David Weber & Eric Flint & David Drake - Warmasters

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The Warmasters

David Weber

Eric Flint

David Drake

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3534-6

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, May 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The warmasters / by David Weber, Eric Flint, David Drake.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso.

Contents: Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington / by David Weber — Island / by Eric

Flint — Choosing sides / by David Drake.

ISBN 0-7434-3534-6

1. Science fiction, American. 2. War stories, American. I. Weber, David, 1952–

Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington. II. Flint, Eric. Island. III. Drake, David.

Choosing sides.

PS648.S3 W377 2002

813'0876208358—dc21 2001058997

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

IN THE SAME SERIES BY THESE AUTHORS:

The Hammer's Slammers series by David Drake

The Tank Lords

Caught in the Crossfire

The Butcher's Bill

The Sharp End

Cross the Stars

Paying the Piper (forthcoming)

The Belisarius series by Eric Flint & David Drake

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Tide of Victory

The Honor Harrington series by David Weber

On Basilisk Station

The Honor of the Queen

The Short Victorious War

Field of Dishonor

Flag in Exile

Honor Among Enemies

In Enemy Hands

Echoes of Honor

Ashes of Victory

War of Honor (forthcoming)

edited by David Weber:

More Than Honor

Worlds of Honor

Changer of Worlds

Ms. Midshipwoman

Harrington

David Weber

"That looks like your snotty, Senior Chief."

The Marine sentry's low-pitched voice exuded an oddly gleeful sympathy. It was

the sort of voice in which a Marine traditionally informed one of the Navy's

"vacuum-suckers" that his trousers had just caught fire or something equally

exhilarating, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Roland Shelton ignored the

jarhead's tone with the lofty disdain of any superior life form for an

evolutionary inferior. Yet it was a bit harder than usual this time as his

eyes followed the corporal's almost invisible nod and picked the indicated

target out of the crowded space dock gallery. She was certainly someone's

snotty, he acknowledged without apparently so much as looking in her

direction. Her midshipwoman's uniform was immaculate, but both it and the

tethered counter-grav locker towing behind her were so new he expected to hear

her squeak. There was something odd about that locker, too, as if something

else half its size had been piggybacked onto it, although he paid that little

attention. Midshipmen were always turning up with oddball bits and pieces of

personalized gear that they hoped didn't quite violate Regs. Half the time

they were wrong, but there would be time enough to straighten that out later

if this particular snotty came aboard Shelton's ship. And, he conceded, she

seemed to be headed for War Maiden's docking tube, although that might simply

be a mistake on her part.

He hoped.

She was a tall young woman, taller than Shelton himself, with dark brown,

fuzz-cut hair, and a severe, triangular face which seemed to have been

assembled solely from a nose which might charitably be called "strong" and

huge, almond-shaped eyes. At the moment the face as a whole showed no

expression at all, but the light in those eyes was bright enough to make an

experienced petty officer groan in resignation.

She also looked to be about thirteen years old. That probably meant she was a

third-generation prolong recipient, but recognizing the cause didn't do a

thing to make her look any more mature. Still, she moved well, he admitted

almost grudgingly. There was an athletic grace to her carriage and an apparent

assurance at odds with her youth, and she avoided collisions with ease

as she made her way through the people filling the gallery, almost as if she

were performing some sort of free-form dance.

Had that been all Shelton had been able to discern about her, he would

probably have put her down (provisionally and a bit hopefully) as somewhat

above the average of the young gentlemen and ladies senior Navy noncoms were

expected to transform from pigs' ears into silk purses. Unfortunately, it was

not all that he could discern, and it took most of his thirty-four T-years of

experience not to let his dismay show as he observed the prick-eared, wide-

whiskered, six-limbed, silky-pelted Sphinx treecat riding on her shoulder.

A treecat. A treecat in his ship. And in the midshipmen's compartment, at

that. The thought was enough to give a man who believed in orderly procedures

and Navy traditions hives, and Shelton felt a strong urge to reach out and

throttle the expressionlessly smirking Marine at his shoulder.

For a few more seconds he allowed himself to hope that she might walk right

past War Maiden to the ship she actually sought, or that she might be lost.

But any possibility of dodging the pulser dart faded as she walked straight

over to the heavy cruiser's tube.

Shelton and the Marine saluted, and she returned the courtesy with a crispness

which managed to be both brand new and excited yet curiously mature. She gave

Shelton a brief, measuring glance, almost more imagined than seen, but

addressed herself solely to the sentry.

"Midshipwoman Harrington to join the ship's company, Corporal," she said in a

crisp Sphinx accent, and drew a record chip in an official Navy cover slip

from her tunic pocket and extended it. Her soprano was surprisingly soft and

sweet for someone her height, Shelton noted as the Marine took the chip and

slotted it into his memo board, although her tone was neither hesitant nor

shy. Still, he had to wonder if someone who sounded as young as she looked

would ever be able to generate a proper snap of command. He allowed no sign of

his thoughts to cross his face, but the 'cat on her shoulder cocked its head,

gazing at him with bright, grass-green eyes while its whiskers twitched.

"Yes, Ma'am," the Marine said as the chip's data matched that in his memo

board and confirmed Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington's orders and legal right to

come aboard War Maiden. He popped the chip free and handed it back to her,

then nodded to Shelton. "Senior Chief Shelton's been expecting you, I

believe," he said, still with that irritating edge of imperfectly concealed

glee, and Harrington turned to the senior chief and arched one eyebrow.

That surprised Shelton just a bit. However composed she might appear, he'd

seen thirty-plus T-years of new-penny snotties reporting for their midshipman

cruises, and the light in her eyes was proof enough that she was just as

excited and eager as any of the others had been. Yet that arched eyebrow held

a cool authority, or perhaps assurance. It wasn't the sort of deliberately

projected superiority some snotties used to hide their own anxiety or lack of

confidence. It was too natural for that. But that calm, silent question,

delivered with neither condescension nor defensiveness, woke a sudden glimmer

of hope. There might be some solid metal in this one, the senior chief told

himself, but then the 'cat wiggled its whiskers at him, and he gave himself a

mental shake.

"Senior Chief Petty Officer Shelton, Ma'am," he heard himself say. "If you'll

just follow me, I'll escort you to the Exec."

"Thank you, Senior Chief," she said and followed him into the tube.

With the 'cat.

* * *

Honor Harrington tried conscientiously to keep her excitement from showing as

she swam the boarding tube behind Senior Chief Shelton, but it was hard. She'd

known she was headed for this moment for almost half her life, and she'd

sweated and worked for over three-and-a-half endless T-years at Saganami

Island to reach it. Now she had, and the butterflies in her midsection

propagated like particularly energetic yeast as they reached the inboard end

of the tube and she caught the grab bar and swung herself through into the

heavy cruiser's internal gravity behind Shelton. In her own mind, that was the

symbolic moment when she left His Majesty's Space Station Hephaestus to enter

the domain of HMS War Maiden, and her heart beat harder and stronger as the

sights and sounds and distinctive smell of a King's starship closed about her.

They were subtly different somehow from those in the space station she'd left

behind. No doubt that was her imagination—one artificial environment in space

was very like another, after all—but the impression of differentness, of

something special waiting just for her, quivered at her core.

The treecat on her shoulder made a soft scolding sound, and her mouth quirked

ever so slightly. Nimitz understood her excited joy, as well as the

unavoidable trepidation that went with it, but the empathic 'cats were

pragmatic souls, and he recognized the signs of Honor Harrington in

exhilarated mode. More to the point, he knew the importance of getting off on

the right foot aboard War Maiden, and she felt his claws dig just a bit deeper

into her uniform tunic's specially padded shoulder in a gentle reminder to

keep herself focused.

She reached up and brushed his ears in acknowledgment even as her feet found

the deck of War Maiden's boat bay, just outside the painted line which

indicated the official separation between ship and space station. At least she

hadn't embarrassed herself like one of her classmates, who had landed on the

wrong side of the line during one of their short, near-space training

missions! A part of her wanted to giggle in memory of the absolutely scathing

look the training ship's boat bay officer of the deck had bestowed upon her

fellow middy, but she suppressed the temptation and came quickly to attention

and saluted the OD of this boat bay.

"Permission to come aboard to join the ship's company, Ma'am!" she said, and

the sandy-haired ensign gave her a cool, considering look, then acknowledged

the salute. She brought her hand down from her beret's brim and extended it

wordlessly, and Honor produced the chip of her orders once more. The BOD

performed the same ritual as the Marine sentry, then nodded, popped the chip

from her board, and handed it back.

"Permission granted, Ms. Harrington," she said, much less crisply than Honor

but with a certain world-weary maturity. She was, after all, at least a T-year

older than Honor, with her own middy cruise safely behind her. The ensign

glanced at Shelton, and Honor noticed the way the other young woman's

shoulders came back ever so slightly and the way her voice crisped up as she

nodded to the SCPO. "Carry on, Senior Chief," she said.

"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Shelton replied, and beckoned respectfully for Honor to

follow him once more as he led her towards the lifts.

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Abner Layson sat in the chair behind his desk and made an

obviously careful study of his newest potential headache's orders.

Midshipwoman Harrington sat very upright in her own chair, hands folded in her

lap, feet positioned at precisely the right angle, and watched the bulkhead

fifteen centimeters above his head with apparent composure. She'd seemed on

the edge of flustered when he'd directed her to sit rather than remain at

stand-easy while he perused her paperwork, but there was little sign of that

in her present demeanor. Unless, of course, the steady flicking of the very

tip of her treecat's tail indicated more uneasiness in the 'cat's adopted

person than she cared to admit. Interesting that she could conceal the outward

signs so readily, though, if that were the case.

He let his eyes return to his reader's display, scanning the official, tersely

worded contents of her personnel jacket, while he wondered what had possessed

Captain Bachfisch to specifically request such an . . . unlikely prize when

the snotty cruise assignments were being handed out.

A bit young, he thought. Although her third-gen prolong made her look even

younger than her calendar age, she was only twenty. The Academy was flexible

about admission ages, but most midshipmen entered at around eighteen or

nineteen T-years of age; Harrington had been barely seventeen when she was

admitted. Which was all the more surprising given what seemed to be a total

lack of aristocratic connections, patronage, or interest from on high to

account for it. On the other hand, her overall grades at Saganami Island had

been excellent—aside from some abysmal math scores, at least—and she'd

received an unbroken string of "Excellent" and "Superior" ratings from her

tactical and command simulation instructors. That was worth noting. Still, he

reminded himself, many an Academy overachiever had proven a sad disappointment

in actual Fleet service. Scored remarkably high on the kinesthesia tests, too,

although that particular requirement was becoming less and less relevant these

days. Very high marks in the flight training curriculum as well, including—his

eyebrows rose ever so slightly—a new Academy sailplane record. But she might

be a bit on the headstrong side, maybe even the careless one, given the

official reprimand noted on her Form 107FT for ignoring her flight

instruments. And that stack of black marks for lack of air discipline didn't

look very promising. On the other hand, they all seemed to come from a single

instance. . . .

He accessed the relevant portion of her record, and something suspiciously

like a snort escaped before he could throttle it. He turned it into a

reasonably convincing coughing fit, but his mouth quivered as he scanned the

appended note. Buzzed the Commandant's boat during the Regatta, had she? No

wonder Hartley had lowered the boom on her! Still, he must have thought well

of her to stop there, although the identity of her partner in crime might also

have had a bit to do with it. Couldn't exactly go tossing the King's niece

out, now could they? Well, not for anything short of premeditated murder, at

any rate. . . .

He sighed and tipped back his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, and

glanced at her under cover of his hand. The treecat worried him. He knew it

wasn't supposed to, for regulations were uncompromising on that particular

subject and had been ever since the reign of Queen Adrienne. She could not

legally be separated from the creature, and she'd obviously gotten through the

Academy with it without creating any major waves. But a starship was a much

smaller world than Saganami Island, and she wasn't the only middy aboard.

Small jealousies and envies could get out of hand on a long deployment, and

she would be the only person on board authorized to take a pet with her. Oh,

Layson knew the 'cats weren't really pets. It wasn't a subject he'd ever taken

much personal interest in, but the creatures' sentience was well-established,

as was the fact that once they empathically bonded to a human, they literally

could not be separated without serious consequences for both partners. But

they looked like pets, and most of the Star Kingdom's citizens knew even less

about them than Layson did, which offered fertile ground for misunderstandings

and resentment. And the fact that the Bureau of Personnel had seen fit to

assign War Maiden a brand new assistant tac officer, and that the ATO in any

ship was traditionally assigned responsibility for the training and discipline

of any midshipmen assigned to her, only deepened his worries about the

possible repercussions of the 'cat's presence. The exec hadn't yet had time to

learn much about the ATO, but what he had learned so far did not inspire him

with a lively confidence in the man's ability.

Yet even the presence of the 'cat was secondary to Layson's true concern.

There had to be some reason the Captain had requested Harrington, and try

though he might, the exec simply couldn't figure out what that reason might

be. Such requests usually represented tokens in the patronage game the Navy's

senior officers played so assiduously. They were either a way to gain the

support of some well-placed potential patron by standing sponsor to a son or

daughter or younger relative, or else a way to pay back a similar favor. But

Harrington was a yeoman's daughter, whose only apparent aristocratic

association was the highly tenuous one of having roomed with the Earl of Gold

Peak's younger offspring for a bit over two T-years. That was a fairly lofty

connection, or would have been if it actually existed, but Layson couldn't see

any way the Captain could have capitalized on it even if it had. So what could

the reason be? Layson didn't know, and that bothered him, because it was a

good executive officer's job to keep himself informed of anything which might

affect the smooth functioning of the ship he ran for his captain.

"Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Harrington," he told her after a moment,

lowering his hand and letting his chair come back upright. "Lieutenant Santino

is our assistant tac officer, which makes him your OCT officer, as well. I'll

have Senior Chief Shelton deliver you to Snotty Row when we're done here, and

you can report to him once you've stowed your gear. In the meantime, however,

I make it a policy to spend a few minutes with new middies when they first

come aboard. It gives me a chance to get to know them and to get a feel for

how they'll fit in here in War Maiden."

He paused, and she nodded respectfully.

"Perhaps you can start off then by telling me—briefly, of course—just why you

joined the Service," he invited.

"For several reasons, Sir," she said after only the briefest of pauses. "My

father was a Navy doctor before he retired and went into private practice, so

I was a 'Navy brat' until I was about eleven. And I've always been interested

in naval history, clear back to pre-Diaspora Earth. But I suppose the most

important reason was the People's Republic, Sir."

"Indeed?" Layson couldn't quite keep the surprise out of his tone.

"Yes, Sir." Her voice was both respectful and thoughtful, but it was also very

serious. "I believe war with Haven is inevitable, Sir. Not immediately, but in

time."

"And you want to be along for the glory and the adventure, do you?"

"No, Sir." Her expression didn't alter, despite the bite in his question. "I

want to help defend the Star Kingdom. And I don't want to live under the

Peeps."

"I see," he said, and studied her for several more seconds. That was a

viewpoint he was more accustomed to hearing from far more senior—and older—

officers, not from twenty-year-old midshipwomen. It was also the reason the

Royal Manticoran Navy was currently involved in the biggest buildup in its

history, and the main reason Harrington's graduating class was ten percent

larger than the one before it. But as Harrington had just pointed out, the

looming war still lurked in the uncertain future.

And her answer still didn't give him a clue as to why Captain Bachfisch wanted

her aboard War Maiden.

"Well, Ms. Harrington," he said at last, "if you want to help defend the Star

Kingdom, you've certainly come to the right place. And you may have an

opportunity to start doing it a bit sooner than you anticipated, as well,

because we've been ordered to Silesia for antipiracy duties." The young woman

sat even straighter in her chair at that, and the 'cat's tail stopped

twitching and froze in the curl of a question mark. "But if you truly don't

harbor dreams of glory, make it a point not to start harboring them anytime

soon. As you're no doubt tired of hearing, this cruise is your true final

exam."

He paused, regarding her steadily, and she nodded soberly. A midshipwoman was

neither fish nor fowl in many respects. Officially, she remained an officer

candidate, holding a midshipwoman's warrant but not yet an officer's

commission. Her warrant gave her a temporary place in the chain of command

aboard War Maiden; it did not guarantee that she would ever hold any authority

anywhere after this cruise, however. Her actual graduation from the Academy

was assured, given her grades and academic performance, but a muffed

midshipman's cruise could very well cost her any chance at one of the career

tracks which led to eventual command. The Navy always needed non-line staff

officers whose duties kept them safely out of the chain of command, after all,

and someone who blew his or her first opportunity to shoulder responsibility

outside a classroom wasn't the person one wanted commanding a King's ship. And

if she screwed up too massively on this cruise, she might receive both an

Academy diploma and formal notice that the Crown did not after all require her

services in any capacity.

"You're here to learn, and the Captain and I will evaluate your performance

very carefully. If you have any hope of achieving command in your own right

someday, I advise you to see to it that our evaluations are positive ones. Is

that understood?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Good." He gave her a long, steady look, then produced a small smile. "It's a

tradition in the Fleet that by the time a middy has survived Saganami Island,

he's like a 'cat. Fling him into the Service any way you like, and he'll land

on his feet. That, at least, is the type of midshipman the Academy tries to

turn out, and it's what will be expected of you as a member of War Maiden's

company. In your own case, however, there is a rather special complicating

factor. One, I'm certain, of which you must be fully aware. Specifically," he

pointed with his chin to the treecat stretched across the top of her chair's

back, "your . . . companion."

He paused, waiting to see if she would respond. But she simply met his eyes

steadily, and he made a mental note that this one had composure by the

bucketful.

"No doubt you're more intimately familiar with the Regs where 'cats aboard

ship are concerned than I am," he went on after a moment in a tone which said

she'd damned well better be familiar with them. "I expect you to observe them

to the letter. The fact that the two of you managed to survive Saganami Island

gives me some reason to hope you'll also manage to survive War Maiden. But I

expect you to be aware that this is a much smaller environment than the

Academy, and the right to be together aboard ship carries with it the

responsibility to avoid any situation which might have a negative impact on

the smooth and efficient functioning of this ship's company. I trust that,

also, is clearly understood. By you both."

"Yes, Sir," she said once more, and he nodded.

"I am delighted to hear it. In that case, Senior Chief Shelton will see you to

your quarters, such as they are. Good luck, Ms. Harrington."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Dismissed," he said, and turned back to his data terminal as the middy braced

to attention once more and then followed SCPO Shelton from the compartment.

* * *“ “ “

Honor finished making up her bunk (with regulation "Saganami Island" corners

on the sheets and a blanket taut enough to bounce a five-dollar coin), then

detached the special piggyback unit from her locker and lifted the locker

itself into the waiting bulkhead brackets. She grinned, remembering one of her

classmates—from a dirt-grubber Gryphon family with no Navy connections at all—

who had revealed his abysmal ignorance the day their first lockers were issued

by wondering aloud why every one of them had to have exactly the same

dimensions. That particular question had been answered on their first training

cruise, and now Honor settled hers in place, opened the door, flipped off the

counter-grav, and toggled the locking magnets once its weight had fully

settled.

She gave it a precautionary shake, despite the glowing telltales which

purported to show a solid seal. Others had trusted the same telltales when

they shouldn't have, but this time they held, and she closed the door and

attached the piggyback to the frame of her bunk. She took rather more care

with it than she had with the locker, and Nimitz watched alertly from atop her

pillow as she did so. Unlike the locker, which was standard Navy issue, she—or

rather, her father, who had provided it as a graduation gift—had paid the

better part of seventeen thousand Manticoran dollars for that unit. Which was

money well spent in her opinion, since it was the life support module which

would keep Nimitz alive if the compartment lost pressure. She made very

certain that it was securely anchored, then hit the self-test key and nodded

in satisfaction as the control panel blinked alive and the diagnostic program

confirmed full functionality. Nimitz returned her nod with a satisfied bleek

of his own, and she turned away to survey the rest of the berthing compartment

known rather unromantically as "Snotty Row" while she awaited Senior Chief

Shelton's return.

It was a largish compartment for a ship as small—and as old—as War Maiden. In

fact, it was about twice the size of her Saganami Island dorm room. Of course,

that dorm room had held only two people, her and her friend Michelle Henke,

while this compartment was designed to house six. At the moment, only four of

the bunks had sheets and blankets on them, though, so it looked as if War

Maiden was sailing light in the middy department.

That could be good or bad, she reflected, settling into one of the spartan,

unpowered chairs at the berthing compartment's well worn table. The good news

was that it meant she and her three fellows would have a bit more space, but

it would also mean there were only four of them to carry the load. Everyone

knew that a lot of what any midshipwoman did on her snotty cruise always

constituted little more than makework, duties concocted by the ship's officer

candidate training officer and assigned only as learning exercises rather than

out of any critical need on her ship's part. But a lot more of those duties

were anything but makework. Middies were King's officers—the lowest of the

low, perhaps, and only temporarily and by virtue of warrant, but still

officers—and they were expected to pull their weight aboard ship.

She lifted Nimitz into her lap and ran her fingers slowly over his soft,

fluffy pelt, smiling at the crackle of static electricity which followed her

touch. He bleeked softly and pressed his head against her, luxuriating in her

caresses, and she drew a long, slow breath. It was the first time she'd truly

relaxed since packing the last of her meager shipboard belongings into her

locker that morning on Saganami Island, and the respite was going to be brief.

She closed her eyes and let mental muscles unkink ever so slightly while she

replayed her interview with Commander Layson. The exec of any King's ship was

a being of at least demigod status, standing at the right hand of the Captain.

As such, Layson's actions and attitudes were not to be questioned by a mere

midshipwoman. But there'd been something, an edge she hadn't been able to pin

down or define, to his questions. She tried once more to tell herself it was

only first-day-aboard-ship nerves. He was the Exec, and it was an executive

officer's job to know everything she could about the officers serving under

her, even if the officers in question were mere middies. Yet that curious

certainty which came to Honor seldom but was never wrong told her there was

more to it than that in this case. And whether there was or not, there was no

question at all that he regarded Nimitz's presence aboard War Maiden as an at

least potential problem. For that matter, Senior Chief Shelton seemed to feel

the same way, and Honor sighed.

It wasn't the first time, or the second, or even the twentieth time she'd

faced that attitude. As Commander Layson had suggested, she was indeed fully

conversant with what Navy regulations had to say about treecats and their

adoptees in Fleet service. Most Navy personnel were not, because the situation

arose so infrequently. 'Cat-human bonds were vanishingly rare even on Honor's

native Sphinx. The six-limbed arboreals were almost never seen off-planet, and

they were even more uncommon in the Navy than in civilian life. Honor had done

a little discreet research, and as far as she could determine, no more than a

dozen or so current active-duty personnel of all ranks, including herself, had

been adopted. That number was minute compared to the total number of people in

the Navy, so it was hardly surprising that the 'cats created a stir whenever

they did turn up.

Understanding the reason for the situation didn't change it, however, and

Honor had been made almost painfully well aware that Nimitz's presence was

regarded as a potentially disruptive influence by the vast majority of people

who were unfamiliar with his species. Even those who knew better

intellectually had a tendency to regard 'cats as little more than extremely

clever pets, and an unfortunate percentage of humans never bothered to learn

differently even when the opportunity presented itself. The fact that 'cats

were unable to form anything like the sounds of human speech only exacerbated

that particular aspect of the situation, and the fact that they were so cute

and cuddly helped hone the occasional case of jealous resentment over their

presence.

Of course, no one who had ever seen a treecat roused to fury could possibly

confuse "cute and cuddly" with "harmless." Indeed, their formidable natural

armament was another reason some people worried about their presence, even

though Nimitz would never harm a human being except in direct self-defense. Or

in Honor's defense, which he regarded as precisely the same thing. But people

who'd never seen their lethality demonstrated had a pronounced tendency to coo

over the 'cats and wish that they could have such an adorable pet.

From there, it was a short step to resenting someone else who did have one.

Honor and Nimitz had been forced to deal with that attitude more than once at

the Academy, and only the fact that the Regs were on their side and that

Nimitz was a natural (and unscrupulous) diplomat had gotten them past some of

the worse incidents.

Well, if they'd done it on Saganami Island they could do it here, as well, she

told herself, and—

The compartment hatch opened with no warning, and Honor came quickly to her

feet, Nimitz in her arms as she turned to face the unexpected opening. She

knew the occupied light above the hatch had been lit, and opening an occupied

compartment's hatch without at least sounding the admittance chime first was a

gross infraction of shipboard etiquette. It was also at least technically a

privacy violation which was prohibited by Regs except in cases of emergency.

The sheer unexpectedness of it created an unaccustomed confusion in Honor, and

she stood frozen as a beefy senior-grade lieutenant, perhaps seven or eight T-

years older than her, loomed in the doorway. He was two or three centimeters

shorter than Honor, with a certain florid handsomeness, but something about

his eyes woke an instinctive dislike in her. Or perhaps it was his posture,

for he planted both hands on his hips and rocked forward on the balls of his

feet to glower at her.

"Don't even snotties know to stand to attention in the presence of a superior

officer, Snotty?" he demanded disdainfully, and a flush of anger lit Honor's

high cheekbones. His eyes gleamed at the sight, and she felt the sub-audible

rumble of Nimitz's snarl through her arms. She tightened her grip in warning,

but the 'cat knew better than to openly display his occasional dislike for

those senior to his person. He clearly thought it was one of the sillier

restrictions inherent in Honor's chosen career, but he was willing to humor

her in something so important to her.

She held him just a heartbeat longer, concentrating hard for the benefit of

his empathic sense on how important it was for him to behave himself this

time, then set him quickly on the table and came to attention.

"That's better," the lieutenant growled, and stalked into the compartment.

"I'm Lieutenant Santino, the assistant tac officer," he informed her, hands

still on hips while she stood rigidly at attention. "Which means that, for my

sins, I'm also in charge of Snotty Row this deployment. So tell me, Ms.

Harrington, just what the hell are you doing here instead of reporting to me?"

"Sir, I was instructed to stow my gear and get settled in here. My

understanding was that Senior Chief Shelton was—"

"And what makes you think a petty officer is more important than a

commissioned officer, Ms. Harrington?" he broke in on her.

"Sir, I didn't say he was," she replied, making her voice come out calm and

even despite her mounting anger.

"You certainly implied it if you meant to say his instructions were more

important than mine!"

Honor clamped her jaw tight and made no response. He was only going to twist

anything she said to suit his own ends, and she refused to play his stupid

game.

"Didn't you imply that, Ms. Harrington?" he demanded after the silence had

lingered a few seconds, and she looked him squarely in the eye.

"No, Sir. I did not." The words were perfectly correct, the tone calm and

unchallenging, but the expression in her dark brown eyes was unyielding.

Something flickered in his own gaze, and his lips tightened, but she simply

stood there.

"Then what did you mean to imply?" he asked very softly.

"Sir, I meant to imply nothing. I was merely attempting to answer your

question."

"Then answer it!" he snapped.

"Sir, I was told by Commander Layson—" she delivered the Exec's name with

absolutely no emphasis and watched his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten once

more "—that I was to remain here until the Senior Chief returned, at which

time he would take me to formally report in to you."

Santino glared at her, but the invocation of Layson's name had at least

temporarily stymied him. Which was only going to make things worse in the long

run, Honor decided.

"Well here I am, Ms. Harrington," he growled after a long, silent moment. "So

suppose you just get started reporting in to me."

"Sir! Midshipwoman Honor Harrington reports for duty, Sir!" she barked with

the sort of parade ground formality no one but an idiot or an utter newbie

would use aboard ship. Anger glittered in his eyes, but she only met his gaze

expressionlessly.

It's really, really stupid to antagonize him this way, girl! a voice which

sounded remarkably like Michelle Henke's chided in her head. Surely you put up

with enough crap at the Academy to realize that much!

But she couldn't help herself. And it probably wouldn't matter that much in

the long term, anyway.

"Very well, Ms. Harrington," he said icily. "Now that you've condescended to

join us, suppose you accompany me to the chart room. I believe I have just the

thing for you to occupy yourself with until dinner."

* * *

Honor felt far more nervous than she hoped anyone could guess as she joined

the party assembling outside the hatch to Captain Bachfisch's dining cabin.

War Maiden was only three days out of Manticore orbit, and she and her fellow

midshipmen had been surprised, to say the least, to discover that the Captain

habitually invited his officers to dine with him. It was particularly

surprising because War Maiden was almost thirty-five standard years old, and

small for her rate. Although the captain's quarters were indisputably larger

and far more splendid than Snotty Row, they were cramped and plain compared to

those aboard newer, larger ships, which made his dining cabin a tight fit for

even half a dozen guests. With space at such a premium, he could hardly invite

all of his officers to every dinner, but he apparently rotated the guest list

regularly to ensure that all of them dined with him in turn.

It was unheard of, or almost so. But Captain Courvoisier, Honor's favorite

instructor at the Academy, had once suggested to her that a wise CO got to

know her officers—and see to it that they knew her—as well as possible, and

she wondered if this was Captain Bachfisch's way of doing just that. But

whatever the Captain thought he was up to, finding herself on the guest list

was enough to make any snotty nervous, especially this early in the cruise.

She looked around as unobtrusively as possible as the Captain's steward opened

the hatch and she followed her seniors through it. As the most junior person

present, she brought up the rear, of course, which was only marginally better

than being required to lead the way. At least she didn't have to be the very

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摘要：

TheWarmastersTheWarmastersDavidWeberEricFlintDavidDrakeThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2002byBillFawcett&Associates."Ms.MidshipwomanHarrington"copyright©2001byDavidWeber."Islands"copy...

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David Weber & Eric Flint & David Drake - Warmasters

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