and you're also-what? Fifth in the line of succession?'
'Since my older brother was murdered, yes,' Henke said levelly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Pritchart flinch ever so slightly.
'I'm most sincerely sorry about the death of your father and your brother, Admiral Henke,' she said, her voice equally level, meeting Henke's eyes squarely as she spoke. 'We've determined from our own records that StateSec was, in fact, directly responsible for that assassination. The fanatics who actually carried it out may have been Masadans, but StateSec effectively recruited them and provided the weapons. As far as we're able to determine, all the individuals directly involved in the decision to carry out that operation are either dead or in prison. Not,' she continued as Henke's eyebrows began to arch in disbelief, 'because of that particular operation, but because of an entire catalog of crimes they'd committed against the people of their own star nation. In fact, while I'm sure it won't do anything to alleviate your own grief and anger, I'd simply point out that the same people were responsible for the deaths of untold thousands-no, millions-of their own citizens. The Republic of Haven has had more than enough of men and women like that.'
'I'm sure you have,' Henke said, watching the other woman carefully. 'But you don't seem to have completely renounced their methods.'
'In what way?' Pritchart asked a bit sharply, her eyes narrowing.
'I could bring up the little matter of your immediately pre-war diplomacy, except that I'm reasonably certain we wouldn't agree on that point,' Henke said. 'So instead, I'll restrict myself to pointing out your attempt to assassinate Duchess Harrington. Who, I might remind you, happens to be a personal friend of mine.'
'I'm aware of your close relationship with the Duchess,' Pritchart said. 'In fact, that's one of the several reasons I mentioned for this conversation. Some of my senior officers, including Secretary of War Theismann and Admiral Tourville and Admiral Foraker have met your 'Salamander.' They think very highly of her. And if they believed for a moment that my administration had ordered her assassination, they'd be very, very displeased with me.'
'Forgive me, Madam President, but that's not exactly the same thing as saying you didn't authorize it.'
'No, it isn't, is it?' Pritchart smiled. 'I'd forgotten for a moment that you're used to moving at the highest level of politics in the Star Kingdom. You have a politician's ear, even if you are 'only a naval officer.' However, I'll be clearer. Neither I, nor anyone else in my administration, ordered or authorized an attempt to assassinate Duchess Harrington.'
It was Henke's eyes' turn to narrow. As Pritchart said, she was accustomed to dealing with Manticoran politicians, if not politics per se. In her time, she'd met some extraordinarily adroit and polished liars. But if Eloise Pritchart was another of them, it didn't show.
'That's an interesting statement, Madam President. Unfortunately, with all due respect, I have no way to know it's accurate. And even if you think it is, that doesn't necessarily mean some rogue element in your administration didn't order it.'
'I'm not surprised you feel that way, and we here in the Republic have certainly had more than enough experience with operations mounted by 'rogue elements.' I can only say I believe very strongly that the statement I just made is accurate. And I'll also say I've replaced both my external and internal security chiefs with men I've known for years, and in whom I have the greatest personal confidence. If any rogue operation was mounted against Duchess Harrington, it was mounted without their knowledge or approval. Of that much, I'm absolutely positive.'
'And who else would you suggest might have a motive for wanting her dead? Or the resources to try to kill her in that particular fashion?'
'We don't have many specific details about how the attempt was made,' Pritchart countered. 'From what we have seen, however, speculation seems to be centering on the possibility that her young officer-a Lieutenant Mears, I believe-was somehow adjusted to make the attempt on her life. If that's the case, we don't have the resources to have done it. Certainly not in the time window which appears to have been available to whoever carried out the adjustment. Assuming that's what it was, of course.'
'I hope you'll forgive me, Madam President, if I reserve judgment in this case,' Henke said after a moment. 'You're very convincing. On the other hand, like me, you operate at the highest level of politics, and politicians at that level have to be convincing. I will, however, take what you've said under advisement. Should I assume you're telling me this in hopes I'll pass your message along to Queen Elizabeth?'
'From what I've heard of your cousin, Admiral Henke,' Pritchart said wryly, 'I doubt very much that she'd believe any statement of mine, including a declaration that water is wet.'
'I see you've got a fairly accurate profile of Her Majesty,' Henke observed. 'Although that's probably actually something of an understatement,' she added.
'I know. Nonetheless, if you get the opportunity, I wish you'd tell her that for me. You may not believe this, Admiral, but I didn't really want this war, either. Oh,' Pritchart went on quickly as Henke began to open her mouth, 'I'll freely admit I fired the first shot. And I'll also admit that given what I knew then, I'd do the same thing again. That's not the same thing as wanting to do it, and I deeply regret all the men and women who have been killed or, like yourself, wounded. I can't undo that. But I would like to think it's possible for us to find an end to the fighting short of one of us killing everyone on the other side.'
'So would I,' Henke said levelly. 'Unfortunately, whatever happened to our diplomatic correspondence, you did fire the first shot. Elizabeth isn't the only Manticoran or Grayson-or Andermani-who's going to find that difficult to forget or overlook.'
'And are you one of them, Admiral?'
'Yes, Madam President, I am,' Henke said quietly.
'I see. And I appreciate your honesty. Still, it does rather underscore the nature of our quandary, doesn't it?'
'I suppose it does.'
Silence fell in the sunlit hospital room. Oddly enough, it was an almost companionable silence, Henke discovered. After perhaps three minutes, Pritchart straightened up, inhaled crisply, and stood.
'I'll let you get back to the business of healing, Admiral. The doctors assure me you're doing well. They anticipate a full recovery, and they tell me you can be discharged from the hospital in another week or so.'
'At which point it's off to the stalag?' Henke said with a smile. She waved one hand at the unbarred windows of the hospital room. 'I can't say I'm looking forward to the change of view.'
'I think we can probably do better than a miserable hut behind a tangle of razor wire, Admiral.' There was actually a twinkle in Pritchart's topaz eyes. 'Tom Theismann has strong views on the proper treatment of prisoners of war-as Duchess Harrington may remember from the day they met in Yeltsin. I assure you that all our POWs are being properly provided for. Not only that, I'm hoping it may be possible to set up regular prisoner of war exchanges, perhaps on some sort of parole basis.'
'Really?' Henke was surprised, and she knew it showed in her voice.
'Really.' Pritchart smiled again, this time a bit sadly. 'Whatever else, Admiral, and however hardly your Queen may be thinking about us just now, we really aren't Rob Pierre or Oscar Saint-Just. We have our faults, don't get me wrong. But I'd like to think one of them isn't an ability to forget that even enemies are human beings. Good day, Admiral Henke.'
Chapter Forty-Three
The pinnace drifted slowly down the length of the spindle-shaped mountain of alloy. Honor, Nimitz, Andrew LaFollet, Spencer Hawke, Rafael Cardones, and Frances Hirshfield sat gazing out the armorplast viewport as the small craft reached the superdreadnought's after hammerhead and braked to a complete halt, like a tadpole beside a slumbering whale.
Hard-suited construction workers, robotic repair units, and an ungainly webwork of girders and work platforms, all arranged with microgravity's grand contempt for the concept of 'up and down,' clustered about the ship as she floated against the stars. Powerful work lamps illuminated the frenetic activity of the repair crews and their robotic minions, and Honor frowned thoughtfully as she watched the bustling energy.
'Looks pretty terrible, doesn't it, Your Grace?' Cardones said, and she shrugged.
'I've seen lots worse. Remember the old Fearless after Basilisk?'
