That wasn’t something Shannon Foraker would have spent much thought on six or seven T-years ago. She’d been amazingly oblivious to the harsh realities of naval service under Rob Pierre and State Security. Until she’d been brought face-to-face with the ugly truth, at least. The humiliation and shame of being forced to become an unwilling accomplice to StateSec’s brutality had changed Foraker’s universe forever. The talented, apolitical “techno nerd” who’d wanted no more than to do her job with patriotism and honor had recognized that she couldn’t—not under StateSec. She’d seen an admiral she trusted and respected driven to the brink of mutiny, seen an ex-skipper she’d respected even more actually driven into willing treason because his own sense of honor could take no more violation, and been sent all too closely to the brink of imprisonment or execution herself.

In the wake of those experiences, the same qualities which had made her an outstanding tactical officer in the People’s Navy had been brought to bear on other problems… which was why she—and Admiral Tourville and Admiral Giscard—were still alive. But it was unlikely that anything she’d done would have prevented the same ultimate outcome if not for Thomas Theisman.

She hadn’t known Theisman before Oscar Saint-Just’s overthrow, but she’d come to know him since, and somehow he just kept on getting more impressive. He’d joined a select handful of other senior officers in Foraker’s estimation, one of the dedicated cadre which had somehow kept the concepts of duty and honor alive in their own lives, no matter what their political masters had demanded of them. More important, he was also the man who’d restored the Navy’s honor. Lester Tourville and Javier Giscard might exercise command of the Republic’s fleets, but it was Thomas Theisman who’d made it possible for them to do so. Just as he was the man who’d invited the Navy’s officers and ratings to rediscover their self-respect. To remember that they’d chosen to wear the uniforms they wore because they believed in something, not because a reign of terror would shoot them if they declined to become willing agents of terror themselves.

He had restored the Navy to itself, made it his ally in the defense of the restored Constitution, both out of its own sense of honor and obligation and as a means to cleanse its shield of the filth with which StateSec had spattered it. And because he’d given it back that sense of mission, of commitment, of standing for something, the Navy would have followed him unflinchingly through the gates of Hell itself.

Just as Shannon Foraker would have.

“Permission to come aboard, Sir?” the Secretary of War requested formally as the twittering pipes finally fell silent, and Captain Reumann nodded sharply.

“Welcome aboard the Sovereign, Sir!” he replied in a carrying voice. “It’s a pleasure to see you back aboard again,” he added in a lower, more conversational tone, and held out his right hand.

“It’s a pleasure to be back, Pat,” Theisman replied, gripping the proffered hand and shaking it firmly. “I only wish Bolthole were close enough to Nouveau Paris that I could get out here more than three or four times a year.”