Mission of Honor

All of which meant she was still very much on her own, despite all the government's approval of her previous actions and assurances of its future support. She'd received at least some reinforcements, she'd shortstopped the four CLACs of Carrier Division 7.1 on her own authority when Rear Admiral Stephen Enderby turned up in Spindle. Enderby had expected to deliver his LACs to Prairie, Celebrant, and Nuncio, then head home for another load, and the LAC crews had expected nothing more challenging than a little piracy suppression. That, obviously, had changed. Enderby had been more than willing to accept his new orders, and his embarked LACs had been busy practicing for a somewhat more demanding role. She expected her decision to retain them for Tenth Fleet to be approved, as soon as the official paperwork could catch up, and the arrival of another division of Saganami-Cs had been a pleasant surprise—in more ways than one, given its commanding officer. For that matter, still more weight of metal was in the pipeline, although the original plans for the Talbott Quadrant were still recovering from the shock of the Battle of Manticore.

In a lot of ways, given Enderby's diversion, she was better off at the moment then she would have been under the initial plan, but that might turn out to be remarkably cold comfort if there was any truth to the New Tuscans' reports that major Solarian reinforcements had already been deployed to the Madras Sector, as well . . . .

Well, you've got orders for dealing with that, too, don't you? she asked herself. Of course, they're basically to 'use your own discretion.' It's nice to know the folks back home think so highly of your judgment, I suppose, but still  . . . .

She inhaled deeply. Baroness Medusa, the Talbott Quadrant's Imperial Governor, had dispatched her own note directly to Meyers at the same time Michelle had departed for New Tuscany and Josef Byng's date with several hundred laser heads. It must have reached Verrochio two T-weeks ago, and she wondered what sort of responsehe'd made.

You'll be finding out soon enough, girl , she told herself grimly. But even if he dashed off a response the instant Reprise got there with O'Shaughnessy, it couldn't get back here for another T-week. And one thing Solly bureaucrats aren't is impetuous about putting their necks on any potential chopping blocks. So even if he didn't have a thing to do with anything that's happened—however unlikely thatis—I doubt he's going to have been a lot faster out of the blocks than Roelas y Valiente was .

She remembered the old proverb that said 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' It was remarkably little comfort at the moment. She had absolute confidence in her command's ability to defeat any attack Frontier Fleet might launch against Spindle. They'd have to transfer in scores of additional battlecruisers if they hoped to have any chance against her own Nikes ,Saganami-Cs , Enderby's CLACs, and the flatpack missile pods aboard her ammunition ships. In fact, she doubted Frontier Fleet had enough battlecruisers anywhere this side of Sol itself to take Spindle, even if they could send every one of them to call on her, and battlecruisers were the heaviest ships Frontier Fleet had. But Battle Fleet was another matter, and if the New Tuscans had been right about Solly superdreadnoughts at McIntosh. . . .

She gave an internal headshake and scolded herself once again. If there were Solly ships-of-the-wall in the vicinity, she'd just have to deal with that when she got confirmation. Which, of course, was one reason she'd assigned Oversteegen to defend against Mark 23s. She might relent and pull Apollo back out of the equation, but she doubted it, because the purpose wasn't really to smack Michael, no matter how much he deserved it for being such a smartass. And no matter how much she would enjoy doing exactly that, for that matter.

No, the purpose was to force one of the best tacticians she knew to pull out all the stops in defense of the Spindle System. Seeing how well her own staff did against a truly capable Mark 23-equipped opponent would have been desirable enough in its own right, yet that was actually secondary, as far as she was concerned. She was confident of her own tactical ability, but there was always something new for even the best tactician to learn, and Michelle Henke had never been too proud to admit that. She'd be watching Rear Admiral Oversteegen closely, and not just to evaluate his performance. If he came up with something that suggested tactical wrinkles to her, she'd pounce on them in a heartbeat, because she might need them altogether too soon . . . and badly.

Chapter Twelve

'May I help you, Lieutenant?'

The exquisitely tailored maоtre d' didn't sound as if he really expected to be able to assist two such junior officers, who'd undoubtedly strayed into his establishment by mistake.

'Oh, yes—please! We're here to join Lieutenant Archer,' Abigail Hearns told him. 'Um, we may be a few minutes early, I'm afraid.'

She managed, Ensign Helen Zilwicki observed to sound very . . . earnest. Possibly even a little nervous at intruding into such elegant surroundings, but very determined. And the fact that her father could have bought the entire Sigourney's Fine Restaurants chain out of poket change wasn't particularly in evidence, either. The fact that she was third-generation prolong and looked considerably younger than her already very young age, especially to eyes not yet accustomed to the latest generations of prolong, undoubtedly helped, yet she clearly possessed a fair degree of thespian talent, as well. The maоtre d' was clearly convinced she'd escaped from a high school—probably a lower-class high school, given her soft, slow Grayson accent—for the afternoon, at least. His expression of politely sophisticated attentiveness didn't actually change a millimeter, but Helen had the distinct impression of an internal wince.

'Ah, Lieutenant Archer,' he repeated. 'Of course. If you'll come this way, please?'

He set sail across the intimately lit main dining room's sea of linen-draped tables, and Abigail and Helen bobbed along in his wake like a pair of dinghies. They crossed to a low archway on the opposite side of the big room, then followed him down two shallow steps into a dining room with quite a different (though no less expensive) flavor. The floor had turned into artfully worn bricks, the walls—also of brick—had a rough, deliberately unfinished look, and the ceiling was supported by heavy wooden beams.

Well, by what looked like wooden beams, Helen thought, although they probably weren't all that impressive to someone like Abigail who'd grown up in a (thoroughly renovated) medieval pile of stone over six hundred years old. One which really did have massive, age-blackened beams, a front gate fit to sneer at battering rams, converted firing slits for windows, and fireplaces the size of a destroyer's boat bay.

Two people were seated at one of the dark wooden tables. One of them—a snubnosed, green-eyed officer in the uniform of a Royal Manticoran Navy lieutenant—looked up and waved as he saw them. His companion—a stunningly attractive blonde—turned her head when he waved, and smiled as she, too, saw the newcomers.

'Thank you,' Abigail told the maоtre d' politely, and that worthy murmured something back, then turned and departed with what in a less eminent personage might have been described as relieved haste.

'You know,' Abigail said as she and Helen crossed to the table, 'you really should be ashamed of the way you deliberately offend that poor man's sensibilities, Gwen.'

Personally, Helen was reminded rather forcefully of the old saying about pots and kettles, given Abigail's simpering performance for the same maоtre d' , but she nobly forbore saying so.

'Me?' Lieutenant Gervais Winton Erwin Neville Archer's expression was one of utter innocence. 'How could you possibly suggest such a thing, Miss Owens?'

'Because I know you?'

'Is it my fault nobody on this restaurant's entire staff has bothered to inquire into the exalted pedigrees of its patrons?' Gervais demanded. 'If you're going to blame anyone, blame her .'

He pointed across the table at the blonde, who promptly smacked the offending hand.

'It's not polite to point,' she told him in a buzz saw-like accent. 'Even we brutish, lower-class Dresdeners know that much!'

'Maybe not, but that doesn't make it untrue, does it?' he shot back.

'I didn't say it did,' Helga Boltitz, Defense Minister Henri Krietzmann's personal aide, replied, and smiled at