Mission of Honor

else's), they'd actually succeeded. It hadn't been easy, but the result of their labors really had turned into an emblem of the Republic's economic renaissance, and even though Haven remained a relatively poor star nation (by Manticoran standards, at least), its resurgent entrepreneurial class was robust enough to turn the Plaza Falls into a genuine moneymaker. Not at the levels its renovators had hoped for, perhaps, but with enough cash flow to show a modest—Honor suspected a very modest—profit after covering the various loan payments and operating expenses.

At the rates they're charging, it certainly wouldn't show much of a profit in the Star Empire , she thought, following their guide, but the cost of living's a lot lower here in the Republic, even now. I hate to think what kind of trouble they'd have hiring a staff this devoted back in Landingat the sort of salaries they're paying here! For that matter, these days they couldn't get a staff this qualified back on Grayson this cheaply, either .

Fortunately for the Plaza Falls' owners, they weren't on Manticore or Grayson, however, and she had to admit that they—and Eloise Pritchart's government—had done the visiting Manticoran delegation proud.

She stepped into the combination conference room and suite Pritchart had designated for their 'informal talks,' and the president rose from her place at one end of the hand polished, genuine wood conference table. The rest of the Havenite delegation followed suit, and Pritchart smiled at Honor.

'Good morning, Admiral.'

'Madam President,' Honor responded, with a small half-bow.

'Please allow me to introduce my colleagues.'

'Of course, Madam President.'

'Thank you.' Pritchart smiled exactly as if someone in that room might actually have no idea who somebody—anybody—else was. In fact, Honor knew, every member of Pritchart's delegation had been as carefully briefed on every member of her delegation as her delegation had been about Pritchart's delegation.

Formal protocol and polite pretenses , she thought, reaching up to touch Nimitz's ears as she felt his shared amusement in the back of her brain. You've just gotta just love 'em. Or somebodymust, at least. After all, if people weren't addicted to this kind of horse manure, it would have been junkpiled centuries ago! But let's be fair, Honor. It does serve a purpose sometimes—and the Navy's just as bad. Maybe even worse .

'Of course, you've already met Secretary of State Montreau,' Pritchart told her. 'And you already know Secretary of War Theisman. I don't believe, however, that you've actually been introduced to Mr. Nesbitt, my Secretary of Commerce.'

'No, I haven't,' Honor acknowledged, reaching out to shake Nesbitt's hand.

She'd been sampling the Havenites' emotions from the moment she stepped through the door, and Nesbitt's were . . . interesting. She'd already concluded that Pritchart was as determined as she was to reach some sort of negotiated settlement. Leslie Montreau's mind glow tasted as determined as Pritchart's, although there was more caution and less optimism to keep that determination company. Thomas Theisman was a solid, unflappable presence, with a granite tenacity and a solid integrity that reminded Honor almost painfully of Alastair McKeon. She wasn't surprised by that, even though she'd never really had the opportunity before to taste his emotions. The first time they'd met, after the Battle of Blackbird, she hadn't yet developed her own empathic capabilities. And the second time they'd met, she'd been a little too preoccupied with her own imminent death to pay his mind glow a great deal of attention. Now she finally had the opportunity to repair that omission, and the confirmation that he, at least, truly was the man she'd hoped and believed he was reinforced her own optimism . . . slightly, at least.

But Nesbitt was different. Although he smiled pleasantly, his dislike hit her like a hammer. The good news was that it wasn't personally directed at her; unfortunately, the good news was also the bad news in his case. In many ways, she would have preferred to have him take her in personal dislike rather than radiate his anger at and profound distrust of anything Manticoran so strongly. Of course, he was about her own age, so everything she'd said to Pritchart about her own life-long experience of mutual hostility between their star nations held true for him, as well. And however unhappy he might have been to see her, and however clearly he resented the fact that the Republic needed to negotiate an end to hostilities, he also radiated his own version of Pritchart's determination to succeed. And there was something else, as well. An odd little something she couldn't quite lay a mental finger on. It was almost as though he were ashamed of something. That wasn't exactly the right word, but she didn't know what the right word was. Yet whatever it was, or wherever it came from, it actually reinforced both his anger and his determination to achieve some sort of settlement.

'Admiral Alexander-Harrington,' he said, just a bit gruffly, but he also returned her handshake firmly.

'Mr. Nesbitt,' she murmured in reply.

'Leslie and Tony are here not only as representatives of the Cabinet but as representatives of two of our larger political parties,' Pritchart explained. 'When I organized my Cabinet originally, it seemed pretty clear we were going to need the support of all parties if we were going to make the Constitution work. Because of that, I deliberately chose secretaries from several different parties, and Leslie is a New Democrat, while Tony's a Corporate Conservative.' She smiled dryly. 'I'm quite certain you've been sufficiently well briefed on our political calculus here Paris to understand just how lively meetings can be when these two sit in on them.'

Montreau and Nesbitt both smiled, and Honor smiled back, although she suspected Pritchart was actually understating things.

'As I explained in my memo,' the president continued, 'I've decided, with your consent, to invite some additional representatives from Congress to participate in these talks, as well.'

'Of course, Madam President.' Honor nodded, despite the fact that she really wished Pritchart hadn't done anything of the sort. She would have much preferred to keep these talks as small and private, as close to one-on- one with Pritchart, as she could. At the same time, she was pretty sure she understood the president's logic. And given the fractiousness of Havenite politics—and the fact that selling anything short of victory to Congress and the Havenite people was likely to prove a challenging task—she couldn't really disagree with Pritchart, either.

It's an imperfect galaxy Honor , she told herself tartly. Deal with it .

'Allow me to introduce Senator Samson McGwire,' Pritchart said, indicating the man next to Nesbitt.

McGwire was a smallish, wiry man, a good twenty centimeters shorter than Honor. In fact, he was shorter than Pritchart or Leslie Montreau, for that matter. He also had gunmetal-gray hair, a great beak of a nose, blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a powerful chin. They were sharp, those eyes, and they glittered with a sort of perpetual challenge. From the way they narrowed as he shook her hand, she wasn't able to decide whether in her case the challenge was because she was a Manticoran, and therefore the enemy, or simply because she was so much taller than he was. For that matter, it could have been both. According to the best briefing Sir Anthony Langtry's staff in the Foreign Office had been able to provide, McGwire was not one of the Star Empire's greater admirers. For that matter, his New Conservative Party was widely regarded as one of the natural homes for Havenite firebrands with personal axes to grind with the Star Empire.

Which is one reason we're so happy to have Montreau as Secretary of State instead of that jackass Giancola , she thought dryly. I'm sorry anyone had to get killed in a traffic accident, but the truth is that dropping himout of the equation has to be a good thing for everyone concerned. In fact, I have to wonder what a smart cookie like Pritchart was thinking putting a New Conservative into that Cabinet post in the first place!

Not, she admitted, that our ending up with High Ridge as Prime Minister and Descroix as Foreign Secretary was any better. But it least Elizabeth didn't have much choice about it.

'Senator McGwire's the chairman of the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee,' Pritchart continued. She tilted her head to one side, watching Honor's expression closely, as if trying to determine how much Honor already knew about the senator. 'He's here in his capacity as chairman, but also as a representative of the New Conservative Party.'

'Senator,' Honor said, reaching out to shake his hand.

'Admiral.' He made no particular effort to inject any warmth into the single word, and his handshake was more than a little perfunctory. Still, if Honor was parsing his emotions correctly, he had no more illusions about the