by David Weber
And eighty-five percent of possible is damned impressive targeting for a laser head at any range, she thought.
The question was why Gortz should choose to deliberately reveal that improvement in capabilities to Jessica Epps. And it had to have been deliberate. She certainly hadn't needed to launch her birds at maximum accel—assuming, of course, that that was what she'd done, and that she hadn't had still more drive power in reserve—just as there'd been no compelling tactical need to show off her laser heads' reach and accuracy. It was entirely possible that the Andy had had still more performance in reserve, she reflected. Even if Gortz was deliberately making a statement, it would make sense to keep at least a little bit back to use as a surprise in an emergency. But whether or not what they'd just seen was the maximum possible performance envelope for the IAN's current generation of missiles, it was a substantial improvement in what everyone had thought were the limits of the Andies' hardware.
Which suggested that this entire episode did indeed reflect a new and even more dangerous level in the Empire's aggressive foreign and naval policy.
"Record for transmission, Mecia," Ferrero said after a moment.
"Recording, Ma'am," Lieutenant McKee acknowledged.
"Captain Gortz," Erica Ferrero said in icy tones, "this is Captain Ferrero. Your high-handed intervention in my pursuit of a suspected pirate represents a violation of the established protocols in existence between the Andermani Empire and the Star Kingdom of Manticore. Your destruction of the vessel in question, leading to the death of all aboard, whose guilt or innocence had not been confirmed and who had not received the warning shot specified by numerous interstellar accords, also represents an unacceptable violation of customary naval usage and interstellar law and arguably constitutes an act of cold-blooded murder. I protest your actions in the strongest terms, and I will be filing a record of this incident with my own command authorities and the Star Kingdom's Foreign Office. My recommendation will be that interstellar legal proceedings against you and your bridge officers be initiated immediately, and I look forward with anticipation to the time at which you may be invited before a court of admiralty to explain and justify your performance here this afternoon. Ferrero, clear."
"On the chip, Ma'am. " McKee's confirmation was soft, and Ferrero smiled humorlessly at the com officer's tone. Yet she had no choice but to respond to Gortz's actions in uncompromising terms . . . especially if they did represent a deliberate shift in the IAN's policy towards the Royal Navy. Higher authority could always back off from her initial hard-line position, but until those same higher authorities could be advised of what had just happened, it was up to her to do anything she could to make the Andermani rethink any inclination towards confrontation.
"Send it," she told McKee, then turned to Lieutenant McClelland, her astrogator.
"Turn us around, James," she told him. "Take us back out across the limit. And calculate a least-time transit to Marsh."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am." The short, brown-haired, brown-eyed officer—one of the few native Sidemorians in Jessica Epps' company—studied his plot, then looked at the cruiser's helmsman.
"Helm, reverse heading and go to five-zero-five gravities," he said.
"Reversing heading and going to five-zero-five gravities, aye, Sir," the helmsman replied, and Jessica Epps turned end-for-end and began decelerating towards the hyper limit.
"Captain," McKee said in a very formal voice, "Hellbarde is hailing us. They sound . . . pretty insistent about speaking to you."
"Ignore them," Ferrero told her in a voice of liquid helium.
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," McKee acknowledged, and Ferrero returned her attention to her plot.
Chapter Eighteen
The woman waiting for Honor under the landing pad's crystoplast canopy when the shuttle landed in the misting Grayson rain was dark-haired and eyed. The hair might have been a little more thickly threaded with silver than the first time they'd met, but the comfortable, lived-in face was the same.
The uniform wasn't. Mercedes Brigham was a rear admiral in the Grayson Space Navy, but she was also one of the GSN's many "loaners" from the RMN, and she wore the Royal Navy's uniform this afternoon. In Manticoran service, her rank was that of a commodore, and Honor had been a little concerned over how she might feel at the notion of accepting a demotion to serve on someone else's staff. She'd known Mercedes well enough for long enough to feel fairly confident the older woman would genuinely wish for the assignment. But she'd also known her well enough to be afraid she would accept the job out of a sense of obligation and friendship whether it was really one she wanted or not.
The taste of Brigham's emotions, coupled with the commodore's enormous smile, put that concern, at least, instantly to rest.
"Mercedes!" Honor said, as she stepped off the foot of the shuttle ramp. The fresh, life-rich smell of the spring rain embraced her, and she felt a familiar twinge of irony. That scent was like the very breath of a living planet after a week on shipboard air, yet it was a world whose atmosphere was potentially lethal in the long term to any human, especially an off-worlder like herself. It was a point her intellect was only too well aware of, but her instincts were another matter, and she drew the smell deep into her lungs despite all her forebrain could do.
"It's good to see you again," she went on, gripping Brigham's proffered hand and squeezing it firmly but carefully, mindful of her heavy-worlder strength.
"Likewise, Your Grace," Brigham said, gripping back. She nodded to LaFollet, Hawke, and Mattingly, and the three armsmen came very briefly to attention in response before they reverted to their normal watchful stances. Two more HSG armsmen brought up the rear, shepherding Honor's personal baggage, and Brigham waved her free hand at a waiting air car in Harrington Steading colors.
"If you and your friends will step this way, Your Grace," she invited, still smiling, "your chauffeur is waiting to whisk you away to Harrington."
"Not to Austin City?" Honor asked in some surprise.
"No, Your Grace. High Admiral Matthews was called away to Blackbird this afternoon, and he won't be able to return until sometime late tomorrow morning. He and the Protector decided that it would make more sense for you to get yourself settled at home before any formal meetings. Your parents and the kids are waiting to have supper with you there, and I understand Lord Clinkscales and his wives will be joining you. Your mother said she . . . ah, had a few things to discuss with you."
Honor's lips twitched in a mixture of humor and affectionate dread. It had gotten progressively more difficult to keep her mother here on Grayson and out of the fray on Manticore, yet the effort had become even more urgent once Lady Emily had knocked the scandal on its head. Allison Harrington was not noted for moderation where her family was concerned, and Honor could just imagine the smiling, merciless "I told you so" daggers she would have planted—as publicly as possible—in at least a dozen prominent Manticoran political figures.
"I think the Regent also has a little Steading business he needs to discuss with you while he has the opportunity," Brigham continued. And he probably wants to rip a few strips off various Manticoran politicos, too . . . at least vicariously, since he can't get at them physically, Honor thought resignedly. "That's more than enough to keep you busy for your first evening on-planet, and you're scheduled for an informal private audience over lunch with the Protector tomorrow afternoon at the Palace. If it's convenient, we'll meet with the High Admiral afterwards."
"Of course it will be," Honor agreed, and glanced at LaFollet.
"I'm sure you want to check the car for possible assassins, Andrew," she told him with one of her slightly lopsided smiles.
"If Commodore Brigham is prepared to testify under oath that the car has never been out of her sight, then I'm prepared to forego my normal thoroughness, My Lady," LaFollet assured her with only the smallest gleam of humor, and she chuckled.
"In that case, we'd better go quickly, Mercedes—before he changes his mind!" she said, and Brigham l
aughed and fell into place a respectful half-step behind Honor as the armsmen spread out in their customary triangular formation about their lady and headed for the vehicle.
Honor climbed into the back seat of the luxurious, armored air limo and settled Nimitz in her lap, and Brigham followed her. LaFollet parked himself in the facing jump seat while Mattingly politely but firmly displaced the original driver and Hawke took the front passenger/EW operator's seat. Mattingly spent a moment or two familiarizing himself with the pre-filed flight plan, then lifted the vehicle smoothly into the air and headed for Harrington City. The inevitable stingships settled into their escort positions, even for this relatively short flight, and Honor turned toward Brigham.
"I almost didn't ask the High Admiral for your services, you know," she said. "Both because I know how much Alfredo depends on you in the Protector's Own, and because I hesitated to ask you to step down a grade, even temporarily."
"Much as I hate to say anything which might undermine your perception of my indispensability, Your Grace, the Admiral can get along without me if he really needs to," Brigham replied. "And given the fact that I never really expected to advance beyond lieutenant back when we first went out to Basilisk, commodore isn't too shabby. Besides, I seem to recall a few times you've stepped back and forth between navies yourself."
"I suppose you do," Honor acknowledged. "But I really do want you to know how much I appreciate your willingness to do it this time."
"Your Grace," and Brigham said frankly, "I was honored you chose to ask for me again. And it's not as if I'm the only person who's going to be looking at a drop in grade," she added in a darker tone.
"I know." Honor nodded, and Nimitz's ears flattened ever so slightly as he tasted her emotional response to Brigham's obvious reference to Dame Alice Truman.
Like Hamish Alexander, but with even less excuse, Truman had found herself a victim of the Janacek purges. Honor's contacts within the current Admiralty were much less extensive than they'd been when Baroness Mourncreek was First Lord, but there were rumors that Alice had stepped on someone's rather senior toes when she'd been captain of HMS Minotaur. That, coupled with the fact that the Trumans had served in the Royal Navy for almost as many generations as the Alexanders had, and that they were equally fervent members of the anti-Janacek faction, had consigned Alice to half-pay and cost her confirmation of her promotion to vice admiral.
Even Sir Edward Janacek and Jeanette Draskovic had found that one just a bit difficult to rationalize away, given the fact that Rear Admiral Truman, temporarily "frocked" to the acting rank of vice admiral, had commanded Eighth Fleet's CLACs throughout the campaign which had driven the People's Republic to its knees. Not that they'd allowed that to stand in their way, and Alice's obvious and none too private disagreement with current Admiralty policies had made it easier for them to justify it—or her lack of employment, at least—on the basis of irreconcilable policy differences. Which, as Honor had fully recognized, was yet another reason for Draskovic's pettiness over the slate of officers she'd requested.
"At any rate," Honor went on after a moment in a deliberately more cheerful tone, "your misfortune—and Alice's—is my good fortune. Janacek and Chakrabarti may not be able—or willing—to cough up the ship strength I think we're going to need, but at least we're going to have an excellent command team. So if I can't get the job done, we'll know whose fault it is, won't we?"
"I wouldn't put it quite that way myself, Your Grace. But I do agree that you seem to have pulled together a pretty good bunch. And I'm looking forward to seeing Rafe and Alistair again. And," she grinned suddenly, "especially to seeing Scotty and 'Sir Horace!' "
* * *
"That was delicious." Honor sighed, and leaned back in her chair with a pleasant sense of repletion.
The picked-over rubble of lunch lay strewn across the table between her and Benjamin IX, Protector of Grayson. They sat on one of Protector's Palace's private, domed terraces, a continent away from Harrington Steading, but it was raining here, as well. Not the gentle, misty rain which had welcomed Honor, but a hard, driving fall downpour that pounded the overhead dome hard. The occasional rumble of thunder was clearly audible, and Honor glanced up as a fork of lightning split the charcoal overcast. The gray, water-soaked afternoon was dark, almost ominous, yet that only made the terrace's warm comfort even more welcoming.
They were alone, aside from Nimitz, LaFollet, and Benjamin's personal armsman and constant shadow, Major "Sparky" Rice, and the Protector chuckled at her comment as he reached for his wineglass.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he assured her. "My chef stole the stroganoff recipe from your father, and the fudge cake—of which, if memory serves, you had three slices—came directly from Mistress Thorne's recipe book."
"I thought they both tasted familiar. But Master Batson's added a little something to the stroganoff, hasn't he?"
"I'd be surprised if he hasn't," Benjamin agreed. "As to what it might have been, though—" He shrugged.
"Dill weed, I think," Honor said thoughtfully. "But there's something else, too . . ." She gazed thoughtfully up into the rainstorm, pondering, then shrugged. "Whatever it is, warn him that Daddy's going to be trying to steal it back from him."
"From something your mother said a couple of weeks ago, I think he already has," Benjamin said with a grin. "And I think Master Batson can't quite make up his mind whether to be outraged by the fact that a steadholder's father is raiding his recipe files, even in retaliation, or flattered by the competition!"
"Oh, flattered. He should definitely feel flattered!" Honor assured the Protector.
"I'll tell him that," Benjamin replied, then sipped his wine and cocked his head to one side. "And how are your parents? And my god children?" he asked.
"Fine, thank God," Honor said, then shook her head with a wry chuckle. "Mother and Daddy both wanted to strangle about a third of the population of the planet of Manticore—starting with the Prime Minister. And Howard—!" She shook her head again. "Your god children were just fine, too. And noisy." Her twin siblings had just celebrated their sixth birthdays, and she'd been appalled by the sheer energy level they'd demonstrated. Especially Faith, although James hadn't been far behind her. And neither of them had been able to compete with Samantha's and Nimitz's kittens, now rapidly approaching adolescence and even more rambunctious than the twins. And, she thought with a mental shudder, far better, at their size, in getting into places they had no business being. Explaining to them why their mother hadn't returned with Honor this time had been difficult, but less traumatic than she'd feared. Probably because all of their foster mothers had been there to help them cope with it.
Of course, she reflected, it might also be because they were the first treecats ever to be raised from birth among humans. She couldn't be absolutely certain, since Nimitz had been fully mature when they first met, but it seemed to her that she already tasted a subtle difference in their "mind-glows." A sense of horizons that were . . . broader. Or more diverse. Something.
"In fact, the whole household was delighted to see me," she told Benjamin, shaking herself free of her thoughts. "I've got the hug bruises to prove it, too."
"Good." Benjamin took another sip of wine, then returned the glass to the table. Honor would have recognized the "time to get down to business" gesture even without her ability to taste the emotions behind it, and she cocked her head.
"There was a reason I asked you to dine privately with me," he said. "In fact, there was more than one. If Katherine or Elaine had been available, I would have invited them, as well. But Cat was already scheduled for that address to the Navy Wives Association, and then Alexandra came down with the flu." He shook his head quickly at the flicker of concern the news of his youngest daughter's illness sent through Honor's eyes. "It's not serious, but Alex is almost as stubborn about admitting she's not feeling well as Honor is, and she managed to get herself dehydrated before she told her mothers she was sick. So Elaine is playing the tyrannical m
ommy this afternoon."
"I see, and I'm glad to hear it's nothing more serious than that. But I have to admit that you've made me just a little nervous with your ominous foreshadowing."
"I didn't mean to do that, but by the same token, I do have some serious concerns, and I've been looking forward to the opportunity to discuss them with you face-to-face."
His voice was calm, but his eyes were intent, and as Honor gazed at him, she was struck by the weariness and worry hiding behind his composed exterior. And by his age, she realized abruptly. He was forty-seven T-years old, thirteen years younger than she, yet he looked older than Hamish, and she felt a sudden pang, almost a premonition of loss.
She'd felt the same thing last night, sitting at the supper table with her parents, Faith and James, and the Clinkscales when she'd realized how much frailer Lord Howard Clinkscales had become over the past few years. Now she saw the same process, if on a lesser scale, as she gazed at the Protector. Like so many of her pre-prolong Grayson friends, age was inexorably creeping up on him, and it shocked and dismayed her to realize he was already into middle age. It was a vigorous, energetic middle age, yet his dark hair was going silver and there were too many lines on his face.
And, she thought with a sudden chill, sensing her armsman at her shoulder as thunder rattled the overhead dome once more, he's five years younger than Andrew is.
That was not a thought she wanted to consider at the moment, and she put it resolutely away.
"I wish I could say I were surprised to hear you're concerned," she told him soberly instead.
"But you're not, of course." Benjamin cocked his head, and his eyes were both measuring and compassionate as he regarded her. Then he shrugged ever so slightly.
"Honor, I haven't asked you if there was any truth to the rumors about you and Earl White Haven for two reasons. The first, and by far the most important, is that both of you have denied there is, and I've never known either of you to tell even the slightest untruth. Which is most certainly not the case where the people who keep asserting that you've lied are concerned. The second reason, quite frankly, is that even if there had been any truth to them, it would have been your business, not mine. And certainly not that of High Ridge and his toadies.