Then the shock wave from 18-inch lasers pommeling a mine head hit them.
The Greenfeld assault boat flipped and lost its stubby wings as it rolled and started coming apart.
As the cockpit was ripped from the rest of the craft, Kris grayed out but fought not to lose consciousness. As she struggled to avoid the looming darkness, one question kept running over and over in her mind.
What am I doing here? What am I doing here?
Then she remembered.
Oh, right, I insisted on being here.
2
“You will not,” thundered King Raymond the First, Hammerer of the Iteeche, Killer of the Tyrant Urm and Ender of the Unity War (it was in all the papers), and presently Sovereign of the 173 planets in the United Society (or Societies, depending on your political persuasion). That royal claim was circumscribed by a brand-new, if as yet not very tested, constitution.
A recognized legend for the last eighty years, what Ray Longknife bellowed, he expected to have done.
“Yes, I will,” said Lieutenant Commander, Her Royal Highness Kristine Anne Longknife, Defender of the Peace at Paris (even if it did involve mutiny), she who commanded at Wardhaven, and presently Commander, Patrol Squadron 10. She’d had enough of her grampa Ray running her around on a short leash and was ready to take her squadron and do what she thought necessary to save humanity . . . this time.
The space between them and the room around them took on a noticeable chill. Those forced to witness this intrafamily squabble, which, like everything the Longknifes did, was of near-biblical proportions, did their best to gaze at the ceiling, desk, carpet . . . anywhere but at the two so committed to disagreement.
Kris locked eyes with her grampa Ray. He scowled back, a scowl he’d been practicing for a hundred years. Kris didn’t try to match him, scowl for scowl, but met his gaze with a rock-solid blank stare that promised no flexibility on her part.
Neither one blinked.
It got kind of boring.
So Kris checked out General Mac McMorrison’s new digs. He’d been promoted from Wardhaven Chief of Staff to Chief of the Royal U.S. General Staff. The republican blue rug and frayed blue curtains were gone, replaced by a royal red. The new curtains even had gold tassels. The couches that held Kris’s staff had also been reupholstered in red and gold stripes.
Kris would never have guessed Grampa Ray was so into red.
The king himself sat in a large visitor’s chair next to Mac’s desk. Why did Kris suspect that chair was only brought out from against the wall when the king came to call. Mac sat at his desk. To his left, in a normal-sized visitor’s chair, was Admiral Crossenshield, the head of Wardhaven Intelligence.
Or maybe U.S. Intelligence, now.
Royal Intelligence?
It was hard to tell what to call anything in this changing world.
What hadn’t changed was the unholy trinity, as Kris had taken to calling them. Today, they’d hollered for backup. Kris’s other legendary great-grampa leaned comfortably on a bookcase to the king’s right.
Oh! Kris almost broke eye lock with her royal grampa. Atop the bookcase was a fancy something-or-other. Was that a field marshal’s baton? Had Mac gotten a promotion for taking on the new royal pains of commanding 173 different planets’ military as they somehow merged into a unified command?
Kris would have to ask Mac . . . but not now. Not while she and her grampa were locked in a battle to see who could avoid blinking the longest.
Retired General Tordon cleared his throat in his place by the bookcase. The king glanced his way, and so did Kris. Trouble to his enemies. Trouble to his friends. Double trouble to his superiors. Whenever one spoke of the Longknife legend, it was rare that Ray and Trouble were not mentioned in the same breath.
He was Grampa Trouble to Kris. She’d learned the hard way to expect trouble when she saw him coming.
“You know,” Trouble began almost diffidently, “it’s an ancient and respected custom that when a superior expresses a preference, it’s treated as an order.”
Kris greeted that gambit with thoughtfully pursed lips . . . and a glower of her own.
The retired general soldiered on in the face of Kris’s rejection. “When a king gives an order to a lieutenant commander, the officer’s response normally is ‘Yes, sir, Your Majesty.’ ”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full, sir,” Kris said under her breath, for the entire room to hear. When it was clear