David Weber - At All Costs

"Madam President, I think that's an excellent idea," Montreau said. "It wouldn't have occurred to me, because I tend to think of her as a naval officer first, but Secretary Theisman's made some very telling points. I recommend you follow his advice."

"I agree, too, Madam President," Rachel Hanriot said.

"Very well, I think we can consider that a part of our suggestion." Pritchart looked around the table again. "And may I also assume we have a consensus that the summit ought to be pursued?"

"Yes," Nesbitt said, not without a certain obvious reluctance. Pritchart looked at him, and he shrugged. "I've invested so much in seeing the Manties beaten after what they did to us in the last war that a part of me just loathes the thought of letting them off the hook now. But if Arnold did what it looks like he did, we have no choice but to stop killing each other as quickly as we can. Just please don't expect me to ever like them."

"All right." Pritchart nodded. "And, as I'm sure I don't have to remind any of you, it's absolutely essential we keep our suspicions about all the rest of this to ourselves until after I've met with Elizabeth."

Vigorous nods responded, and she leaned back in her chair with a smile.

"Good. And since we're in agreement, I think I may have exactly the emissary to carry our offer to Manticore."

"Skipper, we've got an unscheduled hyper footprint at six million kilometers!"

Captain Jane Timmons, CO, HMS Andromeda, spun her command chair towards her tactical officer. Six million kilometers was inside single-drive missile range!

She opened her mouth to demand more information, but the tac officer was already providing it.

"It's a single footprint, Ma'am. Very small. Probably a dispatch boat."

"Anything from it?" Timmons asked.

"Not FTL, Ma'am. And we wouldn't have anything light-speed for another-" he glanced at the time chop on the initial detection "-another four seconds. In fact-"

"Captain," the com officer said in a very careful voice, "I have a communications request I think you'd better take."

The communicator buzzed in the darkened cabin. Honor sat up quickly, with the instant wakefulness which had become the norm over the years. Except, perhaps, she thought with a fleeting smile, even as she reached for the com, when she was "home" in bed. Then her finger found the dimly illuminated voice-only acceptance button, and she pressed it.

"Yes?"

"Your Grace, I'm sorry to wake you." Honor's eyes narrowed. It wasn't MacGuiness, who almost always screened her after-hours calls; it was Mercedes Brigham.

"I don't suppose you did it without reasonably good cause," Honor said, when Brigham paused.

"Yes, Your Grace." Honor heard the chief of staff clear her throat. "One of the perimeter patrol battlecruisers just relayed a transmission to us. It's from an unscheduled courier boat." She paused again. "A Peep courier boat."

"A Havenite courier?" Honor repeated carefully. "Here?"

"That's correct, Your Grace." There was a very strange note in Brigham's voice, Honor noticed. But before she could probe, the chief of staff continued, "I think you should probably view the transmission we received from it, Your Grace. May I patch it through?"

"Of course," Honor said, feeling just a bit mystified, and pressed the button to accept a visual feed, as well. The display blinked alive with Imperator's communications system's wallpaper, and then Honor twitched as a most familiar face appeared.

"I suppose this is all a bit irregular," Rear Admiral Michelle Henke said, "but I have a message for Her Majesty from the President of the Republic of Haven."

Honor was waiting behind the side party as Andromeda's pinnace settled into the boat bay docking arms. She managed to look completely calm, although the slow, steady twitching of Nimitz's tail as he sat on her shoulder, gave away her inner mood to those who knew the 'cat well.

The personnel tube ran out, the green light blinked, and then Michelle Henke swung gingerly through the interface from the tube's microgravity into Imperator's internal grav field. She obviously favored her left leg as she landed, and Honor could taste her physical discomfort as she came to attention and saluted through the twitter of bosun's pipes.

"Battlecruiser Squadron Eighty-One, arriving!"

"Permission to come aboard, Sir?" she requested from the officer of the deck.

"Permission granted, Admiral Henke!"

Both hands fell from the salute, and Henke stepped past the BBOD with a noticeable limp.

"Mike," Honor said, very quietly, taking her friend's offered hand in a firm clasp. "It's good to see you again."

"And you, Your Grace," Henke said, her always husky contralto just a tad more husky than usual.

"Well," Honor released her hand at last, stepping back a bit from their mutual joy at the reunion, "I believe you said something about a message?"

"Yes, I did."

"Should I get Admiral Kuzak out here?"

"I don't believe that will be necessary, Ma'am," Henke said formally, aware of all of the watching eyes and listening ears.

"Then why don't you accompany me to my quarters?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

Honor led the way to the lift shaft, with an improbably wide awake-looking Andrew LaFollet coming along behind. She pressed the button, then smiled faintly and waved Henke through the opening door before her. She and LaFollet followed, the door slid shut behind her, and she reached out and gripped Henke's upper arms.

"My God," she said softly, "it is good to see you, Mike!"

Honor Alexander-Harrington had never been one for easy embraces, but she suddenly swept Mike Henke into a bear hug.

"Easy! Easy!" Henke gasped, returning the embrace. "The leg's bad enough, woman! Don't add crushed ribs to the list!"

"Sorry."

For a moment, Honor's soprano was almost as husky as Henke's contralto, but then she stood back and cleared her throat while Nimitz buzzed a happy, welcoming purr from her shoulder.

"Sorry," she repeated in a more normal voice. "It's just that I thought you were dead. And then, when we found out you weren't, I still expected months, or years, to pass before I saw you again."

"Then I guess we're even over that little Cerberus trip you took," Henke said with a crooked smile.

"I guess we are," Honor agreed with a sudden chuckle. "Although you at least weren't dead long enough for them to throw an entire state funeral for you!"

"Pity. I would've loved to watch the HD of it."

"Yes, you probably would have. You always have been just a bit peculiar, Mike Henke!"

"You only say that because of my taste in friends."

"No doubt," Honor said dryly, as the lift doors opened and deposited them in the passageway outside her quarters. Spencer Hawke was standing guard outside them, and she paused and looked over her shoulder at LaFollet.

"Andrew, you and Spencer can't keep this up forever. We've got to get at least one other armsman up here to give the two of you some relief."

"My Lady, I've been thinking about that, but I haven't had the time to select someone. I'd have to go back to Grayson, really, and-"

"No, Andrew, you wouldn't." She paused to give him a moderately stern look. "Two points," she said quietly but firmly. "First, my son will be born in another month. Second," she continued, pretending she hadn't noticed the flicker of pain in his gray eyes, "Brigadier Hill is quite capable of selecting a suitable pool of candidates back on Grayson and sending them to us for you and me to consider together. I know you have a lot on your mind, and I know there are aspects of the situation you don't really like. But this needs to be attended to."

He looked back at her for perhaps two seconds, then sighed.