On Basilisk Station

Ensign Tremaine’s pinnace drifted in orbit, two hundred meters from the mammoth power collector, while Tremaine, Harkness, and Yammata crossed the vacuum between them. None of them could quite believe where their trace of the power relays had led them.

"You sure you want to do this, Skipper?" Harkness muttered over his suit com. "I mean, this is NPA business, Sir."

"The Captain told me to run it down, PO," Tremaine said, much more harshly than usual. "Besides, if we’re right, maybe an NPA maintenance crew are the last people we should have checking it out."

"Mr. Tremaine, you don’t really think—" Yammata began, and the ensign waved a gauntleted hand.

"I don’t know what to think. All I know is what we’ve found so far. Until I do know more—know it for certain—we tell no one. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Yammata murmured. Tremaine nodded in satisfaction and freed a powered wrench from his equipment belt. His suit thrusters nudged him a bit closer, and he caught the grab bar above the access panel. He pulled himself down, locking the toes of his boots under the clips provided for that purpose, and attached his suit tether to the bar, then fitted the wrench head over the first bolt.

He squeezed the wrench power stud and listened to its whine, transmitted up his arm to his ears, and tried not to look at the royal Manticoran seal above the panel.

* * *

"You’re not serious?" Dame Estelle stared at Lieutenant Stromboli’s face in her com screen, and the beefy lieutenant nodded. "Our backup power collector?"

"Yes, Ma’am, Dame Estelle. No question about it. Ensign Tremaine and his crew tracked the fix from the primary receiver station and found the feed. It wasn’t easy, even after he got to the collector. As a matter of fact, it’s built right into the main power ring, not even an add-on. I’ve got a copy of the altered schematics in my secure data base right now."

"Oh, my God," Matsuko sighed. She settled back in her chair, staring at the com screen, and her brain raced. Was it possible this whole operation was being run by someone inside her own staff? The thought was enough to turn her stomach, but she made herself face it.

"Who have you told, Lieutenant?" she asked after a moment, her eyes narrowing.

"You, Ma’am," Stromboli said instantly, and went on to answer the unasked portion of her question. "Mr. Tremaine informed me by tight beam, so my duty com tech knows, I know, his boat crew knows, and you know. That’s it."

"Good. Very good, Lieutenant." Dame Estelle tugged at an earlobe, then nodded. "Use your own equipment to inform Commander Harrington, please. And ask her to tell Major Isvarian—he’s still aboard Fearless, I believe. Don’t tell anyone else without clearance from me or from your captain."

"Yes, Ma’am. I understand." Stromboli nodded, and the commissioner cut the circuit with a courteous if abstracted nod.

She sat silently for long minutes, trying to grasp the implications. It was insane . . . but it was also the perfect cover. She remembered the holos Isvarian had made of the base before the explosion, seeing once more the meticulous care with which the buildings had been hidden. It was all part of a pattern, a pattern of almost obsessive concealment, yet there was a false note. Concealment, yes, but once that screen of security was breached, the very lengths to which they’d gone to maintain it were guaranteed to touch off a massive hunt for the perpetrators at all levels.

And the way it had been done, the tap off her own power system, the apparent scale of mekoha production, the introduction of breech-loading rifles to the natives. . . . All of it spoke of a massive operation, one which went—which must go—far beyond whatever might be earned by selling drugs to a Bronze Age culture!

But why? Where did it go . . . and to what end? She was alone in a dark room, groping for shadows, and none of it made any sense. Not any sense at all.

She rose from her chair and walked to her office’s huge window, staring unseeingly out over the Government Compound’s low wall at the monotonous Medusan countryside. It couldn’t be one of her people. It couldn’t! Whatever the ultimate objective, whatever the reward, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that any of her people could feed mekoha to the natives and connive at the cold-blooded murder of their own fellows!

But someone had installed a power tap in the one place neither she nor any of Harrington’s people had even considered looking. And if it was built in, not added as an afterthought . . .

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the tough, plastic window, and gritted her teeth in pain.

"It’s confirmed, Commander."

Rafe Cardones nodded at the data terminal, and McKeon leaned closer to study it. The schematic of the power collector was interesting enough, but that was only part of the data’s surprises. The shunt to the drug lab’s power system was, indeed, an integral part of the satellite’s circuitry, built deep into its core where only a complete maintenance strip-down would have revealed it. More than that, every maintenance seal had been intact, with no sign of tampering, and even with access to government or Fleet equipment, breaking and replacing all those seals would have been a lengthy, time-consuming job. However it got there, the installation of that shunt hadn’t been any spur of the moment, rushed bootleg job.

He frowned and punched a key, and the collector’s installation and maintenance history scrolled smoothly up the screen before him. He watched the moving lines, tapping gently on his teeth with the end of a stylus as he searched for any suspiciously long blocks of service time, any single name that came up too often among the regular maintenance crews on the normal service visits, but there were none. Either a big enough chunk of NPA maintenance personnel were in on it to rotate their ringers through the regular maintenance schedule and get the job done, or else. . . .

He nodded and tapped another key, killing the scroll command, and looked at Cardones.

"Download all this data to a secure chip, Rafe, and get it to the Captain. And . . . don’t discuss it with anyone else, right?"

"Right, Sir." Cardones nodded, and McKeon turned away with a strange light in his eyes. His expression was odd—a combination of frowning unhappiness and something almost like a smile—and his mind was busy.

The Crown courier completed its orbital insertion and almost instantly dispatched a cutter planetward. Honor sat in her command chair, watching the descending landing boat’s track on her display, and hoped she looked calmer than she felt.

A shadow fell on the side of her face, and she looked up to see McKeon standing beside her. His face was worried, shorn of its customary armor of formality as he, too, watched the display.

"Any more word from Dame Estelle, Ma’am?" he asked quietly.

"No." Nimitz chittered with soft anxiety in her lap, and she rubbed his round head without looking down. "She’s been told to expect a personal dispatch from Countess Marisa; aside from that, they haven’t said a word about who else might be on board."

"I see." McKeon’s voice was low but strained. He seemed about to say something more, then shrugged, gave her an almost apologetic glance, and moved back to his own station. Honor returned her attention to the display once more, waiting.

A chime sounded behind her.

"Captain?" Lieutenant Webster’s voice was tauter than usual. "I have a personal transmission from the courier boat for you, Ma’am." He paused. "Shall I transfer it to your briefing room screen?"

"No, Lieutenant." Honor’s voice was as calm and courteous as always, but the com officer’s anxiety-sharpened ears detected a flaw of tension at its heart. "Transfer it to my screen here."

"Aye, aye, Ma’am. Transferring now."

Honor’s command chair com screen blinked to life, and she found herself looking at perhaps the wealthiest single man in the Star Kingdom of Manticore. She’d never met him, but she would have known that square, bulldog face anywhere.

"Commander Harrington?" The voice was familiar from countless HD interviews: a deep, rolling baritone too velvety to be real. It sounded courteous enough, but the blue eyes were hard in that too-handsome face.

"Yes?" she asked pleasantly, refusing to kow-tow to his reputation or even admit that she knew who he was, and saw his eyes narrow a millimeter.

"I’m Klaus Hauptman," the baritone said after a moment. "Countess Marisa was kind enough to allow me passage aboard her courier when I discovered she was dispatching one."

"I see." Hauptman’s face was far too well-trained to reveal anything he chose to conceal, but she thought she sensed a flicker of surprise at her apparent calm. Perhaps he’d never considered that her people at Basilisk Control might be quick enough to realize the significance of his arrival and warn her he was coming. Or perhaps he’d anticipated her foreknowledge and was simply surprised she wasn’t already quaking in fear. Well, the fear he couldn’t see wouldn’t help him any, she told herself firmly.

"The purpose of my visit, Commander," he went on, "was to make a . . . courtesy call on you. Would it be convenient for me to visit your ship during my time here in Basilisk?"

"Of course, Mr. Hauptman. The Navy is always pleased to extend its courtesy to such a prominent individual as yourself. Shall I send my cutter for you?"

"Now?" Hauptman couldn’t quite hide his surprise, and she nodded pleasantly.

"If that would be convenient for you, Sir. I happen to be free of any other pressing duties at this moment. Of course, if you’d prefer to delay your visit, I will be happy to see you any time I can work it in. Assuming our mutual schedules permit it."

"No, no. Now will be fine, Commander. Thank you."

"Very well, Mr. Hauptman. My cutter will call for you within the half-hour. Good day."

"Good day, Commander," Hauptman replied, and she cut the circuit and pushed herself back into the cushioned contours of her chair. She’d have to take Nimitz to her quarters and leave him there before Hauptman boarded, she told the icy, singing tension at her core. The ’cat was far too sensitive to her moods for—

"Captain?"

Honor hid a twitch of surprise and looked up as McKeon reappeared beside her.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Captain, I . . . don’t think you should see him alone." McKeon spoke with manifest hesitation, but his gray eyes were worried.

"I appreciate your concern, Exec," she said quietly, "but I am captain of this ship, and Mr. Hauptman will be only a visitor aboard her."

"Understood, but—" McKeon paused and chewed his lip unhappily, then squared his shoulders like a man bracing against a bullet. "Ma’am, I don’t believe for a minute that this is a simple courtesy call. And—"

"A moment, Commander." She stood, stopping him with a small gesture, then scooped Nimitz up and and looked at Webster. "Samuel, you have the watch. The exec and I will be in my briefing room if you need us."

"Aye, aye, Ma’am. I have the watch," the com officer said, and Honor beckoned wordlessly to McKeon.

They crossed to the briefing room, and Honor parked Nimitz on a corner of the conference table while the hatch slid shut against her bridge crew’s many ears. The ’cat made no protest when she put him down. He merely sat up on his four rearmost limbs and watched McKeon closely.

"Now, Commander," Honor said, turning to him, "you were saying?"

"Captain, Klaus Hauptman is coming aboard this ship to complain about our actions—your actions—in this system," McKeon said flatly. "I warned you at the time that he’d be furious. You’ve embarrassed and humiliated him, at the very least, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he or his cartel ends up facing some fairly substantial charges in court."

"I’m aware of that." Honor folded her arms under her breasts, facing the lieutenant commander squarely, and her voice was uninflected.

"I know you are, Ma’am. And I also know you’re aware of his reputation." Honor nodded. Klaus Hauptman’s ruthless ambition, his fierce pride and bursts of volcanic fury, made good copy for the media.

"I don’t think he’d have come this far if all he wanted to do was complain, Ma’am." McKeon met her eyes just as squarely, his expression an alloy of concern and more than a trace of embarrassment. "I think he intends to pressure you to change your operational patterns. At least."

"In which case, he’s had a wasted journey," Honor said crisply.

"I know that, Ma’am. In fact—" McKeon stopped himself, unable even now to explain his own complex, ambiguous feelings. He knew Harrington had to be worried sick, but he also knew—had known, from the outset—that she wouldn’t let herself be bullied into anything less than she believed her duty required of her. The possible fallout for the ship and for McKeon personally was frightening, but he felt a curious sort of pride in her, despite his resentment. And that only made him more ashamed of his own persistent inability to rise above his feelings and be the sort of executive officer she deserved for him to be.

"Captain, my point is that Klaus Hauptman is known for playing hardball. He’s tough, powerful, and arrogant. If you don’t agree to change your operations, he’s going to try every way he can to . . . talk you into it." He paused again, and Honor raised her eyebrows. "Ma’am, I don’t think you should let him do that in private. I think—" he committed himself in a rush "—that you should have a witness to whatever is said."

Honor almost blinked in astonishment. At the moment, McKeon had very little to worry about, personally, even from someone with Klaus Hauptman’s reputation for elephantine memory and vindictiveness. He was her exec. He’d obeyed her orders, but the orders had been hers. If he made himself a witness to any discussion with Hauptman, particularly as a witness in her favor, that would change, and he was five years older than she and a full rank junior. If he turned a man like Hauptman into an enemy, the consequences to his career scarcely bore thinking on.

She cocked her head, studying his strained expression, almost able to taste the anxiety behind it. She was tempted to decline his offer, both because this was her fight, not his, and because she couldn’t forget in a heartbeat the way he’d steadily avoided exposing himself since she came aboard. But as she looked into his eyes, she knew she couldn’t. Whatever his reasons, he’d made his gesture. She couldn’t reject it without rejecting him, without refusing his offer, however anxious it might be, to become her exec in truth for the very first time.

"Thank you, Mr. McKeon," she said finally. "I appreciate your offer, and I accept."