David Weber: Mission of Honor

“I suppose I could say the same thing, given your unexpected arrival after what happened to our system infrastructure,” Elizabeth replied.

“Your Majesty, what happened to your star system has a lot to do with my presence here, but not, perhaps, in the way you believe.”

“No?” Elizabeth regarded her intently, wishing with all her heart that she possessed even a hint of the empathic ability Honor had developed.

Honor had already briefed her fully on what she herself had sensed from Pritchart and the others—both during her time in Nouveau Paris, and since the president’s totally unexpected arrival at Trevor’s Star—but that wasn’t the same thing as sensing it for herself. In fact, it wasn’t even remotely the same thing.

Elizabeth Winton tried to be ruthlessly honest with herself. History was unfortunately replete with examples of kings and queens—and presidents—whose advisers had told them what they thought their rulers wanted to hear. And there’d been just as many—at least—of those kings and queens (and presidents) who’d told themselves what they wanted to hear. That was one of the lessons her father had always emphasized to her, and since taking the throne herself, she’d discovered just how wise he’d been to do that. And how difficult it was, at times, to remember it.

Yet because of that self honesty, she was well aware of her own temper, of how hard it was for her to forgive anyone who injured those she was responsible for protecting or those she loved. At this moment, in this day cabin, as she sat on Honor’s couch, she looked into the eyes of the President of the Republic of Haven—the very personification of the star nation which had murdered her own father, her uncle, her cousin, and her prime minister. Of the conquering empire which had engulfed dozens of star systems, cost the lives of untold thousands of her military personnel, and forced the expenditure of literally incalculable floods of her people’s treasure, as well as their blood. Every bulldog fiber of her being quivered with the tension of all that remembered bloodshed and violence, of the need to keep her guard up, to recall all those decades of treachery. It was her job to remember that, her duty to protect her people, and she would have given her own right arm to be able to know—not to be told, by someone else, however much she trusted that someone, but to know , beyond question or doubt—what the person behind those topaz eyes was truly thinking.

A soft, silken warmth pressed against the side of her neck, and Ariel’s bone-deep, buzzing purr vibrated into her. She reached up to him, and he stroked his head against the palm of her hand, but his own fingers were still. They never moved, never signed a single word, and that, she realized suddenly, was the most eloquent thing he could possibly have told her.

“All right, Madam President,” she said, and wondered if the others in that cabin were as surprised as she was by the gentleness of her own voice, “why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Thank you,” Pritchart said very quietly, as if she understood exactly what had been going through Elizabeth’s mind. Then the president drew a deep breath and sat back in her chair.

“Before I say anything else, Your Majesty, there’s one point I want to clear up. One which has bedeviled the relations between the Republic of Haven and the Star Empire for far too long.”

She paused a moment, as if even now it was difficult to steel herself, then continued levelly.

“Your Majesty, we know who tampered with our prewar diplomatic correspondence. We did not know at the time the Republic resumed hostilities.” She looked squarely at Elizabeth, facing the sudden resurgence of the queen’s tension. “You have my word—my personal word, as well as that of the Republic of Haven—that it was only well after Operation Thunderbolt that we discovered, essentially by a fluke, that in fact the Star Empire was telling the truth about the High Ridge Government’s correspondence. That the version which I saw in Nouveau Paris, and which my cabinet colleagues saw with me, had been altered before it ever reached us… and, despite the fact that it carried your own Foreign Office’s valid authentication codes, not by any Manticoran. The two men responsible for it were Yves Grosclaude, our special envoy to you, and Secretary of State Arnold Giancola.”

With the sole exception of Honor Alexander-Harrington and Anton Zilwicki, every Manticoran in the cabin stiffened in shock, and Elizabeth Winton’s eyes blazed. She opened her mouth quickly, angrily… then forced herself to close it and sat back.

“We weren’t aware of what Giancola had done until Mr. Grosclaude was killed in a highly suspicious ‘air car accident.’ One which looked remarkably like a suicide… or”—Pritchart’s eyes bored into Elizabeth’s, then flicked sideways to Honor—”like someone who’d been compelled to kill himself by flying into a cliff wall. Almost, you might say, like someone who’d been adjusted .”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t have any idea where Pritchart was headed, but Ariel was still purring against her neck, and Honor’s expression was still composed and calm, and so she made herself wait.

“Kevin, here,” Pritchart nodded sideways at Usher, “has a nasty, suspicious mind which was already chewing the correspondence question over. When Grosclaude died so spectacularly, those suspicions of his started working overtime. It didn’t take long for him to discover proof that the correspondence had been altered at our end. Unfortunately, the ‘proof’ had clearly been manufactured, apparently to implicate Giancola.”

She smiled very thinly at Elizabeth’s evident confusion.

“We came to the conclusion that Giancola had arranged it himself on the theory that if obviously forged evidence indicated he was the guilty party, it would be blindingly apparent to everyone that he’d been framed, and who would bother to frame a guilty man? In other words, he wanted us to bring that evidence forward publicly—or that was our theory, at least. And then,” her expression hardened with remembered fury and frustration, “ Giancola was killed in another air car accident, this time—as far as we’ve been able to determine—a real accident.

“So there we were. We had no real evidence, only documentation which had obviously been forged. The only two men we could be relatively certain knew what had happened were both dead. And, just to make matters worse, they’d both died in air car accidents… which just happened to have been State Security’s favorite means for removing ‘inconvenient’ individuals. Given the strength of the war party in Congress, the fact that we couldn’t prove any of it, and the enormous suspicion which was going to be produced throughout the entire Republic by the way in which Grosclaude and Giancola had died, we couldn’t simply present our theory and expect Congress to go along with an admission that it was someone in the Republic— not the Republic itself, but a rogue element in the very highest levels of our administration—who’d manipulated our correspondence. Who’d manipulated us—manipulated me— into calling for a resumption of hostilities because we honestly believed the government of our adversaries was not simply using diplomacy for its own cynical ends but then lying about our diplomatic notes.”

There was an edge of raw appeal in her quiet voice, and Elizabeth paused long enough to be sure she had control of her own voice.

“How long have you known—or suspected, at least?” she asked then.

“Giancola was killed in September 1920,” Pritchart replied unflinchingly. “We already suspected what had happened, but as long as he was alive, it was an ongoing investigation. There was always the chance we might find the real evidence we needed.”