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.