David Weber - Mission of Honor

The high admiral regarded his protector thoughtfully. This was Benjamin’s fiftieth birthday, and his hair was streaked progressively more thickly with silver. Not that Matthews was any spring chicken himself. In fact, he was ten T-years older than Benjamin, and his own hair had turned completely white, although (he thought with a certain comfortable vanity) it had remained thankfully thick and luxuriant.

But thick or not, we’re neither one of us getting any younger , he reflected.

It was a thought which had occured to him more frequently of late, especially when he ran into Manticoran officers half again his age who still looked younger than he did. Who were younger, physically speaking, at least. And more than a few Grayson officers fell into that same absurdly youthful-looking category, now that the first few generations to enter the service since Grayson’s alliance with Manticore had made the prolong therapies generally available were into their late thirties or—like Benjamin’s younger brother, Michael—already into their early forties.

It’s only going to get worse, Wesley , he told himself with an inescapable edge of bittersweet envy. It’s not their fault, of course. In fact, it’s nobody’s fault, but there are still a lot of things I’d like to be here to see .

He gave himself a mental shake and snorted silently. It wasn’t exactly as if he were going to drop dead of old age tomorrow! With modern medicine, he ought to be good for at least another thirty T-years, and Benjamin could probably look forward to another half T-century.

Which had very little to do with the question the protector had just asked him.

“May I ask exactly which of our esteemed steadholders are likely to be raising the questions in question, Your Grace?”

“Well, I think you can safely assume Travis Mueller’s name is going to be found among them.” Benjamin’s smile was tart. “And I expect Jasper Taylor’s going to be right beside him. But I understand they’ve found a new front man—Thomas Guilford.”

Matthews grimaced. Travis Mueller, Lord Mueller, was the son of the late and (by most Graysons) very unlamented Samuel Mueller, who’d been executed for treason following his involvement in a Masadan plot to assassinate Benjamin and Queen Elizabeth. Jasper Taylor, was Steadholder Canseco, whose father had been a close associate of Samuel Mueller and who’d chosen to continue the traditional alliance between Canseco and Mueller. But Thomas Guilford, Lord Forchein, was a newcomer to that particular mix. He was also quite a few years older than either Mueller or Canseco, and while he’d never been one of the greater admirers of the social and legal changes of the Mayhew Restoration, he’d never associated himself with the protector’s more strident critics. There hadn’t been much question about his sentiments, but he’d avoided open confrontations with Benjamin and the solid block of steadholders who supported the Sword and he’d always struck Matthews as less inclined than Mueller to cheerfully sacrifice principle in the name of “political pragmatism.”

“When did Forchein decide to sign on with Mueller and Friends, Your Grace?”

“That’s hard to say, really.” Benjamin tipped his swiveled armchair back and swung it gently from side to side. “To be fair to him—not that I particularly want to be, you understand—I doubt he was really much inclined in that direction until High Ridge tried to screw over every other member of the Alliance.”

Matthews snorted again, this time out loud. Like Benjamin himself, the high admiral strongly supported Grayson’s membership in the Manticoran Alliance. Not only was he painfully aware of just how much Grayson had profited, both technologically and economically, from its ties with the Star Kingdom of Manticore, but he was even better aware of the fact that without the intervention of the Royal Manticoran Navy, the planet of Grayson would either have been conquered outright by the religious lunatics who’d run Masada or at best have suffered nuclear or kinetic bombardment from space. At the same time, he had to admit the High Ridge Government had proved clearly that the Star Kingdom was far from perfect. In his considered opinion, “screw over” was an extraordinarily pale description of what Baron High Ridge had done to his alliance so-called partners. And like many other Graysons, Matthews was firmly of the opinion that High Ridge’s idiotic foreign policy had done a great deal to provoke the resumption of hostilities between the Republic of Haven and the Star Kingdom and its allies.

As far as the high admiral was personally concerned, that simply demonstrated once again that idiocy, corruption, and greed were inescapable elements of mankind’s fallen nature. Tester knew there’d been more than enough traitors, criminals, corrupt and arrogant steadholders, and outright lunatics in Grayson history! Indeed, the name “Mueller” came rather forcibly to mind in that connection. And for every Manticoran High Ridge, Matthews had met two or three Hamish Alexanders or Alistair McKeons or Alice Trumans, not to mention having personally met Queen Elizabeth III.

And then, of course, there was Honor Alexander-Harrington.

Given that balance, and how much Manticoran and Grayson blood had been shed side by side in the Alliance’s battles, Matthews was prepared to forgive the Star Kingdom for High Ridge’s existence. Not all Graysons were, however. Even many of those who remained fierce supporters of Lady Harrington separated her in their own minds from the Star Kingdom. She was one of theirs— a Grayson in her own right, by adoption and shed blood—which insulated her from their anger at the High Ridge Government’s stupidity, avarice, and arrogance. And the fact that she and High Ridge had been bitter political enemies only made that insulation easier for them.

“I’m serious, Wesley.” Benjamin waved one hand, as if for emphasis. “Oh, Forchein’s always been a social and religious conservative—not as reactionary as some, thank God, but bad enough—but I’m pretty sure it was the combination of High Ridge’s foreign policy and Haven’s resumption of open hostilities that tipped his support. And, unfortunately, he’s not the only one that’s true of.”

“May I ask how bad it actually is, Your Grace?” Matthews inquired, his eyes narrower.

It wasn’t the sort of question he usually would have asked, given the Grayson tradition of separation between the military and politics. Senior officers weren’t supposed to factor politics into their military thinking. Which, of course, was another of those fine theories which consistently came to grief amid the shoals of reality. There was a difference, however, between being aware of the political realities which affected the ability of his Navy to formulate sound strategy or discharge its responsibilities to defend the Protectorate of Grayson and of becoming involved in the formulation of political policy.

“To be honest, I’m not really certain,” Benjamin admitted. “Floyd is taking some cautious political soundings, and I expect we’ll have a pretty good idea within the next week or so of who else might be inclined in Forchein’s direction.”

Matthews nodded. Floyd Kellerman, Steadholder Magruder, had become Benjamin’s chancellor following Henry Prestwick’s well-earned retirement. He’d been Prestwick’s understudy for the last two years of the old chancellor’s tenure, and the Magruders had been Mayhew allies literally for centuries. Lord Magruder hadn’t yet developed the intricate web of personal alliances Prestwick had possessed, but he’d already demonstrated formidable abilities as both an administrator and a shrewd politician.