''Just a moment, kind benefactor,'' Thorpe said. Whitebred preened on the title. Most of the crew knew it for what it was, a true warriors' curse for the money that was foolish enough to think gold could motivate a warrior.
''Weapons?'' Thorpe said.
''I have a solution coming up, sir. Just a moment … I have a solution. Putting it on the screen.''
The old high-soaring ballistic curve dissolved, to be replaced by a new one that swung a bit out over the moon before heading back to skim even lower over its surface.
''How close this time?''
''Less than fifty kilometers, sir. If they aren't lucky in their course, they may plow one big hole in an inconvenient mountain.'' Weapons' grin showed tiger's teeth at her own joke.
Thorpe allowed a grin in return. ''That Longknife brat's luck is bound to go sour sooner or later. She uses so much of it. But let's assume her deal with the devil holds for one more orbit. Where does that put her final approach to our guns?''
''That would depend on how hard she's willing to accelerate away from the moon and decelerate into orbit, sir.''
''Assume no more than three gees.'' Thorpe advised.
''And probably no less,'' Weapons said. Now she was really smiling as she went about her work. She had a dimple on the cheek nearest Thorpe. She was cute, and young, and so optimistic. Thorpe envied her that. And the chance to do well a job that needed doing.
He turned to see what Whitebred was yammering about now. ''Are you sure she can't do more than three gees?''
''Honorable men that I know and respect paid a high price to discover that the Kamikaze-class Smart Metal™ ships can't handle more than three gees,'' Thorpe bit out.
''But didn't I read somewhere that the Peterwalds had solved that problem?'' Whitebred fancied himself an expert in military matters because he had read a lot of things ''somewhere.''
Thorpe curtly shook his head. ''That Longknife brat has served on my corvette and those silly fast patrol boats. They are pure Smart Metal™. There are no reports of Nuu Enterprises learning anything from the Peterwalds and producing hybrids. That's a Wardhaven gunboat messing in our affairs. I know Wardhaven gunboats up close and personal.''
Whitebred eyed the upper-left-hand corner of the forward screen. There, the best picture they'd gotten of the incoming ship was on permanent display. Thorpe had told everyone to get familiar with that target. To memorize it.
Whitebred hadn't been able to ignore it. ''It does look like a merchant ship,'' he pointed out. ''It's got that long spin between bow and engines in the stern. And it sure looks like those are containers, making the whole thing look boxy.''
''Whitebred, walk with me,'' Thorpe said, teeth clenched.
Whitebred looked like a deer in headlights. Thorpe pointed him toward the captain's underway cabin. Whitebred went.
And once there, shrank as if from the white-hot rage of a maddened devil. ''You will never question me before my bridge officers.'' Thorpe slammed the businessman in a voice so low and frigid as to have glacier force. ''Never again will you raise a doubt about any order that I issue. Do you understand?''
Whitebred tried to step back but found himself forced to slump down on the captain's bed. Thorpe towered over him. Whitebred tried to stand up again, but failed. ''You can't issue orders to me. I'm not one of your sailors,'' he insisted.
''No, you are not as useful as the cook's junior helper. All the other financiers stayed back where it was safe … comfortable. What are you doing out here, Whitebred?''
''Someone had to look after the moneyed interests.''
''You think I couldn't? That Colonel Cortez would be cavalier with your money if you weren't here to nursemaid us?''
''No, Captain, no.''
Thorpe shook his head, showing no belief in his master's words. ''Whitebred, understand me. One more display like the last one, and I will have you locked up in your fine stateroom. Are we clear on this?''
''You can't do that. None of the crew would turn against their paymaster.''
Thorpe snorted, and the smile he showed Whitebred was the ancient one. The kind tigers gave their prey just before they tore their throats out. The financier found his hands rising as if to protect his neck.
''Whitebred, these men and women will march with me into hell. They will go because they know I will lead them out again. You are far beyond your comfort zone. People with your soft hands and doughy white bellies should not trifle in the affairs of true warriors. I would hate to report to your associates safe at home that while we were defeating this Kris Longknife brat, regretfully, she killed you. Think about that.''
Thorpe turned to go, then turned back again. ''And stay off my bridge. I could suffer your idiotic rumblings when I had only unarmed farmers to chivvy. Longknife may be a spoiled brat, but she is no fool. Killing her will be a fight. A real fight is no place for the likes of you. Do we now understand each other?''
Whitebred already suspected that he would never understand the likes of Thorpe. Never wanted to. But even a lifelong civilian could understand when he'd been given an order as blunt and threatening as this one. ''Yes,'' he said. ''I understand.''
Thorpe opened the door and headed back to the bridge. Whitebred, stood, tried to smooth his suit, and turned aft toward his room.
* * *
''How many gees are you going to need to get us into orbit?'' Kris asked, or maybe she moaned. Sulwan almost sounded distressed as she gave Kris the answer she pretty much expected.
''If we want to reach orbit exactly opposite where Thorpe's ship is in its orbit, we'll have to maintain 3.5 gees for most of the next hour, Your Highness.''
''Do it, Kris said, then tried to turn it into a joke. ''Weighing seven hundred pounds for an hour will be a good reminder to watch what I eat and exercise regularly.''
''I recorded that, Your Highness,'' Nelly said from where she was contributing her own three and a half pounds, all but one of them the result of Sulwan's course. ''I'm sure if I offered it for licensed use, we could make a small fortune.''
Kris didn't have the energy to roll her eyes at Nelly's latest attempt to be a real girl, chasing the almighty dollar. ''I'm sure we could, Nelly, but erase that file. I don't know what Grampa Ray's idea of his kingship is, but I kind of doubt it includes his family selling their princess's voice for media commercials.''
''Yes, ma'am,'' Nelly said, her voice a strange blend of contrition and lost financial opportunity.
''Don't you dare erase that, Nelly,'' came Abby on net. ''You hold on to that file. You can never tell when it might come in handy. Who knows what kind of mess it could get us out of.''
Around Kris on the bridge, chuckles were breaking out. Small ones, to be sure, since everyone carried three and a half times their normal weight; still, the argument between a princess, her pet computer, and her maid had to at least match the best the comic net had to offer.
''Abby, I do not even want to think what kind of mess those words might get us out of. Nelly, I want that file vanished.''
''Yes, ma'am. I am erasing that file,'' Nelly said.
''Good,'' Kris said, and started to nod. Then she remembered her present weight and canceled the nod. And on further reflection, she wondered if she should never have said that ''good.'' Nelly erased ''that'' file. Not ''the'' file. And certainly no mention of all backup files. There had been a bit of a lag in the whole conversation. Had Nelly been conferring with another young lady, full of all of twelve years of wisdom?
Kris let out a sigh. Not a big one worthy of Tommy's Irish ancestors. Just a small one, like a dog's pant.
She needed one twelve-year-old off her boat!
But first. ''Thorpe's ship is behind Panda,'' Kris said. ''He probably got a glance at us as we got of him. Now we see what we can do about putting one princess and Marine company where they want to be.''