The Short Victorious War

been crudely built and mass-intensive, yet it had also been undeniably efficient, and BuShips claimed not only to have exterminated every possible bug but to have tweaked the specs even further, as well. Besides, the Navy hadn't had a compensator failure in over three T-centuries.

Or, at least, not one anyone knew about. Of course, there'd been the occasional ship lost 'to causes unknown,' and since a compensator failure under max accel would leave no survivors to report it...

She put the thought aside as the wedge peaked and Oselli spoke.

'Maximum military power, Captain.' The astrogator looked up with an enormous smile. 'Five-one-five- point-five gravities, Ma'am!'

'Very good!' This time Honor couldn't quite keep her delight out of her voice, for that was two and a half percent better than BuShips and the builders had estimated. It might be three percent less than her last ship had been capable of, but HMS Fearless had massed only three hundred thousand tons.

She touched the stud again.

'Engineering, Commander Ravicz.'

'The Captain again, Ivan. Everything still green down there?'

'Yes, Ma'am. I wouldn't care to keep her here too long,' Honor heard Ravicz's satisfaction waning with his professional caution, 'but this ship is really built.' The builder's rep grinned at the compliment, and he smiled back.

'We'll back off shortly,' Honor told him, and leaned back in her chair as she released the stud. 'Hold us at max for another thirty minutes, Helm.'

'Aye, aye, Ma'am,' Constanza replied crisply, and Honor felt her bridge crew's pleasure at their ship's performance.

She shared it, but her mind was already reaching ahead to the next phase. Once the sustained full power trial was out of the way, it would be time to exercise Nike's armament. That was one reason for their present course, since the Beta Belt was the Navy's traditional gunnery exercise area. There'd be a few less asteroids shortly, she thought cheerfully, and reached up to scratch Nimitz's chin as he purred on the back of her chair.

James MacGuiness poured cocoa into Honor's mug, and she raised it to sniff the rich, chocolaty aroma. The steward watched the crown of her bent head with a hint of anxiety, then banished the expression instantly as she straightened.

'Do I detect something new, Mac?'

'As a matter of fact, you do, Ma'am. Try it.'

She sipped cautiously, and her eyebrows rose. She took another, longer sip, then lowered the mug with a sigh.

'Delicious! What did you do to it?'

'I added a touch of almond to it, Ma'am. The Bosun tells me it's something of a favorite on Gryphon.'

'Well, I certainly approve. And be sure you remind me to tell Dad about it next time I see him, would you?'

'Of course, Ma'am.' MacGuiness tried unsuccessfully to hide his pleasure at her reaction, then straightened as the admittance signal chirped and Honor pressed a button.

'Yes?'

'Executive Officer, Ma'am,' her sentry announced.

'Thank you, Corporal.' Honor touched another key to open the hatch, and Commander Henke stepped through it.

'You wanted to see me, Ma'am?'

'I did, indeed, Mike. Sit down.' Henke obeyed, her 'on-duty' manner softening at the welcoming, informal tone, and Honor glanced up at MacGuiness. 'The Exec is one of those barbarian coffee-drinkers, Mac. Could you get her a cup?'

'Of course, Ma'am.' MacGuiness vanished, and Henke shook her head at Honor.

'Still sucking up the calories, I see. No wonder you spend so much time working out!'

'Nonsense,' Honor said comfortably. 'Some of us have active metabolisms, which allow us to indulge our taste for the finer things in life without fear of the consequences.'

'Yeah, sure.' Henke snorted.

MacGuiness reappeared with a coffee cup on a gold-rimmed saucer, and the commanders eyebrows rose. The cup bore Nike's crest, the winged goddess of victory hurling thunderbolts from a raised hand, but the hull number under the crest was BC-09. Which made the cup over two Manticoran centuries— almost five hundred T-years—old. It was part of the captain's service from the second ship of her name and, as such, reserved for formal occasions.

'To what do I owe the honor?' she asked, and Honor chuckled.

'Two things, actually. One, I happen to remember that it's your birthday.' Henke grimaced, and Honor chuckled again. 'Now, now! You're not getting older, just better.'

'Maybe. But if I know you, you ratted to the rest of the wardroom about it—probably through your faithful minion here—didn't you?' Henke demanded with a wave at MacGuiness. Honor looked innocent, and the commander groaned. 'Yes, you did. And that means they're waiting to pounce with that stupid song! Damn it, Honor, you know I've got perfect pitch! Have you ever heard Ivan Ravicz try to sing?' She shuddered, and Honor turned a laugh into a hasty cough.

'I'm sure you'll survive,' she soothed. 'On the other hand, that's only one of the things I'm celebrating. We've got our orders, Mike.'

'Oh?' Henke straightened in her chair and set her cup aside, levity vanquished by sudden interest.

'Indeed. Being in all respects ready for deployment, HMS Nike is directed to Hancock Station, there to take aboard Rear Admiral of the Red Mark Sarnow as flagship of Battlecruiser Squadron Five.'

'Hancock Station as a squadron flagship—and a newly formed squadron at that, hey? Well, well, well,' Henke murmured, and her dark eyes gleamed. 'Not too shabby. And from what I hear, Sarnow should keep things lively.'

'If he lives up to his reputation,' Honor agreed. 'I've never met him, but I've heard good things about him. And I know at least one member of his staff quite well.'

'Oh? Which one?'

'His communications officer was my com officer in Basilisk. Lieutenant Commander Webster.'

'Webster,' Henke repeated thoughtfully. 'Would that be Sir James's cousin, or his grand-nephew?'

'Nephew. He's young, but he doesn't owe his rank to his relatives. I think you'll like him.'

'If he does his job as well as his uncle, I probably will,' Henke agreed, then smiled. 'And, speaking of relatives, I've got one serving in Hancock, too.'

'Really?'

'Yes. My cousin—fourth cousin, actually—is the repair base's exec.' Henke cocked her head for a moment, regarding Honor with a quizzical expression. 'As a matter of fact, you've met him.'

'I have?' Honor was surprised. She'd met several of Henke's relatives—mostly exalted personages who'd dropped in to visit her on free days at Saganami Island—but she doubted any of them would be serving as an orbital bases executive officer.

'Uh-huh. You met him in Basilisk. Captain Paul Tankersley.'

Honor tried—almost successfully—to keep her mouth from tightening in repugnance. Not, she told herself after the instant initial shock, that she had anything against Tankersley himself. To be honest, she hardly even remembered him. She tried to recall what he looked like, and frowned at the image's vagueness. Short, she thought, but square and solid looking. That was all that came to mind—that and his obvious discomfort at the situation he'd found himself in at the time.

'Paul told me about it,' Henke said after a moment, breaking into her thoughts. 'Or some of it, anyway. I think he'd have said more if he hadn't thought it would sound disloyal to an ex-CO. He's funny that way, even when the CO in question was Pavel Young.'

This time Honor couldn't keep the cold, bleak hatred off her face, and her hand tightened about her cocoa