Kris Longknife: Audacious Part 17

"Could you scold me later?" Kris said. "The pain is nasty, and I doubt that horse doctor will give me anything until he's had a chance to see all my black-and-blue spots.

"I heard that and you got it right, Your Highness" came from across the part.i.tion.

"Let's get you out of that dress," Abby said, reaching for scissors. "I'm not going to tell you how much you paid for it."

"Somebody will get a bill for this," Kris said darkly.

"No doubt. Now hold still. I don't want to cut nothing off you that you can't afford to lose." The dress came off in pieces. The darts held it solidly in place, not letting go from where they had dug themselves into the reactive section of the ceramic body girdle. That girdle had done its job; it and all the darts came off together. Only from the inside could Kris see the cracks and spalling. It had held-but just barely.

Peeling off the bodystocking was almost work as usual, except that every time Kris twisted or turned to work the spider silk down her body she wanted to scream.

Her right side was an ugly line of black and blue where the rounds had hit, been stopped, but demanded payment for the energy they gave up from the soft flesh beneath. At least the ceramic armor had done a good job of spreading the energy.

Spider silk stopped a round. As far as its energy went, that was a matter not mentioned in the promotional material.

When the bodystocking was down to just Kris's right leg, Abby wrapped her in a modest blue gown and said. "Doc, when you can pry yourself away from that hardheaded Marine, this Navy type is ready for a look-see."

"Sorry, Princess, but you'll have to wait. You aren't nearly as interesting a collection of bruises and contusions as this fellow I've got in my clutches right now."

"What?" Kris yelped, and tried to roll off the table. That produced another yelp. A very real one.

Abby made sure that Kris laid back down, then called over the curtain. "Jack, you decent? Mind if I let this nosey neighbor of yours at least look at your ugly mug?"

"I'm not sure if I'm decent or not. They kind of got me locked down" came back in a way-too-shaky voice.

"Abby, open that curtain," Kris demanded.

"I could point out that only family are allowed in here," came back from the doc.

"I drafted him. He's head of my security team. Doc, open up," Kris almost pleaded.

"Well, since you put it that way. Open the curtain. She drafted you, boy, and you're still speaking to her?"

"Seems that way, Doc."

So a corpsman slid the curtain aside.

And Kris swallowed the first five things she tried to say.

Jack's dress uniform was in shreds on the floor. No, on closer examination, it was in distinct pieces. Apparently, whoever designed armored dress uniforms made allowances for taking them apart after heavy use.

But that wasn't what held Kris's eyes.

Jack was splayed out in some kind of traction. His back, his neck, and his skull were surrounded by things that held him. It looked like he was being eaten by a huge metal spider.

They had stripped him down to the bare nothing, revealing a back and b.u.t.t that was a sickly gray in the few places it wasn't livid black and blue. His minimum modesty was preserved by a towel someone had thrown over the vitals.

Kris finally emitted something like a gasp.

"Does he need all that?" she whispered.

"Most likely not," the doc said, stepping away from Jack. "But you ever met a doc who don't like to play with all his toys when he gets a chance. Especially when someone else is picking up the tab." The doc had gray eyes that sparkled and white hair that gave him the look of a father everyone could use. Only the lines around his eyes showed worry. At the moment, those lines were etched deeply as he took in Jack.

"I can't look all that bad," Jack insisted feebly. "You sound like I'm dying or something."

"More like the something," Abby put in. "I don't think the doc here would let you out of his care that easily."

"He ain't nearly tortured enough," the corpsman put in through a smile.

"So much for your performance rating," the doc grumbled, but with too much smile to make the threat real. Then he turned to Kris and took her still-stockinged leg in hand and turned it gingerly. The creases around his eyes failed to soften.

"Corpsman, you keep an eye on what that jarhead claims is his brain," Doc said without looking back at Jack. "If that meatloaf starts to swell any little bit, I want to know about it before it happens. You hear."

"Loud and clear, Your G.o.dhood," said the unconcerned medic.

"Now, Your Highness, let's see what you've done to your perfectly usable collection of flesh and bones."

"It's been in better shape," Kris agreed.

The doc struggled to pull one dart from where it had buried its point in the spider silk. "Nasty little thing. And it does like where it's at. Captain, quit holding up the wall and bring your strong right arm over here. n.o.body's going to commit a.s.sault and mayhem in my clinic. I won't allow it. Already writ the prescription agin' it."

Captain DeVar came over from where he'd established himself, able to observe both casualties and keep a weather eye on the entrance to both the emergency room and, through the window in the door, the clinic's front door.

"Grab a pair of pliers and see how much work it is for you to pry one of those darts loose. Pull it straight out."

Even the Marine ended up grunting from the effort as the first dart came out.

"That's just the way it is. My second wife always complained that I had those strong surgeon hands for cutting someone open, but hand me a jar of pickles and forget it. Officially, young lady, I'm declaring you a jar of pickles."

"Or olives," Abby added dryly.

"With very nice stuffing," the doc said, not letting a mere maid get in the last word.

"Would you two quit it," Jack said. "I'm in enough pain without you trying to get me laughing."

"Ain't you heard, laughter's great medicine," Doc insisted.

"Not just now it isn't," Jack and Kris said in harmony.

"Patients," the doc spat. "Don't know why we let them in the door." But for someone who didn't seem to have much use for patients, the doc was very reluctant to let them out of his sight. "Commander Malhoney will just have to find someone else to drink with tonight," he said when he was done with Kris.

"You two look fine, but then, I've buried a few patents who were, or claimed they were when they walked out on this old sawbone. So settle in, get comfortable, and get ready to pay attention to my whole collection of horrific patient stories."

Kris had better things to do with her time. She'd had about enough of playing target in somebody's shooting gallery. It was time for a Longknife to take charge of her own life. Start kicking b.u.t.t and taking names.

Maybe it was the lame stories. Or maybe it was something she got poked with. But Kris was asleep before Doc finished his third one.

Interlude 2

Grant von Schrader smashed the Close b.u.t.ton. The latest report on the afternoon's happenings vanished. "Is that little idiot back yet?" he demanded of his supervisory computer.

"If by 'little idiot' you mean Ms. Victoria Smythe-Peterwald," his computer answered dutifully, "she has just returned. Should I ask her to come to your office?"

"For the duration of her stay you may a.s.sume that 'little idiot' means only Ms. Victoria, and yes, you may tell her that I want her here right now."

Grant returned to his overview of the situation while he waited. He did not like what he was watching. Unlike most news stories that were reported once and stayed the same, this evening's events were changing. Growing. Couldn't anyone shut up those two old biddies!

No, that was not the problem. Why were those two still getting face time? Why hadn't those two's ramblings been buried?

Ms. Victoria entered, looking very smug. He would have to stomp on that...hard.

"I see you missed that Longknife b.i.t.c.h again." That should cut Vicky off at the knees.

Instead of penitent, the little twit shrugged diffidently. "She may still be alive, but it was close. Very close. She has to know that next time it will be closer. And sooner or later, she dies. Kris Longknife will die. Let her think of that in her hospital bed tonight"

"There will not be another time. Not on my planet."

Victoria plopped herself into one of the padded guest chairs around his discussion table. "Oh, Uncle Grantie, you sound upset. Is something bothering you?"

Grant detested being reduced to "Uncle Grantie." He took an extra moment to get a firm handle on his temper, then another second to examine exactly how he should approach this offspring of his boss's loins. He was supposed to be teaching her. So he called up his best educational tone.

"The initial news reports blamed the incident at the Spring Charity Art Extravaganza on a gas-line explosion."

"Good. Some newsie used his imagination," Victoria purred.

"Unfortunately, whoever you hired for this. .h.i.t didn't use his imagination," Grant shot back. "A nice bomb would have left little enough to challenge that bit of creative reporting."

All that got from Victoria were raised eyebrows.

"Your man used an auto-gun that left plenty of bullets in victims, and pieces of the gun in the wreckage."

"And your police can't handle a little problem like that," Vicky said, shaking her head. Suddenly, the discovery of her poor planning was his fault.

He made a mental grab for his temper, caught it barely by his fingernails, and stuffed it back in his hip pocket.

"Reporters can get the scoops we lay out for them. Police reports can be 'corrected.' Unfortunately, Ms. Broadmore and Mrs. Whitebread say they saw the gun and all the shooting and they're talking a lot and it's all off story."

"Can't you have them popped?"

"They are major players on Eden. They die later," Grant snapped, cutting that line of thought off at the root.

"Heart attacks?" Vicky said, arching an eyebrow.

"Not fast enough today. And all of your solutions involve risk for minor gains when fifteen years of work is our main concern. Hasn't your father mentioned the benefit of staying focused on the prize and not being distracted by mere glitter."

"Longknife's death is not mere glitter."

"It is right now."

"Well, if you hadn't sent poor Vennie packing, he might have done a better job for me."

Grant got out from behind his desk and walked over to personally confront his boss's daughter. He stood there, towering over her, hands on hips.

"Longknife is not an objective of the Peterwald Empire on Eden. We have more important work to concentrate on. You will make no further attacks on Kris Longknife."

Victoria shrugged. "If you say so, Uncle Grant."

Uncle Grant. He was now "Uncle Grant." Maybe he had gotten something through that thick, red head of hers.

He better have. They couldn't afford any more blundering around.

24.

"Hey, you alive" was deadly cheerful, coming from Abby way too early the next morning.

"Not sure," Kris mumbled. "I feel like I'm being tormented by little devils like Tommy's grandmum warned him about. Come close and let me see if I can move my arm enough to throttle you. Tommy said you can't kill the real demons."

With a thoroughly ugly grin, Abby approached Kris's bed.

After further thought...and an effort to move that sent her whole body screaming in pain...Kris decided to let Abby live.

"You two hungry?" Abby asked. "Cause the President of the Officer's Mess has declared dirty rules. You can show up in sweats." Abby tossed a Navy blue-and-gold set in Kris's lap.

"Hey, that hurt."

"Can't this clinic arrange for hospital chow?" Jack asked as Marine red and gold dropped on his blanket-draped belly.

"Hate to tell you" came in Doc's happy tones. "But this is just an emba.s.sy clinic. We aren't staffed to handle really hard cases."

"So what are we doing here?" Kris asked.

"Well, we didn't want to send you to any old hospital where you could be strangled overnight, or doped and rolled out with the dirty laundry. I hate it when that happens to my patients. Besides, your armor did its job," he said glancing at Jack's readouts. "Both of you are in great shape."