A Rising Thunder

believing what you’ve primed him to tell us?”

“Oh, for the love of—!” Richter began.

“And, on that note, we have to go to break,” Prince interrupted, smiling brightly at the camera while DuCain struggled mightily not to laugh. “Don’t go away! Into the Fire will be back in just a few moments to continue this…lively exchange.”

June 1922 Post Diaspora

“I want him hammered so hard even Sollies have to get the message that this…is a war — their war — and that wars have consequences!”

— Admiral Lady Dame Honor Alexander-Harrington,

Steadholder and Duchess Harrington

Chapter Twelve

“Well, this is unexpected.”

Admiral Stephania Grimm, Manticoran Astro Control Service, looked at Captain Christopher Dombroski and cocked her head.

“Since this is all you’re showing me,” she continued, without looking away from him as she twitched a thumb at the terse message he’d relayed to her display, “and since you’re a reasonably competent sort, I assume you queried them for additional details and they declined to provide them?”

“That’s about right, Ma’am. They were polite, but they wouldn’t say a word about who they’re sending. They just repeated that they’ll be inserting ‘an unscheduled diplomatic courier’ into the queue. They did apologize for any ‘inconvenience,’ but that’s about it. Given everything that’s been happening, I thought I should call it to your attention.”

“I see.”

Grimm looked back at her display. A little explanation would have been nice, she reflected, but it was hardly his fault he didn’t have one.

Dombroski’s official title on the Junction Astro Control Service’s organizational chart was “Senior Officer, Traffic Management Division.” That made him responsible for imposing order upon thousands of Junction transits, and his usual, unflappable composure had begun to fray. Grimm wasn’t even tempted to hold that against him given how hectic his task had become. First there’d been the torrent of recalled merchantmen. Then, as Lacoon Two hit its stride, there’d been the scores of Solarian-registry vessels — most with indescribably irate skippers — who’d suddenly discovered they were going to have to make it home the long way. And as if that hadn’t been enough, there’d been the need to accommodate the movement of all the warships and mobile repair platforms the Navy was juggling in the Yawata Strike’s wake.

No, it was no wonder Dombroski looked a little stressed these days.

She frowned, trying to parse the message’s officialese. On the face of it, it was simple enough, but there’d just about been time for news of Eloise Pritchart’s presence on Manticore — and of the bombshell she’d brought with her — to get back through the Junction to the people who’d sent it.

And that suggests it’s anything but ‘simple,’ she thought.

“All right, Chris,” she said finally, “I’ll see Mount Royal’s informed. At least they gave us a couple of hours’ warning before they jumped the queue.” She shrugged philosophically. “I know it’ll complicate things, but it shouldn’t make too many waves.”

“Ma’am, they’re supposed to tell us about this kind of thing a hell of a lot further ahead of time.” There was a lot of irritation in Dombroski’s voice. “They know that, and I doubt it just slipped their minds.”

“I’m aware of that, Chris,” Grimm said patiently, reminding herself of the strain under which he’d labored of late. “There’s no legal requirement for them to warn us, though, whatever the customary procedures may be.”

She gave him a pointed look. If he wanted some official protest, he wasn’t going to get one, however much she sympathized. She held his eyes until she was sure he’d gotten the message. Then she shrugged again.

“I admit it’s a violation of good manners,” she told him a bit wryly, “but we have to assume they have their reasons. And even if they don’t, Beowulf does happen to be a sovereign star nation.”

* * *

“I don’t understand why I have to be here,” Honor Alexander-Harrington complained. “I’ve been away from Trevor’s Star way too long already.” She crossed restlessly to a window, gazing out across the landscaped Mount Royal grounds. “Alice is on top of things, but I shudder to think about everything that can still go wrong on that front. And Hamish’s delightful phrase about excreting bricks is probably a pretty fair description of how ACS is going to react when Theisman starts bringing two or three hundred Republican podnoughts through the Junction!”

She heard the plaintiveness (it would never have done to call it petulance) in her own voice and grimaced. Alice Truman, the CO of Task Force 81 and Eighth Fleet’s second in command was fully capable of handling things in her absence, and she knew it. In fact, if she’d wanted to be honest, what really ticked her off was that she’d far rather be at White Haven than here in Landing. Not that she had any intention of admitting that to a living soul.

“If I could tell you why you’re here, I would.” There was a certain tartness in Elizabeth Winton’s response. “Unfortunately, I’ve already told you everything I know. Beowulf’s specifically requested your presence, but their note’s remarkably short on details. It doesn’t say why. It doesn’t even say who. It just requests you be here to meet this ‘special embassy.’” The empress’s eyes narrowed. “If I were a betting woman, I’d be willing to wager it has something to do with relatives of yours, but that’s solely a guess, Honor.”

Honor grimaced again and rested both hands on the window sill, leaning closer to the crystoplast. For her, that was the equivalent of fidgeting violently, and Nimitz crooned softly in her ear. She glanced at him, and his fingers flickered.

<Worried about more bad news,> those agile fingers signed. <Worse, worried whatever this is will darken Deep Roots’ mind glow again.>

Honor looked at him, then, almost against her will, nodded. Ever since she’d learned her father’s treecat name, she’d thought it was even more appropriate than most. His roots truly did run deep, and he’d been the towering crown oak under which had sheltered her more times than she could count during her childhood. But those roots of his, the thing which anchored him so securely against life’s tempests and undergirded so much of who and what he was, had been his sense of family. His awareness of who he was, where he came from, and everyone who’d gone before him.

That was the rich, sustaining soil from which he’d drawn his strength, and too much of it was gone now, seared away by the Yawata Strike. His roots were beginning to recover, but healing was another matter entirely, one she was far from certain could ever be accomplished.

And Stinker’s right, too, she thought. It doesn’t make sense on any rational level, but what I really am is afraid. Afraid some message from Uncle Al or somebody else on Beowulf is going to start him bleeding all over again. Which is pretty stupid, when you come down to it. I sort of doubt the Board of Directors would’ve sent an official diplomatic mission — especially under such mysterious circumstances — just to deliver a family message. She shook her head. Am I really that fragile, myself? Running scared enough to jump at that kind of imagined shadow?

“You’re right,” she admitted out loud, leaning forward until her cheek touched the treecat’s nose. “And I guess it is pretty silly. It’s just—”

“Just that you’re human,” Elizabeth said quietly. Honor looked at her, and the empress shrugged, stroking Ariel’s ears as he lay across her lap. “I can read sign, too, you know. And I know you both well enough to follow