"It ought to be interesting, anyway," he said after a few moments. "I wasn't there when Icarus smashed Zanzibar last time, but somehow I don't think the Zanzibarans are going to be especially happy about getting run over by an air lorry a second time. And Zanzibar is at least as important to the Alliance's war effort as all of the systems Harrington has hit so far, combined, were to ours."
"I know, Boss." Delaney nodded. "As a matter of fact, I think that's one reason I may be feeling a little more anxious." Tourville quirked an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "They have to know Zanzibar's important to them, if we do. And they gave up an awful lot of intel on their defensive deployments the last time we hit them. If I were them, I'd have been making some changes since."
"Which is exactly what the operations plan assumes they've done," Tourville pointed out. "But unless they're prepared to make a major commitment of ships of the wall, they're going to be using some variant of what we already saw. And unlike them, we are prepared to make a major commitment of the wall." He smiled thinly. "I don't think they're going to enjoy the experience as much as we are."
Honor stood on Imperator's flag bridge, hands clasped loosely behind her, and watched her plot as Eighth Fleet headed out on Cutworm III. The bloodstains had been cleaned up long ago, of course, and the shattered consoles and command chairs had been replaced. But no one on the bridge was likely to forget that six people they'd all known well had died there. And Honor could feel Spencer Hawke, standing in Simon's spot beside the hatch.
She watched the silent, peaceful icons moving across the plot, accelerating steadily towards Trevor's Star's hyper limit, and tried to analyze her own emotions. Sorrow predominated, she thought. And then... not guilt, exactly, but something like it.
Too many of her armsmen had died in the line of duty, protecting her back, or simply caught in the crossfire of naval engagements they would never have been anywhere near if not for her. At first, she'd felt almost angry at them because of the way their deaths weighed upon her sense of responsibility. But gradually she'd come to understand it didn't really work that way. Yes, they'd died because they'd been her armsmen, but every one of them had been a volunteer. They'd served her because they'd chosen to, and they were content. They were no more eager to die than anyone else, but they were as confident that they had given their service to someone worthy of them as Honor Harrington had been confident of the same thing the first day she met Elizabeth III face to face. And because they were, it wasn't her job to keep them alive-it was her job to be worthy of the service they'd chosen to give.
And yet, despite that, she carried the weight of their deaths as she carried the weight of all her dead, and she desperately wanted them to live. And however she might feel about Simon Mattingly's death, or the deaths of her other bridge personnel, there was Timothy Mears himself. The young man she'd killed.
She stood in almost exactly the same spot she'd stood then. She could turn around and see exactly where Simon had fallen, where Mears' body had slammed to the deck. She knew she'd had no choice, and that even as she killed him, Mears had understood that. But he'd been so young, had so much promise, and to die it like that-killed by a friend to stop him from killing other friends....
Nimitz bleeked in her ear, the sound scolding, and she shook herself mentally as she tasted his emotions. He, too, grieved for Simon and for Mears, but he blamed neither her nor Mears. His hatred was reserved for whoever had sent Timothy Mears on his final horrifying mission, and Honor realized he was right.
She didn't know who had ordered her assassination, or planned its execution... but she would. And when she did, she would personally do something about it.
Nimitz bleeked again, and this time the sound was hungrier and soft with agreement.
"Sir, the task force is ready to proceed."
Lester Tourville turned his head to look down into the small com display. Captain Celestine Houellebecq, the commanding officer of RHNS Guerriere, flagship of Second Fleet, looked back out of it at him.
"What?" Tourville asked with a small smile. "No last minute delays? No liberty parties still adrift?"
"None, Sir," Houellebecq replied deadpan. "I informed the shore patrol that anyone who reported in late was to be shot beside the shuttle pad as an object lesson to others."
"There's the spirit I like to see!" Tourville said, although, truth be told, he found the joke just a bit too pointed, given the previous r‚gime's history. "Always find a positive way to motivate your personnel."
"That's what I thought, Sir."
"Well, in that case, Celestine, let's get them moving. We've got an appointment with the Manties."
"Aye, Sir."
Houellebecq disappeared from the display as he began issuing the orders necessary for Task Force 21 to break parking orbit, and Tourville turned his attention to his plot.
The slowly moving light codes wouldn't have meant much to a civilian, but they were an impressive sight to the trained eye. He picked out the ponderous might of his four battle squadrons, shaking down into cruising formation as they accelerated slowly. Ahead of them were the icons of a pair of battlecruiser squadrons, and six Aviary-class CLACs followed in their wake. A sprinkling of lighter units spread out in a necklace of jewels ahead of the main formation, watching alertly for any hint of an unidentified starship, and a trio of fast replenishment ships loaded with additional missile pods trailed along behind the carriers.
Not a capital ship on the display was more than three T-year old, and once again Tourville felt something suspiciously like awe. The Republican Navy might remain technologically inferior, in some ways, to the Royal Manticoran Navy, but unlike the Manties, it had risen from the ashes of defeat. Its officers, its senior personnel, had known what it meant to lose battle after battle, but now the same officers and personnel had learned what it was to win. More than that, they'd come to expect to win, and Lester Tourville wondered if the Manties truly realized just how true that was.
Well, he thought, if they don't realize it now, we'll give them a hint in about two weeks.
"Sir, we've just picked up a hyper footprint. It looks like at least two ships, probably destroyers or light cruisers."
"Where?" Captain Durand demanded, walking across the space station's command deck to Plotting.
"Forty-two light-minutes out from the primary, on our side and right on the ecliptic, Sir," Lieutenant Bibeau replied.
"So the foxes are scouting the hen house," Durand murmured.
The Plotting officer looked up at him a bit strangely; Charles Bibeau was from the slums of Nouveau Paris, whereas Durand came from the farming planet of Rochelle, and the Skipper kept coming up with oddball metaphors and similes. But the lieutenant caught his drift just fine, and nodded in agreement.
"All right, Lieutenant," Durand said after a moment, resting one hand lightly on Bibeau's shoulder as he watched the hyper footprints fade from the plot. "Keep an eye out. If we can pick up their platforms, so much the better, but the main thing I want to know is when anyone else hypers in."
"Aye, Sir."
Durand patted him on the shoulder once, then turned and walked slowly back to his own command chair.
Somewhere out there, he knew, Manty reconnaissance arrays were creeping stealthily inward, spying out the details of the Solon System's defenses. He knew what they were going to see, and it wasn't all that impressive: a single division of old-style superdreadnoughts, a slightly understrength battlecruiser squadron, and a couple of hundred LACs. Hardly enough to cause a Manty raiding force to break a sweat.