Honorverse favorite passages

Somebody, rather. "There—s'perfect!" Despite the so-obvious nausea of the moment, there was something gleeful in the words. A moment later, Ginny was tottering off with great determination, somehow managing the oxymoron of "lurching steadily forward." She even managed—barely—to stay on her feet when, at one point, she stumbled out of one of her high-heeled sandals. But only by kicking off the other, forcing Victor to delay a moment while he scooped up the abandoned footwear.

That moment's delay prevented him from stopping Ginny before she could commit her Major Diplomatic Incident of the Minor Variety. Naomi was still more-or-less holding Ginny by the arm. But, not knowing Ginny as well as he did, didn't realize what she intended until the deed was done.

"Oh, Christ," hissed Victor, on one knee as he picked up the pair of sandals. He'd just lifted his head and seen where Ginny was headed.

A table toward the side, where the official delegation from the Solarian League was sitting. Minor diplomatic officials, all of them, identifiable by their distinctive consular outfits and the fact that they were obviously trying to maintain as low a profile as possible. They'd clearly been instructed to Make An Appearance For The Record—and nothing more than that. Victor had kept an eye on them, from time to time, and had seen that at no point had any of them so much as glanced in the direction of Jessica Stein, much less gone to pay their respects.

For all that he didn't much care for Stein himself, the studied insult angered him. He'd always found the Renaissance Association's preachments somewhat holier-than-thou and vacuous, true. But at least Hieronymus Stein had denounced the multitude of evils committed under the name of "Solarian League democracy and social justice," which was more than could be said of anyone in the Solarian League's own government, outside of a few figures like Oravil Barregos. Ginny herself having been one of the victims of that official indifference, Victor knew she had strong feelings on the subject of the League.

He lunged to his feet and made a desperate attempt to divert her. None of which availed any purpose except to bring him close enough to witness the entire ensuing scene in—quite literally—visceral detail.

Ginny staggered up to the table, bumped against it, braced herself on spread hands, and bestowed a green-faced smile on the six diplomats assembled at the table.
They all stared back at her, frowning slightly as diplomats will do when in the presence of gaucherie.

"Don't believe 've been introduced," Ginny blurted out. Words were at a premium now, running out like water on a beach before the tidal wave hits. "You people really make me sick."

The tsunami arrived, then, washing across five of the six before it was done. Some portion of Victor's brain decided he was witnessing a miracle. Two miracles, in fact—first, that any of the six diplomats had emerged unscathed, given the volume of the torrent and its volcanic energy; second, that a woman as small as Ginny could produce such a volume in the first place.
Startled, Naomi released Ginny's arm and stepped back. Startled beyond compare, the diplomats lurched to their feet and did likewise, tipping over their chairs in the process.

Not startled at all, Victor grabbed Ginny by an elbow, swung her around, and began marching her off. "Sorry 'bout that," he said over his shoulder to the now-very-distinctively-outfitted Solarian diplomats. "She's a bit under the weather," he added lamely, to the staring crowd around them—a statement which he privately thought was ludicrous. Like announcing the weather had turned iffy during a cyclone.

"See here!" he heard one of the diplomats cry out angrily.

"Sure," hissed Ginny. "Did I miss one?" She began struggling in Victor's grip, apparently determined to return and rectify the oversight.

For all her petite size, Ginny was no weakling. So even with Naomi now holding her other arm, Victor knew he was in for a struggle. He was about to let the pair of sandals drop, to free himself for desperate action, when a familiar mezzo-soprano voice intervened.

"Outrageous! You'll have to leave!"

An instant later, two powerful hands had his collar and the back of Ginny's sari firmly in their grip. Inexorably, they were propelled . . .
Away from the diplomats. Victor cocked his head around and saw that the lieutenant's grin was every bit as dazzling as he'd thought it would be.

"I wouldn't have missed that for anything," whispered Thandi Palane. "But we'd better get you out of here quick, before she starts an actual shooting war."

* * *
Once they were safely out of the big top and into the relative darkness beyond, the lieutenant released her grip on them and stepped away. Naomi was standing a few feet to one side, frowning. Now that Palane was back, Imbesi's good humor seemed to have vanished.

For a moment, Victor was afraid that the earlier catty unpleasantness would return. But Palane forestalled that by, once again, removing herself from the scene.

She came to attention, facing Ginny. Then snapped a very crisp salute. "Madam Usher, I salute you. The Solarian Marines salute you."

She flashed Victor that quick gleaming smile, said: "But you'd better make yourself scarce now," turned precisely on her heel and marched back into the big top. Her broad shoulders seemed to be quivering a bit, as if she were trying to suppress a laugh.

"We can't stop them," he said softly and looked up to meet his chief of staff's equally shocked eyes at last. "Anything we send out to meet them will only end up giving them extra target practice," he grated. "And the same thing is true of the shipyards. Hell, we always depended on the mobile force for the system's real security. Why bother to upgrade the forts to fire MDMs? That's what the frigging Fleet was for! Goddamn that bastard Janacek."

"Sir, how—I mean, what do we do now?" the chief of staff asked almost desperately.

"There's only one thing we can do," Higgins ground out. "I am not going to be another Elvis Santino, or even another Silas Markham. No more of my people are going to be killed in a battle we can't win anyway."

"But, Sir, if you just abandon the yards, the Admiralty will—"

"Fuck the Admiralty!" Higgins snarled. "If they want to court-martial me, so much the better. I'd love to have an opportunity to discuss their excuse for a naval policy in front of a formal court! But right now what matters is saving everyone and everything we can . . . and we can't save the yards."

The chief of staff swallowed hard, but he couldn't disagree.

"We don't have time to set scuttling charges," Higgins went on in a harsh, flat voice. "Get every work crew back to the main facility. I want all secure data wiped now. Once you've done that, set the charges and blow the entire computer core, as well. I don't want the bastards getting squat from our records. We've got about a ninety-minute window to evacuate anyone we're going to get out, and we wouldn't have the personnel lift to take more than twenty percent of the total base personnel even if we had time to embark them all. Grab the priority list and find everyone on it that you can. We're not going to be able to get all of them to a pickup point in time, but I want to pull out every tech with critical knowledge that we can."

"Yes, Sir!" The chief of staff turned away and started barking orders, obviously grateful for something—anything—to do, and Higgins rounded on his ops officer.

"While Chet handles that, I've got another job for you, Juliet." His corpse-like smile held no humor at all. "We may not have enough missiles with the legs to take those bastards on," he said, waving a hand at the tactical display. "But there's one target we can reach."

"Sir?" The ops officer looked as confused as her voice sounded, and Higgins barked a travesty of a laugh.

"We don't have time to set demolition charges, Juliet. So I want you to lay in a fire plan. As we pull out, I want an old-fashioned nuke on top of every building slip, every immobile ship, every fabrication center. Everything. The only thing you don't hit are the personnel platforms. You understand me?"

"Aye, aye, Sir," she got out, her expression aghast at the thought of the trillions upon trillions of dollars of irreplaceable hardware and half-completed hulls she was about to destroy.
"Then do it," he grated, and turned back to the pitiless display once more.

Yow wrote:
SftS

Every family has their black sheep, even the Housemans

But then there was Frazier Houseman, the only son of Reginald and Jacqueline's Uncle Jasper. Frazier, unfortunately, looked as much like Reginald Houseman as Michael Oversteegen looked like a younger edition of his uncle . . . Michael Janvier, also known as the Baron of High Ridge. The fact that Michael despised the uncle for whom he had been named and thought most of the Conservative Association's political leaders between them hadn't had the intelligence of a rutabaga, didn't mean he didn't share his family's conservative and aristocratic view of the universe. He was considerably smarter than most of the Conservative Association, and (in Michelle's opinion) possessed of vastly more integrity, not to mention a powerful sense of noblesse oblige, but that didn't precisely make him the champion of egalitarianism. And the fact that Frazier despised his cousin and had been known, upon occasion, to remark that if Reginald and Jacqueline's brains had been fissionable material, both of them in combination probably wouldn't have sufficed to blow a gnat's nose, didn't mean that he didn't share his family's liberal and aristocratic view of the universe. Which would undoubtedly make the two of them the proverbial oil and water in any political discussion.
Fortunately—and this was the cause of Michelle's surprise—Frazier Houseman gave every appearance of being just as capable as an officer in Her Majesty's Navy as Michael Oversteegen was. Whether or not their mutual competence could overcome the inevitable political antipathy between them was another question, of course.

Yow wrote:
On Houseman, Commander Frazier, RMN—XO, HMS Penelope. Acting chief of staff, Battlecruiser Division 106.1.

Everett Janacek was a Manticoran citizen and an officer of the Royal Manticoran Marine Corps.

Holding the rank of Lieutenant in the late 19th Century PD, he served as the commander of the Marine platoon aboard the destroyer HMS Hawkwing, replacing Shafiqa ibnat Musaykah.[1] (HHA5.3: LD)

It is unknown if he was related to Edward Janacek.

cthia wrote:War of Honor

"We can't stop them," he said softly and looked up to meet his chief of staff's equally shocked eyes at last. "Anything we send out to meet them will only end up giving them extra target practice," he grated. "And the same thing is true of the shipyards. Hell, we always depended on the mobile force for the system's real security. Why bother to upgrade the forts to fire MDMs? That's what the frigging Fleet was for! Goddamn that bastard Janacek."

"Sir, how—I mean, what do we do now?" the chief of staff asked almost desperately.

"There's only one thing we can do," Higgins ground out. "I am not going to be another Elvis Santino, or even another Silas Markham. No more of my people are going to be killed in a battle we can't win anyway."

"But, Sir, if you just abandon the yards, the Admiralty will—"

"Fuck the Admiralty!" Higgins snarled. "If they want to court-martial me, so much the better. I'd love to have an opportunity to discuss their excuse for a naval policy in front of a formal court! But right now what matters is saving everyone and everything we can . . . and we can't save the yards."

The chief of staff swallowed hard, but he couldn't disagree.

"We don't have time to set scuttling charges," Higgins went on in a harsh, flat voice. "Get every work crew back to the main facility. I want all secure data wiped now. Once you've done that, set the charges and blow the entire computer core, as well. I don't want the bastards getting squat from our records. We've got about a ninety-minute window to evacuate anyone we're going to get out, and we wouldn't have the personnel lift to take more than twenty percent of the total base personnel even if we had time to embark them all. Grab the priority list and find everyone on it that you can. We're not going to be able to get all of them to a pickup point in time, but I want to pull out every tech with critical knowledge that we can."

"Yes, Sir!" The chief of staff turned away and started barking orders, obviously grateful for something—anything—to do, and Higgins rounded on his ops officer.

"While Chet handles that, I've got another job for you, Juliet." His corpse-like smile held no humor at all. "We may not have enough missiles with the legs to take those bastards on," he said, waving a hand at the tactical display. "But there's one target we can reach."

"Sir?" The ops officer looked as confused as her voice sounded, and Higgins barked a travesty of a laugh.

"We don't have time to set demolition charges, Juliet. So I want you to lay in a fire plan. As we pull out, I want an old-fashioned nuke on top of every building slip, every immobile ship, every fabrication center. Everything. The only thing you don't hit are the personnel platforms. You understand me?"

"Aye, aye, Sir," she got out, her expression aghast at the thought of the trillions upon trillions of dollars of irreplaceable hardware and half-completed hulls she was about to destroy.
"Then do it," he grated, and turned back to the pitiless display once more.

Poor Allen Higgins. He watched helplessly, forced to destroy his own Star Nation's trillions of dollars worth of hardware, and again suffering impotence at Oyster's Bay. Why this man isn't going thru therapy, I've no clue.

But ... he can make the hard call! Higgins for President!!

Is there like a Secret Service that follows the First Space Lord around, because, like St. Just, too many people wanted to catch Janacek in a dark alley. And too many people wanted to help.

... Higgins snarled. "If they want to court-martial me, so much the better. I'd love to have an opportunity to discuss their excuse for a naval policy in front of a formal court!

In one catastrophic act of self-inflicted devastation, Allen Higgins had just destroyed more tonnage and far more fighting power than the Royal Manticoran Navy had ever lost in the entire four T-centuries of its previous existence, and the fact that he'd had no choice was no consolation at all.

cthia wrote:War of Honor

... Higgins snarled. "If they want to court-martial me, so much the better. I'd love to have an opportunity to discuss their excuse for a naval policy in front of a formal court!

This sounds awfully dèjá vuish.

In one catastrophic act of self-inflicted devastation, Allen Higgins had just destroyed more tonnage and far more fighting power than the Royal Manticoran Navy had ever lost in the entire four T-centuries of its previous existence, and the fact that he'd had no choice was no consolation at all.

Damn ... poor guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Impressive," said Anton, gazing down on the nuclear demolition device. He was doing his best not to let his surprise show.

Enough of it must have shown, though, to cause the chests of the young firebrands gathered in the basement of a modest seccy home to swell with pride. Their informal leader Carl Hansen said: "A cousin of—well, never mind the details—told us he could get his hands on one of them."

Anton nodded. He didn't want to know the details, anyway. "How'd you disable the locator beacon?"

Hansen's face went blank. He and the other youngsters in the room—David Pritchard, Cary Condor and Karen Steve Williams—exchanged glances.

"What's a locator beacon?" asked Williams.

Victor leaned away from the device—fat lot of good that would do!—and whistled soundlessly. He looked even paler than usual. Anton was pretty sure his own face looked about the same.

Moving carefully—fat lot of good that would do!—he pulled the com out of his pocket. A quick scanning search of the nuclear device yielded the port he needed. For something like this, Anton wanted a physical connection. So he pulled out the rarely-used cable attachment and plugged it into the port.

"What are you doing?" asked Cory.

"He's going to disable—try to disable—the locator beacon," Cachat said tonelessly. "Hopefully, before anyone in charge finds out the device isn't where it's supposed to be."

A bit of irritation crept into his tone: "Did you honestly think Mesans—hell, anybody—let nuclear explosive devices roam around loose?"

"Please be quiet, everyone," said Anton. "This is . . . really quite tricky."

He heard Victor suck in a little air. Coming from him, that was the equivalent of someone else shrieking My God—doom is almost certain! Cachat knew what a genuine expert Zilwicki was when it came to these things. If he admitted it was . . . really quite tricky . . .

Complete silence proved to be too much for the youngsters. "You mean . . . they can figure out where the thing is?" whispered Pritchard.

"To within three meters, as a rule," said Victor. He was back to speaking tonelessly. "At which point they have several options, although they'll probably settle for one of the first two."

Pritchard's eyes—quite wide they were, at the moment—stared at him appealingly, and Victor shrugged.
"First, they can send out the elite commando unit to retrieve it, with lots of very big, very nasty, and very efficient guns. Plenty to"—he gave the basement a quick scan—"well, to give all the walls down here a nice even coating of new paint. The color known colloquially as BGB. Blood, guts and brains." He smiled ever so slightly at his extremely attentive young audience. It was not a pleasant expression. "Or, second, they can detonate the device. True, that second option's usually a bit extreme, but they might not really care a lot about that. Especially if they figure out who's got the damned thing."

"What part of 'this is really quite tricky' did I not make clear?" Anton said crossly.

Finally, blessedly, silence fell. And, perhaps three minutes later, Anton succeeded in disabling the beacon. In a perfect world, he'd have reprogrammed the beacon to simulate a legitimate location. But there were simply too many unknown factors to risk doing that, here. They'd just have to hope that no one had spotted the device "wandering" over the past period. If they hadn't, they wouldn't spot the missing device now until a complete physical inventory was made. Fortunately, that didn't usually happen more than once a year, even with devices as potentially dangerous as these. Modern locator beacons were so accurate, reliable and tamper-resistant that people usually just relied on a periodic check of the beacons themselves.

And, also, fortunately, most people tended to equate "tamper-resistant" with "tamper-proof." Being fair, there really weren't very many people in the galaxy who could have done what Anton had just done.

“That’s what I expected to hear,” he said after a moment.
“You expected to hear that I thought he was telling the truth, or you expected me to tell you he was telling the truth anyway, like a good, loyal Queen’s officer?” she asked with a smile that was a bit more crooked than usual.
“That you’d tell me what you personally believe to be the truth . . . and that you’d distinguish between what can be realistically evaluated and what can’t be,” he said.
Honor’s eyebrows rose a millimeter or so at the unusual candor—or un-diplomat-like directness, at least—of his response, and he snorted in amusement.
“Honor, you’re never going to make a good liar,” he told her, “and only a fool—which Empress Elizabeth obviously isn’t—would expect you to be any good at it. I’m quite sure that’s why she wants me to talk to you before she talks to me.”
“Why is everyone always telling me I’m an incompetent liar?” Honor demanded a bit plaintively. “I admit, I don’t get as much practice as, say, a professional diplomat or a used air-car saleswoman, but still—!”
“It’s nothing personal,” Rabenstrange told her with a reassuring smile, “but no one can be accomplished at everything. It’s just that you’ve been too busy learning how to blow up starships and things like that to master the difficult arts of duplicity and chicanery as well.” He reached out to pat her on the arm. “Don’t take it too hard.”

“Commander Harrington, My Lord,” she said quietly but crisply. “Reporting as directed.”
“So I see.”
Webster leaned back in his chair behind the desk and contemplated her, his expression stony. He was a large man, although probably a bit shorter than Honor herself, with the unmistakable Webster chin. At the moment, he didn’t seem precisely delighted to see her.
“Stand easy,” he said after a wait just long enough to make the point that, starship commander or not, she was a very junior officer reporting to her service’s head under less than ideal circumstances.
She obeyed the command, dropping into an at-ease posture she hadn’t used very much over the last couple of T-years, and he let her stand that way for several more seconds.
“So, Commander,” he said finally, with more than a hint of a bite, “I assume you have at least some vague idea of why you’re here. Would that be a correct assumption on my part?”
“I believe so, My Lord.” Honor kept her own voice level, as steady as her eyes as she met his gaze.
“And why do you think you are?”
“My Lord, I expect I was ordered to report to you because of my actions and decisions in Silesia.”
It was harder than she’d expected to maintain her calm expression and keep her inner tension out of her tone. In another way, though, it was actually easier, as if the relief of finally being here, knowing she was finally about to learn the price of her actions, was a huge relief.
Or, she realized, as if being here, on the brink of learning that price, had burned away the last month’s growing uncertainty and left her as certain as she’d been the day she launched the attack on Casimir.
“Well, as it happens, you’re entirely correct about that,” Webster told her coldly. “It’s not every day a mere commander finds herself the focus of a cabinet-level exchange of notes between star nations, Commander Harrington. Indeed, I can’t remember the last time it happened . . . assuming it ever did. Before, at least.”
He showed a flash of white teeth in what no one would ever have mistaken for a smile.
“I’m aware, Commander, that certain of Her Majesty’s officers are of the opinion that the Confederacy Navy consists solely of grafters, bunglers, and incompetents. I’m also aware that certain of Her Majesty’s officers feel nothing but contempt for that navy, and that, on the basis of that contempt, they routinely denigrate both it and its officers. For that matter, I’m aware that certain of Her Majesty’s officers see no reason to pay that navy the least heed, or seek to cooperate with it even in its own sovereign space.”
He paused, his nostrils flaring.
“That is not, Commander Harrington, an attitude which I or Her Majesty’s Navy are prepared to tolerate. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Honor replied quietly.
“Secondly, Commander, it is the position of Her Majesty’s Navy that a Queen’s officer obeys the orders he—or she—is given. In particular, I draw your attention to the portion of your own recent orders which stressed the necessity of cooperating with and supporting Sector Governor Charnowska. I believe it was made clear to you at your predeployment briefing that the Sector Governor’s pro-Manticore attitude made it particularly important for us to avoid any incidents in the sector for which she is responsible. Am I mistaken in that belief?”
“No, Sir.”
“I thought not.”
He tipped his chair a bit farther back, regarding her in bleak silence for entirely too many heartbeats, then inhaled deeply.
“I am not, of course, privy to your innermost thoughts, Commander,” he said then. “However, speaking from my necessarily limited vantage point on what may or may not have passed through your brain before you opted to ally Her Majesty’s Navy with an avowedly terrorist organization before embarking upon a totally unauthorized raid on the sovereign territory of one of the Star Kingdom’s most important trading partners, it would seem to me to be difficult to . . . reconcile, shall we say, your subsequent actions with those orders. Would you care to take this opportunity to expound your no doubt tortuous logic paths to me?”
“No, Sir,” Honor said levelly, and one of his eyebrows rose. “I made my conclusions and reasoning as clear as I could in my reports, Sir,” she continued in response to that elevated eyebrow. “I don’t believe I could profitably expand on what I wrote and recorded at that time.”
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to start trying to whine and beg for any sort of special consideration at this late date, she added mentally.
“So you have nothing at all to add to those reports?”
“No, Sir.”
“I see.”
Once again, he contemplated her for several seconds in silence, then shrugged and let his chair come a bit more upright.
“Let me tell you a little bit about the correspondence which has passed between the Foreign Office and the Silesian ambassador here in Landing,” he said then. “The Confederacy has denounced your actions in the strongest possible language, Commander. They’ve lodged a formal complaint over your violation of their territory and their sovereignty. They’ve made it clear that they totally reject your authority to act as you did, and I’ve been informed that their high court is most likely going to conclude that any so-called evidence of wrongdoing you may have turned up subsequent to your attack on Casimir will be inadmissible in any Silesian legal proceedings. In other words, whatever misconduct on the part of individuals beyond the Elsbietá platform might otherwise have been uncovered and prosecuted will not, because of the nature of your operations there, be prosecutable, after all.”
Honor kept her face expressionless, but inside, her heart fell. If Obermeyer—and, especially, Charnowska—had managed to get all her evidence thrown out, then none of it would have any effect at all on cleaning up the cesspool of the Confederacy’s political corruption. The possibility that it would have had any effect might always have been slim, but now she knew it wouldn’t. And that the very people responsible for making the Casimir Depot possible were going to use her actions to protect themselves from any consequences for their own deeds.
“The ambassador,” Webster continued mercilessly, “has specifically pointed out that the Navy’s total failure to approach this matter through the proper channels has thus had a significant negative impact on the ability of Confederacy law enforcement agencies to do their jobs. In fact, Her Majesty’s Government has been informed that your intrusion into the Casimir System has completely negated an ongoing investigation. That criminals—Silesian criminals, not just foreign nationals—who would otherwise have faced trial will now be untouchable because of your contamination of the investigation and evidence against them.”
Honor felt her gorge trying to rise. If she’d thought for a moment anyone actually had been investigating the situation in Casimir, no doubt she would have felt like weeping, she thought bitterly. As it was, she found it entirely too easy to imagine the smile on Charnowska’s face as that particular bit was inserted into the diplomatic correspondence.
“I doubt very much, Commander, that it would be possible for me to adequately express to you the severity with which the Foreign Office, Prime Minister Cromarty, First Lord Janacek, and the Navy view these events. The fact that we cannot dispute a single factual element of the Silesian condemnation of your actions does not, to say the least, make any of us one bit happier. I wish you to understand, clearly and without ambiguity, that it is not the part of a single junior starship’s commander to negate the Star Kingdom’s foreign policy. Nor would Her Majesty’s Government be able, even if it so desired, to receive such a strongly worded protest from a foreign star nation without regarding it most seriously and without taking action upon it.”
Honor said nothing, waiting, wrapped around an inner, singing hollowness.
“It may surprise you to learn this, Commander,” Webster said in a marginally gentler voice, “but Her Majesty’s Government is neither unaware nor unappreciative of the lives you and your people saved and the slaves you liberated. No one in the Star Kingdom has the least quibble with your desire to save those lives and liberate those slaves. Were it not for the fashion in which you did so, and the interstellar political ramifications of your actions, I feel confident you would find yourself being commended rather than censured. Nor, apparently, is the government of Silesia unaware of that fact. Accordingly, the Confederacy has agreed that if we will take appropriate action in your case, the entire incident will be allowed to pass without public condemnation of your actions. Neither the Confederacy nor the Star Kingdom will make any public reference to or have any official comment upon anything that happened in Casimir. As far as our two governments are concerned, it will never have happened. Is that understood, Commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, she couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. Of course the Confederacy was “magnanimously” willing to eschew any public discussion! It would scarcely be in Charnowska’s interests for all this dirty linen to be publicly aired, now would it? The cockroaches were scurrying back into the shadows, and aside from the individual slaves and brutalized civilians she might have freed, nothing would change at all. Deep inside, she’d always known it wouldn’t, but having it confirmed—hearing how sanctimoniously the Confederacy was flaunting the fact that it wouldn’t—bit harder and deeper than she’d ever expected it might.
“I must also inform you, however, Commander Harrington,” Webster went on, “that Sector Governor Charnowska, in particular, is adamant that actions such as yours cannot be allowed to pass without penalty. That the Confederacy’s willingness not to publicly condemn them cannot be treated as some sort of excuse on the Star Kingdom’s part to avoid the unpleasant necessity of making it abundantly clear how extremely seriously we regard this entire situation. Accordingly, you are relieved immediately of command of Hawkwing.”
Despite all she could do, Honor’s face tightened. She’d told herself she was prepared for this possibility; now she knew she’d been wrong. Knew that whatever she might have recognized intellectually, she’d never even guessed how deep the emotional hurt would be.
“It is the opinion of the Admiralty, in which Prime Minister Cromarty has concurred, that no action will be taken against any of the officers or enlisted personnel involved in this operation,” Webster continued. “There will be no boards of inquiry, no courts-martial. Partly, of course, that will be because of the desire on the part of both star nations to minimize the public fallout of this entire episode. More important, frankly, however, is the extent to which your own reports make it abundantly clear that the officers and crew of the starship then under your command simply followed the legal orders of their commanding officer. Their actions were entirely proper—indeed, highly commendable—under those circumstances, and their service records will so reflect.”
At least she’d managed that much, she thought bitterly.
“It gives me no pleasure to relieve a starship captain under such circumstances,” the first space lord told her. “Speaking for myself, I find it impossible to condemn your motives. Nor, for that matter, do I think for a moment that you acted as you did without the full awareness that it could produce these consequences. For whatever it may be worth, I believe the intent of your actions, and the consequence of your actions—for others, at least—were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Royal Navy. That may seem like cold comfort at this moment, Commander Harrington. I hope though that, at some time in the future, you may remember I feel that way. And that there are a great many other people in Her Majesty’s Navy who would almost certainly feel the same way, if they were ever to learn of your actions.”
“Thank you, Sir,” she managed to say, and was astounded by how calm her own voice sounded.
“There will be no official letter of reprimand in your file, Commander. Your relief will be treated as a simple administrative move in keeping with Hawkwing’s expedited overhaul schedule. When you leave my office, you will report promptly to the Bureau of Personnel, where you will be given your official end-of-commission leave and your name will be placed in the pool of officers awaiting reassignment.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They really were going to make it all go away, as if it had never happened, she thought bitterly. Not even a letter of reprimand to explain why she’d been stripped of command—explain why she would spend the rest of whatever Navy career she might have beached on half-pay like any number of other officers who’d been found wanting in their Queen’s service.
“That will be all, then, Commander.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She braced to attention again, then turned mechanically towards the door through which she’d entered the office. She’d taken a single step when Webster spoke again.
“Just a moment, Commander.”
“Sir?”
She turned back towards him, and he frowned.
“I believe Admiral Courvoisier was one of your instructors at the Academy?”
“Yes, Sir. He was.”
Honor wondered if her puzzlement showed, and Webster grimaced.
“I’m afraid Admiral Courvoisier is one of the officers who’s been fully informed on this unfortunate affair,” he told her. “Given the outcome, you may find this difficult to believe, but before deciding how to respond to the Confederacy’s protests, I instructed my staff to interview as many senior officers with personal acquaintance with you as possible. It was my hope that by doing so I might form a better understanding of your motives . . . and, perhaps, be helped in reaching a decision in your case which would combine at least some elements of fairness with consideration of the needs of the Service.”
Honor’s jaw tightened. She didn’t even want to imagine how her old mentor had reacted to the news of her utter disgrace.
“The reason I mention this to you, Commander,” Webster told her, “is that in the course of my personal conversation with Admiral Courvoisier, he informed me that he was extremely saddened to hear about all of the trouble in which you’d landed yourself. I thought you might perhaps like to know that he argued quite passionately in your defense. That, in his opinion, you have never demonstrated less than total dedication to your profession, to the men and women under your command, to the Service, and to the honor of the Star Kingdom of Manticore. Nor does he feel that anything which has emerged out of your actions in Casimir alters his opinion one millimeter in that regard.”
“Thank—thank you, Sir.”
To her horror, Honor’s voice came out husky, almost cracked, and her eyes burned with the unshed tears the loss of her career had been unable to shake free. At least the admiral knew. At least he understood, and she hugged that knowledge to her.
“I hope that under similar circumstances, someone would have informed me of that, as well, Commander Harrington.”
There was frank compassion in Webster’s voice this time, and Honor looked at him. Silence stretched out between them, and then, finally, Webster let his chair come fully upright at last.
“There’s one last thing, Commander,” he said.
“Sir?” Honor asked when he paused again.
“As I say, I spoke personally to Admiral Courvoisier about your case. In fact, I’m afraid that when I screened him, I interrupted him. He was in conference with the senior instructors at the ATC facility.”
Honor nodded. She’d been delighted when Courvoisier finally received his long overdue promotion to flag rank and was given the Advanced Tactical Course—otherwise known as “the Crusher.” ATC was the final step towards senior starship command. A handful of officers might have received light hyper-capable commands without surviving the Crusher, as Honor herself had with Hawkwing, but no one who hadn’t passed ATC could ever hope to command anything heavier or more prestigious than that outdated destroyer. She could think of no one in the entire Navy better suited than Courvoisier to run the Crusher, and the fact that the Navy at large had finally recognized that had filled her with deep pleasure.
“As I’ve also already mentioned,” Webster continued, “the admiral was extremely distressed when I informed him that I saw no option but to relieve you of your command. He protested quite strongly, although, in the end, I believe he came to the view that it was the best decision all around.”
Honor flinched. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes darted in disbelief to Webster’s face, but to her mingled horror and disbelief, he was actually smiling at her!
“I believe that the reason he came to that view, Commander,” the First Space Lord of the Royal Manticoran Navy continued, “is that ATC is beginning a new training cycle next month. If we hadn’t expedited the paperwork to get you out of command of Hawkwing, it would have been impossible for us to fit you into that cycle, and you would have had to wait another six T-months before you could attend it.”
For a moment, it simply didn’t register. And then, suddenly, it did, and Honor’s eyes went huge.
“Don’t think for a minute that we’re not all dead serious about the extraordinarily dim view we take of officers who blithely disregard their orders,” Webster said, his voice momentarily grim once again. “And don’t even begin to think about getting into the habit of doing so! But this time, Commander—just this once—the Service is prepared to overlook this little faux pas on your part. Of course,” he smiled nastily, “if we can satisfy Sector Governor Charnowska and her allies by relieving you of command, so much the better. By the time they figure out what we’ve really done, the moment for them to press for something more . . . significant will have passed. But one of the reasons I just spent the last ten minutes scaring the hell out of you, Commander Harrington, is because you are not going to get away with something like this the next time. And you’d better be aware that you’ve just finished making yourself some significant enemies in places like Saginaw and Mesa. I doubt they’d even noticed you before, but, trust me—they’ll be keeping an eye on you from now on.”
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Good . . . even if I find it difficult to believe you really do, given the smile you can’t quite keep off your face,” Webster said dryly. “Now go.”
“Yes, Sir!”