The Honor of the Qween hh-2 Read online

  "I see." McKeon frowned, and Honor watched his face carefully. She knew Alistair well enough to see that something about the situation bothered him, but he chose to say nothing more, and she looked around the table again.

  "Anything else?" she asked, and heads shook. "Very well, then, ladies and gentlemen, let's be about it."

  She and Courvosier stood and led the way to the boat bay to see their visitors to their pinnaces and back to their own ships.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sword Of The Faithful Matthew Simonds stumped angrily down the passage aboard his new flagship and reminded himself not to speak to Captain Yu like the heathen he was. He had no doubt Yu was going to be displeased by what he was about to hear, and though the captain was always exquisitely polite, he couldn't quite hide his feeling of superiority. That was particularly maddening in a man from such an ungodly culture, but the Church needed Yu, for a time, at least. Yet that wouldn't always be true, Simonds promised himself. The time would come when God delivered their true enemies into their hands at last. On that day infidel outsiders would no longer be necessary ... and if these godless foreigners could create the conditions for Maccabeus to succeed, that day might come far sooner than they suspected.

  The bridge hatch opened before him, and he summoned up a smile and made his irritated pace slow as he stepped through it.

  Captain Alfredo Yu rose from the chair at the center of the magnificent command deck. He was a tall, slender man, overtopping Simonds by at least fifteen centimeters, comfortable and elegant in the scarlet and gold of the Navy of Masada, yet there was something subtly wrong with the way he came to attention. Not disrespectful or insolent, but simply different, as if he'd learned his military courtesy somewhere else.

  Which, of course, was exactly what he had done.

  "Good morning, Sir. This is an unexpected honor. How may I serve you?"

  "Come into my briefing room, please," Simonds replied, somewhat mollified, despite himself, by Yu's unfailing courtesy.

  "Of course, Sir. Commander Manning, you have the watch."

  "Aye, Sir," the commander—not, Simonds noted with fresh grumpiness, a Masadan—acknowledged crisply, and Yu followed Simonds into the briefing room and turned an attentive countenance to him as the hatch closed behind them.

  Simonds studied that bland, waiting expression and wondered, not for the first time, what the mind behind those dark eyes thought. Yu had to know how critical he and his ship were to Masada's plans—or, at least, to the plans he knew about—and a third of Thunder of God's crew were still heathens filling the specialist roles no Masadan could. They looked to Yu for their orders, not Simonds, and not simply because he was the captain of their ship. Simonds had survived thirty years of internecine political and doctrinal warfare within Masada's theocracy, and he knew perfectly well Yu had his own superiors and his own agenda. So far, that agenda had marched side-by-side with the Faith's, yet what would happen on the day that was no longer true? It wasn't something Simonds liked to contemplate, but it was also something he had no choice but to ponder—and the reason it was so critical to handle Yu perfectly. When the time came for their ways to part, it must be on the Faithful's terms, not theirs.

  He cleared his throat, banishing his moody thoughts, and waved at a chair.

  "Sit, sit, Captain!"

  Yu waited with punctilious courtesy until Simonds had taken his own seat, then dropped neatly into the indicated chair, and the Sword swallowed the bitter bile of envy at how easily Yu moved. The captain was ten years older than Simonds and looked half his age. Looked? Yu was half Simonds' age, physically, at least, for his people were so lost to God they saw no evil in tampering with His plan for their species. They used the prolong process liberally, among their military and ruling families, at least, and Simonds was disturbed by how much he envied them. The temptation to drink from that spring of youth was a deadly one. Perhaps it was as well Masada's medical community was incapable of duplicating it, even if that inability was one more galling indication of the things these infidels could do and the Faithful couldn't.

  "We have a problem, Captain," he said at length.

  "A problem, Sir?" Yu's foreign accent, with its longer vowels and sharper consonants, still fell strangely on Simonds' ear.

  "Yes. Our agents on Grayson have just discovered that the convoy will arrive with a powerful escort."

  "How powerful, Sir?" Yu asked, sitting straighter, and Simonds smiled sourly.

  "We don't know yet—only that it will be `powerful.' " He snorted. "We should have anticipated it, I suppose. Their bitch of a queen will guard her thirty pieces of silver well until Mayhew sells Grayson to her."

  Alfredo Yu nodded, carefully concealing his reaction to the savagery of Simonds' voice. The mere idea of a woman as a head of state appalled Masada—didn't the Bible itself say it was Eve's corruption which had tainted all humanity with sin?—and Simonds' disgust at the thought that even Grayson might consider allying itself with such a vile and unnatural regime was clear. Yet it probably gave him a certain horrified satisfaction, as well, for it must pander to his own sense of superiority as one more indication of Grayson's apostasy beside the uncorrupted fidelity of the Faithful. But Masadan bigotry was less important at the moment than the information that the convoy had a real escort to worry about, and the captain frowned in thought.

  "Have you been able to discover anything about this escort's orders, Sir?"

  "How can we?" the Sword grumbled in a deliberately sour voice. "It's hard enough to discover what the Apostate are up to! But we have to assume the Manticorans won't sit idly by while we eliminate their potential ally."

  "They might, depending on their orders, Sir." Simonds' eyes flashed, and the captain shrugged. "I didn't say it was likely, Sir, only that it was possible. And I sincerely hope it is the case, under the circumstances."

  Yu's quiet tone held a carefully measured bite, and Simonds flushed. Yu and his superiors had pressed the Council of Elders for weeks—respectfully, but strongly—to move forward on Operation Jericho. Simonds was more than a little frightened of taking the plunge himself, but he knew Yu had been right from a purely military viewpoint, and he'd said so. Not that it had mattered. The Council as a whole had been determined to wait until after the Manticoran bribe was delivered to Grayson. Their own ally, unable to match the efficiency of Manticoran industry, would have been hard pressed to provide the same sort of infrastructure boost, and the Elders, intent on gathering in that largess for Masada's benefit, had delayed too long.

  Or perhaps not. Not even the majority of the Council of Elders knew everything, and the inner circle had its own reasons to delay. Of course, it was always possible that they'd waited too long, as well, but they had more than one way to their end. And even if it came down to the operation everyone else expected, the escorts would withdraw with their unloaded freighters once the clique ruling Grayson had sold what was left of their souls as the vassals of infidels who let themselves be ruled by women. There would be a window, however brief, between the signing of the draft treaty and its ratification. If the Faithful struck then, before the treaty was formalized, and eliminated the government which would have ratified it ...

  "The Council of Elders is unanimous on this, Captain." The Sword made himself sound pleasant. "Until and unless we can confirm that the Manticoran escort commander has orders not to intervene, we will postpone Jericho."

  "With all due respect, Sir, their escort would have to be very powerful to offset Thunder's presence in our own order of battle. Particularly when they don't know we have her."

  "But if they intervene, Jericho will result in a shooting confrontation with Manticore, and we can't possibly stand off the Royal Manticoran Navy."

  "Not alone, no, Sir," Yu agreed, and Simonds bared his teeth in a tight grin of understanding. He knew where Yu was headed—and he had no intention of following him there. The Council of Elders wouldn't thank the Sword for creating a situation in which their continued exis
tence depended upon Yu's true masters dispatching a powerful fleet to "protect" them! They would become little more than prisoners under house arrest if they allowed that to happen—which would no doubt suit their "ally's" purposes perfectly. Not that he could say that to Yu.

  "There's too much room for error in precipitate action, Captain," he said instead. "Manticore is much closer than your friends are. If it came to open combat and any of their ships escaped, their reinforcements would get here before yours could. Under those circumstances, even a victory would be a disaster. And, of course," he added, "it's much too late for us to preposition Republican naval units here before we launch Jericho."

  "I see." Yu leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "What does the Council want to do instead, then?"

  "We'll proceed with the planning and initial deployments for Jericho, but we won't mount the actual operation until the Manticoran escort withdraws."

  "And if it doesn't withdraw, Sir? Or if they replace it with a regular picket force before it does?"

  "We believe that to be unlikely—and the risk of precipitating open war with Manticore outweighs the possibility." It was Simonds' turn to lean back. While there were things it would never do for the captain to learn, it was time for a few unambiguous, if carefully chosen, words, he decided.

  "Captain Yu, your superiors' objectives and ours are not identical. We both know that, and much as we appreciate your help, the Council isn't blind to the fact that you're helping us because it suits your own purposes."

  Simonds paused while Yu cocked his head. Then he nodded, and the Sword's smile turned more genuine. Infidel or not, there was a core of frankness in the captain, and Simonds appreciated it.

  "Very well, then," he continued. "We know your fundamental objective is to keep Manticore out of the region, and we're willing to guarantee that outcome after our victory. We are not, however, prepared to risk the survival of the True Faith in pursuit of it. We've waited over six centuries to crush the Apostate; if we must, we can wait another six, because unlike you, if you'll forgive my frankness, we know God is on our side."

  "I see." Yu pursed his lips, then shrugged. "Sir, my orders are to support your decisions, but I'm also charged with advising you on the best use of Thunder and Principality in pursuit of our common goals. Obviously, that includes giving you my honest opinion of the best timing for Jericho, and frankly, the best timing has already escaped us. I hope my saying that doesn't offend you, but I'm a military man, not a diplomat. As such, my first concern must be avoiding misunderstandings, not the formal nuances of courtesy."

  "I realize that, Captain, and I appreciate it," Simonds said, and, in fact, he did. He might worry about his blood pressure when Yu disagreed too bluntly with him, and keeping him ignorant of Maccabeus made things much harder all around, but it was far better to hear the man out, heathen or no, than drive him into working behind Simonds' back.

  "Within those limitations, then," Yu continued, "I must respectfully argue that God helps those who help themselves. This `escort force' may not withdraw at all, at least until it's time to convey Manticore's diplomats home, and even a draft treaty of alliance might very well bring the Manticorans in against you if you hit Grayson after their delegation leaves. I believe the probability that a binding alliance between them will make any future action far more dangerous must be balanced against the possibility that the escort's current orders are simply to protect the convoy and their own representatives."

  "You may be correct, Captain," Simonds admitted, "but that supposes that we act openly at all. The Council believes—rightly, I think—that even if they sign their cursed treaty it will be primarily defensive. Without a Manticoran guarantee to support offensive action, the Apostate won't dare attack us alone, and one thing the Faithful have learned is patience. We would prefer to be your friends and to strike now, but if doing so jeopardizes the security of the Faith, we're prepared to wait. Sooner or later you and Manticore will settle your differences, one way or the other, and Manticore's interest in this region will wane. Either way, our chance will come in time."

  "Perhaps, Sir—and perhaps not. As you say, you've waited six centuries, but those have been six centuries of relative peace in this region. The odds are very high that that peace will soon be a thing of the past. My superiors hope and believe that any war with Manticore will be short, but we can't positively guarantee that, and Endicott and Yeltsin's Star will be caught squarely between us when the shooting starts. If Manticore secures base rights in Yeltsin, that shooting is almost certain to move right onto your doorstep, with consequences no one can predict."

  Simonds tasted the distant tang of iron in the captain's measured words. Yu was being careful not to say that one of those consequences might well be the annexation of both star systems by Masada's present "ally," but they both knew what he meant.

  "Under the circumstances, Sir," Yu went on quietly, "it's my opinion that any operation which promises a significant chance of victory now is well worth a few risks. From our perspective, it relieves us of the necessity of dealing with an advanced enemy base squarely in our path to Manticore; from your perspective, it avoids the high probability that your star system will be caught in the crossfire at a later date."

  "There's a great deal of truth in that, Captain," Simonds conceded, "and I'll certainly bear it in mind when next I speak with the Council. On the other hand, some of the Elders may feel your victory over Manticore is less assured than you seem to believe."

  "Nothing is ever assured in war, Sir, but we're far bigger than they are, with a much larger fleet. And, as you yourself have pointed out, Manticore is weak and degenerate enough to allow a woman to hold the reins of power."

  Simonds twitched, face flushing, and Yu hid a smile. The Sword would undoubtedly recognize the manipulation of that last sentence, but it appealed too strongly to the man's intolerance for him to simply shrug it off as someone from a more civilized culture might.

  Simonds swallowed a harsh remark and looked long and hard at the captain, sensing the smile behind those courteous eyes. He knew Yu didn't believe his own dismissal of Manticore's degeneracy ... but, then, Yu himself sprang from a degenerate society. The People's Republic of Haven was even more corrupt than most foreigners, yet the Faithful were willing to use any tool that was offered for God's Work. And when one used a tool, one need not tell it of all of one's other tools. Especially not when the object was to use one of them to displace another at the proper time, and Haven's cynical ambition was too barefaced, and far too voracious, for anyone to trust. That was the very reason anything Yu said, however professional and reasonable, must be examined again and again before it was accepted.

  "Your point is well taken, Captain," the Sword said after a moment, "and, as I say, the Elders and I will consider it carefully. I believe the decision to wait until the Manticoran escort withdraws will stand, but I also feel certain God will guide us to the correct decision in the end."

  "As you say, Sir," Yu replied. "My superiors may not share your religion, Sword Simonds, but we respect your beliefs."

  "We're aware of that, Captain." Simonds said, though he didn't for a moment believe Yu's superiors respected the Faith. But that was acceptable. Masada was accustomed to dealing with unbelievers, and if Yu was sincere, if Haven did, indeed, believe in the religious tolerance it prated about, then their society was even more degenerate than Simonds had believed.

  There could be no compromise with those who rejected one's own beliefs, for compromise and coexistence only opened the door to schism. A people or a faith divided against itself became the sum of its weaknesses, not its strengths, and anyone who didn't know that was doomed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hyper space's rippling energy fluxes and flurries of charged particles hashed any sensor beyond a twenty-light-minute radius, but the convoy's clustered light codes were clear and sharp and gratifyingly tight on Honor's maneuvering display as it approached the hyper limit of Yeltsin's Star at a comfortab
le third of light-speed.

  The translation from n-space to hyper was speed critical—at anything above .3 C, dimensional shear would tear a ship apart—but the reverse wasn't true. Which didn't make high-speed downward translations pleasant. The energy bleed as the convoy crossed each hyper wall would slow them to a crawl long before they reached the alpha bands, and shear wasn't a factor as far as hardware was concerned, but the effect on humans was something else again. Naval crews were trained for crash translations, yet there was a limit to what training could do to offset the physical distress and violent nausea, and there was no point in putting anyone—especially her merchant crews—through that.

  "Ready to begin translation in forty-one seconds, Ma'am," Lieutenant Commander DuMorne reported from Astrogation.

  "Very well, Mr. DuMorne. The con is yours."

  "Aye, aye, Ma'am. I have the con. Helm, prepare for initial translation on my mark."

  "Ready for translation, aye," Chief Killian replied, and the helmsman's hand hovered over the manual override, just in case the astrogator's computers dropped the ball, while Honor leaned back to watch.

  "Mark!" DuMorne said crisply, and the normally inaudible hum of Fearless's hyper generator became a basso growl.

  Honor swallowed against a sudden ripple of nausea as the visual display altered abruptly. The endlessly shifting patterns of hyper space were no longer slow; they flickered, jumping about like poorly executed animation, and her readouts flashed steadily downward as the entire convoy plummeted "down" the hyper space gradient.