Honor was no longer on the bridge to watch. Bachfisch’s eyes had passed over her with incurious impersonality while he punched up Major McKinley, the commander of War Maiden’s embarked Marine company, on the internal com and instructed her to prepare a boarding party. But then those eyes had tracked back to his assistant astrogator’s assistant.

“I’ll be attaching a couple of naval officers, as well,” he told McKinley, still looking at Honor.

“Yes, Sir,” the Marine’s reply came back, and Bachfisch released the com stud.

“Commander Hirake,” he said, “please lay below to the boat bay to join the boarding party. And take Ms. Harrington with you.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the tac officer acknowledged and stood. “You have Tactical, Ms. Bradlaugh.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” Audrey acknowledged, and darted a quick, envious glance at her cabin mate.

“Come along, Ms. Harrington,” Hirake said, and Honor stood quickly.

“Sir, I request relief,” she said to Saunders, and the lieutenant nodded.

“You stand relieved, Ms. Harrington,” he said with equal formality.

“Thank you, Sir.” Honor turned to follow Hirake through the bridge hatch, but Captain Bachfisch raised one hand in an admonishing gesture and halted them.

“Don’t forget your sidearm this time,” he told Hirake rather pointedly, and she nodded. “Good,” he said. “In that case, people, let’s be about it,” he added, and waved them off his bridge.

Hirake said nothing in the lift car. Despite War Maiden’s age and the idiosyncratic layout of her lift shafts, the trip from the bridge to the boat bay was relatively brief, but it lasted more than long enough for conflicting waves of anticipation and dread to wash through Honor. She had no idea why the Captain had picked her for this duty, but she’d heard more than enough grizzly stories from instructors and noncoms at the Academy to produce a stomach-clenching apprehension. Yet hunting down pirates—and cleaning up the wreckage in their wake—was part of the duty she’d signed on to perform, and not even the queasiness in her midsection could quench her sense of excitement finally confronting its reality.

Lieutenant Blackburn’s Second Platoon was waiting in the boat bay, but Honor was a bit surprised to see that Captain McKinley and Sergeant-Major Kutkin were also present. She’d assumed McKinley would send one of her junior officers, but she and Kutkin obviously intended to come along in person, for both of them were skinsuited, and the sergeant-major had a pulse rifle slung over his shoulder. Major McKinley didn’t carry a rifle, but the pulser holstered at her hip looked almost like a part of her, and its grip was well worn.

The Marine officer’s blue eyes examined the newcomers with clinical dispassion and just a hint of disapproval, and Hirake sighed.

“All right, Katingo,” she said resignedly. “The Skipper already peeled a strip off me, so give me a damned gun.”

“It’s nice to know someone aboard the ship knows Regs,” McKinley observed, and nodded to a noncom standing to one side. Honor hadn’t seen him at first, but she recognized Sergeant Tausig as he stepped forward and silently passed a regulation gun belt and pulser to the tac officer. Lieutenant Commander Hirake took them a bit gingerly and buckled the belt around her waist. It was obvious to Honor that the Navy officer felt uncomfortable with the sidearm, but Hirake drew the pulser and made a brief but thorough inspection of its safety and magazine indicators before she returned it to its holster.

“Here, Ma’am,” Tausig said, and Honor held out her hand for a matching belt. She felt both the major and the sergeant-major watching her, but she allowed herself to show no sign of her awareness as she buckled the belt and adjusted it comfortably. Then she turned slightly away, drew the pulser—keeping its muzzle pointed carefully away from anyone else—visually checked the safety and both magazine indicators and the power cell readout, then ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber to be certain it was unloaded. She replaced the magazine and reholstered the weapon. The military issue flapped holster was clumsy and bulky compared to the semi-custom civilian rig Honor had always carried in the Sphinx bush, but the pulser’s weight felt comfortingly familiar at her hip, and Sergeant Tausig’s eyes met hers with a brief flash of approval as she looked up once more.

“All right, people,” Major McKinley said, raising her voice as she turned to address Blackburn’s platoon. “You all know the drill. Remember, we do this by The Book, and I will personally have the ass of anyone who fucks up.”

She didn’t ask if her audience understood. She didn’t have to, Honor thought. Not when she’d made herself clear in that tone of voice. Of course, it would have been nice if someone had told Honor what “the drill” was, but it was an imperfect universe. She’d just have to keep her eyes on everyone else and take her cues from them. And at least, given the Captain’s parting injunction to Hirake and McKinley’s response to it, she might not be the only one who needed a keeper.

The pinnace was just like dozens of other pinnaces Honor had boarded during Academy training exercises, but it didn’t feel that way. Not with forty-six grim, hard-faced, armed-to-the-teeth Marines and their weapons packed into it. She sat next to Lieutenant Commander Hirake at the rear of the passenger compartment, and watched through the view port beside her as the pinnace crossed the last few hundred kilometers between War Maiden and Gryphon’s Pride. The big freighter grew rapidly as they came up on it from astern, and the pinnace’s pilot cut his wedge and went to reaction thrusters, then angled his flight to spiral up and around the huge hull.

Honor and Hirake were tied into the Marines’ com net. There was no chatter, and Honor sensed the intensity with which the Marines fortunate enough to have view port seats, veterans all, stared out at the freighter. Then the pilot spoke over the net.

“I have debris, Major,” he said in a flat, professional voice. “At your ten o’clock high position.” There were a few seconds of silence, then, “Looks like bodies, Ma’am.”

“I see them, Coxswain,” McKinley said tonelessly. Honor was on the wrong side of the pinnace to lean closer to her port and peer forward. For a moment she felt frustrated, but then that changed into gratitude for the accident of seating that had kept her from doing just that. She would have felt ashamed and somehow unclean if Hirake and the Marines had seen her craning her neck while she gawked at the bodies like some sort of sick disaster-watcher or a news service ghoul.

“Coming up on her main starboard midships hatch, Ma’am,” the pilot reported a few minutes later. “Looks like the cargo bays are still sealed, but the forward personnel hatch is open. Want me to go for a hard docking?”

“No, we’ll stick to The Book,” McKinley said. “Hold position at two hundred meters.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am.”

The pilot nudged the pinnace into a stationary position relative to the freighter with the pinnace’s swept wing tip almost exactly two hundred meters from the hull, and Sergeant-Major Kutkin shoved all two meters of his height up out of his seat. Lieutenant Blackburn was no more than a second behind the sergeant-major, and Kutkin watched with an approving proprietary air as the lieutenant addressed his platoon.

“All right, Marines, let’s do it. Carras, you’ve got point. Janssen, you’ve got the backdoor. The rest of you in standard, just like we trained for it.” He waited a moment, watching as two or three of his troopers adjusted position slightly, then grunted in approval. “Helmet up and let’s go,” he said.

Honor unclipped her own helmet from the carry point on her chest and put it on. She gave it a little extra twist to be sure it was seated properly and raised her left arm to press the proper key on the sleeve keypad. Her helmet HUD lit immediately, and she automatically checked the telltale which confirmed a good seal and the digital readout on her oxygen supply. Both were nominal, and she took her place—as befitted her lowly status—at the very rear of the queue to the pinnace’s port hatch. With so many personnel to unload, the flight crew made no effort to cycle them through the air lock. Instead, they cracked the outer hatch and vented the compartment’s air to space. Honor felt the pressure tug at her for several seconds as the air bled outward, but then the sensation of unseen hands plucking at her limbs faded and her skinsuit audio pickups brought her the absolute silence of vacuum.