''I don't have any money,'' Nanna insisted.
''I do,'' Kris put in proudly. She had planned ahead, just like Father said smart people should.
''Then you go buy the ice cream,'' Nanna grumbled.
Kris skipped off, so sure she would be seeing them again that she didn't even look back.
There was a tap at her shoulder. With a shiver, she turned to see a freckled face and raised her faceplate in time to be met with a ''Need help, short fork?''
The drop bay was busy and noisy, and her shiver went unnoticed. She managed the cheery ''No way, wooden spoon,'' reply the infectious grin and challenge demanded.
Ensign Tommy Li Chin Lien had been born to a family of Santa Maria asteroid miners. Rather than hang around that isolated world, he'd joined the Navy to see the galaxy, thereby greatly disappointing his folks and, per his great grandmother, his ancestors.
At Officer Candidate School, they'd passed hours swapping stories about how their parents had stormed and ranted against their career choice. Kris was surprised by how fast they became friends, one from supersophisticated Wardhaven, the other that crazy blend of Irish and Chinese that so much of Santa Maria's working class still held to.
Right now, Tommy waved his universal tester in Kris's face. Raised in vacuum, he distrusted air and gravity and viewed mud-raised people like Kris as hopeless optimists, dependent on him for the proper paranoia toward space.
Kris raised her left arm for Tommy to plug his black box into the battle suit she'd been issued. While he ran his checks, Kris worked with Nelly, running her personal computer through interface tests with the command net. Auntie Tru, now retired from her job as Wardhaven's Info War Chief, had helped Kris with Nelly's interface, as she'd done with most of Kris's math and computer homework for as long as Kris could remember. Nelly lit up Kris's heads-up display with every report or screen authorized to a boot ensign on a mission… and a few it was better the skipper did not know Kris had access to. Kris and Nelly finished about the same time Tommy detached his tester from Kris. She flipped up her faceplate.
''Your camouflage adjustment is about five nanoseconds below optimum, but it meets Navy standards,'' Tommy grumbled. The Navy rarely met his expectations for perfection.
''Your coolant system isn't all that far into the green, either.''
''I'm more worried about my heater. It's arctic tundra where I'm headed, haven't you heard?'' She grinned.
He refused to swallow his scowl for her attempt at a Santa Maria brogue. ''And there's a bad gasket in there somewhere.'' They'd been over that one before; one of the battle suit's jelly seals was a slow leaker, but every suit aboard had at least one bum seal. It was a bitter joke among the troops; good seals went to the civilian market, weak ones went to lowest-bid government contracts.
''I'm not working the asteroids, Tommy. I won't be living in this suit for a month.'' Kris gave the standard reply the procurement chiefs gave her father. The prime minister of Wardhaven always accepted it. But then, he didn't do drop missions. Today, his daughter was. ''I'll only be in vacuum an hour, two at the most. Sequim's atmosphere is good.''
''Mud hen,'' Tommy answered in disgust.
''Space head,'' Kris shot back, giving Tommy one of his own trademark grins, then turned to the Light Assault Craft that would be carrying her and her squad. It was the minimum vehicle that could get you from orbit to the deck, not much more than a heat shield that doubled as a wing and a flip-on top that was just there for stealth. Then again, Kris had raced in smaller skiffs. ''This check out?'' she asked, serious once more.
''Didn't I test it four times?'' Tommy grinned. ''Didn't it pass four times? Your humble servant will get you there.'' Which only left Kris struggling to keep hold of her temper.
The Navy trusted the marines to put their asses on the line, but not with the car keys. It would be Tommy's job to fly the two LACs from the Typhoon in orbit to the ground, all except for two or three minutes when ionization took the two LACs out of radio touch—and they'd be on autopilot for that. All the while, Kris and her eleven marines were supposed to sit there dumb and bored. That was just one part of the approved plan she would like to change. But a boot ensign does not change plans that her skipper and his Gunny Sergeant like.
''Help me on with my kit,'' she told Tommy. Along the bay, the platoon members were paired up, checking each other's suits, loading them up with weapons and drop gear. Corporal Santo went down Gunny's squad, Corporal Li checked Kris's. Gunny would double-check them; then Kris would triple-check.
Kris's load was a tad lighter than her teammates' since Nelly weighed in at half of a standard-issue Navy personal computer while holding all the command, control, communications, and intelligence—C³I in military speak—that an ensign could ask for. Still, hanging from her armor or carefully stowed in her pack were rocket-propelled grenades of many flavors; six spare magazines for her M-6, half of them rounds of nonlethal intent, the others real ones; as well as water, first aid, and food. Marines never left home without lugging a ton of stuff. Fully loaded, again Kris rotated her shoulders, twisted her hips, checked the load if not for comfort at least for problems. She'd carried more backpacking through the Blue Mountains on Wardhaven during college vacations. Those carefree months of outdoor living was one of the reasons she was here.
Tommy eyed her as she did a deep knee squat and bounced back up. ''You good for this?''
''Everything's in place. Not too heavy.''
''You good for this business? Rescuing a kidnapped kid.'' The grin was gone; she saw what the Santa Marian looked like serious.
''I'm good for this, Tom. I'm the best Navy small arms weapons qualifications on this boat. I've got the best Navy physical training scores, too. The skipper's right. I'm the best he's got. And Tommy, I want this.''
''Ensign Lien to the bridge,'' came over the ship's MC-I, ending any further questions. Tommy clapped her on the back. ''The luck of the little people and God go with you,'' he said as he headed for the hatch.
''No spare seat for Him in an LAC,'' Kris shot back over her shoulder, another salvo in their long-running debate. But Kris was already trailing Gunny, rechecking the fall of gear, re-verifying weapons loads. She finished a second behind him.
He went over her kit, and she went over his. He tightened one of her straps and growled, ''You'll do, ma'am.'' She found nothing to modify on him; she hadn't expected to. Gunny had practiced for this moment for sixteen years. That this was his first live-fire mission in all that time didn't seem to bother him or Captain Thorpe.
''Let's drop, team!'' Kris called to her loaned platoon.
With a shout of ''Ooh-rah'' the two squads turned in unison to face opposite bulkheads and board their two Light Assault Crafts. Kris went down the line of her squad one more time, checking their restraining harnesses and the arrangement of their gear as they settled into their low seats in the LAC. All readouts showed green. Still, Kris gave each a good hard tug. That webbing was the only thing holding her troopers in. Satisfied, she settled her own rump onto the low composite seat in this minimum spacecraft and stretched her legs out ahead of her, careful to avoid the control pedals. The legs of the tech seated behind her surrounded her. Kris had once tried a toboggan. Mother had refused in horror when Kris asked to take a ride downhill. That toboggan was roomy compared to an LAC.
She rechecked to make sure her harness was firmly attached to the LAC's narrow keel, checked again to make sure none of her gear was out of place, then pulled the canopy down and felt it click into place. Like so much of the LAC, the canopy was paper thin; it added nothing more than stealth to the craft. Only their drop suits would protect Kris and her troops from the vacuum of space or the heat of reentry.