by David Weber
"Get her back up on the horse, Jim," White Haven said impatiently.
"And if the Commanding Officers Board has a few reservations?'
"Reservations?!" White Haven half rose, and his eyes were dangerous.
"Will you please sit down and quit looking like you want to assault me?" Webster said with some asperity. The earl blinked, as if only then aware of his own expression, and twitched his shoulders. Then he resumed his seat and crossed his legs with a faint smile.
"Thank you," the First Space Lord said. "Look, Hamish, it's the psycho-babblers who're worried about her." White Haven started to say something quick and angry, but a raised hand stopped him. "Just hold your horses, will you?" Webster waited for his friend to settle back again, then continued.
"As you know perfectly well, even Lucien and I have to have a damned compelling case before we can override BuMed, especially for commanding officers, and Harrington's had a rough convalescence. I don't have all the details, but there were some fairly serious complications with her treatment, and as you yourself just said, you know better than I do how that can wear someone down!"
He paused, holding the earl's eyes steadily, and White Haven's face tightened. His own wife had been a near-total invalid for years, and he bit his lip for a moment before he nodded.
"All right. From what I can make out, all the complications and therapy had her pretty low for a while, but she's bouncing back from that. What worries the psych types is all the people she lost in Grayson. Then there's Raoul. He was damned near a second father to her, from all I can make out, and he died when she wasn't even there. There's a lot of room for pain—and guilt—in something like that, Hamish, and she hasn't exactly been forthcoming in discussing it with anyone."
White Haven started to reply, then frowned. Harrington had lost nine hundred dead, with another three hundred wounded, stopping the battlecruiser Saladin, and he remembered the anguish he'd seen in her face when her defenses crumbled for just one moment.
"What do the evaluations show?" he asked after a moment.
"They're within acceptable limits. But don't forget her treecat," Webster said, then snorted. "BuMed certainly hasn't! I got a long, involved memo from Captain Harding about how that telempathic link can throw the testing parameters out of kilter."
"But it might also explain why she hasn't cried on the psychs' shoulders, too," White Haven said thoughtfully. "And without doubting Hardings sincerity for a moment, you know the head-shrinkers have never been happy about their inability to figure out just how that link works. But even they have to admit it can be a powerful stabilizing influence, and she's as stubborn as they come. If she can fight her way through something on her own, there's no way she's going to ask for help."
"Granted, but BuMed doesn't want to put her in a situation where she has to make the same sorts of decisions if she's hanging by her fingernails out of stubbornness. Too many lives could depend on her judgment—and putting her in that sort of crunch situation would be totally unfair to her, too."
"Agreed." White Haven plucked at his lip, then shook his head. "It's not going to happen, though. She's stubborn, yes, but she's not stupid, and I don't think she even knows how to lie to herself. If she were in real trouble, she'd tell us. Besides, both her parents are doctors, aren't they?"
"Yes." Webster's surprise that White Haven knew that showed in his voice. "In fact, her father's been in charge of her treatment. Why?"
"Because that means they're probably as aware of the potential for problems as BuPsych, and if there were one, they'd push her into getting help. People who raised a daughter like that don't lie to themselves, either. And unlike Harding, they've known her—and her relationship with the 'cat—since she was a child, now haven't they?"
"True," Webster agreed, and White Haven raised an eyebrow as he saw the First Lords small smile.
"Something funny?" he growled, and Webster shook his head.
"No, no. Just go on with what you were saying."
"There's not a lot more to say. She's an outstanding officer who needs to get a deck back under her feet again, and BuMed is full of crap if they think she can't handle it." White Haven snorted derisively. "If they're so worried about her, why don't you give her something fairly sedate to ease back into command?"
"Well, you know, Lucien and I considered that," Webster said slowly, "but we decided against it." White Haven stiffened, and his friend looked back levelly for several seconds, then startled him with a rolling belly laugh. "Oh, hell, Hamish! You're too damned easy!"
"What?" White Haven blinked in confusion, then frowned. "What d'you mean, 'easy'?" he growled, and Webster shook his head and grinned.
"Put Harrington into something 'sedate'? Lord, she'd be chewing the bulkheads inside a week!" He laughed again at the earl's expression and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry," he said, not sounding particularly sorry, "but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to twist your tail after all the grief you've given me over her. As a matter of fact, Lucien and I, um, overruled BuMed while you were out at Hancock. We figure she's up to snuff whatever the psycho-babblers think, so we're throwing her right back into the deep end."
"Deep end?"
"Indeed. We gave her Nike last week."
"Nike?" White Haven sat bolt upright, jaw dropping, then recovered and glared at his friend. "You bastard! Why didn't you just tell me?!"
"I told you you're too easy." Webster chuckled. "Got a bit of a God complex when it comes to faith in your own judgment, too." He cocked an eyebrow. "What made you assume I didn't share your opinion of her?"
"But last month you said—"
"I said we had to go through channels, and we did. Now we've done it. But it was certainly worth it to see you hot and bothered."
"I see." White Haven leaned back in his own chair, and his lips quivered. "All right, so you put one over on me. Next time it's my turn."
"I await the event with trepidation," Webster said dryly.
"Good, because I'm going to catch you when you least expect it." The earl tugged at an earlobe for a moment, then snorted. "But since you're putting her back on a bridge, why not—"
"You never quit, do you?" Webster demanded. "I've just given her the plum command slot in the entire Fleet! What more d'you want from me?"
"Calmly, Jim. Calmly! I was just going to say, why don't you send Nike out to Hancock Station as Sarnow's flagship when she commissions?"
Webster started to reply, then stopped with an arrested expression. He played with his coffee cup for a moment, and then he began to grin.
"You know, you might just have something there. Lord, won't all our other junior flag officers just howl if Sarnow cops Nike!"
"Of course they will, but that wasn't my point. I assume that the fact that you're giving Harrington Nike means that despite your 'tail twisting' you share my estimate of her capabilities?"
"Of course I do. She needs more seasoning before we start talking about flag rank, but she's definitely on the fast track."
"Well, she could learn a lot from Sarnow, and the two of them'd get along like a house on fire," White Haven said. "More than that, frankly, I'd feel a lot better if Parks had a pair like them to keep him on his toes."
"Um. I think I like it," Webster said slowly. "Of course, Yancey will have a fit. You know what a stickler for protocol and proper military courtesy he is. The way Harrington busted that asshole Houseman's chops in Yeltsin is probably going to stick in his craw."
"Let it. It'll be good for him, in the long run."
"All right, Hamish." The First Lord nodded crisply.
"I'll do it. And I only wish I could be there to see Yancey's face when he finds out!"
CHAPTER FOUR
"All right, Helm, take us to eighty percent," Honor said quietly.
"Aye, aye, Ma'am. Coming to eighty percent power." Master Chief Coxswain Constanza's skilled hands brought up the strength of Nike's impeller wedge, and Honor watched the command chair repeater displays as her sh
ip's acceleration rose to the Navy's normal maximum power settings. Nike charged towards the outer reaches of Manticore-A's family of planets and asteroids, the bright star chip of Manticore-B glaring dead ahead in the visual display, as the drive readings peaked.
"Eighty percent power, Ma'am," Lieutenant Commander Oselli announced. "Three-point-niner-four-one-four KPS squared."
"Thank you, Charlotte." Honor's soprano was coolly courteous, but her satisfaction was unmistakable. That was bang on the builder's estimate, and she touched a stud on her chair arm.
"Engineering, Commander Ravicz," a voice replied instantly.
"This is the Captain, Commander. How does it look down there?"
Ivan Ravicz glanced at the builder's rep at his elbow, and the woman raised a circled thumb and index finger in the ancient gesture of approval.
"Looking good, Ma'am," the engineer told his CO. "We're getting a tiny kick in the telemetry from Fusion Three, but the drive's dead on the green."
"What sort of kick?"
"Nothing major, Ma'am, just a little bottle fluctuation. It's well within tolerances, and the power room systems don't even show it. That's why I think it's in the telemetry, but I'm keeping an eye on it."
"Good, Ivan. Stand by for our full power run."
"Standing by, Ma'am."
Honor cut the circuit and looked back across at Constanza.
"Take us to maximum military power, Helm."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am. Coming to maximum military power."
There was a hint of suppressed excitement in the helmswoman's voice, and Honor hid a smile. Coxswains didn't get many opportunities to really open their ships up—nor, for that matter, did captains, since BuShips could be remarkably crabby over "unnecessary and undue strain on the propulsive systems of Her Majesty's starships"—but there was additional reason for excitement today.
Constanza adjusted her power settings slowly, eyes intent on her panel while Honor watched her own readouts with equal intensity. Her mind always tended to drift to the inertial compensator at moments like this. If it failed, Nike's crew would turn instantly into something gruesomely reminiscent of anchovy paste, and Honor's ship had been chosen to test BuShips's newest generation compensator. It was an adaptation of the Grayson Navy's, which hadn't been calculated to inspire confidence in all hands, given that Grayson's general technology lagged a good century behind Manticore's, but Honor had seen the Graysons' system in action. It had been crudely built and mass-intensive, yet it had also been undeniably efficient, and BuShips claimed not only to have exterminated every possible bug but to have tweaked the specs even further, as well. Besides, the Navy hadn't had a compensator failure in over three T-centuries.
Or, at least, not one anyone knew about. Of course, there'd been the occasional ship lost "to causes unknown," and since a compensator failure under max accel would leave no survivors to report it...
She put the thought aside as the wedge peaked and Oselli spoke.
"Maximum military power, Captain." The astrogator looked up with an enormous smile. "Five-one-five-point-five gravities, Ma'am!"
"Very good!" This time Honor couldn't quite keep her delight out of her voice, for that was two and a half percent better than BuShips and the builders had estimated. It might be three percent less than her last ship had been capable of, but HMS Fearless had massed only three hundred thousand tons.
She touched the stud again.
"Engineering, Commander Ravicz."
"The Captain again, Ivan. Everything still green down there?"
"Yes, Ma'am. I wouldn't care to keep her here too long," Honor heard Ravicz's satisfaction waning with his professional caution, "but this ship is really built." The builder's rep grinned at the compliment, and he smiled back.
"We'll back off shortly," Honor told him, and leaned back in her chair as she released the stud. "Hold us at max for another thirty minutes, Helm."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Constanza replied crisply, and Honor felt her bridge crew's pleasure at their ship's performance.
She shared it, but her mind was already reaching ahead to the next phase. Once the sustained full power trial was out of the way, it would be time to exercise Nike's armament. That was one reason for their present course, since the Beta Belt was the Navy's traditional gunnery exercise area. There'd be a few less asteroids shortly, she thought cheerfully, and reached up to scratch Nimitz's chin as he purred on the back of her chair.
James MacGuiness poured cocoa into Honor's mug, and she raised it to sniff the rich, chocolaty aroma. The steward watched the crown of her bent head with a hint of anxiety, then banished the expression instantly as she straightened.
"Do I detect something new, Mac?"
"As a matter of fact, you do, Ma'am. Try it."
She sipped cautiously, and her eyebrows rose. She took another, longer sip, then lowered the mug with a sigh.
"Delicious! What did you do to it?"
"I added a touch of almond to it, Ma'am. The Bosun tells me it's something of a favorite on Gryphon."
"Well, I certainly approve. And be sure you remind me to tell Dad about it next time I see him, would you?"
"Of course, Ma'am." MacGuiness tried unsuccessfully to hide his pleasure at her reaction, then straightened as the admittance signal chirped and Honor pressed a button.
"Yes?"
"Executive Officer, Ma'am," her sentry announced.
"Thank you, Corporal." Honor touched another key to open the hatch, and Commander Henke stepped through it.
"You wanted to see me, Ma'am?"
"I did, indeed, Mike. Sit down." Henke obeyed, her "on-duty" manner softening at the welcoming, informal tone, and Honor glanced up at MacGuiness. "The Exec is one of those barbarian coffee-drinkers, Mac. Could you get her a cup?"
"Of course, Ma'am." MacGuiness vanished, and Henke shook her head at Honor.
"Still sucking up the calories, I see. No wonder you spend so much time working out!"
"Nonsense," Honor said comfortably. "Some of us have active metabolisms, which allow us to indulge our taste for the finer things in life without fear of the consequences."
"Yeah, sure." Henke snorted.
MacGuiness reappeared with a coffee cup on a gold-rimmed saucer, and the commanders eyebrows rose. The cup bore Nike's crest, the winged goddess of victory hurling thunderbolts from a raised hand, but the hull number under the crest was BC-09. Which made the cup over two Manticoran centuries—almost five hundred T-years—old. It was part of the captain's service from the second ship of her name and, as such, reserved for formal occasions.
"To what do I owe the honor?" she asked, and Honor chuckled.
"Two things, actually. One, I happen to remember that it's your birthday." Henke grimaced, and Honor chuckled again. "Now, now! You're not getting older, just better."
"Maybe. But if I know you, you ratted to the rest of the wardroom about it—probably through your faithful minion here—didn't you?" Henke demanded with a wave at MacGuiness. Honor looked innocent, and the commander groaned. "Yes, you did. And that means they're waiting to pounce with that stupid song! Damn it, Honor, you know I've got perfect pitch! Have you ever heard Ivan Ravicz try to sing?" She shuddered, and Honor turned a laugh into a hasty cough.
"I'm sure you'll survive," she soothed. "On the other hand, that's only one of the things I'm celebrating. We've got our orders, Mike."
"Oh?" Henke straightened in her chair and set her cup aside, levity vanquished by sudden interest.
"Indeed. Being in all respects ready for deployment, HMS Nike is directed to Hancock Station, there to take aboard Rear Admiral of the Red Mark Sarnow as flagship of Battlecruiser Squadron Five."
"Hancock Station as a squadron flagship—and a newly formed squadron at that, hey? Well, well, well," Henke murmured, and her dark eyes gleamed. "Not too shabby. And from what I hear, Sarnow should keep things lively."
"If he lives up to his reputation," Honor agreed. "I've never met him, but I've heard good things about him
. And I know at least one member of his staff quite well."
"Oh? Which one?"
"His communications officer was my com officer in Basilisk. Lieutenant Commander Webster."
"Webster," Henke repeated thoughtfully. "Would that be Sir James's cousin, or his grand-nephew?"
"Nephew. He's young, but he doesn't owe his rank to his relatives. I think you'll like him."
"If he does his job as well as his uncle, I probably will," Henke agreed, then smiled. "And, speaking of relatives, I've got one serving in Hancock, too."
"Really?"
"Yes. My cousin—fourth cousin, actually—is the repair base's exec." Henke cocked her head for a moment, regarding Honor with a quizzical expression. "As a matter of fact, you've met him."
"I have?" Honor was surprised. She'd met several of Henke's relatives—mostly exalted personages who'd dropped in to visit her on free days at Saganami Island—but she doubted any of them would be serving as an orbital bases executive officer.
"Uh-huh. You met him in Basilisk. Captain Paul Tankersley."
Honor tried—almost successfully—to keep her mouth from tightening in repugnance. Not, she told herself after the instant initial shock, that she had anything against Tankersley himself. To be honest, she hardly even remembered him. She tried to recall what he looked like, and frowned at the image's vagueness. Short, she thought, but square and solid looking. That was all that came to mind—that and his obvious discomfort at the situation he'd found himself in at the time.
"Paul told me about it," Henke said after a moment, breaking into her thoughts. "Or some of it, anyway. I think he'd have said more if he hadn't thought it would sound disloyal to an ex-CO. He's funny that way, even when the CO in question was Pavel Young."
This time Honor couldn't keep the cold, bleak hatred off her face, and her hand tightened about her cocoa mug in poisonous memory.
"You know," Henke went on, her voice carefully light, "you never did tell me what really happened that night."
"What?" Honor shook her head and blinked.