Mission of Honor-ARC (76 page)

She only wished she could get her father aboard
Trafalgar
for a weekend.

She shook that thought aside and returned her attention to Yanakov.

"I'm always happy to see you, Judah, but given how busy everyone is just now, I rather doubt this is purely a social occasion."

"As usual, My Lady, you're right," Yanakov admitted.

"Well then, Admiral Yanakov, let's be about it," she invited, and Yanakov smiled for a moment. Then he seemed to sober again.

"The main reason I'm here, My Lady, is to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Honor repeated a bit blankly.

"Yes, My Lady. I've been recalled. They need me back home."

"Oh?" Honor sat up straighter.

Reports of the attack which had hit Yeltsin's Star simultaneously with the one on the Manticore Binary System were still incomplete. Transit time was under four days for a dispatch boat, as compared to the roughly six and a half between the Junction's Trevor's Star terminus and the Haven System, so she'd known for days now that the Graysons had been pounded, as well. What she was short on were details. Which wasn't surprising, really. No doubt Grayson had enough wreckage of its own that needed sorting through before it could issue anything like definitive reports.

"You've gotten a more complete report from home?" she continued, and he nodded heavily.

"I have. In fact, I brought a copy of it for you."

He slipped a chip folio out of the inside pocket of his tunic and laid it on the corner of her desk. She wasn't surprised that it had been delivered directly to her instead of coming through the Admiralty, given that she was the second ranking officer of the Grayson Space Navy, even if she was on "detached duty" to her birth star nation.

"How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

"Bad," he said flatly. "In fact, it's worse than the original estimates. Blackbird is gone, My Lady and it looks like we lost virtually a hundred percent of the workforce."

Honor's stomach muscles tightened. It wasn't a surprise, however much she might have wished the preliminary reports had been wrong. Given the dispersed architecture of the Blackbird yards, she'd at least dared to hope the attack might have been a little less effective than the one on the concentrated capacity of
Hephaestus
and
Vulcan
. At the same time, though, she'd realized that anyone who could put together an operation as conceptually daring and as brilliantly executed as the one which had cauterized the Star Empire would have recognized the differences between her targets and planned accordingly. Apparently, she had.

"They don't seem to have used as many of those graser-armed remote platforms of theirs," Yanakov continued, as if he'd heard her thoughts, "but they used a lot more missiles and kinetic strikes to compensate. According to the Office of Shipbuilding, at least ninety-six percent of the physical plant was destroyed outright or damaged beyond repair. And, as I say, personnel losses were near total."

Honor nodded, and fresh shadows gathered in her eyes. She'd been one of the major investors when Blackbird was built, and the economic loss was going to be a severe blow in a financial sense. That was totally immaterial to her, however, beside the
human
cost. Almost a third of the total workforce had been from Harrington Steading itself or employed by Skydomes. And over eighteen percent of those employees had been women—a stupendous percentage for patriarchal Grayson, even now.

"The only good news is that Blackbird was far enough away from the planet that we didn't take any collateral damage to the orbital habitats or farms. Or"—his eyes met hers—"to the planet itself, of course."

"Thank God for that," Honor said with soft, intense sincerity.

"We had even more new construction caught in the yards," he went on, "but we didn't have many ships in for repairs or overhaul, so at least we were spared that."

"And they want you back home to take over the system defenses," Honor said, nodding. But Yanakov shook his head.

"I'm afraid not, My Lady," he said quietly. "The latest dispatch boat from Grayson brought me direct orders from the Protector. He sent a personal message for you, as well." The Grayson admiral took another chip folio from his tunic and laid it beside the first one. "I'm sure it will explain everything in greater detail, but I wanted to tell you personally."

"Tell me what, Judah?" Honor sat back in her chair. "You're beginning to make me a little nervous, you know."

"I'm sorry, My Lady. That wasn't my intention. But"—Yanakov inhaled deeply—"I wanted to tell you myself that I've been appointed High Admiral."

For a moment, it didn't register. Then Honor's eyes widened, and she felt her head shaking in futile, instinctive rejection.

They sat in silence for several seconds until, finally, it was her turn to draw a breath.

"Wesley was out at Blackbird?" she said softly.

"Yes, My Lady. I'm sorry. He was there for a stupid, routine conference." Yanakov shook his own head, his eyes bright with mingled sorrow and anger. "Just one of those things. But I know how close the two of you were. That's why I wanted to tell you in person. And," he managed an unhappy smile, "to assure you that if you should happen to want the assignment, it's yours. After all, you're senior to me."

"Not on a bet, Judah," she replied almost instantly. "I know how much Hamish hates being tied to the Admiralty, and I know how much Wesley hated having to give up a space-going command. I don't think I'd like it any more than either of them." She shook her head again, much more firmly. "They're not getting
me
off a flag deck that easily! Not now, especially."

Her voice turned harsher on the last sentence, and Yanakov nodded.

"I was afraid that was what you'd say," he admitted. "I thought it might be worth a try, at least, though."

"I'd do almost anything for you, Judah," she told him. "
Almost
anything."

Yanakov chuckled. It sounded a bit odd—perhaps because both of them had heard so few chuckles in the last few weeks—but it also sounded remarkably natural. As if they might actually get used to hearing it again, sometime. Then he stood and extended his hand again.

"I'm afraid they want me home in a hurry, My Lady. I'm headed back aboard the same dispatch boat and it's scheduled to break Manticore orbit in less than two hours. So I'm afraid I have to say goodbye now."

"Of course."

Honor stood, but instead of taking his hand, she walked around the deck and stood facing him for perhaps two seconds. Then she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

She felt him stiffen instinctively, even after all these years. Which, she supposed, showed you could take the boy out of Grayson, but you couldn't take the Grayson out of the boy. But then his automatic response to being touched so intimately by a woman who was neither his wife nor his mother or sister disappeared, and he hugged her back. A bit tentatively, perhaps, but firmly.

A moment later, she stepped back, both hands on his shoulders, and smiled at him.

"I'm going to miss Wesley," she told him softly. "We're both going to miss a lot of people. And I know you don't really want the job, Judah. But I think Benjamin made the right pick."

"I hope so, My Lady. But when I think about the monumental mess we've got to clean up . . . ." He shook his head.

"I know. But you and I have done that before, haven't we?"

He nodded again, remembering the horrific damage he'd helped her put right after they'd beaten off Operation Stalking Horse's assault on his home star system.

"Well, then," she said, and squeezed his shoulders. "On your way, High Admiral. And"—she looked into his eyes once more—"God bless, Judah."

* * *

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please find your seats," Fleet Admiral Rajampet invited loudly and, Daoud al-Fanudahi thought, completely unnecessarily. As far as he could tell, not one of the astronomically senior flag officers in the briefing room was out of his or her seat, and he found Rajampet's instruction symptomatic. The Navy had been spending quite a bit of time passing lots of
other
totally unnecessary orders back and forth, after all. When it hadn't been too busy either panicking, at least. Or, even worse, posturing.

He wasn't absolutely certain which of the latter this particular meeting was going to do, but he had a bad feeling about it.

He himself, along with Irene Teague, was seated well back from the main conference table, as befitted their monumentally junior rank. And that, too, he found symptomatic. They were probably the only two people in the entire room who actually had a clue what was going on, so
of course
they were seated as far from the decision-makers as the physical limits of the briefing room permitted.

You know
, he told himself a bit severely,
this tendency of yours to perpetually look on the dark side of things may be one of the reasons certain of your superiors think of you as an incurable pessimist—not to mention just a
bit
of an alarmist
.

Maybe it is
, another corner of his mind replied,
but the
real
reason is that this pack of idiots doesn't want to face the fact that they've gotten their collective asses in a crack—and all the rest of the League along with them—because none of them have the least idea what they're up against. They're not about to admit that by actually asking
questions that might give them a glimmer of reality. Especially not when asking would only prove how monumentally they screwed up by not asking sooner!

Rajampet's unnecessary order had at least one beneficial consequence; it brought the whispered side conversations to an abrupt halt. The CNO looked around the other officers, eyes bright in their nest of wrinkles, and let the silence linger for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"I'm sure none of us need to recapitulate the events of the last several weeks," he began. "Obviously, all of us are dismayed by what happened to Admiral Crandall's task force at Spindle. And I think it would be fair to say," he continued in a deliberately judicious, soberly thoughtful tone, "that the efficacy of the Manticoran Navy's weapons has come as a most unpleasant surprise to all of us."

He allowed himself to glance—briefly—at Karl-Heinz Thimár and Cheng Hai-shwun. Other eyes followed his, but Thimár and Cheng had obviously realized this, or something like it, had to be coming. They sat there calmly, apparently oblivious to the looks coming their way. The bureacratic infighter's number one rule, ''Never let them see your fear," was well known to everyone around the table, but the two men ostensibly responsible for the SLN's intelligence arms were giving a bravura demonstration of it, and with very little sign of strain. Which, al-Fanudahi reflected, said a great deal about how highly placed their various relatives and patrons actually were.

"It would appear, however, that we aren't the only ones the Manties have pissed off," Rajampet continued after a second. "Intelligence is still working on determining exactly who was responsible for the attack on their home system. I'm sure we'll see some progress on that front quite soon."

Precisely what prompted that confidence on his part eluded Daoud al-Fanudahi, who happened to be the person who was supposed to be doing the progressing and who still didn't have even a glimmer of proof, whatever he might know instinctively had to be the truth.

"In the meantime, however, we have to consider how to respond to the Manties' blatant imperialism and arrogance," the CNO went on in that same, measured tone. "I don't believe there can be much doubt—especially in light of the Manties' decision to close all wormholes under their control to Solarian shipping—that what we're really looking at here on their part is a comprehensive strategy which they've been contemplating for some time. On the one hand, they've revealed their new weapons' capabilities; on the other, they're threatening our trade and economic life's blood. Both of those, obviously, are pointed suggestions that the League should stay out of their way instead of objecting to their expansionism in and beyond the Talbott Cluster."

Lord, don't
any
of these idiots read our reports?
al-Fanudahi wondered behind an impassive face.
"Imperialism"?
"Expansionism"?
I don't know what the Manties are up to in Silesia, but that's the
last
thing that was on their mind when they got involved in Talbott! But do any of our lords and masters want to hear about that? Of course not! After all, it would
never
do to dispute Kolokoltsov's and Abruzzi's version of reality, would it?

"Given that attitude on their part," Rajampet said, "it's unlikely they'll be inclined to respond favorably to the government's diplomatic initiatives. At the same time, however, they have to be reeling from what's happened to them. Let's face it, Ladies and Gentlemen—we got reamed at Spindle. But compared to what's happened to the Manties' home system, what happened to Admiral Crandall's task force was only a minor inconvenience, as far as the Navy and the League are concerned. Even with her entire force off the table, we still have over two thousand of the wall in full commission, another three hundred in refit or overhaul status, and better than eight thousand in reserve. Task Force 496 represented less than half of one percent of our total wall of battle and our support structure is completely unscathed, whereas the Manties have just had their entire industrial base blown out from under them. There's no meaningful comparison between the relative weight of those losses. They represent totally different orders of magnitude, and it has to be psychologically even worse for the Manties because it happened so soon after Spindle. From what had to be an incredible peak of confidence, they've had their feet kicked out from under them. At the moment, no matter how much money they have in the bank, and no matter how big their merchant marine—or even their remaining navy—may be, they're effectively no more than a fourth-rate power in terms of sustained capabilities, and don't think for a moment that they don't know that as well as we do."

The briefing room was silent, and even al-Fanudahi had to admit that, looked at from the perspective Rajampet had adopted, there was something to be said for his analysis. While al-Fanudahi wasn't even tempted to assume the Manticorans were simply going to obediently lie down and die for the League, he was forced to concede that their position was ultimately hopeless. It had probably been that way from the beginning, given the difference in size between the potential opponents, but the catastrophic destruction of their industrial base was decisive. He wished he had some idea of how big their ammunition stockpiles had been before the mysterious attack, but however big they'd been, that was all the missiles the Manties were going to have for a long, long time. So, in the end, they
were
going to lose if the SLN chose to press home an offensive.