Honor Among
Enemies Honor Among
Enemies 
CHAPTER THREE
Any
semiautomatic pistol was a technological antique, but this one
was more so than most. In point of fact, its design was over two
thousand T-years old, for it was an exact replica of what had
once been known as a "Model 1911A1" firing a ".45
ACP" cartridge. It was quite a handful, with an unloaded
weight of just under 1.3 kilograms in Grayson's 1.17 standard
gravities, and the recoil was formidable. Its antiquity didn't
make it any less noisy, either, and despite their ear protectors,
more than one of the armsmen on the neighboring firing lanes
winced as the 11.43-millimeter slug rumbled down range at a mere
275 MPS. That was a paltry velocity, even beside the auto-loaders
to which the Grayson tech base had been limited before the
Yeltsin System joined the Alliance, much less the 2,000-plus MPS
at which a modern pulser punched out its darts, but the massive
fifteen-gram bullet still reached the end of its
twenty-five-meter journey with formidable kinetic energy. The
jacketed slug exploded through the equally anachronistic paper
target's "X" ring in a shower of small white fragments,
then vanished in a fiery flash as it plowed into the focused grav
wall "backstop" and vaporized.
The
deep, rolling Boom! of the archaic handgun cut through the
high-pitched whine of the pulsers again, then a third time, a
fourth. Seven echoing shots thundered with precise, elegant
timing, and the center of the target disappeared, replaced by a
single gaping hole.
Admiral
Lady Dame Honor Harrington, Countess and Steadholder Harrington,
lowered the pistol from her preferred two-hand shooting stance,
checked to be certain the slide had locked open on an empty
magazine, and laid the weapon on the counter in front of her
before taking off her shooting glasses and acoustic earmuffs.
Major Andrew LaFollet, her personal armsman and chief bodyguard,
stood behind her, wearing his own eye and ear protection, and
shook his head as she pressed a button and the target hummed back
towards her. Lady Harrington's hand cannon had been a gift from
High Admiral Wesley Matthews, and LaFollet wondered how the GSN's
military commander-in-chief had discovered she would like such an outré
present. However he'd figured it out, he'd certainly been right.
Lady Harrington took the noisy, propellant-spewing,
eardrum-shattering monster to the range, whether aboard her
superdreadnought flagship or here at the Harrington Guard's
outdoor small arms range, at least once a week, and she seemed to
draw almost as much pleasure from the ritual of cleaning it after
each firing session as she did from battering everyone else's
ears with the thing.
She
took the target down and put her pocket rule on it, measuring the
three-centimeter group with evident satisfaction. Despite his own
reservations about the thunderous archaic weapon, LaFollet found
her accuracy with it both impressive and reassuring. Anyone who'd
seen her on the Landing City dueling grounds knew she hit what
she shot at, but as the man charged with keeping her alive, he
was always glad to see her demonstrate her ability to look after
herself.
He
snorted in wry amusement at the thought. She hardly looked it,
standing there like a slim green-and-white flame in her
ankle-length gown and hip-length vest, silky brown hair falling
loose over her shoulders, but she was probably the most dangerous
person on the range . . . including Andrew LaFollet. She
continued to work out regularly with her armsmen, and though
they'd improved markedly in their own mastery of her favored coup
de vitesse, she still threw them around the mat with absurd
ease.
Of
course, at just over a hundred and ninety centimeters she was
taller than any of them, and her birth world's gravity well,
almost fifteen percent deeper than Grayson's, had given her
impressive strength and reflexes. She might be slim, but that
sinewy slimness was all firm, hard-trained muscle. Yet that
wasn't the real reason she made it seem so easy. The real
reason was that although the third-generation prolong treatments
she'd received as a child might make her look like
someone's barely postadolescent sister, she was actually thirteen
T-years older than LaFollet himself, and she'd spent over
thirty-six years training in the coup. That meant she'd
been practicing for as long as LaFollet had been alive, though
even he sometimes had trouble believing that was possible when he
looked at her youthful, exotically beautiful face.
She
finished examining the target and drew a stylus from her pocket
to note the date on it, then placed it with a dozen other
perforated sheets of paper and slipped the handgun into its
carrying case. She put both extra magazines in with it and sealed
the case, tucked it under her arm, slid her shooting glasses into
a pocket, and gathered up her ear protectors, and the almond eyes
she'd inherited from her Chinese mother twinkled as LaFollet
tried not to sigh in relief.
"All
done, Andrew," she said, and the two of them walked away
from the range towards Harrington House's rear entrance. A sleek,
six-limbed, cream-and-gray Sphinx treecat rose from his peaceful
repose in a patch of sunlight, stretched lazily, and padded to
meet them as LaFollet pulled off his earmuffs, and she laughed.
"Nimitz
seems to share your opinion of the noise level," she
observed, bending to scoop the 'cat up. He bleeked a cheerful
agreement with her comment, and she laughed again as she set him
on her shoulder. He took his normal position-mid-limbs' hand-paws
sinking centimeter-long claws into her vest's shoulder while his
true-feet dug in just below her shoulder blade-and flirted his
fluffy tail as LaFollet smiled back at her.
"It's
not just the noise, My Lady. It's the energy level. That's a
brute-force weapon if I ever saw one."
"True,
but it's more fun than a pulser, too," Honor replied.
"I'd prefer something more modern in a fight myself, to be
perfectly honest, but it does speak with authority,
doesn't it?"
"I
can't argue with you there, My Lady," LaFollet admitted,
eyes sweeping their surroundings in the automatic threat search
of his calling even here, on Harrington House's immaculate
grounds. "And I'm not so sure it would be all that useless
in a fight, either. If nothing else, the sheer racket
ought to give you the advantage of surprise."
"You're
probably right," she agreed. The artificial nerves in the
rebuilt left side of her face pulled her smile just a bit off
center, but her eyes danced. "Maybe I should take away the
Guard's pulsers and see if the High Admiral can't get me enough
for all of you, too."
"Thank
you, My Lady, but I'm quite satisfied with my pulser,"
LaFollet replied with exquisite politeness. "I carried a
chemical-burner of my own, if not one quite that, ah, formidable,
for ten years before you upgraded us. Now I'm spoiled."
"Don't
say I never offered," she teased, and nodded to the sentry
who opened Harrington House's back door for them.
"I
won't," LaFollet assured her as the closing door cut off the
sounds from the range behind them. "You know, My Lady,
there's something I've wanted to ask you," he added. She
quirked an eyebrow and nodded for him to go on. "Back on
Manticore, before your duel with Summervale, Colonel Ramirez was
a lot more nervous than he tried to show. I told him I'd seen you
practicing and that you were no slouch with a handgun, but I've
always wondered just how you got so good with one myself."
"I
grew up on Sphinx," Honor replied, and it was his turn to
crook an eyebrow. "Sphinx has been settled for almost six
hundred T-years," she explained, "but a third of the
planet's still Crown land, which means virgin wilderness, and the
Harrington homestead backs smack up to the Copper Wall Nature
Preserve. Lots of things on Sphinx wouldn't mind finding out how
people taste, and most adults and older children pack guns in the
Outback as a matter of course."
"But
not antiques like that one, I'll bet," LaFollet returned,
gesturing at the pistol case under her left arm.
"No,"
she admitted. "That's my Uncle Jacques' fault."
"Uncle
Jacques?"
"My
mom's older brother. He came out from Beowulf to visit us for
about a year when I was, oh, twelve T-years old, and he belongs
to the Society for Creative Anachronism. They're a weird group
that enjoys recreating the past the way it ought to have
been. Uncle Jacques' own favorite period was the second-century
Ante Diaspora-uh, that would be the twentieth-century," she
added, since Grayson still used the ancient Gregorian calendar,
"-and he was Planetary Reserve Grand Pistol Champion that
year. He's just as handsome as Mother is beautiful, too, and I
adored him." She rolled her eyes with a grin. "I
followed him around like a love-struck puppy, which must have
been maddening, but he never showed it. Instead, he taught me to
shoot what he called real guns, and-" she chuckled
"-Nimitz didn't like the muzzle blast then,
either."
"That's
because Nimitz is a cultured and discerning individual, My
Lady."
"Ha!
Anyway, I kept it up pretty regularly till I went off to the
Academy, and I considered going out for the pistol team then. But
I was already pretty good with small arms and I'd only started
studying the coup about four years before I passed the
entrance exams, so I decided to stick with the martial arts and
wound up on the unarmed combat team, instead."
"I
see." LaFollet took two or three more strides, then grinned
wryly. "In case I've never mentioned it before, My Lady,
you're not very much like a typical Grayson lady. Guns, unarmed
combat . . . Maybe I should hide behind you the
next time it hits the fan."
"Why,
Andrew! What a shocking thing to say to your Steadholder!"
LaFollet
chuckled in reply, yet he couldn't help thinking she was quite
right. Normally, no properly brought up Grayson male would even
have considered discussing such violent subjects with a properly
brought up female. But Lady Harrington hadn't been brought
up as a Grayson, and the local rules defining proper behavior
were changing, anyway. The changes must seem slow to an outsider,
but to a Grayson, whose life was built on tradition, they'd come
with bewildering speed over the past six T-years, and the woman
Andrew LaFollet guarded with his life was the reason they had.
It
was odd, but she was probably less aware of those changes than
anyone else on the planet, for she came from a society which
would have greeted the very notion that men and women might be
considered unequal with incomprehension. But Grayson's deeply
traditional, patriarchal society and religion had evolved in a
thousand years of isolation on a world whose lethal
concentrations of heavy metals made it its own people's worst
enemy. The bedrock strength of those traditions meant any change
was bound to be incremental, not something that happened
overnight, but LaFollet was constantly aware of the small, subtle
adjustments taking place around him. For the most part, he
thought they were good changes-not always comfortable ones, as
the group of religious zealots who'd tried to destroy his
Steadholder little more than a year ago had demonstrated, but
good ones. Yet he was virtually certain Lady Harrington still
didn't realize the extent to which younger Grayson women were
beginning to reshape their own lives around the pattern she and
the other Manticoran women serving in Grayson's naval forces
provided. Not that Grayson showed any particular signs of turning
into a mirror image of the Star Kingdom. Instead, its people were
evolving a new pattern all their own, and he often wondered where
it would end.
They
reached the end of the short passage and took the lift to
Harrington House's second floor, where Honor's private quarters
were located. An older man with thinning sandy hair and gray eyes
was waiting when the lift doors opened, and she cocked her head.
"Hello,
Mac. What can I do for you?" she asked.
"We've
just received a message from the space facility, Ma'am."
Like Honor, James MacGuiness wore civilian clothes, as befitted
his role as Harrington House's majordomo, but he was the only
member of her personal staff who ever addressed her as anything
other than "My Lady." There was a very simple reason
for that; Master Chief Steward MacGuiness had been her personal
steward and-as she was fond of saying-chief keeper for over eight
years, and that made him the only member of her household who'd
known her even before she'd been knighted, far less become a
countess and steadholder. He normally addressed her as
"Milady" in front of visitors, but in private he had a
tendency to revert to the older military courtesy.
"What
sort of message?" she asked, and he smiled broadly.
"It's
from Captain Henke, Ma'am. Agni made her alpha translation
three hours ago."
"Mike's
here?" Honor said delightedly. "That's wonderful! When
do we expect her?"
"She'll
be landing in about another hour, Ma'am." Something about
MacGuiness' tone was a bit odd, and Honor looked a question at
him. "She's not alone, Ma'am," the steward said.
"Admiral White Haven is with her, and he's asked if it would
be convenient for him to accompany her to Harrington House."
"Earl
White Haven? Here?" Honor blinked, and MacGuiness nodded.
"Did he say anything about the reason for his visit?"
"No,
Ma'am. He just asked if you could see him."
"Of
course I can!" She stood in thought for another moment, then
shook herself and handed the gun case to MacGuiness. "I
suppose I should get tidied up, under the circumstances. Would
you see about cleaning this for me, Mac?"
"Of
course, Ma'am."
"Thank
you. And I suppose you'd better tell Miranda I need her,
too."
"I
already have, Ma'am. She said she'd meet you in your dressing
room."
"Then
I shouldn't keep her waiting." Honor nodded and swept off
down the corridor to her waiting maid, and her mind whirred as
she tried to guess why White Haven wanted to see her.
A
knock on the frame of the open door alerted Honor, and she looked
up with a smile as MacGuiness ushered her visitors into her
spacious, sunny office. Aside from Nimitz and LaFollet, whose
constant presence was required under Grayson law, she was alone,
for Howard Clinkscales, her regent and administrative executive,
was in Austin City for the day, conferring with Chancellor
Prestwick, and she rose and walked around her desk, holding out
her hand to the slim woman whose skin was barely a shade lighter
than her space-black RMN uniform.
"Mike!
Why didn't you warn me you were coming?" she demanded as the
other woman clasped her hand firmly.
"Because
I didn't know I was." Captain (JG) the Honorable Michelle
Henke's husky, soft-textured contralto was wry, and she grinned
at her host. Mike Henke was a first cousin of Queen Elizabeth,
with the unmistakable features of the House of Winton, but she'd
also been Honor's roommate and social mentor at the Academy's
Saganami Island campus. Despite the vast social gulf between
them, she'd become Honor's closest friend, and her eyes were
warm. "Agni's just been reassigned to Sixth Fleet,
and Admiral White Haven nabbed us for a taxi."
"I
see." Honor gave Henke's hand another squeeze, then turned
to the tall, broad-shouldered admiral who'd accompanied her.
"My Lord," she said more formally, extending her hand
once more. "I'm delighted to see you again."
"And
I to see you, Milady," he replied, equally formally, and her
cheekbones heated as he bent to kiss her hand instead of shaking
it. It was the proper way to greet a woman on Grayson, and she'd
become accustomed to it under most circumstances. But she felt
uncomfortable when White Haven did it. She knew, intellectually,
that her steadholder's rank actually took precedence over his,
but her title was barely six years old while the Earldom of White
Haven dated from the very founding of the Star Kingdom, and he
was also one of the two or three most respected flag officers of
the navy in which she'd served for over thirty years.
He
straightened, and his blue eyes twinkled, as if he understood
exactly what she felt and was chiding her for it. She hadn't seen
him in almost three T-years-since, in fact, the day she'd gone
into exile on half-pay-and she was privately shocked by the fresh
deep lines around those twinkling eyes, but she only smiled.
"Please,
sit down," she invited, gesturing to the chairs clustered
around a coffee table. Nimitz hopped down from his wall-mounted
perch as they obeyed her invitation, and Henke laughed as he
padded across the table to hold out one strong, wiry true-hand to
her.
"It's
good to see you, too, Stinker," the captain said, shaking
the proffered hand. "Raided any good celery patches
lately?"
Nimitz
sniffed his opinion of her idea of humor, but Honor felt his own
pleasure over their empathic link. Even people from Manticore and
Gryphon, the other two inhabited planets of the Star Kingdom's
home system, were distinctly prone to underestimate the
intelligence of Sphinx's treecats, but Mike and Nimitz were old
friends. She knew as well as Honor that he was brighter than most
two-footed people and, despite his inability to form the sounds
required to speak it, understood more Standard English than most
Manticoran adolescents.
She
also knew about the addiction every 'cat shared, and she grinned
again as she fished a stalk of celery from the pocket of her
tunic and passed it over. Nimitz grabbed it happily and started
chewing before his person had time to say a word, far less
object, and Honor sighed.
"Not
here five minutes, and already you're encouraging him! You're an
evil person, Mike Henke."
"Comes
from the friends I associate with," Henke replied
cheerfully, and it was Honor's turn to laugh.
Hamish
Alexander leaned back in his chair and watched the others with
unobtrusive intensity. The last time he'd seen Honor Harrington
had been after the duel in which she'd killed Pavel Young, the
Earl of North Hollow. The duel which had cost her her career had
come very close to costing her her life, as well, when North
Hollow turned early and shot her in the back, and her left arm
and surgically rebuilt shoulder had still been immobilized at
their last meeting. Yet her physical wound had been nothing
beside the ones which had cut deep into her heart.
His
own eyes darkened as he remembered her pain. Killing North Hollow
might have avenged the paid-for murder of the man she loved, but
it couldn't bring Paul Tankersley back to life. It had made it
possible for her to survive his loss, perhaps, yet it had done
nothing to lessen her anguish. White Haven had tried to prevent
that duel, for he'd known what it would mean for her career, but
he'd been wrong to try. It had been something she'd had to
do, an act of justice whose inevitability had stemmed from the
very things which made her what she was. He'd accepted that, in
the end, however much he regretted the consequences, and he
wondered if she realized how completely he'd come to understand
her motives-or how much he knew about grief and loss. His own
wife had been a total invalid for over fifty T-years. Before the
freak air car accident, Emily Alexander had been the Star
Kingdom's most beloved HD actress, and the anguish he still felt
at seeing her dauntless will and courage locked into a frail,
useless prison of the flesh had taught Hamish Alexander all about
the pain love could inflict.
But
this woman wasn't the grief-haunted, white-faced officer he
remembered from that day aboard the battlecruiser Nike. It
was also the first time he'd ever seen her out of uniform, and he
was amazed by how comfortable she looked in her Grayson attire.
And how regal. Did she even realize how much she'd changed? How
much she'd grown? She'd always been a superb officer, but she'd
gained something else here on Grayson. She was half his own age,
yet he was acutely conscious of the understated power of her
presence as she laughed with Captain Henke. He sensed an
underlying melancholy behind the laughter, where the awareness of
how much loss could hurt cut deep, yet that background sorrow
only seemed to hone her strength, as if the anguish she'd
survived had tempered the steel within her, and he was glad. Glad
for her and for the Royal Manticoran Navy. There were far too few
Queen's officers of her caliber, and he wanted her back in
Manticoran uniform . . . even if it meant accepting the Breslau
command.
She
finished laughing with Henke and looked up.
"Excuse
me, My Lord. Captain Henke and Nimitz are old cronies, but I
shouldn't have let that distract me. How can I help you,
Sir?"
"I'm
here as a messenger, Dame Honor," he replied. "Her
Majesty asked me to see you."
"Her
Majesty?" Honor sat up straighter as the earl nodded.
"I've
been deputized to ask you to accept recall to active duty,
Milady," he said quietly, and the sudden, brilliant light in
her chocolate-dark eyes stunned him. She started to speak, then
closed her mouth and made herself inhale deeply, and he saw the
light dim. It didn't fade; rather it was as if it had been banked
by an awareness of all the permutations of who and what she had
become, and he felt a fresh sense of respect for the ways she'd
grown.
"Active
duty?" she repeated after a moment. "I'm honored, of
course, My Lord, but I'm sure you and Her Majesty are both aware
of the other obligations I'm now under?"
"We
are, and so is the Admiralty," White Haven replied in that
same, quiet voice. "What you've done here, not merely as
Steadholder Harrington but as an officer of the Grayson Navy, has
been a tremendous accomplishment, and that's why Her Majesty has
asked me to request that you accept recall. She's also
charged me to inform you that she will not-now or ever-attempt to
command you to do so. The Star Kingdom has treated you very
badly-"
Honor
started to speak, but he raised his hand. "Please, Milady.
It has, and you know it. Specifically, the House of Lords has
treated you with a contempt which is a slur upon you, your
uniform and personal honor, and the honor of the Star Kingdom.
Her Majesty knows it, Duke Cromarty knows it, the Navy knows it,
and so do most of our citizens, and no one could possibly blame
you for remaining here, where you've been shown the respect you
deserve, instead."
Honor's
face blazed, but her link to Nimitz carried the earl's sincerity
to her. The 'cats had always been able to sense human emotions,
but as far as she knew, she was the first human who'd ever been
able to sense a 'cat's emotions-or, through Nimitz, other humans'
emotions-in return. It was an ability she'd developed only over
the last five and a half T-years, and in some ways, she was still
dealing with its ramifications. Though she'd come to accept the
extension of her senses, there were still times she wished she couldn't
feel others' emotions, and this was one of them. She knew it was
a one-way link. White Haven couldn't possibly feel her own
reaction to his emotions, but the deep, sympathetic respect
welling into her from him was horribly embarrassing. Whatever
anyone else might think of her, she was too well aware of her
faults and weaknesses to believe for one moment that she deserved
to be regarded so.
"That
wasn't what I meant, My Lord," she said after a moment. Her
soprano came out just a little husky, and she cleared her throat.
"I understand why the Lords reacted the way they did. I may
not agree with them, but I understand, and I was fairly
certain at the time what their response would be. What I meant
was that I've accepted my duties and position as a steadholder,
not to mention my commission in the GSN. I have obligations I
can't simply ignore, however much I'd love to get back into
active service for the Star Kingdom again."
She
glanced over her shoulder at Andrew LaFollet, standing silent and
expressionless in his position behind her chair, and she felt his
emotions, too. They were more confused than White Haven's, a
blend of fierce approval at the notion that she would be allowed
to vindicate herself in Manticoran service mixed with a cold
agreement with White Haven's assessment of how the Star Kingdom
had treated her and an uneasy fear over what a return to active
service with the RMN might mean for the safety of the woman he
was charged to protect. But she sensed no pressure either way
from him. He was a Grayson armsman. His duty was to guard his
Steadholder, not to tell her what to do. That prevented him
neither from trying, with exquisitely polite, mulish obstinacy,
to manipulate her if he thought she was in danger nor from taking
action against anyone who offered her insult, but he would never
attempt to dictate to her conscience. Yet this went deeper than
that, just as his devotion to her did. What he wanted was for her
to do what she felt was right, and she drew a subtle
strength from that as she turned back to White Haven.
"I
understand exactly what you're saying, Milady, and I respect
it," the earl said. "As I say, Her Majesty is simply
asking you to consider it, and she's instructed the Admiralty to
abide by your decision. If you choose not to return to active
duty, you'll be free to remain on half-pay status for as long as
you wish-until you do decide to return."
"Just
what, exactly, is it that the Admiralty wants me to do?"
"I
wish I could say they have a job commensurate with your
accomplishments, Milady, but I can't," he replied frankly.
"We're assembling a small Q-ship squadron for deployment to
Silesia. I assume you're at least generally aware of conditions
there?" Honor nodded, and he shrugged. "We can't commit
the forces the situation truly requires, but the pressure is
growing to do something, and this is the best the
Admiralty can manage. But if they can't send adequate forces,
they'd prefer to send the best officer they can in hopes that she
can accomplish something despite her limited resources."
Honor
regarded him thoughtfully, tasting the emotions behind the words
through Nimitz. Then she smiled one of her crooked smiles, and
this time there was no humor in it.
"I
don't think that's the only reason they want me, My Lord,"
she said shrewdly, and he nodded without surprise. He'd always
known she was sharp.
"Frankly,
Milady, you're right. If Admiral Caparelli were free to do so, he
would prefer to promote you to the flag rank you've proved you
deserve and give you a squadron of the wall, or at least your own
battlecruiser squadron. But he can't do that. The same political
factors which forced him to put you on half-pay are still
present, though they've weakened somewhat."
"Then
why should I accept this offer?" Anger edged her
voice, White Haven noted with approval, and her almond eyes
flashed. "Forgive me, My Lord, but it sounds like what
you're really offering me is a chance to be shuffled off to
another Basilisk Station-with the same sort of inadequate
resources I had there!"
"In
a sense, I am," he admitted. "But looked at another
way, it's a window of opportunity to get back into Manticoran
uniform at all. And much as it angers me to say so, that window
is the best we're likely to see for quite some time. Believe me,
the Admiralty considered very carefully before offering you the
command. Neither Baroness Morncreek nor the First Space Lord told
me so in so many words, but they wouldn't have offered it
to you if not for other considerations."
"Which
are?" she asked tightly.
"Milady,
you're one of the Navy's finest officers," White Haven said
flatly. "If not for political enemies-enemies you made in no
small part because you did your duty so well-you'd already be at
least a commodore, and the Fleet is well aware of why you aren't.
But in this instance, some of those very enemies nominated you
for the slot."
Honor's
nostrils flared in surprise, and he nodded slowly. She sat back
in her chair, reaching out to Nimitz as he flowed into her lap.
The 'cat cocked his head, turning his grass-green gaze on the
admiral, and she lifted him in her arms. She held him to her
breasts, one hand rubbing his chest, and her eyes commanded White
Haven to continue.
"We
can't be sure of all her reasons, but Countess New Kiev suggested
you," the earl said. "I'm quite certain someone else
put her up to it, but the rest of the Opposition either went
along or made no comment. The current Earl North Hollow was the
only peer who actively opposed the idea, and after what happened
to his brother, he almost had to-either that or openly admit what
sort of scum Pavel Young really was.
"As
I say, we're not certain why they did it. Partly, I suppose, it's
because however much they hate you, they have to realize how good
you are. Another factor may be what happened in the last general
election. They took a real beating at the polls, and the way
they've treated you was one of the hot-button emotional issues,
so perhaps they see this as a way to recover some lost ground
without giving you the kind of command you truly deserve. And
they may have even less savory motives. Let's be honest; the odds
against your achieving much with only four Q-ships are high,
however good you are, so they may see this as a chance to set you
up for a failure they can use to justify the way they've treated
you in the past."
Honor
nodded slowly, following his logic, and an icy core of anger
burned within her pleasure at the thought of getting back into
Manticoran uniform again at last.
"Under
most circumstances," White Haven said levelly, "I'd
advise against accepting, because if they are counting on the
odds against you, they've got a point. But these aren't most
circumstances, and whoever's orchestrating their strategy is a
shrewd customer. Since the Opposition itself has suggested you,
the Admiralty has almost no choice but to offer you the slot. If
it doesn't, or if you turn it down, the Opposition will be able
to say you had your chance and rejected it. In the long run, that
probably wouldn't be enough to keep you from returning to the
Queen's service eventually, but it would probably delay
your recall for at least another full T-year, possibly longer,
and it would certainly make your final return much more
difficult.
"On
the other hand, if you do accept the command, you probably
won't have to hold it for more than six to eight months. By that
time, the war situation will probably have changed enough to free
up the light forces we need for Silesia. Even if it hasn't,
enough additional Q-ships will be available to make a real dent
in our problems there. In either case, once you're back on active
duty for any reason, the Admiralty will be free to assign
you to other duties, as it sees fit, after a suitable interval.
Given the fact that the Lords have to confirm promotions out of
the zone, it will probably still be impossible to jump you to the
rank you've demonstrated you're ready to handle, but that won't
keep the Admiralty from giving you the acting authority
you deserve."
"So
what you're saying, My Lord, is that you think I should
accept it," Honor said. White Haven hesitated briefly, then
nodded.
"I
suppose I am," he sighed. "It goes against the
grain-I'd far rather have you commanding one of my squadrons in
Sixth Fleet-but given the situation, it's almost a case of paying
your dues. It's not fair. In fact, it's damned unfair. But
it's also the way it is." He twitched his shoulders
unhappily. "As I say, no one could blame you if you decided
to stay here, and I'm sure Protector Benjamin and High Admiral
Matthews, to say nothing of the people of Harrington Steading,
will want you to do just that. But I'll be honest, Milady. We
need you as badly as Grayson does, if in a different way. We're
up against the most powerful navy in space, in terms of sheer
tonnage, in a fight for our very survival. Chasing pirates in
Silesia may not seem of life or death importance to the Sky
Kingdom, because it isn't. But if sending you off to do that for
a few months is the only way we can get you back for the things
we do need you for, it's a price the Admiralty is prepared
to pay. The question is whether or not you're prepared to
pay it."
Honor
frowned thoughtfully at him, fingers stroking gently through
Nimitz's soft fur, and the 'cat's subsonic purr rumbled as she
held him against her. That cold anger at the prospect of
accepting what was in many ways a calculated insult still burned
within her, yet she knew White Haven was right. He was asking her
to give up her own superdreadnought squadron and her position as
the second ranking officer of an entire navy to accept command of
an inadequate squadron of converted merchantmen in a strategic
backwater, yet he was right. The Opposition did have the
power to demand that from her as the price of regaining her place
in the navy of her birth kingdom and the vindication of her
professional abilities.
She
sat silent for almost three full minutes, then sighed.
"I
won't say yes or no, My Lord. Not right now. But I will
discuss it with Protector Benjamin and the High Admiral. I
realize you have to get back to your command, but if you could
possibly see your way to remaining here as my guest for a day or
so, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to discuss the matter with you
again after I've spoken to the Protector and Admiral
Matthews."
"Of
course, Milady," he said.
"Thank
you. And now," she stood, "if you and Captain Henke
would join me for supper, my chef would love to introduce you
both to authentic Grayson cuisine."