Mission of Honor Snippets

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 30

Chapter Eight

"Well?"

Eloise Pritchart looked around the table at her assembled cabinet. They sat in their normal meeting room, surrounded by a seamless, panoramic three hundred and sixty-degree view -- from a combination of true windows and smart wall projections -- of the city of Nouveau Paris. The sun was barely above the horizon, with a lingering tinge of early dawn redness, and none of her secretaries or their aides looked especially well rested.

"I think it's certainly dramatic," Henrietta Barloi replied after a moment.

The Secretary of Technology, like Tony Nesbitt at Commerce, had been one of the late, distinctly unlamented Arnold Giancola's supporters. Like Giancola's other allies within the cabinet, her horror appeared to have been completely genuine when Pritchart revealed the near certainty that Giancola, as the previous Secretary of State, was the one who'd actually manipulated the diplomatic correspondence which had led the Republic to resume military operations. The president had no doubt their reactions had been genuine, but that didn't change the fact that Barloi and Nesbitt remained the two cabinet secretaries who continued to nourish the greatest suspicion -- not to mention resentment and hatred -- where the Star Empire of Manticore was concerned.

Despite which, as far as Pritchart could tell, Barloi's response was more a throwaway remark, sparring for time, than anything resembling the notion that Haven should reject the opportunity.

"'Dramatic' is one way to put it, all right," Stan Gregory, the Secretary of Urban Affairs agreed wryly.

He was one of the secretaries who'd been out of the city last night. In fact, he'd been on the opposite side of the planet, and he'd been up and traveling for the better part of three hours to make this early morning meeting. Which didn't keep him from looking brighter-eyed and much more chipper than Pritchart herself felt at the moment.

"Dropping in on you literally in the middle of the night was a pretty flamboyant statement in its own right, Madam President," he continued. "The only question in my mind is whether it was all lights and mirrors, or whether Admiral Alexander-Harrington simply wanted to make sure she had your attention."

"Personally, I think it was a case of . . . gratuitous flamboyance, let's say." Rachel Hanriot's tone could have dehumidified an ocean, despite the fact that the Treasury Secretary was one of Pritchart's staunchest allies. "I'm not saying she's not here in a legitimate effort to negotiate, understand. But the entire way she's made her appearance -- unannounced, no preliminary diplomacy at all, backed up by her entire fleet, arriving on the literal stroke of midnight in an un-armed civilian yacht and requesting planetary clearance . . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, and Denis LePic snorted in amusement.

"'Gratuitous flamboyance' or not, Rachel," the Attorney General said, "it certainly did get our attention, didn't it? And, frankly, given the way things've gone ever since Arnold got himself killed, I'm in favor of anything that moves us closer to ending the shooting before everything we've managed to accomplish gets blasted back to the stone age. So if Alexander-Harrington wanted to come in here naked, riding on the back of an Old Earth elephant, and twirling flaming batons in each hand, I'd still be delighted to see her!"

"I have to go along with Denis -- assuming the offer's sincere and not just window dressing designed to put Manticore into a favorable diplomatic light before they yank the rug out from under us anyway," Sandra Staunton said. The Secretary of Biosciences looked troubled, her eyes worried. She'd been another Giancola supporter, and, like Nesbitt and Barloi, she continued to cherish more than a little suspicion where the Star Empire e was concerned. "Given how Elizabeth reacted to the Webster assassination and the attempt on Torch, and with the Battle of Manticore added to her list of 'Reasons I Hate Haven' on top of that, this entire out-of-the-blue offer of some sort of last-minute reprieve just rings a little false to me. Or maybe what I'm trying to say is that it seems way too good to be true."

"I know what you mean, Sandy." Tony Nesbitt's expression was almost equally troubled, and his tone was subdued. But he also shook his head. "I know what you mean, but I just can't see any reason they'd bother. Not after what they did to us at Manticore."

He looked rather pointedly at Thomas Theisman, and the Secretary of War returned his gaze levelly.

"I fully realize Operation Beatrice failed to achieve what we'd hoped to achieve, Tony," Pritchart said. "And I also fully realize the decision to authorize it was mine." Nesbitt looked at her, instead of Theisman, and her topaz gaze met his without flinching. "Under the circumstances, and given the intelligence appreciations available to both the Navy and the FIS at the time, I'd make the same call today, too. We weren't the ones who'd canceled a summit meeting and resumed military operations, and I fully agreed with Thomas that the only real option they'd left us -- since they'd broken off negotiations and wouldn't even talk to us about any other possible solution -- was to try and achieve outright military victory before they got their new weapon system fully deployed. As nearly as we can tell, we were almost right, too. None of which changes the fact that we were wrong, and that I authorized what turned out to be the worst military defeat our star nation has ever suffered."

There was silence in the Cabinet Room. Describing the Battle of Manticore as the "worst military defeat" the Republic of Haven or the People's Republic of Haven had ever suffered -- in a single engagement, at least -- while accurate, was definitely a case of understatement. Nor had Pritchart tried to conceal the scope of the disaster. Some details remained classified, but she'd refused to change her policy of telling the Republic's citizens the truth or abandon the transparency she'd adopted in place of the old Office of Public Information's propaganda, deception, and outright lies. Some of her political allies had argued with her about that -- hard -- because they'd anticipated a furious reaction born of frustration, fear, and a betrayed sense of desperation. And, to some extent, they'd been right. Indeed, there'd been calls, some of them infuriated, for Pritchart's resignation once the public realized the magnitude of the Navy's losses.

She'd rejected them, for several reasons. All of her cabinet secretaries knew at least one of those reasons was a fear that Giancola's unprovable treason would come out in the aftermath of any resignation on her part, with potentially disastrous consequences not just for the war effort but for the very future of the constitution all of them had fought so hard to restore.

Yet they also knew that particular reason had been distinctly secondary in her thinking. The most important factor had been that the President of the Republic was not simply its first minister. Under the constitution, Pritchart was no mere prime minister, able to resign her office and allow some other party or political leader to form a new government whenever a policy or decision proved unfortunate. For better or worse, for the remainder of her term, she was the Republic's head of state. Despite all the criticism she'd taken, all the vicious attacks opposition political leaders (many of them longtime Giancola allies) had launched, she'd refused to abandon that constitutional principle, and all the muttered threats of impeachment over one trumped up charge or another had foundered upon the fact that a clear majority of the Republic's voters and their representatives still trusted her more than they trusted anyone else.

Which, unfortunately, wasn't remotely the same thing as saying they still trusted her judgment as much as they once had. And that, of course, was another factor she had to bear in mind where any sort of negotiations with Manticore might be concerned.

And where any admission of what Giancola had done might be concerned, as well. Which was going to make things distinctly sticky, given that it was one of the two points upon which the Manticorans were going to demand concessions.

"I doubt very much," she continued in that same level voice, "that anyone in this room -- or anywhere on the face of this planet -- could possibly regret the outcome of the Battle of Manticore more than I do. But you do have a point, Tony. After what happened there, and given the fact that there's no reason they can't do the same thing to us again whenever they choose to -- which, I assure you, Admiral Alexander-Harrington didn't hesitate to point out to me, in the most pleasant possible way, of course -- I see little point in their attempting some sort of negotiating table treachery. And unlike the rest of you -- except for Tom, of course -- I've actually met the woman now. She's . . . impressive, in a lot of ways. I don't think she's got the typical politician's mindset, either."

"Meaning what, Madam President?" Leslie Montreau asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Meaning I think this is the last woman in the universe I'd pick to sell someone a lie," Pritchart said flatly. "I don't think she'd accept the job in the first place, and even if she did, she wouldn't be very good at it."

"I'd have to say that's always been my impression of her, Madam President," Theisman said quietly.

"And everything the Foreign Intelligence Service's been able to pick up about her suggests exactly the same thing," LePic put in.

"Which doesn't mean she couldn't be used to 'sell us a lie' anyway," Nesbitt pointed out. "If whoever sent her lied to her, or at least kept her in the dark about what they really had in mind, she might very well think she was telling us the truth the entire time."

"Ha!" Pritchart's sudden laugh caused Nesbitt to sit back in his chair, eyebrows rising. The president went on laughing for a moment or two, then shook her head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Tony," she told the commerce secretary, her expression contrite. "I'm not laughing at you, really. It's just that . . . . Well, trust me on this one. Even if all the wild rumors about treecats' ability to tell when someone's lying are nonsense, this isn't a woman I'd try to lie to, and Javier and I lied with the galaxy's best under StateSec! I have to tell you that I had the distinct impression that she could see right inside my skull and watch the little wheels going round and round." She shook her head again. "I don't think anyone could sell her a bill of goods that would get her out here to play Judas goat without her knowledge."

"Pardon me for saying this, Madam President," Walter Sanderson, the Secretary of the Interior, said slowly, "but I have the distinct impression you actually like her."

Sanderson sounded as if he felt betrayed by his own suspicion, and Pritchart cocked her head, lips pursed as she considered what he'd said. Then she shrugged.

"I wouldn't go quite that far, Walter. Not yet, anyway. But I'll admit that under other circumstances, I think I would like her. Mind you, I'm not going to let her sell me any air cars without having my own mechanic check them out first, but when you come down to it, one of the first rules of diplomacy is picking effective diplomats. Diplomats who can convince other people to trust them, even like them. It's what they call producing 'good chemistry' at the conference table. I know she's not a diplomat by training, but Manticore has a long tradition of using senior naval officers as ambassadors and negotiators. It's paid off for them surprisingly well over the years, and I'm sure that was part of their thinking in choosing her, but I also think it goes deeper than that."

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 31


"Deeper, Ma'am?" Montreau asked.

"I think they chose her because she wanted to be chosen," Pritchart said simply. She looked across at Theisman. "Now that I've had a chance to actually meet her, Tom, I'm more convinced than ever that your notion of inviting her to the summit we proposed was a very good one. Wilhelm's analysts got it right, too, I think. Of everyone in Elizabeth's inner circle, she probably is the closest thing we've got to a friend."

"Friend!" Nesbitt snorted harshly.

"I said the closest thing we've got to a friend, Tony. I don't think anyone could accuse her of being a 'Peep sympathizer,' and God knows this woman's not going to hesitate to go right on blowing our starships out of space if these negotiations don't succeed! But she genuinely doesn't want to. And I don't think she feels any need to insist on unduly punitive terms, either."

Nesbitt glanced around at his fellow cabinet secretaries, then turned back to Pritchart.

"With all due respect, Madam President," he said, "I have a sneaking suspicion you've already made up your mind what 'we're' going to do."

"I wouldn't put it quite that way myself," she replied. "What I've made my mind up about is that we're going to have to negotiate with them, and that unless their terms are totally outrageous, this is probably the best opportunity we're going to get to survive. And I'm not talking about the personal survival of the people in this room, either. I'm talking about the survival of the Republic of Haven . . . and of the Constitution. If we ride this one down in flames, we won't 'just' be taking thousands, possibly millions, of more lives with us." Her eyes were cold, her voice grim. "We'll be taking everything we've fought for with us. All of it -- everything we've done, everything we've tried to do, everything we've wanted to accomplish for the Republic since the day Tom shot Saint-Just -- will go down with us. I'm not prepared to see that happen without doing everything I can to avoid it first."

Silence fell once more. A silence that agreed with her analysis yet remained intensely wary, even frightened, of what she proposed to do to avoid the outcome she'd predicted.

But there was more than wariness or fear in the wordless, intense glances being exchanged around that table, Pritchart realized. Even for those like Nesbitt and Barloi who most disliked and distrusted Manticore, there was a blazing core of hope, as well. The hope that an eleventh-hour reprieve was possible, after all.

"How does Admiral Alexander-Harrington propose to conduct the negotiations, Madam President?" Montreau asked after several moments.

"I think she's willing to leave that largely up to us." Pritchart's voice was back to normal, and she shrugged. "I'd say she has firm instructions, but my impression is that when she describes herself as Elizabeth's plenipotentiary, she's serious. However 'firm' her instructions may be, I think Elizabeth chose her because she trusts her -- not just her honesty, but her judgment. You already know the points she's told us have to be addressed. The fact that she singled those points out suggests to me, at least, that everything else is truly negotiable. Or, at least, that Manticore's position on those other points isn't set in stone ahead of time. That whole matter of our prewar correspondence is going to be a bear, for reasons all of us understand perfectly well, but outside of those two specific areas, I think she's perfectly willing to hear our proposals and respond to them."

"But she hasn't made any suggestions at all about protocol?" Montreau pressed. It was clear to Pritchart that the Secretary of State was seeking clarification, not objecting, and she shook her head.

"No. She hasn't said a word about protocol, delegation sizes, or anything else. Not yet, anyway. Mind you, I don't doubt for a minute that if we came up with a suggestion she didn't like, she wouldn't hesitate to let us know.

Somehow, I have the impression she's not exactly timid."

Something like a cross between a snort and a laugh sounded from Thomas Theisman's general direction, and LePic raised one hand to hide a smile.

"I don't think I'd choose just that adjective to describe her, either, Madam President," Montreau said dryly. "But the reason I asked the question doesn't really have that much to do with her."

"No?" Pritchart gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. "I see where you're going, I think. But to be honest, I'm not certain I agree with you." One or two of the others looked puzzled, while others were slowly nodding in understanding of their own. "I'd like to keep this as small and nonadversarial as we can manage, Leslie. The last thing we need is to turn this into some sort of dog and pony show that bogs down. I don't think for a minute that Alexander-Harrington was blowing smoke when she said Elizabeth's unwilling to let negotiations stretch out forever."

"Neither do I," Montreau acknowledged, but her expression never wavered. "And, like you, I'd like to keep the negotiating teams small enough and sufficiently focused to move quickly. In fact, I'd really like to handle as much of this as possible one-on-one between her and myself, as Secretary of State. Or, failing that, between her and you, as the Republic's head of state. But if we do that, getting any agreement or treaty we manage to come up with approved by Congress is going to be a lot harder."

The puzzled expressions were changing into something else, and frowns were breaking out here and there. Somewhat to Pritchart's surprise, one of the darkest and least happy frowns belonged to Tony Nesbitt.

"I see where you're headed, Leslie," he said, "but inviting the Administration's political opponents to sit in on this -- and that is what you had in mind, isn't it?" Montreau nodded, and he shrugged. "As I say, inviting the opposition to sit in on, even participate in, the negotiating process strikes me as a recipe for disaster, in a lot of ways."

Despite herself, one of Pritchart's eyebrows rose. Nesbitt saw it and barked a laugh which contained very few traces of anything someone might have called humor.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Madam President! I'm probably as close to an outright member of the opposition as you've got sitting in this Cabinet, and I think you're well aware of exactly how little trust I'm prepared to place in anyone from Manticore. But compared to some of the other operators out there, I might as well be your blood brother! I don't like to admit it, but a lot of them are probably as self-serving as Arnold turned out to be . . . and about as trustworthy."

A flicker of genuine pain, the pain of someone who'd been betrayed and used by someone he'd trusted, flashed across the commerce secretary's expression, but his voice never wavered.

"However I might feel about Manticore, you and Admiral Theisman are right about how desperate our military position is. And if this is the one chance we've got to survive on anything approaching acceptable terms, I don't want some political grandstander -- or, even worse, someone who'd prefer to see negotiations fail because he thinks he can improve his personal position or deep-six the Constitution in the aftermath of military defeat -- to screw it up. And if we get far enough to actually start dealing with the matter of who did what to whose mail before the war, it's likely to be just a bit awkward tiptoeing around someone who'd be perfectly willing to leak it to the newsies for any advantage it might give him!"

"I find myself in agreement with Tony," Rachel Hanriot said after a moment. "But even so, I'm afraid Leslie has a point. There's got to be someone involved in these negotiations who isn't 'one of us.' I'd prefer for it to be someone who's opposed to us as a matter of principle, assuming we can find anyone like that, but the bottom line is that we've got to include someone from outside the Administration or its supporters, whatever their motives for being there might be. Someone to play the role of watchdog for all those people, especially in Congress, who don't like us, or oppose us, or who simply question our competence after the collapse of the summit talks and what happened at the Battle of Manticore. This can't be the work of a single party, or a single clique -- not anything anyone could portray as having been negotiated in a dark little room somewhere -- if we expect congressional approval. And, to be honest, I think we have a moral obligation to give our opponents at least some input into negotiating what we hope will be a treaty with enormous implications for every man, woman, and child in the Republic. It's not just our Republic, whatever offices we hold. I don't think we can afford to let ourselves forget that."

"Wonderful." Walter Sanderson shook his head. "I can see this is going to turn into a perfectly delightful exercise in statesmanship. I can hardly think of anything I'd rather do. Except possibly donate one of my testicles to science. Without anesthetic."

Pritchart chuckled. One or two of Sanderson's colleagues found his occasional descents into indelicacy inappropriate in a cabinet secretary. The president, on the other hand, rather treasured them. They had a way of bringing people firmly back to earth.

"Given what you've just said," she told him with a smile, "I think we'll all be just as happy if we keep you personally as far away as possible from the negotiating table, Walter."

"Thank God," he said feelingly.

"Nonetheless," Pritchart went on in a voice tinged with more than a little regret, "I think you and Rachel have a point, Leslie. Tony, I'm as reluctant as you are to include any 'negotiators' whose motivations are . . . suspect. And your point about the correspondence issue's particularly well taken. In fact, it's the part of this which makes me the most nervous, if I'm going to be honest. But they're still right. If we don't include someone from outside the Administration, we're going to have a hell of a fight in Congress afterward, even if Rachel didn't have a point of her own about that moral responsibility of ours. And to the brutally frank, I think we'll have a better chance of surviving even if we end up having to air some of our political dirty linen in front of Admiral Alexander-Harrington, if it lets us move forward with a least a modicum of multi-party support, than we will if we find ourselves in a protracted struggle to get whatever terms we work out ratified. The last thing we need is to have any of those people in Manticore who already don't trust us decide that this time around we're being High Ridge and deliberately stringing things out rather than acting in good faith."

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 32

Chapter Nine

"What's the current status of Bogey Two, Utako?"

"No change in course or heading, Sir," Lieutenant Commander Utako Shreiber, operations officer of Task Group 2.2, Mesan Alignment Navy, replied. She looked over her shoulder at Commodore Roderick Sung, the task group's CO, who'd just stepped back onto MANS Apparition's tiny flag bridge, and raised one eyebrow very slightly.

Sung noted the eyebrow and suppressed an uncharacteristic urge to snap at her for it. He managed to conquer the temptation without ever allowing it to show in his own expression, and the fact that Schreiber was probably the best ops officer he'd ever worked with, despite her junior rank, helped. He'd hand-picked her from a sizable pool of candidates when Benjamin Detweiler handed him this prong of Oyster Bay largely because he valued her willingness to think for herself, after all. And the fact that he'd worked hard to establish the relationship of mutual trust and respect which let a subordinate ask that sort of silent question helped even more.

All the same, a tiny part of him did want to rip her head off. Not because of anything she'd done, but because of the tension building steadily in the vicinity of his stomach.

"Thank you," he said out loud instead as he crossed to his own command chair and settled back into it.

At least I've demonstrated my imperturbability by taking a break to hit the head, he reflected mordantly. Unless, of course, Utako and the others decide I only went because the damned Graysons are worrying the piss out of me!

That second thought surprised a quiet snort of amusement out of him, and he was amazed how much better that made him feel. Of course, there was a galaxy of difference between "better" and anything he would describe as "good."

Up until the past twelve hours or so, Sung's part of Operation Oyster Bay had gone without a hitch, so he supposed he really shouldn't complain too loudly, even in the privacy of his own mind, when Murphy put in his inevitable appearance. The advantages of technology and heredity were all well and good, but the universe remained a slave to probability theory. The Alignment's strategists had made a conscientious effort to keep that point in mind from the very beginning, as had the planners of this particular mission. In fact, both Sung's orders and every pre-op briefing had stressed that concern, yet he doubted his superiors would look kindly on the man who blew Oyster Bay, whatever the circumstances.

He frowned down at his small repeater plot, watching the red icons of the Grayson Space Navy cruiser squadron.

Just my luck to wander into the middle of some kind of training exercise, he thought glumly. Although I'd like to know what the hell they think they're doing exercising clear up here. Damned untidy of them.

Oyster Bay's operational planners had taken advantage of the tendency for local shipping to restrict itself largely to the plane of a star system's ecliptic. Virtually all the real estate in which human beings were interested lay along the ecliptic, after all. Local traffic was seldom concerned with anything much above or below it, and ships arriving out of hyper almost invariably arrived in the same plane, since that generally offered the shortest normal-space flight path to whatever destination had brought them to the system, as well, not to mention imposing a small but significantly lower amount of wear and tear on their alpha nodes. So even though defensive planners routinely placed surveillance platforms to cover the polar regions, there wasn't usually very much shipping in those areas.

In this instance, however, for reasons best known to itself -- and, of course, Murphy -- the GSN had elected to send an entire squadron of what looked like their version of the Manties' Saganami-C-class heavy cruisers out to play half way to the hyper limit and due north of Yeltsin's Star.

It wouldn't have pissed Sung off so much if they hadn't decided to do it at this particular moment. Well, and in this particular spot. The other five ships of his task group were headed to meet Apparition for their last scheduled rendezvous, and unless Bogey Two changed vector, it was going to pass within less than five light-minutes of the rendezvous point.

And considerably closer than that to Apparition's course as she headed towards that rendezvous.

He propped his elbows on his command chair's armrests and leaned back, lips pursed as he considered the situation. One of the problems the mission planners had been forced to address was the simple fact that a star system was an enormous volume for only six ships to scout, however sophisticated their sensors or their remote platforms were and however stealthy they themselves might be. At least it was if the objective was to keep anyone on the other side from suspecting the scouting was in progress.

He'd studied every available scrap about the Manties' operations against Haven, and he'd been impressed by their reconnaissance platforms' apparent ability to operate virtually at will without being intercepted by the Havenites. Unfortunately, if Sung's presence was ever noted at all, whether anyone managed to actually intercept him or not, Oyster Bay was probably blown, which meant the Manties' task had been rather easier than his own. He never doubted that he could have evaded the local sensor net well enough to prevent it from pinning down the actual locations of any of his units even if it managed to detect their simple presence. Unfortunately, the object was for the Graysons to never even know he was here in the first place. The Manties' scout forces, by and large, hadn't been particularly concerned about the possibility that the Havenites might realize they were being scouted, since there was nothing they could have done to prevent it and it wasn't exactly as if they didn't already know someone was at war with them. But if the Graysons figured out that someone -- anyone -- was roaming about their star system before the very last moment, they could probably substantially blunt Oyster Bay's success. They'd still get hurt, probably badly, but Oyster Bay was supposed to be decisive, not just painful.

Bearing all of that in mind, the operational planners had ruled out any extensive com transmissions between the widely dispersed units of Sung's task group. Even the most tightly focused transmissions were much more likely to be detected than the scout ships themselves, which was why the ops plan included periodic rendezvous points for the scouts to exchange information at very short range using low powered whisker lasers. Once all their sensor data had been collected, organized, and analyzed, Apparition would know what to tell the guidance platforms. But without those rendezvous, Sung's flagship wouldn't have the data in the first place, and that would be unacceptable.

Unlike some of the more fiery of the Alignment's zealots, Roderick Sung felt no personal animosity towards any of the normals who were about to discover they were outmoded. However naïve and foolish he might find their faith in the random combination of genes, and however committed he might be to overcoming the obstacles that foolishness created, he didn't blame any of them personally for it. Well, aside from those sanctimonious prigs on Beowulf, of course. But his lack of personal animus didn't lessen his determination to succeed, and at this particular moment all he really wanted was for a spontaneous black hole to appear out of nowhere and eat every one of those blasted cruisers.

"Should we alter course, Sir?"

The commodore looked up at the quiet question. Commander Travis Tsau, his chief of staff, stood at his shoulder and nodded towards the plot by Sung's right knee.

"Bogey Two's going to pass within two light-minutes of our base course at closest approach," Tsau pointed out, still in that quiet voice.

"A point, Travis," Sung replied with a thin smile, "of which I was already aware."

"I know that, Sir." Tsau was normally a bit stiffer than Schreiber, but he'd known Sung even longer, and he returned the commodore's smile wryly. "On the other hand, part of my job is to bring little things like that to your attention. Just in case, you understand."

"True." Sung nodded, glanced back down at the plot, then drew a deep breath.

"We'll hold our course," he said then. "Without even the Spider up, we should be nothing but a nice, quiet hole in space as far as they're concerned. And, frankly, they're already so close I'd just as soon leave the Spider down. I know they're not supposed to be able to detect it, but . . . ."

He let his voice trail off, and Tsau nodded. At the moment, Apparition was moving on a purely ballistic course, with every active sensor shut down. And, as Sung had just pointed out, that, coupled with all the manifold stealth features built into the scout ship, ought to make her more than simply invisible. The only real problem with that analysis hung on the single word "ought," since if that assumption turned out to be inaccurate, Apparition would stand precisely zero probability of surviving.

The Ghost-class ships had no offensive armament at all. They were designed to do precisely what Apparition was doing at this moment, and there was no point pretending they'd be able to fight their way out of trouble if the other side managed to find them in the first place. So they'd been equipped with every stealth system the fertile imaginations of Anastasia Chernevsky and the rest of the MAN's R&D establishment had been able to devise, packed into the smallest possible platform, and if that meant sacrificing armament, so be it. Even their anti-missile defenses represented little more than a token gesture, and everyone aboard Apparition was thoroughly aware of that fact.

On the other hand, Chernevsky and her people are very, very good at their jobs, Sung reminded himself.

A huge chunk of Apparition's available tonnage had been eaten up by the Spider's triple "keels," and another sizable chunk had been dedicated to her enormously capable sensor suite. Habitability had also loomed as a major factor in her designers' minds, since the Ghosts were going to be deployed on long-endurance missions, but the architects had accepted some significant compromises even in that regard in favor of knitting the most effective possible cloak of invisibility.

Unlike the starships of most navies, the MAN's scouts hadn't settled for simple smart paint. Other ships could control and reconfigure their "paint" at will, transforming their hulls -- or portions of those hulls -- into whatever they needed at any given moment, from nearly perfectly reflective surfaces to black bodies. The Ghosts' capabilities, however, went much further than that. Instead of the relatively simpleminded nanotech of most ships' "paint," the surface of Apparition's hull was capable of mimicking effectively any portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. Her passive sensors detected any incoming radiation, from infrared through cosmic rays, and her computers mapped the data onto her hull, where her extraordinarily capable nannies reproduced it. In effect, anyone looking at Apparition when her stealth was fully engaged would "see" whatever the sensors exactly opposite his viewpoint "saw," as if the entire ship were a single sheet of crystoplast.

That was the theory, at least, and in this case, what theory predicted and reality achieved were remarkably close together.

It wasn't perfect, of course. The system's greatest weakness was that it couldn't give complete coverage. Like any stealth system, it still had to deal with things like waste heat, for example. Current technology could recapture and use an enormous percentage of that heat, but not all of it, and what they couldn't capture still had to go somewhere. And, like other navies' stealth systems, the MAN's dealt with that by radiating that heat away from known enemy sensors. Modern stealth fields could do a lot to minimize even heat signatures, but nothing could completely eliminate them, and stealth fields themselves were detectable at extremely short ranges, so any ship remained vulnerable to detection by a sufficiently sensitive sensor on exactly the right (or wrong) bearing.

In this instance, though, they knew right where the Graysons were. That meant they could adjust for maximum stealthiness against that particular threat bearing, and as part of his training, Sung had personally tried to detect a Ghost with the MAN's very best passive sensors. Even knowing exactly where the ship was, it had been all but impossible to pick her out of the background radiation of space, so he wasn't unduly concerned that Bogey Two would detect Apparition with shipboard systems as long as she remained completely covert. He was less confident that the spider drive would pass unnoticed at such an absurdly short range, however. Chernevsky's people assured him it was exceedingly unlikely -- that it had taken them the better part of two T-years to develop their own detectors, even knowing what they were looking for, and that those detectors were still far from anything anyone would ever call reliable -- but Sung had no desire to be the one who proved their optimism had been misplaced. Even the Spider had a footprint, after all, even if it wasn't something anyone else would have associated with a drive system. All it would take was for someone to notice an anomalous reading and be conscientious enough -- or, for that matter, bored enough -- to spend a little time trying to figure out what it was.

And the fact that the Spider's signature flares as it comes up only makes that more likely, he reflected. The odds against anyone spotting it would still be enormous, but even so, they'd be a hell of a lot worse than the chance of anyone aboard Bogey Two noticing us if we just keep quietly coasting along.

At the same time, he knew exactly why Tsau had asked his question. However difficult a sensor target they might be for Bogey Two's shipboard systems, the rules would change abruptly if the Grayson cruiser decided to deploy her own recon platforms. If she were to do that, and if the platforms got a good, close-range look at the aspect Apparition was keeping turned away from their mothership, the chance of detection went from abysmally low to terrifyingly high in very short order. Which meant what Sung was really doing was betting that the odds of the Grayson's choosing to deploy recon platforms were lower than the odds of her shipboard systems detecting the Spider's activation flare if he maneuvered to avoid her.

Of course, even if we did try to crab away from her, it wouldn't help a whole hell of a lot if she decided to launch platforms. All we'd really manage to do would be to move her target a bit further away from her, and there's a reason they call remote platforms remote, Rod.

No. He'd play the odds, and he knew it was the right decision, however little comfort that might be if Murphy did decide to take an even more active hand.

I wonder if Østby and Omelchenko are having this much fun wandering around Manticore? he thought dryly. I know no one ever promised it would be easy, and I've always enjoyed a hand of poker as much as the next man, but this is getting ridiculous.

Roderick Sung settled himself even more comfortably in his command chair and waited to see exactly what sort of cards Murphy had chosen to deal this time.

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 33

Chapter Ten

Honor Alexander-Harrington hoped she looked less nervous than she felt as she and the rest of the Manticoran delegation followed Alicia Hampton, Secretary of State Montreau's personal aide, down the short hallway on the two hundredth floor of the Nouveau Paris Plaza Falls Hotel.

The Plaza Falls had been the showplace hotel of the Republic of Haven's capital city for almost two T-centuries, and the Legislaturalists had been careful to preserve it intact when they created the People's Republic of Haven. It had served to house important visitors -- Solarian diplomats (and, of course, newsies being presented with the Office of Public Information's view of the galaxy), businessmen being wooed as potential investors, off-world black marketers supplying the needs of those same Legislaturalists, heads of state who were being "invited" to "request Havenite protection" as a cheaper alternative to outright conquest, or various high-priced courtesans being kept in the style to which they had become accustomed.

The Committee of Public Safety, for all its other faults, had been far less inclined towards that particular sort of personal corruption. Rob Pierre, Cordelia Ransom, and their fellows had hardly been immune to their own forms of empire building and hypocrisy, but they'd seen no reason to follow in the Legislaturalists' footsteps where the Plaza Falls was concerned. Indeed, the hotel had been regarded by the Mob as a concrete symbol of the Legislaturalists' regime, which explained why it had been thoroughly vandalized during the early days of Rob Pierre's coup. Nor was that the only indignity it had suffered, since the Committee had actually encouraged its progressive looting, using it as a sort of whipping boy whenever the Mob threatened to become dangerously rowdy. The sheer size of the hotel had meant looting it wasn't a simple afternoon's work, so it had made a useful diversion for quite some time.

In the end, even something with two hundred and twenty floors had eventually run out of things to steal, break, or deface, and (fortunately, perhaps) a ceramacrete tower was remarkably nonflammable. Several individual rooms, and one complete floor, had been burned out by particularly persistent arsonists, but by and large, the Plaza Falls had survived . . . more or less. The picked-clean carcass had been allowed to molder away, ignored by any of the Committee's public works projects. It had sat empty and completely ignored, and most people had written it off as something to be eventually demolished and replaced.

But demolishing a tower that size was no trivial task, even for a counter-gravity civilization, and to everyone's considerable surprise, the privatization incentives Tony Nesbit and Rachel Hanriot had put together after Theisman's coup had attracted a pool of investors who were actually interested in salvaging the structure, instead. More than that, they'd honestly believed the Plaza Falls could be restored to its former glory as a piece of living history -- and a profit-making enterprise -- that underscored the rebirth of the Republic as a whole.

Despite their enthusiasm, the project had been bound to run into more difficulties than any sane person would have willingly confronted, but they'd been thoroughly committed by the time they figured that out. In fact, failure of the project would have spelled complete and total ruin for most of the backers by that point. And so they'd dug in, tackled each difficulty as it arose, and to everyone's surprise (quite probably their own more than anyone else's), they'd actually succeeded. It hadn't been easy, but the result of their labors really had turned into an emblem of the Republic's economic renaissance, and even though Haven remained a relatively poor star nation (by Manticoran standards, at least), its resurgent entrepreneurial class was robust enough to turn the Plaza Falls into a genuine moneymaker. Not at the levels its renovators had hoped for, perhaps, but with enough cash flow to show a modest -- Honor suspected a very modest -- profit after covering the various loan payments and operating expenses.

At the rates they're charging, it certainly wouldn't show much of a profit in the Star Empire, she thought, following their guide, but the cost of living's a lot lower here in the Republic, even now. I hate to think what kind of trouble they'd have hiring a staff this devoted back in Landing at the sort of salaries they're paying here! For that matter, these days they couldn't get a staff this qualified back on Grayson this cheaply, either.

Fortunately for the Plaza Falls' owners, they weren't on Manticore or Grayson, however, and she had to admit that they -- and Eloise Pritchart's government -- had done the visiting Manticoran delegation proud.

She stepped into the combination conference room and suite Pritchart had designated for their "informal talks," and the president rose from her place at one end of the hand polished, genuine wood conference table. The rest of the Havenite delegation followed suit, and Pritchart smiled at Honor.

"Good morning, Admiral."

"Madam President," Honor responded, with a small half-bow.

"Please allow me to introduce my colleagues."

"Of course, Madam President."

"Thank you." Pritchart smiled exactly as if someone in that room might actually have no idea who somebody -- anybody -- else was. In fact, Honor knew, every member of Pritchart's delegation had been as carefully briefed on every member of her delegation as her delegation had been about Pritchart's delegation.

Formal protocol and polite pretenses, she thought, reaching up to touch Nimitz's ears as she felt his shared amusement in the back of her brain. You've just gotta just love 'em. Or somebody must, at least. After all, if people weren't addicted to this kind of horse manure, it would have been junk piled centuries ago! But let's be fair, Honor. It does serve a purpose sometimes -- and the Navy's just as bad. Maybe even worse.

"Of course, you've already met Secretary of State Montreau," Pritchart told her. "And you already know Secretary of War Theisman. I don't believe, however, that you've actually been introduced to Mr. Nesbitt, my Secretary of Commerce."

"No, I haven't," Honor acknowledged, reaching out to shake Nesbitt's hand.

She'd been sampling the Havenites' emotions from the moment she stepped through the door, and Nesbitt's were . . . interesting. She'd already concluded that Pritchart was as determined as she was to reach some sort of negotiated settlement. Leslie Montreau's mind glow tasted as determined as Pritchart's, although there was more caution and less optimism to keep that determination company. Thomas Theisman was a solid, unflappable presence, with a granite tenacity and a solid integrity that reminded Honor almost painfully of Alastair McKeon. She wasn't surprised by that, even though she'd never really had the opportunity before to taste his emotions. The first time they'd met, after the Battle of Blackbird, she hadn't yet developed her own empathic capabilities. And the second time they'd met, she'd been a little too preoccupied with her own imminent death to pay his mind glow a great deal of attention. Now she finally had the opportunity to repair that omission, and the confirmation that he, at least, truly was the man she'd hoped and believed he was reinforced her own optimism . . . slightly, at least.

But Nesbitt was different. Although he smiled pleasantly, his dislike hit her like a hammer. The good news was that it wasn't personally directed at her; unfortunately, the good news was also the bad news in his case. In many ways, she would have preferred to have him take her in personal dislike rather than radiate his anger at and profound distrust of anything Manticoran so strongly. Of course, he was about her own age, so everything she'd said to Pritchart about her own life-long experience of mutual hostility between their star nations held true for him, as well. And however unhappy he might have been to see her, and however clearly he resented the fact that the Republic needed to negotiate an end to hostilities, he also radiated his own version of Pritchart's determination to succeed. And there was something else, as well. An odd little something she couldn't quite lay a mental finger on. It was almost as though he were ashamed of something. That wasn't exactly the right word, but she didn't know what the right word was. Yet whatever it was, or wherever it came from, it actually reinforced both his anger and his determination to achieve some sort of settlement.

"Admiral Alexander-Harrington," he said, just a bit gruffly, but he also returned her handshake firmly.

"Mr. Nesbitt," she murmured in reply.

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 34


"Leslie and Tony are here not only as representatives of the Cabinet but as representatives of two of our larger political parties," Pritchart explained. "When I organized my Cabinet originally, it seemed pretty clear we were going to need the support of all parties if we were going to make the Constitution work. Because of that, I deliberately chose secretaries from several different parties, and Leslie is a New Democrat, while Tony's a Corporate Conservative." She smiled dryly. "I'm quite certain you've been sufficiently well briefed on our political calculus here Paris to understand just how lively meetings can be when these two sit in on them."

Montreau and Nesbitt both smiled, and Honor smiled back, although she suspected Pritchart was actually understating things.

"As I explained in my memo," the president continued, "I've decided, with your consent, to invite some additional representatives from Congress to participate in these talks, as well."

"Of course, Madam President." Honor nodded, despite the fact that she really wished Pritchart hadn't done anything of the sort. She would have much preferred to keep these talks as small and private, as close to one-on-one with Pritchart, as she could. At the same time, she was pretty sure she understood the president's logic. And given the fractiousness of Havenite politics -- and the fact that selling anything short of victory to Congress and the Havenite people was likely to prove a challenging task -- she couldn't really disagree with Pritchart, either.

It's an imperfect galaxy Honor, she told herself tartly. Deal with it.

"Allow me to introduce Senator Samson McGwire," Pritchart said, indicating the man next to Nesbitt.

McGwire was a smallish, wiry man, a good twenty centimeters shorter than Honor. In fact, he was shorter than Pritchart or Leslie Montreau, for that matter. He also had gunmetal-gray hair, a great beak of a nose, blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a powerful chin. They were sharp, those eyes, and they glittered with a sort of perpetual challenge. From the way they narrowed as he shook her hand, she wasn't able to decide whether in her case the challenge was because she was a Manticoran, and therefore the enemy, or simply because she was so much taller than he was. For that matter, it could have been both. According to the best briefing Sir Anthony Langtry's staff in the Foreign Office had been able to provide, McGwire was not one of the Star Empire's greater admirers. For that matter, his New Conservative Party was widely regarded as one of the natural homes for Havenite firebrands with personal axes to grind with the Star Empire.

Which is one reason we're so happy to have Montreau as Secretary of State instead of that jackass Giancola, she thought dryly. I'm sorry anyone had to get killed in a traffic accident, but the truth is that dropping him out of the equation has to be a good thing for everyone concerned. In fact, I have to wonder what a smart cookie like Pritchart was thinking putting a New Conservative into that Cabinet post in the first place!

Not, she admitted, that our ending up with High Ridge as Prime Minister and Descroix as Foreign Secretary was any better. But it least Elizabeth didn't have much choice about it.

"Senator McGwire's the chairman of the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee," Pritchart continued. She tilted her head to one side, watching Honor's expression closely, as if trying to determine how much Honor already knew about the senator. "He's here in his capacity as chairman, but also as a representative of the New Conservative Party."

"Senator," Honor said, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Admiral." He made no particular effort to inject any warmth into the single word, and his handshake was more than a little perfunctory. Still, if Honor was parsing his emotions correctly, he had no more illusions about the Republic's disastrous military position than anyone else did.

"And this," Richards said, turning to a dark-haired, green-eyed woman about thirty T-years younger than Honor, "is Senator Ninon Bourchier. She's the senior ranking Constitutional Progressive member of Senator McGwire's committee."

"Senator Bourchier," Honor acknowledged, and tried not to smile. Bourchier was quite attractive, although nowhere near as striking as Pritchart herself, and she had a bright, almost girlish smile. A smile, in fact, which went rather poorly with the coolly watchful brain behind those guileless jade eyes. There was more than a touch of the predator to Bourchier, although it wasn't in any sense as if she had an active taste for cruelty or violence. No. This was simply someone who was perpetually poised to note and respond to any threat -- or opportunity -- with instant, decisive action. And of someone who thought very directly in terms of clearly recognized priorities and responsibilities. As a matter of fact, her mind glow tasted a lot like that of a treecat, Honor decided, which wasn't especially surprising, since like Pritchart, Bourchier had been a dedicated member of the Aprilist movement. In fact, ONI had confirmed that she'd been personally responsible for at least seven assassinations, and she'd also been one of the civilian cell leaders who'd not only somehow survived Oscar Saint-Just's best efforts to root out dissidents but also rallied in support of Theisman's coup in the critical hours immediately after the SS commander's date with mortality. And these days she was an influential member of Pritchart's own Constitutional Progressive Party, as well.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you Admiral," Bourchier said, gripping Honor's hand firmly, and Honor's urge to smile threatened to break free for just a moment. Bourchier's greeting sounded almost gushy, but behind its surface froth, that needle-clawed treecat was watching, measuring, evaluating Honor with that predator's poise.

"Really?" Honor said. "I hope our efforts won't be disappointing."

"So do I," Bourchier said.

"As do we all," Pritchart cut in smoothly, and gestured to a moderately tall -- he was only five or six centimeters shorter than Honor -- fair-haired, brown-eyed man who was clearly the youngest person present. He was also the most elegantly tailored, and she felt Nimitz resisting the urge to sneeze as he smelled the fair-haired man's expensive cologne.

"The Honorable Gerald Younger, Admiral Alexander-Harrington," Pritchart said, and Honor nodded to him. "Mr. Younger is a member of our House of Representatives," Pritchart continued. "Like Senator McGwire, he's also a New Conservative, and while he's not its chairman, he sits on the House Foreign Affairs Committee."

"Admiral Alexander-Harrington," Younger said with a white-toothed smile.

"Representative Younger," she replied, and carefully did not wipe the palm of her hand on her trousers when Younger released it. Despite his sleek grooming, he radiated a sort of arrogant ambition and predatory narcissism that made even McGwire seem positively philanthropic.

"And this, Admiral Alexander-Harrington," Pritchart said, turning to the final Havenite representative present, "is Chief Justice Jeffrey Tullingham. He's here more in an advisory role than anything else, but I felt it would probably be a good idea to have him available if any legal issues or precedents should happen to raise their heads during our talks."

"That strikes me as an excellent idea, Madam President," Honor said, at least partly truthfully, extending her hand to Tullingham. "It's an honor to meet you, Chief Justice."

"Thank you, Admiral."

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, fully aware -- though it was possible he wasn't -- that both those smiles were equally false. He wasn't at all pleased to see her here. Which was fair enough, perhaps, or at least reciprocal, since even though Honor agreed with Pritchart that having a legal expert's perspective on the talks was probably a good idea, she wished this particular "legal expert" were far, far away from them. Technically, as the senior member of the Havenite Supreme Court, Tullingham was supposed to be above partisan issues. In fact, although Manticoran intelligence still knew little about his history prior to his appointment to the Court, his mind glow strongly suggested that he was even more closely aligned with McGwire's and Younger's New Conservatives than the analysts had suspected. And despite a carefully cultivated air of nonpartisan detachment, the taste of his personal ambition -- and basic untrustworthiness -- came through her empathic sensitivity even more clearly than Younger's had.

And isn't he just a lovely choice to head the court that has the power of judicial review over every law their Congress passes? She managed not to shake her head, but it wasn't easy. From Pritchart's emotions when she introduced him, she obviously has a pretty fair idea what's going on inside him. So how many dead bodies did he have to threaten to exhume -- or personally plant -- to get named to the Supreme Court in the first place?

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 35


Well, his impact on Havenite law wasn't her problem, thank God. On the other hand, his impact on the negotiations very well could be. Unless she could talk Senator Bourchier into carrying out just one last little assassination . . . .

She shook free of that thought (although from the taste of Bourchier's mindglow when she looked at Tullingham, she'd probably agree in a heartbeat) and waved at the other three members of her own delegation.

"As you can see, Madam President, Foreign Secretary Langtry decided it would be a good idea to send along at least a few professionals to keep me out of trouble, as well. Allow me to introduce Permanent Undersecretary Sir Barnabas Kew; Special Envoy Carissa Mulcahey, Baroness Selleck; and Assistant Undersecretary the Honorable Voitto Tuominen. And this is my personal aide, Lieutenant Waldemar Tümmel."

Polite murmurs of recognition came back from the Havenite side of the table, although Honor sensed a few spikes of irritation when she used Mulcahy's title. Well, that was too bad. She didn't intend to rub anyone's nose in the fact that Manticore had an hereditary aristocracy and rewarded merit with admission into it, but she wasn't going to spend all of her time here pussyfooting around tender Havenite sensibilities, either.

Even with her three assistants, her delegation was considerably smaller than Pritchart's, but it ought to be big enough. And it was a darn good thing they were here. She'd spent most of the voyage between Manticore and Haven discovering just how grateful she was for the three seasoned professionals Langtry had sent along.

Kew was the oldest of the trio -- with silver hair, sharp brown eyes, a ruddy complexion, and a nose almost as powerful as McGwire's. Tuominen was shortish, but very broad shouldered. He'd always been known as something of a maverick within the ranks of the Foreign Office, and he was as aggressively "commoner" as Klaus Hauptman. Actually, despite the fact that he'd been born on Sphinx, not Gryphon, his personality reminded her strongly of Anton Zilwicki's in many ways, although he was a considerably more driven sort, without Zilwicki's granite, methodical patience. Countess Selleck was the youngest of the three. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and attractive in an understated sort of way, she was the intelligence specialist of the Manticoran delegation. She reminded Honor rather strongly of Alice Truman, and not just in a physical sense.

Lieutenant Tümmel was actually the one she'd found most difficult to fit smoothly into place, although that wasn't even remotely his fault. The brown-haired, brown-eyed lieutenant was an extraordinarily competent young man, with enormous potential, yet she felt a lingering guilt at having accepted him as Timothy Mears' replacement. Even now, she knew, she continued to hold him more or less at arms length, as if really accepting him would somehow be a betrayal of Mears' memory. Or as if she were afraid letting him get too close to her would lead to his death, as well.

No one, she noticed, offered to introduce the members of Pritchart's security detachment or her own armsmen. Not that anyone was unaware of their presence. In fact, Honor was more than a little amused by the fact that Pritchart's detachment was all but invisible to the Havenites, from long familiarity, while the same thing was true for her armsmen from the Manticoran side of the room, yet both sides were acutely aware of the presence of the other side's armed retainers.

And then there was Nimitz . . . quite possibly the deadliest "armed retainer" of them all. Certainly he was on a kilo-for-kilo basis, at any rate! And it was obvious from the taste of the Havenites' mind glows that every one of these people had been briefed on the reports of the treecats' intelligence, telempathic abilities, and lethality.

Just as it was equally obvious that several of them -- who rejoiced in names like McGwire, Younger, and Tullingham -- cherished profound reservations about allowing him within a kilometer of this conference room. In fact, McGwire was so unhappy that Honor had to wonder how Pritchart had managed to twist his arm hard enough to get him here at all.

With the formal greetings and introductions disposed of, Pritchart waved at the conference table, with its neatly arranged data ports, old-fashioned blotters, and carafes of ice water. The chairs around it, in keeping with the Plaza Falls's venerable lineage, were unpowered, but that didn't prevent them from being almost sinfully comfortable as the delegates settled into them.

Pritchart had seated her own delegation with its back to the suite's outer wall of windows, and Honor felt a flicker of gratitude for the president's thoughtfulness as she parked Nimitz on the back of her own chair. Then she seated herself and gazed out through the crystoplast behind Pritchart and her colleagues while the other members of her own team plugged personal minicomps into the data ports and unobtrusively tested their firewalls and security fences.

Nouveau Paris had been built in the foothills of the Limoges Mountains, the coastal range that marked the southwest edge of the continent of Rochambeau where it met the Veyret Ocean. The city's pastel colored towers rose high into the heavens, but despite their height -- and, for that matter, the sheer size and population of the city itself -- the towering peaks of the Limoges Range still managed to put them into proportion. To remind the people living in them that a planet was a very large place.

Like most cities designed and planned by a gravitic civilization's engineers, Nouveau Paris incorporated green belts, parks, and tree-shaded pedestrian plazas. It also boasted spectacular beaches along its westernmost suburbs, but the heart of the original city been built around the confluence of the Garronne River and the Rhône River, and from her place at the table, she looked almost directly down to where those two broad streams merged less than half a kilometer before they plunged over the eighty-meter, horseshoe-shaped drop of Frontenac Falls in a boiling smother of foam, spray, and mist. Below the falls which had given the Plaza Falls' its name, the imposing width of the Frontenac Estuary rolled far more tranquilly to the Veyret, dotted with pleasure boats which were themselves yet another emblem of the Republic of Haven's renaissance. It was impressive, even from the suite's imposing height.

She gazed at the city, the rivers, and the falls for several seconds, then turned her attention politely to Pritchart.

The president looked around the table, obviously checking to be certain everyone was settled, then squared her own shoulders and looked back at Honor.

"It's occurred to me, Admiral Alexander-Harrington, that this is probably a case of the less formality, the better. We've already tried the formal diplomatic waltz, with position papers and diplomatic notes moving back and forth, before we started shooting at each other again, and we're all only too well aware of where that ended up. Since your Queen's been willing to send you to us under such . . . untrammeled conditions, I'd like to maintain as much informality as possible this time around, in hopes of achieving a somewhat more satisfactory outcome. I do have a certain structure in mind, but with your agreement, I'd prefer to allow frank discussion among all the participants, instead of the standard procedure where you and I -- or you and Leslie -- simply repeat our formal positions to one another over and over while everyone else sits back, watches, and tries valiantly to stay awake."

"I think I could live with that, Madam President," Honor replied, feeling the slight smile she couldn't totally suppress dance around her lips.

"Good. In that case, I thought that since you've come all this way to deliver Queen Elizabeth's message, I'd ask you to repeat it for all of us. And after you've done that, I would appreciate it if you would sketch out for us -- in broad and general strokes, of course -- a preliminary presentation of the Star Kingdom -- I'm sorry, the Star Empire's -- view of what might constitute the terms of a sensible peace settlement."

"That sounds reasonable," Honor agreed, sternly telling the butterflies in her stomach to stop fluttering. Odd how much more unnerving this was than the mere prospect of facing an enemy wall of battle.

She settled further back into her chair, feeling Nimitz's warm, silken presence against the back of her head, and drew a deep breath.

"Madam President, Ladies and Gentlemen," she began, "I'll begin by being blunt, and I hope no one will be offended by my candor. Please remember that despite any titles I may have acquired, or any diplomatic accreditation Queen Elizabeth may have trusted me with, I'm basically a yeoman-born naval officer, not a trained diplomat. If I seem to be overly direct, please understand no discourtesy is intended."

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 36


They gazed back at her, all of them from behind the impassive façades of experienced politicians, and she considered inviting them to just relax and check their poker faces at the door. It wasn't as if those well-trained expressions were doing them any good against someone as capable of reading the emotions behind them as any treecat. And anything she missed, Nimitz wouldn't when they compared notes later.

Still, judging by the way they taste, Pritchart, Theisman, and Montreau -- at the very least -- already know that as well as McGwire and Tullingham do. Interesting that none of them've made a point of their knowledge, though.

"As I've already told President Pritchart, both my Queen and I are fully aware that the view of who's truly responsible for the conflict between our two star nations isn't the same from Manticore and Haven. I've also already conceded to President Pritchart that the High Ridge Government must bear its share of blame for the diplomatic failure which led to the resumption of hostilities between our star nations. I think, however, that no one in Nouveau Paris, anymore than anyone in Landing, can deny that the Republic of Haven actually fired the first shots of this round when it launched Operation Thunderbolt. I'm confident the decision to do so was not lightly taken, and I don't doubt for a moment that you felt, rightly or wrongly, both that you were justified and that it was the best of the several bad options available to you. But the fact remains that Manticore didn't start the shooting in any of our conflicts with Haven.

"Nonetheless, ladies and gentlemen, we've come to a crossroads. I know some of you blame the Star Empire for all that's happened. I assure you, there are more than sufficient people in the Star Empire who blame the Republic for all that's happened. And the truth, of course, is that both sides must bear their own share of the responsibility. Yet at this moment, the Star Empire's military advantage is, quite frankly, overwhelming."

They weren't liking what they were hearing; that much was painfully obvious to her empathic sense, despite their impressive control of their faces. But she also tasted the bleak awareness that what she'd just said was self-evidently true. It was strongest from Pritchart and Theisman, but she tasted a surprisingly strong flare of the same awareness from Nesbitt. Montreau and Bourchier clearly recognized the same unpalatable truth, but there was something different, less personal about their recognition than Honor tasted in Nesbitt's.

Younger, on the other hand, seemed to be one of those people who were constitutionally incapable of accepting the very possibility of failure. It was as if he was able to intellectually recognize that Apollo gave the Manticoran Alliance a huge military advantage yet unable to accept the corollary that he could no longer "game" his way to the outcome he wanted.

McGwire and Tullingham, unlike Younger, clearly did recognize how severely the tectonic shift in military power limited their options, but that didn't mean they were prepared to give up. She suspected they'd be willing to bow to the inevitable, in the end, but only after they'd cut the best personal deals they could.

Well, they're welcome to cut all of the domestic political deals they want to, she thought grimly.

"The simple truth," she continued, "is that it's now within the power of the Royal Manticoran Navy to systematically reduce the orbital infrastructure of every star system of the Republic to rubble." Her voice was quiet, yet she felt them flinching from her words as if they'd been fists. "You can't stop us, however courageous or determined Admiral Theisman's men and women may be, even with the advantages of the missile defense system -- Moriarity, I believe you call it -- Admiral Foraker devised before the Battle of Solon, as we demonstrated at Lovat."

A fresh stab of pain ripped through Pritchart, and it was Honor's turn to flinch internally, in combined sympathy and guilt. Guilt not so much for having killed Javier Giscard, as for the way in which killing him had wounded Eloise Pritchart, as well.

"There are those in the Star Empire," she went on, allowing no trace of her awareness of Pritchart's pain to color her own expression or tone, "who would prefer to do just that. Who think it's time for us to use our advantage to completely destroy your fleet, along with all the casualties that would entail, and then to turn the entire Republic into one huge junkyard unless you surrender unconditionally to the Star Empire and the Manticoran Alliance. And, if you do surrender, to impose whatever domestic changes and limitations may be necessary to prevent you from ever again threatening the Star Empire or Queen Elizabeth's subjects."

She paused, letting her words sink home, tasting their anger, their apprehension, their resentment and frustration. Yet even now, hope continued to flicker, made even stronger in many ways by simple desperation. By the fact that there had to be some end less terrible than the total destruction of all they'd fought and struggled to build and accomplish.

"I would be lying to you, ladies and gentlemen," she resumed finally, "if I didn't admit that the Manticorans who would prefer to see the final and permanent destruction of the Republic of Haven probably outnumber those who would prefer any other outcome. And I'm sure there are any number of Havenites who feel exactly the same way about the Star Empire after so many years of warfare and destruction.

"But vengeance begets vengeance." Her voice was soft, her brown, almond-shaped eyes very level as they swept the faces of the Havenites. "Destruction can be a 'final solution' only when that destruction is complete and total. When there's no one left on the other side -- will never be anyone left on the other side -- to seek their own vengeance. Surely history offers endless examples of that basic, unpalatable truth. Rome had 'peace' with Carthage back on Old Terra in the end, but only when Carthage had been not simply defeated, but totally destroyed. And no one in the Star Empire is foolish enough to believe we can 'totally destroy' the Republic of Haven. Whatever we do, wherever the Star Empire and the Republic go from this point, there will still be people on both sides who identify themselves as Manticoran or Havenite and remember what the other side did to them, and no military advantage lasts forever. Admiral Theisman and Admiral Foraker demonstrated that quite clearly two or three T-years ago, and I assure you that we in the Star Empire learned the lesson well."

Something like an echo of bleak satisfaction quivered around the Havenite side of the table at her admission, and she met Theisman's gaze, then nodded very slightly to him.

"So the position of the Star Empire, Ladies and Gentlemen," she told them, "is that it's ultimately in the best interests of both Manticore and Haven to end this. To end it now, with as little additional bloodshed, as little additional destruction, as little additional grounds for us to hate one another and seek vengeance upon one another, as possible. My Queen doesn't expect that to be easy. She doesn't expect it to happen quickly. But the truth is that it's a simple problem. Solving it may not be simple, yet if we can agree on the unacceptability of failure, it's a solution we can achieve. One we must achieve. Because if we fail to, then all that will remain are more of those 'bad options' that have brought us to this pass in the first place. And if all that remain are bad options, then Her Majesty's Government and military forces will choose the option most likely to preclude Haven's threatening the Star Empire again for as many decades as possible."

She looked around the conference table again, sampling the whirlwind emotions behind those outwardly calm and attentive faces, and shook her head slowly.

"I personally believe, both as an officer in Her Majesty's service and as a private citizen, that that would be a disaster. That it would only sow the seeds of still another cycle of bloodshed and killing in the fullness of time. None of which means it won't happen anyway, if we fail to find some other solution. That I won't carry out my own orders to make it happen. So it's up to us -- all of us, Manticoran and Havenite -- to decide which outcome we can achieve. And my own belief, Ladies and Gentlemen, is that we owe it not only to all the people who may die in the future but to those who have already died -- to all our dead, Manticoran, Grayson, Andermani, and Havenite -- to choose the right outcome."

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 37

Chapter Eleven

"Good morning, Michael," the very black-skinned woman said from Rear Admiral Michael Oversteegen's com display.

"Mornin', Milady," Oversteegen drawled, and smiled slightly as her eyes narrowed. His chosen form of address was perfectly appropriate, even courteous . . . no matter how much he knew it irritated Vice Admiral Gloria Michelle Samantha Evelyn Henke, Countess Gold Peak. Especially in that upper-crust, languid accent. Of course, the fact that she knew he knew it irritated her only made it even more amusing.

Serves her right, he thought. All those years she managed t' avoid admittin' she was only half-a-dozen or so heartbeats away from th' Throne. Not anymore, Milady Countess.

It wasn't that Oversteegen had anything other than the highest respect for Michelle Henke. It was just that she'd always been so aggressive in stamping on anything that even looked like the operation of nepotism in her behalf. Oh, if she'd been incompetent, or even only marginally competent, he'd have agreed with her. The use of family influence in support of self-interest and mediocrity (or worse) was the single greatest weakness of an aristocratic system, and Oversteegen had studied more than enough history to admit it. But every social system had weaknesses of one sort or another, and the Manticoran system was an aristocratic one. Making that system work required a recognition of social responsibility on the part of those at its apex, and Oversteegen had no patience with those -- like his own miserable excuse for an uncle, Michael Janvier, the Baron of High Ridge -- who saw their lofty births solely in terms of their own advantage. But it also required the effective use of the advantages of birth and position to promote merit. To see to it that those who were capable of discharging their responsibilities, and willing to do so, received the preference to let them get on with it.

He was willing to concede that the entire system disproportionately favored those who enjoyed the patronage and family influence in question, and that was unfortunate. One of those weaknesses every system had. But he wasn't going to pretend he didn't see those advantages as a rightful possession of those who met their obligations under it . . . including, especially, the enormous obligation to see to it that those advantages were employed on behalf of others, in support of the entire society which provided them, not simply for their own personal benefit or the sort of shortsighted class selfishness of which aristocrats like his uncle (or, for that matter, his own father) were altogether too often guilty. In particular, one of the responsibilities of any naval officer was to identify and groom his own successors, and Oversteegen saw no reason he shouldn't use his influence to nurture the careers of capable subordinates, be they ever so commonly born. It wasn't as if being born into the aristocracy magically guaranteed some sort of innate superiority, and one of the greater strengths of the Manticoran system from its inception had been the relative ease with which capable commoners could find themselves elevated to its aristocracy.

Mike ought t' recognize that if anyone does, he reflected, given that her best friend in th' galaxy is also th' most spectacular example I can think of of how it works. When it works, of course. Be fair, Michael -- it doesn't always, and you know it as well as Mike does.

"What can I do for you this fine mornin'?" he inquired genially, and she shook her head at him.

"I was going to invite you to observe a little command simulation over here aboard Artie in a couple of days," she said, using the nickname which had been bestowed upon HMS Artemis' by her flagship's crew. "But given how feisty you're obviously feeling, I've changed my mind. Instead" -- she smiled nastily -- "I think you'd better join me for lunch so we can discuss the defenders' role. You've just inspired me to let you play system-defense force CO in our little exercise instead of Shulamit."

"I'd hate t' be quoted on this, Milady, but that sounds just a mite . . . I don't know . . . vengeful, perhaps?"

"Why, yes, I believe it does, Admiral Oversteegen. And, speaking as one decadent, effete aristocrat to another, isn't vengefulness one of our hallmark traits?"

"I believe it is," he agreed with a chuckle.

"I'm glad it amuses you, Admiral," she said cheerfully. "And I hope you'll go right on feeling equally amused when it turns out the other side has Mark 23s, too, this time."

"Why do I have th' impression you just this minute decided t' add that particular wrinkle t' th' sim, Milady?"

"Because you have a nasty, suspicious mind and know me entirely too well. But look at it this way. It's bound to be a very enlightening experience for you." She smiled sweetly at him. "I'll expect you at oh-one-thirty, Admiral. Don't be late!"

Michelle terminated the connection and tipped back in her flag bridge chair, shaking her head wryly.

"Are you really going to give the aggressor force Mark 23s, Ma'am?" a voice asked, and Michelle looked over her shoulder at Captain Cynthia Lecter, Tenth Fleet's chief of staff.

"I'm not only going to give the op force Mark 23s, Cindy," she said with a wicked smile. "I'm probably going to give it Apollo, too."

Lecter winced. The current iteration of the Mark 23 multidrive missile carried the most destructive warhead in service with any navy, and it carried it farther and faster than any missile in service with any navy outside what was still called the Haven Sector. That was a sufficiently significant advantage for most people to be going on with, she supposed, but when the faster-than-light command and control link of the Apollo system was incorporated into the mix, the combination went far beyond simply devastating.

"You don't think that might be a little bit of overkill, Ma'am?" the chief of staff asked after a moment.

"I certainly hope it will!" Michelle replied tartly. "He deserves worse, actually. Well, maybe not deserves, but I can't think of a word that comes closer. Besides, it'll be good for him. Put a little hiccup in that unbroken string of four-oh simulations he's reeled off since he got here. After all," she finished, lifting her nose with a slight but audible sniff, "it's one of a commanding officer's responsibilities to remind her subordinates from time to time of their own mortality."

"You manage to sound so virtuous when you say that, Ma'am," Lecter observed. "And you can actually keep a straight face, too. I think that's even more remarkable."

"Why, thank you, Captain Lecter!" Michelle beamed benignly and raised one hand in a gesture of blessing which would have done her distant cousin Robert Telmachi, the Archbishop of Manticore, proud. "And now, why don't you sit down with Dominica, Max, and Bill to see just how devious the three of you can be in putting all of those unfair advantages into effect?"

"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Lecter acknowledged, and headed off towards the tactical section, where Commander Dominica Adenauer was discussing something with Lieutenant Commander Maxwell Tersteeg, Michelle's staff electronic warfare officer.

Michelle watched her go and wondered if Cindy had figured out the other reason she was thinking about giving the op force Apollo. They weren't going to find a more capable system-defense CO than Michael Oversteegen, and she badly wanted to see how well the Royal Manticoran Navy's Apollo -- in the hands of one Vice Admiral Gold Peak and her staff -- could do while someone with all the Royal Manticoran Navy's war-fighting technology short of Apollo pulled out all the stops against her.

Her own smile faded at the thought. None of her ships currently had Apollo, nor did they have the Keyhole-Two platforms to make use of the FTL telemetry link even if they'd had the Apollo birds themselves. But unless she missed her guess, that was going to change very soon now.

I hope to hell it is, anyway, she reflected grimly. And when it does, we'd damned well better have figured out how to use it as effectively as possible. That bastard Byng may have been a complete and utter incompetent -- as well as an asshole -- but not all Sollies can be that idiotic.

She settled back, contemplating the main plot with eyes that didn't see it at all while she reflected on the last three T-months.

Somehow, when she'd just been setting out on her naval career, it had never occurred to her she might find herself in a situation like this one. Even now, it seemed impossible that so much could have happened in so short a period, and she wished she knew more about what was going on back home.

Be glad of what you do know, girl, she told herself sternly. At least Beth approved of your actions. Cousin or not, she could've recalled you as the sacrificial goat. In fact, I'm sure a lot of people think that's exactly what she should've done.

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 38


The four-week communications loop between the Spindle System, the capital of the newly organized Talbott Quadrant of the Star Empire of Manticore, and the Manticoran Binary System was the kind of communications delay any interstellar naval officer had to learn to live with. It was also the reason most successful navies simply assumed flag officers on distant stations were going to have to make their own decisions. There just wasn't time for them to communicate with their governments, even though everyone recognized that the decisions they made might have significant consequences for their star nations' foreign policy. But however well established that state of affairs might be, the potential consequences for Michelle Henke this time around were rather more significant than usual.

"More significant than usual." My, what a fine euphemistic turn of phrase, Mike! she thought sourly.

It didn't seem possible that it was one day short of two months since she'd destroyed a Solarian League battlecruiser with all hands. She hadn't wanted to do it, but Admiral Josef Byng hadn't left her much in the way of options. And, if she was going to be honest, a part of her was intensely satisfied that the drooling idiot hadn't. If he'd been reasonable, if he'd had a single functioning brain cell and he'd stood-down his ships as she'd demanded until the events of the so-called First Battle of New Tuscany could be adequately investigated, he and his flagship's entire crew would still be alive, and that satisfied part of her would have considered that a suboptimal outcome. The arrogant bastard had slaughtered the entire complements of three of Michelle's destroyers without so much as calling on them to surrender first, and she wasn't going to pretend, especially to herself, that she was sorry he'd paid the price for all those murders. The disciplined, professional flag officer in her would have preferred for him (and his flagship's crew) to be alive, and she'd tried hard to achieve that outcome, but only because no sane Queen's officer wanted to contemplate the prospect of a genuine war against the Solarian League. Especially not while the war against Haven was still unresolved.

But Elizabeth, Baron Grantville, Earl White Haven, and Sir Thomas Caparelli had all approved her actions in the strongest possible language. She suspected that at least some of that approval's firmness had been intended for public consumption, both at home in Manticore and in the Solarian League. Word of the battle -- accompanied by at least excerpts of Elizabeth's official dispatch to her, approving her actions -- had reached Old Terra herself via the Beowulf terminus of the Manticoran Wormhole Junction a month ago now. Michelle had no doubt Elizabeth, William Alexander, and Sir Anthony Langtry had given careful thought to how best to break the news to the Sollies; unfortunately, "best" didn't necessarily equate to "a good way to tell them."

In fact, Michelle had direct evidence that they weren't even remotely the same thing. The first wave of Solarian newsies had reached Spindle via the Junction nine days earlier, and they'd arrived in a feeding frenzy. Although Michelle herself had managed to avoid them by taking refuge in her genuine responsibilities as Tenth Fleet's commanding officer. She'd retreated to her orbiting flagship and hidden behind operational security and several hundred kilometers of airless vacuum -- and Artemis' Marine detachment -- to keep the pack from pursuing her.

Agustus Khumalo, Baroness Medusa, Prime Minister Alquezar, and Minister of War Krietzmann had been less fortunate in that regard. Michelle might have been forced to put in appearances at no less than four formal news conferences, but her military and political superiors found themselves under continual siege by Solarian reporters who verged from the incredulous to the indignant to the outraged and didn't seem particularly concerned about who knew it. From her own daily briefings, it was evident that the flow of newsies -- Manticoran, as well as Solarian -- was only growing. And just to make her happiness complete, the insufferable gadflies were bringing their own reports of the Solarian League's reaction to what had happened along with them. Well, the Old Terran reaction, at least, she corrected herself. But the version of the "truth" expounded on Old Terra -- and the reaction to it on Old Terra -- always played a hugely disproportionate part in the League's policies.

And it was evident that Old Terra and the deeply entrenched bureaucracies headquartered there were not reacting well.

She reminded herself that all of her information about events on the League's capital world was at least three T-weeks old. She supposed it was remotely possible something resembling sanity had actually reared its ugly head by now and she just hadn't heard about it yet. But as of the last statements by Prime Minister Gyulay, Foreign Minister Roelas y Valiente, and Defense Minister Taketomo which had so far reached Spindle, the League's official position was that it was "awaiting independent confirmation of the Star Empire of Manticore's very serious allegations" and considering "appropriate responses to the Royal Manticoran Navy's destruction of SLNS Jean Bart and her entire crew."

While Roelas y Valiente had "deeply deplored" any loss of life suffered in the first "alleged incident" between units of the Solarian League Navy and the Royal Manticoran Navy in the neutral system of New Tuscany, his government had, of course, been unable to make any formal response to the Star Empire's protest and demand for explanations at that time. The Solarian League would, equally of course, "respond appropriately" as soon as there'd been time for "reliable and impartial" reports of both the "alleged incidents" to reach Old Terra. In the meantime, the Solarian League "sincerely regretted" its inability to respond directly to the "purported facts" of the "alleged incidents." And however deeply the foreign minister might have "deplored" any loss of life, he'd been very careful to point out that even by Manticoran accounts, the Solarian League had lost far more lives than Manticore had. And that that Solarian loss of life had occurred only after "what would appear to be the hasty response of a perhaps overly aggressive Manticoran flag officer to initial reports of a purported incident which had not at that time been independently confirmed for her."

All of which had clearly amounted to telling the Star Empire to run along and play until the grown-ups in the League had had an opportunity to find out what had really happened and decided upon appropriate penalties for the rambunctious children whose "overly aggressive" response was actually responsible for it.

On the surface, "waiting for independent confirmation" sounded very judicial and correct, but Michelle -- unlike the vast number of Solarians listening to the public statements of the men and women who theoretically governed them -- knew the League government already had Evelyn Sigbee's official report on what had happened in both the "New Tuscany Incidents." The fact that the people who supposedly ran that government were still referring to what they knew from their own flag officer's report was the truth as "allegations" was scarcely encouraging. And the fact that they were considering "appropriate responses" to Jean Bart's destruction by an "overly aggressive Manticoran flag officer" and not addressing even the possibility of appropriate responses to Josef Byng's murder of three Manticoran destroyers and every man and woman who'd served upon them struck her as even less promising. At the very least, as far as she could see, all of that was a depressing indication that the idiots calling the shots behind the smokescreen of their elected superiors were still treating this all as business as usual. And if that really was their attitude . . . .

At least the fact that Manticore was inside the Sollies' communications loop meant Old Terra had found out about Admiral Byng's unexpected demise even before Lorcan Verrochio. In theory, at least, Verrochio -- as the Office of Frontier Security's commissioner in the Madras Sector -- was Byng's superior, but pinning down exactly who was really in charge of what could get a bit slippery once the Sollies' dueling bureaucracies got into the act. That was always true, especially out here in the Verge, and from her own experience with Josef Byng, it might be even truer than usual this time around. It was entirely possible that everything which had happened in New Tuscany, and even his decision to move his command there in the first place, had been his own half-assed idea.

Which doesn't mean Verrochio was exactly an innocent bystander, she reminded herself. He sure as hell wasn't last time around, anyway. And even if it was all Byng's idea -- this time -- Verrochio had to sign off on it under the Sollies' own regulations, officially, at least. And then there's always the Manpower connection, isn't there?

She frowned and suppressed an almost overpowering temptation to gnaw on her fingernails. Her mother had always told her that was a particularly unbecoming nervous mannerism. More to the point, though, as far as Michelle was concerned, she doubted her staff and her flagship's officers would be especially reassured by the sight of their commanding officer's sitting around chewing on her fingernails while she worried.

Mission Of Honor - Snippet 39


That thought elicited a quiet snort of amusement, and she ran back through the timing. It was obvious Elizabeth had reacted as promptly (and forcefully) as Michelle had expected. Additional dispatches had arrived since her initial approval of Michelle's actions -- along with the influx of journalists of every stripe and inclination -- and it was evident to Michelle that very few people back home had appreciated the patronizing tone Roelas y Valiente and Gyulay had adopted in the Solarians' so-called responses to Elizabeth's notes. She also doubted it had surprised anyone, however, since it was so infuriatingly typical of the League's arrogance.

When the first of the Solarian news crews reached Spindle, it had been obvious there was already plenty of blood in the water as far as they were concerned, even though they'd headed out for the Talbott Quadrant before the League had gotten around to issuing a formal press release about what had happened to Jean Bart. They'd arrived armed with the Manticoran reports of events, but that wasn't the same thing, by a long chalk. And the Solarian accounts and editorials which had accompanied the follow-on wave that had departed after the official League statements (such as they were and what there was of them) were filled with mingled indignation, anger, outrage, and alarm, but didn't seem to contain very much in the way of reasoned response.

Michelle knew it wasn't fair to expect anything else out of them, given the fact that all of this had come at them cold. Not yet, at any rate. And so far, none of the 'fax stories from the League which had reached Spindle had contained a single solid fact provided by any official Solarian source. Every official statement the Solly newsies had to go on was coming from Manticore, and even without the ingrained arrogance the League's reporters shared in full with their fellow citizens, it wouldn't have been reasonable for them to accept the Manticoran version without a healthy dose of skepticism. At the same time, though, it seemed glaringly evident that the majority of the Solly media's talking heads and pundits were being fed carefully crafted leaks from inside the League bureaucracy and the SLN. Manticore's competing talking heads and pundits weren't being leaked additional information, but that was mainly because there was no need to. They were basing their analyses on the facts available in the public record courtesy of the Star Empire of Manticore which, unlike the Solly leaks, had the at least theoretical advantage of actually being the truth, as well. Not that many of Old Terra's journalists and editorialists seemed aware of that minor distinction.

It was all looking even messier than Michelle had feared it might, but at least the Manticoran version was being thoroughly aired. And, for that matter, she knew the Manticoran version was actually spreading throughout the League faster than the so-called response emerging from Old Chicago. The Star Empire's commanding position in the wormhole networks could move things other than cargo ships, she thought grimly.

At the same time Elizabeth had dispatched her second diplomatic note to Old Terra, the Admiralty had issued an advisory to all Manticoran shipping, alerting the Star Empire's innumerable merchant skippers to the suddenly looming crisis. It would take weeks for that advisory to reach all of them, but given the geometry of the wormhole network, it was still likely it would reach almost all of them before any instructions from the League reached the majority of its local naval commanders. And along with the open advisory for the merchies, the same dispatch boats had carried secret instructions to every RMN station commander and the senior officer of every RMN escort force . . . and those instructions had been a formal war warning.

Michelle devoutly hoped it was a warning about a war which would never move beyond the realm of unrealized possibility, but if it did, the Royal Manticoran Navy's officers' orders were clear. If they or any Manticoran merchant ship in their areas of responsibility were attacked, they were to respond with any level of force necessary to defeat that attack, no matter who the attackers might be. In the meantime, they were also instructed to expedite the return of Manticoran merchant shipping to Manticore-dominated space, despite the fact that the withdrawal of those merchant ships from their customary runs might well escalate the sense of crisis and confrontation.

And, Michelle felt unhappily certain, office lights were burning late at Admiralty House while Thomas Caparelli and his colleagues worked on contingency plans just in case the entire situation went straight to hell.

For that matter, little though she cared for the thought, it was entirely possible the penny had officially dropped back home by now. But even if the Star Empire had received a formal response from the League -- even if the League had announced it would pursue the military option instead of negotiating -- Michelle hadn't heard anything about it yet.

All of which meant she was still very much on her own, despite all the government's approval of her previous actions and assurances of its future support. She'd received at least some reinforcements, she'd shortstopped the four CLACs of Carrier Division 7.1 on her own authority when Rear Admiral Stephen Enderby turned up in Spindle. Enderby had expected to deliver his LACs to Prairie, Celebrant, and Nuncio, then head home for another load, and the LAC crews had expected nothing more challenging than a little piracy suppression. That, obviously, had changed. Enderby had been more than willing to accept his new orders, and his embarked LACs had been busy practicing for a somewhat more demanding role. She expected her decision to retain them for Tenth Fleet to be approved, as soon as the official paperwork could catch up, and the arrival of another division of Saganami-Cs had been a pleasant surprise -- in more ways than one, given its commanding officer. For that matter, still more weight of metal was in the pipeline, although the original plans for the Talbott Quadrant were still recovering from the shock of the Battle of Manticore.

In a lot of ways, given Enderby's diversion, she was better off at the moment then she would have been under the initial plan, but that might turn out to be remarkably cold comfort if there was any truth to the New Tuscans' reports that major Solarian reinforcements had already been deployed to the Madras Sector, as well . . . .

Well, you've got orders for dealing with that, too, don't you? she asked herself. Of course, they're basically to "use your own discretion." It's nice to know the folks back home think so highly of your judgment, I suppose, but still . . . .

She inhaled deeply. Baroness Medusa, the Talbott Quadrant's Imperial Governor, had dispatched her own note directly to Meyers at the same time Michelle had departed for New Tuscany and Josef Byng's date with several hundred laser heads. It must have reached Verrochio two T-weeks ago, and she wondered what sort of response he'd made.

You'll be finding out soon enough, girl, she told herself grimly. But even if he dashed off a response the instant Reprise got there with O'Shaughnessy, it couldn't get back here for another T-week. And one thing Solly bureaucrats aren't is impetuous about putting their necks on any potential chopping blocks. So even if he didn't have a thing to do with anything that's happened -- however unlikely that is -- I doubt he's going to have been a lot faster out of the blocks than Roelas y Valiente was.

She remembered the old proverb that said "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." It was remarkably little comfort at the moment. She had absolute confidence in her command's ability to defeat any attack Frontier Fleet might launch against Spindle. They'd have to transfer in scores of additional battlecruisers if they hoped to have any chance against her own Nikes, Saganami-Cs, Enderby's CLACs, and the flatpack missile pods aboard her ammunition ships. In fact, she doubted Frontier Fleet had enough battlecruisers anywhere this side of Sol itself to take Spindle, even if they could send every one of them to call on her, and battlecruisers were the heaviest ships Frontier Fleet had. But Battle Fleet was another matter, and if the New Tuscans had been right about Solly superdreadnoughts at McIntosh. . . .

She gave an internal headshake and scolded herself once again. If there were Solly ships-of-the-wall in the vicinity, she'd just have to deal with that when she got confirmation. Which, of course, was one reason she'd assigned Oversteegen to defend against Mark 23s. She might relent and pull Apollo back out of the equation, but she doubted it, because the purpose wasn't really to smack Michael, no matter how much he deserved it for being such a smartass. And no matter how much she would enjoy doing exactly that, for that matter.

No, the purpose was to force one of the best tacticians she knew to pull out all the stops in defense of the Spindle System. Seeing how well her own staff did against a truly capable Mark 23-equipped opponent would have been desirable enough in its own right, yet that was actually secondary, as far as she was concerned. She was confident of her own tactical ability, but there was always something new for even the best tactician to learn, and Michelle Henke had never been too proud to admit that. She'd be watching Rear Admiral Oversteegen closely, and not just to evaluate his performance. If he came up with something that suggested tactical wrinkles to her, she'd pounce on them in a heartbeat, because she might need them altogether too soon . . . and badly.