In Fire Forged: Worlds of Honor V

by David Weber

  “I will reach your current position in approximately thirty-four minutes, Commander. I expect to see you here, on my flagship, at your earliest convenience. I trust you’ll see fit to honor that . . . ‘request’ promptly. Teschendorff, clear.”

  His transmission ended without allowing her any opportunity to respond, and she tipped her chair back still farther, rocking it from side to side in gentle arcs in the profound silence which followed.

  “My,” she murmured finally, apparently oblivious to the deeply anxious eyes all about her, “he does seem put out, doesn’t he?”

  * * *

  Hawkwing’s pinnace docked neatly in SCNS Feliksá’s number one boat bay in obedience to instructions from the heavy cruiser’s flight operations center. The personnel tube ran out as soon as the small craft had settled into the docking arms, and Honor’s flight engineer studied the telltales on his panel beside the hatch.

  “Good seal, Ma’am,” he announced . . . in the same tone, Honor reflected, a sympathetic centurion might have used to inform the Christians that the lions were ready now.

  “Very well, Chief,” she said serenely. “Open the door.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  The hatch slid open, and Honor swung herself into the tube’s microgravity. She swam gracefully down its center with Nimitz on her shoulder, caught the grab bar at the far end, and swung the two of them back out into Feliksá’s shipboard gravity. She landed lightly, came to attention, and saluted the bulkhead-mounted Confederacy coat of arms which served the Confederacy Navy as a flag, then saluted the lieutenant wearing the orange brassard of a SCN boat bay officer of the deck.

  “Permission to come aboard, Sir?” she inquired politely.

  “Permission granted, Commander,” the young man replied in a painfully neutral voice. There were no side boys, and no bosun’s pipes twittered, but she saw another lieutenant waiting in the background.

  “Thank you,” she said to the BBOD, and raised one eyebrow at the other Silesian officer.

  “Lieutenant Osmulski, Commander Harrington,” the chestnut-haired young man said in response to the eyebrow. “I’m the commodore’s flag lieutenant. He asked me to extend his compliments and request you to accompany me to his flag bridge briefing room.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Honor said pleasantly. “Please, lead the way.”

  * * *

  Honor had visited several units of the Confederacy Navy during her various deployments to Silesia. She’d discovered, in the course of those visits, that discipline, training states, and readiness seemed to vary widely from ship to ship. To be honest, she hadn’t been very favorably impressed by most of them. She’d tried hard to avoid the sort of institutional arrogance which all too often seemed to typify Manticoran officers’ attitudes toward their Silesian equivalents, but she was guiltily aware that she hadn’t always succeeded. The truth, she’d concluded, was that the reason so many Manticoran officers looked down their noses at the Silesian navy was that the majority of its ships—and of its ship commanders—deserved it.

  She hadn’t liked reaching that conclusion about anyone’s navy, but the sad truth was that in a service riddled with graft, corruption, and the worst sort of patronage, sworn to the service of a government which was even more corrupt and rife with peculation than the navy itself, there was very little incentive for officers to maintain the sort of professionalism the Star Kingdom expected from its officer corps. She’d told herself there had to be exceptions to that dreary, depressing state of affairs. Unfortunately, she hadn’t met any of them.

  Until today.

  Despite the occasional hostile glance thrown her way as she followed Lieutenant Osmulski across the boat bay to the lifts, what she was most struck by was the bay’s absolute, spic-and-span cleanliness and order. Every single piece of gear was exactly where it was supposed to be, and she suspected Rose-Lucie Bonrepaux would have been willing to serve a meal on its decksole. Every uniform was not simply clean (which was rare enough on most Silesian ships she’d visited) but neat, and the people in them went about their duties with a briskness and a professionalism which would have been right at home aboard Hawkwing herself.

  Osmulski waved for her to precede him into the lift car, then followed her in and punched in their destination code. He stood facing her, hands folded respectfully behind him, without speaking, until the car slowed, then stopped.

  “This way, please, Commander,” he murmured, waving gracefully to their right as the doors opened, and Honor nodded.

  It was no more than a short walk to the flag bridge briefing room, yet everything she saw along the way only confirmed the impression the boat bay had made upon her. Feliksá was a typically over-gunned Silesian design, but as far as Honor could see, every centimeter of her was meticulously maintained, and there was obviously nothing at all wrong with the people responsible for running her.

  They reached the briefing room. Its door stood open, and Osmulski nodded to indicate she should enter first. She did, with the flag lieutenant a respectful pace and a half behind her, and found herself facing a seated Commodore Teschendorff and a dark-haired, dark-eyed officer in the uniform of a senior captain. Feliksá’s CO, she decided, as Osmulski cleared his throat.

  “Commander Harrington, Sir,” he announced in a discreet tone.

  “So I see,” Teschendorff rumbled. He looked at Honor with scant favor, and his flag captain’s expression was even grimmer. She looked back levelly, her expression calm . . . and Nimitz’s tail hung relaxed down her back as the ’cat cocked his head to one side and regarded the two senior Silesian officers from her shoulder.

  “I am required to inform you, Commander,” Teschendorff said grimly, “that this conversation is being recorded. That recording will be forwarded to Governor Charnowska’s office and, I have no doubt, to the Cabinet. What will happen to it after that, I cannot say, of course. I would not be surprised, however, to find it included in a future formal communication from my government to yours. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Commodore,” she replied calmly.

  “Then, Commander,” Teschendorff said, “allow me to inform you that in all my years of service I have never encountered such a brazen case of an officer’s dizzying overstepping of her own, her navy’s, or—for that matter—her star nation’s legitimate authority. You’ve clearly taken it upon yourself to operate in vigilante style on the sovereign territory of the Silesian Confederacy. You did not communicate your suspicions, or the evidence upon which they rested, to any legitimate official or agency of the Confederacy. Instead, you mounted an attack on a Silesian industrial platform, in which—by your own report to Governor Obermeyer—fatal casualties exceeded a thousand. Which doesn’t even include however many people perished aboard the Evita when you blew her out of space without, so far as I am aware, any warning or surrender demand at all! There have been pitched battles between squadrons of warships, Commander, in which fewer people were killed!”

  He paused, but it was obvious he expected no reply. Finally, he inhaled noisily and shook his head.

  “Had you brought your evidence to the attention of the proper authorities, it’s highly probable that a properly mounted operation, with the proper support elements in place, could have resolved this entire situation without such a massive level of casualties. I suppose we should count ourselves fortunate that it at least appears your suspicions about conditions aboard the platform were justified. That is not to say the actions you took in respect to those suspicions were also justified, Commander. That, I feel positive, will not be the view of my government, nor is it my own intention to imply anything of the sort.”

  He glared at her for a moment.

  “However, based on what I’ve so far seen from the reports and documentation you’ve submitted to Governor Obermeyer—after the fact—I’m inclined to believe that at least the dead—the many dead—left in the aftermath of your high-handed actions were, in fact, the pirates and slave traders you’ve accused them of b
eing. And that fact, Commander, is the only reason I’m not going to demand that you and your ship accompany me back to Saginaw so that you might account for your actions to Governor Charnowska in person. Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you attempting to explain yourself to her. Under the circumstances, however, and bearing in mind the need for any responsible officer to attempt to minimize the interstellar consequences of your actions, I’m not going to insist on that. Instead, I’m instructing you, on my own authority, as the senior officer present of the Confederacy Navy, to immediately depart Silesian space with your vessel. I have no doubt your own superiors will find your efforts to explain this affair away at least as specious as I would myself, and I confidently anticipate that you will soon experience the consequences of their severe displeasure.”

  He glared at her again, then waved one hand in an abrupt gesture.

  “Is there anything you’d care to say in response, Commander?”

  “Actually, Sir,” she said respectfully, “there are three questions I’d like to ask, with your permission.”

  “Ask,” he said brusquely.

  “First, Sir, what would you like me to do with the prisoners my personnel are currently holding aboard the platform? There are approximately six hundred of them, counting the survivors of the platform’s crew and the complements of the two pirate vessels—excuse me, of the two alleged pirate vessels—which were moored here when we arrived.”

  “A reasonable question.” Teschendorff sounded as if he would have preferred to denounce it as unreasonable, assuming he could have found a way to. “And in response,” he continued, “I’ve informed Governor Obermeyer that, in view of the fact that dealing with so many prisoners would grossly strain her own facilities and system security assets, I will personally take your prisoners into my custody, along with any documentary or physical evidence you may wish to provide, and return them to the Hillman Sector with me. I’m sure we’ll be able to get to the bottom of all this there.”

  “I see. Of course I’ll be prepared to hand them over to you at your convenience, Sir.”

  Teschendorff only sniffed, then waved his hand again.

  “You said you had two more questions, Commander.”

  “Yes, Sir. As you presumably know from my reports to Governor Obermeyer “—and I’ll bet she was just delighted to hand those over to you when you asked for them, she thought sardonically—“I was assisted in this operation by several civilian volunteers. In fact, it was only through the assistance of their vessel that I was able to bring Hawkwing into effective range of the platform and the pirate vessels—I mean, of course, the alleged pirate vessels—in the system. Obviously, they believed I had the authority to request their aid in this operation. Since they acted in good faith within that belief, and since they suffered several fatal casualties of their own in the fighting, I’d like to request your assurance that they will also be permitted to withdraw from Casimir rather than facing any sort of local charges for their actions.”

  Teschendorff made a noise which sounded remarkably like a growl and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the briefing room table for several seconds. Then, finally, he nodded grudgingly.

  “Very well,” he said. “Obviously, pirates and slavers are the general enemies of all civilized star nations. I can hardly fault civilian volunteers for being willing to assist a naval officer who—as you yourself just pointed out—they undoubtedly assumed had the authority to enlist their aid in the suppression of such enemies. Under the circumstances, yes, they’re free to go.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your generosity.”

  “I’m not being generous to you, Commander,” Teschendorff pointed out icily. He let that sentence linger for a moment, then shrugged. “And your third question?”

  “In addition to the civilian personnel legitimately assigned to the platform, Sir,” Honor said quietly, “we discovered well over nine hundred genetic slaves in holding cells. Obviously, neither Hawkwing nor Feliksá has the life support capability to lift that many people off this platform. For that matter, I’m not certain anyone in the entire Casimir System has that much life support—or, for that matter, that Governor Obermeyer’s planet-side facilities would be adequate to absorb that many liberated slaves without subjecting them to crowded, possibly primitive living conditions for some time, at least. The CO of the Rapunzel, however, has informed me that he does have enviro capacity to take them all aboard his vessel. I believe, under the circumstances, that allowing him to do so, and to transport them either to the Star Kingdom or to some other planet which is prepared to offer them safe haven, would be both the humane and the proper thing to do.”

  “Of course no one wishes to see those poor people suffer any further trauma.” For the first time, Teschendorff’s expression and manner softened noticeably. “In fact, Commander, allow me to say that the one clearly mitigating circumstance of this entire disgraceful situation is that those slaves, and the civilian victims here aboard this platform, were saved from still further suffering and death. I don’t suggest for a moment that that outcome justifies your decisions and actions, but, as you say, under the circumstances, allowing those liberated slaves to depart aboard your other vessel—the Rapunzel, did you say?—is clearly the proper course of action. Assuming, of course, that they desire to leave.”

  He regarded her stonily for several more seconds, then cleared his throat.

  “Is that all you have to say, Commander?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “No protests of innocence, no attempts to justify your actions?”

  “Sir, I stand by the content of the reports you’ve apparently already seen. I will, of course, provide you with copies of those reports from my own computer files, as well, in . . . the interest of completeness. I acted as seemed required by my judgment in light of the information available to me. If that judgment and those actions have provoked, as you say, a potential interstellar incident, I naturally deeply regret that outcome.”

  He waited, as if expecting her to say something more, but she simply stood there respectfully, gazing back at him. Finally, he gave himself a little shake.

  “Very well, Commander. I want you, your vessel, and . . . Rapunzel underway out of Casimir within six hours. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Then this interview is terminated.”

  Teschendorff nodded brusquely to his flag captain, and the other officer pressed a stud on the console in front of him. There was a moment of silence, and then Teschendorff stood, his expression quite different, and extended his hand across the briefing table to Honor.

  “Commander,” he said, in a voice which had inexplicably lost its stern anger, as she gripped his hand firmly, “I hadn’t quite expected my luncheon invitation to lead you into such deep water. For that, I apologize. It’s unfortunately true that there are sometimes . . . problems which can only be addressed by stepping outside the normal avenues, as it were.”

  “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

  She held his eyes levelly, and Nimitz made a soft sound of agreement from her shoulder.

  “Good, Commander.” His grip on her hand tightened for a moment, then he released her, stepped back, and gave her a deep, respectful nod. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’d like to think that someday I’ll have the opportunity to spend some time with you and Nimitz again. Over a meal, I mean, of course.”

  “Of course, Sir.” She smiled at him. “And now, with your permission, Commodore, if I’m going to meet your timetable, I think I’d better be getting back to my ship.”

  * * *

  “Admiral Webster will see you now, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Senior Chief,” Honor Harrington said as the Admiralty House yeoman courteously pressed the button that opened the door to First Space Lord James Bowie Webster’s inner office.

  She stood, gathered Nimitz in her arms and waited until he’d settled himself on her shoulder,
then marched as calmly as she could through the waiting door.

  The better part of a complete T-month had passed since Hawkwing’s return to the Manticore binary system. Obviously, she hadn’t been expected, since her deployment was scheduled to last six more T-months, and her early return had provoked just as many questions as Honor had known it would.

  She’d transmitted her own reports immediately to the Admiralty, along with the sealed official dispatch from Commodore Teschendorff which he had insisted she take along. Given the nature of the “official conversation” with her which he’d recorded in Casimir, she didn’t really expect his official dispatch to say anything exculpatory. He couldn’t, after all. He’d already risked making entirely too many powerful enemies of his own, especially given Sector Governor Charnowska’s obvious involvement, to do anything of the sort. Honor knew that, and she didn’t blame him for a single thing that had happened. Whatever the ultimate consequences for her—and the fact that it had taken the first space lord this long to call her in looked like being a pretty bad sign—she understood exactly why Teschendorff had done what he’d done. And however much she expected it to hurt, she’d also come to the conclusion that throwing away her career was actually a bargain price for saving so many lives.

  As soon as her reports had been received, the orders had come down quick and fast. Hawkwing was handed over to Her Majesty’s Space Station Hephaestus for a long scheduled and well-deserved (but mysteriously expedited) major overhaul. The destroyer’s crew was sent off on a three-week leave, as well, but only after every member of her complement had been informed in no uncertain terms that the events of her truncated deployment were to be considered classified. They were not to discuss them in any way with anyone—and, very specifically, not with the media—until the Navy had completed its own investigation.

  The same points had been made with quiet emphasis to Honor by a senior-grade captain from the Judge Advocate General’s office before she was sent home “on leave,” as well. No one had brought up any words like “possible charges” or “boards of inquiry,” but she’d heard them hovering unspoken in the background, and the JAG captain’s general demeanor had been unpromising, to say the very least.