by David Weber
Honor started to add something more, then decided against it. There was no need to burden the Queen with just how closely she, Zilwicki, and her senior armsman Andrew LaFollet, had discussed the information Zilwicki—and Catherine Montaigne—hadn't gotten around to handing to the Crown officially, for some reason.
The Queen was back to glowering, however. "If he's so canny, why did he disappear?"
But the glower was gone by the time she finished the sentence. "Hm. Actually, now that I think about it, that is an interesting question. Why did the man hare off to Smoking Frog? Captain Oversteegen's report gave no explanation, and Ruth's version was so murky it would put High Ridge to shame."
By now, Elizabeth was actually smiling. "Hm. Hm. Well, now that I've calmed down . . . I'll make you all a bet. I've met the man, too, you know. So I think we'll eventually find he had a good reason to do so. One which probably bodes ill for someone I'd very much enjoy seeing experience some ill-boding. Whoever that may turn out to be."
The Queen looked to each of her human guests, in turn. "We're all agreed, then? I'll send private messages to the girls, Captain Oversteegen, and Anton Zilwicki. Assuring them all of my private support and my confidence in their judgment."
Five heads nodded. Judith added: "And Michael and I will want to include a private message to our daughter." Tears still glimmered behind her eyes, but her voice was clear and strong. "Telling her how much we love her—and how proud of her we are."
"Indeed," Michael chimed in, his own voice husky.
Elizabeth eyed them for a moment. "You are aware, I suppose, that such a message from you, on top of the one from me, will make it impossible to restrain her from further adventures. She'll insist on accompanying the expedition to Congo."
"Of course," Michael rasped. He reached out a hand and squeezed his wife's. "And so what? She's a Winton, Elizabeth, doing her service. If she were regular Navy, she'd be getting ready for her middie cruise by now, so how is this any different? And after all these centuries, I see absolutely no reason why we should suddenly begin shielding the scions of our dynasty from the risks of such duty."
There was no answer, beyond a nod.
* * *
A few minutes later, the audience broke up. The Queen asked the Alexander brothers to remain behind, to discuss the newsfaxes' latest reports of the Pritchart Administration's increasingly harsh rhetoric, and Honor found herself walking down the corridor, Nimitz on her shoulder, with Michael and Judith Winton.
She could taste their deep concern, and she tried to think of something reassuring to say to the parents of a twenty-three-year-old woman who had been—and would be soon again going into—harm's way. Alas, she could think of nothing. Honor had been in harm's way herself far too often to have any illusions. Royal blood meant precious little, matched against the vagaries of fate and chance.
But she was spared the necessity of scraping up some ridiculous platitude. As it turned out, Michael had a purpose of his own in choosing to walk with her.
"There is one thing, Admiral Harrington," he said, with unusual formality, "which I will ask you to remember in the years ahead. In case my daughter does not survive."
He stopped, and Honor faced him squarely. "Yes, Your Grace?" she asked with matching formality,
Michael's voice was hard and low. "My sister, as much as I love and respect her, is not entirely rational on the subject of the Republic of Haven." He held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Honor. I don't expect you to agree with me—certainly not to say so aloud. But I'll tell you that it's true. And the day may come when the damage that irrationality will do to our people needs to be contained, as best as possible."
Honor didn't know what to say. How to say it to the Queen's brother, rather. But she understood what Michael was saying. Had understood it for some time now.
She decided a nod was enough. It could be a nod of agreement—or simply one which acknowledged that the duke had spoken.
Michael smiled thinly. "You've gotten so much better at diplomacy, Honor. Have I mentioned that to you lately?"
Thin to begin with, the smile faded almost at once. "Just remember this, Admiral. If and when that day ever comes, the existence of a neutral planet where Manticore and Haven have been able to maintain informal liaisons may save a lot of lives. Even if creating such a planet came at the cost of our daughter's life."
Honor heard Judith inhale sharply as her husband said the words. Not in surprise, or even disagreement, Honor knew. The woman who'd led an entire shipload of women to escape their hellish existence on Masada when she was younger than her daughter was now would never flinch from confronting such a bitter prospect. But that didn't mean she was able to blind herself to the very real risks that daughter had already run . . . or the ones yet to come.
"I understand, Your Grace." Honor said quietly, meeting Winton-Serisburg's eyes levelly and speaking in the tone of someone swearing a formal oath. Which she was, she realized. "And I won't forget."
Michael nodded. Then, he and Judith turned and walked away, holding hands, leaving Honor standing alone with Nimitz.
It was all she could do, as she watched them leave, not to call out some stupid, idiotic reassurance.
I'm sure she'll be fine! Honestly!
But, she managed to retain her dignity and theirs. Seconds later, the royal couple rounded a bend and were gone from sight. Honor took a deep breath and let it out.
"Oh, sure," she muttered. " 'She'll be fine.' Maybe—and maybe not. A pulser dart is no respecter of persons."
Nimitz made a soft sound on her shoulder, and she looked at him. His grass-green eyes were dark with shared memory of the hard lessons which had taught them both that bitter fact. But she tasted his support and love . . . and his acceptance of the harsh truth that sometimes one had no choice but to surrender hostages to fortune. It came with the responsibility not to stand cravenly by, like a High Ridge or a Fraser, and do nothing in hopes that the blame for whatever disaster ensued fell elsewhere.
She shook her head and resumed walking. Striding, rather, because she had a lot of work to finish in a very short time. Her task force was scheduled to leave orbit for Sidemore in three days, and there were always a million details to crowd a departure date. Especially under the Janacek Admiralty.
Honor would be long gone from Manticore by the time the next reports came back from Erewhon, and there was nothing further she could do about that situation anyway. So she put it out of her mind, after taking a brief moment for a private salutation.
Here's to you, Ruth Winton. And you too, Berry Zilwicki. I hope you both make it. But if you don't . . . the universe needs princesses, too. Real ones, even if they die in the making.
Chapter 41
Anton Zilwicki arrived at the Felicia with no fanfare or advance notice of any kind. That was the way he would have wanted it, anyway. But the real reason for the secrecy was the man sitting next to him on the sled which carried them over from The Wages of Sin.
It might be better to say: strapped in, and very securely, rather than simply "sitting." Anton, from his years as a yard dog in the Manticoran Navy, was qualified High Expert with virtually every kind of vacuum gear, from skinsuits to self-contained, modular hardsuit yard craft. All of which meant that he was quite comfortable and at ease.
Jeremy X wasn't. The galaxy's most notorious terrorist—or "freedom fighter," take your pick—might very well also be the galaxy's best pistolero. But what he knew about extravehicular activity in a spacesuit could be inscribed on the head of a pin.
That would have been true under any circumstances. Under these, riding in a stripped down, pure reaction-drive yard sled chosen primarily because it was so tiny—and unsophisticated—as to be undetectable by any except very good military grade sensors at very close range, he was visibly nervous. Given that Jeremy generally had the proverbial "nerves of steel," Anton found the whole thing rather amusing.
"Where did they find this piece of crap?" Anton heard him mutter. "A to
y store?"
Anton grinned, secure in the knowledge that Jeremy wouldn't be able to see the expression since he was sitting behind him. Jeremy would be peeved, if he did. As it was, he was going to be peeved enough when he discovered that Anton had overheard the remark. Jeremy's lack of expertise when it came to EVA also extended to his lack of expertise with space communication gear. Apparently, the head of the Ballroom had failed to grasp the fact that although their coms had been stepped down to levels which precluded long-range communication—for security reasons—that didn't mean they'd been taken totally off-line. Since safety concerns made it far better for the passengers of the sled to be able to communicate with each other in an emergency, they'd retained their short-range capability.
"As a matter of fact," he said, slandering the standard yard sled with cheery mendacity for his passenger's benefit, "I believe a lot of these jury-rigged sleds of the casino's were put together from stuff found in the space station's toy stores. The framework itself looks like plumbing supplies to me—non-metallic, of course—but the seats and handlebars are taken from children's tricycles. I'm quite sure of it."
He glanced down at the dinky little handlebar upon which the gloved fingers of his right hand rested lightly. It really did look like something from a kid's bike which had been glued, solely as an afterthought, to the flimsy-looking (but incredibly light and strong) composite tubing which made up the main shell of the sled. "In fact," he added, "this looks a lot like the kid's model—the VacuGlide, I think they called it—I bought for Helen, oh, maybe fourteen years ago."
He heard what sounded like a choking noise coming from Jeremy. Anton's grin widened and he proceeded on with great cheer. "Oh, yes. No reason to use anything heftier, of course. If we were in a gravity field or under any kind of real acceleration, it'd be different. But in the here and now, the principal concern is to have sleds which can transport people back and forth without being detected. In order to keep this masquerade going, of course. It'd be hard to convince the galaxy my daughter—sorry, 'the Princess'—was still in dire captivity if it became known that the Felicia had as much traffic coming and going as a small spaceport."
With very great cheer: "Oh, yes, it all makes perfect sense. Nice to see somebody's thinking clearly for a change. Of course, I admit it makes for flimsy transportation." He glanced back at the rear of the sled. "Propulsion, ha! That gadget back there is just an aerosol can with delusions of grandeur. Don't want anything big or powerful enough to push our radar signature too high, now do we?"
Anton could see the Manticoran rating from the Gauntlet who was serving as the sled's pilot sitting ahead of both of them, at the very front of the sled. The woman's shoulders were shaking a little, from suppressed laughter at the breezy mendaciousness of Anton's remarks.
Jeremy's helmet swiveled, to bring his face toward Anton's. The motion was a very gingerly one, as if he were afraid even a head movement might fling him off the sled.
"I am not amused, Captain Zilwicki."
"My, what a majestic pronouncement—although I think that's supposed to be 'we are not amused.' The royal plural, you know." Anton clucked. "Surprising, really, coming from such a rabid egalitarian."
Jeremy started to make a testy response. But Anton could now see his face through the turned helmet, and saw the man bite it off. Then, his usual puckish humor returned.
"I won't argue the point, given the role your daughter is playing in this mad affair. But I'll be interested to see if you retain your good humor when the holovids go berserk. Which they will, you know, once the news gets out. Ah, yes. Captain Zilwicki, Rogue of the Spaceways. I can see it now, splattered all over every display screen within five hundred light-years. A month from now—two, at the outside—your face will be the best known in the inhabited galaxy." Jeremy was almost cooing, now: "Do try to smile into the recorders, Captain."
Anton scowled. And reminded himself, not for the first time, that needling Jeremy X was a risky proposition. The man's tongue was as quick and accurate as his gunhand.
They were almost at the Felicia by then, however, and Anton set aside his gloomy prognostications concerning the future prospects for his much-cherished anonymity. His only thoughts now were for his daughter.
He'd been furious with her, at first, when Jeremy X and his comrade Donald brought him the news on Smoking Frog. All of Anton's smug self-satisfaction at the successful conclusion of his little expedition had vanished instantly. (Oh, yes, it had been quite successful. For about the hundredth time since, Anton contemplated with great pleasure the prospect of ruining Georgia Young with the information about her he'd uncovered on Smoking Frog. More precisely—destroying her completely, as a political factor in the Star Kingdom.)
But the anger hadn't lasted long. Before Donald X, who'd brought the news on the courier ship, had gotten halfway through his explanation, Anton had realized the truth. Yes, granted, he could still chide his daughter for the minor recklessness of going to The Wages of Sin in the first place. But Anton knew perfectly well that a maniac like Templeton would simply have struck elsewhere. If there was anyone to blame, it was Anton himself, not Berry. He was supposed to be the superspy, not her. Which meant he should have been the one to discover that the Masadans were lurking on Erewhon—in which case, he never would have made the trip to Maya Sector in the first place.
But all of that was hindsight, and Anton Zilwicki had never been a man given to pointless recriminations. Not even pointless self-blame, much less shifting the blame elsewhere. What mattered—all that mattered—was the courage and determination his daughter had displayed thereafter. Which had been great enough that even such hard-bitten revolutionists as Jeremy and Donald had clearly been in something approaching a state of awe.
So was Anton himself, for that matter. It was obvious to him that the waif he had rescued years earlier on Terra was . . .
Hard to say, what she was now. But certainly no longer a waif.
* * *
"Welcome," the ex-slave in charge of the docking bay said as Anton and Jeremy swung out of the boarding tube and into Felicia's internal gravity field. She motioned toward another ex-slave, standing nearby and smiling. "Eduard will take you to the Princess. I assume that's who you'd like to see first, Captain Zilwicki."
One of the things Anton had been told was that the ex-slaves on the Felicia had been made aware of the true identity of the two girls. He finished removing his helmet and shook his head.
"No, actually. I'd like to see my daughter first."
Both ex-slaves seemed confused. "Yes, of course," said the one named Eduard. "That's why I'm taking you to her. The Princess."
Then, understanding, Eduard chuckled. "Oh, I see. A mismatch of perceptions, here. By 'Princess,' you refer to the real one. As the galaxy sees such things. But you're among us now, Captain, and we have our own attitudes. Please follow me. Berry doesn't know you've arrived, so she'll still be in the audience chamber."
Anton followed, shaking his head. Princess. Audience chamber. He was trying to sort it all out.
Following right behind him, he heard Jeremy chortle. "Remember, Captain! Remain of good cheer! Ah, yes. I can see it now. All over the holovids. Captain Zilwicki, Scourge of the Spaceways—and now! Introducing his daughter! Princess Berry, She Who Makes Slavers Howl! Do try to make sure she wears modest apparel, though. I've always found those scantily-clad sword-wielding princesses of the fantasies rather gauche. Don't you?"
* * *
The so-called "audience chamber" appeared to have been, at one time, a large mess compartment. But after entering it, and observing for a few seconds, Anton understood the peculiar terminology.
Berry was seated on a chair not far from one of the walls. She was surrounded by people, some of them sitting on chairs, others standing, and was engaged in some sort of convivial conversation with all of them. Anton couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. He'd known Berry for years, and had met few if any people in his life who could converse so eas
ily and comfortably. Part banter, part friendliness, part advice, part comfort—and, most of all, the girl's superb capacity for listening. Talking with Berry was a genuine pleasure.
As for the rest . . .
Yes, he could see it now. As an "audience," it bore no resemblance to any royal audience you'd have found anywhere else in the galaxy. Leaving aside the fact that Berry's chair was neither elevated nor any larger or fancier than any other, she was comporting herself far too casually and unpretentiously. But he had no difficulty—none at all—understanding how completely the ex-slaves would have taken her into their hearts, in the two weeks since she'd arrived on the Felicia and rescued them.
Anton didn't have Web Du Havel's encyclopedic knowledge of history, but he knew more than enough to recognize the pattern. This wouldn't be the first time that a scorned and despised people, finding a glamorous champion, adopted him—or her—for their own. If Berry wasn't actually a princess, she was close enough. Close enough, after all, to consort with princesses and pass for one—not to mention being the adopted child of Anton Zilwicki and Catherine Montaigne. Cathy had given up the Tor title, true, but that would be irrelevant to the ex-slaves. For them, she was and would always remain the Countess—the wealthy, powerful aristocrat who had made their cause her own. Who'd committed herself to the liberation of the most despised, abused, forgotten victims of the galaxy not because she'd had to, but because she'd chosen to. And who'd given those same victims, and the "terrorists" who fought for them, her unstinting support for so long and so fiercely, even at the cost of exile and the voluntary renunciation of her title when it got in the way of her work. Her adopted daughter would have basked in that stature alone, among these people, even if she hadn't played a central role in their rescue. Combine the two . . .
