A Rising Thunder

Chapter Thirty-Three

Organ music swelled and the massed choir’s voices rose in the words of the ancient hymn which had announced every marriage in the groom’s family for over four T-centuries:

“Though I may speak with bravest fire,

and have the gift to all inspire,

and have not love, my words are vain,

as sounding brass, and hopeless gain.”*

The groom, clad in the blue and silver of the House of Winton stood before the altar rail and turned to face down the nave towards the narthex of King Michael’s Cathedral as the music soared about him. The cathedral itself was packed as it had not been in years — not since the somewhat premature state funeral of one Honor Harrington. Which was rather ironic, since Duchess Harrington was a member of the wedding procession and the current representatives of the star nation which was supposed to have executed her sat in the pew set aside for them as they, too, turned to watch that procession move down cathedral’s central aisle towards the waiting sanctuary.

The cathedral was like an immense jewelry box, packed with aristocrats in the formal court dress and colors of their houses and commoners whose sartorial splendor and jewelry tended to put the understated elegance of court dress in the shade. Stained-glass windows glowed with late morning light, filling the cathedral’s interior with pools and patterns of gleaming, slowly moving brilliance. Centuries-old wooden paneling glowed in that light, the deliberately antique organ’s bronze pipes shone with hand-polished brilliance, vestments glittered with rich embroidery, candle holders flashed back the light, and the crowds of newsies had been banished to the discreet concealment of the balconies just inside the narthex.

Against all of that visual splendor, that richness of texture and color, of light and sound, the slender, white vision with the armful of flowers at the bridal procession’s heart stood out with heart stopping purity as she moved gracefully through the music.

Brides, and especially royal brides, were always beautiful. That was an incontrovertible law of nature — just ask any publicist or newsy. In this case, however, it was true, Honor decided. Not because Rivka Rosenfeld was a stunning beauty, because she wasn’t, although she was undeniably attractive with a face full of wit and intelligence touched with the bloom of her youth. And not because of the hours of effort the Star Empire’s best cometicians had put in, either. No, it was because of the glow in her eyes as they met Roger Winton’s down the length of that long, long cathedral aisle.

And, Honor conceded, it was also because of Rivka’s own impeccable taste. As her matron of honor, Honor had been deeply involved in planning the wedding. Her duties had been less extensive than those of Lord Chamberlain Wundt or Dame Arethea Hart, perhaps, but they’d been focused on the official aspects of the day. Honor had been focused on Rivka, and on more than one occasion she’d found herself acting as the young woman’s champion as she stood up against the demands of an occasion of state.

Rivka had held out steadfastly for an elegantly simple wedding gown, without glamour or elaborate embroidery or glittering jewels, and Honor — whose own tastes ran in very much the same direction, if the truth be told — had supported her strongly. Not that simplicity implied cheapness, of course. Honor had become far more knowledgeable about fashion matters and designer gowns than she’d ever expected to, and she knew how expensive that deceptively simple, flawlessly fitted gown had actually been. Yet it was also perfect, the inevitable setting for the slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed young woman advancing to meet her fiancé.

The one concession she’d made was her bridal train, which stretched far down the aisle behind her as she advanced to meet her waiting groom. Honor and her maids of honor followed her, and at Rivka’s insistence, Faith Harrington led the entire procession scattering flower petals across the rich-toned carpet with solemn concentration. Her brother James followed her, carrying the royal blue cushion with the waiting wedding rings and the princess’ coronet.

Arranging it all had been a long journey and plenty of hard work for everyone, Honor reflected, following Rivka in her own Grayson-style gown and over tunic in deep, rich, “Harrington green” with the Star of Grayson, glittering about her throat on its crimson ribbon, her only jewelry. And a welcome one, in the aftermath of what had happened to Massimo Filareta and his fleet. A distraction, yes, but also a reaffirmation of life and a promise of hope, and she’d needed that. Being there for Rivka, helping to choose the wedding theme, to pick designs for the invitations, support her in fighting for the simplicity of the gown she’d chosen, choosing flowers, picking gifts for the bridesmaids. She’d never gotten to do something like that before. Her own wedding had been a much more…impromptu affair, and she’d discovered that planning a bridal shower had helped to heal a heart weary with killing and bloodshed.

Of course, finding time for all of that had been something of a challenge among her “merely” official duties as the commander of Grand Fleet. Fortunately, most of her subordinates had happily conspired to take as much as possible of that load off of her, and she was grateful to all of them. She’d always liked Rivka; over the last few months she’d come to understand exactly why Elizabeth approved of her son’s choice so strongly.

She’s going to do well, Honor thought. She’s exactly what Roger needs. If anyone can keep him sane when he finds himself on his mother’s throne, it’ll be Rivka.

Not that Rivka didn’t have some qualms of her own. Even now, Honor could taste the undercurrent of trepidation in the composed young woman’s mind-glow. Becoming the future queen consort of the Star Kingdom of Manticore at the age of twenty would have been daunting enough for anyone; becoming the future empress consort of the Star Empire of Manticore was even worse. And the fact that the Star Empire in question faced a fight for its very life against all the ponderous might of the Solarian League was downright terrifying. But somehow Rivka had coped with all of that, and the clean, focused taste of her mind-glow, the joy and eagerness which infused it — and Roger’s — despite all of those worries, all of those future threats, as they looked at one another told Honor how well they both had chosen.

The procession reached the waiting groom and his party and dispersed into its perfectly choreographed components, and Hamish Alexander-Harrington, standing with Roger, smiled at his wife as she stepped up beside Rivka and took the bridal bouquet — made up of native blossoms from each of the Old Star Kingdom’s habitable planets. Honor smiled back, remembering how much simpler (if unexpected) her own wedding had been, then stepped back with the flowers to let Rivka take Roger’s hand while both of them turned to face Bishop Robert Telmachi.

The Archbishop of Manticore didn’t simply smile — he beamed. His eyes were alight with happiness, and Honor could physically taste the joy within him. She’d come to know him well over the past few years, and she recognized his personal joy — his gladness for two young people who were deeply important to him — and the almost equally powerful joy as he recognized this wedding’s healing power for an entire star nation. It was a huge and ultimately unfair weight to lay upon such youthful shoulders, but as the people of the Star Kingdom always had, in times of trouble they looked to the House of Winton. They were part of that house themselves — all of them — when it came down to it, because of the Constitution’s requirement that the heir marry outside the aristocracy, and the Winton dynasty had done far better than most at remembering that bond and the responsibilities which went with it. The deep compact between the Star Kingdom’s subjects and their rulers went far beyond the mere letter of the law, and they’d turned Roger — and especially Rivka — into the promise of the future.

“Dearly beloved,” Telmachi began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church: which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else here ever after forever hold his peace.”

The ancient, ancient simple words spilled out into the hushed, listening silence, and Honor Alexander-Harrington reached out, as well. She touched Hamish’s mind-glow as he stood close beside her and Emily’s mind-glow, where her life support chair sat at the end of the front pew on the bride’s side of the cathedral. She reached out further, touching her mother and feeling the happiness within her. Touching her father, and tasting the pain still burning at his core…and the healing sifting down to it, as it sifted down to her own, borne upon those ageless, joyous words. The entire cathedral was filled to the bursting point not simply with human bodies, but with human minds, and thoughts, and hopes, and joy. It pressed in upon her from every side, soaking into her like the sea, but this was a sea of light, of energy — of focus and purpose and promise. It flowed into her like the sun itself, and tears starred her vision as she found herself wishing desperately that everyone else in that cathedral could have tasted and known what she tasted and knew in that moment.

* * *

“I’ve been to some remarkable weddings in my time,” Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou said, “but this one…”

He waved his champagne glass at the glittering crowd thronging the grounds of Mount Royal Palace. Security was tight, and treecats were much in evidence. Many of them rode on shoulders threaded throughout that crowd, and others—dozens of others — perched cheerfully on the branches of landscaped trees, on ornamental gazebos and roofs. They could be heard every now and then, even through the steady surf of human voices and the music of the live orchestra, bleeking to one another as they enjoyed the human mind-glows swirling about them like rich, heady wine. But there was a perpetually poised, ready watchfulness even in the midst of their delight, and armed air cars and sting ships loitered overhead while the personnel of half a dozen star nations’ security watched the ’cats like miners watching canaries in some ancient coal mine.

No one at the reception could possibly tune out that omnipresent security, yet most of the guests had become accustomed to their guardians’ presence. There might be new wrinkles to the threats those guardians were deployed to counter, but there would always be threats and no one was prepared to let that awareness dampen this day.

Honor had finally managed to slip away to steal a few moments with her uncle and her family. She’d given her matron of honor’s speech, and with the assistance of scores of personnel from Dame Arethea’s office, she’d made sure the thousands of wedding gifts Rivka and Roger had received had all been properly stored and labeled. Rivka had announced her intention of sending personal thank you notes for every single one of them, and Honor felt sure the redoubtable young woman would do exactly that…however long it took.

With that task out of the way, she’d disappeared with Rivka long enough to help her change out of her wedding gown and into the equally expensive (and equally simple yet elegant) formal court dress badged in Winton blue and silver to which she was now entitled. Of course, Honor’s “help” had consisted mainly of offering moral support as Rivka looked forward to her very first day as the Crown Princess Consort of Manticore. It would have been unfair to say Rivka had experienced a case of cold feet at the prospect, but her toes had definitely felt the chill as she prepared to shoulder the public responsibilities which would be hers for the rest of her life.

Honor had felt the way the young woman braced herself, straightening metaphysical shoulders to bear up under that burden. And as she had, she’d realized that one of the reasons Rivka had been so strongly drawn to her was that Honor, too, had been born of yeoman stock. Neither of them had ever dreamed, during their childhood, of ascending to such dizzying heights, and as she’d tasted Rivka’s trepidations surging once more, she’d put an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders in a brief, comforting hug.

“It’s not so bad, really,” she’d said, and Rivka had turned her head to give her a smile that was ever so slightly lopsided.

“Are my willies that obvious?”

“Well, I do hang around with treecats, you know,” Honor had replied with a smile of her own. “For that matter, I didn’t exactly start out in this crowd myself.”

“Your mother did, though,” Rivka had pointed out.

“Yep, and she ran away from it with indecent haste as soon as she got the opportunity. And I promise you, she didn’t bring me up to be queen of the ball, either!” Honor had snorted with amusement at the very thought. “I’m not saying it didn’t help — some — to be descended from the Benton-Ramirez y Chou family, but I never saw any of this coming until Benjamin dumped the steadholdership on me. And then the Queen — your mother-in-law, now that I think about it — decided to open up her toy box!” She’d shaken her head. “Believe me, it’s survivable. And that the reason you’re here today, married to Roger, is because of who you are, Rivka, not what you are or what anyone expects you to be.” She smiled again, more gently. “You just go on being you, and you’re going to do fine. Trust me.”

Now, as Honor looked across to where Roger and Rivka stood on the terrace, smiling easily, laughing as they chatted with one guest after another, she knew how right she’d been.

“It is an impressive guest list, I suppose, Jacques,” Hamish said now, his tone judicious.

“‘Impressive’?” another voice repeated. “What? Is that your studied understatement of the day?”

Honor turned with a chuckle as a life support chair slid up beside her.

“I think it’s probably as good a description as Uncle Jacques’s ‘remarkable,’ Emily,” she said. “And you have to remember the source. Neither of is all that good with the language, you know.”

“You’ll pay for that later,” Hamish promised her with a devilish glint, and Nimitz bleeked a laugh on Honor’s shoulder.

“I await the moment with trepidation,” Honor told her husband sweetly, then turned back to her uncle. “However, I have to say that in your own language-challenged ways, you’re both right. I wonder if there’s ever been a wedding quite like it?”

“I doubt it,” Emily said. “In fact, I’m pretty darn sure there hasn’t been one like it since the Diaspora got everybody off Old Earth, anyway! Let’s see, we’ve got the Empress of Manticore, the President of the Republic of Haven, the Protector of Grayson, the Chairman of the Beowulf Board of Directors, Queen Berry, and the Andermani Emperor’s first cousin. Not to mention your own humble self as Steadholder Harrington and the commander of the Grand Fleet, followed by a scattering of mere planetary grand dukes, dukes, Earls, members of the Havenite cabinet, three other members of the Beowulf Board of Directors, the chairman of the Alliance joint chiefs of staff, the First Space Lord, the Havenite chief of naval operations, the Beowulfan chief of naval operations, High Admiral Yanakov, Admiral Yu, two or three dozen ambassadors, and God alone only knows who else. I’m sure there’ve been other weddings that had the same guest count or better, but bringing all of these people together in one place?”

She shook her head, and Honor found herself nodding in agreement.

“I wish those cretins in Old Chicago could see this,” her uncle said in a much more somber tone. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “They still just don’t get it. I think the true problem is that nobody outside their own little world is actually quite real to them. We’re all just inconveniently obstreperous tokens they’re moving around on a game board somewhere. All that really matters is that damned echo chamber they live in.”

“That’s how we got into this mess,” Hamish agreed, “but I’ll guarantee you there are some other sounds leaking into that ‘echo chamber’ of yours by now, Jacques! They don’t like it, and they’re trying to stuff their fingers into their ears, but they can’t keep it up much longer.”

“They’ve kept it up long enough to leave all of us one hell of a mess to clean up,” Benton-Ramirez y Chou replied, and Hamish nodded.

“No argument there. The question in my mind is how long they’re going to be able to stay on the back of the hexapuma. I think they’ve pretty much demonstrated that they’re determined to go on trying to game the situation until the ship sinks under them. But when that happens, when someone else steps into their place, how’s that someone else going to react? That’s going to be the key to the way this whole thing shakes out in the end, Jacques.”

“And to how many more people we have to kill before it’s all over.” Honor’s mouth tightened as the chill of her own words touched the warmth and pleasure of the day, and Nimitz made a soft sound and stirred on her shoulder.

“And that,” her husband agreed, putting an arm around her and hugging her tightly. “I’d like to tell you we wouldn’t have to kill — or lose — anybody else, but it’s not going to work out that way.”

“I know.” She hugged him back and sighed. “I know. And I promise I’ll try not to rain all over Roger and Rivka’s party.”

“Oh, your credit’s pretty good with the happy couple, Honor,” Emily told her with a chuckle. “I don’t think they’ll hold a minor drizzle or two against you. No cloudbursts, now, though!”

“No, Ma’am,” Honor promised obediently with a demure little smile, and her uncle laughed.

“You three deserve each other,” he said, smiling warmly at all of them. “And I’m glad you’ve got each other. Hang onto it, because, trust me, it’s something special.”

“I agree,” Honor said softly, reaching down to touch Emily’s working hand, then looked up as the orchestra stopped playing and another round of official toasts began. It was Chyang Benton-Ramirez’s turn to propose the first toast, and afternoon sunlight burned golden in the heart of his wine as he raised his glass. Their sheltered little nook was too far away for any of them to hear his actual words, but they heard the applause when he finished.

“What?” she heard, and looked at her uncle.

“What ‘what’?” she asked, cocking her head slightly.

“You’re thinking deep thoughts again,” Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou accused her. “Getting ready to find something else to worry about, if I know you!”

“I am not!” she protested.

“Oh, yes you are,” he shot back. “Nimitz?”

He, Hamish, and Emily all looked at Nimitz, who gazed back thoughtfully for a moment…and then nodded.

“Oh, you traitor!” she told the ’cat.

“Come on, out with it!” Jacques commanded. “Let’s get it all out in the open and get rid of it before you have to go back over and do some more of that matron of honor stuff.”

Honor glared at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“You may actually have a point, although I find it hard to believe I hear myself saying that.”

“I always have a point,” her uncle replied with dignity. “It is, alas, simply my fate to be surrounded by people unable to fully appreciate the needle sharpness and rapier quickness of my intellect. Now trot it out!”

Honor made a face at him, then sighed.

“All right. I was just watching Chairman Benton-Ramirez, looking at how cheerful and unconcerned he seems, and thinking about the vote on Reid’s motion.”

The others looked at her. Simultaneity was a slippery concept when applied to interstellar distances, but the vote on Tyrone Reid’s motion to investigate Beowulf’s “treason” against the Solarian League would be occurring on far off Old Earth in less than twenty-four hours.

“There’s not much point worrying about it,” her uncle said after a second or two. “We all know how the vote’s going to come out, after all. And Felicia has her instructions for what to do when it does.” He twitched his shoulders. “And it’s not as if there’s much question about how the electorate’s going to respond in the end. Every single opinion poll and electronic town meeting we’ve held underscores that, Honor. And you’ve seen the editorials and the public postings!”

“I know. Remember, I am half-Beowulfan, Uncle Jacques. But it’s just such a big step, and I’m worried about how the Mandarins are going to react.”

“There’s not a lot they can do about it,” Jacques pointed out.

“The problem is whether or not they realize that,” Honor countered, “and their track record to date doesn’t exactly inspire me with confidence in their judgment. I keep reminding myself that they’re not really stupid. Blind, arrogant, bigoted, and so far out of touch with us uppity ‘neobarbs’ that they act stupidly, but within the limits of their worldview, they truly aren’t idiots. And that means they have to be able to see the writing on the wall when their nose gets rubbed in it hard enough, doesn’t it?”

“Probably.” Jacques nodded. “You’d think so, at any rate, wouldn’t you?”

“And that’s what worries me,” Honor said frankly. “It’s obvious to me — to us—where Beowulf’s actions are going to lead. I think we have to assume it’s going to be obvious to them, too. And if it is, based on their actions to date, I think we have to assume they’ll try to do something about it before that happens.”

“I don’t think there’s a great deal they can do about it, in the short term, at least,” her uncle replied.

“Maybe not, but I’d feel a lot better if we had a couple of dozen Invictus-class wallers in Beowulf orbit.”

“I’m not sure I disagree with you,” Jacques said slowly, “but that was a political decision, and I can see their point. It’s one thing for us to call on Manticoran assistance to prevent Tsang from forcibly seizing control of the Beowulf Terminus. And I don’t think anyone on Beowulf has any problem with the notion that your Navy is going to make damned sure it hangs on to the terminus and deploys however many ships it has to to do it. But if we start putting Manty ships-of-the-wall in orbit around the planet, it’s going to look coercive as hell. Beowulfers who have reservations about our joining the Alliance — and there are some of those, after all — are likely to feel threatened, and that’s not what we want in the run-up to the vote. For that matter, if we had Manty wallers orbiting Beowulf, it could only make Reid and Neng’s job in the Assembly even easier. A lot easier to convict us of treason under those circumstances, don’t you think?”

“But as you just pointed out, we already know how that vote’s going to come out in the end, anyway,” Honor shot back.

“I said I wasn’t sure I disagreed with you.” Benton-Ramirez y Chou shook his head. “But there’s another consideration to it, as well. Felicia’s going to drop her little nuke in the Assembly as soon as the votes are tallied on Reid’s motion, and we can’t afford to let the Mandarins or their mouthpieces cast doubt on the legitimacy of her actions or of the vote. If there’s anything but Beowulfan warships in orbit around the planet, you know they’re going to claim that whatever the Board of Directors says or however the electorate votes, it was all coerced by the threat of Manticoran warheads.”

“I hate to say it, but I think they’ve got a point, Honor,” Hamish pointed out, and even Emily nodded in agreement.

“I didn’t say they didn’t have a point, Hamish,” Honor said a bit tartly. “What I said is that I question whether or not it’s a good enough point to park all of our modern wallers too far from the inner system to intervene if something…untoward happens.”

“Which is why we’re working on Mycroft,” Hamish pointed out, and Honor was forced to nod in acknowledgment. Sneaky of him to use Mycroft, since she was the one who’d first suggested the concept to Sonja Hemphill.

One of the problems the Alliance was bound to face if the situation continued to deteriorate was the need to free up capital ships for mobile operations rather than tying them down in static defenses. Honor, as the unwilling beta tester for Shannon Foraker’s Moriarity system, had developed a profound respect for the effectiveness of massed MDM pods in the system defense role. Michelle Henke’s success at Spindle had reconfirmed that respect even before Filareta’s spectacular demise. Which was why Honor had devoted quite a bit of thought to ways in which Moriarity’s system-wide network of dispersed sensor and fire control stations could be updated to take advantage of the Mark 23 and the Mark 23 E. The answer Hemphill had come up with was Mycroft, named for a character out of the same pre-space detective fiction which had given Foraker Moriarity in the first place.

Essentially, Mycroft was simply a couple of dozen Keyhole-Two platforms parked at various points in a star system. It was a little more complicated than that, since the platforms were designed to operate on beamed power from their motherships, so it was necessary to provide each platform with its own power plant. And it was also necessary to provide the raw fire control and the rest of the supporting hardware and software which was normally parked aboard the platform’s deploying ship-of-the-wall. Those were relatively straightforward problems in engineering, however, especially with an entire planet to work with, and tech crews were working at breakneck pace even as Honor stood with her uncle and her spouses to meet them.

Mycroft’s advantages over Moriarity would be profound. Unlimited by Moriarty’s lightspeed control links, Mycroft would be able to take full advantage of the Mark 23 E and the FTL reconnaissance platforms which were also being thickly seeded throughout the system’s volume. And unlike Moriarity — which had been unarmed and defenseless when Honor used Hemphill’s Baldur to take it out — Keyhole-Two platforms were simply crammed with active antimissile defenses. No doubt they could be taken out, but it would be a difficult task, and enough of them were being deployed as part of Mycroft to ensure survivability through sheer redundancy.

“I agree that once Mycroft’s up and running, anybody who goes after Beowulf is going to get bloodied in a hurry,” she said now. “I guess my main concerns are that Mycroft isn’t a visible deterrent, especially since we’re keeping it so completely under wraps till it’s actually up and running, and, secondly, that it isn’t up and running yet and won’t be for at least another couple of months. Maybe longer.” She shook her head. “It’s that window that worries me,” she said soberly. “In the Mandarins’ place, I’d make it a point to assume that we had to be aware of Beowulf’s vulnerability and be doing something about it, but I’m not at all sure they will.”

“Well,” Benton-Ramirez y Chou said with a shrug that was just a bit more philosophical than his mind-glow tasted, “I guess there’s one way to find out.”

“And that’s what I’m afraid of, Uncle Jacques,” she said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”