“I’ve been over Papadapolous’s deployment plan, and it looks good,” she went on, “but I want two changes made in it.”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“First, I want the Marines moved aboard the pinnaces now. There’s room for them to bunk aboard—they’ll have to hot-bunk, but they can squeeze in—and I want them ready to drop on zero notice. They can armor up on the way down or even after they hit dirt.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” McKeon pulled out his memo pad and keyed notes into it. “And the second change?”

“I want Lieutenant Montoya and our other medical people back up here. Get them aboard by mid-watch, if you can.”

“Excuse me, Ma’am?” McKeon blinked, and Honor hid a sour smile.

“Officially, I’ve decided that it would be unfair to ask Dame Estelle and the NPA to make do with the services of our junior physician in the event of an incident on Medusa. In light of Commander Suchon’s many more years of service, I feel it would be much more reasonable for us to put her experience to good use down there.”

“I see, Ma’am.” There was a faint gleam in McKeon’s eyes. “And the, um, unofficial reason?”

“Unofficially, Mr. McKeon,” Honor’s voice was much grimmer, “Dame Estelle and Barney Isvarian have quite good medical staffs of their own, and there are a good many other civilian doctors in the enclaves down there. Between them, they should be able to carry Suchon’s dead weight.” McKeon winced at the acid bite in his captain’s voice, but he nodded.

“Besides,” Honor went on after a moment, “Lieutenant Montoya may be ten years younger than Suchon, but he’s a better physician than she’ll ever be. If we need a doctor up here, we’re going to need him in a hurry, and I want the best one I can get.”

“Do you really think we’re going to need one?” McKeon couldn’t quite hide his surprise, and Honor shrugged uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. Call it a feeling. Or maybe it’s just nerves. But I’ll feel much more comfortable with Suchon dirt-side and Montoya in Fearless.”

“Understood, Skipper.” McKeon put away his memo pad and nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’ll be in my quarters. I’ve got a dispatch to write.” She produced a smile—a strange smile, compounded of fatigue, worry, awareness of her own ignorance, and an odd undercurrent that might almost be excitement—and McKeon felt a tingle sweep over him as he saw it.

“Who knows?” she finished softly, still with that same, strange smile. “I may even have something interesting to put in it in a few more hours.”

She walked into the lift with her treecat, and McKeon stood for several seconds, looking at the door which had closed behind her and wondering why her smile had frightened him so.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

LIEUTENANT Frances Malcolm, Medusan Native Protection Agency, stretched and yawned in her bucket seat. The skimmer swept onward above the rugged foothills, humming across the endless kilometers of moss on the quiet whisper of its turbines, and something thumped behind her. She turned in her chair and looked back just as Corporal Truman, the skimmer’s gunner, dropped down out of his dorsal turret.