“You’re offering them a chance to fight for the right of an entire race to breathe the air God gave them,” Colonel Cortes said. “Drink their planet’s water. It’s a worthwhile fight. A good fight.”
“We’re all going to die,” Abby muttered . . . to everyone in hearing.
“Everyone dies,” the colonel said. “Not everyone gets to die for something worth dying for. Abby, my good woman, you have to quit thinking the old way. For years, the Navy took out the garbage and stopped this spat, that squabble. Now we’re facing something that doesn’t even consider us worth talking to. We try to talk to them. They try to kill us. That’s the way the conversation has gone. Now we’ll let Hellburners do our talking for us.”
“Hellburners?” Kris asked.
“The boffins can call them neutron torpedoes if they want. That’s a name to warm the hearts of some ice-water-for-blood scientist. Hellburners. Now that’s the name for a warrior’s weapon. That’s a name that will smash down the very gates of hell. I like that name.”
“We’d better,” Jack said. “Because Kris here is leading us right down hell’s main boulevard.”
“She’ll march us into hell, and she will march us back again,” the colonel said, “and we will all raise a glass at the memory when we’re old and gray.”
“I surely hope so,” Penny said, looking slightly pale. “I certainly hope so.”
“She’s a bloody Longknife,” the colonel said, grinning. “Who would you rather follow through hell?”
“Me, I’d rather skip the hike,” said Chief Beni.
“You going to apply for a ticket on one of the freighters?” Penny asked.
“Of course not,” the chief said. “If Kris is going to lead us out of hell, she’ll need me to find the best route.”
Kris chuckled. “Thank you, Chief.”
Captain Drago entered the Forward Lounge at that moment, a thick pile of flimsies in hand. It looked thick enough to cover every man and woman of his contract crew. Kris swallowed hard, mentally packing her kit. A shrunken kit that might fit on the Hornet.
“I have some personnel actions you need to sign, Commodore.”
“What kind?”
“Activating commissions, Commodore.”
“Whose?”
“Mine. All the other officers among our crew. Oh, and the enlisted swine want to be activated, too. If you’re going to fight a war, we’d prefer to fight it with good old Navy blue and gold on our backs.”
34
Kris took a moment to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once again, she’d expected one thing and was being handed another. Colonel Cortez was right; she needed a new mind-set. She reached for the top flimsy. It named a certain Edmond Drago and activated his reserve commission . . . as a lieutenant.
“I thought you were a captain the last time your reserve commission was activated?” Kris said.
“I was. But the last time we were at Wardhaven, with you promoted to lieutenant commander, I rearranged all our reserve commissions. My crew now are all lieutenants . . . or junior.”
Kris glanced up at Captain Drago. Or Lieutenant Dragoto-be. “Why the cut in pay?”
“None of us thought we should outrank you, Commodore.”
“Outrank me.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re the captain of Wasp as soon as you sign those papers.”
Kris put the papers down on the table beside her. “Sit down, Captain. What’s going on here?”
“As I said, Kris, we’re going into a fight. Call us old-fashioned, me and my crew, but if we’re going to fight the king’s fight, we ought to wear the king’s colors. It’s been that way for several thousand years. This idea of taking the king’s coin and doing it as a civilian contractor just doesn’t have the right taste to it for me. Others may disagree. That’s their right. Me and mine, no, Your Highness. If we’re to fight, give us our blue and gold.”
“It’s not like these hostiles will follow the rules of war,” Kris said. “I don’t think it will matter all that much to them whether they capture you in uniform or in your underwear.”
“Given my choice, I’d rather not be captured at all by these murderers,” Drago said. “However, as I said. We’re old-fashioned. This isn’t one of your not-quite-a-real-war things that you’ve taken us to. They were fun little parties. Fine way to pass the time of day when things were dull. This is the real thing. A knock-down, drag-out brawl.
“We talked it over among ourselves. For this, we follow the flag, and we want our proper uniforms.”
Kris nodded, leafing through the forms. One after another, lieutenant, lieutenant, lieutenant.
Kris laid them out flat and rested her hand on them. “Captain, I can’t tell you that I don’t want to command the Wasp. This weird lash-up we’ve made of the chain of command has never been satisfying.”
Kris paused to shake her head. “However, I’ve got a problem with this. In the right here and now.”
“Just one problem?” Captain Drago said, raising an expressive eyebrow.
“Somewhere I heard that you train the way you’ll fight. Then you fight the way you trained. Did I get the expression right, Colonel?”
“I can give it to you in the original Greek,” the colonel said. “It goes back quite a ways. Good idea, too.”
The present skipper of the Wasp nodded. “I’ve heard it, too.”
“If I take the captain’s seat, who takes my chair at Weapons?” Kris asked.
“The lieutenant here,” the skipper said, nodding at Penny.
Penny shook her head. “No way I and Mimzy can handle weapons as well as Kris and Nelly. Sorry. You order us. We’ll try. But we’d be kidding ourselves that I could do in a pinch as well as those two.”
Kris let that hang in the air for a few moments, then reached for the form activating Drago’s commission.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Kris said. “You’ve arranged that I can’t commission you or any of your crew as anything but lieutenant. I’ll do that,” Kris said, signing the order. “Wear the uniform proudly.”
“And at a much lower pay,” Drago whispered under his breath.
“But, here’s the way we fight the Wasp.” Kris went on. “You have the captain’s chair. I have the Weapons station. We’ve got a pretty good record of getting things done that way. I don’t see us having any problems doing things that way in the coming fight. Do you?”
“I think we’re all used to doing it that way. I don’t foresee any problems we can’t handle.”
“Good,” Kris said, and got busy signing papers. One brought her up short. “Cookie is an officer! The cook is at least a lieutenant?” She looked at Drago.
“A very good officer, ma’am. I learned more about being a junior officer under his command than I thought was possible.”
“What rank did he retire at?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He swore me to secrecy when I took him on board.”
“He’s a great cook,” Abby said, “whatever he did for the Navy.”
“That he is, folks,” Drago agreed. “It was always a hobby of his. He promised me when he signed on that he’d do better than best for us, and he has.”
“Cookie’s an officer,” Kris muttered as she signed the papers putting him back in a lieutenant’s uniform. She seriously doubted it would fit him. He was a wondrous cook, and he did enjoy what he baked.
“And if anything happens to me, and he offers you a suggestion, Commodore, I’d take it under careful advisement.”
“I think I will,” Kris said, signing form after form. No surprise, most of her enlisted personnel were senior chiefs. Done, she handed the stack back to the newly minted Lieutenant Drago.