“Welcome aboard, Ma’am,” he said. “I’m afraid things are a bit of a mess just now, but we’re pretty close to on schedule, and the dock master’s promised me two more work crews starting next watch.”

“Good.” Honor returned his handshake, then stood and walked toward the gutted fire control section with him. “I have to admit to a certain amount of puzzlement, though, Mr. McKeon. Admiral Courvosier warned me we were due for a major refit, but he didn’t mention any of this.” She nodded at the open panels and unraveled circuit runs.

“I’m afraid we didn’t have much choice, Ma’am. We could have handled the energy torpedoes with software changes, but the grav lance is basically an engineering system. Tying it into fire control requires direct hardware links to the main tactical system.”

“Grav lance?” Honor didn’t raise her voice, but McKeon heard the surprise under its cool surface, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He paused. “Didn’t anyone mention that to you?”

“No, they didn’t.” Honor’s lips thinned in what might charitably have been called a smile, and she folded her hands deliberately behind her. “How much broadside armament did it cost us?” she asked after a moment.

“All four graser mounts,” McKeon replied, and watched her shoulders tighten slightly.

“I see. And you mentioned energy torpedoes, I believe?”

“Yes, Ma’am. The yard’s replaced—is replacing, rather—all but two broadside missile tubes with them.”

“All but two?” The question was sharper this time, and McKeon hid an edge of bitter amusement. No wonder she sounded upset, if they hadn’t even warned her! He’d certainly been upset when he found out what was planned.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I see,” she repeated, and inhaled. “Very well, Exec, what does that leave us?”

“We still have the thirty-centimeter laser mounts, two in each broadside, plus the missile launchers. After refit, we’ll have the grav lance and fourteen torpedo generators, as well, and the chase armament is unchanged: two missile tubes and the sixty-centimeter spinal laser.”

He watched her closely, and she didn’t—quite—wince. Which, he reflected, spoke well for her self-control. Energy torpedoes were quick-firing, destructive, very difficult for point defense to stop… and completely ineffectual against a target protected by a military-grade sidewall. That, obviously, was the reason for the grav lance, yet if a grav lance could (usually) burn out its target’s sidewall generators, it was slow-firing and had a very short maximum effective range. But if Captain Harrington was aware of that, she allowed no trace of it to color her voice.

“I see,” she said yet again, and gave her head a little toss. “Very well, Mr. McKeon. I’m sure I’ve taken you away from something more useful than talking to me. Have my things been stowed?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Your steward saw to it.”

“In that case, I’ll be in my quarters examining the ship’s books if you need me. I’d like to invite the officers to dine with me this evening—I see no point in letting introductions interfere with their duties now.” She paused, as if reaching for another thought, then looked back at him. “Before then, I’ll want to tour the ship and observe the work in progress. Will it be convenient for you to accompany me at fourteen-hundred?”