by David Weber
She felt his pain, and his anger . . . and his shame. But under those emotions, she also tasted his understanding. It wasn't a happy understanding, and it wasn't really agreement, but in its own way, it was more precious to her than either of those things could possibly have been.
"How long will you need space?" he asked, and reached up to stroke Samantha.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "Sometimes I think there isn't enough space in the entire universe. Other times I hope that a break, long enough for both of us to catch our breaths, may be all we really need. But whether it is or not, it's the best I can do. If there's an answer, some sort of solution, I know I can't find it while I'm so busy fighting against letting myself love you."
He closed his eyes, his face tight, and she felt how passionately he longed to find some way to disagree with her. But he couldn't. And so, after an endless moment of silence, he opened his eyes and looked at her once more.
"I don't like it," he told her. "I'll never like it. But that doesn't mean I have any better answer than you do. But for God's sake, be careful, Honor! Don't go jumping into any more furnaces, because God help us all, but you're right. I do love you. Put space between us if you have to, but every time you go out and pull one of those 'Salamander' death-rides of yours, something dies inside me. There are limits in all things, love. Including the number of times you can dance on the razor and still come back to me."
She couldn't quite stop the tears now. Not after he'd finally admitted what they both knew. She started to speak, but this time it was his turn to raise one hand and stop her.
"I know you're right," he said. "We can't be together—not really. But I can't lose you, either. I thought I had once, when the Peeps told everyone they'd hanged you, and I can't do that again. So you come back, Honor Harrington. You come back from Silesia, and you come back alive. We'll find some answer, somehow, and you'd damned well better be here when we do!"
* * *
"I'm dreadfully sorry, Your Grace, but it simply won't be possible."
Honor leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, and her chocolate-brown eyes were on the cold side of cool as she gazed at the woman on the other side of the desk. Admiral of the Red Josette Draskovic was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, slender woman about thirty-five T-years older than Honor. She possessed an overabundant supply of nervous energy, and often gave the impression of fidgeting even when she sat completely still. She was also the woman who had replaced Sir Lucius Cortez as Fifth Space Lord, in charge of the Royal Navy's personnel and manpower management, and though she hadn't let a muscle in her face move even a millimeter, Honor felt her smiling in triumph deep down inside.
"Then I suggest that you make it possible," Honor recommended in an even tone.
"I beg your pardon?" Draskovic stiffened, bristling almost visibly, and Honor allowed herself to smile very slightly as she tasted the other woman's emotions. Nimitz was curled neatly in her lap, and the 'cat looked totally relaxed, almost sleepy. But Honor knew better than that; she could feel his seething anger as clearly as she could feel Draskovic's petty sense of power.
Honor and Admiral Draskovic had never met before Sir Edward Janacek returned as First Lord of Admiralty. Since then, they'd crossed swords twice, and Draskovic had not enjoyed either of her appearances before the House of Lords' Naval Affairs Committee one bit. She owed most of that lack of enjoyment to one Duchess Harrington, who'd turned up for the first one armed with her own analysis of the personnel figures included in the current naval estimates. The bare numbers Draskovic had reported to Parliament hadn't exactly been a lie, but the way she'd presented them had been. And Honor had not only caught her in the act but given the admiral enough rope to hang herself before she produced the actual breakdown between active duty and half-pay personnel.
It had not been Draskovic's best day, and her second appearance had been little better. She hadn't been caught in any lies that time, but Honor's devastating, relentless questions had driven her into near incoherence trying to defend basically indefensible Admiralty policy. She'd looked like a total incompetent—an amateur, competing out of her class—and she'd resented her humiliation even more because, unlike Honor, she'd always been one of the coterie of "political" admirals who'd made their careers out of negotiating the halls of political patronage. Which was undoubtedly the reason she held her present position.
Now it was Draskovic's turn to pay Honor back. As Fifth Space Lord, decisions on personnel assignments were ultimately her responsibility, and those assignments included things like the staff officers and flag captains assigned to fleet and task force commanders. The Royal Navy tradition was that a flag officer being sent out to command one of the Service's fleet stations had broad authority to select her own choices for those positions. The Bureau of Personnel had to sign off on her nominees, but that was only a formality. Traditionally, the only limiting factor was the availability of the officers in question, but Draskovic clearly wasn't a great believer in tradition. Especially not when ignoring it let her get her own back on someone who'd helped her humiliate herself so thoroughly.
Personally, Honor found that the admiral's sense of humiliation left her completely unmoved. Draskovic had made the decision to prostitute herself professionally by agreeing to serve under High Ridge and Janacek, and any embarrassment that brought her was entirely her own fault.
Obviously, Draskovic didn't see it that way, but unfortunately for her, Honor wasn't prepared to acquiesce in the other woman's small-minded vengeance. A fury every bit the equal of Nimitz's blazed behind her hard eyes. She was well aware that that fury owed as much of its strength to her own pain and anger over the wreckage the Government's attacks on her and Hamish had made of her life as to any professional concerns she might have had, and she didn't much care.
No, she thought, be honest Honor. You do care. Because the fact that Draskovic is enough of a political whore to make herself an accomplice of that sort of scum makes her an entirely appropriate target for how mad you are.
She allowed no trace of her own emotions' blazing power to touch her expression, but her eyes hardened still further, and that thin smile was very, very cold.
"I suggested that you make it possible, Admiral," Honor repeated coolly. "I've given you a list of officers whose services I'll require to discharge my responsibilities as the commander of Sidemore Station. Given the decreased tempo of our operational status against Haven, coupled with the recent drastic downsizing of our wall of battle, I cannot believe that the officers whose services I've requested can't be spared from other duties."
"I realize you consider yourself something of an expert on personnel management, Your Grace," Draskovic said tightly, her tone ugly. "Nonetheless, I suggest to you that I am in a somewhat better position to judge the availability of serving officers in Her Majesty's Navy."
"I have no doubt that you're in a better position to judge . . . should you choose to do so," Honor replied flatly.
"And what, precisely, is the meaning of that, Admiral Harrington?" Draskovic snapped.
"I thought my meaning was quite clear, Admiral. I meant that it's entirely evident to me that you have no intention of considering the actual availability of the officers I've requested. In fact, I very much doubt if you've checked their personnel files at all."
"How dare you?" Draskovic sat bolt upright in her chair, and her eyes blazed. "I'm quite well aware that you don't believe the rules of us petty mortals apply to the great 'Salamander,' Admiral Harrington, but I assure you that they do!"
"I'm quite sure they do," Honor conceded calmly. "That, however, has nothing whatever to do with the topic of our current discussion, Admiral. You're as well aware of that as I am."
"However grossly overinflated your self-image may be, Admiral, I remind you that I'm not merely a Space Lord but senior to you by a good fifteen T-years," Draskovic grated. "And I also remind you that neither an admiral's rank nor a peerage nor even the Parliamentary Medal of Valor gives you immunity fr
om charges of insubordination!"
"I don't expect them to . . . normally." Even now, in the grip of her own anger, a small corner of Honor was astonished by her own words. Was it possible that Draskovic's implication that she'd somehow come to see herself as special truly was behind her confrontational attitude? She couldn't completely rule that out, much as she might have liked to, but at the moment it didn't really bother her all that much.
"Meaning what?" Draskovic snarled, leaning forward over her desk to glare at Honor.
"Meaning that I'm as aware as you are—or, as aware as Sir Edward Janacek is, for that matter—that this command wasn't offered to me because of the enormous respect in which the current Admiralty administration holds me. It was given to me in no small part as a deliberate maneuver contrived to remove me from the political equation here in the Star Kingdom."
Draskovic sat abruptly back in her chair, her expression stunned. Clearly, she hadn't anticipated Honor's bareknuckled attitude, and the thinnest possible edge of true humor crept into Honor's smile as she tasted the other woman's astonishment. The fact that Honor had never once played the political game in her own career didn't mean she hadn't known how it was played, though it appeared that possibility had never crossed Draskovic's mind. But if Honor was going to play it at last, she would play it her way—head on, and damn the consequences. Let Draskovic react to it however she wished; they were never going to be anything except enemies, anyway.
"It was also given to me," she continued in that same, chill tone, "because of Silesia's potential to turn into a major catastrophe. You may have believed I was unaware of the fact that this Admiralty is willing to deliberately select a flag officer with the express intention of making her the scapegoat if our relations with the Andermani collapse. If you did, you were in error.
"So under the circumstances, Admiral Draskovic, any violence your sense of authority may have suffered as a consequence of my attitude leaves me completely unmoved. You and I both know that the only reason my personnel requests are 'impossible to meet' is that you chose to deny me the traditional prerogatives of a station commander out of a petty sense of spite. I can't prevent you from abusing your authority in that manner, Admiral. But if you choose to continue to deny my requests, then I'm very much afraid you're going to have to inform the First Lord that it will be impossible for me to accept the command after all."
Draskovic had opened her mouth to snap back, but she closed it with an abrupt click at Honor's last sentence. Her emotions spiked suddenly, and a cold flash of trepidation burned its way through the heart of her fiery anger. Shock was also a part of that spike—disbelief that Honor should so contemptuously drag the cynical political calculation and manipulation at the heart of her assignment to Silesia out into the open. Things simply weren't done that way, and sheer surprise momentarily paralyzed the Fifth Space Lord's speech centers.
Honor tasted every nuance of Draskovic's reaction, and the vicious pleasure it gave her surprised her just a bit, even now. But she allowed no sign of that to cross her face, either. She simply leaned back in her chair, watching Draskovic as the other woman grappled with the fact that she was willing to call the combined bluff of the Government and Admiralty alike.
"I—" Draskovic started to speak, then stopped and cleared her throat.
"I don't care for your tone, Your Grace," she said, after a moment, but her voice was much weaker, almost lame. "Nor do I agree with your so-called analysis of this . . . situation. And I'm not prepared to overlook insubordination and insolence from anyone, regardless of who they are or what their accomplishments may be."
"Fine." Honor stood, lifting Nimitz in her arms. "In that case, Admiral, I'll remove myself from your presence before I give fresh offense. Please be good enough to inform Sir Edward that I must regretfully decline the command of Sidemore Station. I hope you'll be able to find some other competent officer to fill the position. Good day."
She turned and started for the door, and the combination of fury, consternation, and panic blazing up from Draskovic was like a forest fire behind her.
"Wait!"
The single word popped out of Draskovic almost against her will, and Honor paused. She turned in place, looking at the Fourth Space Lord, and arched her eyebrows in polite question. Muscles bunched in Draskovic's jaw as she clenched her teeth so tightly Honor could almost hear them grinding from five meters away, but Honor said nothing. She only stood there, waiting.
"I . . . regret any . . . misunderstanding which may have arisen between us, Your Grace," Draskovic got out at last, and each word was like pulling a barbed splinter out of her flesh. "It's apparent that tempers have gotten . . . out of control here. I regret that, also. The fact that you and I do not agree politically and have had our public policy disagreements shouldn't be allowed to impair our professionalism as Queen's officers."
"I couldn't agree more," Honor replied with lethal affability, savoring the other woman's internal apoplexy, and Draskovic managed a rictus-like almost-smile.
"Good. It's possible that I was just a bit hasty in my judgment of the availability of some of the officers you've requested, Your Grace," she said. "I believe that it might not be inappropriate for me to reexamine my decision in those cases."
"I would be most grateful," Honor said. "However, I would have to insist—respectfully, of course—that the availability of all of the officers in question be . . . reexamined. It would be most unfortunate if the nonavailability of any of them made it impossible for me to accept the honor of the Sidemore command."
Her voice was calm, almost tranquil, but her eyes were like brown flint, backed by battle steel, and she felt something wilt inside Draskovic.
"It's Admiralty policy to be as forthcoming as possible in meeting the personnel requests of station commanders, Your Grace," she said after only the briefest pause. "I assure you that I will give your requests my complete and serious attention."
"Thank you. I appreciate that very much, Admiral," Lady Dame Honor Harrington said softly.
Chapter Sixteen
"I don't know what you did, Ma'am, but it certainly had some horsepower."
Captain (senior grade) Rafael Cardones smiled cheerfully and tipped back his chair while he nursed the stein of beer James MacGuiness had bestowed upon him. They sat in Honor's home office, and the sliding crystoplast wall of the bay window was open, turning it into a balcony onto the cool spring night. Night birds, both Manticoran and Old Earth imports, sang in the darkness, brilliant stars glittered above Jason Bay, and one of Manticore's moons poured silver light like syrup over the mansion's manicured grounds while the red, white, and green jewels of air car running lights drifted above the glassy smooth water.
"The last I'd heard," Cardones went on, "Werewolf was slated for a routine—and very boring—deployment to Trevor's Star. And then—"
He shrugged and waved his Old Tillman enthusiastically, and Honor used her stein to hide a smile as she sipped her own beer. She remembered rather clearly an inexperienced, overly anxious, bumbling, but extremely talented junior-grade lieutenant who'd suddenly found himself acting tactical officer aboard the elderly light cruiser Fearless. There was very little of that young man's anxiety or lack of confidence in the relaxed, handsome, competent-looking captain sitting across her coffee table from her, but the bright-eyed eagerness she also remembered was still very much in evidence.
"BuPers works in mysterious ways, Rafe," she said, after a moment, her expression serene. "I simply explained to Admiral Draskovic how badly I needed you, and she took it from there."
He cocked his head at her, his expression quizzical, and she tasted his amused disbelief. Apparently, he'd had the misfortune to meet Josette Draskovic, and he obviously suspected just how . . . congenial the Fifth Space Lord and Honor must have found one another's personalities. He started to say something, then visibly changed his mind and said something else entirely.
"Well, I can't say I'm going to miss Trevor's Star, Ma'am. It's a perfe
ctly nice star system, and the San Martinos are perfectly nice people, but there's not a whole lot to do there except drill. And I hope you know without my saying it how pleased and flattered I am by the assignment. It's really good to see you again, and having you fly your lights aboard Werewolf—Well, that's something the entire ship's company was delighted to hear about."
"I'm glad . . . assuming you're not just buttering the Admiral up, of course," Honor told him with a grin, and he chuckled as he shook his head in denial of the charge. "Seriously," she went on, allowing her grin to fade, "I was really impressed by how well you and your ship performed in Operation Buttercup, Rafe. You did darned well, and your experience will stand us in good stead if it falls into the toilet in Silesia."
"How likely is that to happen?" her new flag captain asked. His expression was much more sober, and he sat forward in his chair, elbows on thighs and clasping his stein in both hands while he watched her face with sharp, dark eyes.
"I wish I could tell you for certain," Honor sighed. "ONI is supposed to be sending us complete copies of its analysis of Andy ship movements in and around Marsh. Our information on those should be pretty good for the immediate neighborhood, but from what I've seen so far, its reliability is going to fall off pretty steeply outside that area."
She paused and gazed at Cardones thoughtfully. She'd already decided not to discuss her confrontation with Draskovic with him, for several reasons. First, of course, it was her fight, and not his. Second, while she rather doubted even Draskovic would attempt to retaliate by wrecking the careers of the junior officers whose services Honor had requested, she couldn't be certain of that. And she could be certain that if Rafe upped the ante by choosing sides in his seniors' quarrel the consequences for his career would be catastrophic, at least in the short term. In the longer term, he would probably survive whatever happened, because eventually, Janacek was bound to lose his position at the Admiralty. When that happened, his successor's first priority was probably going to be the rehabilitation of the officers Janacek's administration had purged. But rehabilitation after the fact wouldn't make the sort of vengefulness in which someone like Draskovic would indulge any more enjoyable at the time, and she knew her Rafe Cardones. He gave his loyalty the same way he did everything else—with conviction, enthusiasm, and a hundred and ten-percent effort. Worse, he had a passion (carefully hidden, he fondly imagined) for dragon-slaying, which only reinforced her decision not to tell him everything. She didn't need anyone else to fight her battles for her, but if she wanted Rafe safely out of the line of fire, the only way to keep him there was never to tell him a battle was being fought.
