"That's not what I was thinking of—although whether she likes it or not, she's going to have to be sequestered a large part of the time. That doesn't mean she won't be able to move around at all, just . . . Call it security by extreme ruthlessness. But I know Berry well enough already to know she'll have a hard time accepting the procedures I'd set up."
Somewhere in the course of the last minute or so, Hugh realized he'd made up his mind. He found it simultaneously intriguing and disturbing that the key factor had been nothing more sophisticated than an intense desire to keep a certain Berry Zilwicki alive.
Perhaps because the thought was unsettling, he went back to glaring at Jeremy. "Of course, this is almost certainly a moot point, since I can't think of any reason the BSC would agree to any of this. Detaching an entire combat team to serve a foreign nation, for an unspecified but probably long stretch of time? You're dreaming, Jeremy."
Now it was Jeremy and Du Havel who smiled simultaneously. "Why don't you let us worry about that," said Web. "Perhaps we can manage something."
"Sure," said Princess Ruth. "Do you want me to make the recording for my parents as well as my aunt? I'd recommend including my mom and dad. Aunt Elizabeth would get peeved if anyone said it right out loud, but the truth is that my father can usually wheedle anything out of her. And since any security measures that protect Berry are likely to spill over onto me, he'll probably wheedle pretty good."
Web and Jeremy looked at each other. "Whatever you think, Ruth. You're the expert here."
"Okay, then." Ruth pursed her lips. "Now . . . I've got to figure out what would work best. Teary-eyed or sternly-insistent-just-short-of-filial-disrespect. Is 'filial' the right word, when you're a daughter?"
"Why are you so certain Manticore can bring enough influence to bear on Beowulf?" Jeremy asked later.
"There are at least four reasons I can think of," replied Web. "The simplest of which is that even though you've spent a lot of time around Beowulfers, I don't think you really grasp the depth and relentlessness of the enmity Beowulf's elite has for Manpower. For them, in some ways even more than for ex-slaves like ourselves, this war is profoundly personal. A grudge match, you might say."
"That all happened centuries ago, Web. Over half a millennium. Who can hold a personal grudge that long? I don't think I could even do it, and I'm a well-known fanatic."
Web chuckled. "There are at least eight projects on Beowulf that I know of which are studying evolutionary effects, every one of which was started within five years of the first settlement of the planet—almost one thousand, eight hundred years ago. At a certain level of dedication, biologists aren't really sane."
He shook his head. "But leave that aside. One of the other reasons is that Manticore can bring a lot of pressure to bear on Beowulf. Call it influence, rather. And vice versa, of course. The relations between those two star nations are a lot closer than most people realize."
Jeremy still looked a bit dubious. But he didn't pursue the matter any further. This, after all, was Web Du Havel's area of expertise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The warship which emerged from the Trevor's Star terminus of the Manticore Wormhole Junction did not show a Manticoran transponder code. Nor did it show a Grayson or an Andermani code. Nonetheless, it was allowed transit, for the code it did display was that of the Kingdom of Torch.
To call the vessel a "warship," was, perhaps, to be overly generous. It was, in fact, a frigate—a tiny class which no major naval power had built in over fifty T-years. But this was a very modern ship, less than three T-years old, and it was Manticoran built, by the Hauptman Cartel, for the Anti-Slavery League.
Which, as everyone understood perfectly well, actually meant it had been built for the Audubon Ballroom, before its lapse into respectability. And this particular frigate—TNSPottawatomie Creek—was rather famous, one might almost have said notorious, as the personal transport of one Anton Zilwicki, late of Her Manticoran Majesty's Navy.
Everyone in the Star Kingdom knew about the attempt to murder Zilwicki's daughter, and given Manticore's current bloody-minded mood, no one was inclined to present any problems whenPottawatomie Creek requested permission to approach HMSImperator and send across a couple of visitors.
"Your Grace, Captain Zilwicki and . . . guest," Commander George Reynolds announced.
Honor turned from her contemplation of the nearest drifting units of her command, one eyebrow rising, as she tasted the peculiar edge in Reynolds' emotions. She'd decided to meet with Zilwicki as informally as possible, which was why she'd had Reynolds greet him and escort him to the relatively small observation dome just aft of Imperator's forward hammerhead. The panoramic view was spectacular, but it was symbolically outside her own quarters or the official precincts of Flag Bridge.
Now, however, that odd ripple in Reynolds' mind-glow made her wonder if perhaps Zilwicki wouldn't be just as glad as she was to keep this an "unofficial" visit. Reynolds, the son of a liberated genetic slave, was an enthusiastic supporter of the great experiment in Congo, not to mention a personal admirer of Anton Zilwicki and Catherine Montaigne. He'd worked remarkably well with Zilwicki immediately prior to Honor's deployment to the Marsh System, and he'd been delighted when she asked him to meet Zilwicki's cutter. Now, however, he seemed almost . . . apprehensive. That wasn't exactly the right word, but it came close, and she caught Nimitz's matching flicker of interest as the 'cat sat up to his full height on the back of the chair where she'd parked him.
"Captain," she said, holding out her hand.
"Your Grace." Zilwicki's voice was as deep as ever, but it was also a bit more abrupt. Clipped. And as she turned her attention fully to him, she tasted the seething anger his apparently calm exterior disguised.
"I was very sorry to hear about what happened on Torch," Honor said quietly. "But I'm delighted Berry and Ruth got out unscathed."
" 'Unscathed' is an interesting word, Your Grace," Zilwicki rumbled in a voice like crumbling Gryphon granite. "Berry wasn't hurt, not physically, but I don't think 'unscathed' really describes what happened. She blames herself. She knows she shouldn't, and she's one of the sanest people I know, but she blames herself. Not so much for Lara's death, or for all the other people who died, but for having gotten out herself. And, I think, perhaps, for theway Lara died."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Honor repeated. She grimaced. "Survivor's guilt is something I've had to deal with a time or two myself."
"She'll work through it, Your Grace," the angry father said. "As I said, she's one of the sanest people in existence. But this one's going to leave scars, and I hope she'll draw the right lessons from it, not the wrong ones."
"So do I, Captain," Honor said sincerely.
"And speaking of drawing the right lessons—or, perhaps I ought to sayconclusions," he said, "I need to talk to you about what happened."
"I'd be grateful for any insight you can give me. But shouldn't you be talking to Admiral Givens, or perhaps to the SIS?"
"I'm not certain any of the official intelligence organs are ready to hear what I've got to say. And I know they're not ready to listen to . . . my fellow investigator, here."
Honor turned her attention openly and fully to Zilwicki's companion as the captain gestured at him. He was a very young man, she realized. Not particularly distinguished in any way, physically. Of average height—possibly even a little shorter than that—with a build which was no more than wiry, almost callow-looking beside Zilwicki's massively impressive musculature. The hair was dark, the complexion also on the swarthy side, and the eyes were merely brown.