The Chiefs scotched that. ''And who's gonna fill your slot if you're in the sick bay tomorrow with a broken leg, busted head?'' That ended that. The Chief of 110 came up with a rousing song that sounded evil enough to have been drunk to for a couple thousand years. One young lad recalled he had a bagpipe in his quarters. Despite threats from half the crews, he headed off for it. Kris thought of how the Fourth Highlanders of Lorna Do approached their business of breaking heads, hearts, and other things, and happily joined in.
An hour or three later, she knew she needed some sleep and turned to go. The Chief was at her elbow, nodding to Jack.
''You're around the Lieutenant a lot, sir. Are you—''
''I'm her Secret Service agent. Or was, when she rated one,'' Jack answered. ''I was at Tom and Penny's wedding and followed them up when the Lieutenant here decided to do something. I've just been doing what I could.''
''You been keeping her safe, anyway,'' the Chief nodded.
''Something like that.''
''You going out with us tomorrow?''
''Nope. I keep her out of trouble dirtside. You got to take care of her up here.''
''We'll take good care of her, sir. Damn good care of her.''
They walked in silence for most of the distance to the Halsey. ''You know, I think the Chief mistook me for a boyfriend,'' Jack finally said.
''Or a stalker,'' Kris offered, trying out an evil grin.
''Never considered that as a career option. Might take it up if your old man doesn't win or I don't get assigned back to your detail. Stalker. Not a bad job.''
Kris suppressed the urge to reach out, take Jack's hand in hers. ''Don't stalkers have to be unwanted? Kind of hard to think of anyone who wouldn't want to have you on their trail.''
''I know a few bad types that didn't want to see my face.'' Jack tried his go at one of Tommy's lopsided grins. It didn't look right on him; his grin righted itself into just a nice friendly type. Unfortunately, they were at the Halsey's brow. Kris went through the formalities of coming aboard ship, went to the CIC, found it empty except for a duty watch.
''Anything new?'' drew a negative reply. Jack trailed her to her room but quickly opened his own door. For a second, Kris considered inviting Jack in for drinks, for talk, for… But he was quickly in his own room, and the door closed between them. She opened hers, hit the light switch, and stopped.
There, on her bunk were laid out two uniforms. One was the usual blue shipsuit. Next to it were pressed and starched dress whites. But someone had already gone to the trouble of affixing her shoulder boards, putting on her few medals. The Order of the Wounded Lion was there, only moved to the right pocket. On the left, where a command insignia would have been … there was one.
Kris blinked, studying what showed there. Ten, fifteen years back, when first the PFs had been suggested, someone had proposed a command insignia for PF squadrons. When the boats were all decommissioned, the insignia had been disestablished. The Commodore had somehow laid his hands on one and had been known to wear it on special occasions.
Present uniform regulations did not allow for it.
Now three small ships on a field of lightning bolts sailed serenely across Kris's left pocket. A gift from the Commodore? A surrender to her usurpation of his command? Clearly, someone had gone to an effort to have her wear that.
Gently, Kris moved her whites carefully to the small desk beside her bunk and quickly got ready for bed.
The clock on the desk said she'd been trying to sleep for three hours. Maybe had slept for two. Kris was wide awake, or at least awake enough to be haunted by visions of what lasers could do to small ships. Human flesh. Herself.
''Kris, will I survive today's battle?'' Nelly asked softly.
Kris was out of bed, yanking on the blue shipsuit as she answered. ''Unless we get blasted to bits, I expect you will.''
''I would like to make a long message to Tru before we sail.''
''All the things we've talked about?''
''Those, and something else.''
''What?'' Kris paused at the door.
''Kris, I have been nudging at the edges of the small rock Auntie Tru gave me from Santa Maria. Never when you were fully engaged. Certainly not for the last few days. But I have been trying to look into its insides. And I think I see things.
''Maybe it is what you would call a dream. Maybe not. I think I see stars. Star maps. Only, some of them are different from the maps your great-grandfather Ray had made when he was still attached to the stone on Santa Maria. I do not know why the maps might be different. It just looks that way to me. There are other things. Images of what I take to be the Three and the cities they built. They are lovely.
''Kris, I would not want what I have seen, or think I saw, to die if I die. Let me send them to Tru. Then, if something happens to me, at least I will have done more with my time with you than just count numbers and keep track of your stocks.''
Kris stood there at the door. Nelly clearly had not obeyed her order to not touch the stone slice imbedded in her matrix of self-organizing processing material. But she had also not failed Kris in anything important. Nelly had done what she had insisted she could: sneak a peek into the heart of the possible data source without Kris suffering any disastrous side effect. The teenager had defied Mother but gotten home safe.
''Yes, Nelly, just before we sail, send by landline all the data you want to Auntie Tru. Send her a full backup of what you are. Tell her that, if anything happens to you, to be sure to activate you again. Register a change to my will that money is to be made available to Trudy Seyd to pay for your restoration.''
''Thank you, Kris. I appreciate that. Maybe your brother Honovi will have a girl that could put me to good use.''
''Oh, Tru will find someone to keep you working hard.''
''But no one like you. Take care, Kris.''
''Take care of yourself,'' Kris said and opened the door.
***
Sandy was hunched over the battle board in the dim light of CIC. The duty watch went about its work around her. Kris pulled a stool out from the battle board across from Sandy and sat down.
''Thought you'd be asleep,'' Kris said.
''Tried. It's overrated. Thought you'd be in whites,'' the destroyer skipper said without looking up.
''Will be, after I shower later. The whites your idea?''
''Part mine. Part the Commodore's. I think the old fellow likes you.''
''He's trusting me with his squadron, and I know he loves those boats. You see anything new?''
''Nope.''
''If you stare at those dots long enough, they start to dance,'' came a new voice behind them. Captain van Horn strode into CIC. For the first time, Kris saw him not in his impeccable uniform of the day, but in a blue shipsuit, a ship command patch on the left pocket. ''You stare long enough, you can get a high good as any drug. I found that out in my younger days, standing CIC watches,'' he said, pulling out a seat and settling in, apparently ready to try his own advice. ''See anything new, Sandy?''
''Nope. Same old same old. Crazy lash-up. Impossible odds. We're all going to die. You got any new and crazier ideas?''
''All out, though I passed a bunch of PF crewman doing the craziest dance to a bagpipe, a harmonica, and a guitar. Claimed it was some highland thing done by the ancient clans before battle. Guaranteed victory.''
''Anyone getting hurt?'' Kris asked, wondering if maybe she should have stayed and provided a modicum of adult supervision.
''Seemed harmless, but they were trying to get sixty-four people all dancing in a row.''
''A conga line?''
''No, side by side. As if getting ready to charge.''
And weren't they? Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.
''You're out of uniform,'' the Captain said.
''Shipsuit, same as you,'' Kris said back.
''Don't you have whites?''