Honorverse favorite passages

Victor accompanied Anton and Yana all the way to the entrance of Neue Rostock they’d be using to return to the port. That entrance didn’t lead directly to the outside, of course. It passed through several underground passageways before a hidden door—more like a ship’s hatch—would let them out in the sub-basement of an adjoining commercial tower where they’d parked their expensive aircar. By the time any surveillance cameras could pick up Anton and Yana again, they’d already be halfway to their desintation.

There were advantages to working with long-standing and successful crime bosses. Another one was that they wouldn’t have to fumble around getting Andrew and Steph and the three seccy women they’d been hiding from the boutique to Neue Rostock. Chuanli had a team taking care of that for them. They’d even bring the regeneration unit—with Karen still in it—back to Neue Rostock.

How? Victor hadn’t asked. Partly as a matter of politesse, but mostly because he was preoccupied.
Victor Cachat had known Anton Zilwicki almost his whole adult life. And while the times they’d been together were only a small portion of that adult life, they were among the most…

Memorable? That seemed an absurdly spartan way of putting it.

Anton was looking at him with an odd expression on his face—one that Victor suspected was mirroring his own. What did you say to a friend and colleague like that at a time like this?

Fortunately, Anton was better with words than he was. Perhaps that came from his long association with the Countess of the Tor, who gave speeches like nobody’s business.

“If we never see each other again, Victor, I want you know that I have cherished you since the day I first laid eyes on you in Chicago and will continue to do so until the day I die. You’ve been the guardian dragon in my life, watching over those I love as well as your own. I am eternally in your debt.”

Victor looked away, embarrassed. Then, forced himself to look back. He wasn’t good at this—never had been and never would be—but some things had to be said.
“I think the debt runs more the other way, Anton. It’s easy for—for a dragon—to lose himself in his fury. Lose himself forever, if he’s not careful. You’ve been one of my lifelines. In some ways, I think, the most important one.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Yana made an exasperated noise and said: “Since the two of you are too hung up to kiss each other, I’ll do it for him.”
She matched deed to word, sweeping Victor into an embrace and kissing him…not the way a proper woman kisses her uncle.

Then, released him and turned away. “Come on, Anton, you’ve got a fleet to catch.”

He and Victor exchanged one last smile and he followed her. After a moment, Victor turned back into Neue Rostock.
* * *
“Hey, what about me?” Anton asked plaintively a short while later. “Don’t I get a kiss too?”

“Forget it. Dwarf lords don’t ring my bell. Borderline sociopaths ring my bell. Besides, your squeeze scares me more than Victor’s does.”

“Huh? Thandi can take a gorilla three falls out of three.”

“Yeah, so? Your old lady gives speeches—and what’s worse, people listen to them. We’re into lynch mob territory now. Way scarier than gorillas.”

Hutch wrote:

Amaroq wrote:That's the way it is, Greentea. If the gender is unknown, the default pronoun is the male one. I didn't give any hints that I was a girl so it wasn't like anyone could've known unless I specifically said something. Eventually, it winds up coming out in some fashion or another. Lol.

Like James Tiptree, Jr.? (Pretty damn good writer, too)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Tiptree,_Jr.

roseandheather wrote:Andre Norton would also like her just due please.

Hutch wrote:
Well, since cthia mentioned Sam Webster (who we haven't seen in quite a while, RFC..hint, hint), here is his moment of Awesome, while being questioned by Admiral Sarnow (another character you need to take off the Silesian shelf and put into action again).

From The Short Victorious War

"Just a minute, Samuel." The lieutenant commander paused, and the admiral gestured at a chair. "Have a seat."

"Yes, Sir." Webster sank into the indicated chair, and Sarnow let his own swivel slowly back and forth as he frowned down at his desk. Then he looked back up to meet his com officer's eyes.

"You were in Basilisk with Lady Harrington?" His tone made the question a statement, and memory darkened Webster's eyes. One hand rose to his chest, almost by reflex, but he snatched it back down and nodded.

"Yes, Sir. I was."

"Tell me a little about her." Sarnow tipped his chair back and watched the lieutenant commander's face. "Oh, I've read her record, but I don't have any sort of real feel for her personality."

"I—" Webster paused and cleared his throat at the unexpected question, and Sarnow waited patiently while he got his thoughts in order. RMN personnel were seldom invited to comment on their seniors—especially their ex-COs—and, as a rule, the admiral disliked officers who encouraged people to do so. But he didn't retract the request. Admiral Parks hadn't actually said anything, yet his reservations about Harrington were obvious in the way he hadn't said it.

Honor Harrington had more command combat experience than any two other officers her age. Nothing in Sarnow's download of her record seemed to justify any admiral's being less than delighted to have a captain of her proven ability under his command, yet Parks obviously was. Was that because he knew something Sarnow didn't? Something that wasn't in her official personnel jacket?

Of course, Parks always had been a nitpicker where military etiquette was concerned. No one could deny his competence, but he could be depressingly prim and proper—in fact, he was a pretty cold damned fish—and Sarnow had heard the gossip about Harrington. He also knew there were always stories, especially about officers who'd achieved what she had; the problem was knowing which were based in fact and which in fancy. What worried him were the ones that suggested she was hotheaded—even arrogant—and he more than suspected it was those same reports that concerned Parks, as well.

He could discount a lot of them as the work of those jealous of her achievements, and the Admiralty would hardly give any officer they had doubts about command of Nike. But there was always the specter of personal influence, and by all accounts, Admiral White Haven had decided to make Harrington's career some sort of personal project. Sarnow knew White Haven, if not well, and his obvious partisanship probably reflected his own belief that Harrington was every bit as good as her record indicated. It was an admiral's job to nurture outstanding junior officers, after all. But, in a way, White Haven's very reputation for refusing to play the influence game for anyone in the past made his present efforts on her behalf just the least bit suspect.

Yet whatever anyone else thought of her, she was now Sarnow's flag captain. He had to know the woman behind the stories, not just the "official" record. For that he needed input from someone who knew her, and Webster was hardly a typical junior officer. Despite his youth, Samuel Webster had probably seen more senior officers, both socially and professionally, than Sarnow had. He'd also been critically wounded under Harrington's command, which should counteract any tendency to idealize her. More than that, he was bright and observant, and Sarnow trusted his judgment.

Webster settled himself deeper in his chair, unaware of Sarnow's thoughts, and wished his admiral hadn't asked him. It felt disloyal to discuss Captain Harrington with her current superior. But he was no longer her com officer; he was Admiral Sarnow's.

"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."

With the closest forts so far from him and too little speed for a quick run-in to energy weapon range, any attacker must rely on missiles, and even impeller-drive missiles would require almost thirty-five seconds to reach them. Thus the forts' duty watches—in theory, at least—had time to reach full readiness while the weapons accelerated towards them. In practice, Honor suspected, most of them would still be coming on-line when the missiles arrived, which was why their point defense (unlike their offensive weaponry) was designed for emergency computer override even in peacetime.

In time of war, the forts would be augmented by thickly seeded remote laser platforms—old-fashioned, bomb-pumped laser satellites—much closer in and programmed to automatically engage anything not positively identified as friendly, but such measures were never used in peacetime. Accidents could always happen, and the accidental destruction of a passenger liner whose IFF wasn't recognized could be embarrassing, to say the very least. An attacker would still have sufficient surprise advantage for his energy batteries to kill a lot of satellites before they could respond, but enough of them would survive to handle him very roughly indeed.

Nonetheless, heavy losses could be anticipated in the inner fortress ring under the best possible circumstances, so the "forts" in the outer rings had to be able to move to fill in the gaps and mass upon an attacker. Their maximum acceleration rates were low, well under a hundred gravities, but their initial positions had been very carefully planned. Their acceleration would be enough to intercept attacking forces headed in-system, and their engines were sufficiently powerful to generate impeller wedges and sidewalls to protect them.

cthia wrote:

Greentea wrote:
I'm in the same camp as you Amaroq. Just because I do not advertise my gender doesn't mean it is the assumed default of male. Then again, I believe a lot of people thought Cthia was female for a while until he corrected them due to his forum name and all of his shipping threads.

Pardon me Greentea, I'm a bit slow at times. Are you saying you're a Sheila? (Crocodile Dundese)

Greentea wrote:
My existing genetic data says your supposition is positive.

cthia wrote:

Greentea wrote:
I'm in the same camp as you Amaroq. Just because I do not advertise my gender doesn't mean it is the assumed default of male. Then again, I believe a lot of people thought Cthia was female for a while until he corrected them due to his forum name and all of his shipping threads.

Pardon me Greentea, I'm a bit slow at times. Are you saying you're a Sheila? (Crocodile Dundese)

cthia wrote:On Basilisk Station

With the closest forts so far from him and too little speed for a quick run-in to energy weapon range, any attacker must rely on missiles, and even impeller-drive missiles would require almost thirty-five seconds to reach them. Thus the forts' duty watches—in theory, at least—had time to reach full readiness while the weapons accelerated towards them. In practice, Honor suspected, most of them would still be coming on-line when the missiles arrived, which was why their point defense (unlike their offensive weaponry) was designed for emergency computer override even in peacetime.

In time of war, the forts would be augmented by thickly seeded remote laser platforms—old-fashioned, bomb-pumped laser satellites—much closer in and programmed to automatically engage anything not positively identified as friendly, but such measures were never used in peacetime. Accidents could always happen, and the accidental destruction of a passenger liner whose IFF wasn't recognized could be embarrassing, to say the very least. An attacker would still have sufficient surprise advantage for his energy batteries to kill a lot of satellites before they could respond, but enough of them would survive to handle him very roughly indeed.

Nonetheless, heavy losses could be anticipated in the inner fortress ring under the best possible circumstances, so the "forts" in the outer rings had to be able to move to fill in the gaps and mass upon an attacker. Their maximum acceleration rates were low, well under a hundred gravities, but their initial positions had been very carefully planned. Their acceleration would be enough to intercept attacking forces headed in-system, and their engines were sufficiently powerful to generate impeller wedges and sidewalls to protect them.

Only thirty-five seconds for the forts to come on-line? Am I the only one that considers this to be way too little time? I thought they had minutes, at least!

"I'm not going to ask you to betray any secrets, Bosun," Honor said, "but what I'm looking for are people who—from their own experience, let us say—would be intimately familiar with the best way to hide contraband aboard a shuttle or a starship." MacBride's left eyebrow rose fractionally; otherwise there was no change in her expression at all. "I need them to form the core of the customs inspection party I'll be detailing to Medusa, so in addition to their, um, expertise, I need people with initiative and discretion. Can you find them for me?"

<skip>

"Excuse me, Captain," Major Isvarian said in a very careful voice, "but did I just hear you ask the Bosun to find you fifteen smugglers to man our customs flights?"

"Of course not, Major. This is a Queen's ship. What would we be doing with smugglers on board? On the other hand, I'm certain that, over the years, certain of my personnel have observed other personnel who have attempted to conceal proscribed materials aboard ship. Sad to say, some may even have known individuals who engaged in black market activities aboard naval vessels. I simply asked the Bosun to find me some of those observers."

<big skip>

PO Harkness was, Tremaine suspected, A Character. He'd had a peek at Harkness's personnel jacket before they left the ship (the Academy instructors had always insisted an officer should do that before taking command of a detachment), and he wished he'd had more time to peruse its fascinating reading. Harkness had been in the RMN for over twenty years, almost thirty-five T-years, and he'd been up for chief twelve times by Tremaine's count. He'd actually made it, once. But PO Harkness had a weakness—two of them, in fact. He was constitutionally incapable of passing a Marine tunic in an off-duty bar without endeavoring to thump the living daylights out of its wearer, and he labored under the belief that it was his humanitarian duty to provide his shipmates with all the little things the ship's store didn't normally carry.

<skip>

"The Ensign might want to give PO Harkness his head, Sir," MacBride had said quietly. "If anyone in the detachment can recognize a crook cargo setup, it's him. And—" she'd given him one of her deadpan smiles "—I've . . . discussed the importance of his assignment with him."

So now Tremaine shifted position slightly, moving aside to lean his elbow on a freight conveyer where he could watch Harkness and still keep the corner of his eye on the crewmen.