Honor Among
Enemies Honor Among
Enemies 
CHAPTER TWO
Soft
classical music made a fitting background to the elegantly
attired men and women in the huge room. A sumptuous meal lay in
ruins behind them, and they clustered in small groups, glasses in
hand, while the seaside murmur of their voices competed with the
music. It was a scene of relaxed wealth and power, but there was
little relaxation in Klaus Hauptman's voice.
The
trillionaire stood with a woman who was only marginally his
inferior in terms of wealth and power and a man who wasn't even
in the running. Not that the Houseman clan was poor, but
its wealth was "old money," and most of its members
disdained anything so crass as actual commerce. Of course, one
had to have managers, hired hands to see to the maintenance of
one's family fortune, but it was hardly the sort of thing gentlemen
did. In his own way, Reginald Houseman shared that prejudice
against the nouveau riche-and by Houseman standards, even
the Hauptman fortune was very nouveau indeed-but he was
widely acknowledged as one of the half-dozen top economists of
the Star Kingdom.
He
was not, however, so recognized by Klaus Hauptman, who regarded
him with virtually unmitigated contempt. Despite Houseman's
innumerable academic credentials, Hauptman considered him a
dilettante who personified the ancient cliché that "Those
who can, do; those who can't, teach," and Houseman's sublime
self-importance was immensely irritating to a man who'd proven
his own competence in the one way no one could question: by
succeeding. Not that Houseman was a total idiot. For all
his intellectual bigotry, he'd proven a facile and often
effective advocate of using private sector incentives to power
public economic strategies. Hauptman considered it unfortunate
that the man was so firmly wedded to the notion that governments
were equipped-as they manifestly were not-to tell private
enterprise how to do its job, but even he had to admit Houseman
had paid his dues as a policy analyst.
Up
until six years before, he'd also been a rising star in the
diplomatic service, and he was still called in as an occasional
outside consultant. But when Queen Elizabeth III took a personal
dislike to a man, only the hardiest politico would propose
actually employing him in the Crown's service. Nor had the
Houseman family's powerful connections within the Liberal Party
been an asset since the war began. The Liberals' longstanding
opposition to the Star Kingdom's military expenditures as
"alarmist and provocative" had dealt their entire
platform a body blow when the People's Republic launched its
sneak attack. Worse, the Liberals had joined the Conservative
Association and Progressives in opposition to the Cromarty
Government following the bungled coup which had destroyed the
Republic's old leadership. They'd attempted to block a formal
declaration of war in a bid to prevent active operations because
they'd believed the regime arising from the chaos of the coup
offered an opportunity for a negotiated settlement. Indeed, many
of them, including Reginald Houseman, still felt a priceless
opportunity had been squandered.
Neither
Her Majesty nor the Duke of Cromarty, her Prime Minister, agreed.
Nor, for that matter, did the electorate. The Liberals had taken
a pounding in the last general election, with crippling
consequences in the House of Commons. They remained a force to be
reckoned with in the Lords, but even there they'd suffered
defections to Cromarty's Centrists. The party faithful regarded
those defecting opportunists with all the scorn such ideological
traitors merited, but their loss was an inescapable reality, and
the erosion of their power base had forced the Liberal leadership
into even closer alliance with the Conservatives-a profoundly
unnatural state of affairs made tolerable only because both
parties, for their own reasons, remained bitterly and personally
opposed to the current Government and all its minions.
Their
alliance had, however, proved of considerable value to Klaus
Hauptman. Always a shrewd investor, he'd spent years cementing
personal (and, via judicious campaign contributions, financial)
ties all across the political spectrum. Now that the Liberals and
Conservatives had been driven together and regarded themselves as
a beleaguered minority, his patronage was even more important to
both parties. And while the Opposition was mainly aware of the
clout it had lost, Hauptman knew Cromarty's crowd remained
nervous about their thin majority in the Lords, and he'd learned
to use his influence with the Liberals and Conservatives to
considerable effect.
As
he was using it tonight.
"So
that's the best they'll do," he said grimly. "No
additional task forces. Not even a single destroyer squadron. All
they're prepared to offer us is four ships-just four! And
'armed merchant cruisers,' at that!"
"Oh,
calm down, Klaus!" Erika Dempsey replied wryly. "I
agree it's hardly likely to make much difference, but they are
trying. Given the pressure they're under, I'm surprised they've
managed even this much so quickly. And they're certainly right to
concentrate on Breslau. Why, my cartel's lost nine ships in that
sector in the last eight months alone. If they can make any sort
of hole in the pirates there, surely that's worth something."
Hauptman
snorted. Privately, he was inclined to agree, not that he
intended to say any such thing until he'd trolled the bait before
Houseman properly, and he wished Erika hadn't joined the
conversation. The Dempsey Cartel was second only to the Hauptman
Cartel, and Erika, who'd headed it for sixty T-years, was as
sharp as she was attractive. Hauptman, who respected very few
people, most assuredly did respect her, but the last thing
he needed just now was the voice of sweet reason. Fortunately,
Houseman didn't seem particularly susceptible to her logic.
"I'm
afraid Klaus is right, Ms. Dempsey," he said regretfully.
"Four armed merchantmen won't accomplish much, if only
because of sheer scale. They can only be in so many places at
once, and they're hardly ships of the wall. Any competent raider
squadron could swarm one of them under, and there are at least
three secessionist governments in Breslau and Posnan at the
moment. All of them are recruiting privateers who won't take
kindly to any imperialist adventures on our part."
Erika
Dempsey rolled her eyes. She had little use for the Liberals, and
Houseman's last sentence was straight out of their ideological
bible. Worse, Houseman, for all his opposition to the current
war, regarded himself as a military expert. He considered any use
of force proof of failed diplomacy and stupidity, but that didn't
keep him from being fascinated-though always, of course, from a
safe distance-with the subject. He was quick to proclaim that his
interest stemmed solely from the fact that, like a physician, any
peace-loving diplomat must study the disease against which he
fought, but Hauptman doubted the claim fooled anyone but his
fellow idealogues. The truth was that Reginald Houseman was
firmly convinced that had he been one of those evil,
militarist conquerors like Napoleon Bonaparte or Gustav
Anderman-which, thank God, he was not, of course-he would have
been far better at it than they had. As it was, his study
of the military not only allowed him to enjoy the vicarious
thrill of indulging in something evil and decadent out of the
highest motives but also gave him a certain standing as one of
the Liberal Party's "military experts," and the fact
that most Queen's officers, whatever their branch of service,
regarded him as an arrant coward didn't faze him in the least.
Indeed, he interpreted their contempt as fear-based hostility
spawned by how close to home his trenchant criticisms of the
military establishment hit.
"At
this point, Mr. Houseman," Dempsey said in a chill voice,
"I'm prepared to settle for any 'imperialist adventure' I
can get if it means men and women in my employ won't be
killed."
"I
quite understand your viewpoint," Houseman assured her,
apparently oblivious to her contempt. "The problem is that
it won't work. I doubt even Edward Saganami-or any other admiral
I can think of offhand, for that matter-could accomplish anything
with such weak forces. In fact, the most probable outcome is that
whoever the Admiralty sends out will lose all his own
ships." He shook his head sadly. "The Navy's done a lot
of shortsighted things in the last three T-years. I'm very much
afraid this is just one more of them."
Dempsey
looked at him for a moment, then sniffed and stalked away.
Hauptman watched her go with a sense of relief and returned his
own attention to Houseman.
"I'm
afraid you're right, Reginald," he said. "Nonetheless,
this is all we're going to get. Under the circumstances, I'd like
to maximize whatever chance of success it has."
"If
the Admiralty insists on doing something this stupid, I don't see
a lot we can do. They're sending a grossly inadequate
force straight into the lion's den. Any competent student of
history could tell them they're simply going to lose those
ships."
For
just a moment, and despite his own plans, Hauptman felt an
overpowering urge to slap some sense into the younger man. It
wouldn't be the first time someone had tried it; unfortunately,
it didn't seem to have done much good the last time, and
Hauptman's designs didn't allow him to show his contempt as
openly as Erika had.
"I
understand that," he said instead, "and no doubt you're
right. But I'd like to get the most good we can out of them before
they're destroyed."
"Cold-blooded,
but probably realistic, I'm afraid," Houseman sighed, and
Hauptman hid a mental grin. For all his pious opposition to
"militarism," Houseman, like many theorists, was less
moved by the thought of casualties than the
"militarists" he scorned. After all, the people who
died had all volunteered to be Myrmidons, and one couldn't make
an omelette without cracking a few eggs. Hauptman's own
observation was that people who actually had to send others to
die tended to consider their options far more carefully than
armchair "experts." He himself rather regretted the
fact that he shared Houseman's estimate of the Q-ships' probable
fate, but at least Houseman's response told him we was reaching
the buttons he'd wanted to punch.
"Absolutely,"
he said. "But the problem is that without a capable officer
in command, the chance they'll do any good before they're lost is
minimal. At the same time, I hardly think we can expect the
Admiralty to send a capable officer to command a forlorn
hope like this-especially if it's no more than a sop to ease
political pressure on them. We're more likely to see them
shuffling it off on some incompetent they'll be just as happy to
be rid of when the shooting's over."
"Of
course we are," Houseman agreed instantly, ready, as always,
to ascribe the most Machiavellian motives to the militarists.
"Well,
in that case, I think we should make it our business to exert
every possible pressure to keep them from doing just that,"
Hauptman said persuasively. "If this is all the support
they're going to give us, we have every right to demand that they
make it as effective as possible."
"I
can see that," Houseman replied in a thoughtful tone. He was
obviously running through a mental file of possible COs, but it
was no part of Hauptman's plan to let Houseman make his own
suggestion. Not, at least, until he'd gotten his own nominee into
the running. The trick was to do it in a way which wouldn't let
Houseman instantly reject Hauptman's candidate.
"The
problem," the magnate said with a finely blended mix of
casualness and thoughtful consideration, "is finding an
officer who might be able to do some good and who they'd also be
willing to risk losing. It wouldn't do to push for someone who's
too much of a thinker, either." Houseman raised an eyebrow,
and Hauptman shrugged. "I mean, what we need is someone
who's a good fighter. We need a tactician, someone who
knows how to employ his ships effectively but isn't likely to
recognize the ultimate futility of his mission. Anyone with the
judgment to consider things realistically is likely to recognize
that the whole operation's no more than a gesture, and that means
he'd be unlikely to operate aggressively enough to do us much
good."
He
held his mental breath as Houseman considered that. What he'd really
just said was that they needed someone who would charge into
battle and get himself and several thousand other people killed,
and he was honest enough-with himself, at any rate-to admit that
saying so was fairly sordid. Still, it was the business of people
in uniform to fight, and people who did things like that often
got killed. If they managed to help salvage his battered position
in Silesia in the process, he was willing to live with that.
Houseman, on the other hand, had no direct interest in
Silesia. In his case, the entire affair was little more than an
intellectual consideration, and even now Hauptman wasn't certain
the other was cold blooded enough to sentence men and women to
probable death when the casualties would be real and not simply
numbers in a simulation.
"I
see what you mean," Houseman murmured, gazing down into his
wineglass. He rubbed an eyebrow, then shrugged. "I'd hate to
see anyone killed unnecessarily, of course, but if the
Admiralty's set on this, you're right about the ideal sort of
officer to send." He smiled thinly. "What you're saying
is that we need someone with more balls than brains but with the
tactical ability to make his stupidity count."
"That's
exactly what I'm saying." Despite his own careful
maneuvering, Hauptman was repelled by Houseman's amused contempt
for someone prepared to die in the performance of his duty. Not
that he intended to say so. "And I also think I may have
just the officer in mind," he said instead, with an
answering smile.
"Oh?"
Something in his tone made Houseman look up. Vague suspicion
showed in his brown eyes, but there was a flicker of
anticipation, as well. He loved the sensation of being on the
"inside" of high-level machinations, and Hauptman knew
it. Just as he knew it was a sensation he'd been denied ever
since that unfortunate incident on the planet Grayson.
"Harrington,"
the magnate said softly, and saw the instant fury that flashed
through Houseman at the mere mention of the name.
"Harrington?
You must be joking! The woman's an absolute lunatic!"
"Of
course she is. But didn't we just agree a lunatic is what we
need?" Hauptman countered. "I've had my own problems
with her, as I'm sure you realize, but lunatic or not, she's
compiled a hell of a record in combat. I'd never suggest her for
any assignment that required someone who could actually see the
big picture or think, but she'd be perfect for a job like
this."
Houseman's
nostrils flared, and a bright patch of red burned on either
cheekbone. Of all the people in the universe, he hated Honor
Harrington most . . . as Hauptman was perfectly well aware. And
little though he might agree with Houseman on any other subject,
Hauptman found himself in accord with the economist where
Harrington was concerned.
Unlike
Houseman, he refused to underestimate her-again-but that didn't
mean he liked her. She'd caused him profound embarrassment
and not a little financial loss eight T-years ago when she'd
uncovered his cartel's involvement in a Peep plot to seize
control of the Basilisk System. Not that Hauptman had known
anything about his employees' activities. He'd managed,
fortunately, to prove that in a court of law, yet his personal
innocence hadn't saved him from massive fines-or prevented the
blackening of his cartel's good name and, by extension, his own.
Klaus
Hauptman was not a man who tolerated interference well. He knew
that, and he admitted, intellectually, that it was a weakness.
But it was also a part of his strength, the driving energy that
propelled him to one triumph after another, and so he was willing
to endure the occasional instances in which his choleric
disposition betrayed him into error.
Usually.
Oh, yes, he thought. Usually. But not in Harrington's case. She
hadn't simply embarrassed him; she'd threatened him.
He
clenched his jaw, memory replaying the incident while he let
Houseman grapple with his own rage. Hauptman had gone out to
Basilisk Station personally when Harrington's officious
interference had become intolerable. He hadn't known at the time
about any Peep plots or where it was all going to lead, but the
woman had been costing him money, and her seizure of one of his
vessels for carrying contraband had been exactly the sort of slap
in the face he was least able to handle. And because it was, he'd
gone out to smack her down. But it hadn't worked out that way.
She'd actually defied him, as if she didn't even
realize-or care-that he was Klaus Hauptman. She'd been
careful to phrase it in officialese, hiding behind her precious
uniform and her status as the station's acting commander, but
she'd all but accused him of direct complicity in smuggling.
She'd
punched his buttons. He admitted it, just as he admitted he
really ought to have kept a closer eye on his factors'
operations. But, damn it, how could he monitor something
as vast as the Hauptman Cartel in that kind of detail? That was
why he had factors, to see to the details he couldn't
possibly deal with. And even if she'd been totally justified-she
hadn't been, but even if she had-where did the daughter of a mere
yeoman get off talking to him that way? She'd been a
two-for-a-dollar commander, CO of a mere light cruiser he could
have bought out of pocket change, so how dared she use
that cold, cutting tone to him?
But
she had dared, and in his rage he'd taken the gloves off. She
hadn't known his cartel held a majority interest in her physician
parents' medical partnership on Sphinx. All it should have
required was an offhand mention of the possible consequences to
her family if she forced him to defend himself and his good name
through unofficial channels, but she'd not only refused to back
down, she'd trumped his threat with a far more deadly one.
No
one else had heard it. That was the sole redeeming facet of the
entire affair, for it meant no one else knew she'd actually
threatened to kill him if he ever dared to move against
her parents in any way.
Despite
his own deep, burning fury, Hauptman felt a chill even now at the
memory of her ice-cold almond eyes, for she'd meant it. He'd
known it then, and three years ago she'd proven just how real the
threat had been when she killed not one but two men, one a
professional duelist, on the field of honor. If anything had been
needed to tell him it would be advisable to move very cautiously
against her, those two duels had done it.
Yet
his hatred for her was one of the very few things he and Houseman
truly had in common, for she was also the one who'd ruined
Houseman's diplomatic career. It was Harrington who hadn't simply
refused his order to pull her squadron out of the Yeltsin System,
abandoning the planet Grayson to conquest by a Peep proxy, but
actually struck him when he tried to intimidate her into
accepting it. She'd knocked him clear off his feet in front of
witnesses, and the searing contempt with which she'd spoken to
him had simply been too good to be kept quiet. By now, everyone
who mattered knew precisely what she'd said, the cold,
vicious accuracy with which she'd laid bare his cowardice, and
the official reprimand she'd caught for striking a Crown envoy
had been more than offset by the knighthood which came with
it-not to mention all the honors the people of Grayson had heaped
upon their planet's savior.
"I
can't believe you're serious." Houseman's cold, stiff voice
pulled Hauptman back to the present. "My God, man! The
woman's no better than a common murderer! You know how she
hounded North Hollow into that duel. She actually had the sheer
effrontery to challenge him on the floor of the House of Lords,
then shot him down like an animal after his gun was empty!
You can't seriously suggest her for any command after we
finally got her out of uniform."
"Of
course I can." Hauptman gave the younger man a cold, thin
smile. "Just because she's a fool-even a dangerous fool-is
no reason not to use her to our own advantage. Think about it,
Reginald. Whatever else she is, she's an effective combat
commander. Oh, I agree she should be kept on a leash between
battles. She's arrogant as sin, and I doubt she's ever even tried
to control her temper. Hell, let's be honest and admit she's got
the makings of a homicidal maniac! But she does know how
to fight. It may be the only thing she's good for, but if
anyone's likely to really hurt the pirates before they kill her,
she is."
He
let his voice go silky soft with the last sentence, coming down
just a bit harder on the word "kill," and something
ugly flared in Houseman's eyes. Neither of them would ever say
so, but the message had been passed, and he watched the younger
man draw a deep breath.
"Even
if I assumed you're right-and I'm not saying I do-I don't see how
it would be possible," Houseman said finally. "She's on
half-pay, and Cromarty would never propose recalling her to
active duty. After the way she challenged North Hollow on the
floor, the entire House would rise up in revolt at the mere
suggestion."
"Maybe,"
Hauptman replied, though he had his doubts on that point. Two
years ago, Houseman would undoubtedly have been correct; now
Hauptman was less certain. Harrington had retreated to Grayson to
take up her role as Steadholder Harrington, the direct feudal
ruler of the Steading of Harrington which the Graysons had
created after her defense of their planet. Given Houseman's
ignoble role in that same defense, it was hardly surprising that
he denigrated the importance of such foreign titles, but the
Hauptman Cartel was deeply involved in the vast industrial and
military programs underway in the Yeltsin System since Grayson
had joined the Manticoran Alliance. Given his own experience with
her, Hauptman had made a careful study of Harrington's position
on Grayson, and he knew she wielded a greater power and influence
there than anyone short of the Duke of Cromarty himself wielded
in the Star Kingdom.
Just
for starters, she was probably, whether the Graysons realized it
or not, the wealthiest person on their planet, especially since
her Sky Domes Ltd. had begun turning a profit. When the
Manticoran interests Willard Neufsteiler oversaw for her were
added in, she was almost certainly a billionaire in her own right
by now, which wasn't bad for someone whose initial capital had
come solely from prize money awards. But her wealth hardly
mattered to the Graysons. She'd not only saved them from foreign
conquest, but also become one of the eighty-odd great nobles who
ruled their world, not to mention the second ranking officer in
their navy. Despite the lingering repugnance the more
conservative of Grayson's theocratic people might feel for her,
most Graysons regarded her with near idolatry.
More
than that, she'd actually saved the system a second time early
last year. Whatever the House of Lords might think, the
newsfaxes' accounts of the Fourth Battle of Yeltsin had made her
almost as much a hero to the Star Kingdom's population as she was
on Grayson itself. If the Cromarty Government ever felt confident
enough of its majority in the Lords to try bringing her back into
Manticoran uniform, Hauptman felt certain the attempt would
succeed.
Unfortunately,
Cromarty and the Admiralty seemed unwilling to risk the
inevitable nasty floor fight. And even if they'd been willing to,
it was extremely unlikely they would even consider wasting
someone like her on the command of four armed merchantmen so far
from the front. But if the proposal came from somewhere else . .
.
"Look,
Reginald," he said persuasively. "We're agreed
Harrington's a loose warhead, but I think we're also agreed that
if we could get her sent to Silesia she might at least do some
damage to the pirates when she went off, right?"
Houseman
nodded, his obvious unwillingness to admit even that much clearly
tempered by the appeal of sending someone he hated off to an
assignment with an excellent chance of getting her killed.
"All
right. At the same time, let's admit that she's still very
popular with the Navy. The Admiralty would love to get her
back in Manticoran uniform, wouldn't they?"
Again
Houseman nodded, and Hauptman shrugged.
"Well,
what do you think would happen if we suggested assigning
her to Silesia? Think about it for a minute. If the Opposition
supports her for the command, don't you think the Admiralty would
jump at the chance to 'rehabilitate' her?"
"I
suppose they would," Houseman agreed sourly. "But what
makes you think she'd accept even if they offered it to her?
She's off playing tin god in Yeltsin. Why should she give up her
position as the number two officer in their piddling little navy
to accept something like this?"
"Because
it is 'a piddling little navy,' " Hauptman said.
It wasn't, and only Houseman's bitter hatred for anything to do
with the Yeltsin System could lead even him to suggest it was.
The Grayson Space Navy had grown into a very respectable fleet,
with a core of ten ex-Peep superdreadnoughts and its first three
home-built ships of the wall. From the perspective of personal
ambition, Harrington would be insane to resign her position as
second-in-command of the explosively expanding GSN to resume her
rank as a mere captain in the Manticoran Navy. But for all his
own hatred of her, Hauptman understood her far better than
Houseman did. Whatever else she might have become, Honor
Harrington had been born a Manticoran, and she'd spent three
decades building her career and reputation in the service of her
Queen. She had both personal courage and an undeniable, deeply
ingrained sense of duty, he admitted grudgingly, and that sense
of duty could only be reinforced by her inevitable desire to
justify herself by reclaiming a place in the Navy from which
she'd been banished by her enemies. Oh no. If she was offered the
job, she'd take it, though it would never do to tell Houseman the real
reasons she would.
"She
may be queen frog in the Grayson Navy," he said instead,
"but that's a pretty small puddle compared to our
Navy. Their whole fleet wouldn't make two full strength squadrons
of the wall, Reginald-you know that even better than I do. If she
ever expects to exercise real fleet command, there's only
one place she can do it, and that's right here."
Houseman
grunted and threw back a long swallow of wine, then lowered the
empty glass and stared down into it once more. Hauptman felt the
conflicting emotions ripping through the younger man and laid a
hand on his shoulder.
"I
know I'm asking a lot, Reginald," he said compassionately.
"It would take a big man to even consider putting someone
who'd assaulted him back into the Queen's uniform. But I can't
think of anyone who fits the profile this mission requires better
than she does. And while it would be a great pity to see any
officer killed in the line of duty, you have to admit that
someone as unstable as Harrington would be less of a loss than
some other people you can think of."
With
anyone else, that last barb would have been too blatant, but the
fresh flicker in Houseman's eye was intensely satisfying.
"Why
are you discussing it with me?" he asked after a
moment, and Hauptman shrugged.
"Your
family has a lot of influence in the Liberal Party. That means it
has influence with the Opposition generally, and given your own
in-depth military knowledge and, ah, experience with her, any
recommendation from you would have to carry a lot of weight with
other people who have doubts about her. If you were to suggest
her to Countess New Kiev for the assignment, the party leadership
would almost have to take it seriously."
"You
really are asking a lot of me, Klaus," Houseman said
heavily.
"I
know," Hauptman repeated. "But if the Opposition
nominates her, Cromarty, Morncreek, and Caparelli will jump at
the chance."
"What
about the Conservatives and the Progressives?" Houseman
countered. "Their peers aren't going to like the idea any
more than Countess New Kiev will."
"I've
already spoken to Baron High Ridge," Hauptman admitted.
"He's not happy about it, and he refuses to commit the
Conservatives to officially support Harrington for the slot, but
he has agreed to release them to vote their own
consciences." Houseman's eyes narrowed, and then he nodded
slowly, for both of them knew "releasing them to vote their
consciences" was no more than a diplomatic fiction to allow
High Ridge to maintain his official opposition while effectively
instructing his followers to support the move. "As for the
Progressives," Hauptman went on, "Earl Gray Hill and
Lady Descroix have agreed to abstain in any vote. But none of
them will actually put Harrington forward. That's why it's so
important that you and your family speak to New Kiev about
it."
"I
see." Houseman plucked at his lower lip for an endless
moment, then sighed heavily. "All right, Klaus. I'll speak
to her. It goes against the grain, mind you, but I'll defer to
your judgment and do what I can to support you."
"Thank
you, Reginald. I appreciate it," Hauptman said with quiet
sincerity.
He
gave the younger man's shoulder a squeeze, then nodded and walked
back towards the bar with his empty whiskey glass. He needed a
fresh drink to take the taste of pandering to Houseman's
prejudices out of his mouth-in fact, it might not be a bad idea
to wash his hands, as well-but it had been worth it. Four armed
merchantmen were unlikely to make much difference in the grand
scale of things, but it was just possible they would, and they
were far more likely to do so with someone like Harrington in
command.
Of
course, as he'd been at some pains to point out to Houseman, it
was even more likely that she'd get herself killed before she
could accomplish anything. That would be a pity, but there was at
least a chance that she'd do some good.
And
the bottom line, he told himself as he handed his glass to the
barkeep with a smile, was that whether she managed to stop the
pirates or the pirates managed to kill her, he still came
out ahead.