Intrepid (13 page)

19

Kris spent the time Thorpe was overhead going over a map with Grampa Bobby Joe. It was amazing what she could get from someone who’d walked the land with his own boots. There was a lot here that didn’t show up from orbit.

For example, which homesteaders were longtime diggers, and who only got started when the ships hove into view. Two ships coming through the same jump point had gotten everyone’s attention. It was a good year when two ships dropped by. One following the other into the system did not strike anyone as a business deal coming their way. Some places just started digging. Others only had to put the finishing touches on their work and start moving their families and gear underground.

Kris studied the prepared ones. It would be hard, but not impossible, to get from here to where she wanted to be by going on to the next homestead at eighty-five-minute intervals.

Kris also learned which farms had gunsmiths, or electronic whizzes, chemists, doctors, and others with important skills. These she also marked on her map. In twenty minutes her map was busy.

And she’d probably gathered more information on Panda than Thorpe had now. One or two ships a year not only meant little arriving. It also meant not a lot of data about this place went out. Just an idea, not yet an assumption. But. . . know thine enemy might not be these guys’ strong point.

No, Thorpe probably figured all he had to do was intimidate some unarmed farmers out of their livelihood. That starship captain did not know these people.

Kris knew the full extent of her job: hatch a full-fledged rebellion against heavily armed invaders.

Or were they that heavily armed?

“Want to meet the guy you’re up against?” the elder asked.

“I know the one in orbit,” Kris said.

“I mean the one on the ground.”

Over in the corner, behind Kris when she was facing the inquisition, was a small wall monitor. She’d noticed it earlier, but it showed only a blue screen with a small white logo. . . which turned out on close examination to be a grinning skull. . . so she’d ignored it. Now someone called up a picture from memory. It was hazy, and bounced around a bit. It showed a lander on approach, then cut to troops dismounting in businesslike fashion.

“Can you pause that?” Kris asked.

The picture froze. Hazy at first, the monitor cleaned it up crystal clear after three flickers. Kris and Gunny stooped close to get a good look at what it showed.

“Mark V, mod 2 battle suits,” Gunny said. “No, mod 3s. They got the codpieces. Good stuff. Somebody had money,” Gunny said, turning to the elder.

“Not enough. Look what comes off the next shuttle,” the old man said with a sour grin.

The next lander was a standard shuttle, unarmored. The troops who tramped off it held M-6 rifles. . . or good knock-offs. . . but from the soles of their boots to the tops of their white berets, there was not one stitch of armor.

“Looks like somebody filled out his battalion at a bargain basement,” Bobby Joe said. “I wonder how good they are.”

They formed ranks and marched off the pier. Whoever was in charge didn’t know to stay out of step when crossing bridges or other structures that might not withstand the pounding. Sad to say, the pier held together. But if the troops were supposed to instill fear in the observer, they missed their bet with Kris.

“Their heads are bobbing like a bunch of high school girls,” Gunny growled, then thought better of it. “If you’ll pardon the expression, Your Highness.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Gunny,” Kris said. “Half of them can’t dress, cover, or keep an interval. Kind of makes you wonder how straight they can shoot.”

“My thoughts exactly. Old-timer, you called it in one. Somebody unloaded a bunch of half-trained recruits. Cheap they may be, but they’re up against a princess who cared enough to send the very best,” came from Gunny, with a wolf’s grin.

Bobby Joe came to stand beside the Marine. “That’s the way I took it. I figured when it came time for us to take back the daylight, we’d start with this bunch. Still, I have to admit, I’m only too glad to share the honors with you and yours.”

“You said I could meet the guy in charge?” Kris said.

“That’s coming in a second,” the elder said, and a moment later, the picture got knocked around, ended up showing ground and sky and somebody’s web gear. The Mark V was serious stuff.

When the picture leveled out, it was focused on one man’s face. Olive skin and black eyes gave the camera a hard, measuring look. “You live?” the man demanded.

“Yes sir,” came with a stammer and hiccup.

“Then broadcast this to whoever is watching. I am Colonel Hernando Cortez. I and my troops have come to restore order on Presley’s Pride. All terrorists who turn in their weapons in the next twenty-four hours will be allowed to live. Anyone seen under arms twenty-four hours and one minute from now will be shot on sight. Further orders will be issued, and their nature will depend on the cooperation we receive. Did you send that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gimme that.” The camera changed hands. And ended up dropped on the ground. The last picture it sent was of a boot about to crush it underfoot.

“Hernando Cortez,” Kris said softly.

“A Hernando Cortez,” Nelly put in helpfully, “was one of the first conquistadors. He conquered the Aztecs of Mexico.”

“Looted their gold and enslaved their people,” Bobby Joe added.

“Interesting choice of names for their ground commander,” Gunny said.

“Could be just coincidence,” Kris said. Then chuckled. “Didn’t Cortez burn the ships that brought him in. Wonder how this Cortez took to us sinking ours?” Kris would have to ask him. . . once he was her prisoner.

“Thorpe’s under the horizon,” Sergeant Bruce announced as he entered the room. “They’ve got an underground garage, and we’ve rigged five of their trucks with trailers. About time to saddle up and head south.”

“We can borrow your trucks?” Kris asked the elder.

“I suspect Jamie gave your men that understanding,” Grampa Bobby Joe said. Jamie was right behind Sergeant Bruce.

“My pa’s got the trucks ready to go. And a dozen of our best with the squirrel rifles. I was planning on going.”

Andy looked torn. Wanting to go, tired of being gone. Bobby Joe reached for him. “Son, you been gone too long. Not sure the neighbors would recognize you. Let Jamie and his pa, Billy, take this herd out. We need some good shooters at home.”

A grin swept Andy’s face, and he gave the elder a huge hug.

“We’ll be going,” Kris said. “You have any suggestions for a place that would give us cover eighty minutes down the road?”

“Try the Polska place. She’s got a truck-repair barn that ought to be able to hide you.”

And Kris and her team, augmented by thirteen locals, started their trek south, to battle.

Kris was on the road when the
Wasp
came over the horizon. She immediately tight-beamed up a short report giving her present status and what she’d found out from the locals. She ended by asking if they’d heard anything from Jack.

Captain Drago appeared on Kris’s eyeball a second later. “Jack’s been staying quiet, just as planned. And I’m not picking up a whole lot about him from up here, either.”

“Any idea what the other guy is up to?” Kris asked.

“Finally, I can say something about that. Since last orbit these folks, Colonel Cortez, huh,” Drago said, “have gotten rather rambunctious.”

“Not hiding their movements, huh?”

“Abby figures they are, but things aren’t going all their way anymore. Here’s a picture of the road north from the first town upriver from Landingburg to town two. Notice all the traffic pulled off to the side of the road. Troopers standing around kicking the tires.”

Jamie glanced over from where he was driving. . . and doing a good job of keeping the truck out of holes and away from rocks. “These guys aren’t all that careful with our rolling stock.”

“You’re going to have to explain that to me,” Kris said.

His pa leaned his head through the open window between the truck’s cab and it’s flat bed where he was riding. “Ma’am, we got a lot of old stuff. Some of our rolling stock has been rolling since Grampa got it off the lander. It’s old. You might even say cranky. Now if you know how to treat it right, it’s fine. But you figure you can just twist the key, pound on the gas, and it’ll take you where you want to go, you’re in for a whole world of stall, flood, and other nasty stuff.

“Every truck on the farm has its own way of looking at you. Why do you think Jamie’s driving this heap? He has the touch for it. Me, I gave up on this one years ago.”

“Peggy’s not a bad ride, Pa, not if you treat her right.”

“So you say,” the older man said, and went back to talking with Sergeant Bruce on the flat bed.

Kris passed that intel along to Captain Drago.

“Somebody should have thought ahead about what they’d need,” the captain said, shaking his head.

“Why bring what you can steal?” Kris answered. “I think this whole thing was worked out on a very tight budget.”

“A tight budget that didn’t include a contingency for a Longknife showing up,” Drago said dryly.

“Let’s not put too much into that,” Kris said. “If they were planning on folding the hand they got dealt, they’d have run for the jump point while we were incoming. They’ve stayed this long. They aren’t going anywhere without a fight.”

“Don’t you just hate it when things are like that.”

“Thorpe doing any orbit changes?” Kris asked.

“We’ve slipped sats into orbit ahead and trailing us. Not so much that he’d see them, but enough so we’d know if he tried anything. So far he’s just doing the merry-go-round thing.”

Kris thought for a moment. “Keeping them in the dark about Jack is one thing. I don’t like it cutting both ways.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“How about a wide beam? Broadcast your picture of those broken-down trucks over all of the settlement area. Let everyone know their problems. Also, resend that invasion footage. Jack might as well see that everyone he’s facing isn’t as hard a case as some. He’ll know what to do about that.”

Which gave Kris another idea. “And while we’re at it, maybe you could patch together some of the conversation I had with Thorpe. Let’s let anyone listening on an open channel know that the times, they are a changing.”

“Will do. I’ve got one of mFumbo’s techs working on that.”

“Time for me to go back to playing the strong, silent type. Kris out.”

And Kris returned to watching the path ahead of them, swaying with the rig. . . and weighing what move to take next.

She certainly had knocked over the apple cart with that last set of orders. The folks of Panda had gained time by going silently to ground. It must have stunned Thorpe and Cortez. It certainly had messed up their plans.

But now silence was helping the invaders as much as it harmed them. So long as the resistance knew of nothing going on, it could hardly be a resistance. Not an effective one.

Sooner or later Thorpe would start ferreting out those in hiding. If the resisters did nothing to support each other, they’d go down, one by one. Kris and her Marines were unexpected. The question for Kris was what to do. . . and when?

Part of that was solving itself. As she moved south, Cortez swung his forces north. There would be a meeting engagement somewhere along that line of march. First with Jack and his crew. Then with Kris and all.

The deal was to meet up with Cortez when Jack and Kris’s forces were together. Cortez of course, would do his best to avoid that. Kris wanted one thing. Cortez another. That was usually when battles occurred. Or elections. Kris had chosen a profession that did the battle thing. Despite her father’s strong opinion on the matter, she still thought she’d chosen the wiser.

Drago made his broadcast just before the
Wasp
sank below the horizon. Strangely, it spurred no reaction from Cortez. She’d figured him for a shoot-from-the-hip man, but he kept silence.

“Nelly, Mark the time of Drago’s broadcast.”

“Yes, ma’am. May I ask why?”

“’Cause, sooner or later, someone is going to say something about my loud and blunt declaration. It would be interesting to see how long a decision cycle the other side has.”

“I see,” Nelly said. “I should start timers on things like that. That way, I can answer your questions faster.”

Another lesson for the kid/computer around Kris’s neck.

The Polska place came into view. The “huge” garage turned out to be dug out of a hill about a klick from the homestead.

“Come winter, you ought to see how the wind blows the snow,” Jamie tossed out when Kris looked quizzically at the place. “All the barns are like this. You don’t want to freeze the tits off your goats, or fingers off your hands. Makes for cool when it’s hot and warm when it’s freezing. Oh, and makes for one lousy set of targets when invaded,” the kid said with a grin.

And two big strapping Polska boys were out in front of the barn, holding its doors wide and waving the small convoy in. Kris was safely out of view from overhead surveillance a good two minutes before Thorpe’s star rose over the horizon.

20

“And they broadcast
that
on an open channel! To everyone,” Thorpe said, struggling to keep his voice under control.

“Yep,” Colonel Cortez replied. “I think she’s trying to raise the countryside. Get a real rebellion going. We’ll have to slaughter a whole lot of sheep putting it down. You got any problems with me getting the captured townspeople organized into groups of ten? They kill one of my men, I kill ten of theirs.”

“No!” came as a scream over the net.

“Who said that?” came from both Thorpe and Cortez.

“I said that, Benjamin T. Whitebred. Those town folks are the artisans, the technical experts. They’re worth
money
. A farmer whacks one of your pogues, you whack as many hayseeds as you like, but don’t go knocking over people we’re going to need to keep this colony earning money.”

“Who gave you access to this channel?” Thorpe asked, voice low and cold. Two armed guards and the comm officer kicked off from their bridge positions and headed aft for Mr. Whitebred’s stateroom. Thorpe mashed the mute on his commlink. “Don’t hurt him, but bring him up here. Now.”

Finger off the mute button, Thorpe continued his talk with Cortez. “Did you see the way the pictures had been processed. That original feed from our landing. Rerun it,” he said to the 2/c sailor who had taken over the comm slot.

The picture of the white berets marching ashore reappeared. Now there was a commentary block over them. “Note that White Hats have no armor,” followed at the end of their scene by “And they can’t march straight. Can they shoot straight?”

“That sure looks like an incitement to rebellion to me, Hernando.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” the colonel said. “It’s bad enough to have half my transports broken-down, but to have them pointed out to the locals, oh man, William. They’re either laughing at us for being too dumb to drive. . . or inviting any local kid with a slingshot to go out and hit us. I’ve got to do something about that.”

“I know, Hernando, believe me, I know. That Longknife girl enjoys yanking a warrior’s chain. We need to give her a good solid yank ourselves.”

“Yeah, like a short noose over a tall tree,” gave them both a chuckle.

Which Thorpe swallowed quickly as the guards dragged Whitebred onto the bridge. As they did, they liberally bounced him off of the bulkhead, overhead, and deck. The civilian fought them, yanking on the three-foot tethers, one to his left wrist, the other to his right ankle. The guards must have had plenty of practice at moving resisting sailors in microgee. Each would glide from one handhold to another, give him a yank while they were secure, then take off for the next grip.

Whitebred bounced off of anything that got in his way and never succeeded in getting a purchase anywhere. It was pathetic for a grown man to be so helpless. Hadn’t the man spent any time training in microgee? What was he doing in space?

The guards found themselves handholds, one on the deck, the other on the overhead, and maneuvered Whitebred to a position where he gently twisted in the wind. Occasionally he faced Thorpe directly. Any half-trained sailor would have known how to cancel his rotation, face his captain, and take his dressing down like a fighting man.

Not Whitebred.

“What were you doing listening in on my command channel?” Thorpe demanded.

“I represent the money, buster. We listen in on anything we want to,” would have been a whole lot more effective comeback if Whitebred hadn’t been twisting his head around at all kinds of odd angles as he struggled to keep eye contact with Thorpe. Did the bloody fool have any idea how ridiculous he looked? He must have heard the bridge crew snicker at his empty claims.

As much as Thorpe hated playing to the crew, the civilian was challenging him as captain. This could not be allowed.

“Steady this fish you’ve landed,” Thorpe ordered the guards.

They reeled in their catch, leaving him splayed out like some sacrificial animal, one arm and the opposing leg pulled out straight. From the look on his face, painfully straight.

Thorpe released his seat belt, and carefully maneuvered himself until he was almost nose to nose with Whitebred. “While you are on my ship, you will follow my rules. Do you understand?” he said, sharp, hard, but in a deadly low voice.

“I represent the money that got you this ship,” the businessman insisted, but the power in his words was drowned by the tears in his eyes. . . and the blubbering of his mouth.

Thorpe glanced at the two guards. They gave the ropes a painful yank.

Whitebred gave a yowl. “You can’t do that to me.”

“You are on my ship. You are under my discipline. You and your moneyed interests sent me and my sailors and soldiers here. The assumptions you predicated this investment upon have been shown to be inaccurate. I am, at present, attempting to resolve this conflict of expectations and reality. This is a matter that can only be handled by officers like Cortez and myself. You are interfering with our work.”

With a flick of his ankle, Thorpe got his body moving back to his command chair. He settled into it with hardly a twitch. Whitebred floated there, awed at what he’d just witnessed.

“Now then, you will return to your room and stay there. Comm Chief, you will remove any unauthorized communication gear you find there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You aren’t going to start shooting hostages we need, are you?” Whitebred’s voice cracked as he pleaded, not for human beings’ lives but for his bottom line.

“Not yet, but not because of you. Because I don’t want to. Colonel, have you been listening?”

“Every word.”

“You’ve captured some gommers with mud on their boots.”

“Yes, Captain. I’ve got quite a few.”

“Organize the groups of ten, like you said. If you have to shoot, start with the hayseeds. If they have any smarts down there, they’ll throw their hand in before you get to anyone that our employers might weep for at his funeral.”

“Good thinking, William. Will do.”

“Just one of the advantages of being a couple of hundred klicks above the fray, Hernando. You want me to broadcast a martial-law decree.”

“I recorded one my staff worked up. I’ll send it to you.”

About the time Cortez’s martial-law announcement arrived, the Comm Chief returned, several comm stations in his hand, all trailing wires that showed they’d been yanked out with little thought to their reinstallation.

“He still sniveling?”

“No, sir. At the moment, he seems quite happy. I think he convinced himself he had something to do with the outcome.”

Thorpe scowled as he shook his head. “How do such fools survive into adulthood?”

“Kind of makes you wonder why he was the only one champing at the bit to go with us,” Weapons said.

“Show me Cortez’s announcement,” Thorpe ordered, and reviewed the video. It would be nice to have something as entertaining as the broken-down trucks or the “shoot the white hats, not the armored troops.” Still, Cortez, snarling into the camera threatening to shoot ten of them for any one of his they shot would surely get attention.

Thorpe glanced at the clock. Hardly time before they fell below the horizon. The Longknife announcement had been when they were almost directly above the settled lands. Somehow that brat and her team had produced a better product in less time.

Of course, she didn’t have to deal with Whitebred. And once the fighting started, neither would Thorpe.

He shook his head. Let Longknife think she’d won something this time. When the bullets started flying, she’d discover that she couldn’t count on a slow decision. Not from Hernando, and not from her old captain.

“Broadcast the video,” Thorpe ordered, then settled back in his chair to study the main screen. It showed all that he’d learned from the latest pass. North of Bluebird Landing there was that nebulous cloud of something. His troops would drive into it while he was on the other side of this troublesome planet.

Now there looked to be three clear paths moving south from the lake they’d lased with such interesting results. Three!

Two went along opposite sides of a wildening creek. No, call it a river. The third started off from the farmhouse they’d burned and stopped just short of another homestead.

For a moment, Thorpe considered hitting that one with an eighteen-inch beam, then dropped it. Whoever was bossing the Longknife ship had let him get away with being empty last time. He would not trust that he could get away with that again.

You had to wonder where the financiers had gotten this ship. Two weak reactors. Two eighteen-inch pulse lasers that took forever to reload. A pair of long popguns that could hardly cause a dust devil two hundred klicks below.

But I took the command. Jumped at it. God, I hate the beach. I’d have chewed my arm off if that was what it took to get back to space.

The settled area dropped below the horizon. Thorpe would have more than an hour to wonder what was going on back here. “Sensors, are those microsatellites still hanging out there?”

“Yes, sir. They juggle their orbit and come into view for a few seconds, then fire a burst and they’re gone again. It can’t be very easy keeping them in orbit.”

“No, it can’t,” Thorpe agreed. But a rich brat like Kris Longknife would have toys like those around. Thorpe had nothing like that. Nothing he could make into them.

He swore to himself. Still, he kept a confident look on his face for the crew and waited for the next chance to get that Longknife girl.

What Gramma Polska didn’t lack was steel in her backbone.

“One of my boys was in Deverton when they landed. We ain’t heard from him since. Told him he was a damn fool for going, but there was this girl. He said he’d talk her into moving out here in no time at all. Xanadu girl. You’d have thought she was already used to the idea of moving on.”

“Gramma Polska, we didn’t come here to start a bloodbath.” Kris found it easy to say the half-truth, half lie. It didn’t pass muster under those old gray eyes.

“So I heard about you Longknifes. You say you never start a fight, but holy Mother of God, do they find you. You want to tell an old woman what you are planning on doing with the dozen of her boys that are champing at the bit to go along with you and your Marines?”

Kris shook her head. “It’s not that I know and won’t tell you. Simply put, I really don’t know how this thing will go down. It looks like most of their soldiers are headed north. I’m heading south. We’re going to meet somewhere in the middle, and a meeting engagement is one of the most slippery things we do in my business.”

“And you ain’t interested in counting your chickens before any of them takes up playing the harmonica.”

“That’s what my Gramma Ruth would tell me,” Kris agreed.

“Smart woman. She a farm girl?”

“Was before she married a Marine.”

“So, you going to use my kids, grandkids as. . . what do you call it?. . . cannon fodder. Yeah, I heard in the Iteeche wars your Grampa Ray used up a lot of cannon fodder.”

That wasn’t what Kris read in the history books. But Kris had less and less trust in what the learned scholars and newsies reported. She weighed several options and chose the one that seemed the most honest. “Ma’am, I’d like to promise you, but I won’t. If it would make you more willing to let them come and do what I order, I guess I could raise my hand and swear any oath you want. But the truth is that what we’re headed into won’t be easy to do and harder to foretell.

“I sure don’t plan on using anyone as cannon fodder. And I kind of suspect my grampa Ray didn’t think he was using all that many as you’ve heard about. Still, how a fighting man says he was used after a battle and what the commander thought he was doing may not come out sounding anything alike.”

The old woman snorted. “I’ve had a few relationships go that way. To hear some guys talk, you wouldn’t think we’d been on the same planet, much less in the same bed. I like your honesty, girl. I think I’ll trust you with my boys. Oh, and a couple of my girls are good with a gun. You got any problems with them going along?”

“My mother would, but I’m hardly one to talk.”

“What you going to do about this martial-law thing?” Gramma Polska asked, changing the topic.

“What would you do?” Kris asked right back.

“I’d tell folks not to kill any of those rascals. Not now. Not until the time comes. They’re looking for a fight. Don’t get in their way. Sooner or later, they’ll find one. Then they’ll do enough dying. Maybe enough that they ain’t all that interested in killing unarmed folks.”

The farm boss woman shook her head. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but that’s what I’d tell people.”

“Nelly, did you record what Gramma Polska just said?” Kris asked, with a quick glance at her neck.

“I have a short-term record, Kris.”

“Include that in a tight-beam to the
Wasp
as soon as it comes over the horizon. Add my voice to a picture of Gramma Polska—‘I am Princess Kris Longknife of the Wardhaven Navy, and I strongly advise people to follow Gramma Polska’s advice. A time of reckoning is coming, but it is not now. Don’t do something that causes these outlaws to hurt your friends.’ ”

“I will tight-beam it as soon as the
Wasp
is up.”

“Good. How long did it take Thorpe to respond to our first broadcast?”

“Ninety-two minutes. He was almost below the horizon when he sent the martial-law decree.”

“Let’s get our reply to that one up as fast as we can.”

“Kris, in a minute Thorpe’s ship will be out of line of sight. Shouldn’t we be getting back to the trucks?” Nelly said.

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” Kris sighed.

“Let me come with you,” Gramma Polska said. “My family will feel better about going if they see me with you.”

So Kris headed out of the huge sod-covered barn with food, full fuel tanks, and two extra trucks. One of them knew just the farmstead to head for, so it took over the lead.

The time with the
Wasp
went quickly. Captain Drago got the message responding to martial law and rebroadcast it in less than a minute. Information continued to be thin. It looked like Jack’s scouts had made initial contact with Colonel Cortez’s lead troops. At least Cortez’s vanguard was no longer charging up the road as fast as they could drive, but had slowed down and now had people walking point and flank guards. That would give Kris more time to get south.