Surgeon Commander Lois Suchon faced Papadapolous across the table, and Honor tried not to feel a special dislike for
Her eyes swept past Suchon to the two officers flanking McKeon. Lieutenant Ariella Blanding, her supply officer, junior to every other officer present, looked as if she expected her captain to spring upon her at any moment, despite the fact that her department had performed flawlessly throughout. Blanding was a small woman, with a sweet, oval face and blond hair, but her eyes moved back and forth endlessly, like a mouse trying to watch too many cats.
Lieutenant Mercedes Brigham sat facing Blanding, as if she'd been placed deliberately to accentuate the contrast between them. Blanding was young and fair; Brigham was almost old enough to be Honor's mother, with dark, weathered-looking skin. She was
That was something, Honor thought, completing her survey and forcing herself not to bark a demand that they show some backbone. It wouldn't help, and it
'What's the status of our request to reprovision, Exec?' she asked McKeon. The executive officer glanced at Blanding, then straightened in his chair.
'We're cleared to take on supplies Monday, beginning at twelve-thirty hours, Ma'am,' he said crisply. Too crisply. McKeon was holding his personal contacts with Honor to an absolute minimum, erecting a barrier she couldn't seem to break through. He was brisk, efficient, and obviously competent—and there wasn't a trace of rapport between them.
She bit her tongue against a fresh urge to snap at him. A warship's executive officer was supposed to be the essential bridge between its captain and her officers and crew, the skipper's alter ego and manager as well as her second in command. McKeon wasn't. He was too good an officer to encourage any open discussion of
'Any word on those extra missile pallets we requested?' she asked him, trying once more to break through the icy formality.
'No, Ma'am.' McKeon tapped a brief notation into his memo pad. 'I'll check with Fleet Logistics again.'
'Thank you,' Honor managed not to sigh, and abandoned the attempt. She turned to Dominica Santos, instead. 'What's the status of the grav lance upgrade, Commander?' she asked in a cool, even voice that hid her near despair.
'I think we'll have the replacement convergence circuits in place for an on-line test by the end of the watch, Ma'am,' Santos responded, keying her own memo pad to life. She studied the screen, never looking up at Honor. 'After that, we'll have to—'
Alistair McKeon sat back and listened to Santos's report, but his attention wasn't really on it.
He watched Harrington's profile, and dull, churning resentment burned at the back of his throat like acid. The captain looked as calm and collected as she always did, spoke and listened as courteously as ever, and that only made him resent her more. He was a tactical officer himself by training. He knew precisely how impossible Harrington's task had been, yet he couldn't rid himself of a nagging suspicion that he could have done better at it than she. He certainly couldn't have done any worse, he thought spitefully, and felt himself flush guiltily.
Damn it, what was
Santos finished her report, and Harrington turned with equal courtesy to Lieutenant Venizelos. That should have been another of McKeon's jobs.
Alistair McKeon knew where that would end. One of them would have to go, and it wouldn't be the captain. Nor should it be, he told himself with scathing, inherent honesty.
He looked around the briefing room again and felt something very like panic. He could lose all this. He'd known he couldn't hope for command of
He felt a sudden, terrible temptation to confess his feelings and his failures to the captain. To beg her to find a way through them for him. Somehow, he knew, those dark brown eyes would listen without condemning, that calm soprano would reply without contempt.
And that, of course, was what made it impossible. It would be the final capitulation, the admission that Harrington
He ground his teeth together and stroked the cover of his memo pad in silence.
The attention signal chimed, and Honor pressed the com button.
'Communications Officer, Ma'am,' the traditional Marine sentry announced crisply, and she felt an eyebrow rise.
'Enter,' she invited, and the hatch hissed open to admit Lieutenant Samuel Houston Webster.
Honor gestured at the chair across her desk from her, and Nimitz sat up on his hindquarters with a welcoming 'bleek' as the gangling lieutenant crossed the day cabin to take it. As always, the 'cat was a sure barometer of Honor's own feelings. She despised captains who played favorites among their officers, but if she'd been the sort to let herself do things like that, Webster would have been her choice.
Of all
To her surprise, he failed to return it. In fact, his homely face (dominated by the craggy Webster chin) wore an expression of acute unhappiness as he laid a message board on the blotter.
'We've just copied a dispatch from the Admiralty, Ma'am,' he said. 'Orders to a new station.'
Something about the way he said it—and the fact that he'd brought it in person instead of sending it by