''And where would the quality be in wasting time with my father or my son?'' Kris could agree with him where her father was concerned. What it was between him and Grampa Ray was something she couldn't even begin to grasp.
''You know we have a problem?''
''Looks like the Peterwalds have got some Greenfeld warships headed our way, and that bunch of dunderheads at Government House have really screwed up this time.''
''You know it's the Peterwalds. I'd heard that the ships weren't sending any IDs.''
''They aren't. But who else would put together that problem on Boynton and turn out my son's government? I'll bet you when things are done that we'll find some Peterwald money behind several of those votes that turned at the last moment. I should have known it.'' Which left Kris wondering if Grampa Al ever paid for any particular votes he wanted. Hmm.
Kris shrugged. ''Whoever the battleships belong to, they need to be stopped. You don't happen to have a few spare battlewagons stashed anywhere in the yard, do you?'' When last they'd talked, Grampa Al had bragged about making his own personal world safe and secure. Making himself untouchable. Living on a world run by Peterwalds didn't sound all that safe for a Longknife. Definitely not for Kris Longknife.
''No. Something I've overlooked. One has to expect that you'll get something back for your taxes.''
''I'm going to lead the PF squadron out against the intruders,'' Kris said.
''You can't. That's suicide.''
''I think the odds are better than that. I'd like to make them better still. The boats are in cold storage. They need some quick maintenance. Can we call on Nuu Docks?''
''You can have anything Nuu Docks has.'' The hologram image turned toward the deputy, ''Roy, you hear, they can have anything they need.'' Then the image was back, eye to eye with Kris. ''But only, Kris, only if you agree not to go out with them.''
''Grampa, I can't.''
''Why not? You're not going to tell me that you're the only person who can skipper a fast whatever-that-thing-is. There are other skippers. They've got deputies or assistants backing them up. I pay to get the boats back up and running. I get to keep my granddaughter out of this damn crazy shoot-out.''
Kris blinked. Good Lord, Grampa Al made it sound so logical. He'd trade his money for her life. Simple negotiations. For a second she wanted to say yes.
Only for a second. She saw herself on the dock, standing maybe with Chandra's kids, waving bye to their mom. Kids did that. And civilians like Chandra's husband.
Lieutenants did not.
Not Lieutenants who commanded one of those boats.
''Sorry, Grampa. No deal. Like everyone else, the boats had orders to stand down and make nice-nice. I've already invoked Princess to take command of the entire squadron. To order these preparations. If I don't lead them, they don't go.''
''God damn it, young woman, you're sounding like my father.''
''Sorry, Grampa, it's the only way.''
''That's what he'd always say. ‘It's the only way.' Damn, damn, damn. Just once, I'd like to see someone come up with another way.''
''I know a whole squadron full of folks who'd love to see someone come up with another way,'' Kris said. ''Besides, Grampa Al, if you buy me out, what are you going to tell Gates and Rockefeller and Alexander next time you see them? They aren't getting a chance to buy their sons, their daughter out of this.''
The hologram of Grampa Al looked away for a long moment. When he looked back, he looked very old. ''Roy, my yacht is tied up somewhere up there. It's got defensive lasers of some sort or another. Get it out of wherever it is, shanghai a crew for it, and let the princess here use it for anything she can dream up. Talk to the captain of my yacht. He may know the skippers of other armed yachts who aren't bugging out for other planets. Maybe Wardhaven isn't as defenseless as some people think.''
''Yes, sir.''
''Call back anyone you need to work on the boats. Give the princess here anything she wants. Do it carefully; the last thing we want is to have the newsies sniffing around. We have to keep it quiet from those damn gunboats and from what passes for a government down here.''
''Yes, sir.''
''Thank you, Grampa. That's very—''
''Patriotic of me,'' Grampa Al snorted. ''It isn't just you folks in uniform who believe in what the flag stands for. We all do, just in different ways. Oh, Roy, keep a running tab on what this all costs. If my son gets his act together and wins this election, we can probably get his government to pay for this.''
''Yes, sir,'' Roy said, looking a bit embarrassed at Kris. But only a bit. He was a businessman.
''Anything else?'' Grampa Al asked.
''Nothing I can think of. If I do, I'll have Roy call you.''
''My boss is on vacation. Should I call him back?''
Al's hologram shook his head. ''If he comes back, we'll be raising a red flag. No, Roy, you get to handle this one. Enjoy it. You'll be working directly with a young, hot-blooded Longknife. You got any boys her age and marriage high?''
''No sir, I just married off the last boy.''
''Lucky man. Now, if you don't mind, I have to liquidate some real estate holdings a certain busybody pointed out that I own. Amazing what pops up when someone goes digging.''
''Sorry about that,'' Kris said.
''I doubt you are. Do you really think it will make any difference to the people living there who owns them once I've sold my holdings?''
''You could keep them and improve their condition.''
''Survive this crazy charge of yours and drop by my place. We'll spend some quality time with me explaining to you the marketing realities that make slums happen.''
''I'll do that,'' Kris said as the hologram collapsed.
Roy sat up in his chair. ''We just had to redo the bathroom on the boss man's yacht, so I have the specs on my own computer. Won't have to access any database, raise any flags. Now, Your Highness, let's go see what we can do for your squadron.''
''Let me drive,'' Roy said, slipping into the front seat of the runabout. Instead of heading for the front gate, he headed elsewhere. ''I bet we can open Gate 5,'' he said as he drove a large six-lane street that headed straight for a four-meter-high fence that loomed between the Navy base and Nuu Yards. As they approached, a gate started rolling open.
''Yep, Navy forgot to lock down their side.'' Roy flashed a smile. ''Guess the new hired security missed a check box once we closed down the gate on our side.'' Well, at least Kris wouldn't have to fake her way through the main gate again.
In the Cushing's wardroom was another surprise. Poring over readers with the Commodore and Commander Santiago was Captain van Horn, the Navy station commander. He looked up, took in Kris with Roy at her side, and scowled as if they'd committed a particularly aromatic social blunder.
''We used to have mines in orbit,'' the Commodore was saying. ''I remember them being removed, thirty years back, as a hazard to navigation in peacetime. Are they in storage somewhere?''
''They were,'' Captain van Horn said. ''Sometime before I took over the station, they were sold as overage and dangerous. I think they were turned into fertilizer.''
''Oh,'' said both commanders.
''You're back,'' the Commodore said, spotting Kris.
''Grampa Al was available and authorized full cooperation by Nuu Docks,'' Kris said.
''Though he would prefer if she were left on the pier when these boats sail on their suicide mission,'' Roy pointed out.
''Hurrump,'' van Horn said. ''So you'll lead, Sandy?''
Santiago ignored the question. ''What'll it be, Longknife?''
Kris swallowed. Was it pride, folly, a death wish driving her? ''I sail on the 109.''
''Assuming she sails,'' the Commodore said.
''Boat got a problem?'' Roy asked with an eager grin.
''Total failure in the magnetic containment field.''
''No problem,'' Roy said, bringing his commlink up. Then stopped. ''You got a runner that you can send to the yard?''