''Solved. Jack's going to ride herd on Adorable Dora, though she's going to be trailing us in the communications relay ship. Turns out we stole her yacht for that job.''
''Evermorn,'' Luna spat. ''Why didn't you just space her?''
''Well, I told Jack he could if she gave him any trouble. Think Gabby would lie for him in court?''
''Like an Oriental rug.''
''Not that it's any of my business,'' Kris said, looking around, ''but what's going on here?''
''Registration,'' van Horn said simply.
''Press-gangs in action,'' Luna grumbled.
''Since I somehow doubt that six battleships will surrender upon setting sights on our gallant sails, I suspect we are headed for a fight,'' van Horn said. ''Civilians, taken in arms, can be shot as terrorists. Combatants, taken in arms, are prisoners of war. Which do you want to be?'' he said with a nod toward Luna.
''Not taken,'' she muttered.
''My thoughts exactly, but battles have this nasty way of not going as planned. So, if those bastard Peterwald ships haul some of you out of survival pods, I want our crews to be in uniform and have ID cards to wave at them.''
''You just want everybody in blue,'' Luna simpered.
''And she agreed so quickly when I pointed out that her present employer might not consider what comes next covered by his health insurance or life insurance.''
''Captain can be very persuasive.''
''What are their ranks, rates?'' Kris was only a year or so in the Navy, but she knew enough about the Navy Way to know that everyone had their place and stayed in it. Her excepted.
''Old regulation from the Iteeche Wars allowed us to take in civilians when things got kind of out of the ordinary. Special rank. Naval volunteer. Pay status of third class.''
''Third class in a pig's eye,'' Luna said, patting her rear pocket. ''I got my master's papers. I'm a ship's Captain.'' Which explained her four strips and command badge.
So there was a tactful bone in van Horn's Navy-issue body. Kris flashed him a smile. He answered with a ''Hurrumph.''
''After we've got everyone inducted, I expect you'll want to address them, Your Highness.''
''Already!''
''They deserve a few words, ma'am,'' Luna put in. ''You can't expect them to go ballyhooing off, at the risk of life and limb, without seeing their Commander. They'll be talking about this fight for the rest of their lives. I was at Wardhaven, with that slip of a Longknife when she was just a girl.''
Kris swallowed. That was how Gabby introduced himself. ''I fought with your great-grandfather at the Battle of the Big Orange Nebula.'' There was more to being one of those damn Longknifes than just being cussed at in bars.
Kris started to say, ''What do I say?'' but she swallowed that. Luna and van Horn were looking at her with the expectation that she knew what she'd say. That somewhere in her Longknife genes was the script for days like today.
Good Lord, did they have that wrong.
''Okay, let me know when you want me,'' Kris said and turned away. She wanted to find a quiet corner to scribble some notes.
A woman, standing stiff for her ID photo, spotted Kris and broke into a wide smile. Kris smiled back.
A tall, gangly kid, hardly more than a boy, looked up from where he was pinning his Coast Guard Auxiliary badge onto his Navy shipsuit. ''We gonna beat those jokers?'' he asked, though his words were more a prayer.
''You bet,'' Kris said. A half-dozen boys and old men around him laughed with him, at his brashness, at his hope. Who knew? They were just happy to hear they'd win, and from the horse's mouth, no less.
Kris found no quiet comer; instead she ended up circulating among the crews: grizzled merchants, middle-aged yacht owners with their young daughters and sons, electronic specialists dragged over, screwdrivers still in hand, to beregistered, volunteers all. There were Navy reservists looking for the odd person to fill up a hole in their crew, a slot they'd just thought of last night and might be useful. There were shipyard hands, too, not sure what they'd be asked to do, but ready to sail with the fleet if they were needed.
It was an odd lot, for an odder mission. If courage and enthusiasm, willingness and guts decided battles, the hostiles were licked. Unfortunately, 18-inch lasers decided battles.
Kris had none of them.
Kris found herself among some old chiefs, filling out their tugboat crews from experienced civilian salvage teams and eager Coast Guard volunteers. ''Last night, they was showing us the balls to the wall—if you'll pardon me, ma'am—kind of attack that you fast patrol boats plan to make.'' ''I suspect you'll be coming at them from the moon, if you're smart,'' another Chief said, smoking her pipe. ''Wardhaven's gunna be kind of big underneath ya'.'' ''But we'll catch ya.'' ''We'll be waiting for ya, with power, whatever ya need, Your Highness.''
''You'd be surprised what some of us salvage tugs carry.'' The last one grinned. ''You do what needs doing, and we'll catch you and set you down soft as down on a duck.''
''Now I think they're looking for you, and I think old fuss and feathers is expecting us to form ranks for parade.''
He was right; the processing seemed to be done, though two or three last stragglers were being rushed down the line. And a few of the civilian clerks were signing themselves in, if Kris wasn't mistaken.
The PFs were forming ranks in front by boats. Kris noticed that the officers that had been missing last night were at their stations up front. Yes, there was Tom. And Penny, too.
Sandy's XO paraded most of the Halsey's crew, those not at duty stations. The Commodore's gray-headed XO was doing her best to get her mix of too old or too green crew out of the Cushing and into their designated ranks beside the line destroyer.
The merchant skippers did a surprisingly good job of forming right along with the reservists they carried. Kris suppressed a smile at the eagerness of old farts who'd prided themselves on sloppy now trying to compete for Shipshape and Bristol Fashion.
The ragtag and bobtail contingent of armed and unarmed yachts formed to the rear of the PFs. As they would in battle, each picked a PF, grouped behind it, and tried to look like they knew what a rank and file was. The old chiefs of the tugboat flotilla marched dourly up to fill in the back row. They asked no pride of place; they were used to picking up the leavings.
Kris loved them all.
A couple of tables had been pushed together up front. Sandy was standing on them, waving at Kris to get forward. Van Horn had helped the Commodore to climb from a chair to the tables.
Kris started to double-time for her place. ''Kris, you have a call coming in from your brother,'' Nelly announced. ''It's in the standard family code.''
''I'll take it,'' Kris said, giving Sandy an acknowledging wave but slowing down. ''Hi, Bro. What's happening?''
''Sis, I'm delivering what you want, but it's just the minimum. The new guy is giving out a press release. No public statement for him or our man.''
''He's not going for a photo op!'' For a politician to give up face time, airtime. That was unheard of!
''The press release will call on the incoming things to cease their messages and declare where they are from in the next hour or we will consider ourselves in a state of war with them and those who sent them. The message will be out there. It's just that Pandori can't make himself say the words. The fellow is so much a product of the long peace that he just can't…''
Kris knew that any search system that could break their code now knew what everyone would know in a matter of minutes. It was time for plain talk.
''Grampa Al figured there was Peterwald money behind the votes that got Pandori the PM's job.''
''Pandori's not a Peterwald man,'' Honovi shot back. ''And you know, Sis, if the Society for Humanity was still up, if there was still peace in human space, Pandori could have been a great man.''