''That fellow is a blowhard,'' the major assured her. ''You did well to let it roll off your back.''
Kris snorted. ''I kept wondering if someone had a mike recording. I learned long ago to be careful what I say.''
''Must not have been easy, growing up a politician's daughter,'' Emma said.
''Not many realize just what a pain it was,'' Kris agreed. ''Can I dodge Blowhard for the rest of the night?''
''Shouldn't be any trouble,'' the major assured her.
''We have a skiff racing team, one of the best on LornaDo. The coach and pilots are dying to talk to you.'' Emma said.
''Let's talk racing!'' And that provided plenty to fill the time until dinner was announced, and announced in a most unusual way. One of the servers stopped to whisper in Major Massingo's ear. She rose, adjusted her tunic, and faced the door. ''Pipe Sergeant, pipe us to dinner.''
A sergeant in full regalia presented himself at the door, doing one of those strange double jumps that the Highlanders seemed to do as they came to a halt. ''Ma'am,'' he shouted. After the most pregnant of pauses, he continued. ''Pipes and drums, dinnerrrr paaa-rade.''
With that, the sergeant marched forward, followed by two pipers and a drummer. At the spaceport, the sound of the pipes had carried. In the confines of the officers' mess, it threatened to crush skulls. Almost, Kris had Nelly do a double check on the structural integrity report they'd gotten on the building, but she was having too much fun watching Tommy.
His mouth hung open, his eyes were larger than dinner plates, and his ears were hanging on by a thread. ''Take that, you liar,'' she mouthed at him. She could have shouted it, and no one would have heard her. But Kris could only relish Tommy's shock for so long. The officers were moving, some none too steadily, to form a parade behind their music. Major Massingo led off, as president of the mess, with the Colonels right behind her. Lieutenant Commander Owing and the majors were next, the battalion's company commanders, captains, right behind. Kris figured she and Tommy, as junior ensigns, would bring up the rear, but Emma gently took Kris's elbow and led her to join the company commanders and their first lieutenant execs. Tommy fell in somewhere with the platoon leaders.
And thus they marched into a dining room resplendent with linens and crystal, china and silver. The smell of roast beef almost knocked Kris off her feet, but a crescendo from the pipes carried her away. The walls were hung with battle flags. The Society flag held pride of place behind the head of the table with LornaDo's flag, but other flags the battalion had carried or captured hung along the wall as well.
Unity's red and black was there, along with several planetary flags that must have been captured in the wild days ninety years ago before Unity brought its brutal order to the Rim, then went down in defeat before the Society of Humanity's massed power. Did devolution mean a return to the days when every planet fought its neighbor for trade, for resources, for reparations that were little more than extortion by the more powerful from the weak? The battalion's battle flags were a visual reminder of humanity's history among the stars, and not the best part of it. Too bad something like that wasn't hung along the walls of the Scriptorum. Now, that would be a real education for the students.
Kris took the place Emma pointed her at. The chaplain offered grace, half thanks and half proud highlighting of battles won. The mess president followed the prayer with a toast, ''To absent friends,'' that seemed as much a prayer as the chaplain's. Then, as the pipes paraded out, the soup was served.
''I understand you've had an exciting time of it,'' one of the captains said to Kris. With that opening, Kris provided all listening a quick overview of what she'd done and discovered about the local situation.
''So the fighting is pretty much over and done with,'' another captain summarized the most salient point of Kris's brief.
''Some of the farms still won't give the swamp runners the water off their septic tanks. You can spot them easily. They've got more bunkhouses than people in line to draw food. Others are just the opposite. Long lines of hungry, and you'll have no idea how they sleep them.''
''How do you think it will shake out when this is all over?'' a different captain asked.
''Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just glad that is not part of my mission. If you don't mind some advice, I'd suggest you don't let it creep into yours. There are some real nasty things at work here that you're not going to solve with a rifle.''
That drew nods. ''No surprise there,'' Emma added, ''considering the strategic value of this system. You know you can reach almost fifty systems from here. Most of human space is less than three jumps away.''
''I came across that when I was boning up on this place. It has great trade potential.''
''Or military value,'' a captain added.
''Military value is nice, but it only pays when you're at war,'' Kris pointed out.
''You haven't been paying much attention to the media, have you?'' the captain said.
''When you're up to your neck in snakes and wildebeests, it doesn't leave much spare time,'' Kris replied.
''You might want to bone up on the news on your trip back,'' Emma suggested.
''What's happening?''
''There's a lot of unhappy people in the Society,'' a captain said.
''And getting unhappier,'' another one added.
''You know that little girl you rescued?'' Emma said. Kris nodded. ''Hardly a day goes by that she or the criminals that grabbed her aren't in the news.''
''I thought that would have blown over.''
''It's not blowing over,'' Emma assured Kris.
''Or isn't being allowed to blow over.'' Kris's comment was greeted by shrugs from her messmates.
The pipes were back, escorting the fish to the table. When it quieted to the dull roar of table conversation, Emma went on. ''Several planets have already set up travel restrictions. Anyone born on Earth or the Seven Sisters has to request a visa to enter them. No visa, no entry. Some Earth business types are screaming its just a way to restrict trade, cut them out of business.''
''Let me guess,'' Kris cut in. ''Anyone serious about business writes ahead for a visa. The ‘One Flesh, One Galaxy' types or those more interested in media attention, don't.''
''Got it in one.'' A captain grinned. ''I always said Longknifes did, too, have the brains God promised a billy goat.''
Kris flashed a toothy smile at her supporter.
''Some planets already have taken ships back,'' Emma said, ''painted on their flags, and declared their fleet not subject to Society orders. Earth is demanding the ships back or payment.''
''A lot of those ships were built by the planets that manned them,'' Kris pointed out. ''Wardhaven has several squadrons we paid for. Have we withdrawn them from Earth command?''
''No, your father has dodged the issue so far. But you're right about the problem. The planets that have taken ships back say they don't owe anything. They built them because Earth didn't provide enough to patrol the Rim. Earth says the ships were gifts in lieu of higher taxes and wants cash.'' So it was back to the tax issue that had put Kris on the beach and the Typhoon in stand-down mode. In college, Kris had been surprised to discover that Earth's tax burden was about the same as Wardhaven's, 30 percent on average. But much of Earth's tax money went to social services. Earth investments were usually where there were cops on the beat. Wardhaven spent a much higher percent of her taxes on research and extra military ships, which were mainly used to patrol the new start-up worlds where much of Wardhaven's private investment capital went.
Earth and the Rim, even after eighty years, still had very different ways of looking at things and different ideas about what was important. Question was, could her grampas find enough shared interests to manage the change coming without it all coming apart with a big boom? Different officers at the table had different opinions. Kris kept her own to herself.