Kris Longknife's Bloodhound, a novella (18 page)

Trouble spent the rest of the wait in line trying to stop laughing as he explained the difference between officer rank stripes, that encircled the sleeve, and enlisted service hash marks that angled up to cover part of the sleeve.  Undaunted, Ruth shared with the entire wardroom over supper that night how she’d made her latest discovery. 

Half of the officers had almost laughed up their chow. 

The skipper surprised him; she’d nodded understandingly at Ruth.  “Learning all the secret handshakes of this bunch is a bitch,” she muttered encouragingly.

The skipper surprised Trouble again today.  She just nodded at the announcement that the bird had flown the nest and changed the subject.  “Better get the farm ready for fluctuating gravity, Ruth.  We’re clearing the pier in two hours.”

“Orders, Skipper?” Trouble asked.

“The yard at Wardhaven finally thinks they’ve figured out the spaghetti that passes for wiring in our main system.  We’ve got a week’s reduced availability there.”

Trouble and Ruth both knew the truth behind those words.  The
Patton
was one of many hasty war conversions from merchant vessel to light cruiser.  The yards had rushed the ships into commission paying attention to only what would make them fit to fight . . . and wasting little time on minor things like system standardization. 

Thanks to that haste, the
Patton
had damn near ended up a permanent fixture at the end of a pier.  Trouble wouldn’t have minded that, except he and Ruth about then were in slavers’ hands, growing drugs on a stinking, hot planet named Riddle. 

The work was bad; the supervision was worse. 

Slave drivers stalked around with whips in their hands and rape on their minds. 

Ruth and he had risked their necks to help an invasion fleet show up. 

But those were yesterday’s problems.  Today, the
Patton
was in the best shape she’d ever been and the skipper had a tiger grin on her face. 

The call to Wardhaven came from the people who made planets shake. 

When they talked, people died.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be anyone Trouble knew personally.  With a salute and a shrug, the Marine officer went to prepare his detachment to get underway.

TWO

A week later, Ruth galloped up to the captain’s gig.  Trouble was waiting for her, his face the mask it became when he was busy being Marine.  Catching her breath, Ruth glanced around.  Good, Izzy wasn’t there yet. 

She flashed her husband a proud grin, which he ignored as he always did when he was in Marine mode.  Still, she had a right to be proud.

She’d heard Trouble grouse, and other naval officers, too, that every civilian considered themselves a brevet admiral . . . and acted accordingly.  Ruth was doing her darnedest to be their obedient servant . . . and act accordingly.  Although it was none too easy to meet their expectations.  Take this situation, for example.

All Ruth’s life, she’d been taught to defer to her betters, to let her elders enter a room first and take their preferred seat before she and the other kids started squabbling over who got what was left. 

Always, age before beauty. 

But not now, not the Navy Way, as her husband had done his best to make clear.  Here, the junior entered a vehicle like the captain’s gig first and God help her if she didn’t guess what seat the senior wanted and avoid taking it. 

“It’s madness,” she insisted. 

“No,” her new husband would remind her, “it is neither the right way nor the wrong way.  It is the Navy Way.”

Movement caught Ruth’s eye.  Izzy and the new exec were entering the docking bay.  She flashed Trouble a quick grin and entered the captain’s gig first.  Taking the measure of the eight seats available to her, she picked a middle one on the right.  That left seven free for the three officers to squabble over. 

Her husband entered right behind her, took the seat across from her and began belting himself in.  The XO entered, took a quick side step and let Izzy pick her seat. 

Smart man, he’d go far in any Navy Ruth ran.  She shrugged internally, doubting any Navy operated that way.

Izzy settled down in the seat ahead of Ruth.  “How’s it going, Ruth?” the captain asked as her hands automatically belted herself in. 

Ruth was still trying to figure out the five-point harness the Navy used and didn’t look up until she heard her name.  “Oh fine, Izzy,” Ruth said and watched both Trouble and the exec blink at the familiarity. 

Well, darn it, I’m a civilian.  There have to be a few advantages to that disability
Ruth did not say.

“How are the farmhands working out?” Izzy asked, settling back in her seat, all harnessed in.

Ruth was still struggling.  Trouble popped his one point release and reached over to help.  Another time, his hands’ feathery touch on her breasts and inner thighs would have been a turn-on.  Today, it just added to her frustration as he inserted tab A into slot B with an ease that eluded her. 

Then again, he was always good at getting his tab A into her slot B.  Trying not to blush, Ruth concentrated on Izzy and let her husband strap her in. 

“They’re catching on fine,” Ruth assured Izzy.  “Chief Yellin and Petty Officer Dora grew up on farms.  They’re fast learners, and they pass it along to the rest very quickly.” 

Actually,
retired
chief and petty officer, but you don’t tell captains what they already knew.  At least that was what Trouble insisted. 

“You’ve been eating our produce for the last week,” Ruth pointed out.

“I know.  I signed the pay chit before we docked.  I mean the other hands.”

Trouble flashed Ruth just a hair of a raised eyebrow.  He’d warned her that nothing happened aboard ship without the captain knowing.

“We were expanding the tanks,” Ruth began as methodically as she could while the gig went zero gee and pulled away from the
Patton
.  “We were back at High Woolamurra station, and where I grew up, a farm wasn’t a farm without the farmer’s wife.”

“So you hired on Chief Yellin’s wife,” Izzy finished.

Ruth nodded.

“And kids?” the XO asked.

“No, sir,” Ruth shot back.  “They’re all grown and on their own.”

“Although if this experiment of yours works out,” Izzy went on quoting almost verbatim from what Ruth was thinking, “the youngsters on your farm will want to bring along their wives and they will want to have kids.”

“I’m housing them in the farm area, between the ice armor and the main hull, and I’m paying for their rations, same as any other of my contract labor force.”

“And if we have to fight?” the XO led on.

“The ex-crewmembers will report to their battle stations.  Chief Yellin has identified a very safe area near the ship’s core for me
and
the wives to report to.”

The Exec turned to Izzy for The Word.  If Ruth’s eyes weren’t deceiving her, the skipper was sporting a sliver of a grin.

“Someone with too much time and too little brains back at the Navy Department decided it was cheaper to lose a ship or two rather than keep full crews aboard in peace time,” Izzy said.  “Some other dunderhead decided the planet-bound farmers were charging too much to provide certified bug- and fungus-free fresh fruits and vegetables for the ships.  I figured I could combine both directives and give the
Patton
a farmful of willing hands only too ready to down tools and race back to battle stations.” 

Izzy stroked her chin as entry gee’s built up.  “Should have realized I wasn’t the only one with an imagination.  Whose idea was it, yours or Chief Yellin’s?”

“Mine,” Ruth said. 

One thing she’d learned fast from Trouble . . . and his troubles . . . was that when higher ups asked who was responsible, the only answer was the senior officer present. 

At the farm, that was Ruth.

Izzy’s grin was pulled down at the ends.  Ruth hoped it was by the extra gee’s they were under.  “Hope you’re just as creative for what we’re getting into.” 

After that, the captain lapsed into thoughtful silence.  The others followed suit. 

Ruth raised an eyebrow to Trouble. 
What
are
we getting into?
 

His almost imperceptible nod added nothing to her growing sense of apprehension. 
What kind of nut farm have I signed on with?

Until a few months ago, Ruth had never been off Hurtford Corner, the planet of her birth.  Since being drugged and dragged into the filthy hole of a slave ship, she was up to five planets now . . . four in the last month alone. 

It was nice seeing new places with Trouble’s arm comfortably around her.  How pleasant Wardhaven could be would have to wait for a time when Trouble wasn’t being so darn Marine.

Once the gig landed, a government limo was waiting for them.  Ruth quickly entered and took a jump seat, Trouble right beside her.  A civilian had attached himself to their group sometime during the walk from gig to limo.  Izzy actually broke into a wide smile at the sight of him and made a point of entering ahead of him. 

“Woman, I’m a civilian now.”

“And a deputy minister, if I’m not mistaken.”  Izzy shot back.  “This is your get about, isn’t it?”

“Rita refuses to have anyone assigned a limo.  Good woman.  Trying to be as tight a skinflint on the nonessentials as her husband would want.”

“How is she?”

“More pregnant every day.  And the happiest woman on ten planets since her husband made it back.”  The civilian reached a hand across to Ruth’s husband.  “Trouble, isn’t it?  I see you’ve got your captain’s bars back.”

“Yes, Captain Anderson.”  Trouble answered quickly. 

And Ruth did a quick reassessment.  The old guy was retired Navy.  That raised his stature in the strange game these folks played.  If this was
the
Captain Andy, skipper of the 97
th
Defense Brigade in the recent war, he was darn near a god to Izzy and Trouble.

“And this must be your bride,” the old fellow beamed. 

Ruth beamed back, unsure if she should nod her head, offer her hand, try to curtsy where she was seated, or salute.  Flustered, she just sat there and blushed. 

“I read the report on what you and your husband did on Riddle.” Captain Anderson continued.  “A fine bit of action.  Well done.  Very well done.”

Ruth might be new to the Navy, but she knew that to be the highest praise available to these tight-lipped, unexpressive people.  Now she was blushing red-hot, but, for a civilian, in the presence of a god of war, it seemed like the best response.

“What are we headed for this time out?” Izzy asked.

“I have no idea.  The spy has been keeping busy and offering no tidbits for the rest of us to gnaw on.  I, myself, have been fully occupied trying to restore one lost bridegroom to the side of his lady-in-waiting.  Shall we just go along, my feline friend, and enjoy the ride?”

“This tiger says why bloody not,” Izzy said. 

The rest of the drive was quiet enough to give Ruth plenty of time to wonder what a farm girl was doing among the likes of these hardheaded fighters.  When she’d signed herself up to be Izzy’s part-time ADEE Agent, she’d figured it for a minor thing. 

Apparently, there was a lot more to saying “Yes” to the likes of Trouble and Izzy than she’d ever dreamed of.

Their destination was an imposing building of gray stone pierced by row upon row of windows.  The limo drove into a basement garage and dropped them off next to an elevator, which disgorged them onto a thickly carpeted, high-ceilinged hallway, lined at long intervals by dark, wooden doors. 

This is definitely not the poor side of town.

The empty conference room that Captain Anderson led them to smelled of wax and wood.  A thick slab off a huge tree dominated the center of the room.  Trouble took Ruth’s elbow and edged her toward one of the high-backed wooden chairs lining the wall.  Izzy and Andy seated themselves at the table.  Ruth tried not to look like she was gawking as she surveyed the room. 

Two chandeliers provided a gentle light.  The walls were a rouge-and-cream paper, marred by empty hangers.  Ruth would have bet paintings once hung there.  Why keep the empty hangers? 

She doubted it was an accident. 

Nothing in the room spoke of carelessness to detail.  Except the hangers . . . and the two large screens at the front and back of the room.  They must be recent additions; their cables were neat but showed in stark, modern contrast to the carefully contrived ancient elegance of the rest of the room. 

Interesting, very interesting
.  Turning to Trouble, she opened her mouth . . . and was immediately shushed by a curt shake of his head.

She followed his gaze to an opening door.  Quickly, the room filled with purposeful people, talking quietly among themselves, juggling armfuls of readers, looking for seats.  Several seemed to know her husband.