Honor Among Enemies

Klaus Hauptman sat in his stateroom, hunched in a deeply cushioned chair while he held his face in his hands, and shame filled him. Not the anger which so often drove him: shame. Raw, biting shame. The kind that crawled up inside a man and destroyed him. A part of him knew it was his terrible fear for his daughter which had driven him to defy Honor Harrington, to rail and curse at her, yet that offered no comfort, no shield against the hurt shock, the disbelief that he could do such a thing, he'd seen in Stacey's eyes. The one person in the universe whose good opinion truly mattered to him had looked into his soul and turned away from what she saw there, and he felt his eyes burn with the tears he somehow refused to shed.

Yet behind the look in Stacey's eyes was the cold contempt he'd heard in Harrington’s voice. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it, but this time he'd deserved it. He knew that, with no ability to tell himself differently. And in facing that poison-bitter truth, he was forced to face his memories of their earlier encounter, as well. Forced to admit, possibly for the first time in his adult life, that he'd lied to himself. He, who'd always thought he could face himself unflinchingly, knew better now. Harrington had been right the first time, too, he thought wretchedly. Right to reject the pressure he'd tried to bring to bear, right to feel contempt for him, even right to threaten a man who could stoop so low as to use her parents against her out of nothing more than choler and pique and offended pride. A man who could do that without even realizing how contemptible it was, because such considerations meant nothing beside his anger of the moment.

He sat there, alone with the acid reality of what he was, and all his wealth and power and position and accomplishments were no armor at all against himself.

Harold Sukowski trotted down the passenger ship's grav-generator-equipped boarding tube with one arm protectively around Chris Hurlman. The commander had fully recovered from her physical injuries in her time aboard Wayfarer, and she'd come far further back from her psychological wounds than he would have believed possible. But she was still fragile, without the tough, devil-may-care humor he'd known for so many years, and he kept her close, shielding her from any casual contact in the chaos about them.

Margaret Fuchien had detailed stewards and any other crewman she could find to act as guides for the influx of refugees. It was essential to clear the boat bay galleries as quickly as possible, and Artemis' personnel did their best to keep the evacuees moving without pause. But there was a knot in the flow as Sukowski and Hurlman emerged from the tube on Shannon Foraker's heels. All of Wayfarer's POWs had been sent over together, with a single Marine to ride herd on them, and Sukowski’s head came up quickly as he saw the instant anger on the faces of their waiting guides. Anger turned almost as quickly to hate, hate for the people who wore the uniform of the Navy which had just destroyed Hawkwing and killed thirty of their own, and the senior steward in charge of their group opened his mouth, face curdled with rage. But Sukowski stepped quickly forward, moving between Warner Caslet and Denis Jourdain at the head of the prisoners, and his eyes were hard.

'Shut your face,' he told the steward in cold, biting tones. The man twitched in confusion as the scar- faced, mutilated man in a plain shipsuit spoke in an icy command voice, and Sukowski drove ahead before he could continue. 'I'm Captain Harold Sukowski,' he said in that same cold voice, and recognition of his own shipping line's fourth ranking captain sparked in the steward's eyes. 'These people saved my life, and my exec's, from the butchers who took Bonaventure in Telmach. They also executed every one of the pigs who had us in custody, then lost their own ship trying to save another Manticoran vessel.' He didn't mention exactly which vessel that had been. It didn't matter, and Caslet and Jourdain hadn't known when they went to Wayfarer's rescue, anyway. 'You will treat them with respect, Senior Steward. Is that clear?'

'Uh, yessir!' the steward blurted. 'As you say, Sir!'

'Good. Now get us out of here to clear this gallery.'

'Yes, Sir. If the Captain and... and his friends would follow me, please?'

The man led them off, and Sukowski felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Caslet gazing at him, and their eyes met with a shared, bleak smile of understanding... and sorrow.

'Last boat, Skipper,' Cardones announced. The exec was hoarse from passing orders, and Honor looked up with a nod from her conference with Jennifer Hughes. She spared time for one anguished glance at the back of her command chair, wishing desperately that she'd sent Nimitz across, as well. But he would no more leave her than Samantha would leave Harold Tschu, or than Honor would leave him. She might have had him forcibly removed, but she couldn't do it. She simply couldn't, and at least he was better off than Samantha. He had his skinsuit; Tschu hadn't been able to afford one, and he'd had to settle for a standard life-support module. But that much Honor had been able to improve upon. She still had the deluxe module she'd bought Nimitz before Paul designed his suit, the one with the built in antiradiation armor and the extended life support, and she'd insisted that Tschu take Samantha to her quarters and put her inside its greater protection.

Not, she thought grimly, that it would make that much difference in the end.

'How soon can we break away?' she asked.

'Any time, Skip.' Cardones' smile was as grim as she felt. 'That boats not scheduled to come back. We're down to two pinnaces... and, of course, our life pods.'

'Of course,' Honor agreed with a ghost of true humor, then punched back into Damage Control Central.

'DCC, Senior Chief Lewis.'

'Lewis? What are you doing down there?' Honor demanded in surprise.

'Commander Tschu has every warm body he can spare down in Cargo One, Ma'am, including Lieutenant Silvetti. I'm minding the store for them,' Ginger said, deliberately misunderstanding her question, and Honor's lips quirked in a small, sad smile.

'All right, Senior Chief. Tell me how they're coming.'

'The starboard motors are definitely frozen, Ma'am,' Lewis said crisply. 'They're completely shot; they'll need total replacement. Two of the port motors are still operable, and the third may be, but the entire control run's blown away between Frame Seven-Niner-Two and the stern plate. They're rigging new cable now, but they've got to clear wreckage to get it in, and two pods have come adrift from Number Four Rail. They'll have to get them tied down before they can even get at that portion of the problem.'

'Time estimate?'

'Chief Engineer estimates a minimum of ninety minutes, Ma'am.'

'Understood. Tell him to keep on it.'

'Aye, aye, Ma'am.'

Honor cut the circuit and looked at Jennifer Hughes.

'Time to enemy intercept?'

'Missile range in two hours five minutes.'

'But she still has us only on gravitics?'

'At this range and under these conditions, that's all she can possibly have us on, Ma'am,' Hughes said confidently.

'Very well.' Honor turned to Cardones, who'd taken over Communications after Cousins' departure. 'Rafe, get me Captain Fuchien on the main screen.'

'Yes, Ma'am.'

The two-meter com screen on the command deck's forward bulkhead lit. Fuchien's face was grim, her eyes haunted, but she nodded courteously.

'It's time, Captain,' Honor told her in a voice whose calm surprised even her. Perhaps it surprised especially her. 'Move your ship ahead of us. I want you in our impeller shadow when your drive goes down.'

'Yes, Milady,' Fuchien said quietly, and Honor looked over her shoulder. 'Deploy the EW drone, Jenny.'

'Aye, aye, Ma'am.'

Artemis slid in front of Wayfarer once more, riding directly ahead of her, and Honor turned to Senior Chief Coxswain O'Halley.