Honorverse favorite passages

cthia wrote:She had never worn a skirt in thirty years?

Was Honor all about it or what! I have to admit, that a Queen in trousers was a bit much for me to assimilate as well. I expected Marie Antoinette-like adornment from Elizabeth. (And I'm a bit disappointed, even now, that she doesn't.)

If it ever reaches the big screen, I wonder what designer will represent Honor's tastes. And Grayson's as well.

JeffEngel wrote:

cthia wrote:She had never worn a skirt in thirty years?

Never worn one at all, in fact - check near the top of the passage. Think of her lifestyle. Coup de vitesse in a skirt? Hang-gliding in one? Traipsing through the woods in one? Doesn't work well. And remember, up until she and Paul Tankersley caught one another's eye, she was pure, consistent unadulterated tomboy. And she was almost entirely that still afterward, until she'd had years on Grayson in relative peace between Field of Dishonor and Honor Among Enemies (with Flag in Exile representing a bit of "excitement") and crafted Grayson's standard for being simultaneously professional, authoritative, feminine, and dangerous. (Which was probably a big part of what finally hit Hamish between the eyes, when that delivered a biting analysis of the upcoming naval paradigm straight into the teeth of his stodgy conservatism in In Enemy Hands.)

So no, no skirts. Not until she could reclaim the skirt for the warrior woman in repose.

Was Honor all about it or what! I have to admit, that a Queen in trousers was a bit much for me to assimilate as well. I expected Marie Antoinette-like adornment from Elizabeth. (And I'm a bit disappointed, even now, that she doesn't.)

If it ever reaches the big screen, I wonder what designer will represent Honor's tastes. And Grayson's as well.

Manticoran court dress seems to run to tuxedos with tails and frills, in colors based on one's noble house. I can see that being pretty sharp and stylish - not the mountains of hoops and skirts and chiffon and wigs and collars out to low orbit - but at least as elegant while being contained and well-able to emphasize sexual differences without having to be so very different from one sex to the other. (Being relatively form-fitting will do that.)

So now she made her way down the echoing stone hall towards the huge, closed portals, Nimitz cradled in her arms (her gown lacked the padded shoulder protection of her naval uniforms), while floor-length fabric swirled about her legs.

JeffEngel wrote:

cthia wrote:She had never worn a skirt in thirty years?

Never worn one at all, in fact - check near the top of the passage. Think of her lifestyle. Coup de vitesse in a skirt? Hang-gliding in one? Traipsing through the woods in one? Doesn't work well. And remember, up until she and Paul Tankersley caught one another's eye, she was pure, consistent unadulterated tomboy. And she was almost entirely that still afterward, until she'd had years on Grayson in relative peace between Field of Dishonor and Honor Among Enemies (with Flag in Exile representing a bit of "excitement") and crafted Grayson's standard for being simultaneously professional, authoritative, feminine, and dangerous. (Which was probably a big part of what finally hit Hamish between the eyes, when that delivered a biting analysis of the upcoming naval paradigm straight into the teeth of his stodgy conservatism in In Enemy Hands.)

So no, no skirts. Not until she could reclaim the skirt for the warrior woman in repose.

Was Honor all about it or what! I have to admit, that a Queen in trousers was a bit much for me to assimilate as well. I expected Marie Antoinette-like adornment from Elizabeth. (And I'm a bit disappointed, even now, that she doesn't.)

If it ever reaches the big screen, I wonder what designer will represent Honor's tastes. And Grayson's as well.

Manticoran court dress seems to run to tuxedos with tails and frills, in colors based on one's noble house. I can see that being pretty sharp and stylish - not the mountains of hoops and skirts and chiffon and wigs and collars out to low orbit - but at least as elegant while being contained and well-able to emphasize sexual differences without having to be so very different from one sex to the other. (Being relatively form-fitting will do that.)

cthia wrote:Never at all? Darn Honor! You're a girl, girl!

I had assumed that she at least had experience wearing one. Since some kind poster righted my misnomer a while back thinking that Honor was a virgin. Since she did date at least once prior to Paul - and it serious enough that she had given her fruit, I'd've thought she at least wore a dress or skirt, at least once or twice.

Of course, there's nothing like tight jeans to land a guy either.

Alas, if you are correct that she never wore a dress 'til the Grayson red carpet debut, then it's probably safe to assume her high-ness probably has no experience with heels either. She should steer clear of heels. Wouldn't want the Salamander to court death! It'd be quite ironic if the Salamander bought the farm at the end of a pair of pumps. So I'll assume she wears flats. I'll have to reread that passage for any hints of footwear.

I just wonder about flats and gowns. A woman's input needed here.

Edit:

So now she made her way down the echoing stone hall towards the huge, closed portals, Nimitz cradled in her arms (her gown lacked the padded shoulder protection of her naval uniforms), while floor-length fabric swirled about her legs.

She probably didn't wear flats as I get the impression that the echo is from hard heeled shoes of some sort. Flats are mostly quiet. Of course, there are hard heeled flats as well. Like the old-fashioned Buster Browns.

At the beginning of the passage it says she never wore skirts. I gave her the benefit of the doubt (perhaps erroneously) that she at least wore a dress.

Skirts and dresses are different battles to conquer, at least tactically.

(Right guys?)

Ginger Lewis' soul cringed as the tidal wave of damage reports spilled across DCC's displays. Half-hysterical shouts from the remnants of the Cargo One work party had already told her what had happened to three-quarters of Engineering's officers. Only Lieutenant Hansen, in Fusion One, and two ensigns were left. That dropped total responsibility for DCC squarely onto Ginger's shoulders, and she swallowed hard.

"All right, people," she said flatly to her shocked personnel. "Wilson, get on the link to Impeller Two. I need casualties and damage. Do what you can to assist through your telemetry." Wilson nodded curtly, and she turned to another petty officer. "Durkey, you're on SAR. Tie into sickbay and try to steer their rescue and medical parties around the worst wreckage. Hammond, you've got Radar Six. It looks like it's the array, but it may just be the data feed. Find out which it is, soonest. If it's the array, see if you can reconfigure Radar Four to cover some of the gap. Eisley, check Mag Four. I'm reading pressure loss in the compartment; that hit on Missile One-Six may have damaged the feed queue to Missile One-Four, too. If it has, reroute through—"

She went on snapping commands, reacting with the trained instinct for which Harold Tschu had picked her for this post, and her orders came with an unerring precision which would have filled the dead chief engineer with pride.

"Well, whatever they did to us, we must've hit them just as hard," Cardones said wearily, and Honor nodded. They'd done what they could for their wounded, and she and Rafe had tried every sensor in an effort to find the Peep battlecruiser. None of the systems they'd tried still worked, but Rafe was right. If the Peeps weren't at least as badly hurt as Wayfarer, they would already have finished her off.


Not that she needed much "finishing."


Honor shook herself, then reached up as Nimitz stirred on her shoulder. The 'cat twisted, and she felt his pain and confusion. But she also felt him reaching out to her—and to Samantha. She sensed his terrible surge of relief as he realized both of them were still alive, and he clung more firmly to the grab ring as he poured that relief into her.


But for now, she had to determine the condition of her shattered command, and how—?


"Captain Harrington, this is Lewis in DCC," a voice said over her suit com. "Captain Harrington, please reply."


"Lewis?" Honor shook herself. "Captain here, DCC. Go."


"Aye, Ma'am." The relief in Ginger's voice was as vast as Nimitz's, and she paused just a moment before she continued. "Ma'am, I've been contacting each station by suit com," she said, and her tone was flat now. "So far, less than twenty percent have responded. What we know so far is that Fusion One's gone, but Fusion Two is still on-line. Environmental's a total write-off. Main Hyper took a direct hit, and we've lost the generator. Both Warshawski sails are down, and Impeller One and Impeller Two are both badly damaged. We may be able to get a few beta nodes back in each ring, if we can find anyone for repair parties, but not the sails. Artificial gravity's also out—the Bosun's trying to get down there for a look. I won't know if we can get it back until I hear from her, but it doesn't look good. As nearly as I can tell, all sensors are out. We've got one operational graser in the port broadside, and a single tube to starboard, but no sidewalls, no radiation fields, and no particle shielding. The hull's a mess. Without a survey, I'm not sure we've got enough frame integrity left to stand up to the drive even if we can get the impellers back. Sickbay still has pressure and backup power, and I've got some people trying to restore main power to it. Flight Ops is totaled, but both pinnaces are intact, and we've got a pilot for both of them—one'll need a replacement flight engineer, though."


The voice on Honor's com paused, hesitated, and then resumed quietly. "The headcount from the people reporting in is under a hundred and fifty, Ma'am. I think that's pessimistic, but it's the only hard number I have now." Ginger cleared her throat. "That's my report so far, Captain. Sorry it's not complete, but we're working on it."


Honor's eyes were wide with astonishment. It was incredible. A senior chief—and one who'd been jumped from a mere second-class tech less than six months before—had somehow managed to pull together all that information entirely on her own initiative. Anguish for the death toll Ginger had reported twisted deep within her, but it only confirmed what she'd already guessed, and she couldn't let it paralyze her.


"Don't apologize, Ginger," she said, unable to see the other's flush of pleasure as she used her first name. "I can hardly believe you've already managed so much. Stay with it, and keep Commander Cardones informed in parallel with me. First priority is getting sickbay's power restored and making sure nothing happens to its atmospheric integrity."


"Aye, aye, Ma'am. We're on it."

The vista seemed just as glorious to the Scrag, a few seconds later, when he slid into the room from the duct he'd been following her down. The princess was a pretty girl, and looked well-shaped—all the more so with her fancy royal apparel torn and dirty and ragged, and her face flushed and sweaty.

Lust came easily to the Scrag, never more than now. He didn't have much time, but not much would be needed. He wouldn't even bother to undress. He grinned down at the girl and opened the front of his trousers. He was already erect.

Then, hearing a slight sound behind him, he began to turn. But the girl's voice cut his caution down, fluttering, like a knife cutting down a banner.

"You're going to rape me with that? Ha! Do I look like a chicken? Good luck, you pathetic shithead! Maybe you can dig up a pair of tweezers around here someplace. You'll need a magnifying glass, too, just to find it."

Rage came to the Scrag even more easily than lust. He took a step forward, raising his hand to strike her senseless.

An iron vise closed over his wrist.

"Not a chance." It was the voice of an ogre.

Mezzo-soprano, oddly enough.

Thandi had intended to just shoot the Scrag in the leg. But when she emerged from the duct and saw what he intended to do, that cold-blooded plan went flying. She left the pulser in the duct and slid easily and almost silently to the floor of the ventilation room.

She'd been raped herself, as a girl, in fact if not in name. In that moment, the Scrag in front of her was the embodiment of a childhood's serfdom.
* * *
As soon as Berry caught a glimpse of the shape looming in the duct behind the Scrag, her quick mind came up with the taunts she'd used to distract him. She'd intended to continue, but . . .

The tall figure now coming up behind the Scrag, having flowed into the room like liquid menace, was enough to silence anyone. Berry was vaguely astonished to realize that the thing was female, it looked so much like a demon. Taller than the Scrag, as wide in the shoulders—the creature just shrieked silent power.

Like an ogress, except for the human clothing. And except—
The ogress seized the Scrag's wrist, hissed something—Berry didn't catch the words—and slammed him into the metal housing of the air fans. Hard enough to put a dent in the thin covering deep enough to interfere with the fan blades. What followed was accompanied by the screeching of tortured metal as well as the screeching of the Scrag himself.

Except I think she'd actually be kind of gorgeous, if her face wasn't so distorted with fury.

The ogress now broke the Scrag's elbow; then, the other. About as easily as a person twisting off chicken wings. The Scrag was howling with agony. The howl was cut off by a forearm strike which broke his collarbone and sent him smashing into another wall.

Is there such a thing as a beautiful ogress?

The ogress stepped forward, her fist cocked and ready for a strike which would surely be fatal. Would crush the man's skull, wherever it landed. The ogress was obviously skilled in hand-fighting, but the skill was almost superfluous. Does an ogress need to be a martial artist? The fist itself, for all that Berry could see it belonged to a woman, looked as big and deadly as the head of a mace.

But, she stopped the strike. Barely, thought Berry, just barely. Then, a second later, the ogress shook herself like a dog shaking off water. Clearing away the rage, satisfied now with just letting the Scrag slump unconscious to the floor.

When she turned away and looked down at Berry, her face went through a transformation. The glittering pale eyes softened, the hard face even more. Rage faded from the cheeks, leaving them their natural color—very pale flesh slightly tinged with pink, almost a pure albino. It was a somewhat exotic skin color, coupled with those facial features.

Within seconds, the ogress was gone. Gone completely. Just a big woman remained. Very big, and easily the most powerful-looking woman Berry had ever seen in her life. And—in that moment, at least—easily the most beautiful.
"Damn," she said. "Princess Charming, to the rescue. If I weren't heterosexual, I'd be demanding a kiss." She started giggling, a little out-of-control. Then, staring down at her ruined clothing, giggled even louder. "The hell with a kiss. If you were a guy, I'd be tearing what's left of this off myself. See if I wouldn't."
The woman smiled—gorgeous smile—and reached down to take Berry's hand.

"Sorry, but we're both out of luck. I've got my kinks, but they're fixated on men."

She lifted Berry easily to her feet. "One man in particular," she muttered.

Hutch wrote:We've had several passages from Crown of Slaves recently (and it is a damn good read anytime), so here is the first meeting of Berry Zilwicki and Thandi Palane in a rather unusual setting, with mayhem included....

The vista seemed just as glorious to the Scrag, a few seconds later, when he slid into the room from the duct he'd been following her down. The princess was a pretty girl, and looked well-shaped—all the more so with her fancy royal apparel torn and dirty and ragged, and her face flushed and sweaty.

Lust came easily to the Scrag, never more than now. He didn't have much time, but not much would be needed. He wouldn't even bother to undress. He grinned down at the girl and opened the front of his trousers. He was already erect.

Then, hearing a slight sound behind him, he began to turn. But the girl's voice cut his caution down, fluttering, like a knife cutting down a banner.

"You're going to rape me with that? Ha! Do I look like a chicken? Good luck, you pathetic shithead! Maybe you can dig up a pair of tweezers around here someplace. You'll need a magnifying glass, too, just to find it."

Rage came to the Scrag even more easily than lust. He took a step forward, raising his hand to strike her senseless.

An iron vise closed over his wrist.

"Not a chance." It was the voice of an ogre.

Mezzo-soprano, oddly enough.

Thandi had intended to just shoot the Scrag in the leg. But when she emerged from the duct and saw what he intended to do, that cold-blooded plan went flying. She left the pulser in the duct and slid easily and almost silently to the floor of the ventilation room.

She'd been raped herself, as a girl, in fact if not in name. In that moment, the Scrag in front of her was the embodiment of a childhood's serfdom.
* * *
As soon as Berry caught a glimpse of the shape looming in the duct behind the Scrag, her quick mind came up with the taunts she'd used to distract him. She'd intended to continue, but . . .

The tall figure now coming up behind the Scrag, having flowed into the room like liquid menace, was enough to silence anyone. Berry was vaguely astonished to realize that the thing was female, it looked so much like a demon. Taller than the Scrag, as wide in the shoulders—the creature just shrieked silent power.

Like an ogress, except for the human clothing. And except—
The ogress seized the Scrag's wrist, hissed something—Berry didn't catch the words—and slammed him into the metal housing of the air fans. Hard enough to put a dent in the thin covering deep enough to interfere with the fan blades. What followed was accompanied by the screeching of tortured metal as well as the screeching of the Scrag himself.

Except I think she'd actually be kind of gorgeous, if her face wasn't so distorted with fury.

The ogress now broke the Scrag's elbow; then, the other. About as easily as a person twisting off chicken wings. The Scrag was howling with agony. The howl was cut off by a forearm strike which broke his collarbone and sent him smashing into another wall.

Is there such a thing as a beautiful ogress?

The ogress stepped forward, her fist cocked and ready for a strike which would surely be fatal. Would crush the man's skull, wherever it landed. The ogress was obviously skilled in hand-fighting, but the skill was almost superfluous. Does an ogress need to be a martial artist? The fist itself, for all that Berry could see it belonged to a woman, looked as big and deadly as the head of a mace.

But, she stopped the strike. Barely, thought Berry, just barely. Then, a second later, the ogress shook herself like a dog shaking off water. Clearing away the rage, satisfied now with just letting the Scrag slump unconscious to the floor.

When she turned away and looked down at Berry, her face went through a transformation. The glittering pale eyes softened, the hard face even more. Rage faded from the cheeks, leaving them their natural color—very pale flesh slightly tinged with pink, almost a pure albino. It was a somewhat exotic skin color, coupled with those facial features.

Within seconds, the ogress was gone. Gone completely. Just a big woman remained. Very big, and easily the most powerful-looking woman Berry had ever seen in her life. And—in that moment, at least—easily the most beautiful.
"Damn," she said. "Princess Charming, to the rescue. If I weren't heterosexual, I'd be demanding a kiss." She started giggling, a little out-of-control. Then, staring down at her ruined clothing, giggled even louder. "The hell with a kiss. If you were a guy, I'd be tearing what's left of this off myself. See if I wouldn't."
The woman smiled—gorgeous smile—and reached down to take Berry's hand.

"Sorry, but we're both out of luck. I've got my kinks, but they're fixated on men."

She lifted Berry easily to her feet. "One man in particular," she muttered.

cthia wrote:

JeffEngel wrote:Never worn one at all, in fact - check near the top of the passage. Think of her lifestyle. Coup de vitesse in a skirt? Hang-gliding in one? Traipsing through the woods in one? Doesn't work well. And remember, up until she and Paul Tankersley caught one another's eye, she was pure, consistent unadulterated tomboy. And she was almost entirely that still afterward, until she'd had years on Grayson in relative peace between Field of Dishonor and Honor Among Enemies (with Flag in Exile representing a bit of "excitement") and crafted Grayson's standard for being simultaneously professional, authoritative, feminine, and dangerous. (Which was probably a big part of what finally hit Hamish between the eyes, when that delivered a biting analysis of the upcoming naval paradigm straight into the teeth of his stodgy conservatism in In Enemy Hands.)

So no, no skirts. Not until she could reclaim the skirt for the warrior woman in repose.

Never at all? Darn Honor! You're a girl, girl!

Alas, if you are correct that she never wore a dress 'til the Grayson red carpet debut, then it's probably safe to assume her high-ness probably has no experience with heels either. She should steer clear of heels. Wouldn't want the Salamander to court death! It'd be quite ironic if the Salamander bought the farm at the end of a pair of pumps. So I'll assume she wears flats. I'll have to reread that passage for any hints of footwear.

I just wonder about flats and gowns. A woman's input needed here.

Edit:

So now she made her way down the echoing stone hall towards the huge, closed portals, Nimitz cradled in her arms (her gown lacked the padded shoulder protection of her naval uniforms), while floor-length fabric swirled about her legs.

She probably didn't wear flats as I get the impression that the echo is from hard heeled shoes of some sort. Flats are mostly quiet. Of course, there are hard heeled flats as well. Like the old-fashioned Buster Browns.

At the beginning of the passage it says she never wore skirts. I gave her the benefit of the doubt (perhaps erroneously) that she at least wore a dress.

Skirts and dresses are different battles to conquer, at least tactically.

(Right guys?)

No one would ever find her body, but it scarcely mattered, for the tidal bore of atmosphere slammed her against the edge of the hull breach and shattered her helmet instantly. John Kanehama screamed over his com as a flying alloy spear impaled him; Senior Chief O'Halley was cut in half by a splinter as long as he was tall; and Aubrey Wanderman retched into his helmet as the same splinter slashed through his own control party and tore Carolyn Wolcott and Lieutenant Jansen apart.

She waited another few seconds, then pressed the third button on the case—the one the new number code had armed—and two things happened. First, the small but efficient jamming pod hidden in the demolition charge on the outside of the shuttle came to life, putting out a strong enough field to trash any radio signal. The shuttle's com lasers could still get the detonation order through, but even as the jammer went into action, the end of the case opened and the familiar weight of a cocked and locked .45 automatic slid out into her hand.


None of Warnecke's men realized anything had happened, for the seat in front of Honor hid the case from them. Besides, they knew she was unarmed, for they'd checked the case without finding the giveaway power source of a pulser or any other modern hand weapon. The possibility of a something so primitive it used chemical explosives had never even occurred to them.


Honor's expression didn't even flicker as she brought the pistol up in a smooth, flowing motion, and its sudden, deafening roar filled the passenger compartment like the hammer of God. The bodyguard named Allen had his flechette gun ready, but he never even realized he was dead as fifteen grams of hollow-nosed lead exploded through his forehead, and the stunning, totally unexpected concussion shocked every one of the privateers into a fatal fractional second of absolute immobility. The second bodyguard was just as shocked as anyone else, and he hadn't even begun to move when the gun roared again in the same sliver of time.


The bodyguard was hurled back out of his seat, spraying the bulkhead—and Andre Warnecke—with a gray-flecked bucket of red, and Honor was on her feet, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip.


"The party is over, Mr. Warnecke," she said, and her eyes were carved of frozen brown flint. She had to speak loudly to hear herself through the ringing in her ears, and she smiled as the privateer stared at her in numb disbelief. "Stand up and move away from the transmitter."


Warnecke swallowed, eyes wide as he realized he'd finally met a killer even more deadly than he, then nodded shakenly and started to push himself up. That was the instant the pilot made a dive for a fallen flechette gun, and the terrible, ear-shattering concussion of the .45 hammered the compartment twice more. The double tap wasn't a head shot this time, and the pilot had over fifteen seconds to scream, writhing on the deck while aspirated blood gushed from his mouth, before he died. But Honor didn't even blink, and the pistol was trained once more on Warnecke's forehead before he could even think about going for his own sidearm..

cthia wrote:This is a twofer. (2 4 1). And they both come from my 13-yr-old niece.

Honor Among Enemies

No one would ever find her body, but it scarcely mattered, for the tidal bore of atmosphere slammed her against the edge of the hull breach and shattered her helmet instantly. John Kanehama screamed over his com as a flying alloy spear impaled him; Senior Chief O'Halley was cut in half by a splinter as long as he was tall; and Aubrey Wanderman retched into his helmet as the same splinter slashed through his own control party and tore Carolyn Wolcott and Lieutenant Jansen apart.

Uncle, I'm imagining puking into the helmet of the SCBA. Ewww!


****** *


One of the funniest things in the Honorverse. My niece's favorite. I am about to share an inside joke between my niece and I. It never ceases to get a laugh from us.

My brother has a .357 SIG. I'm telling you, it has to be the loudest handgun I've ever heard. That thing barks like a rutted beast! My niece was visiting him on his modest horse farm in Arizona and was on her mobile in the old barn. My brother spotted a rattler and set it off in the barn with that monstrous sounding gun. In the excitement, he didn't bother to warn my niece who, again, was chatting nearby on her mobile. Here is part of her, abridged (sorry) email ...

"Your brother is nuts Uncle. He shot that darn gun without warning me. Is he crazy or something? Was he trying to give me a heart attack or what?"

"Were you really that frightened Princess?"

"Are you kidding me Uncle? My butthole shut so tightly, that I was pooping diamonds for a week afterwards! Someone should just sell a small pocket device that simply sounds like a .357. Who in their right mind would be dumb enough to hang around to see if it's real?"

A few days ago she sends me this, and is why I'm in Honor Among Enemies now...

"Hey Unc.,

Remember the barn incident? Well imagine how Andre Warnicke must have felt when all of a sudden, BOOM BOOM BOOM, from Honor's .45. You know how much one shot frightened me? Well Warnicke was in a closed space and probably never ever even heard a gun like that before.

I betcha Warnicke shit his pants Uncle.


I'm speaking from experience, HE SHIT HIS PANTS UNCLE!

I know what you're thinking, but he shit them pants before he died!"

Honor Among Enemies

She waited another few seconds, then pressed the third button on the case—the one the new number code had armed—and two things happened. First, the small but efficient jamming pod hidden in the demolition charge on the outside of the shuttle came to life, putting out a strong enough field to trash any radio signal. The shuttle's com lasers could still get the detonation order through, but even as the jammer went into action, the end of the case opened and the familiar weight of a cocked and locked .45 automatic slid out into her hand.


None of Warnecke's men realized anything had happened, for the seat in front of Honor hid the case from them. Besides, they knew she was unarmed, for they'd checked the case without finding the giveaway power source of a pulser or any other modern hand weapon. The possibility of a something so primitive it used chemical explosives had never even occurred to them.


Honor's expression didn't even flicker as she brought the pistol up in a smooth, flowing motion, and its sudden, deafening roar filled the passenger compartment like the hammer of God. The bodyguard named Allen had his flechette gun ready, but he never even realized he was dead as fifteen grams of hollow-nosed lead exploded through his forehead, and the stunning, totally unexpected concussion shocked every one of the privateers into a fatal fractional second of absolute immobility. The second bodyguard was just as shocked as anyone else, and he hadn't even begun to move when the gun roared again in the same sliver of time.


The bodyguard was hurled back out of his seat, spraying the bulkhead—and Andre Warnecke—with a gray-flecked bucket of red, and Honor was on her feet, holding the pistol in a two-handed grip.


"The party is over, Mr. Warnecke," she said, and her eyes were carved of frozen brown flint. She had to speak loudly to hear herself through the ringing in her ears, and she smiled as the privateer stared at her in numb disbelief. "Stand up and move away from the transmitter."


Warnecke swallowed, eyes wide as he realized he'd finally met a killer even more deadly than he, then nodded shakenly and started to push himself up. That was the instant the pilot made a dive for a fallen flechette gun, and the terrible, ear-shattering concussion of the .45 hammered the compartment twice more. The double tap wasn't a head shot this time, and the pilot had over fifteen seconds to scream, writhing on the deck while aspirated blood gushed from his mouth, before he died. But Honor didn't even blink, and the pistol was trained once more on Warnecke's forehead before he could even think about going for his own sidearm..