped happily and approved the charge. Once the card popped back out. the driver did give it a solid look. ''You this Kris Longknife?'' he asked.
''Usually. On my good days,'' Kris answered
''Boss, you know who she is. Don't you ever watch any vids but racing and football?''
''Nothing else worth watching,'' the boss said and elbowed the kid out of his seat. ''We don't have all day. Let's get this thing off the duty runway.''
''But she's… She's…'' The tall fellow seemed to have developed a stutter.
''Just another flyguy.''
With the shuttle hooked to the tug, the two piled back into their seats. ''Is there a crew truck coming for us?'' Kris asked.
''Nope.''
''Can we ride in with you?''
''Nope, seats are full.''
''Can an old chief hitch a ride in on your back bumper?'' Beni asked, not interested in a long hike to the facilities.
''Suit yourself, Chief,'' the driver said. ''If you're not too proud, the rest of you can share the bumper. Or walk.''
Jack offered Kris a hand up, not that her six feet needed all that much of an up. Still, it was nice of him. It also reminded her that she was a princess and serving Commander of Naval District 41 and it would be undignified to screech at a tug driver. And might upset the locals if she killed him.
The drive to a tie-down slot was sedate. Their shuttle was exiled to one well away from the terminal. After making sure it was secure, the driver offered them a ride to the operations center, a dilapidated building with a very threatening windsock hanging limply in the center of a patch of brown grass.
''You better settle up your bill with the port manager,'' the driver warned as he dropped them off. Inside Kris found flies, a desultory ceiling fan, and a middle-aged woman behind a counter. Kris approached, then cooled her heels while the woman finished a game of solitaire on her old-fashioned computer.
''So they did send us a Longknife,'' she said, not looking up.
''Just a young one,'' Kris countered.
''A Longknife is a Longknife. The old ones are doing you. The young ones are dreaming of when they'll be big enough to do you. Which one are you?'' she said, looking Kris's way. The eyes held Kris. Whether the frumpy outer show was real or fake, the eyes were a piercing blue that cut deep. There was ice around them, too. They took Kris in, weighed her to the last milligram and found her… worth keeping an eye on. She leaned back from her computer and kept those eyes locked on Kris.
''I'm Kris Longknife,'' the Navy lieutenant said. ''I commanded at Wardhaven.''
''You are that one,'' the woman nodded slowly in agreement. She let that hang in the warm, summer-filled air for a moment before posing her next question. ''And I am Marta Torn. What brings you to our neck of the backwoods?''
Kris had a dozen answers to that, but none got past the woman's eyes. ''They didn't have any other job for me. I think they're hoping I'll hang around here, get bored, and resign.''
The woman snorted. ''I think you just told me the truth. But it will serve as good as any lie. Nobody'll believe that.''
Kris shrugged. ''None of them ever crossed Billy Longknife.''
''That's the fate of every kid hatched, honey. Mommy, Poppy are never happy with you. Happy the parent who finally realizes the kids are their own best judge of what's good for them. God help the kid who gives in and lets Mommy and Poppy rule.''
''Any chance you could talk to my mother, father about that?''
The woman laughed, a big one that started low in her chest and reached all the way to her eyes. ''If they ain't listened to you, what makes you think they'll listen to me?''
''Speaking of listening… or talking where talking's not all that wanted, I'm kind of the new commander of Naval District 41 and it's going rather strange. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find Steve Kovar and have a little talk with him?''
The woman tapped her computer. ''He should have been here by now. It's Tuesday afternoon, so he's driving a cab.''
''I thought he'd be running a chicken ranch?''
''He does, and cabbies, too. You can ask him about that. I think I just heard the cab pull up.''
The front door of Ops opened and a short fellow in jeans and a flannel shirt walked in. His red hair was long and his beard shaggy. ''You got any baggage?'' was his only question.
''Only a one-day hop, down and back,'' Kris said. ''You will see that my shuttle is refueled,'' Kris said back to Marta.
''I guess your card is good for it,'' the Ops manager agreed. Steve gave the woman a raised eyebrow. ''She's using her own card. No Navy IOU from her.''
Steve shook his head ruefully and turned for the door; the Navy had to hurry to catch up. The cab had four doors in front. About halfway to the rear, it turned into a pick-up. Well, this was the Rim; everybody worked.
Kris settled in the front seat beside Steve; Jack and Beni shared the back. The former commander of Naval District 41 took off, spieling a monologue about the crops in view. ''We export the most prized, single-malt whiskeys this side of Old Scotland. Or the new one. And our wines are highly prized as well. We also grow several modified crops for feedstock to the pharmacy industry. Chance is proud of its trade balance. We import only the critical items needed for our growing industry. Fifteen of our twenty largest cities have their own fusion reactors. The others are making use of our natural waterpower.''
''I got that briefing on the way out,'' Kris said.
''Yes, but no briefing gives you the smell of the thing. The pride in the workmanship,'' the man pointed out. ''Look around.''
Kris did; they were coming over a slight rise. Behind stretched fields of grain. Almost lost in them were the tower and two long runways. Ahead, in a shallow bowl, was the city of Last Chance, stretching along both sides of the wide An'Ki River. There were tall buildings, none as tall as those on Wardhaven, but still, the city compared with several of the smaller metropolitan centers back home.
''Looks nice,'' Kris said. ''Why name it Last Chance?''
''It was intentional. Place like Greenland back on Earth, Greenfeld with the Peterwalds, are intended to fake people into thinking they're headed for a great place to live. Folks that settled Last Chance didn't want those kind. They wanted folks looking for a challenge. Willing to fight a planet for their future. Our population's over a hundred million. We've got no unemployment to speak of. We like it here.''
That hadn't been in Kris's briefing. Oh, the raw numbers, yes. But the attitude. Hmm. Something to think about.
''How do you like my station?'' That question still showed pride of ownership even if he wasn't interested in taking Kris for a change-of-command tour.
''Very clean. Very shipshape. Very empty.''
Steve laughed. ''Yes, I imagine it is very empty.''
''You know, anyone could have come along and grabbed it. You're just two jumps from Peterwald space now that the Greenfeld Confederacy pressured Brenner's Pass into joining them.''
''Yes, but no one did until you came along and took it.''