Field Of Dishonor

'Do you recognize my voice, Mr. Summervale?' Ramirez asked. Summervale gritted his teeth and refused to answer—then screamed again as stone-crusher fingers twisted his wrist. 'I asked a question, Mr. Summervale,' the colonel chided. 'It's not nice to ignore questions.'

Summervale screamed a third time, writhing in agony, then threw his head back as far as he could.

'Yes! Yes!' His aristocratic voice was ugly with pain and hate.

'Good. Can you guess why I'm here?'

'F-Fuck you!' Summervale panted past the arm about his throat.

'Such language!' Ramirez said almost genially. 'Especially when I'm just here to ask you a question.' His voice lost its pretense of humor, cold and hard. 'Who paid you to kill Captain Tankersley, Summervale?'

'Go to hell, you-son-of-a-bitch!' Summervale gasped.

'That's not nice,' Ramirez chided again. 'I'm going to have to insist you tell me.'

'Why the fuck should I?' Summervale actually managed a strangled laugh. 'You'll just—kill me—when I do—so fuck you!'

'Mr. Summervale, Mr. Summervale!' Ramirez sighed. 'The Captain would have my ass if I killed you, so just answer the question.'

'Like hell!' Summervale panted.

'I think you should reconsider,' Ramirez said softly, and Scotty Tremaine turned away, his face white, at the sound of his voice. 'I only said I wouldn't kill you, Mr. Summervale,' the colonel whispered almost lovingly. 'I never said I wouldn't hurt you.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

'Tractor lock.'

'Cut main thrusters,' Michelle Henke responded. 'Stand by attitude thrusters. Chief Robinet, you have approach control.'

'Cut main thrusters, aye,' Agni's helmswoman repeated, and her fingers tapped keys, killing the last thrust from the light cruisers auxiliary reaction engines. 'Main thruster shutdown confirmed. Standing by for attitude thrusters. I have approach control, Ma'am.'

'Very good.' Henke leaned back in her chair and watched the ugly, comforting bulk of HMSS Hephaestus filling the forward visual display. Agni was well inside the safety perimeter of her own impeller wedge; she'd been on conventional thrusters for the last twenty minutes, but Hephaestus' tractors had her now, drawing her hammerhead bow steadily into the waiting docking bay. All Henke's ship had to do was insure the correctness of her final docking attitude, which required a finicky degree of precision the space station's tractors simply couldn't provide.

She watched silently over CPO Robinet's shoulder. Robinet probably could have picked up her moorings in her sleep, but the ultimate responsibility was Henke's, whatever happened. That thought jabbed uneasily at the back of her mind, as it always did at moments like this, for she'd never really liked docking maneuvers. She was a competent shiphandler, but she would never have Honor's total, almost innocently arrogant self-confidence. She knew perfectly well that it was that very lack of confidence which kept her from performing with Honor's bravura flair—which, in turn, kept her from feeling confident!

She snorted in familiar self-criticism, but the fact was that she vastly preferred a simple parking orbit that let small craft and tenders make rendezvous with her. All the same, she was glad Hephaestus had an open berth, for Nike's repair slip was barely five minutes by personnel tube from Agni's intended mooring. Henke had already commed Eve Chandler to warn her of Honor's arrival, and Chandler had responded with a warning of her own: the newsies were waiting in force.

Henke felt her mouth twist, then forced it to relax with deliberate, conscious effort and squared her shoulders. There was no way—no way!—those vultures were getting at Honor. Which was why Hephaestus Central had copied a flight plan for a cutter to deliver Countess Harrington and party to the main concourse. Falsifying flight plans was a moderately serious offense, and there might be repercussions when no cutter materialized to match the concourse arrivals board, but Henke thought she'd detected a certain knowing note in the senior controller's voice when he receipted her bogus flight plan. His casual mention that the newsies would no doubt be waiting for Lady Harrington only reinforced her suspicion—and her feeling that she'd done the right thing, even if she caught a reprimand for it.

A soft, musical tone sounded, and Chief Robinet nodded to herself.

'On docking station, Captain.'

'Engage mooring tractors.'

'Engaging mooring tractors, aye, Ma'am.'

'Jack,' Henke turned to her com officer, 'request umbilical lock and see how fast they can get the boarding tubes run out to us.'

'Aye, aye, Ma'am.'

'Thanks.' Henke pushed herself up out of her command chair and glanced at her exec. 'Mr. Thurmond, you have the watch.'

'Aye, aye, Ma'am. I have the watch.'

'Good.' She rubbed her temple for just a moment, then sighed. 'If anyone needs me, I'll be with Lady Harrington.'

Honor's cabin had no view port, but she'd patched her com terminal into Agni's forward visual sensors. Now she sat silently, hands loose in her lap, and gazed at the flat screen as the ship nosed into her berth.

She felt... empty. Emptier than the wind or space itself, sucked clean by the silent undertow of entropy. She heard MacGuiness moving about behind her, felt Nimitz as he stretched along the back of her chair and radiated his love and concern, and there was only stillness and silence within her. The pain waited, but she had sheathed it in an armor of ice. She could see it in her mind's eye, razor-edges glittering within its crystalline prison, yet it couldn't touch her. Nor would it be able to, for it would destroy her too soon if she let it free. And so she'd frozen it, not in fear but with purpose, imprisoning it until she chose to shatter the ice and loose it upon herself, and that would have to wait until she had found Denver Summervale.

Her mind ticked smoothly away, considering ways and means. She knew Mike was frightened for her, but that was silly. Nothing could hurt her now. She was a glacier, a thing of ice and stone grinding implacably toward its appointed end. Like the glacier, nothing would be allowed to stop her... and, like the glacier, there would be nothing left of her at all at journeys end.

She hid that thought deep, so deep even she could barely sense it, lest Nimitz read it in her, but there was a clean, clear logic to it. It was inevitable, and it was justice, too.

She shouldn't have let herself love Paul, she thought distantly. She should have known better. Part of her wished she'd been allowed more time before the trap sprang, but the end had been ordained. It was his love for her which had doomed him; she'd known that the moment she browbeat Mike into telling her the final insult Summervale had used against him. Mike hadn't wanted to tell her. She'd fought against it, yet she must have known Honor would find out eventually. And so she'd told her, looking away, unable to meet her eyes, and Honor had known. She still had no idea why a total stranger had picked a quarrel with Paul, but she had been the chink in his armor. She was what Summervale had used to reach him, goad him... kill him.

Just as she would kill Summervale. Her wealth would serve a purpose after all, for she would spend it all if she must to find him.

A colder, more savage ache went through her, and she embraced it. She built it into her armor, raising the icy walls higher and thicker to hold the pain at bay just a little longer. Just long enough to do the last thing that would ever matter to her again.

Honor looked better, Henke told herself as she stepped into her friend's cabin, and it was true... as far as it went. Her face had lost that shattered, broken look, yet it remained a mask. Henke's heart ached every time she thought of what hid behind it, and she only had to look at Nimitz to guess what that hidden thing was. The 'cat was