by David Weber
And her answer still didn’t give him a clue as to why Captain Bachfisch wanted her aboard War Maiden.
“Well, Ms. Harrington,” he said at last, “if you want to help defend the Star Kingdom, you’ve certainly come to the right place. And you may have an opportunity to start doing it a bit sooner than you anticipated, as well, because we’ve been ordered to Silesia for antipiracy duties.” The young woman sat even straighter in her chair at that, and the ’cat’s tail stopped twitching and froze in the curl of a question mark. “But if you truly don’t harbor dreams of glory, make it a point not to start harboring them anytime soon. As you’re no doubt tired of hearing, this cruise is your true final exam.”
He paused, regarding her steadily, and she nodded soberly. A midshipwoman was neither fish nor fowl in many respects. Officially, she remained an officer candidate, holding a midshipwoman’s warrant but not yet an officer’s commission. Her warrant gave her a temporary place in the chain of command aboard War Maiden; it did not guarantee that she would ever hold any authority anywhere after this cruise, however. Her actual graduation from the Academy was assured, given her grades and academic performance, but a muffed midshipman’s cruise could very well cost her any chance at one of the career tracks which led to eventual command. The Navy always needed non-line staff officers whose duties kept them safely out of the chain of command, after all, and someone who blew his or her first opportunity to shoulder responsibility outside a classroom wasn’t the person one wanted commanding a King’s ship. And if she screwed up too massively on this cruise, she might receive both an Academy diploma and formal notice that the Crown did not after all require her services in any capacity.
“You’re here to learn, and the Captain and I will evaluate your performance very carefully. If you have any hope of achieving command in your own right someday, I advise you to see to it that our evaluations are positive ones. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Good.” He gave her a long, steady look, then produced a small smile. “It’s a tradition in the Fleet that by the time a middy has survived Saganami Island, he’s like a ’cat. Fling him into the Service any way you like, and he’ll land on his feet. That, at least, is the type of midshipman the Academy tries to turn out, and it’s what will be expected of you as a member of War Maiden’s company. In your own case, however, there is a rather special complicating factor. One, I’m certain, of which you must be fully aware. Specifically,” he pointed with his chin to the treecat stretched across the top of her chair’s back, “your… companion.”
He paused, waiting to see if she would respond. But she simply met his eyes steadily, and he made a mental note that this one had composure by the bucketful.
“No doubt you’re more intimately familiar with the Regs where ’cats aboard ship are concerned than I am,” he went on after a moment in a tone which said she’d damned well better be familiar with them. “I expect you to observe them to the letter. The fact that the two of you managed to survive Saganami Island gives me some reason to hope you’ll also manage to survive War Maiden. But I expect you to be aware that this is a much smaller environment than the Academy, and the right to be together aboard ship carries with it the responsibility to avoid any situation which might have a negative impact on the smooth and efficient functioning of this ship’s company. I trust that, also, is clearly understood. By you both.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said once more, and he nodded.
“I am delighted to hear it. In that case, Senior Chief Shelton will see you to your quarters, such as they are. Good luck, Ms. Harrington.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Dismissed,” he said, and turned back to his data terminal as the middy braced to attention once more and then followed SCPO Shelton from the compartment.
Honor finished making up her bunk (with regulation “Saganami Island” corners on the sheets and a blanket taut enough to bounce a five-dollar coin), then detached the special piggyback unit from her locker and lifted the locker itself into the waiting bulkhead brackets. She grinned, remembering one of her classmates—from a dirt-grubber Gryphon family with no Navy connections at all—who had revealed his abysmal ignorance the day their first lockers were issued by wondering aloud why every one of them had to have exactly the same dimensions. That particular question had been answered on their first training cruise, and now Honor settled hers in place, opened the door, flipped off the counter-grav, and toggled the locking magnets once its weight had fully settled.
She gave it a precautionary shake, despite the glowing telltales which purported to show a solid seal. Others had trusted the same telltales when they shouldn’t have, but this time they held, and she closed the door and attached the piggyback to the frame of her bunk. She took rather more care with it than she had with the locker, and Nimitz watched alertly from atop her pillow as she did so. Unlike the locker, which was standard Navy issue, she—or rather, her father, who had provided it as a graduation gift—had paid the better part of seventeen thousand Manticoran dollars for that unit. Which was money well spent in her opinion, since it was the life support module which would keep Nimitz alive if the compartment lost pressure. She made very certain that it was securely anchored, then hit the self-test key and nodded in satisfaction as the control panel blinked alive and the diagnostic program confirmed full functionality. Nimitz returned her nod with a satisfied bleek of his own, and she turned away to survey the rest of the berthing compartment known rather unromantically as “Snotty Row” while she awaited Senior Chief Shelton’s return.
It was a largish compartment for a ship as small—and as old—as War Maiden. In fact, it was about twice the size of her Saganami Island dorm room. Of course, that dorm room had held only two people, her and her friend Michelle Henke, while this compartment was designed to house six. At the moment, only four of the bunks had sheets and blankets on them, though, so it looked as if War Maiden was sailing light in the middy department.
That could be good or bad, she reflected, settling into one of the spartan, unpowered chairs at the berthing compartment’s well worn table. The good news was that it meant she and her three fellows would have a bit more space, but it would also mean there were only four of them to carry the load. Everyone knew that a lot of what any midshipwoman did on her snotty cruise always constituted little more than makework, duties concocted by the ship’s officer candidate training officer and assigned only as learning exercises rather than out of any critical need on her ship’s part. But a lot more of those duties were anything but makework. Middies were King’s officers—the lowest of the low, perhaps, and only temporarily and by virtue of warrant, but still officers—and they were expected to pull their weight aboard ship.
She lifted Nimitz into her lap and ran her fingers slowly over his soft, fluffy pelt, smiling at the crackle of static electricity which followed her touch. He bleeked softly and pressed his head against her, luxuriating in her caresses, and she drew a long, slow breath. It was the first time she’d truly relaxed since packing the last of her meager shipboard belongings into her locker that morning on Saganami Island, and the respite was going to be brief.
She closed her eyes and let mental muscles unkink ever so slightly while she replayed her interview with Commander Layson. The exec of any King’s ship was a being of at least demigod status, standing at the right hand of the Captain. As such, Layson’s actions and attitudes were not to be questioned by a mere midshipwoman. But there’d been something, an edge she hadn’t been able to pin down or define, to his questions. She tried once more to tell herself it was only first-day-aboard-ship nerves. He was the Exec, and it was an executive officer’s job to know everything she could about the officers serving under her, even if the officers in question were mere middies. Yet that curious certainty which came to Honor seldom but was never wrong told her there was more to it than that in this case. And whether there was or not, there was no question at all that he regarded Nimitz’s presence aboard War Maide
n as an at least potential problem. For that matter, Senior Chief Shelton seemed to feel the same way, and Honor sighed.
It wasn’t the first time, or the second, or even the twentieth time she’d faced that attitude. As Commander Layson had suggested, she was indeed fully conversant with what Navy regulations had to say about treecats and their adoptees in Fleet service. Most Navy personnel were not, because the situation arose so infrequently. ’Cat-human bonds were vanishingly rare even on Honor’s native Sphinx. The six-limbed arboreals were almost never seen off-planet, and they were even more uncommon in the Navy than in civilian life. Honor had done a little discreet research, and as far as she could determine, no more than a dozen or so current active-duty personnel of all ranks, including herself, had been adopted. That number was minute compared to the total number of people in the Navy, so it was hardly surprising that the ’cats created a stir whenever they did turn up.
Understanding the reason for the situation didn’t change it, however, and Honor had been made almost painfully well aware that Nimitz’s presence was regarded as a potentially disruptive influence by the vast majority of people who were unfamiliar with his species. Even those who knew better intellectually had a tendency to regard ’cats as little more than extremely clever pets, and an unfortunate percentage of humans never bothered to learn differently even when the opportunity presented itself. The fact that ’cats were unable to form anything like the sounds of human speech only exacerbated that particular aspect of the situation, and the fact that they were so cute and cuddly helped hone the occasional case of jealous resentment over their presence.
Of course, no one who had ever seen a treecat roused to fury could possibly confuse “cute and cuddly” with “harmless.” Indeed, their formidable natural armament was another reason some people worried about their presence, even though Nimitz would never harm a human being except in direct self-defense. Or in Honor’s defense, which he regarded as precisely the same thing. But people who’d never seen their lethality demonstrated had a pronounced tendency to coo over the ’cats and wish that they could have such an adorable pet.
From there, it was a short step to resenting someone else who did have one. Honor and Nimitz had been forced to deal with that attitude more than once at the Academy, and only the fact that the Regs were on their side and that Nimitz was a natural (and unscrupulous) diplomat had gotten them past some of the worse incidents.
Well, if they’d done it on Saganami Island they could do it here, as well, she told herself, and—
The compartment hatch opened with no warning, and Honor came quickly to her feet, Nimitz in her arms as she turned to face the unexpected opening. She knew the occupied light above the hatch had been lit, and opening an occupied compartment’s hatch without at least sounding the admittance chime first was a gross infraction of shipboard etiquette. It was also at least technically a privacy violation which was prohibited by Regs except in cases of emergency. The sheer unexpectedness of it created an unaccustomed confusion in Honor, and she stood frozen as a beefy senior-grade lieutenant, perhaps seven or eight T-years older than her, loomed in the doorway. He was two or three centimeters shorter than Honor, with a certain florid handsomeness, but something about his eyes woke an instinctive dislike in her. Or perhaps it was his posture, for he planted both hands on his hips and rocked forward on the balls of his feet to glower at her.
“Don’t even snotties know to stand to attention in the presence of a superior officer, Snotty?” he demanded disdainfully, and a flush of anger lit Honor’s high cheekbones. His eyes gleamed at the sight, and she felt the sub-audible rumble of Nimitz’s snarl through her arms. She tightened her grip in warning, but the ’cat knew better than to openly display his occasional dislike for those senior to his person. He clearly thought it was one of the sillier restrictions inherent in Honor’s chosen career, but he was willing to humor her in something so important to her.
She held him just a heartbeat longer, concentrating hard for the benefit of his empathic sense on how important it was for him to behave himself this time, then set him quickly on the table and came to attention.
“That’s better,” the lieutenant growled, and stalked into the compartment. “I’m Lieutenant Santino, the assistant tac officer,” he informed her, hands still on hips while she stood rigidly at attention. “Which means that, for my sins, I’m also in charge of Snotty Row this deployment. So tell me, Ms. Harrington, just what the hell are you doing here instead of reporting to me?”
“Sir, I was instructed to stow my gear and get settled in here. My understanding was that Senior Chief Shelton was—”
“And what makes you think a petty officer is more important than a commissioned officer, Ms. Harrington?” he broke in on her.
“Sir, I didn’t say he was,” she replied, making her voice come out calm and even despite her mounting anger.
“You certainly implied it if you meant to say his instructions were more important than mine!”
Honor clamped her jaw tight and made no response. He was only going to twist anything she said to suit his own ends, and she refused to play his stupid game.
“Didn’t you imply that, Ms. Harrington?” he demanded after the silence had lingered a few seconds, and she looked him squarely in the eye.
“No, Sir. I did not.” The words were perfectly correct, the tone calm and unchallenging, but the expression in her dark brown eyes was unyielding. Something flickered in his own gaze, and his lips tightened, but she simply stood there.
“Then what did you mean to imply?” he asked very softly.
“Sir, I meant to imply nothing. I was merely attempting to answer your question.”
“Then answer it!” he snapped.
“Sir, I was told by Commander Layson—” she delivered the Exec’s name with absolutely no emphasis and watched his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten once more “—that I was to remain here until the Senior Chief returned, at which time he would take me to formally report in to you.”
Santino glared at her, but the invocation of Layson’s name had at least temporarily stymied him. Which was only going to make things worse in the long run, Honor decided.
“Well here I am, Ms. Harrington,” he growled after a long, silent moment. “So suppose you just get started reporting in to me.”
“Sir! Midshipwoman Honor Harrington reports for duty, Sir!” she barked with the sort of parade ground formality no one but an idiot or an utter newbie would use aboard ship. Anger glittered in his eyes, but she only met his gaze expressionlessly.
It’s really, really stupid to antagonize him this way, girl! a voice which sounded remarkably like Michelle Henke’s chided in her head. Surely you put up with enough crap at the Academy to realize that much!
But she couldn’t help herself. And it probably wouldn’t matter that much in the long term, anyway.
“Very well, Ms. Harrington,” he said icily. “Now that you’ve condescended to join us, suppose you accompany me to the chart room. I believe I have just the thing for you to occupy yourself with until dinner.”
Honor felt far more nervous than she hoped anyone could guess as she joined the party assembling outside the hatch to Captain Bachfisch’s dining cabin. War Maiden was only three days out of Manticore orbit, and she and her fellow midshipmen had been surprised, to say the least, to discover that the Captain habitually invited his officers to dine with him. It was particularly surprising because War Maiden was almost thirty-five standard years old, and small for her rate. Although the captain’s quarters were indisputably larger and far more splendid than Snotty Row, they were cramped and plain compared to those aboard newer, larger ships, which made his dining cabin a tight fit for even half a dozen guests. With space at such a premium, he could hardly invite all of his officers to every dinner, but he apparently rotated the guest list regularly to ensure that all of them dined with him in turn.
It was unheard of, or almost so. But Captain Courvoisier, Honor’s favorite instructor
at the Academy, had once suggested to her that a wise CO got to know her officers—and see to it that they knew her—as well as possible, and she wondered if this was Captain Bachfisch’s way of doing just that. But whatever the Captain thought he was up to, finding herself on the guest list was enough to make any snotty nervous, especially this early in the cruise.
She looked around as unobtrusively as possible as the Captain’s steward opened the hatch and she followed her seniors through it. As the most junior person present, she brought up the rear, of course, which was only marginally better than being required to lead the way. At least she didn’t have to be the very first person through the hatch! But that only meant everyone else could arrive, take their seats, and turn to watch her enter the compartment last of all. She felt the weight of all those senior eyes upon her and wondered if she’d really been wise to bring Nimitz. It was entirely proper for her to do so, according to Regs, unless the invitation specifically excluded him, yet she felt suddenly uncertain and ill at ease, afraid that her seniors might find her decision presumptuous. The uncertainty made her feel physically awkward as well, as if she had somehow reverted to the gawky, oversized horse she’d always thought herself before Chief MacDougal got her seriously interested in coup de vitesse. Her face tried to flush, but she ordered her uneasiness sternly back into its box. This evening promised to be stressful enough without borrowing reasons to crank her adrenaline, but she could at least be grateful that Elvis Santino wasn’t present. Midshipman Makira had already endured this particular ordeal, and he had had to put up with Santino’s presence.
At least her lowly status precluded any confusion over which seat might be hers, and she scarcely needed the steward’s small gesture directing her to the very foot of the table. She settled herself into the chair as unobtrusively as she could, and Nimitz, as aware as she of the need to be on his best behavior, parked himself very neatly along the top of her seat back.
