David Weber - [Honor Harrington 11] At All Costs by Weber David

Author:Weber, David [Weber, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

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.

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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 Meares 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 Meares’ body had slammed to the deck. She knew she’d had no choice, and that even as she killed him, Meares 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 Meares, but he blamed neither her nor Meares. His hatred was reserved for whoever had sent Timothy Meares 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.

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