Mission of Honor

by David Weber

  "In the short term, though, Tony, I'm inclined to agree with you. We can always decide to pursue the military option with Mesa later. There's no reason we have to add it to the pot right this instant and risk complicating our relations with the League even further."

  "All right," Elizabeth decided. "I agree with both of you, so we'll set aside any immediate direct military action against Mesa. At the same time, though, Sir Thomas, I want the Admiralty to be working on the operational planning to do exactly that if and when the moment seems appropriate."

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "And in the meantime," the queen continued more grimly, "you and Hamish are formally instructed that the Crown has determined that an effective state of war exists between the Star Empire and the Solarian League. You are authorized and directed to transmit the appropriate activation orders for Lacoön One and to make any military movements you deem appropriate in its support. I want to avoid any additional provocations, if at all possible, but that desire takes secondary priority. The security of our ships, personnel, and citizens, and the accomplishment of Lacoön's objectives are to be your primary consideration. And you are also instructed to take all necessary and prudent steps to prepare for the execution of Lacoön Two, as well. Is that clearly understood?"

  "It is, Your Majesty," White Haven replied quietly, and she met his eyes steadily for a handful of heartbeats, then nodded.

  "Good."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fleet Admiral Allen Higgins felt a familiar mix of leftover surprise, regret, apprehension, and amusement as he stepped out of the lift car onto the flag bridge of his superdreadnought flagship. He was accustomed to all those feelings, but they'd grown sharper in the weeks since Duchess Harrington had resumed command of Eighth Fleet and headed off for the Haven System.

  The surprise stemmed from the fact that he, of all people, held his current position. Allen Higgins had been one of the flag officers Edward Janacek had appointed to a major fleet command. Not only that, he was connected by marriage to the Janacek family. Under the circumstances, he was amazed he'd been retained on active duty at all, and he supposed the fact that he still had a flag bridge to call his own said interesting things about Earl White Haven, since one of Janacek's very first moves on re-assuming the post of First Lord of Admiralty had been to purge the Navy of every single White Haven protégé and ally. He hadn't even pretended the purge had been largely inspired by his personal hatred for the earl, either. Frankly, Higgins had expected White Haven—with whom he himself had never gotten along very well, having once fallen afoul of the infamous Alexander temper—to wield an equally thorough retaliatory broom. And if he were going to be honest about it, he also had to admit that, based on the Navy's performance in the face of the Havenites' Operation Thunderbolt, White Haven would have been completely justified.

  Yet the White Haven Admiralty had shown a surprising degree of tolerance. Possibly because it didn't have much choice. It could hardly have fired every serving (and surviving) flag officer, after all, given the frantic need to expand the Navy once more and the demand for experienced admirals that entailed. Higgins didn't think that was the real explanation, though. Instead, to his considerable surprise, the new Admiralty had contented itself with removing the more outrageously political Janacek appointees and those whose demonstrated performance had proven conclusively that they weren't suitable material for combat commands.

  Given the minor fact that Allen Higgins had been the commanding officer on Grendelsbane Station when the Peep offensive rolled over it, he'd expected to find himself on that list of "less than suitable material" officers. After all, he was the one who'd lost several hundred LACs and seven SD(P)s discovering the Peeps did, indeed, have LACs and MDMs of their own. And the one who'd abandoned the system in the face of the overwhelming attack—and, just incidentally, destroyed the nineteen CLACs and no less than seventy-three modern ships-of-the-wall lying helpless in the station's building slips to keep them from falling into Peep hands. And, of course, there was the minor matter of the forty thousand yard workers he'd been unable to take with him, as well. It was the memory of that cataclysmic day which accounted for the strand of regret which wove itself through his emotions at moments like this.

  And yet, he hadn't been beached by White Haven after all, despite Grendelsbane. He wondered, sometimes, how much of that was due to the fact that even though he'd been a Janacek appointee, he'd never pretended to be an admirer of Edward Janacek. Or to the fact that he'd been summarily placed on half-pay by Janacek "pending the determination of a full and impartial board of inquiry" as soon as he got back to Manticore. The truth was that the main reason he'd been retained on active duty under Janacek in the first place was that he happened to be married to one of Janacek's cousins. Janacek hadn't kept him on because he valued his services or trusted his cronyism; he'd kept him on as a combined sop to his critics and a way to keep peace in the family.

  Higgins had actually felt uncomfortable about serving under Janacek, especially since he knew the reasons the opportunity had been offered to him. He'd silenced his own conscience by arguing that at least some competent flag officers had to remain on duty, but he felt confident Janacek had never really trusted him. Which was probably why he'd found himself assigned to Grendelsbane, when he thought about it, since it had been far enough away to keep him safely out of sight, out of mind.

  And which was also why Janacek had decided his cousin-in-law had made an admirable choice when he needed someone to throw under the ground car after Thunderbolt blew Grendelsbane (among other things) into dust bunnies on Janacek's watch. .

  In his more cynical moments, Higgins was confident Janacek's obvious decision to scapegoat him was a major factor in White Haven's decision to rehabilitate him. A sort of tit-for-tat way to plant one right in Janacek's eye. On the other hand, White Haven had left him dirtside until the board of inquiry reported on Grendelsbane, and the board's conclusions had been that no one could have done better than Higgins given the numerical odds and the knowledge he'd possessed about Havenite weapons capabilities. So it was certainly arguable that White Haven, Sir Thomas Caparelli, and Sir Lucien Cortez had decided to offer him a command solely on the basis of that report.

  In his less cynical moments, Higgins didn't find that difficult to accept. Yet he was still more than a bit bemused by the quirk of fate which had put him in command of Home Fleet and, in the process, converted him into the only "Admiral of the Fleet" currently in Manticoran service.

  Of course, he wouldn't have been where he was if not for the massive losses the Royal Manticoran Navy had suffered in the Battle of Manticore. To his considerable astonishment, Allen Higgins had become one of the dozen or so most senior flag officers in the entire Navy in the wake of that brutal winnowing. When Duchess Harrington had relinquished command of Home Fleet to resume command of Eighth Fleet—or, rather, when there'd been enough Manticoran and Alliance ships-of-the-wall to rebuild a Home Fleet in addition to Eighth Fleet—Allen Higgins had found himself replacing her. Well, stepping into her position, since it was unlikely anyone could actually replace her.

  Although Higgins respected Alexander-Harrington's accomplishments, he was also one of those officers who was well aware of the role the media had played in creating the legend of "the Salamander." To her credit, she seemed to genuinely attempt to avoid that sort of media adulation, but coupled with her stature on Grayson and her political status as one of the main leaders of the Opposition to the High Ridge Government, it had turned her into the next best thing to a physical avatar of the goddess of war as far as the Manticoran public was concerned. And, for that matter, as far as most of the Navy was concerned. Which had made stepping into her shoes an interesting experience.

  It also accounted for some of his current apprehension. After all, no matter how well he did, he was going to find himself being compared to the memory of Sebastian D'Orville, who'd died leading the previous Home Fleet into headlong battle, or of Duchess Harrin
gton, whom Higgins had relieved as Home Fleet's CO, and whose Eighth Fleet had saved the home system from Operation Beatrice. And, if he were going to continue to be honest, part of that apprehension also stemmed from what had happened in Grendelsbane. There was no point trying to pretend the experience hadn't scarred him. He didn't think it had left him doubting his judgment, but it had left him dreading a repeat performance. He would have felt much more comfortable if he'd been able to convince himself lightning didn't really strike twice in the same place. Unfortunately, it did. So instead, he spent his time telling himself disasters like Grendelsbane weren't really lightning bolts, so he didn't have to worry about stupid proverbs.

  Which, he reflected, makes me feel ever so much better when I think about it.

  His lips twitched as that brought him almost full circle through the cycle of thoughts which always ran through his mind at moments like this. It was fortunate his sense of humor, at least, had survived Grendelsbane and the Battle of Manticore, he supposed. It was a dryer and sometimes more biting sense of humor than it once had been, but it was still there, and he suspected he was going to need it, now that Lacoön One was in effect. The League wasn't going to be happy when it discovered Manticore had closed the Junction to all Solly traffic. Or that nondiscretionary recall orders had been issued to every Manticoran merchantman in Solarian space. Or, now that he thought about it, that orders had been dispatched to every station commander to take whatever steps seemed necessary to protect Manticoran ships, property, and lives from Solarian action.

  No, they weren't going to be very happy about that at all, he thought. In fact, he reflected, as he looked at his flagship's crest, mounted on the flag bridge bulkhead beside the lift doors, a lot of them were going to be taking his flagship's name in vain when they heard about it.

  HMS Inconceivable. He wasn't sure what he thought of "inconceivable" as the name for one of Her Majesty's starships, but it was certainly a fitting appellation for his flagship, under the circumstances.

  * * *

  "I don't suppose you've got that flight schedule for me yet," a patient, long-suffering voice said as Colonel Andrew LaFollet of the Harrington Steadholders Guard stepped through the office door, and he looked at the speaker with an artfully innocent expression.

  "Flight schedule?" he inquired blankly. "Which flight schedule would that be?"

  His sister glared at him, and the treecat on the end of Miranda LaFollet's desk bleeked a laugh.

  "The one," she said with a ferocious glower, "for the trip to Sphinx. You do remember the trip to Sphinx? The one for Claire's birthday?"

  "Oh, that schedule!" He smiled at her. "What makes you think I might have it? You're the one in charge of things around here when the Steadholder and Mac are away, not me!"

  Miranda glowered some more, but the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth gave her away. After a moment, she gave up. There was no point trying to change her big brother at this point. Besides, she'd be disappointed if she succeeded . . . she thought.

  "All right," she said. "You win. I'll make the flight arrangements, but I can't do that until you hand me the security plan. So where is it?"

  "Oh, well, I've got that right here," he told her with a chuckle and tossed the chip folio across to her. She missed the catch, but Farragut reached up a long-fingered true-hand and plucked it neatly out of the air.

  "Thanks," she told the 'cat as he handed it across to her. "Nice to see that at least some male members of some species are capable of showing a modicum of courtesy," she added, looking rather pointedly at Andrew.

  "Ha! He's just sucking up to his celery source!"

  Miranda laughed, and Andrew winked at her, then waved casually and headed back out of her office. She smiled after him for a few moments, then shook her head and inserted to the data chip into her reader. A file header appeared on her display, and her smile faded into a frown of intensity as she studied the file's contents.

  She supposed it was entirely possible—even likely—that a great many Manticorans would find it more than mildly ridiculous for someone to file a security plan that ran to better than fifty pages just for a day trip to take a ten-month-old baby and his grandmother to his aunt's birthday party. Miranda LaFollet, on the other hand, did not, because the grandmother in question was her Steadholder's mother, and the ten-month-old was Raoul Alfred Alastair Alexander-Harrington, who would someday, Tester willing, be her Steadholder.

  Not that she'd be around to see that day. At least, she hoped she wouldn't, she thought with a familiar edge of bittersweetness. She'd been just too old for prolong when the treaty of alliance with Manticore brought it to the planet Grayson. At fifty, she was thirteen years younger than Lady Harrington, but if anyone had simply looked at the two of them, they would have thought the interval was twice as great . . . and in the opposite direction. Miranda would have been more than human if there hadn't been times she resented the extended lifespans Manticorans took for granted, but she'd truly come to terms with it. Or she thought she had, at least. And if neither she nor Andrew would ever be able to receive the prolong treatments, their younger siblings, like her brother Micah, certainly had.

  She sat gazing sightlessly at the display for a couple of seconds, then shook her head with a snort. She had more important things to do than sit around brooding, she told herself tartly, and returned her attention to Andrew's plan.

  * * *

  "—stupidest damned idea I've ever heard of! It's not like we don't have other things—worthwhile things—we could be doing instead, after all! And if anything ever really happens to the station, who the hell's going to have time to run for a frigging life pod in the first place?"

  Ensign Paulo d'Arezzo felt a very strong desire to throttle Lieutenant Anthony Berkeley. Unfortunately, he lacked Helen Zilwicki's aptitude for hand-to-hand mayhem. Or perhaps fortunately, given the fact that Berkeley was a full senior-grade lieutenant, which would have brought up all sorts of sticky things about "striking a superior officer, the Star Empire then being in a state of war." He rather doubted a court-martial would feel "because the deceased was such a loudmouthed moron" constituted sufficient justification for violating Article Nine. Although if the members of the court actually knew Berkeley . . . .

  "And another thing," the lieutenant went on, waving his right hand, index finger extended to emphasize his point as he shared his insights, "how the hell much did this little brain fart cost? I mean, launching every single pod the station has? Jesus! Just recertifying all of them is gonna take weeks, and you know they're gonna downcheck at least some of them!"

  You know, Paulo thought, it was a lot more fun aboard Hexapuma even when people were shooting at us! If Helen had to get herself sent back off to Talbott without me, why couldn't I have at least stayed aboard the ship, like Aikawa? For that matter, why couldn't I have stayed anywhere that would have kept me away from a klutz like Berkeley?

  Deep inside, he rather suspected he would have been grumpy anyplace they sent him if Helen wasn't around. That thought was one he tried not to examine too closely, though. It still made him . . . uncomfortable after he'd spent so many years running away from any sort of serious emotional entanglement. But the truth was that her absence left an empty place down inside him—one he'd never realized was there when all he'd been able to think about was the attractive physical "packaging" Manpower, Incorporated, had designed into someone it had intended to sell as a pleasure slave. A sex toy, really.

  But, be that as it might, assigning him to work directly under Anthony Berkeley had to come under the heading of cruel and unusual punishment. If there'd been any real justice in the galaxy, he'd have been assigned to Admiral Yeager's Research and Development Division, with Captain Lewis. That would have been interesting, especially for someone with Paulo's natural bent for the electronic warfare officer's career track. But, no. In their infinite wisdom, the powers-that-were at the Bureau of Personnel had decided he and Senior Chief Wanderman should get a little hands-on time wi
th the fabrication side. Which, little though he cared to admit it, might actually contain at least a modicum of rationality. It never hurt for an EWO to have at least some familiarity with the nuts and bolts of his hardware, after all. But there had to be some way for him to get that familiarity without putting up with Berkeley!

  If only there were some way he could quietly and discreetly leave the small classroom in which their party of evacuees been instructed to wait. Unfortunately, there wasn't one, and Berkeley happened to be the senior officer present, which put him in charge of their small detachment. If Paulo tried to sneak out, the lieutenant would demand to know where he was going, and somehow "anywhere you aren't" didn't seem the most diplomatic possible response. Truthful, yes; diplomatic, no.

  "And if we just had to do something this stupid," Berkeley continued, "at least we could have done it when we weren't—"

  "Excuse me, Lieutenant," a contralto voice said from the doorway, "but exactly what 'stupid' something did you have in mind?"

  Berkeley's mouth shut with an almost audible click, and he spun towards the slender, dark-haired commander standing in the open door with her head cocked to one side.

  "I, uh, didn't see you there, Commander McGillicuddy," he said.

  "No," Commander Anastasia McGillicuddy agreed pleasantly. "I don't suppose you did. However, I was just passing through when I heard what sounded remarkably like a raised voice. I was down at the end of the hall, you understand, so I wasn't completely certain that was what I was hearing. I decided to find out."