Mission of Honor-ARC (52 page)

He started to open his mouth, his expression indignant, but she raised her right hand between them, index finger extended vertically in an unspoken command to be silent, and continued in the same measured tone.

"There could be many reasons for your desire to 'run out the clock,' including the belief—mistaken, I assure you—that Manticore is so desperate for a settlement with the Republic, in light of the potential for conflict with the Solarian League, that if these talks can simply be strung out long enough, we'll accept revisions to our more substantive demands, such as the . . . clarification of our differences over our prewar diplomatic correspondence. If that is what you're hoping for, I'm quite certain President Pritchart doesn't share your belief."

She didn't so much as glance in Pritchart's direction, but she could feel the president stiffening ever so slightly in her chair. Not because Honor was wrong, but because Pritchart was surprised by just how
correct
she was.

"I suspect you're well aware that the President believes—accurately, as it happens—that my instructions are to return to Manticore with
no
treaty rather than with a
bad
treaty, time limit or not. Which suggests to me, Sir, that you're bringing a domestic agenda to this table in the belief the President will give you whatever it is you want from her here in the Republic in order to convince you to stop wasting time. Whether or not that belief of yours is accurate is, of course, more than I could say. I would suggest, however, that signing up for fiddle lessons when the house is already on fire is scarcely the most profitable use of your time. Bearing that in mind, I think that rather than sitting here wasting valuable time, we should take a short recess, during which you may discuss with President Pritchart just what it is you want and stop trying to get it out of her by using my mission as your prybar."

Younger's face had darkened steadily, and the power of his anger pulsed in Honor's awareness like a blow torch. He had himself sufficiently under control to glower at her in hot-eyed silence rather than open his mouth and let his fury betray how accurately she'd read him, however. She met his glare steadily for a moment, then looked at Pritchart at last.

The president's topaz eyes met hers with commendable steadiness, although the firm lips below them might have quivered ever so slightly. Honor wasn't prepared to swear to that either way, but she could taste the other woman's mingled irritation, frustration, and—overwhelming, this last emotion—entertainment.

"I believe, under the circumstances, that a recess probably
is
in order," Pritchart said after taking a moment to be certain she had her own voice under control. "I see it's very nearly lunchtime, anyway. If I may, Admiral, I'd suggest we take a couple of hours for lunch, during which Representative Younger can contact the members of his committee and canvas their response to your. . . forthright statement of the Star Empire's position on this point."

She smiled pleasantly at Honor, then turned to Younger.

"If you desire, Gerald," she continued pleasantly, "I'm sure Leslie and Walter and I could also make the time available before our next session with Admiral Alexander-Harrington and her delegation to discuss the
Administration's
view on this point. I'm always happy to hear Congress' views and advice, as you're well aware, and if the members of your committee have pronounced reservations on this point, I'd like to be made aware of them. I would never seek to dictate to the consciences of the Republic's elected representatives, but I must confess that at this moment, I'm unaware of any general groundswell of opinion on this point. If it's going to present serious difficulties, I'd appreciate a briefing on it."

The expression Younger turned on her was even closer to a glare than the one he'd bewstowed on Honor, but he kept a firm leash on his anger and nodded with at least a pretense of courtesy.

"Well then," Pritchart said just a tad brightly, smiling at Honor. "In that case, Admiral, we'll meet back here in two hours. Will that be convenient for your delegation?"

* * *

"Well, that was certainly entertaining, wasn't it?" Honor observed with an edge of whimsy as the members of her delegation—herded along by the alert sheepdogs of her armsmen—filed through the door into their suite's dining room. Like the conference room Pritchart had provided for their negotiations, the dining room's windows looked out over the boiling foam of Frontenac Falls, and she crossed the floor to gaze out at the spectacular scenery.

"I'm not sure 'entertaining' is exactly the word I'd choose, Your Grace," Tuominen said dryly. "Your approach to the rarefied and refined world of diplomacy seems just a trifle . . .
direct
, shall we say?"

"Oh, come now, Voitto!" Sir Barnabas Kew shook his head, smiling broadly. "You know you enjoyed seeing that insufferable young bugger taken down a notch just as much as
I
did! Talk about poisonous little vipers." The permanent undersecretary shook his head and glanced at Honor. "I don't know what the specifics of his agenda may be, Your Grace, but I'm convinced you nailed what he's up to."

"Nimitz and I have been discussing him for a while," Honor said, which was true enough, as far as it went, and Kew, Tuominen, and Baroness Selleck all nodded. She'd shared her—and Nimitz's, of course—impressions of all of the Havenite negotiators, although she'd been a bit less explicit about Pritchart, Theisman, and Nesbitt for various reasons.

"Of their entire delegation," she continued, "Younger and Tullingham are undoubtedly the most cynical and self-seeking. McGwire's no prize, you understand, but I think he's at least aware that in the Republic's current circumstances, a certain pragmatic resignation is in order. Tullingham could scarcely care less what happens to Pritchart's and Theisman's constitution—which, personally, I don't think is a most desirable possible trait in a Supreme Court justice—but my impression is that while he's the sort who thinks it's a perfectly wonderful idea to put legal opinions up for sale to the highest bidder, he's definitely
not
the sort who'd risk riding something like this down in flames just to satisfy his personal ambitions. His approach is more a case of 'business is business,' you might say. Younger, on the other hand . . . ."

She shook her head, not trying to hide her own disgust.

"What about him, Your Grace?" Selleck asked, regarding her narrowly, and Honor tasted her speculation. Of course, the baroness had been included among her advisers in no small part because of her familiarity with the various opposition groups which had emerged to resurrect the Republic after Saint-Just's death.

"I'm more than a little surprised he hasn't tried to use Green Pines, actually," Honor admitted. "I know that was what we hoped for when I had my little chat with the President, but I honestly didn't expect him to keep his mouth
completely
shut about it." Nor, she thought, had she anticipated the shiver of fear which went through the representative's mind glow whenever it looked like someone
else
might be about to bring it up. "But the more we see of him, the more convinced I am that he'd been fishing in some very murky waters long before we ever turned up in Nouveau Paris."

"You may well be right," Selleck said. "As I've said, I still don't have a good feel for how the internal dynamics of his party fit together, but my sources are suggesting more and more strongly that he's a more prominent player than we thought before. Are you suggesting he's a more important player than we've realized even now?"

"That's hard to say, Carissa," Honor replied thoughtfully, turning away from the windows and moving towards the table as James MacGuiness appeared in the doorway on the other side of the room, keeping an eagle eye on the Navy stewards who'd been sent down from Eighth Fleet to provide him with a reliable, security-screened support group.

"I don't know how important a player he actually is," she continued, seating herself at the head of the table. "For that matter, I don't know that he's really as important a player as
he
thinks he is. Obviously, he's got some stature, or he wouldn't have been included in Pritchart's delegation in the first place. The problem is that he's one of those people who just
knows
he's smarter, sneakier, and just generally all around better than anyone else. I have no idea what it is he wants out of Pritchart, but whatever it is, it never crossed his mind that he wasn't going to get it in the end. Or not until she asked him for that 'briefing', anyway."

She chuckled, and most of the others joined her. Then she looked up at MacGuiness.

"And just what are you planning on feeding us this afternoon, Mac?"

"I trust you'll find it palatable, Your Grace," MacGuiness said with a small bow and a lurking smile.

"But you're not going to tell me what it is until you put it on the table in front of me, are you?"

"I do treasure my little surprises," he acknowledged with a broader smile, and she shook her head fondly.

"All right, bring it on!" she challenged, and he chuckled as the stewards whipped away covers and set bowls of rich-smelling she crab soup in front of the diners.

* * *

"Excuse me, Your Grace."

Honor looked up from her second serving of cherry pie as Lieutenant Tümmel appeared apparently by magic at her shoulder. It was obvious to her that he'd been taking teleportation lessons from MacGuiness, and she'd come to realize she valued his gift for unobtrusiveness even more because Tim Mears hadn't had it. Mears had been just as efficient as Tümmel, but he'd never had Tümmel's ability to blend into the background and pop out of it again at exactly the right moment. Which meant it was at least one way in which Tümmel didn't constantly remind her of her last flag lieutenant and what had happened to him.

"Yes, Waldemar?" she said, allowing no trace of the familiar pain the thought of Mears caused her to show in her eyes or voice.

"We've just received a dispatch from Manticore, relayed from
Imperator
. It's a personal to you, from Her Majesty, and I'm afraid it's flagged as urgent."

"I see."

Honor laid down her fork, wiped her lips on her napkin, and rose. Anxious—or at least intensely speculative—eyes followed her, and she smiled slightly.

"Don't mind me, people," she said. "Go ahead and enjoy your dessert."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Honor sat back from the display in her own suite's sitting room, and her expression was much less amused than it had been. She tipped back her chair and crossed her legs, and Nimitz flowed up into her lap and sat upright, facing her.

"Not so good, is it, Stinker?" she asked, reaching out to stroke his ears. Actually, she realized, "not so good" might be putting it entirely too optimistically. The news was over three weeks old, after all. By this time, it was only too probable that Michelle Henke had already had the opportunity to prove—or disprove—the more optimistic estimates of the superiority of Manticoran military hardware. She felt Nimitz's concern mirroring her own, but then he twitched his upper pelvis in imitation of a human shrug.

his fingers flickered.

For just a moment, Honor was tempted to ask what made him an expert on the subject of battle fleets. Fortunately, the temptation disappeared as quickly as it had come. Treecat understanding of advanced technology and weaponry was still for all intents and purposes nonexistent, but those who'd adopted humans had been sufficiently exposed to it to understand
what
it did, even if they didn't grasp
how
it did it. And Nimitz had seen more naval combat than the majority of professional naval personnel ever saw in an entire lifetime. Some of that combat had come uncomfortably close to killing both him and Honor. In fact, ever since Paul Tankersley had designed his first treecat skinsuit, he'd seen exactly the same combat
she
had from exactly the same command bridges.

And he knows
Mike
better than almost anyone else does, too
, she reflected.
So, yes, he definitely
is
entitled to an opinion
.

"I hope you're right, Stinker," she said quietly, instead of what she'd started to say, and he bleeked in amusement as he felt her shift gears. She shook her head at him with a smile and gave his left ear a gentle yank. He smacked her hand with carefully retracted claws, and she chuckled, but then her smile faded and she folded her arms about him, hugging him while she thought.

"The question," she said aloud, using the 'cat as her sounding board once again, "is whether or not we tell Pritchart about this."

Nimitz signed, and she snorted.

"Yes, actually. I do," she admitted. He flicked his ears in silent question, and she sighed.

"Beth hasn't made Mike's dispatches public yet—or she hadn't when she sent her message, at least. Sooner or later, though, that's going to change, which means Pritchart's going to find out eventually, whatever happens. I don't want her deciding I was so nervous about her possible reaction to the news that I tried to keep it from her. I don't think she's likely to get infected with whatever Younger has and start playing stalling games, but I could be wrong about that. And I've been as candid with her as I could from the very beginning, including leveling with her about Green Pines. I don't want to jeopardize whatever balance of trust I've built up with her."

Nimitz considered that for several moments, grass-green eyes thoughtful. Unlike any other member of Honor's delegation, he'd been able to sample Eloise Pritchart's mind glow even more thoroughly than Honor had, and it was obvious to her he was considering what she'd said in the light of that insight. She wasn't about to rush him, either. Unlike the steadily decreasing number of Manticorans who continued to reject the evidence of treecat intelligence, Honor Alexander-Harrington had enormous respect both for the ability of 'cats in general to follow complex explanations and for Nimitz's judgment, in particular, where human nature was concerned.