Honor of the Queen 1993
Flag In Exile 1995
Echoes of Honor 1998
Ashes of Victory 2000
Changer of Worlds 2001
regarding this can-o-worms—originally unleashed upon the galaxy beginning here.
I have been referred to textev in other books but thus far cannot find anything that undeniably refutes the THING. The THING is found in Flag in Exile, along with this can-o-worms.
stewart wrote:snip
Honor's only link at those times to other's emotions was through Nimitz, and not fully developed then -- re-read Echoes of Honor and Ashes of Victory for specifics.
-- Stewart
Though in FiE it doesn't matter if her secret wasn't fully developed since Nimitz was present. But let's at least consider what textev in other books has to say . . .
dauntless wrote:in Changer of worlds (honorverse anthlogy 3, first story) nimitiz tells his clan that even now, she (Honor) does not realise that she (Honor) is now reading the emotions, instead of just picking up what nimitz sends her, meaning that her control is still less then what she will have later, and this is at least 2 T years after the fight. This story take place in the gap between book 6 and 7.
but Cthia is right to some extent that the ability to sense emotions could be seen as an unfair advantage by someone trying to twist things, though i'd say the years of martial arts training and the ability to recognise when someone will make a move and automatically countering it, as seen in her sparring matches in book 6, is a much greater one.
snip
HotQ Ch. 20 posted by Vince . . .
HotQ wrote:She’d always known Nimitz could feel her emotions, but she’d never knowingly felt his.
This time she did—and as she also felt the emotions of the fresh “Security detachment” through him, she exploded out of her chair.
Which leaves Ashes of Victory and Echoes of Honor.
Ashes of Victory Ch. One wrote:
Admiral Lady Dame Honor Harrington stood in the gallery of ENS Farnese's boat bay and tried not to reel as the silent emotional hurricane thundered about her.
She gazed through the armorplast of the gallery bulkhead into the brilliantly lit, perfect clarity of the bay itself, and tried to use its sterile serenity as a sort of mental shield against the tempest. It didn't help a great deal, but at least she didn't have to face it alone, and she felt the living side of her mouth quirk in a wry smile as the six-limbed treecat in the carrier on her back shifted uneasily, ears half-flattened as the same vortex battered at him. Like the rest of his empathic species, he remained far more sensitive to others' emotions than she, and he seemed torn between a frantic need to escape the sheer intensity of the moment and a sort of euphoric high driven by an excess of everyone else's endorphins.
At least the two of them had had plenty of practice, she reminded herself. The stunned moment when her people realized their scratch-built, jury-rigged, half-derisively self proclaimed "Elysian Space Navy" had destroyed an entire Peep task force and captured the shipping to take every prisoner who wanted to leave the prison planet of Hades to safety lay over three standard weeks behind them. [b]She'd thought, then, that nothing could ever equal the explosion of triumph which had swept her ex-Peep flagship at that instant, but in its own way, the emotional storm seething about her now was even stronger. It had had longer to build on the voyage from the prison the entire People's Republic of Haven had regarded as the most escape-proof facility in human history to freedom, and anticipation had fanned its strength. For some of the escapees, like Captain Harriet Benson, the CO of ENS Kutuzov, over sixty T-years had passed since they'd breathed the air of a free planet. Those people could never return to the lives they'd left behind, but their need to begin building new ones blazed within them. Nor were they alone in their impatience. Even those who'd spent the least time in the custody of the Office of State Security longed to see loved ones once more, and unlike the escapees who'd spent decades on the planet inmates called "Hell," they could pick up the threads of the lives they'd feared they would never see again.
Yet that hunger to begin anew was tempered by a matching emotion which might almost have been called regret. An awareness that somehow they had become part of a tale which would be told and retold, and, undoubtedly, grow still greater in the tellings . . . and that all tales end.
They knew the impossible odds they had surmounted to reach this moment, in this boat bay gallery, in this star system. And because they did, they also knew that all the embellishments with which the tale would be improved upon over the years—by themselves, as likely as not—would be unnecessary, peripheral and unimportant to the reality.
And that was what they regretted: the fact that when they left Farnese, they would also leave behind the companions with whom they had built that tale's reality. The unvoiced awareness that it was not given to human beings to touch such moments, save fleetingly. The memory of who they'd been and what they'd done would be with them always, yet it would be only memory, never again reality. And as the heart-stopping fear and terror faded, the reality would become even more precious and unattainable to them.
That was what truly gave the emotions whirling about her their strength . . . and focused that strength upon her, for she was their leader, and that made her the symbol of their joy and bittersweet regret alike.
It was also horribly embarrassing, and the fact that none of them knew she could sense their emotions only made it worse. It was as if she stood outside their windows, listening to whispered conversations they'd never meant to share with her, and the fact that she had no choice—that she could no longer not sense the feelings of those about her—only made her feel perversely guilty when she did.
snip
And they'd done it for her. She'd tried to express even a fraction of the gratitude she felt, but she knew she'd failed. They lacked the sense she'd developed, the ability to feel the reality behind the clumsy interface of human language, and all her efforts had made not a dent in the storm of devotion pouring back at her.
If only—
A clear, musical chime—not loud, but penetrating—broke into her thoughts and she drew a deep breath as the first pinnace began its final approach.
Ashes of Victory seems to hammer the embarrassing ability home.
Admittedly, time and my remaining holiday company has altogether conspired to prevent my compiling data from Echoes of Honor, but I anticipate no significant speedbumps.