A Rising Thunder-ARC (62 page)

She paused once more, letting her words sink in, then straightened and squared her shoulders.

“Mr. Reid has made what he obviously believes is an eloquent case for how the sudden appearance of Admiral Tsang’s fleet in the Manticorans’ rear might have somehow prevented the destruction of Eleventh Fleet. He’s been very careful to avoid saying unequivocally that it would have, yet he’s clearly implied that the sudden appearance of a twenty-five percent increase in Admiral Filareta’s strength would have influenced the Star Empire and its allies. He was also careful to say that he is no naval officer. That much, at least, is obvious…since any trained naval officer would have known that no more than thirty to thirty-five capital ships—less than a
ten
percent increase in Admiral Filareta’s strength—could have been put through the Beowulf Terminus in a single transit. And that putting
that
many ships through the would have destabilized the terminus for many hours before any additional vessels could be passed through it.

“It would have been possible to pass them through in a sequential transit, instead of a simultaneous transit, of course, had not Admiral Holmon-Sanders and Admiral Truman prevented it. Had Admiral Tsang done so, however, her ships would have emerged one by one, at intervals of several seconds, into the concentrated fire of the Manticoran fortresses protecting the Junction. Fortresses which each have many times the firepower of a regular Manticoran ship-of-the-wall. The truth is, it wouldn’t have mattered whether she’d attempted a simultaneous or a sequential transit; in either case, anything which passed through that terminus, as my government has repeatedly pointed out since the event, would have been annihilated. By preventing her from making transit at all, Admiral Holmon-Sanders and Admiral Truman
saved the lives
of well over a
hundred thousand
Solarian military personnel. If you wonder what malevolent, Machiavellian motives we might have had for allowing those Manticoran warships to transit a terminus of the
Manticoran
Wormhole Junction without informing Admiral Tsang of their presence, look no further than those lives. If we had slavishly rolled over before the unconstitutional assertion of federal authority over Solarian citizens and an autonomous star system government in time of peace, those people would be
dead
today.”

She looked out across the Chamber, huge holographic eyes sweeping scornfully over the men and women seated in the boxes spread across its floor, and shook her head.

“We all know what’s happening here. We all know the script, although the exact schedule may still be in some doubt. And we all know where this little play is headed and who’s directing and producing it. So I don’t expect truth and rationality to be any sort of effective defense. But the record will show what actually happened in Beowulf that day. Someday, the record of exactly what happened to Admiral Filareta will also be clearly and undisputedly available to anyone looking back at Mr. Reid and his motion and its consequences. A clean conscience and a reverence for the truth may not be much in demand in this Assembly today, but both of those are very much in demand in the Beowulf System. So bring on your inquiry. Present your case, and we’ll present ours. Not because we give one single solitary damn for your prepackaged, predetermined ‘impartial conclusions,’ but because we care about history. Because unlike you, we
do
care about truth. And because someday your successors, whoever they may be, will have a record of what you actually do here and will revile your memory with all the contempt and all the disdain your actions will so richly merit.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Organ music swelled and the massed choir’s voices rose in the words of the ancient hymn which had announced every marriage in the groom’s family for over four T-centuries:

“Though I may speak with bravest fire,

and have the gift to all inspire,

and have not love, my words are vain,

as sounding brass, and hopeless gain.”*

The groom, clad in the blue and silver of the House of Winton stood before the altar rail and turned to face down the nave towards the narthex of King Michael’s Cathedral as the music soared about him. The cathedral itself was packed as it had not been in years—not since the somewhat premature state funeral of one Honor Harrington. Which was rather ironic, since Duchess Harrington was a member of the wedding procession and the current representatives of the star nation which was supposed to have executed her sat in the pew set aside for them as they, too, turned to watch that procession move down cathedral’s central aisle towards the waiting sanctuary.

The cathedral was like an immense jewelry box, packed with aristocrats in the formal court dress and colors of their houses and commoners whose sartorial splendor and jewelry tended to put the understated elegance of court dress in the shade. Stained-glass windows glowed with late morning light, filling the cathedral’s interior with pools and patterns of gleaming, slowly moving brilliance. Centuries-old wooden paneling glowed in that light, the deliberately antique organ’s bronze pipes shone with hand-polished brilliance, vestments glittered with rich embroidery, candle holders flashed back the light, and the crowds of newsies had been banished to the discreet concealment of the balconies just inside the narthex.

Against all of that visual splendor, that richness of texture and color, of light and sound, the slender, white vision with the armful of flowers at the bridal procession’s heart stood out with heart stopping purity as she moved gracefully through the music.

Brides, and especially royal brides, were always beautiful. That was an incontrovertible law of nature—just ask any publicist or newsy. In this case, however, it was true, Honor decided. Not because Rivka Rosenfeld was a stunning beauty, because she wasn’t, although she was undeniably attractive with a face full of wit and intelligence touched with the bloom of her youth. And not because of the hours of effort the Star Empire’s best cometicians had put in, either. No, it was because of the glow in her eyes as they met Roger Winton’s down the length of that long, long cathedral aisle.

And, Honor conceded, it was also because of Rivka’s own impeccable taste. As her matron of honor, Honor had been deeply involved in planning the wedding. Her duties had been less extensive than those of Lord Chamberlain Wundt or Dame Arethea Hart, perhaps, but they’d been focused on the official aspects of the day. Honor had been focused on Rivka, and on more than one occasion she’d found herself acting as the young woman’s champion as she stood up against the demands of an occasion of state.

Rivka had held out steadfastly for an elegantly simple wedding gown, without glamour or elaborate embroidery or glittering jewels, and Honor—whose own tastes ran in very much the same direction, if the truth be told—had supported her strongly. Not that simplicity implied cheapness, of course. Honor had become far more knowledgeable about fashion matters and designer gowns than she’d ever expected to, and she knew how expensive that deceptively simple, flawlessly fitted gown had actually been. Yet it was also perfect, the inevitable setting for the slim, dark-haired and dark-eyed young woman advancing to meet her fiancé.

The one concession she’d made was her bridal train, which stretched far down the aisle behind her as she advanced to meet her waiting groom. Honor and her maids of honor followed her, and at Rivka’s insistence, Faith Harrington led the entire procession scattering flower petals across the rich-toned carpet with solemn concentration. Her brother James followed her, carrying the royal blue cushion with the waiting wedding rings and the princess’ coronet.

Arranging it all had been a long journey and plenty of hard work for everyone, Honor reflected, following Rivka in her own Grayson-style gown and over tunic in deep, rich, “Harrington green” with the Star of Grayson, glittering about her throat on its crimson ribbon, her only jewelry. And a welcome one, in the aftermath of what had happened to Massimo Filareta and his fleet. A distraction, yes, but also a reaffirmation of life and a promise of hope, and she’d needed that. Being there for Rivka, helping to choose the wedding theme, to pick designs for the invitations, support her in fighting for the simplicity of the gown she’d chosen, choosing flowers, picking gifts for the bridesmaids. She’d never gotten to do something like that before. Her own wedding had been a much more…impromptu affair, and she’d discovered that planning a bridal shower had helped to heal a heart weary with killing and bloodshed.

Of course, finding time for all of that had been something of a challenge among her “merely” official duties as the commander of Grand Fleet. Fortunately, most of her subordinates had happily conspired to take as much as possible of that load off of her, and she was grateful to all of them. She’d always liked Rivka; over the last few months she’d come to understand exactly why Elizabeth approved of her son’s choice so strongly.

She’s going to do well,
Honor thought.
She’s exactly what Roger needs. If anyone can keep him sane when he finds himself on his mother’s throne, it’ll be Rivka
.

Not that Rivka didn’t have some qualms of her own. Even now, Honor could taste the undercurrent of trepidation in the composed young woman’s mind-glow. Becoming the future queen consort of the Star Kingdom of Manticore at the age of twenty would have been daunting enough for anyone; becoming the future empress consort of the Star
Empire
of Manticore was even worse. And the fact that the Star Empire in question faced a fight for its very life against all the ponderous might of the Solarian League was downright terrifying. But somehow Rivka had coped with all of that, and the clean, focused taste of her mind-glow, the joy and eagerness which infused it—and Roger’s—despite all of those worries, all of those future threats, as they looked at one another told Honor how well they both had chosen.

The procession reached the waiting groom and his party and dispersed into its perfectly choreographed components, and Hamish Alexander-Harrington, standing with Roger, smiled at his wife as she stepped up beside Rivka and took the bridal bouquet—made up of native blossoms from each of the Old Star Kingdom’s habitable planets. Honor smiled back, remembering how much simpler (if unexpected) her own wedding had been, then stepped back with the flowers to let Rivka take Roger’s hand while both of them turned to face Bishop Robert Telmachi.

The Archbishop of Manticore didn’t simply smile—he
beamed
. His eyes were alight with happiness, and Honor could physically taste the joy within him. She’d come to know him well over the past few years, and she recognized his personal joy—his gladness for two young people who were deeply important to him—and the almost equally powerful joy as he recognized this wedding’s healing power for an entire star nation. It was a huge and ultimately unfair weight to lay upon such youthful shoulders, but as the people of the Star Kingdom always had, in times of trouble they looked to the House of Winton. They were part of that house themselves—all of them—when it came down to it, because of the Constitution’s requirement that the heir marry outside the aristocracy, and the Winton dynasty had done far better than most at remembering that bond and the responsibilities which went with it. The deep compact between the Star Kingdom’s subjects and their rulers went far beyond the mere letter of the law, and they’d turned Roger—and especially Rivka—into the promise of the future.

“Dearly beloved,” Telmachi began, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church: which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee, and is commended of St. Paul to be honorable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else here ever after forever hold his peace.”

The ancient, ancient simple words spilled out into the hushed, listening silence, and Honor Alexander-Harrington reached out, as well. She touched Hamish’s mind-glow as he stood close beside her and Emily’s mind-glow, where her life support chair sat at the end of the front pew on the bride’s side of the cathedral. She reached out further, touching her mother and feeling the happiness within her. Touching her father, and tasting the pain still burning at his core…and the healing sifting down to it, as it sifted down to her own, borne upon those ageless, joyous words. The entire cathedral was filled to the bursting point not simply with human bodies, but with human minds, and thoughts, and hopes, and joy. It pressed in upon her from every side, soaking into her like the sea, but this was a sea of light, of energy—of focus and purpose and promise. It flowed into her like the sun itself, and tears starred her vision as she found herself wishing desperately that everyone else in that cathedral could have tasted and known what she tasted and knew in that moment.

* * *

“I’ve been to some remarkable weddings in my time,” Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou said, “but
this
one…”

He waved his champagne glass at the glittering crowd thronging the grounds of Mount Royal Palace. Security was tight, and treecats were much in evidence. Many of them rode on shoulders threaded throughout that crowd, and others—
dozens
of others—perched cheerfully on the branches of landscaped trees, on ornamental gazebos and roofs. They could be heard every now and then, even through the steady surf of human voices and the music of the live orchestra, bleeking to one another as they enjoyed the human mind-glows swirling about them like rich, heady wine. But there was a perpetually poised, ready watchfulness even in the midst of their delight, and armed air cars and sting ships loitered overhead while the personnel of half a dozen star nations’ security watched the ’cats like miners watching canaries in some ancient coal mine.