She glowered at the screen some more, then switched it off in disgust and sprawled untidily across her bunk. Nimitz stretched and ambled down from his rest to curl up on her stomach, and this time she cooed to him and stroked his fur as he laid his jaw on her breastbone to help her think.

She’d considered protesting. After all, tradition gave a captain the authority to question alterations to her command, but Fearless hadn’t been her command when the refit was authorized, and the right to question wasn’t the same as the right to refuse. Honor knew exactly how Hemphill would react to any protest, and it was too late to undo the damage, anyway. Besides, she had her orders. However stupid they were, it was her job to make them work, and that, as they said at the Academy, was that. Even if it hadn’t been, Fearless was her ship, by God! Whatever Hemphill had done to her, no one was going to crap on Fearless’s reputation if Honor could help it.

She forced her muscles to unknot as Nimitz’s purr hummed against her. She’d never been able to decide what else he did, but that mysterious extra sense of his had to be at the bottom of it, for she felt her outrage fading into determination and knew darn well it wasn’t all her doing.

Her mind begin to pick and pry at the problem. It was probable, she decided, that she could get away with it at least once, assuming the Aggressors hadn’t cracked Hemphill’s security. After all, the idea was so crazy no sane person would expect it!

Suppose she arranged to join one of the screening squadrons? That was a logical enough position for a light cruiser, and the big boys would tend to ignore Fearless to concentrate on the opposing capital ships. That might let her slip into lance range and get off her shot. It would be little better than a suicide run, but that wouldn’t bother Hemphill’s cronies. They’d consider trading a light cruiser (and its crew) for an enemy dreadnought or superdreadnought more than equitable, which was one reason Honor hated their so-called tactical doctrine.

Yet even if she got away with it once and somehow managed to survive, she’d never get away with it twice—not once the Aggressors knew Fearless was out there and what she was armed with. They’d simply burn down every light cruiser they saw, for Hemphill had placed her sledgehammer in too thin an eggshell to survive capital ship fire. On the other hand, succeeding even once would be a major feather in Honor’s cap, at least among those who recognized the impossibility of her task.

She sighed and closed her eyes, understanding herself entirely too well. She never had learned how to refuse a challenge. If there was a way to bring off Horrible Hemphill’s gambit, Honor would find it, however much it galled her soul to do it.

Chapter Three

“GENERAL signal from Flag, Ma’am. ‘Preparative Baker-Golf-Seven-Niner.’ ”