David Weber - Mission of Honor

Until, that was, Elizabeth Adrienne Samantha Annette Winton, Grand Commander of the Order of King Roger, Grand Commander of the Order of Queen Elizabeth I, Grand Commander of the Order of the Golden Lion, Baroness of Crystal Pine, Baroness of White Sand, Countess of Tannerman, Countess of High Garnet, Grand Duchess of Basilisk, Princess Protector of the Realm, and, by God’s grace and the will of Parliament, Queen Elizabeth III of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, and Empress Elizabeth I of the Star Empire of Manticore, swung lithely out of the boarding tube at Duchess Harrington’s heels.

None of the side party had expected their monarch’s sudden arrival, and not even naval discipline was enough to hide their astonishment.

“Eighth Fleet, arri—” a voice began over the boat bay speakers, then chopped off abruptly as the petty officer behind it realized who else had just appeared aboard his ship.

The smooth efficiency of the side party’s formalities slithered to a halt, and Ensign Thistlewaite’s jaw dropped. Then it closed with an almost audible snap, his face turned a considerably darker red than his hair, and he stared appealingly at the duchess.

“ Manticore , arriving!” the speakers said suddenly as the petty officer recovered abruptly, and the bosun’s pipes began to twitter again while three additional side boys came dashing up from somewhere.

“Permission to come aboard, Sir?” Elizabeth said gravely, managing not to smile, as the twitter of pipes came to an end. The first two bodyguards who’d emerged from the tube behind her, wearing the uniform of the Queen’s Own, appeared rather less amused than she obviously was, but Thistlewaite’s blue eyes looked back at her with desperate gratitude.

“Permission granted, Ma’am—I mean, Your Majesty!”

Honor hadn’t believed the young man could turn even redder, but she’d been wrong.

“Permission to come aboard, Sir?” she repeated as Elizabeth stepped past her.

“Permission granted, Your Grace.” Thistlewaite’s relief at getting back to something familiar was obvious as she returned his salute, and she smiled slightly.

“My apologies, Ensign,” she said. “We organized this on the fly, as it were, and we didn’t want the newsies getting word of Her Majesty’s visit. Apparently you didn’t get the word in time, either.”

“Uh, no, Ma’am,” he admitted, blushing a bit less blindingly.

“Well, it happens,” she said philosophically while another passel of armsmen and bodyguards appeared behind her and the queen, then nodded to him and turned to Elizabeth. “This way, Your Majesty,” she said.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Elizabeth replied. She nodded smilingly to Thistlewaite in turn, then headed towards the lift banks at Honor’s side, accompanied by three Grayson armsmen, six members of the Queen’s Own, one plainclothes officer from Palace Security, and two treecats, who appeared inordinately amused by the two-legs’ antics as they rode their persons’ shoulders.

Elizabeth’s amusement at poor Thistlewaite’s reaction had dissipated by the time the door to Honor’s day cabin slid aside in front of her.

The queen paused with extremely atypical hesitation as the door opened. Her spine was absolutely straight, her lips were tight, and she visibly braced herself before she continued into the cabin.

A dozen people had risen and turned to face the door, and despite decades of experience at the highest levels of politics, Elizabeth’s nostrils flared as she found herself face to face with Eloise Pritchart.

The president was accompanied by her secretary of state, and Elizabeth recognized Secretary of War Thomas Theisman, as well. She also recognized Anton Zilwicki (who, fortunately, Honor had already warned her wasn’t quite as dead as people had been assuming), and it didn’t require much imagination to figure out that the young, coarse-haired man standing beside him must be Victor Cachat. Commodore Mercedes Brigham, Honor’s chief of staff, Commander George Reynolds, her intelligence officer, and Waldemar Tümmel, her flag lieutenant, were also known faces, as was James MacGuiness. But she didn’t have a clue who the others were, and she felt her bodyguards bristling as they faced the formidable crowd.

“Your Majesty,” Honor said quietly into what could have become an awkward silence, “allow me to present President Eloise Pritchart, Secretary of State Leslie Montrose, Secretary of War Thomas Theisman, Attorney General Denis LePic, Director Kevin Usher of the Federal Investigation Agency, Special Officer Victor Cachat, and Dr.Herlander Simões.” She smiled crookedly. “I believe you already know everyone else.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “I believe I do.”

Pritchart bowed to her very slightly, and the queen returned the courtesy with a nod, but even a space the size of Honor’s day cabin was crowded by so many people, and the tension level could have been carved with a knife. Elizabeth glanced around for a moment, then looked at Honor.

“Please, everyone, be seated,” Honor invited, acknowledging the silent command to continue in her role as official hostess.

Her “guests” obeyed, settling down around their two principals with a sort of instinctive social ranking, and she glanced at MacGuiness.

“May I assume your pantry is its normally efficient self despite the lateness of the hour, Mac?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” MacGuiness bowed with perfect aplomb. “Would anyone care for refreshment?” he continued, turning to the others.

Although Elizabeth had just discovered a rather sudden craving for a strong whiskey, she suppressed it. No one seemed inclined to venture where she hadn’t led the way, and after a moment, Honor shrugged slightly.

“It would appear not,” she told the steward. “If anyone changes her mind, I’ll buzz.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” MacGuiness murmured again, and withdrew.

Honor waited until the pantry door had closed behind him, then turned back to the others.

“In case any of you had managed to remain unaware of it,” she said with another of those off-center smiles, “the tension level in this room is rather high, according to Nimitz.” All eyes flitted to the treecat sitting on the back of her chair. “I can’t imagine why that might be,” she added.

Elizabeth surprised herself with a snort of laughter. It was harsh, but it was also genuine, and she shook her head reprovingly.

“I think I might be able to think of a reason or two,” she said, then turned her own attention to Pritchart. “I must say, Madam President, that of all the possible scenarios under which you and I might have come face to face at last, this one would never have occurred to me.” She let her eyes sweep over the cabinet secretaries flanking Pritchart. “If anything were to happen to this delegation, it would make a serious hole in your government, I believe.”

“I thought that since you’d trusted us enough to send Admiral Alexander-Harrington to us, I should return the compliment, Your Majesty,” Pritchart replied.

“Perhaps so,” Elizabeth said. “But there was that one minor difference, I believe. I sent Duchess Harrington accompanied by an entire battle fleet.”

“Indeed you did.” Pritchart nodded, those striking topaz eyes meeting Elizabeth’s levelly. “And I assure you, we missed neither element of the message behind that… arrangement. Neither the pointed suggestion, shall we say, that it would be wise of us to pay attention to her message and see to it that nothing untoward happened to her, nor the fact that you could have sent just the fleet… and its laser heads. Believe me, after all that’s happened between our star nations, after the collapse of our own summit, after the Battle of Manticore, against the backdrop of the tensions mounting between the Star Empire and the League, I was as pleased as I was astonished that you were willing to talk instead of simply attacking when your advantage was so overwhelming.”