David Weber - Honor 06 - Honor Among Enemies

HONOR AMONG ENEMIES

David Weber

[30 oct 2001 – scanned for #bookz]

[10 nov 2001 – proofed for #bookz – by bookleech, v 1.0]

PROLOGUE

"Got a problem here, Skipper."

"What is it, Chris?" Captain Harold Sukowski, master of the Hauptman Lanes

freighter Bonaventure,

looked up quickly at his executive officers taut announcement, for "problems"

had a way of turning

deadly with very little warning in the Silesian Confederacy. That had always

been true, but the situation

had become even more dangerous in the past year, and he felt the rest of

Bonaventure's bridge watch

freeze about him even as his own heart began to pump hard and fast. To have

come so close to their

destinatio n without problems only made the sudden, adrenaline-bitter tension

worse, for Bonaventure had

completed her translation back into n-space barely ten minutes before, and the

Telmach Systems GO

primary lay just twenty-two light- minutes ahead. But that was also twenty-two

minutes' com time, and the

Silesian Navy's Telmach detachment was a joke. For that matter, the

Confederacy's entire navy was a

joke, and even if Sukowski could have contacted the detachment commander in

time, it was virtually

certain there was nothing in position to intervene.

"We've got somebody coming up fast from astern, Skip." Commander Hurlman never

looked up from

her display. "Looks fairly small, maybe seventy, eighty k-tons, but whoever it

is has a military- grade

compensator. He's eighteen-point-three light-seconds back, but he's got an

overtake of two thousand KPS

and he's pulling about five-ten gees." The captain nodded, and his expression

was grim.

Harold Sukowski had earned his masters certificate over thirty T-years before.

He was also a

commander in the Royal Manticoran Naval Reserve, and he didn't need Chris to

paint him any pictures.

At six million tons and with commercial- grade impellers and inertial

compensator, Bonaventure was a

sitting duck for any warship. Her maximum possible acceleration was scarcely

201 g, and her commercial

particle screening held her max velocity to only 7 g. If her pursuer had

military- grade particle shields to

match the rest of his drive, he could not only out-accelerate her but pull a

sustained velocity of eighty

percent light-speed.

Which meant, of course, that there was no possible way for Sukowski to outrun

him. "How long to

overhaul?" he asked. "I make it roughly twenty-two and a half minutes to a

zero-range intercept even if

we go to max accel," Hurlman said flatly. "We'll be up to roughly twelve

thousand seven hundred KPS,

but he'll be hitting almost nineteen thousand. Whoever he is, we aren't going

to shake him."

Sukowski gave a choppy nod. Chris Hurlman was less than half his age, but like

him, she was one of

Bonaventure's keel plate owners. She'd been the freighters original fourth

officer, and while he would

never have admitted it, Sukowski and his wife regarded her very much as one of

the daughters they'd

never had. Deep inside he'd always hoped she and his second oldest son would

someday settle down

together, but however young she might be for her rank, she was very good at

her job, and her appraisal of

the situation matched his own perfectly.

Of course, her estimate was for a least-time intercept, and the bogey wouldn't

go for that. He was

almost certain to decelerate in order to kill his overtake velocity once he

was certain he had Bonaventure

nailed, but that wouldn't make any difference to the fate of Sukowski's ship.

All it would do was delay the

inevitable . . . slightly. He tried desperately to think of a way, any way, to

save his ship, but there wasn't

one. On the face of things, the possibility of piracy as a paying occupation

shouldn't have existed. Even

the hugest freighter was less than a dust mote on the scale of interstellar

space, but like the ancient oceanborne

vessels of Old Earth, the ships which plied the stars followed predictable

routes. They had to, for

the grav waves which twisted through hyper space dictated those routes much as

Old Terra’s prevailing winds had dictated the square-riggers'. No pirate could

predict exactly where any given starship would

make her alpha translation back into n-space, but he knew the general volume

in which all ships would do

so. If he lurked long enough, some poor, unlucky son-of-a-bitch would sail

right into his clutches, and this

time it was Sukowski's turn.

The captain swore with silent venom. If only the Silesian Navy was worth a

fart in a vac suit, it

wouldn't matter. Two or three cruisers, hell, even a single destroyer!,

deployed to cover the same volume

would cause any pirate to seek safer pastures. But the Silesian Confederacy

was more of a perpetually

ongoing meltdown than a star nation. The feeble central government, such as it

was, was forever plagued

by breakaway secessionist movements. What ships it had were always desperately

needed somewhere,

and the raiders who infested its space always knew where that somewhere was

and took themselves

somewhere else. That had always been true; what had changed was that the Royal

Manticoran Navy units

which had traditionally protected the Star Kingdom's commerce in Silesia had

been withdrawn for

Manticore’s war against the People's Republic of Haven, and there was no one

at all to whom Harold

Sukowski could turn for help.

"Challenge him, Jack," he said. "Demand his identity and intentions."

"Yes, Sir." His com officer keyed his mike and spoke clearly. "Unknown

starship, this is the

Manticoran merchant vessel Bonaventure. State your identity and intentions."

Forty endless seconds

ticked past while the red blip in Hurlman's display closed with ever

increasing speed, and the com officer

shrugged. "No reply, Skipper."

"I didn't really expect one," Sukowski sighed. He sat staring at the star he'd

almost reached for

another moment, then shrugged. "All right, people. You know the drill. Genda,"

he looked at his chief

engineer, "slave your department to my console before you clear out. Chris,

you're in charge of the bail

out. I want a headcount, and I want it confirmed before you undock."

"But, Skip...” Hurlman began, and Sukowski shook his head fiercely.

"I said you know the drill! Now get the hell out of here while we're still

beyond effective missile

range!"

Hurlman hesitated, face torn with indecision. She'd served with Sukowski for

over eight T-years,

almost a quarter of her entire life. Bonaventure was the only true home she'd

known in all those years, and

abandoning her skipper and her ship went hard with her. Sukowski knew that,

and because he did, he gave

her a cold, savage glare.

"The people are your job now, so get your ass in gear, goddamn it!"

Still Hurlman hesitated, and then she gave a choppy nod and whirled for the

bridge lift.

"You heard the Skipper!" Her voice was harsh, harrowed by grief and guilt.

"Move, damn it!"

Sukowski watched them go, then turned back to his console. Lieutenant Kuriko

had already slaved

Engineering to his panel; now Sukowski punched in more commands, taking over

the helm, as well. He

felt the sick, hollow emptiness in his belly and longed desperately to follow

Chris and the others. But

Bonaventure was his ship, his responsibility, and so was her cargo. The chance

that he could do anything

to preserve that cargo was vanishingly small, but it did exist, especially if

the raider was a privateer and

not an outright pirate. And if there was any chance at all, it was Harold

Sukowski’s job to do what he

could. That was one of the duties which came with his rank, and...

A tone beeped, and he pressed a com key.

"Talk to me," he said shortly.

"Headcount confirmed, Skip," Hurlman’s voice replied. "I've got 'em all in Bay

Seven."

"Then get them out of here, Chris . . . and good luck." Sukowski's voice was

much softer.

"Aye, aye, Skipper." He heard the hesitation in her voice, tasted her need to

say something more, but

there was nothing she could say, and the circuit clicked as she cut the link.

Sukowski watched his display and let a long sigh of relief ooze from his lungs

as a small, green dot

appeared upon it. The shuttle was one of Bonaventure's big, primary cargo

haulers, with a drive as

powerful as most light attack crafts. Unlike a LAC, it was totally unarmed,

but it shot away at over four

hundred gravities, slower than its pursuer but twice as fast as its mother

ship. The pirates must be pissed

to see the crew they'd hoped to make man their prize for them escaping, but

Bonaventure and her shuttle

were still outside their powered missile envelope, and there was no way they'd

go chasing after a mere

shuttle with a six-million-ton freighter to snap up. Besides, Sukowski thought

bitterly, they'd no doubt

planned for exactly this contingency. They'd have their own engineers aboard

to manage Bonaventure's

systems.

He let himself lean back in the comfortable command chair which would be his

for another half hour

or so and hoped these people were ready to believe Mr. Hauptman’s offer to

ransom any of his people

who fell into pirates' hands. It wasn't much, and Sukowski knew Hauptman had

hated making it, but it

was all he could do with the Navy withdrawn from Silesian space. And however

arrogant and hard the old

bastard was, Sukowski knew better than most that Klaus Hauptman stood by the

people in his employ. It

was a Hauptman tradition to…

Sukowski's thoughts broke off with a snap as the lift doors hissed open. He

whirled his command

chair in shock, and then his eyes lit with fury as Chris Hurlman stepped onto

the bridge.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he barked. "I gave you an order, Hurlman!"

"Oh, screw your orders!" She matched him glare for glare, then stalked across

the bridge to her own

station. "This isn't the frigging Navy, and you aren't Edward Saganami!"

"I'm still master of this ship, damn it, and I want you the hell off her right

now!"

"Well isn't that just too bad," Hurlman said much more mildly as she sank back

into her own bridge

chair and adjusted the com set over her black hair. "The only problem with

what you want, Skipper, is

that I fight lots dirtier than you. You try to throw me off my ship, and it

might just happen that you get

tossed off instead."

"And what about our people?" Sukowski countered. "You were in charge of them,

and you're

responsible for them."

"Genda and I flipped a coin, and he lost." Hurlman shrugged. "Don't worry.

He'll get them to

Telmach in one piece."

"Damn it, Chris, I don't want you here," Sukowski's voice was much softer.

"There's no need for you

to risk getting yourself killed, or worse."

Hurlman looked down at her console for a moment, then turned to meet his eyes

squarely.

"There's just as much need for me to risk it as there is for you, Skip," she

said quietly, "and I will be

damned to Hell before I let you face these bastards alone. Besides," she

smiled with true affection, "an old

fart like you needs someone younger and nastier to look out for him. Jane

would kick my butt if I went off

and left you out here on your own."

Sukowski opened his mouth, then closed it. A fist of anguish seemed to be

locked about his heart, but

he recognized the total intransigence behind that smile. She wouldn't go, and

she was right; she was a

dirtier fighter than he was. A part of him was desperately glad to see her, to

know he wouldn't face

whatever happened alone, but it was a selfish part he loathed. He wanted to

argue, plead, beg, if that was

what it took, yet he knew she wouldn't go without him, and he couldn't turn

his own back on a lifetime of

responsibility and obligation.

"All right, goddamn it," he muttered instead. "You're an idiot and a mutineer,

and if we get out of this

alive I'll see to it you never find a billet again. But if you're determined

to defy your lawful superior, I

don't see how I can stop you."

"Now you're being reasonable," Hurlman said almost cheerfully. She studied her

display a moment

longer, then rose and crossed to the coffee dispenser against the after

bulkhead. She poured herself a cup and dropped in her normal two sugars, then

raised an eyebrow at the man whose orders she'd just ignored.

"Like a cup, Skip?" she asked gently.

CHAPTER ONE

"Mr. Hauptman, Sir Thomas."

Sir Thomas Caparelli, First Space Lord of the Royal Manticoran Navy, rose with

his very best effort

at a smile of welcome as his yeoman ushered his guest into his huge office. He

suspected it wasn't very

convincing, but, then, Klaus Hauptman wasn't one of his favorite people.

"Sir Thomas." The dark-haired man with the dramatically white sideburns and

bulldog jaw gave him

a curt nod. He wasn't being especially rude; that was how he greeted almost

everyone, and he held out his

hand as if to soften his brusqueness. "Thank you for seeing me." He did not

add "at last," but Sir Thomas

heard it anyway and felt his smile become just a bit more fixed.

"Please have a seat." The burly admiral in whom one could still see the

bruising soccer player who'd

led the Academy to three system championships waved his guest politely into

the comfortable chair

facing his desk, then sat himself and nodded dismissal to the yeoman.

"Thank you," Hauptman repeated. He sat in the indicated chair, like, Caparelli

thought, an emperor

taking his throne, and cleared his throat. "I know you have many charges on

your time, Sir Thomas, so I'll

come straight to the point. And the point is that conditions in the

Confederacy are becoming intolerable."

"I realize it's a bad situation, Mr. Hauptman," Caparelli began, "but the war

front is...”

"Excuse me, Sir Thomas," Hauptman interrupted, "but I understand the situation

at the front. Indeed,

Admiral Cortez and Admiral Givens have, as I'm certain you instructed them to,

explained it to me at

considerable length. I realize you and the Navy are under tremendous pressure,

but losses in Silesia

are becoming catastrophic, and not just for the Hauptman Cartel."

Caparelli clenched his jaw and reminded himself to move carefully. Klaus

Hauptman was arrogant,

opinionated, and ruthless . . . and the wealthiest single individual in the

entire Star Kingdom of Manticore.

Which was saying quite a bit. Despite its limitation to a single star system,

the Star Kingdom was the third

wealthiest star nation in a five-hundred- light-year sphere in absolute terms.

In per capita terms, not even

the Solarian League matched Manticore. A great deal of that was fortuitous,

the result of the Manticore

Worm Hole Junction which made the Manticore Binary System the crossroads of

eighty percent of the

long-haul commerce of its sector. But almost as much of its wealth stemmed

from what the Star Kingdom

had done with the opportunity that presented, for generations of monarchs and

parliaments had reinvested

the Junctions wealth with care. Outside the Solarian League, no one in the

known galaxy could match the

Manticoran tech base or output per man-hour, and Manticore’s universities

challenged those of Old Earth

herself. And, Caparelli admitted, Klaus Hauptman and his father and

grandfather had had a great deal to

do with building the infrastructure which made that possible.

Unfortunately, Hauptman knew it, and he sometimes, often, in Caparelli’s view,

acted as if the Star

Kingdom belonged to him as a consequence.

"Mr. Hauptman," the admiral said after a moment, "I'm very sorry about the

losses you and the other

cartels are suffering. But your request, however reasonable it may seem, is

simply impossible to grant at

this time."

"With all due respect, Sir Thomas, the Navy had better make it possible."

Hauptman's flat tone was

just short of insulting, but he stopped himself, then drew a deep breath.

"Excuse me," he said in the voice

of one clearly unaccustomed to apologizing. "That was rude and

confrontational. Nonetheless, there's also

a kernel of truth in it. The war effort depends upon the strength of our

economy. The shipping duties,

transfer fees, and inventory taxes my colleagues and I pay are already three

times what they were at the

start of the war, and...” Caparelli opened his mouth, but Hauptman held up a

hand. "Please. I'm not

complaining about duties and taxes. We're at war with the second largest

empire in known space, and someone has to pay the freight. My colleagues and I

realize that. But you must realize that if losses

continue climbing, we'll have no choice but to cut back or even entirely

eliminate our shipping to Silesia.

I leave it to you to estimate what that will mean for the Star Kingdom's

revenues and war effort."

Caparelli's eyes narrowed, and Hauptman shook his head.

"That's not a threat; it's simply a fact of life. Insurance rates have already

reached an all-time high,

and they're still climbing; if they rise another twenty percent, we'll lose

money on cargoes which reach

their destinations. And in addition to our financial losses, there's also the

loss of life involved. Our people,

my people, people who've worked for me for decades, are being killed, Sir

Thomas."

Caparelli sat back with an unwilling sense of agreement, for Hauptman was

right. The Confederacy's

weak central government had always made it a risky place, but its worlds were

huge markets for the Star

Kingdoms industrial products, machinery, and civilian technology transfers,

not to mention an important

source of raw materials. And however much Caparelli might personally dislike

Hauptman, the magnate

had every right to demand the Navy's help. It was, after all, one of the

Navy's primary missions to protect

Manticoran commerce and citizens, and prior to the present war, the Royal

Manticoran Navy had done

just that in Silesia.

Unfortunately, it had required a major fleet presence. Not of battle

squadrons, using ships of the wall

against pirates would have been like swatting flies with a sledgehammer, but

of light combatants. And the

critical needs of the RMN’s war against the People’s Republic of Haven had

drawn those lighter units off.

They were desperately needed to screen the heavy squadrons and for the

countless patrols and scouting

and convoy escorts the Fleet required for its very survival. There were never

enough cruisers and

destroyers to go around, and the overriding need for capital ships diverted

yard space from building them

in the necessary numbers.

The admiral sighed and rubbed his forehead. He wasn't the RMN’s most brilliant

flag officer. He

knew his strengths, courage, integrity, and enough bullheaded stubbornness for

any three people, but he

also admitted his weaknesses. Officers like the Earl of White Haven or Lady

Sonja Hemphill always

made him uncomfortable, for he knew as well as they that they were his

intellectual superiors. And White

Haven, Caparelli admitted, had the infuriating gall to be not only a better

strategist, but a better tactician,

as well. Nonetheless, it was Sir Thomas Caparelli who'd been named First Space

Lord just in time for the

war to explode in his face. That made it his job to win the thing, and he was

determined to do just that.

Yet it was also his job to protect Manticoran civilians in the course of their

legitimate commercial

activities, and he was desperately conscious of how thin his Navy was

stretched.

"I understand your concerns," he said finally, "and I can't disagree with

anything you've said. The

problem is that we're stretched right to the very limit. I can't, not won't,

but literally cannot, withdraw

additional warships from the front to reinforce our convoy escorts in

Silesia."

"Well we have to do something." Hauptman spoke quietly, and Caparelli sensed

the arrogant

magnate's very real effort to match his own reasonable tone. "The convoy

system helps during transits

between sectors, of course. We haven't lost a single ship that was under

escort, and, believe me, my

colleagues and I all appreciate that. But the raiders realize as well as we do

that they can't attack the

convoys. They also know simple astrographics require us to route over two-

thirds of our vessels

independently after they reach their destination sectors . . . and that the

available escorts simply can't

cover us when we do." Caparelli nodded somberly. No one was losing any ships

in the convoys covering

transit between Silesia's nodal sector administration centers, but the pirates

more than made up for that by

snapping up merchantmen after they had to leave the convoys to proceed to the

individual worlds of the

Confederacy.

"I'm not certain how much more we can do, Sir," the admiral said after a long,

silent moment.

"Admiral White Haven's returning to Manticore sometime next week. I'll confer

with him then, see if

there's any way we can reorganize and pry a few more escorts loose, but,

frankly, until we can somehow

take Trevor's Star, I'm not optimistic. In the meantime, I'll put my staff to

work on an immediate study of anything, and I do mean anything, Mr. Hauptman,

we can do to ease the situation. I assure you that this

matter has the second highest priority, after Trevor's Star itself. I'll do

everything possible to reduce your

losses. You have my personal word on that."

Hauptman sat back in his chair, studying the admirals face, then grunted. The

sound was weary, irate,

and just a little desperate, but he nodded grudgingly.

"I can ask no more than that, Sir Thomas," he said heavily. "I won't insult

you by trying to insist on

miracles, but the situation is very, very grave. I'm not certain we have

another month . . . but I am certain

we have no more than four, five at the most, before the cartels will be forced

to suspend operations in

Silesia."

"I understand," Caparelli repeated, rising to extend his hand. "I'll do what I

can, and as quickly as I

can, and I promise I'll personally brief you on the situation as soon as I've

had a chance to confer with

Admiral White Haven. With your permission, I'll have my yeoman set up another

meeting with you for

that purpose. Perhaps we can think of something at that time. Until then,

please stay in touch. You and

your colleagues may actually have a better feel for the situation than we do

at the Admiralt y, and any

input you can offer my analysts and planning people will be greatly

appreciated."

"Very well," Hauptman sighed, standing in turn, and gripped the admirals hand,

then surprised

Caparelli with a wry smile. "I realize I'm not the easiest man in the universe

to get along with, Sir

Thomas. I'm trying very hard not to be the proverbial bull in the china shop,

and I genuinely appreciate

both the difficulties you face and the efforts you're making on our behalf. I

only hope that there's an

answer somewhere."

"So do I, Mr. Hauptman," Caparelli said quietly, escorting his guest to the

door. "So do I."

Admiral of the Green Hamish Alexander, Thirteenth Earl of White Haven,

wondered if he looked as

weary as he felt. The earl was ninety T- years old, though in a pre-prolong

society he would have been

taken for no more than a very well-preserved forty, and even that would have

been only because of the

white stranded through his black hair. But there were new lines around his

ice-blue eyes, and he was only

too well aware of his own fatigue.

He watched space’s ebon black give way to deep indigo beyond the view port as

his pinnace dropped

towards the city of Landing and felt that weariness aching in his bones. The

Star Kingdom, or, at least, the

realistic part of it, had dreaded the inevitable war with the People’s

Republic for over fifty T-years, and

the Navy (and Hamish Alexander) had spent those years preparing for it. Now

that war was almost three

years old . . . and proving just as brutal as he'd feared.

It wasn't that the Peeps were that good; it was just that they were so damned

big. Despite the internal

wounds the People's Republic had inflicted upon itself since Hereditary

President Harris' assassination,

despite its ramshackle economy and the pogroms which had cost the People's

Navy its most experienced

officers, despite even the indolence of the Republics Dolists, it remained a

juggernaut. Had its industrial

plant been even half as efficient as the Star Kingdoms, the situation would

have been hopeless. As it was,

a combination of skill, determination, and more luck than any competent

strategist would dare count on

had allowed the RMN to hold its own so far.

But holding its own wasn't enough.

White Haven sighed and massaged his aching eyes. He hated leaving me front,

but at least he'd been

able to leave Admiral Theodosia Kuzak in command. He could count on Theodosia

to hold things

together in his absence. White Haven snorted at the thought. Hell, maybe she

could actually take Trevor's

Star. God knew he hadn't had much success in that department!

He lowered his hand from his eyes and gazed back out the view port while he

took himself to task for

that last thought. The truth was that he'd had a very "good" war to date. In

the first year of operations, his

Sixth Fleet had cut deep into the Republic, inflicting what would have been

fatal losses for any smaller

navy along the way. He and his fellow admirals had actually managed to

equalize the daunting odds they'd faced at the start of the war, and taken no

less than twenty-four star systems. But the second and

third years had been different. The Peeps were back on balance, and Rob

Pierre's Committee of Public

Safety had initiated a reign of terror guaranteed to stiffen the spine of any

Peep admiral. And if the

destruction of the Legislaturalist dynasties which had ruled the old People's

Republic had cost the PN its

most experienced admirals, it had also destroyed the patronage system which

had kept other officers from

rising to the seniority their capabilities deserved. Now that the

Legislaturalists were out of the way, some

of those new admirals were proving very tough customers. Like Admiral Esther

McQueen, the senior

Peep officer at Trevor's Star.

White Haven grimaced at the view port. According to ONI, the peoples

commissioners the

Committee of Public Safety had appointed to keep the Peoples Navy in line were

the ones who really

called the shots. If that was so, if political commissars truly were degrading

the performance of officers

like McQueen, White Haven could only be grateful. He'd begun getting a feel

for the woman over the last

few months, and he suspected he was a better strategist than she. But his

edge, if in fact he had one, was

far thinner than he would have liked, and she had ice water in her veins. She

understood the strengths and

weaknesses of her forces, knew her technology was more primitive and her

officer corps less experienced,

but she also knew sufficient numbers and an unflinching refusal to be bullied

into mistakes could offset

that. When one added the way Manticore's need to take Trevor’s Star simplified

the strategic equation for

her, she was giving as good as she got. Losses had been very nearly even since

she took over, and

Manticore simply couldn't afford that. Not in a war that looked like it might

well last for decades. And

not, White Haven admitted, when every month increased the threat that the

Republic would begin to

figure out how to redress its technological and industrial disadvantages. If

the Peeps ever reached a point

where they could face the RMN from a position of qualitative equality, as well

as quantitative superiority,

the consequences would be disastrous.

He heard the pinnaces air-breathing turbines whine as it began its final

approach to Landing and

shook himself. Between them, he and Kuzak had finally evolved a plan which

might, might, let them take

Trevor’s Star, and that was something they had to do. The system contained the

only terminus of the

Manticore Worm Hole Junction which Manticore did not already control, which

made it a deadly

potential threat to the Star Kingdom. But it was a two-edged sword for the

Peeps. Its capture would not

only eliminate the threat of direct invasion but give the RMN a secure

bridgehead deep inside the

Republic. Ships, warships, as well as supply vessels, could move between the

RMN's most powerful fleet

bases and the battle front virtually instantaneously, with ! no threat of

interception. Capture of Trevor's

Star, if it was ever captured, would both ease the Navy's logistics enormously

and open a whole new

range of strategic options, which made it the most valuable prize short of the

Haven System itself. But

even if White Haven's plan worked, it would take at least four more months,

minimum, and from

Caparelli's dispatches, maintaining, the momentum that long wasn't going to be

easy.

"So that's the situation," White Haven said quietly. "Theodosia and I think we

can do it, but the

preliminary operations are going to take time."

David Weber - Honor 06 - Honor Among Enemies

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