by David Weber
But if, in fact, Teschendorff had any sort of ulterior—or at least so far unstated—motives for his invitation, the only way to find out what they might be was to accept it. Besides, the opportunity for an officer of her own seniority to make the acquaintance of a senior commodore in someone else’s navy didn’t come along every day.
“In that case, Sir,” she heard herself say, “Nimitz and I would be honored to accept.”
* * *
Commodore Teschendorff’s restaurant of choice turned out to rejoice in the name of Chez Fiammetta’s del Shenyang. Honor was no linguistic expert, but that name seemed even more gloriously mangled than usual to her, and she experienced a distinct twinge of doubt as she and Nimitz followed Teschendorff across an antique walkway of rain-glistening bricks and through its relatively modest front door.
She wasn’t a bit surprised when the maître d’ raised both eyebrows and began an automatic protest at the sight of Nimitz, but if she’d had any doubt about Teschendorff’s status as a regular, the speed with which the maître d’ surrendered to the commodore’s “explanation” would have banished them. As far as she could tell, no money even changed hands, yet within minutes, the two of them—and Nimitz—were seated at a linen-draped table looking out through multi-paned doors at a garden. The restaurant was built in a hollow square around the garden, and there were dining tables scattered among local flowering shrubs with brilliant blue leaves and crimson blossoms around the small fountain which formed the garden’s centerpiece. Under less damp conditions, they must have been the best seats in the house, she thought a bit wistfully.
A waiter materialized at Teschendorff’s elbow.
“Have you had the opportunity to sample any of the local wines, Commander?” the commodore asked.
“Actually, Sir, I’m not particularly fond of wine. Or, rather, I’m afraid my father is a much pickier wine snob than I am, and I’ve tried to avoid falling into that particular snare.”
Teschendorff chuckled and shook his head, and she smiled at him.
“What I would like to sample, if I may,” she continued, turning to the waiter, “is the local beer. I’m particularly partial to the dark beers or a good lager.”
“I see.”
The waiter’s accent didn’t sound like any of the local accents Honor had yet heard, and his complexion was considerably darker than a typical Jasperite’s, as well. His eyes went a bit distant for a moment as he appeared to think deeply, then they sharpened again.
“If I may, Ma’am,” he said then, “perhaps I might suggest the Lanzhou Dark. In my personal opinion, it’s the best of our house beers.”
“I’ll second that, Commander,” Teschendorff put in.
“In that case, let’s go ahead and give it a try,” Honor said with a smile.
“And I’ll have my own usual, John,” Teschendorff told him.
“Of course, Sir. And for your companion, Commander?” the waiter asked, looking courteously at Nimitz in the highchair she’d requested.
“For now, Nimitz will just have ice water, thank you.” Honor was pleased—and more than a bit surprised—that he’d asked.
“Um, should I bring it in a glass, Ma’am?”
“That would be fine,” Honor told him with another, broader smile. “I think a straw might be in order, though.”
“Of course,” he murmured again, and departed.
* * *
What followed was among Honor’s more . . . unusual gastronomical experiences. The restaurant’s apparently absurd name, it turned out, was an accurate reflection of its culinary offerings. Honor had no idea whether or not Chez Fiammetta’s was remotely typical of Jasperite restaurants, but its cuisine was a unique—and surprisingly delicious—fusion of Old Earth’s French, Italian, and Chinese cookery. At Teschendorff’s suggestion, she began with a soup course—a lemongrass gnocchi with shrimp—accompanied by a crisp green salad with seared tuna (although the fish in question didn’t look a thing like the Old Earth—or Sphinxian—species of the same name) and ginger dressing. The entrée was a house specialty which she could only think of as chow mein with prawns and Italian sausage in Alfredo sauce, garnished with ripe olives, which sounded bizarre, at best, but turned out to be extraordinarily tasty. And at Teschendorff’s suggestion, she added the House Profiteroles au Chocolat for dessert, which turned out to be equally delicious . . . despite the touch of licorice in the hot chocolate sauce and even though it had never occurred to her to try coconut ice cream instead of vanilla.
Nimitz had been equally well cared for, with a Carpaccio de Boeuf with a side order of celery sticks stuffed with a pesto and cream cheese blend. Teschendorff had watched with evident interest (and amusement) as the treecat devoured his meal with impeccable table manners, and their waiter seemed equally fascinated by his unusual diner.
It turned out to be one of the most pleasant meals Honor had ever enjoyed in Silesia, and Teschendorff turned out to be an equally pleasant dinner companion. He did, indeed, ask a great many questions—all of them intelligent and thoughtful—about both Nimitz and the Medusans who inhabited the sole oxygen-nitrogen planet of the Basilisk System, and unlike many Silesians she’d met, he appeared to be equally willing to answer questions about his star nation, in return. She was careful not to ask the sort of questions which might give offense, yet on more than one occasion, he ended up discussing aspects of the Confederacy’s endemic instability with what she privately considered to be devastating frankness for any serving Silesian officer.
All of which led her to reappraise his initial offer to take Evita off her hands.
“Well, Commander,” Teschendorff said finally, “I’ve enjoyed the conversation and the company, but I’m afraid I have an appointment.”
He laid his folded napkin on the table and stood. Honor rose as well, but he waved her back into her chair.
“There’s no need for you to run off, Commander Harrington,” he told her with a smile. “I know you said you weren’t a ‘wine snob,’ but there’s an orange blossom Muscat I wish you’d try.”
“Commodore, you’ve been entirely too generous—” Honor began, but Teschendorff only shook his head with another, broader smile.
“You and Nimitz have put up with more than enough questions to leave me in your debt,” he told her. “Besides, I fully intend to turn in the receipts for our repasts as part of my professional training and networking budget.”
She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and smiled back at him.
“All right, Sir. I still think you’re being too generous, but I’m greedy enough to go ahead and take you up on it, anyway.”
“Good! It’s been a pleasure, Commander. I hope we encounter one another again.”
He half-bowed, then turned and walked away, pausing on his way out of the restaurant to say something to their waiter.
A moment later, the waiter appeared at Honor’s elbow with a wine bottle for her examination. He extracted the cork, and she went through the entire sniffing, tasting, and approving ritual just as if she actually knew what she was doing.
As with the rest of Teschendorff’s suggestions, this one turned out to be excellent, and she sat back, looking out the windows at the garden while she enjoyed it. The rain had stopped, and shafts of sunlight reached down through the breaking banks of charcoal cloud to wake winking reflections from the wet brick walkways and splash the flowerbeds and shrubbery with bursts of brilliant, rain-drenched color.
She was just preparing to leave Chez Fiammetta’s, not without a certain regret, when her waiter reappeared.
“Do you require anything else, Commander Harrington?” he asked her.
“No,” she told him with a smile. “No, thank you. You’ve taken wonderful care of Nimitz and me.”
“You’re entirely welcome, Ma’am,” he replied, then cocked his head to one side. “Excuse me,” he continued, “but I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation with the Commodore, especially about your companion here.”
He nodded slightly in Nimitz’s direction. “I gathered that you were Manticoran. Given what you had to say about treecats and where they come from, I was wondering if you’d happen to be from Sphinx, yourself?”
“Yes,” Honor said a bit slowly after a moment, her eyes narrowing. “As it happens, Nimitz and I are both from Sphinx.”
“Well, I couldn’t help wondering—especially given . . . Nimitz’s presence—if you might happen to be related to Dr. Allison Harrington?” Honor’s narrowed eyes widened suddenly. “She’s from Beowulf, originally,” the waiter went on a bit quickly.
“As a matter of fact,” Honor replied even more slowly, “Dr. Harrington is my mother.”
The waiter’s eyes widened, yet Nimitz was watching him closely now, and Honor had the impression that the man wasn’t really surprised by the fact that she was Allison Benton-Ramirez y Chou Harrington’s daughter. He seemed more surprised by the fact that she was a naval officer . . . or that she was here on Jasper, perhaps. She wasn’t certain why she thought that, but the impression was quite strong.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if making his mind up about something, then cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, Ma’am. I’m sure I seem to be poking my nose into your affairs, and I apologize for that, but I didn’t really expect to encounter Dr. Harrington’s daughter here in Silesia. Now that I have, I can’t help wondering if you happen to share your mother’s views on genetic slavery.”
Honor managed not to blink. She knew bizarre coincidences abounded, and she’d experienced more than a few of them herself, yet nothing had prepared her for the possibility of encountering someone who actually seemed to know her mother here in Silesia. Nor could she imagine where this conversation was headed. Still, there was only one honest answer to the question he’d just asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking him levelly in the eye. “Yes, I do.”
“Somehow,” he murmured, “that doesn’t really surprise me.”
“May I ask why not?” she inquired, grasping the dilemma firmly by the horns.
“Why I’m not surprised, Ma’am?” He smiled crookedly. “I haven’t seen your mother in a great many years, Commander, but I know several members of her family—your family, I suppose, for that matter—on Beowulf quite well, actually. And I’m familiar with its history.”
“And is there a specific reason that you’ve drawn this to my attention? Besides a simple desire to reminisce about my Beowulfan relatives, I mean?”
“Actually, there is,” he said in a much quieter voice. “I don’t think this is the time or place to explain it all, though. Is there some way I could reach you aboard your ship . . . without anyone knowing?”
Honor’s eyes were no longer merely puzzled. They’d narrowed and hardened, yet despite the intensity of the gaze she bent upon the waiter, she was watching Nimitz out of the corner of her vision, as well. The ’cat’s ears were upright but pointed in the waiter’s direction, his slit-pupilled eyes were intent, and the very tip of his tail curled up in a sort of frozen question mark. Whatever else might be happening here, Nimitz obviously sensed no immediate threat.
Which, coupled with the waiter’s last question, gave Honor furiously to think.
“I can’t answer that,” she said finally. “I can tell you that any conversation with my ship would be completely secure from our end, but I’m not in any position to vouch for its security from this end.”
She didn’t bother to add that any breach of her ship’s communications security from the Jasper end would be a serious violation of all sorts of solemn interstellar agreements. Nor, from the look in his eyes, was he surprised by her response. Or happy about it, for that matter.
“It happens,” she heard her own voice continuing, without any conscious decision on her part, “that no one expects me back aboard in the next two or three hours, though.”
The waiter brightened visibly.
“In that case, Commander,” he said, “I mean, given that you’ve got some time to kill before returning to your ship and that it’s stopped raining, I wonder if you’ve seen Wozniak Park?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wozniak Park, Ma’am. I mean, Mikolaj Wozniak Memorial Park. It’s named for the first Saginaw Sector governor, Mikolaj Wozniak. It’s quite close, actually—only about three and a half kilometers from here—and it’s famous throughout the system for its landscaping and water features.”
“No,” she said, watching his expression closely. “No, I haven’t had the opportunity to visit it yet.”
“Well, I’d really hate for you to miss it,” he said. “Especially if you don’t have to be back aboard your ship for another couple of hours. I think”—he looked straight into her eyes—“that you’d find it well worth your time.”
Honor glanced at Nimitz one last time. The treecat still seemed fascinated by the waiter, but she saw no sign of threat response in his body language, and she looked back at the man.
“I appreciate the advice,” she told him. “And, given the strength of the recommendation, I may just try to take a look at it before I head back to the port.”
* * *
“Tell me, Stinker—do you think I’ve lost my mind? Because I’ve got to tell you,” Honor Harrington shook her head, gazing out across the sparkling blue waters of Mikolaj Wozniak Memorial Park’s central lake, “I’m pretty sure I have!”
She and Nimitz sat on a bench which was still slightly damp under a sky which had turned into crystal blue banded with chunks of still dark-bottomed clouds. Sunlight highlighted the upper portions of those clouds dramatically in dazzling white, and Honor found herself wondering if today were some sort of local holiday, given the number of obviously school-aged children who seemed to be materializing out of thin air. Dozens of remote-controlled boats dotted the lake’s surface, including some of the best working sail-powered vessels Honor had ever seen. At least one of them had three fully rigged masts, and as she watched, the model—probably the next best thing to two meters in length—came about, head sails and yards resetting themselves smoothly. Others churned busily about under power, and despite the relatively cool weather (for Jasper; for Sphinx, it was actually quite warm), a couple of dozen kids were wading in the lake’s shallows. More were tearing about madly in some local variant of tag, and shouts, laughter, and squeals of delight wafted from playground equipment and a magnificently muddy soccer field in a backdrop of such utter normalcy that it was hard to remember she was really here to do anything but enjoy the park.
Nimitz didn’t seem to have any trouble remembering that, though. As she finished her question, he stood straight up right in her lap, turning to face her, and laid the palm of one long-fingered true-hand against her cheek, then shook his head in an unmistakable “no.” She looked down at him, and her lips quirked in a smile.
“I’d feel better about your diagnosis if you hadn’t so happily gone along with some of the other incredibly stupid things I’ve done in my life,” she told him severely. “Like, oh, buzzing the commodore during the Regatta, for example. You and Mike both thought that one was a wonderful idea, if memory serves.”
The ’cat bleeked, wrinkling his muzzle and twitching his long whiskers at her. She grinned back at him, although there was a certain degree of truth to her accusation. Nimitz had the soul of a practical joker with a particularly low sense of humor, and he’d gleefully aided and abetted her in more than one outrageous Academy prank. The incident with the Regatta was simply the most spectacular one for which they’d been caught.
She chuckled and wrapped both arms around him, lowering her head until the bottom of her chin rested gently on top of his skull. They sat quietly, admiring the park—which truly was as beautiful as the bizarre waiter had told her it was—and the radio-controlled sailboats slicing across it on the brisk afternoon breeze, and her smile slowly faded.
It was never a good idea for the captain of a Queen’s ship to go traipsing off on her own, and Honor was well aware of
that minor fact. If she hadn’t been able to figure it out on her own, she’d sat through literally dozens of security briefings which would have made the point for her quite nicely. There were any number of ill-intentioned souls who would just love to get their hands on the sort of information a starship commander could provide. Or, for that matter, on the ransom money the Royal Navy might decide to pay to get her back before all that information got compromised.
Up until the point she’d headed for this park, any threat to her personal security had been minimal. The spaceport and its immediate environs were probably the best policed areas of the entire planet, since it would never have done for tourists and important business travelers to find themselves robbed, assaulted, or abducted. Chez Fiammetta’s had been no more than a couple of kilometers outside the port itself, and she and Teschendorff had made the trip to it in an air taxi, so security hadn’t been much of an issue then, either.
It was now . . . and she knew it.
She hadn’t taken any taxis to get to the park. Instead, she’d walked, and more than one set of curious eyes had followed the space-black-and-gold Manticoran uniform along the damp, shaded sidewalk. Now she was simply sitting here, holding Nimitz in her lap on the lakeside bench, and she had no doubt that if Nimitz had been wrong about the waiter’s emotions the two of them had to present an incredibly tempting target to anyone who wished her—or Manticore—ill.
Of course, there were targets . . . and then there were targets. Anyone who’d never seen a Sphinxian treecat in action could probably be excused for thinking of Nimitz as primarily an adorable, fluffy pet. For that matter, the ’cat went to considerable pains to project exactly that image. The truth was rather different, given his ability to sense the emotions of any potential enemy at ranges of up to a couple of hundred meters, especially if those emotions focused upon him or his person. Then there was the fact that a treecat’s natural weapons were astonishingly lethal, especially for a creature of its diminutive size. And in addition to Nimitz’s abilities and weaponry, there was the three-millimeter pulser in the shoulder holster under Honor’s tunic. It wasn’t as heavy as the weapon she’d habitually carried in a belt holster from the time she was twelve whenever she ventured into the Sphinx bush with Nimitz, but it ought to be sufficient to deal with just about anything smaller than a hexapuma. It was her constant companion whenever she went dirt-side on her own, and she routinely shot “High Expert” on the Navy and Marine pistol courses.
