by David Weber
“I’m sure it does,” she repeated. “But now, I think we should probably meet with your officers. I seem to have a dance card that needs filling, so let’s see what we can do about letting someone else feel some teeth eating at them for a change.”
* * *
Honor, Taylor Nairobi, and Lieutenant Janacek sat across the dining table in Reprisal’s wardroom from Samson X and the two men he’d introduced as Henri Christophe and Nat Turner Jurgensen. Christophe was the senior action team commander aboard Reprisal, which made him the commanding officer of the combined Ballroom strike force, and Jurgensen was his second in command. It was obvious from Nairobi and Janacek’s reactions that they hadn’t caught the significance of the two men’s chosen names, but Honor had, and she stroked Nimitz’s ears with gentle fingers as she considered them thoughtfully.
Despite his name, Christophe had blond hair, blue eyes, and a very fair complexion. He was also small and very nimble—probably from one of the entertainer slave lines; he had the look of a juggler or an acrobat—and she had the distinct impression that he was an incorrigible prankster. A prankster of the Old Earth folk tradition variety: the kind whose wit was as deadly as another’s sword. Coyote and Brother Rabbit would have been quite at home with him, she suspected.
Jurgensen was darker than Christophe, with an olive-brown complexion, brown hair, and brown eyes. He was bigger, physically more powerful, and seemed considerably more driven, yet there was no question that Christophe’s was the dominant personality.
“Do my people pass muster, Commander?” Christophe asked, probably unaware he was echoing Samson X’s question of two or three hours earlier. Unlike the ex-slaver’s captain, however, his voice and manner weren’t particularly challenging. In fact, they were almost amused.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Christophe,” she confessed, “I have to admit I was favorably surprised.” She waved one hand gently. “Don’t mistake me. Anyone who’s familiar with the Ballroom’s operational record knows your people have to be capable. I suppose I’d simply expected something a bit more . . . informally structured, let’s say.”
“We are a pretty ‘informally structured’ bunch,” Christophe said. “We don’t have a lot of use for the sort of military traditions or spit-and-polish discipline of more ‘respectable’ outfits. But a lot of us—more than a lot of people guess, I think—do have military experience before we ever wind up in the action teams.” He shrugged slightly. “We know the difference between soldiers and a disorganized mob, and we’re not willing to screw up the way a mob screws up. What we do is too important for that.”
Honor nodded slowly. It wasn’t as if what he’d just said came as a surprise to her, although she suspected Everett Janacek had been more taken aback than he’d cared to indicate by the professionalism of the Ballroom “terrorists” she and her officers had met and inspected. Unlike Janacek, however, Honor had known for years that the government of Beowulf had a long tradition of covertly assisting the Ballroom. And one way Beowulf did that was to enlist liberated slaves, and the children of liberated slaves, into its own system self-defense force. Beowulf undoubtedly had a greater concentration of freed genetic slaves than any other star system in the explored galaxy, and they repaid the star system which had given them refuge—and in many cases, actively helped liberate them in the first place—with an almost rabid loyalty. Their representation in Beowulf’s armed forces was far higher than the simple percentage of the total system population they represented might have suggested, and quite a few of them—possibly even as many as half—stayed in Beowulf uniform.
Most of the others, however, served loyally and well for the term of their enlistment, then left the service . . . and took their training with them when they joined the Ballroom, instead. Which went a great way towards explaining why they were the “extraordinarily capable” force she’d just called them.
And if there’d ever been any doubt in my mind about the accuracy of Mother and Uncle Jacques’ occasional comments about Beowulf’s attitude towards the Ballroom, the fact that almost every one of these “ragtag terrorists” has what looks an awful lot like a standard Beowulfan Marine skin suit and standard issue pulse rifle would tend to suggest they were right all along.
Not even Marine skinnies were the equal of battle armor, but they offered far better protection against small arms and grenade fragments than civilian or even navy-issue skinsuits. The Beowulfan Marines’ gear was every bit as good as anything the Royal Marines could boast. In fact, it might actually have been a little bit better, and young Lieutenant Janacek had hovered on the brink of waxing indignant as he contemplated the quality of the “terrorists’ ” equipment.
Of course, that had been before he realized that the people who were going to be employing that equipment were probably at least as well trained in its use as his own people were, as well.
Her lips twitched on the brink of a smile at the memory. She tried to suppress it for a moment, then changed her mind and let it out.
“Tell me, Mr. Christophe, if you don’t mind. How many years were you in the Beowulf Marines?”
For just a moment, the blue eyes went still and thoughtful, but then he shrugged again and smiled back at her. It was a bit thin, that smile, more like Coyote than ever, but it was also real.
“Eight T-years,” he admitted, and glanced at Janacek. “I retired as a captain, actually. They offered me major, if I’d stay in.”
Janacek had himself well in hand, Honor noticed, but the lieutenant couldn’t keep his own eyes from widening in surprise, and Christophe chuckled in obvious amusement.
“I thought it must have been something like that,” Honor murmured, then glanced at Nairobi, who looked marginally less surprised than Janacek. “I think we can probably take it as a given that Mr. Christophe’s people can hold up their end, don’t you think, Taylor?”
“Um—I mean, yes, Ma’am, I think we can.”
“Good.”
She looked back at the three men sitting across the table from them.
“I’ll want to discuss the boarding operation itself with Mr. Christophe and Mr. Jurgensen, Captain,” she told Samson X. “Among other things,” she allowed her voice to harden very slightly, her eyes sweeping their faces, “I want to be absolutely certain we’re on the same page when it comes to little matters like accepting surrenders. And in what happens to anyone who does surrender afterward. If the Ballroom ever expects cooperation out of the Star Kingdom of Manticore again—on any level, gentlemen—you and your people are going to have to demonstrate a certain level of . . . restraint in the course of this operation. I hope none of you are going to be offended by my saying that, but I think we all need to be certain we understand it.”
The three “terrorists” seemed to stiffen slightly, but no one protested. Then, after a moment, Christophe cleared his throat.
“We assumed that would be the case going in, Commander.” His voice was flatter, harder than it had been a few moments before, and his normally cheerful face tightened. “I won’t pretend we like it, and I won’t pretend Nat and I haven’t had to knock a few heads together—in a couple of cases, literally—to get that same message across. But as important as this is to us, and as badly as we want these bastards to pay, we’re not about to risk turning the Star Kingdom formally against us by splattering you with Mesan blood.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Honor said quietly. “Believe me, I’m enough of a Beowulfer to understand why the Ballroom is as . . . ruthless, let’s say, as it is. I won’t pretend I approve of all of your actions, because I don’t. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I tried to pretend otherwise. But I do understand what drives you, and because I do, I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to impress that attitude on your people. I only hope they remember it when the moment comes.”
Jurgensen’s face darkened, but she shook her head before he could speak.
“I mean that sincerely, Mr. Jurgensen. I don’t doubt for a moment
that your people understand exactly why it has to be that way, and I don’t doubt for a moment that you and Mr. Christophe have emphasized that to them again and again.” In fact, thanks to Nimitz, she knew they were telling her the truth about that. “But given what some of your people, or their parents, or their loved ones, must have been through, they have all the legitimate motivation in the universe to tear these people apart. It couldn’t be any other way, and it would be foolish—and wrong—of me to suggest it could. So I meant neither disrespect nor to suggest that you didn’t mean exactly what you said. I truly do hope they remember when the time comes, because I recognize how difficult it would be for me to remember in their place.”
Jurgensen’s taut shoulders eased, and he gave her a curtly courteous nod of acknowledgment. She nodded back, then returned her attention to Samson X.
“As I say, Captain, we’re obviously going to have to discuss the boarding operation, but unless we can figure out how to get Reprisal close enough to the platform to put Lieutenant Janacek’s Marines and Mr. Christophe’s people aboard it, there’s not going to be any boarding action. Which suggests to me that before we worry about that, we need to work out our cunning strategy to get Hawkwing close enough to neutralize their defenses.”
She smiled almost impishly, and despite his own inner demons, Samson X grinned back at her.
“Now, Commander Nairobi and I”—Honor nodded at her XO—“have been giving that matter a little thought, and what’s occurred to us is—”
* * *
Reprisal was a small ship by the standards of most interstellar freight carriers. In fact, she was about the smallest size that was regularly used outside purely local, relatively short-haul traffic. Despite that, Hawkwing looked like a minnow beside her. The destroyer massed less than four percent as much as she did. In fact, Honor’s ship could have been tucked away in one of Reprisal’s cargo holds . . . assuming, of course, that it wasn’t one of the holds which had been reconfigured to carry human freight.
But small though Hawkwing might be, she was a minnow with long, sharp teeth, which Reprisal completely lacked. That made the destroyer far more deadly to other starships (or orbital habitats), except for the minor fact that she had to get in range of them before she could hurt them.
Which, Honor thought as she watched her tactical display, is where the fact that we’re such a little guy actually starts working in our favor.
She smiled faintly, recalling Taylor Nairobi’s response when she’d first explained how she intended to sneak Hawkwing into the Casimir System. It wasn’t that he’d been able to come up with any technical objection to her plan, and he’d come around with something approaching enthusiasm in the end, but it was obvious it offended his sense of the way things were supposed to be. And that he thought it was . . . undignified, to say the very least.
Well, that’s fine with me, Taylor, as long as it works, she reflected. And it’s off-the-wall enough that I really don’t think they’re going to see it coming.
Her smile grew briefly broader, and she wished Nimitz were in his usual place across the back of her command chair to share her amusement. But the ’cat was tucked away in the life-support module in her quarters, instead. He’d been a bit less cheerful than usual about the separation this time, though. Probably that was because he’d understood that—assuming everything went according to plan—there wasn’t really very much chance Hawkwing was going to take damage or lose pressure. But, she admitted to herself, it might also have had a little something to do with the fact that when she’d donned her skinsuit, this time she’d strapped on her pistol belt, as well.
Well, he’d just have to put up with it, she thought, her smile fading. He didn’t have a skinsuit of his own, and she wasn’t going to take any chances with him. Besides—
“Captain, we have a communications request from the freighter,” Florence Boyd announced, and Honor concealed a grimace.
The communications officer’s distaste for the entire operation hadn’t abated in the least, and it showed. The lieutenant’s normal cheerful extroversion had turned inward over the past week and a half while Janacek’s Marines exercised with their Ballroom “allies” before the two ships headed for their objective. It was as if she were deliberately disassociating herself from the members of Hawkwing’s complement who’d embraced the idea of cooperating with such a murderous, bloodstained bunch. She did her duty, but in a far more distant sort of way than before, and she’d turned much more formal. And, as if to emphasize her unhappiness with the entire notion, she never—ever—used Reprisal’s name, or the name of anyone aboard her, if there was any way to avoid it.
“Very well, Florence. Put Captain X through to my display, please.”
Honor’s soprano was unshadowed by any overt reprimand, but Boyd’s fair complexion darkened noticeably as her captain quietly emphasized both Samson X’s rank and name.
“Yes, Ma’am,” the com officer said more than a bit stiffly, and Samson’s dark face appeared on the small display by Honor’s right knee.
Unlike Honor and the rest of Hawkwing’s personnel, Samson was in his regular, comfortably worn-looking shipsuit, not a skinsuit. She wondered for a moment if that was a statement of confidence on his part, or if he simply didn’t have one available after outfitting the Ballroom boarding party.
“Captain,” she greeted him.
“Commander.” His response actually sounded calmer than his voice had been during their planning and training sessions, but his eyes were brighter and harder than ever.
“According to Angelina, we’ll be making our alpha translation in about fifteen minutes,” he continued.
There was an almost but not quite questioning note to the statement, and Honor suppressed another smile as she heard it. Unless she missed her guess, Angelina Grimké McCutcheon, Reprisal’s “astrogator”—like Henri Christophe and Nat Jurgensen—had received her basic training courtesy of the Beowulfan military. Honor rather doubted Angelina had ever been commissioned or formally certified in astrogation, though. In fact, she had the feel of an experienced noncom, probably one who had served as a quartermaster assisting trained astrogators rather than doing the math herself, and it seemed evident most of Reprisal’s company nursed reservations about her abilities. She clearly did just fine in n-space, but from a couple of things Samson had let drop, it sounded as if her hyper-space astrogation was a bit . . . problematic.
Maybe it is, Honor thought now, but she’s managed to get them where they were going—so far, at least—without running into anything along the way. Considering my math skills, I’m not going to be throwing any stones at someone who’s done that. And sooner or later, I’m sure, someone who was thoroughly trained as an astrogator by Mom’s dear old home world is going to come along to relieve her. Assuming nothing unpleasant happens to Reprisal in the meantime, of course.
For the moment, however, it was obvious Samson—and Angelina, for that matter—had breathed a huge sigh of relief when Aniella Matsakis turned up to handle the steering chore for this little expedition. And unlike Boyd, Matsakis seemed to have remarkably few problems with the notion of cooperating with the Ballroom.
“Yes, Captain.” Honor decided to let just an edge of her smile show. “That matches our calculations, as well.”
Samson’s lips quivered, but he managed not to smile back at her.
“Have any last-minute details occurred to you, Commander?” he asked instead.
“No.” Honor shook her head. “I think it’s the best plan we could put together under the circumstances, and the last thing we need to be doing is trying to make last-minute revisions that are just going to confuse our people.”
I wonder if it sounds as peculiar to him as it does to me for a Queen’s officer to be referring to Ballroom “terrorists” as “our people”? she wondered.
“Agreed.” Samson nodded, then rotated his shoulders and exhaled noisily. “I guess I’m a little more anxious over all of this than I’d like to think I am.�
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“I imagine we all are,” Honor replied, feeling rather touched by the veteran freedom fighter/terrorist’s admission.
“Well, I’ll get off your com and let you get down to business, then,” he said. “Samson, clear.”
* * *
The beep of the com interrupted Edytá Sokolowska at a very inconvenient moment. She ignored it, but it beeped again, less than three seconds later, this time with the sequence which indicated a priority message. She snarled a curse, shoved her bed partner roughly aside, grabbed the remote off the bedside table, and stabbed the acceptance key.
“Yes? What is it?” she demanded, raising her voice to carry across the sleeping cabin to the desktop unit as its display blinked to life.
“We’ve got an unscheduled incoming,” Julian Watanabe said from the display. “One headed for us, not Anná or Beatá.”
“What?” Sokolowska got out of bed, ignoring the man who was still in it, and crossed the compartment’s carpeted floor towards the com. As she did, she realized she wasn’t seeing the icon that indicated it was an audio-only call, and she grimaced and hit the remote button to kill the camera at her end.
“What kind of incoming?” she demanded.
“Impeller signature’s showing a merchant wedge, probably around two megs,” Watanabe replied confidently. As Casimir Station’s weapons officer, the platform’s sensors (such as they were, at any rate) reported to him. “Definitely not military, anyway. And she’s squawking a Jessyk Combine transponder code, but we don’t have her in our files.”
Sokolowska frowned, using both hands to wipe sweat from her face while she considered what he’d just said.
The whole reason Manpower had moved in on Casimir in the first place was that, despite its strategic location within the Silesian Confederacy, it was a podunk little system which attracted little or no legitimate commerce. No one was likely to notice anything that was going on—especially this far out from the system primary—and any genuine merchantman who did turn up was going to be interested in the two inhabited planets—Anná and Beatá, otherwise known as Casimir I and II—and not Elsbietá, the gas giant the platform orbited. Elsbietá was thirty-three light-minutes from the system’s K0 primary . . . which was another reason Manpower had been attracted to the depot; the planet was actually better than fifteen light-minutes outside the system hyper limit. Elsbietá was massive enough to generate a hyper limit of its own, but it was only three light-minutes deep, which meant ships could disappear into hyper a lot faster than they could if someone caught them in the inner system, deep inside the main limit. But all of that meant the huge gas-ball was located in an extraordinarily inconvenient position for almost any other purpose. Even the gasses harvested by the platform’s scoop ships were collected by a pair of shuttling short-haul tankers and transported back to Beatá for processing and distribution.