Kris Longknife: Audacious Part 5

Ms. Broadmore offered Kris her hand. "So glad you could come. I understand they have this and that to keep you busy at the emba.s.sy during the day. I'm so happy you could make it."

"This isn't my first social event," Kris pointed out.

"Yes, I heard you had to leave Marta's little get-together early yesterday. Don't you just hate events thrown at a rented hall. It's so easy for them to go to pieces at the slightest happenstance."

Kris allowed a slight nod. Apparently Ms. Broadmore didn't know what had happened last night or didn't care. Several muscular young men in easy orbit of her looked like they would apply all the caring their patron did not.

Ms. Broadmore introduced Kris to others that stood eagerly about. Since their names and offered bios matched what Nelly knew, Kris left it to her computer to remind her if and when she needed them.

It was the redhead in the white gown that kept snagging Kris's attention. Never center stage, she was always there in the corner of Kris's eye. She would turn or move a hand at just the right moment to draw Kris attention away from whomever she was talking to. It was...bothersome.

Finally, Ms. Broadmore took two quick steps and reached for the hand of the unidentified woman. "And have you met my other special guest of the evening. You must know her. Your family and hers are a pair, are you not? But I understand that you have been a bit of a cosmopolitan, and she's been given a sheltered upbringing. This is her first trip into civilized s.p.a.ce."

Ms. Broadmore inserted a theatrical pause, and Kris could feel every collar or lapel camera in range clicking away. Kris gritted her teeth and hoped this would not go on much longer.

Apparently their hostess had had fun enough, with a predatory smile she finished. "Kristine Longknife, have you met Victoria Smythe-Peterwald?"

10.

Kris had known intense moments in battles to cause it, that heightening of awareness that let you take everything in but no time seemed to pa.s.s. How often had Kris joked about her social life being like a battle?

Now she had battle awareness right in the middle of the ballroom floor.

Victoria Smythe-Peterwald looked so much like her brother. The same flashing blue eyes, perfect skin, rigid set of jaw. The white dress was skimpy up top, barely covering a set of b.o.o.bs Kris would kill for. Original equipment or after-sale add-ons? No way to tell. Vicky was supposed to be totally natural, no genetic engineering, due to a slip up in her birth.

Hank was a totally engineered product, implanted in the womb. Vicky was a natural blowby that should have never made it to birth...but here she was.

Those cold blue eyes were full of raw determination. No, this woman would not be easily dismissed.

The gown looked painted on. It flowed over more curves than the law should allow. Men were going to be easily distracted around this woman. Pity them, Kris decided. At the floor, a flair of faux fur covered her feet. Maybe they were too big?

Even as Kris took in the outer display of the woman, she also checked the backup. Three alert men and a woman looked to be clearly in Victoria's...o...b..t.

At least we're even there. While Vicky's weren't Marines, Kris suspected they'd make up in pure viciousness what they lacked in honor and field craft.

Outside the bubble of Kris and Vicky, beyond their guards, the room fell quiet, grew expectant. So we're Ms. Broadmore's floor show. Let's not keep the paying customers waiting.

Kris extended her hand. "I am glad to make your acquaintance" seemed like a good, neutral start.

Vicky took Kris's hand in a surprisingly strong grip. Like some men, she then tried to twist it, put her hand on top, Kris's on bottom. Kris was not about to send submissive signals. Her hand stayed where she had it, thumb up, little finger down. Kris could feel her knuckles going white. Vicky's dainty pale hand went pink.

It was Victoria who broke the shake.

Vicky spat, "You killed my brother." So much for chitchat.

"I really don't think I did," Kris said, as matter-of-factly as she could. "His brand-new cruiser was blasting away at my ship. I admit I returned the favor as well as my eighty-year-old command could. It was his choice to start shooting."

"What, and leave you with all that alien technology you'd stumbled upon? Let you Longknifes make a fortune and cut the rest of us out?" Vicky could teach a cobra how to spit.

"I told Hank before he started shooting that he was rattling off a pipe dream. No way my family could hog all that. Or would want to. Look at what is going on as we speak. Half the universities in human s.p.a.ce have staff in those two systems. Most every major and a whole lot of minor corporations are trying to figure out what they have. 'Trying,' being the operative word. Last I heard, they don't know squat. You heard differently?"

"That doesn't change the fact. You shot up a Greenfeld ship and my brother died."

How much of the woman's anger was that Kris had "shot up a Greenfeld ship," and how much was because her "brother died"? And I thought my family had interesting dynamics.

Kris shook her head. "He should have lived through that battle." Then she added, "I did."

"Count your days, Longknife. Count your days."

Even as Kris snapped back the first thing that came to her mouth, she knew it was a mistake. "They'll be long and happy if you don't send anyone better than the ones you hired last night."

Oops, that lovely pale skin, milk white to begin with, was now showing red from-was that a nipple peeking out-to her cheeks. So, Vicky, you have a temper to go with that red hair. Better learn to control it, girl.

"That was none of my doing. Some junior employee's idea of a welcoming present for his boss's daughter. He's no longer in our employ. He's paid for his mistake."

Kris tried to gauge whether that last comment referred to losing his job or something worse. Kris wouldn't bet the poor fellow was still breathing. Now don't get all sympathetic for the guy who tried to kill you last night, a small voice in the back of Kris's head warned her.

But in my line of work, you got to love the ones that miss, the imp in Kris shot back to her more cautious self.

"I suspect I'll be seeing you around," Kris said, as offhandedly as she could manage and turned her back on the second deadliest woman in the room.

In the end, Vicky could spit her venom all she wanted. It was Kris who had been there, done that, and buried way too many of both the good and the bad.

"That was educational," Jack whispered at her side.

"I hope Ms. Broadmore enjoyed the show," Kris whispered back. "Nelly, we will not be accepting any more of Ms. Broadmore's invitations. The amba.s.sador can hang himself before I'll make another trip to this snake pit."

But Kris could not-would not-cut and run. And the senior representative of Nuu Enterprises on Eden was right there, with his wife, ready to glom on to Kris's elbow. They exchanged chat about the weather...it was going to get hotter as spring turned into summer. That was comforting news. He also deftly guided her around several business a.s.sociates whom he said she might find interesting.

One had a daughter at his elbow. In her senior year at Eden U., she looked to Kris for support for her decision to join the Navy. Both father and mother were shaking their heads as the words tumbled over their daughter's lips.

"These are interesting times," Kris said. "And if we don't all share the burden evenly..." She left that thought for the parents to finish. "Besides, a couple of years with the colors will be educational. I know they have been for me."

"a.s.suming you and Karen survive the experience," the father put in, tight-lipped.

"What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger," Karen offered.

"You're too young to realize what you're saying," the mother shot back.

Kris beat a retreat from an argument she was not likely to resolve. Her own mother and father were still not happy about her career choice.

Nearly an hour later, Kris withdrew to a tiny table. She edged her feet out of her shoes. How could something so small be so painful to wear?

As she mulled that reality of her life, she eyed the room. She'd managed to keep most of it between her and Vicky even as they circulated. The orchestra, a full-size one no less, had launched itself into dance tunes shortly after the shoot-out between Vicky and Kris.

The woman in the flyaway apparel-Kris could not think of it as a ball gown-and the long line of men waiting to see what the view was up close, held down the center of the dance floor. As long as Kris kept Vicky's white dress behind that zoo, they were in no danger of a second battle.

Maybe the almost-not-dressed woman was not an accident of personal choice. Would Ms. Broadmore go so far as to hire a professional stripper to be a control rod to keep her party below nuclear meltdown? Interesting question.

Kris edged her toes back into Abby's torture device and prepared to prove she would not flinch first. Not her.

A voice came from behind her. "So, did you kill that poor girl's brother?"

11.

So much for Kris's hope that the Longknife faction would keep a solid hold on its side of the room. Kris swiveled in her chair to face a woman. Her gray hair likely put her over a hundred years old. But it didn't look like she'd put them to use gathering wisdom. Not if she was willing to beard Kris among her own supporters.

NELLY?.

SHE IS NOT SQUAWKING. I AM SEARCHING MY MEMORY FOR A FACIAL RECOGNITION.

So Kris would have to go on what she had in her own gray matter. The dress was conservative. Even old-fashioned. And the lapel pin claimed service in the Iteeche War. Somewhere in the back of Kris's head, a soft voice was whispering something. Alarm bells weren't going off. It was more like a kitten's purr. Part of Kris wanted to roll over on her back and let the woman pet her belly.

You're definitely going weird, her paranoid self snapped.

No, she's not what she sounds like, another part of Kris shouted, that young part of her that got lost when little Eddy died under the kidnappers' pile of manure.

"Gramma?" Kris half whispered. "Gramma Ruth?"

The woman opened her arms, and painful shoes or not, Kris ran to hug her.

"I figured for sure your mom had seen that you forgot me, after she ushered Trouble and me out of the house and told us never to come back."

"Did she?" Kris asked, looking down into sparkling gray eyes. "She didn't tell me that. And I had my pictures of you and the general. I didn't exactly leave them out on the dresser for Mother's maids to steal, but how could I ever forget you. You haven't aged a bit."

"Now you're lying like a Longknife," Gramma Ruth said, and swatted Kris gently.

"Is Grampa Trouble here?" A frown crossed Kris's face as the question sneaked out without a lot of thought.

"Let me guess. From that reaction, I'd say the old boy has been up to his usual no good and maybe you're starting to understand why so few of us love that rascal's lopsided smile."

"Let's just say I'm learning to double-check, no, triple-check any advice he gives me."

"Good girl. Now you just be sure to do ten or twenty checks on anything that scamp Ray comes up with and you just might live to have as many gray hairs as I've got."

Good advice, Kris would have to think about how a serving Naval officer did that to a king who had authority over her.

"So, what are you doing here?" Kris asked as she guided her great-grandmother to her table and settled down for a long talk.

"I'm teaching ancient history, you know, the stuff five, ten minutes ago. I have a visiting professorship at Garden City University. I guess they figure a relic of the Unity and Iteeche wars is just the old fart to ramble on about the dusty past."

SHE HAS A PH.D. IN MODERN HISTORY, Nelly put in.

"If you ramble anything like I remember, you're keeping them awake in cla.s.s." Kris remembered that Gramma Ruth hadn't just talked about the past but dropped reading hints like pedals off a three-day-old rosebud. "And probably burning the midnight oil finishing a.s.signments."

Gramma shrugged. "Don't get too many complaints."

And are you here just for that, or is there more to your travels, like there always seems to be to mine? Kris decided to prod that gently.

"Will Grampa Trouble be joining you here?"

Gramma snorted. "Eden is one of quite a few planets that has a standing invitation for him to be on the next ship out if he should pause here a moment. Probably for good cause, too."

"I'm still working on one of those here," Kris said. She cast a look at the woman Marine that had taken over the nano-scouts. She shook her head curtly. A social event like this took place in a flood of bugs.

Kris nodded, and quickly gave her favorite great-grandmother the official version of the a.s.signment that brought her to Eden.

"Well, honey," Gramma Ruth said, "they also serve who only hang around. Or so I told myself when I was officially just growing vegetables on the old Patton. I understand you had a chance to horse that old wreck around s.p.a.ce."

"You would have been proud of the vets, turning the Patton into a museum, and then into a semidecent fighting ship."

"If they got her up to semidecent, they had her in better shape than we ever did." The old woman laughed. "She always was a mess. Is she a wreck now?"

"I don't know. Last I saw her, she was as attached to High Chance as they could get her, what with all the damage. She's their ship. They'll have to decide."

Gramma paused for a second, then asked, "And what are you deciding?"

Kris looked around, as if she could see the nanos buzzing them. "I really don't know. Any chance we could do lunch?"

"Not like your lunch today, I hope."

"You heard?" Which raised the question: "How?"

Now Gramma Ruth laughed, a hearty belly laugh that got most of her shaking. "One of my students is from the Turkish community on the Euro side. He suggested The Turkish Truth. Triple T. A usually reliable source."

"I've had the El Camino Real suggested to me."

"Good rag," Ruth said. "I often see them exchanging bylines with the Triple T. Them and the Banzai, a source my j.a.panese students swear by."

Kris fidgeted, wanting to talk more, but unwilling to share it with the rest of human s.p.a.ce. There were so many things she wanted to ask someone who'd married into this zoo that was the Longknife legend. Gramma Ruth and Trouble weren't Longknifes...exactly. But Grampa Trouble had been Ray's right hand through so much of the Iteeche War. And they'd married into the family; their daughter, Sarah, had been Grampa Al's first wife until a truck driver took off her side of the car. Accident or bungled a.s.sa.s.sination attempt? It was now too late to determine.

Yes, Gramma Ruth knew the sorrow of being too close to one of those d.a.m.n Longknifes. Yet here she was, saying hi to a great-granddaughter that she could have walked past.