David Weber - Honor Anth. 3 - Changer of Worlds

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Worlds of Honor #3: Changer of Worlds
David Weber
Copyright (c) 2001
Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington
by 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."
摘要：

WorldsofHonor#3:ChangerofWorldsDavidWeberCopyright(c)2001Ms.MidshipwomanHarringtonbyDavidWeber"Thatlookslikeyoursnotty,SeniorChief."TheMarinesentry'slow-pitchedvoiceexudedanoddlygleefulsympathy.ItwasthesortofvoiceinwhichaMarinetraditionallyinformedoneoftheNavy's"vacuum-suckers"thathistrousershadjust...

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