"Indeed," Michael chimed in, his own voice husky.
Elizabeth eyed them for a moment. "You are aware, I suppose, that such a message from you, on top of the one from me, will make it impossible to restrain her from further adventures. She'll insist on accompanying the expedition to Congo."
"Of course," Michael rasped. He reached out a hand and squeezed his wife's. "And so what? She's a Winton, Elizabeth, doing her service. If she were regular Navy, she'd be getting ready for her middie cruise by now, so how is this any different? And after all these centuries, I see absolutely no reason why we should suddenly begin shielding the scions of our dynasty from the risks of such duty."
There was no answer, beyond a nod.
A few minutes later, the audience broke up. The Queen asked the Alexander brothers to remain behind, to discuss the newsfaxes' latest reports of the Pritchart Administration's increasingly harsh rhetoric, and Honor found herself walking down the corridor, Nimitz on her shoulder, with Michael and Judith Winton.
She could taste their deep concern, and she tried to think of something reassuring to say to the parents of a twenty-three-year-old woman who had been-and would be soon again going into-harm's way. Alas, she could think of nothing. Honor had been in harm's way herself far too often to have any illusions. Royal blood meant precious little, matched against the vagaries of fate and chance.
But she was spared the necessity of scraping up some ridiculous platitude. As it turned out, Michael had a purpose of his own in choosing to walk with her.
"There is one thing, Admiral Harrington," he said, with unusual formality, "which I will ask you to remember in the years ahead. In case my daughter does not survive."
He stopped, and Honor faced him squarely. "Yes, Your Grace?" she asked with matching formality,
Michael's voice was hard and low. "My sister, as much as I love and respect her, is not entirely rational on the subject of the Republic of Haven." He held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Honor. I don't expect you to agree with me-certainly not to say so aloud. But I'll tell you that it's true. And the day may come when the damage that irrationality will do to our people needs to be contained, as best as possible."
Honor didn't know what to say. How to say it to the Queen's brother, rather. But she understood what Michael was saying. Had understood it for some time now.
She decided a nod was enough. It could be a nod of agreement-or simply one which acknowledged that the duke had spoken.
Michael smiled thinly. "You've gotten so much better at diplomacy, Honor. Have I mentioned that to you lately?"
Thin to begin with, the smile faded almost at once. "Just remember this, Admiral. If and when that day ever comes, the existence of a neutral planet where Manticore and Haven have been able to maintain informal liaisons may save a lot of lives. Even if creating such a planet came at the cost of our daughter's life."
Honor heard Judith inhale sharply as her husband said the words. Not in surprise, or even disagreement, Honor knew. The woman who'd led an entire shipload of women to escape their hellish existence on Masada when she was younger than her daughter was now would never flinch from confronting such a bitter prospect. But that didn't mean she was able to blind herself to the very real risks that daughter had already run… or the ones yet to come.
"I understand, Your Grace." Honor said quietly, meeting Winton-Serisburg's eyes levelly and speaking in the tone of someone swearing a formal oath. Which she was, she realized. "And I won't forget."
Michael nodded. Then, he and Judith turned and walked away, holding hands, leaving Honor standing alone with Nimitz.
It was all she could do, as she watched them leave, not to call out some stupid, idiotic reassurance.
I'm sure she'll be fine! Honestly!
But, she managed to retain her dignity and theirs. Seconds later, the royal couple rounded a bend and were gone from sight. Honor took a deep breath and let it out.
"Oh, sure," she muttered. " 'She'll be fine.' Maybe-and maybe not. A pulser dart is no respecter of persons."
Nimitz made a soft sound on her shoulder, and she looked at him. His grass-green eyes were dark with shared memory of the hard lessons which had taught them both that bitter fact. But she tasted his support and love… and his acceptance of the harsh truth that sometimes one had no choice but to surrender hostages to fortune. It came with the responsibility not to stand cravenly by, like a High Ridge or a Fraser, and do nothing in hopes that the blame for whatever disaster ensued fell elsewhere.
She shook her head and resumed walking. Striding, rather, because she had a lot of work to finish in a very short time. Her task force was scheduled to leave orbit for Sidemore in three days, and there were always a million details to crowd a departure date. Especially under the Janacek Admiralty.
Honor would be long gone from Manticore by the time the next reports came back from Erewhon, and there was nothing further she could do about that situation anyway. So she put it out of her mind, after taking a brief moment for a private salutation.
Here's to you, Ruth Winton. And you too, Berry Zilwicki. I hope you both make it. But if you don't… the universe needs princesses, too. Real ones, even if they die in the making.
Chapter 41
Anton Zilwicki arrived at the Felicia with no fanfare or advance notice of any kind. That was the way he would have wanted it, anyway. But the real reason for the secrecy was the man sitting next to him on the sled which carried them over from The Wages of Sin.
It might be better to say: strapped in, and very securely, rather than simply "sitting." Anton, from his years as a yard dog in the Manticoran Navy, was qualified High Expert with virtually every kind of vacuum gear, from skinsuits to self-contained, modular hardsuit yard craft. All of which meant that he was quite comfortable and at ease.
Jeremy X wasn't. The galaxy's most notorious terrorist-or "freedom fighter," take your pick-might very well also be the galaxy's best pistolero. But what he knew about extravehicular activity in a spacesuit could be inscribed on the head of a pin.
That would have been true under any circumstances. Under these, riding in a stripped down, pure reaction-drive yard sled chosen primarily because it was so tiny-and unsophisticated-as to be undetectable by any except very good military grade sensors at very close range, he was visibly nervous. Given that Jeremy generally had the proverbial "nerves of steel," Anton found the whole thing rather amusing.
"Where did they find this piece of crap?" Anton heard him mutter. "A toy store?"
Anton grinned, secure in the knowledge that Jeremy wouldn't be able to see the expression since he was sitting behind him. Jeremy would be peeved, if he did. As it was, he was going to be peeved enough when he discovered that Anton had overheard the remark. Jeremy's lack of expertise when it came to EVA also extended to his lack of expertise with space communication gear. Apparently, the head of the Ballroom had failed to grasp the fact that although their coms had been stepped down to levels which precluded long-range communication-for security reasons-that didn't mean they'd been taken totally off-line. Since safety concerns made it far better for the passengers of the sled to be able to communicate with each other in an emergency, they'd retained their short-range capability.
"As a matter of fact," he said, slandering the standard yard sled with cheery mendacity for his passenger's benefit, "I believe a lot of these jury-rigged sleds of the casino's were put together from stuff found in the space station's toy stores. The framework itself looks like plumbing supplies to me-non-metallic, of course-but the seats and handlebars are taken from children's tricycles. I'm quite sure of it."