“If I may, My Lady?” Solomon Marchant half raised one hand, forefinger extended, and Honor nodded for him to go on.

“In regard to your first concern, My Lady,” Marchant said very formally, “I would simply like to point out that whatever Admiral Styles may believe, you are the second-ranking officer of the Grayson Navy, which happens to be the second largest navy of the Alliance—and the third largest in this entire quadrant, after the RMN and the Havenite Navy. As such, you would be one of the people who would normally help make any decision as to whether or not the Alliance could safely divert shipping on such a mission. Under the circumstances, I believe it’s entirely appropriate for you to exercise your own judgment in this situation.”

An almost inaudible murmur of agreement supported his argument, and Honor felt the sincerity of the emotions behind the murmur.

“And as to your second concern, My Lady,” Marchant went on, “you say we could get two or three thousand people off Hell.” He glanced at Cynthia Gonsalves. “Could you tell us what the current total number of evacuees is, Captain Gonsalves?”

“Three hundred ninety-two thousand, six hundred and fifty-one,” Gonsalves replied with prompt precision. Since the courts-martial had wound down, she had taken over as Styles’ second-in-command… which meant she’d actually been doing virtually all of the work in coordinating the prisoner contact and census project. “To date, two hundred seventeen thousand, three hundred and fifty-four have formally declined to collaborate with us. Most of those are Peep politicals, of course, but some of them are military or ex-military POWs.”

Her voice hardened and flattened with the last sentence, and Ramirez stirred in his chair.

“It’s hard to blame them, Cynthia,” he said, his deep voice oddly gentle. “Most of them have just run out of hope after so long on Hell. They don’t believe we can possibly pull this off, and they don’t want to be part of the reprisals the Black Legs are going to carry out when and if they come back.”

“I understand that, Sir,” Gonsalves replied, “but understanding it doesn’t change the consequences of their decision—for them, as well as for us.”

“You’re right, of course, Ma’am,” Marchant said, reclaiming the floor. “But my point, My Lady,” he turned back to Honor, “is that while Admiral Styles was correct that we could cram forty percent of the people on Styx aboard Krashnark, even packing her to the deckheads would account for less than one percent of the total on Hell.”

“Which is still a lot more than none at all, Solomon,” Honor replied quietly.

“It is,” McKeon agreed before the Grayson officer could speak again, “but I think you’re missing Solomon’s point—or simply choosing not to admit it.” He smiled wryly as her eye flashed at him, then continued more seriously. “Whichever it is, though, the question you have to ask yourself isn’t whether or not holding Krashnark here throws away the certainty of getting eight-tenths of a percent of us out, but rather whether or not it ups the odds of getting more than eight-tenths of a percent out by a large enough factor to justify accepting the risk of getting no one out.”