“Ms. Zilwicki,” the Duchess observed.

“Your Grace,” Helen responded respectfully.

The Duchess’ immaculate space-black and gold uniform was unique. She was the only RMN officer who properly wore a Grayson Space Navy shoulder flash bearing the flame-enshrouded salamander emblem of the Protector’s Own Squadron even in Manticoran uniform, since she was the Protector’s Own’s official commander. But in addition to that, she was also the only person in history whose uniform tunic carried both the blood-red ribbon of the Star of Grayson and the crimson, blue, and white one of the Parliamentary Medal of Valor. There were persistent rumors that Duchess Harrington had refused the PMV after leading the escape from Cerberus, but even if they were true, she hadn’t been able to avoid it after the Cromarty Assassination. Helen suspected that she’d accepted it with very mixed emotions, however, since Baron High Ridge, as the new Prime Minister, had played the media event for all it was worth when he announced she was to receive it.

But Helen had seen those ribbons often before, and neither they nor the treecat who rode on the Duchess’ shoulder were what drew her attention this afternoon. That was left to the wooden case in Duchess Harrington’s hand. It was the sort of case which was hand-built at an exorbitant price by some skilled craftsman in some tiny shop filled with dusty sunlight and the sweet scent of wood shavings and varnish to wrap around something indecently expensive, and Helen felt a stir of interest. She’d never seen the box before, but she’d spoken to other midshipmen who had, and she knew what was inside it.

Lady Harrington’s “.45” was famous—or infamous, depending on one’s perspective—throughout the Navy. Those who continued to cling to the notion that she was some sort of loose warhead, a dangerous lunatic unable to recognize the difference between the derring-do of bad historical holo dramas and the reality of a modern officer’s duties, saw the archaic hand weapon as proof of their prejudices. Others, like Helen and Anton Zilwicki, regarded it somewhat differently. Perhaps it was because, unlike those who condemned Lady Harrington’s “recklessness” and considered her some sort of glory hound, both Helen and her father had spent their own time in a place those critics had never been. It wasn’t something Helen ever discussed with any of her classmates, but she sometimes wondered how they would have reacted if she’d ever told them about her adventures on Old Earth. Or mentioned the fact that before she was fifteen T-years old she had killed three men with her bare hands.

No. Helen Zilwicki knew far better than most exactly what had been going through Lady Harrington’s mind when she decided to match a piece of technology that was over two millennia old against modern hand weapons in a personal shoot out with a pirate leader and his bodyguards. But she was also young enough to want very badly to see that piece of technology in action.

Unfortunately, she was already running late for her martial arts class. Although she was rapidly mastering the Academy’s preferred coup de vitesse style, she was also spending extra time assisting Chief Maddison in teaching the more esoteric Neue-Stil Handgemenge developed on New Berlin. It wasn’t widely practiced in the Star Kingdom, but she’d had the privilege of studying it under sensei Robert Tye, one of Old Earth’s two or three most experienced practitioners. Despite her youth, that made her a teaching resource Maddison was determined to put to maximum use. Helen sincerely enjoyed teaching others, but it did put an undeniable squeeze on her time. And even if it hadn’t, she’d already finished her own scheduled pistol training for the day. Which meant she couldn’t think of an excuse which would justify her in hanging around while Lady Harrington took her .45 to the shooting line.