Bassingford Medical Center
City of Landing
Planet Manticore
Manticore Binary System
March 24, 1906
ernestine corell grimaced as her com pinged softly just as she was about to find exactly the right words for the memo on her display. She was sure she was about to. They were obviously right on the tip of her mental tongue.
Yeah, sure they are, Ernie, she thought. I’m sure you can find exactly the right way to explain to Admiral Caparelli that the Admiral will be fit for duty anytime now without outright lying to him. Or pissing the Admiral off by telling the truth.
Normally, she wouldn’t have been too worried about Mark Sarnow’s reaction to a more or less accurate summation of his condition, but he’d been in a really bad mood lately.
And her own mood didn’t help matters, she acknowledged.
Part of the reason for Sarnow’s short fuse and bitter frustration was simply that while regen worked for him, it didn’t work as well as it worked for many others, which meant a longer convalescence before he could even begin rehab, far less get back on to a command deck. Battlecruiser Squadron 5 had been made back up to strength, including HMS Cassandra, which had finally rejoined her consorts after almost a solid year of repairs and working up exercises. Nike would be a while yet, since she’d begun her repairs so much later, but Rear Admiral Dame Guadalupe Moreno, BatCruRon 5’s new CO, would take good care of it.
Sarnow knew that, just as he’d known he could never retain command after how badly he’d been hit. And he’d been promised his own superdreadnought squadron as soon as the medical types passed him as fit for duty, which was why he’d hung onto his surviving staff—with the exception of Joseph Cartwright, who’d been promoted to captain and given his own cruiser command. They’d have to replace him, as well as Casper Southman, who’d been killed by the same hit which had wounded Sarnow, and like a good chief of staff, Corell already had her eye on possible candidates. But given how much longer Sarnow might be stuck on the binnacle list, she couldn’t justify pulling somebody onto the sidelines until they had a better fix on when the admiral would be returning to duty.
That was part of the reason for the usually even-keeled Sarnow’s foul mood. It wasn’t the reason he was snapping people’s heads off, though . . . or the reason Ernestine Corell wanted to do the same thing. In fact, what she really wanted was to rip off one particular head, literally, not figuratively.
She closed her eyes in remembered pain as the com pinged a second time. She’d been in Sarnow’s hospital room yesterday morning, going over a BuWeaps’ analysis of the Battle of Hancock, when the news broke. It still didn’t seem possible. Not really. Corell had never heard of Denver Summervale before his “run in” with Paul Tankersley in Dempsey’s. She’d done a little digging at Sarnow’s behest once news of Summervale’s challenge got out, though, and she hadn’t liked what they’d found. She’d passed what she’d turned up to Tomas Ramirez, and Ramirez had thanked her, although she’d realized from their conversation that he and Captain McKeon already knew far more about Summervale than she’d had time to disinter.
But whatever they’d known, it hadn’t been enough to stop the duel. And now someone would have to tell Honor Harrington, one of the finest officers—and friends—Corell had ever known that the man she loved was dead. A corner of Corell’s mind was deeply and profoundly grateful that that duty wouldn’t fall to her. But what she felt most strongly—what she knew was driving Mark Sarnow’s bitter anger—was the fact that anyone had to tell Honor.
The com pinged again, and Corell shook herself out of her dark mood and looked down, then frowned as the display blinked “Unidentified Caller” at her.
The frown deepened and her eyes narrowed as she realized the unknown caller had pinged her civilian com combination. That combination was known to very few people. Anyone to whom she’d given it was in her contacts list, and given the security protocols attached to her account because of her clearances, it should have been extraordinarily difficult for anyone to gain unauthorized access to it. So who—?
She tapped to accept the call.
“Yes?” she said without identifying herself. Under the circumstances, it was most likely simply a misdial, but it could be something a bit more problematical.
“Listen carefully, Captain Corell,” a voice said.
It was clearly disguised yet it sounded indefinably female for some reason. That was Corell’s first thought, but then the voice continued.
“I’m only going to say this once. I won’t be repeating anything. I have information I think you’ll find interesting. Yesterday morning—”
* * *
Someone rapped lightly on the door, and Mark Sarnow looked up from the book reader in his lap with an irritated expression. It wasn’t time for his afternoon regen treatment, and he really didn’t want to talk to anyone today. He’d already snapped at Ernie Corell twice, and he knew he’d have to make amends. Not because she expected it, but because it was what he expected of himself. Knowing that didn’t make him one bit happier, which was why he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to bury himself in the novel on his reader.
He considered—briefly—simply refusing to acknowledge the knock. But that would be not simply petulant but childish, and so he cleared his throat, instead.
“Enter!” he called as pleasantly as he could.
The door to the office attached to the suite in Bassingford’s senior officers’ long-term treatment wing opened, and despite himself, he frowned as Corell stepped through it. He started to speak, then stopped.
One reason he regretted having snapped at her was that he knew her pain over Paul Tankersley’s death was as deep as his own. They’d both come to know Honor Harrington and Tankersley well during their deployment to Hancock, and he knew Corell had been as pleased for them as he himself had been. Which explained why the two of them were irritable as a hexapuma with a bad tooth.
Although she doesn’t have the seniority to be an asshole to someone else over it like you do, does she, Mark? he thought. But the thought was fleeting as her expression registered. Were those tears in her eyes?
“What is it, Ernie?” he asked quickly.
“I just . . . I just had a com call, Sir.” Corell paused and drew a deep breath. “I . . . I don’t know what to do about it.”
Sarnow’s green eyes narrowed. The Honorable Ernestine Corell was one of the most capable human beings he’d ever met. What in God’s name—?
“About what, Ernie?”
“It came in on my civvy combination, Sir. I don’t know who it was. All I got was ‘unidentified caller.’ That was enough to surprise me, given how closely held my combination is. And because it was on my civilian com, I couldn’t get a recorder on it.”
She paused again, and Sarnow nodded. The Star Kingdom’s privacy laws were crystal clear and ironclad. Recording conversations on the Navy’s official com channels was one thing, and happened on a routine basis, when verbal orders were being passed. Even then, the law required a clear audio alert that the conversation was being recorded. But recording a civilian conversation without the prior, recorded approval of both parties was a felony that carried a stiff sentence.
“Whoever it was,” Corell said, “she said . . . Admiral, she said Summervale was paid to kill Paul!”
Sarnow stiffened in surprise. Not so much at the notion that Summervale had been paid, given what Corell had turned up on him before the duel, but at the fact that someone had gone to the trouble of finding his chief of staff’s civilian combination to tell her that. He started to say just that, but Corell went on before he could.
“He was paid to kill Paul, but he’s also been paid to kill Honor, Sir! And whoever hired him, wanted Paul killed first.”
The tears he’d seen in her eyes broke free, trickling down her cheeks as she stared at him, and a bolt of savage pain went through him. The exquisite cruelty that could even contemplate such an action was breathtaking.
“You don’t have any idea who the caller was?”
His voice came out flat, leached of emotion as he forced himself to focus.
“No, Sir. I don’t. And whoever she was, she didn’t tell me who hired him, either.”
“So this was just some sick pervert calling to gloat?”
“No, Sir.” Corell reached into her tunic pocket for a slip of paper. “She wouldn’t tell me who hired him, assuming she knows. But she did give me this.”
“Which is?”
“It’s the address of a hunting lodge on Gryphon, Sir.” Corell’s voice was also flatter than it had been, but hers was the flatness of granite-boned anger. “According to her, it’s owned through a legitimate front by the Outfit, and it’s where Summervale is lying low while he waits for Honor to come home so he can kill her, too. She says the entire lodge is a ‘safe house’ for criminal types. The entire staff works for the Outfit, and there’s a permanent guard force—at least twenty or thirty Outfit hoods, at any given moment—to provide security for its ‘guests.’ And probably to make sure they behave themselves while they’re there, I imagine.” She shook her head. “If there was ever any question about Summervale, there isn’t now.”
Mark Sarnow sat very still for a moment, considering what she’d said. The “Outfit” was the Star Kingdom’s most powerful organized crime syndicate, and while it wasn’t shy about using violent means to attain its goals, it normally shied away from anything as high profile as this obviously was. That meant Summervale—or whoever had hired him—had even more clout with the criminal element than he’d thought.
He pondered that, then nodded once and tapped the control panel, and his bed raised him into a fully upright seated position.
“Tell Doctor Chandler I’ll need my life-support chair,” he said.
“Sir, that’s not a good—” Corell began, her expression distressed.
“I don’t care whether or not it’s a good idea.” His voice was no longer flat. It could have been carved from the heart of a Gryphon glacier, and his eyes were colder still.
“Sir, your regen treatment will—”
“I’ll just have today’s treatment tomorrow, then.” He managed a brief, razor-thin smile. “I’m sure we can make up the lost time. But for now, tell him I’ll need my chair.”
Corell started to protest again, but she knew that tone.
“Yes, Sir,” she said instead. “Can I tell him where you’ll be going in it?”
“I don’t know yet.” He gave her another of those icy smiles. “I expect you’ll be the one telling me, because after you com Doctor Chandler, I want you to find Captain McKeon. And then I want you to arrange a shuttle flight to wherever he is.”
“Yes, Sir. May I ask exactly what it is you intend to do?”
“No one’s getting away with doing this to Honor.” She heard the grinding implacability of that Gryphon glacier in his voice. “That’s for damned sure. But there’s nothing I can do with this information. Not without legs.”
“We could pass it on to the authorities, Sir.”
“Where it would do no good at all. At best, it’s hearsay. An anonymous caller who won’t even identify himself? Who can’t—or won’t—say who hired Summervale?” Sarnow snorted harshly. “There’s absolutely nothing in there that would constitute probable cause for any official investigation. And I’m pretty damned sure the person who gave you the information planned on that from the beginning. I don’t know what he may be after. Maybe he just doesn’t want to see someone get away with bought-and-paid-for murder. But assuming he’s telling the truth, anything anyone’s going to do has to be done quickly. And since I can’t do it, all you and I can do is pass the information on to someone I know for damn sure will do something about it.”
He held her eyes for a long moment. Then she nodded, and he nodded back.
“Screen Doctor Chandler,” he repeated.
“Yes, Sir.”