It was an expression which changed abruptly, and Honor’s head snapped up as she tasted the surprise and apprehension in his emotions.

“What?” she asked sharply.

“Tim says Pirate’s Bane just passed the perimeter patrols, My Lady,” the armsman replied, using the flag lieutenant’s first name instead of the more formal rank titles he was usually careful to employ out of deference to a young man’s dignity. Now he met his Steadholder’s eyes, and his expression was taut. “He says she’s damaged—badly.”

Honor stared at him for perhaps two breaths, her thoughts completely frozen. Then they jerked back into motion with an almost physical shock.

“How badly damaged?” The question came out crisply, but even as she asked it she was aware of how much a lie that calmness was. “And what about Captain Bachfisch?”

“Tim doesn’t know exactly how bad it is, My Lady. But from what he said, it doesn’t sound good.” The armsman inhaled. “And it was her executive officer who answered the patrol’s challenge. He says Captain Bachfisch has been wounded.”

· · • · ·

Honor held herself in her seat in the pinnace by sheer force of will. Nimitz was curled in her lap, and she felt the physical tension in his muscles as the pinnace cut its drive and Pirate’s Bane’s boat bay tractors reached out for it.

She looked out through the armorplast viewport, and her jaw muscles clenched as she saw the ugly holes blown in the Bane’s skin. “Badly,” she supposed was one way to describe what had happened to the armed merchantman. Personally, she considered it to be grossly inadequate.

The pinnace rolled on its internal gyros, aligning itself so the tractors could deposit it gently in the docking buffers. At least the bay gallery was still vacuum tight, she thought grimly as she watched the personnel tube run out to the pinnace’s airlock. Bleak anger and anxiety roiled within her, and then she looked down as a hand-foot patted her on the knee.

<They said he’ll be all right,> Nimitz’s true-hands signed.

“No,” she replied. “They told me that he said he’ll be all right. There’s a difference.”

<He wouldn’t lie. Not to you. Not about this.>

“Stinker,” Honor sighed, “sometimes I think ’cats still have a lot to learn about humans. There may not be any point in empaths or telepaths trying to lie to each other, but we two-foots always think we get away with it. And when we don’t want someone to worry…”

<I know. But still say wouldn’t lie to you. Besides,> even through the ’cat’s own anxiety, she tasted a sudden flicker of amusement, <he knows what you’d do to him when he got better if did.>

Honor looked down at him, and then, to her own amazement, she actually chuckled.

“You may have a point,” she conceded. “On the other hand,” she sobered again, “the fact that it was his exec who reported in doesn’t sound good.”

<Will know soon,> Nimitz signed back. <Green light.>