Mission of Honor

Chapter Twenty-Five

"—afraid it's not quite so simple as all that, Admiral. The consensus of my House committee is quite firm on this point. Before the Administration could possibly get Congress to sign off on any formal treaty, especially one in which the Republic accepts some sort of 'war guilt' clause, the futures of these star systems have to be settled. That, after all, was the reason we voted to support the resumption of hostilities in the first place."

Honor Alexander-Harrington bit her tongue rather firmly. It was an exercise with which she'd had an unfortunate amount of experience over the last five or six weeks. In fact, she'd gotten to practice at it almost every time Gerald Younger opened his mouth.

She drew a deep, unobtrusive breath and thought longingly of public dueling grounds and ten-millimeter pistols as the representative sat back in his chair, jaw clenched with manly fortitude and brown eyes hard with steely determination. It wasn't so much that she was unwilling to believe his committee members felt—or could be brought to feel—exactly as he'd just said they did, although she doubted they were nearly so adamant (or united) as he was suggesting. No, the problem was that she could taste the real emotions behind his argument, which meant she knew he personally didn't give a single solitary damn about the future of the disputed star systems and never had. He'd been harping on this point for a full half-day now, but what he really wanted was something else entirely. It was unfortunate that she couldn't pluck exactly what that "something else" was out of his mind, but she'd come to the conclusion that he was probably after one of two things.

Either he intended to give in eventually on the unstated understanding that his concession on this point would earn a matching concession from her on another point—probably the amount of reparations the Republic was going to ante up eventually, given the way he kept harping on linking the issue to "war guilt"—or else he didn't want anything out of her at all. In fact, the way he kept referring to the reasons the Havenite Congress had voted to support the Pritchart Administration's resumption of hostilities suggested to Honor that the latter possibility was more probably the correct one. He'd been just a little bit too careful, just a tad too obvious, about not saying explicitly that the real reason the Republic was in its current dire predicament was due to missteps by that same administration. Which strongly suggested that the real target of his extortion was Eloise Pritchart. Honor had no idea what sort of domestic concession he might want to squeeze out of the Pritchart Administration, but it was at least equally probable that there was one and that he knew Pritchart would eventually promise it to him if he'd only shut up.

The fact that he hadn't said one single word about the Green Pines allegations might be another indicator pointing in that direction. They would have made a much more suitable stick for beating the Star Empire directly, at any rate. Of course, from what Honor had come to know of Pritchart, it was entirely possible there were other reasons he'd chosen not to reach for that particular club.

However that might be, though, he was clearly after something , and from the taste of Pritchart's mind glow, she was clearly of the same opinion. . . and probably thinking about the Havenite equivalent of dueling grounds, too.

"Mr. Younger," Honor said, once she was reasonably certain she had her temper under control, "I don't really think it's very practical for us to sit here and dispose of the political futures of entire star systems without actually consulting the people who live in them. As I'm sure you're well aware, the majority of the star systems which were still in Manticoran possession at the time hostilities were resumed were militarily strategic ones which had been retained only for their military value. Pending the conclusion of a formal peace treaty, those star systems would have been granted their independence or returned to Havenite control, depending on local conditions and desires. Certain other systems, admittedly, were still in our possession mainly because they were so far in our rear and had been occupied for so long. Those systems which had indicated their desire to remain independent of the Republic would have been permitted to so do by the Star Empire pending the conclusion of that same treaty. Some of them, as you're well aware, had already expressed a desire to remain independent before the resumption of our current hostilities, and I strongly doubt that Her Majesty would be willing to force them back into the Republic's welcoming arms at bayonet point if that's not where they want to go.

"At the moment, however, if it's escaped your attention, none of those star systems are currently in Manticoran possession at all. Given that fact, and the past history I've just summarized, I fail to see precisely why you expect Her Majesty's Government to countersign some sort of blank check for the Republic to determine their futures at this conference table instead of consulting with them after the cessation of hostilities."

"I'm not asking you to 'countersign' anything, Admiral," Younger replied. "I'm asking you, as Queen Elizabeth's representative, to acknowledge the validity of the results of the plebiscites conducted in those 'strategic' star systems following their liberation from Manticorian occupation by Republican armed forces. And to pledge to abide by plebiscites to be conducted on any other planet which was previously part of the Peoples Republic of Haven and which is currently occupied by Republican forces."

"And I'm telling you, Sir," Honor replied in a tone whose patience would have made anyone who knew her well extremely nervous, "that Her Majesty is not prepared to acknowledge anything, anywhere, in any star system, without first having had the opportunity to examine the evidence and the results to be sure the processes were free, open, and legitimate."

"Are you suggesting the results of the plebiscites the Republic has already conducted might not represent the true desires of the systems' inhabitants?"

Younger's eyes had narrowed, and there was an edge of ice in his voice. All in all, no one could possibly have misinterpreted the offense he'd taken at the mere suggestion of electoral chicanery. Honor, however, was fully aware of the actual emotions behind that bristling faзade, and she felt Nimitz stir on the perch beside her chair as he tasted her almost overwhelming desire to punch Younger squarely in the nose. From the feel of the treecat's emotions, he was entirely in favor of the notion. He knew as well as Honor that the Havenite legislator understood perfectly well that she was suggesting nothing of the sort. In fact, what Younger felt at the moment was a powerful sense of satisfaction, undoubtedly at his ability to burn time on such a minor issue.

And speaking of time, she decided, it was time for a certain amount of candor.

"Mr. Younger," she said calmly, "you and I are both perfectly well aware I'm suggesting nothing of the sort."

His eyes widened, and she tasted his surprise at her head-on approach. Well, that was too bad, wasn't it? After all, she was an admiral, not a diplomat, and he could either like that fact or lump it. At the moment, she didn't much care which, either.

"I haven't said Manticore won't acknowledge the validity of the plebiscite results. What I've said is that Manticore won't acknowledge their validity without the opportunity to evaluate their reliability, accuracy, openness, and honesty for ourselves. You're as aware as I am of the distinction between those two positions, and you're also as aware as I am that this is a point on which I, as the Star Empire's representative to these talks, am not going to make the concession you're demanding. I can only assume, therefore, that your purpose in demanding it is to use up time. Which, I observe, you are doing despite the fact that I informed you perfectly straightforwardly at the beginning of these negotiations that there was a limit to how long I was authorized to continue talking before the Star Empire resumes active operations against the Republic."

He started to open his mouth, his expression indignant, but she raised her right hand between them, index finger extended vertically in an unspoken command to be silent, and continued in the same measured tone.

"There could be many reasons for your desire to 'run out the clock,' including the belief—mistaken, I assure you—that Manticore is so desperate for a settlement with the Republic, in light of the potential for conflict with the Solarian League, that if these talks can simply be strung out long enough, we'll accept revisions to our more substantive demands, such as the . . . clarification of our differences over our prewar diplomatic correspondence. If that is what you're hoping for, I'm quite certain President Pritchart doesn't share your belief."

She didn't so much as glance in Pritchart's direction, but she could feel the president stiffening ever so slightly in her chair. Not because Honor was wrong, but because Pritchart was surprised by just how correct she was.

"I suspect you're well aware that the President believes—accurately, as it happens—that my instructions are to return to Manticore with no treaty rather than with a bad treaty, time limit or not. Which suggests to me, Sir, that you're bringing a domestic agenda to this table in the belief the President will give you whatever it is you want from her here in the Republic in order to convince you to stop wasting time. Whether or not that belief of yours is accurate is, of course, more than I could say. I would suggest, however, that signing up for fiddle lessons when the house is already on fire is scarcely the most profitable use of your time. Bearing that in mind, I think that rather than sitting here wasting valuable time, we should take a short recess, during which you may discuss with President Pritchart just what it is you want and stop trying to get it out of her by using my mission as your prybar."

Younger's face had darkened steadily, and the power of his anger pulsed in Honor's awareness like a blow torch. He had himself sufficiently under control to glower at her in hot-eyed silence rather than open his mouth and let his fury betray how accurately she'd read him, however. She met his glare steadily for a moment, then looked at Pritchart at last.

The president's topaz eyes met hers with commendable steadiness, although the firm lips below them might have quivered ever so slightly. Honor wasn't prepared to swear to that either way, but she could taste the other woman's mingled irritation, frustration, and—overwhelming, this last emotion—entertainment.

"I believe, under the circumstances, that a recess probably is in order," Pritchart said after taking a moment to be certain she had her own voice under control. "I see it's very nearly lunchtime, anyway. If I may, Admiral, I'd suggest we take a couple of hours for lunch, during which Representative Younger can contact the members of his committee and canvas their response to your. . . forthright statement of the Star Empire's position on this point."

She smiled pleasantly at Honor, then turned to Younger.

"If you desire, Gerald," she continued pleasantly, "I'm sure Leslie and Walter and I could also make the time available before our next session with Admiral Alexander-Harrington and her delegation to discuss the Administration's view on this point. I'm always happy to hear Congress' views and advice, as you're well aware, and if the members of your committee have pronounced reservations on this point, I'd like to be made aware of them. I would never seek to dictate to the consciences of the Republic's elected representatives, but I must confess that at this moment, I'm unaware of any general groundswell of opinion on this point. If it's going to present serious difficulties, I'd appreciate a briefing on it."

The expression Younger turned on her was even closer to a glare than the one he'd bewstowed on Honor, but he kept a firm leash on his anger and nodded with at least a pretense of courtesy.

"Well then," Pritchart said just a tad brightly, smiling at Honor. "In that case, Admiral, we'll meet back here in two hours. Will that be convenient for your delegation?"

* * *

"Well, that was certainly entertaining, wasn't it?" Honor observed with an edge of whimsy as the members of her delegation—herded along by the alert sheepdogs of her armsmen—filed through the door into their suite's dining room. Like the conference room Pritchart had provided for their negotiations, the dining room's windows looked out over the boiling foam of Frontenac Falls, and she crossed the floor to gaze out at the spectacular scenery.

"I'm not sure 'entertaining' is exactly the word I'd choose, Your Grace," Tuominen said dryly. "Your approach to the rarefied and refined world of diplomacy seems just a trifle . . . direct , shall we say?"

"Oh, come now, Voitto!" Sir Barnabas Kew shook his head, smiling broadly. "You know you enjoyed seeing that insufferable young bugger taken down a notch just as much asI did! Talk about poisonous little vipers." The permanent undersecretary shook his head and glanced at Honor. "I don't know what the specifics of his agenda may be, Your Grace, but I'm convinced you nailed what he's up to."

"Nimitz and I have been discussing him for a while," Honor said, which was true enough, as far as it went, and Kew, Tuominen, and Baroness Selleck all nodded. She'd shared her—and Nimitz's, of course—impressions of all of the Havenite negotiators, although she'd been a bit less explicit about Pritchart, Theisman, and Nesbitt for various reasons.

"Of their entire delegation," she continued, "Younger and Tullingham are undoubtedly the most cynical and self-seeking. McGwire's no prize, you understand, but I think he's at least aware that in the Republic's current circumstances, a certain pragmatic resignation is in order. Tullingham could scarcely care less what happens to Pritchart's and Theisman's constitution—which, personally, I don't think is a most desirable possible trait in a Supreme Court justice—but my impression is that while he's the sort who thinks it's a perfectly wonderful idea to put legal opinions up for sale to the highest bidder, he's definitely not the sort who'd risk riding something like this down in flames just to satisfy his personal ambitions. His approach is more a case of 'business is business,' you might say. Younger, on the other hand . . . ."

She shook her head, not trying to hide her own disgust.

"What about him, Your Grace?" Selleck asked, regarding her narrowly, and Honor tasted her speculation. Of course, the baroness had been included among her advisers in no small part because of her familiarity with the various opposition groups which had emerged to resurrect the Republic after Saint-Just's death.

"I'm more than a little surprised he hasn't tried to use Green Pines, actually," Honor admitted. "I know that was what we hoped for when I had my little chat with the President, but I honestly didn't expect him to keep his mouth completely shut about it." Nor, she thought, had she anticipated the shiver of fear which went through the representative's mind glow whenever it looked like someone else might be about to bring it up. "But the more we see of him, the more convinced I am that he'd been fishing in some very murky waters long before we ever turned up in Nouveau Paris."

"You may well be right," Selleck said. "As I've said, I still don't have a good feel for how the internal dynamics of his party fit together, but my sources are suggesting more and more strongly that he's a more prominent player than we thought before. Are you suggesting he's a more important player than we've realized even now?"

"That's hard to say, Carissa," Honor replied thoughtfully, turning away from the windows and moving towards the table as James MacGuiness appeared in the doorway on the other side of the room, keeping an eagle eye on the Navy stewards who'd been sent down from Eighth Fleet to provide him with a reliable, security-screened support group.

"I don't know how important a player he actually is," she continued, seating herself at the head of the table. "For that matter, I don't know that he's really as important a player as he thinks he is. Obviously, he's got some stature, or he wouldn't have been included in Pritchart's delegation in the first place. The problem is that he's one of those people who just knows he's smarter, sneakier, and just generally all around better than anyone else. I have no idea what it is he wants out of Pritchart, but whatever it is, it never crossed his mind that he wasn't going to get it in the end. Or not until she asked him for that 'briefing', anyway."

She chuckled, and most of the others joined her. Then she looked up at MacGuiness.

"And just what are you planning on feeding us this afternoon, Mac?"

"I trust you'll find it palatable, Your Grace," MacGuiness said with a small bow and a lurking smile.

"But you're not going to tell me what it is until you put it on the table in front of me, are you?"

"I do treasure my little surprises," he acknowledged with a broader smile, and she shook her head fondly.

"All right, bring it on!" she challenged, and he chuckled as the stewards whipped away covers and set bowls of rich-smelling she crab soup in front of the diners.

* * *

"Excuse me, Your Grace."

Honor looked up from her second serving of cherry pie as Lieutenant Tьmmel appeared apparently by magic at her shoulder. It was obvious to her that he'd been taking teleportation lessons from MacGuiness, and she'd come to realize she valued his gift for unobtrusiveness even more because Tim Mears hadn't had it. Mears had been just as efficient as Tьmmel, but he'd never had Tьmmel's ability to blend into the background and pop out of it again at exactly the right moment. Which meant it was at least one way in which Tьmmel didn't constantly remind her of her last flag lieutenant and what had happened to him.

"Yes, Waldemar?" she said, allowing no trace of the familiar pain the thought of Mears caused her to show in her eyes or voice.

"We've just received a dispatch from Manticore, relayed from Imperator . It's a personal to you, from Her Majesty, and I'm afraid it's flagged as urgent."

"I see."

Honor laid down her fork, wiped her lips on her napkin, and rose. Anxious—or at least intensely speculative—eyes followed her, and she smiled slightly.

"Don't mind me, people," she said. "Go ahead and enjoy your dessert."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Honor sat back from the display in her own suite's sitting room, and her expression was much less amused than it had been. She tipped back her chair and crossed her legs, and Nimitz flowed up into her lap and sat upright, facing her.

"Not so good, is it, Stinker?" she asked, reaching out to stroke his ears. Actually, she realized, "not so good" might be putting it entirely too optimistically. The news was over three weeks old, after all. By this time, it was only too probable that Michelle Henke had already had the opportunity to prove—or disprove—the more optimistic estimates of the superiority of Manticoran military hardware. She felt Nimitz's concern mirroring her own, but then he twitched his upper pelvis in imitation of a human shrug.

his fingers flickered.

For just a moment, Honor was tempted to ask what made him an expert on the subject of battle fleets. Fortunately, the temptation disappeared as quickly as it had come. Treecat understanding of advanced technology and weaponry was still for all intents and purposes nonexistent, but those who'd adopted humans had been sufficiently exposed to it to understand what it did, even if they didn't grasp how it did it. And Nimitz had seen more naval combat than the majority of professional naval personnel ever saw in an entire lifetime. Some of that combat had come uncomfortably close to killing both him and Honor. In fact, ever since Paul Tankersley had designed his first treecat skinsuit, he'd seen exactly the same combat she had from exactly the same command bridges.

And he knows Mike better than almost anyone else does, too , she reflected. So, yes, he definitely is entitled to an opinion .

"I hope you're right, Stinker," she said quietly, instead of what she'd started to say, and he bleeked in amusement as he felt her shift gears. She shook her head at him with a smile and gave his left ear a gentle yank. He smacked her hand with carefully retracted claws, and she chuckled, but then her smile faded and she folded her arms about him, hugging him while she thought.

"The question," she said aloud, using the 'cat as her sounding board once again, "is whether or not we tell Pritchart about this."

Nimitz signed, and she snorted.

"Yes, actually. I do," she admitted. He flicked his ears in silent question, and she sighed.

"Beth hasn't made Mike's dispatches public yet—or she hadn't when she sent her message, at least. Sooner or later, though, that's going to change, which means Pritchart's going to find out eventually, whatever happens. I don't want her deciding I was so nervous about her possible reaction to the news that I tried to keep it from her. I don't think she's likely to get infected with whatever Younger has and start playing stalling games, but I could be wrong about that. And I've been as candid with her as I could from the very beginning, including leveling with her about Green Pines. I don't want to jeopardize whatever balance of trust I've built up with her."

Nimitz considered that for several moments, grass-green eyes thoughtful. Unlike any other member of Honor's delegation, he'd been able to sample Eloise Pritchart's mind glow even more thoroughly than Honor had, and it was obvious to her he was considering what she'd said in the light of that insight. She wasn't about to rush him, either. Unlike the steadily decreasing number of Manticorans who continued to reject the evidence of treecat intelligence, Honor Alexander-Harrington had enormous respect both for the ability of 'cats in general to follow complex explanations and for Nimitz's judgment, in particular, where human nature was concerned.

Finally, his fingers began to move again, and her eyes widened.

he told her.

"I—" she began, then stopped as she realized that, as usual, Nimitz had come unerringly to the point.

"You're right," she admitted out loud. "Which may not be a good thing." She smiled ruefully. "I don't think hard-nosed, professional diplomats are supposed to like the people they're trying to beat a treaty out of."

Nimitz signed.

"'Truth Seeker'?" Honor repeated, leaning back and looking deep into his eyes. "Is that what you've decided her treecat name should be?"

Nimitz nodded, and Honor's eyes narrowed. As a general rule, the names treecats assigned to humans usually turned out to be extraordinarily accurate. Some of them were more evocative than truly descriptive—her own, for example, "Dances on Clouds"—but even those were insightful encapsulations of the humans involved. And now that she thought about it, "Truth Seeker" summed up her own feel for Pritchart's personality.

Slow down, Honor , she told herself firmly. That's certainly the personality you want her to have, and so does Nimitz. So maybe you're both reading more into what you're picking up from her than is really justified .

And maybe you're not, too .

"And have you come up with a name for Thomas Theisman, too?" she asked.

His right true-hand closed into the letter "S" and "nodded" up and down in the sign for "Yes," but it seemed to Honor to be moving a little slower than usual. He looked up at her for a second or two, and her eyebrows rose. She could literally feel him hesitating. It wasn't because he was concerned about how she might react to it, but more as if . . . as if he didn't quite expect her to believe it.

Then he raised his right hand, palm-in, touched his forehead with his index finger, then moved it up and to the right. As his hand rose, his forefinger alternated back and forth between the straight extended position indicating the number "1" and the crooked position indicating the letter "X" before the hand turned palm-out and closed into the letter "S" once more. Then both hands came together in front of him, thumbs and index fingers linked, before they rose to his chin, left in front of right, thumb and first two fingers of each hand signing the letter "P." They paused for a moment, then separated downward, and Honor felt her eyebrows rising even higher.

"'Dreams of Peace'?" she said, speaking very carefully, as if she couldn't quite believe what she heard herself saying. "That's his treecat name?"

Nimitz nodded his head very firmly, and Honor tasted his confidence—his assurance—about the name he'd assigned. No wonder he'd been hesitant to share it with her! If anyone in the galaxy had demonstrated his unflinching, tough-as-nails readiness to do whatever duty required of him, however grim that duty might be, it was Thomas Theisman! He was the one who'd rebuilt the Republican Navy into a war machine that could actually face the RMN in combat. The man who'd planned and executed Operation Thunderbolt. The man who'd planned Operation Beatrice! The man—

Her thoughts paused, and Nimitz stared up into her eyes with an intensity which was rare, even for the two of them. They sat that way for several, endless seconds, and then Honor inhaled deeply.

Yes, Theisman had always done his duty. Would always do his duty, without flinching or hesitating, whatever its demands. But she supposed the same thing could be said of her, and what was she doing here on this planet, of all planets in the universe, if she didn't "dream of peace?" And the more she thought about it, about what it must have been like to spend all those years trying to defend his star nation against an external enemy even while he saw State Security making "examples" out of men and women he'd known for years—out of friends— the more clearly she realized just how longingly a man like Thomas Theisman might dream of peace.

I wish Elizabeth were here , she thought. Maybe she can't taste Ariel's emotions the way I can taste Nimitz's, but she trusts Ariel. And if he told her he agreed with what Nimitz has named Pritchart and Theisman . . . .

"You do realize that what you just told me doesn't make my decision any easier, don't you, Stinker?" she asked him with a crooked smile.

He blinked once, slowly, then bleeked in agreement, radiating his love for her . . . and his simultaneous deep amusement. Nimitz understood perfectly well that they'd come to Haven on serious business. He even understood exactly what stakes they were playing for. Yet when it came down to it, this whole business of "negotiating" was a two-leg concept which had very little meaning for a race of telempaths who couldn't have engaged in diplomatic subterfuge even if they'd ever had any desire to do so in the first place. He knew Honor had to play by two-leg rules, but he found the entire process incredibly roundabout, cumbersome, and just plain silly.

"Yeah, sure," she said, hugging him once more. "Easy for you , Bub!"

* * *

"Yes, Admiral?"

Eloise Pritchart's expression was politely curious as she gazed out of Honor's com display. Even without the physical proximity which would have permitted Honor to physically sample the president's emotions, it was obvious Pritchart wondered why she'd screened when their delegations were due to sit down together again in less than half an hour.

Well, she's about to find o ut, Honor thought. And it'll be interesting to see if she and Theisman react the way someone with Stinker's notion of their treecat names ought to .

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Madam President," she said out loud, "but I've just received a dispatch from home. It doesn't require any immediate action on our part," she assured Pritchart as the other woman's eyebrows rose, "but I thought I'd share it with you. As part of the deep background for the Star Empire's negotiating stance, as it were."

"By all means, Admiral, if you think that's appropriate." Pritchart sat back in her chair, shoulders squared, and looking into those topza eyes, Honor could see the other woman's memories of the last time she'd provided her with "deep background."

"'Appropriate' can be such an interesting word," Honor observed wryly. "I hope it applies in this case, but I suppose we'll just have to see, won't we?

"At any rate, Madam President, it would appear that just over three T-weeks ago, one of our destroyers, HMS Reprise , returned to the Spindle System from Meyers with what I suppose could be called interesting news. It would appear that notwithstanding all of the historical evidence to the contrary, it really is genuinely possible for a Solarian ship of the wall to make it all the way out into the Verge under its own power. In fact—"