David Weber - The 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.

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,

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摘要：

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

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David Weber - The Warmasters

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