podium was Honor Harrington.
The Honor Harrington.
Charles felt his mouth drop open. Harrington was dead —he and everyone else in the civilized universe had watched her execution. Yet here she was, thin, drained, and missing an eye and arm, but with the fire and spirit in her voice and face that had made her a legend among even some of the Sollies.
He grimaced as the obvious explanation belatedly came to him. Yes, he’d seen her execution. But it had been an HD, which had furthermore been provided courtesy of Saint-Just and his State Security thugs.
Apparently, reports of her death had been greatly exaggerated.
Surreptitiously, he looked at Armond and Miklos. Both men’s expressions showed the same surprise and disbelief that Charles himself had been feeling a moment ago. But they, too, were rapidly sidling up on the truth.
And growing rapidly beneath their bewilderment was the hard edge of anger.
Because they too had undoubtedly watched the hated Harrington’s execution over a year ago. They’d probably had a few drinks to celebrate the event afterwards, and savored that moment during the bitterness of defeat and pullback and more defeat. Now, however the Manties had pulled it off, that small victory had been snatched away from them.
Even Peeps, Charles mused, must eventually get tired of being lied to by their leaders.
Armond took a deep breath, coming back from somewhere in an unpleasant distance. He thumbed the remote, and Harrington’s image and speech vanished in midword. “Well,” he said. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Events out here never fail to amaze me,” Charles murmured. “At any rate—”
“Yes,” Armond cut him off. “My apologies, Mr. Dozewah, but I think we’re going to have to end things for today. Can we pick it up again tomorrow morning? Say, around ten o’clock?”
“Certainly,” Charles said, taking a last sip of his brandy and standing up. “Feel free to look over the documentation. I’d ask that you don’t take the papers out of this building, though.”
“Of course,” Armond said, reaching across the table for a quick handshake. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Charles started to step away from the table. Then, pretending he’d almost forgotten, he reached over and picked up the Redactor. “I have to take this with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Armond said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Have a pleasant evening.”
A minute later Charles was walking down the sidewalk toward his hotel two blocks away, trying to figure out what Harrington’s unanticipated return was going to do to the Manty/Peep war and, more importantly, to Charles’s own sales pitch.
The most immediate effect would be to put Pierre and Saint-Just into the grandmother of all snits, which was probably why Armond had cut the meeting short. The government would be sending out messages to all their top weapons designers, demanding results now, and Armond was probably trying to figure out what he was going to say when the empty-faced State Security emissaries came calling.
The real question was whether Armond’s CYA speech would include a mention of Charles and his magic Redactor.
Maybe he should just cut his losses and get out. He could get a berth on the next liner heading for League space—hell, for anyone’s space—and leave this dirty, grimy, depressing world and its evil people behind him—
“Charles Dozewah?”
Charles jerked. The two men had come up behind him, silently and smoothly and professionally. “Yes,” he confirmed cautiously.
One of the men held out a gold-embossed identity card. “State Security,” he said. “Come with us.”
Charles looked at the other man. There was something in his stance that said he was hoping for an excuse to get violent. “I’m a citizen of the Solarian League,” Charles protested.
“Yes, we know,” the first man said. “Come with us.”
* * *
They took the Redactor, of
The Honor Harrington.
Charles felt his mouth drop open. Harrington was dead —he and everyone else in the civilized universe had watched her execution. Yet here she was, thin, drained, and missing an eye and arm, but with the fire and spirit in her voice and face that had made her a legend among even some of the Sollies.
He grimaced as the obvious explanation belatedly came to him. Yes, he’d seen her execution. But it had been an HD, which had furthermore been provided courtesy of Saint-Just and his State Security thugs.
Apparently, reports of her death had been greatly exaggerated.
Surreptitiously, he looked at Armond and Miklos. Both men’s expressions showed the same surprise and disbelief that Charles himself had been feeling a moment ago. But they, too, were rapidly sidling up on the truth.
And growing rapidly beneath their bewilderment was the hard edge of anger.
Because they too had undoubtedly watched the hated Harrington’s execution over a year ago. They’d probably had a few drinks to celebrate the event afterwards, and savored that moment during the bitterness of defeat and pullback and more defeat. Now, however the Manties had pulled it off, that small victory had been snatched away from them.
Even Peeps, Charles mused, must eventually get tired of being lied to by their leaders.
Armond took a deep breath, coming back from somewhere in an unpleasant distance. He thumbed the remote, and Harrington’s image and speech vanished in midword. “Well,” he said. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Events out here never fail to amaze me,” Charles murmured. “At any rate—”
“Yes,” Armond cut him off. “My apologies, Mr. Dozewah, but I think we’re going to have to end things for today. Can we pick it up again tomorrow morning? Say, around ten o’clock?”
“Certainly,” Charles said, taking a last sip of his brandy and standing up. “Feel free to look over the documentation. I’d ask that you don’t take the papers out of this building, though.”
“Of course,” Armond said, reaching across the table for a quick handshake. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Charles started to step away from the table. Then, pretending he’d almost forgotten, he reached over and picked up the Redactor. “I have to take this with me, of course.”
“Of course,” Armond said, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Have a pleasant evening.”
A minute later Charles was walking down the sidewalk toward his hotel two blocks away, trying to figure out what Harrington’s unanticipated return was going to do to the Manty/Peep war and, more importantly, to Charles’s own sales pitch.
The most immediate effect would be to put Pierre and Saint-Just into the grandmother of all snits, which was probably why Armond had cut the meeting short. The government would be sending out messages to all their top weapons designers, demanding results now, and Armond was probably trying to figure out what he was going to say when the empty-faced State Security emissaries came calling.
The real question was whether Armond’s CYA speech would include a mention of Charles and his magic Redactor.
Maybe he should just cut his losses and get out. He could get a berth on the next liner heading for League space—hell, for anyone’s space—and leave this dirty, grimy, depressing world and its evil people behind him—
“Charles Dozewah?”
Charles jerked. The two men had come up behind him, silently and smoothly and professionally. “Yes,” he confirmed cautiously.
One of the men held out a gold-embossed identity card. “State Security,” he said. “Come with us.”
Charles looked at the other man. There was something in his stance that said he was hoping for an excuse to get violent. “I’m a citizen of the Solarian League,” Charles protested.
“Yes, we know,” the first man said. “Come with us.”
* * *
They took the Redactor, of
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