by David Weber
"I'm not certain what you're asking for, Sir," he said finally.
"I know I'm making you uncomfortable, Samuel, but you're the only member of my staff who's actually met her, and—" The admiral waved his hand, unwilling to explain the reason for his concern, and Webster sighed.
"In that case, Admiral, all I can say is that she's the best," he said finally. "We had some serious problems when they banished us to Basilisk, and the Captain—well, she dealt with them, Sir, and I never heard her raise her voice once while she did it. You know what Basilisk Station used to be like, and we weren't exactly the best crew anyone ever gave a captain, either. Not when we arrived. But, by God, Admiral, we were when we left!"
Sarnow leaned back, surprised by Webster's vehemence, and the com officer looked away before he went on.
"The Captain gets the best out of her people—sometimes more than they ever guessed they could give—and I don't really think it's anything she does. It's who she is, Sir. You trust her. You know she'll never let you down, and when the shit hits the fan, you know she'll get you out of it if anyone can. I'm a com officer, not a tac specialist, but I saw enough in Basilisk to realize how good she really is. I don't know if you've been briefed on just how BuShips butchered our armament, Admiral, but we were so far out of our league it was pitiful. We all knew that from the start, but the Captain took us in anyway. The Peeps smashed us into a wreck, Sir—three-quarters of our people were dead or wounded, but she kept right on coming, and somehow she took them out. I don't know if anyone else could have done it, but she did."
The lieutenant commander's voice was soft, almost inaudible in the quiet cabin, and he stared down at his hands.
"We blamed her for getting us sent to Basilisk when we first arrived. It wasn't her fault, but that didn't change the way we felt, and it showed. But by the time it all broke loose, we would have followed her into Hell. In fact, I guess that's just about what we did . . . and we'd do it again."
Webster blushed at his own intensity. "I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know if that's what you wanted to know, but—" He shrugged almost helplessly.
He met his admiral's gaze, blue eyes strangely vulnerable, and Sarnow looked back in silence for a long, long moment, then nodded.
"Thank you, Samuel," he said quietly. "That was exactly what I wanted to know."
* * *
Honor worked steadily, frowning in concentration as her fingers moved on her keyboard. She sometimes thought the Navy was really powered by reports and memos, not fusion plants. There was never an end to it, and BuShips was almost worse than BuPers—especially when one of Her Majesty's captains was so careless as to break the starship with which the Lords of Admiralty had entrusted her. Had some psych type convinced Their Lordships to generate so many forms as a none too subtle way to punish such miscreants for their sins?
She finished the final corrections and captain's endorsements to Ravicz's report, cross-referenced her own report to Captain Tankersley's, routed copies of all relevant documents to Admiral Sarnow, Admiral Parks, and Third Space Lord Danvers, with yet another copy to the attention of Nike's builders and one for the inspectors aboard Hephaestus, then dashed her signature with the electronic stylus and pressed her thumb to the scan panel with a sigh of relief. From here on out, it was in the yard dogs' hands, and she, for one, was profoundly grateful it was.
She leaned back and sipped the cocoa MacGuiness had left at her elbow. It was fresh and hot, though she hadn't even noticed his silent passage to deliver it, and she made a mental note to thank him later.
She sighed again. There was plenty more paperwork where the last lot had come from, and she was guiltily aware that she should get straight onto it, but the thought was unappealing. Part of her wanted to wander down to Fusion Three to rubberneck, instead, but Captain Tankersley's people would be less than delighted to have Nike's skipper hanging over their shoulders. On the other hand, she could feel herself developing a serious case of bulkhead fever, complicated by an allergic reaction to paperwork. Maybe what she ought to do was take herself off to the gym and spend an hour or so—
Her com chirped, and she pressed the button with something like relief.
"Captain speaking."
"Communications, Ma'am," Lieutenant Commander Monet's voice said. "I have a personal signal for you from Irresistible. It's Admiral Sarnow."
Honor set her cocoa mug hastily aside and ran her hands through her hair. It remained far too short to braid as most female officers did, but its new, longer length made it harder to keep tidy, and she wished fervently that she'd had some warning Sarnow might com. She winced as her hurried, ruthlessly grooming fingers caught in a snarled curl, then twitched her tunic straight. It was one of her older, more comfortable uniforms, a little worn, its braid just a bit frayed, and she dreaded MacGuiness' reaction when he discovered she'd greeted her new admiral for the first time wearing something so disreputable, but there was no time to change. A brand new flag captain didn't keep her admiral waiting when he finally got around to screening her at last.
"Put it through to my terminal, please, George," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am," Monet replied, and Admiral Mark Sarnow replaced the data on her screen. His complexion was darker than she'd expected, a darkness emphasized by his green eyes, chestnut hair, and the pronounced eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair or mustache, which met in a straight line above the bridge of his high-arched nose.
"Good evening, Dame Honor. I hope I'm not interrupting?" His tenor voice was gentler than his strong-jawed face, almost soft.
"Good evening, Sir. And, no, you're not interrupting. I was just wrestling with some routine paperwork."
"Good. I've had a chance to look over the yard report on your fusion plant, and it seems to confirm your engineer's assessment. I realize you'll be stuck in dock for quite a while yet, but under the circumstances, I'd like to release Irresistible to return to Manticore and shift my flag to Nike as soon as possible."
"Of course, Sir. At your convenience."
"Thank you." Sarnow's sudden smile gave his face an unexpected, almost boyish enthusiasm. "We'll try not to get in your way, Captain, but I want my staff to shake down with your officers as soon as possible. And, of course, I need to spend some time getting you involved."
"Yes, Sir." Honor kept her face calm, but she felt an undeniable satisfaction at his welcoming tone. Some admirals would have greeted an unknown flag captain with reserve—especially one who'd inconvenienced them by arriving with a lamed ship, whether it was her fault or not.
"Very well, then, Captain. With your permission, we'll come aboard at oh-seven hundred tomorrow."
"That will be fine, Admiral. If you wish, I'll have my steward contact your steward and arrange the transfer of your personal gear."
"Thank you. And, in the meantime, I'd like to invite you to join Captain Parsons, Captain Corell, and myself for supper aboard Irresistible at seventeen hundred, if that would be convenient."
"Of course, Sir."
"Good! I'll see you then, Captain," Sarnow said, and cut the connection with a courteous nod.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I'm impressed, Dame Honor. This is quite a ship you have here," Admiral Sarnow said as they walked down the passage, and Honor smiled.
"I'm a bit pleased with her myself, Sir," she said. "When she isn't broken, that is."
"I can understand that, but the base crews do excellent work, and I've noticed that they tend to consistently overestimate how long a job is likely to take." The admiral's mustache quivered as he grinned. "I don't think they've quite realized just how good they are."
"They're certainly the most efficient bunch of yard dogs I've ever dealt with," Honor agreed, and she meant it. The task the Hancock Station base staff faced was far more complex than Captain Tankersley's assessment might have suggested, but they were tearing into it with energy and efficiency.
The two of them reached the central lift, and she stood aside to let her senior precede her i
nto it, then keyed their destination. The short trip passed in comfortable silence, and Nimitz sat relaxed on her shoulder, a sure sign he approved of her new squadron CO. She was inclined to agree with the 'cat. Mark Sarnow was young for his rank, only eight T-years older than she was, but he exuded an air of confident energy.
The lift delivered them to Nike's flag bridge. It was smaller than Honor's command deck, but just as magnificent, and the master plot took up almost two-thirds of the deck space while repeater displays duplicated the critical readouts of her own bridge crew.
The admiral's staff was waiting, and Captain (Junior Grade) The Honorable Ernestine Corell, his chief of staff, looked up from a memo pad with a smile.
"I was about to send out a search party, Sir. You're cutting it awful close for Admiral Parks' conference."
Sarnow glanced at his chrono and grimaced. "We've got time, Ernie. Why don't you and Joe join us in the briefing room?"
"Of course." Corell and Commander Joseph Cartwright, Sarnow's operations officer, followed the admiral toward the briefing room hatch, and Honor paused only to smile at Samuel Webster before she joined them.
"Have seats, people," Sarnow invited, waving them into chairs around the conference table. He pulled off his beret, unsealed his tunic, and dropped into the chair at the head of the table; Honor took her own place, facing him up its length from the far end.
"We don't have time to get too deep into things," the admiral said, "but I want to hit the high spots for Dame Honor's benefit before we disappear to Gryphon again." He grimaced again. "One reason I'll be glad to get Nike operable again will be the chance to get away from the station flagship. I seem to be spending more time there than anywhere else."
Honor said nothing, but Sarnow's edge of exasperation wasn't lost on her, and she wondered just how tense things really were between him and the man who'd relieved him.
"And once we are operable, Captain Harrington," he continued, "we're going to be extremely busy working up the squadron. I'm afraid the Admiralty hasn't sent us out here on vacation."
His staff officers chuckled, and Honor smiled at his wry tone as he turned to Corell.
"What's our status, Ernie?"
"We got an updated ETA on Defiant and Onslaught while you and the Captain were below decks, Sir," the tall, delicate-boned chief of staff replied. "We can expect Defiant within another three days, but Onslaught's been delayed. She won't be here until the twentieth of next month."
"Wonderful." Sarnow sighed. "Any explanation of why?"
"No, Sir. Just the revised ETA."
"Why am I not surprised? Oh, well. The yard won't be releasing Nike any time soon, either. Does Admiral Parks have that information?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good." Sarnow rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought, then looked at Honor.
"Basically, Dame Honor, what we have here is an entirely new squadron. There hasn't been a Fifth Battle Cruiser Squadron since the last major Fleet reorganization, and aside from Achilles and Cassandra, who transferred in from BatCruRon Fifteen together, none of our units have any experience as a team. We'll have to start building from the ground up, and time isn't on our side."
He held Honor's eyes, and she nodded.
"Every flag officer I've ever known," he went on, "had his own ideas on exactly what he expected from his flag captain, and I'm no exception. I expect your constant input, Dame Honor. If you see a problem, either fix it yourself or bring it to my attention—and if the problem is me or something I'm doing, tell me about it. Ernie and Joe do their best to keep me straight, but there are times I need all the help I can get. Understood?"
He smiled, but there was steel behind the smile, and Honor nodded again.
"You won't be the squadron's senior captain, but you are its flag captain. That may lead to problems when you have to deal with someone who's senior to you, but I expect you to deal with that—and to remember you're the flag captain. You're the woman who's going to be sitting in on staff meetings they can't get to, the one most familiar with my plans and intentions. I don't plan on passing any bucks to you, but I expect you to use your own discretion and initiative to deal with squadron matters, as well as Nike, whenever they come within your purview.
"In return for your slavelike devotion to duty," he went on, with another of his fierce grins, "I will back you right down the line. If at any time I am displeased with your actions, I will tell you so before anyone else hears about it. From your record, I expect you to be a major asset, especially to a brand new squadron. Don't do anything to change my mind."
"I'll try not to, Sir," Honor said quietly.
"I'm certain you will—and I expect you to succeed. Now, Joe," Sarnow turned to his ops officer, "what do we know about our mission parameters?"
"Not as much as I'd like, Sir," Cartwright said. "With Admiral Tyrel's squadron detached, we're obviously going to be Admiral Parks' primary screening unit, but the entire task force's operational posture seems to be undergoing a fairly radical reassessment." The bearded commander shrugged. "All I can tell you right now is that the Admiral apparently intends to retain us here for the immediate future."
"Could be worse," the admiral said, though he didn't sound especially convinced of it. "At least it'll give us time to work up." Cartwright nodded, and Sarnow rubbed his chin again, then looked back at his chrono and straightened in his chair.
"All right. Ernie, since Achilles and Cassandra have at least operated together before, we'll start building around them. I want you and Joe to get the available squadron set up for gunnery practice in the next day or two. Form them in two divisions—Achilles and Cassandra in one, Invincible, Intolerant, and Agamemnon in the other—to compete with one another. I'll ride in Invincible. Please warn Captain Daumier I'll be coming."
"Yes, Sir." The chief of staff made notes on her memo pad, and Sarnow glanced at Honor.
"Obviously, we can't take Nike along, Dame Honor, but I'd like you to ride with me. And don't worry about your presence bothering Captain Daumier. Invincible's the current holder of the Queen's Cup, and she's almost as proud of her ship as you are of Nike. No doubt she'll enjoy showing you what kind of gunnery I'll expect my flagship to match." He flashed another grin, and she smiled in reply.
"When we get back, I'm going to start setting up the squadron command net, so please have your com officer sit down with Commander Webster to be certain everything's up and running before we leave. I'd like to run through some squadron-level sims ASAP to see where the roughest spots are."
"Of course, Sir."
"Thank you." The admiral inhaled, pushed himself to his feet, and gathered up his beret. "I suppose that's everything for the moment, then. Ernie, Joe—we have an appointment with the Admiral. Will you excuse us, Dame Honor?"
"Of course," Honor repeated, and Sarnow bustled through the hatch, staff officers in tow. The energy level in the compartment dropped dramatically with his departure, and she smiled as Nimitz sighed on her shoulder.
But even as she smiled, there was an edge of question deep within her. George Monet had receipted the original message setting up the conference aboard Gryphon because Webster hadn't been aboard yet, and every other admiral had been instructed to bring his or her flag captain along. Sarnow had not.
No reason had been given for excluding her, and there might be any number of causes. Certainly the fact that her ship was undergoing major repairs could have explained it. But by the same token, a captain whose ship was in yard hands had more free time, not less . . . and she was the only flag captain who wouldn't be there. Was there some other reason Admiral Parks hadn't invited her? She couldn't think of one, but that didn't mean one didn't exist. And if it did, was it something to do with Sarnow, or did it reflect on her?
She rose, folded her hands behind her, and walked slowly from the conference room, and her mind was busy.
* * *
The sound of her breathing was loud in the hushed gym as Honor worked grimly through the reps. Of all
forms of exercise, she was least fond of weight work, yet her convalescence had taken a lot out of her. Not enough to worry the BuMed, perhaps, but enough to dismay her. She was still rebuilding upper-body muscle, and weights were the fastest way to do it, even if they were mind-numbing. But once she got her edge back, she promised herself, releasing the grips with a gasp, she'd find any number of more enjoyable ways to keep it.
She touched the storage button, retracting the adjustable resistance cables silently into the bulkhead, and ran her hands through her wet hair. Nike had been designed from the keel out as a flagship, and unlike any of Honor's previous commands, she had a private gym for a flag officer and his staff. Honor wasn't sure she approved of that in principle, but she wasn't about to turn down Admiral Sarnow's invitation to use it. It was smaller than the main gym, but its privacy meant she could adjust the internal gravity to match that of her homeworld without either inconveniencing others or waiting until the middle of the night to get it to herself.
She braced both hands against the small of her back and arched in spine-popping relaxation as she turned away from the weight machine, and Nimitz looked up from his usual comfortable sprawl along the lower of the uneven parallel bars. He started to get up, but she shook her head.
"Oh, no you don't, Stinker. It's not time for frisbee yet," she told him, and he curled back down with a mournful sigh. She chuckled at him and stepped up onto the diving board, which was one thing she unequivocally approved of. Most spacers were perfectly happy "swimming" in a null-gee tank, but Honor preferred water, and Nike's designers, in a burst of no doubt misplaced zeal, had provided a pool for the admiral's use. The water in it formed part of the battlecruiser's consumables storage system, which probably explained how the architect had convinced BuShips to buy it, and it was on the small side, but it was deep enough for diving.