“There's always a purpose, Sir,” Travis said, a little stiffly. “Even if it isn't obvious.”
“I appreciate your optimism in such things,” Heissman said. “But I have to say it makes you something of an anomaly. Typically, someone as solid as you are on following procedure is mentally rigid in all other aspects of life. You, in contrast, not only can think outside the lines, but you sometimes go ahead and draw your own lines.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Travis said, wondering if that boiled down to a compliment or an indictment. “But I really didn't do anything all that extraordinary.”
“People with a talent for something never think it's a big deal,” Heissman said dryly. “The point I was going to make was that both of those characteristics are going to make you unpopular in certain circles. But you will be noticed, and appreciated, by the people who matter. For whatever that's worth.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Travis said. “Please understand in turn that I didn't join the RMN for glory or recognition. I joined to help protect the Star Kingdom.” He hesitated. “And if necessary, to die for it.”
“I know,” Heissman said, his voice going a little darker. “Unfortunately, that's going to make you unpopular in certain quarters, too. Genuine, unashamed patriots are an embarrassment to the cynical and manipulative.”
Some of the lines in his face smoothed out. “Which leads me to my final question. This whole ‘travesty of this, travesty of that' sarcastic catchphrase that seems to follow you around. What's all that about, anyway?”
Travis sighed. “It started back in high school,” he said reluctantly. “One of the teachers fancied himself a scholar and a wit, and liked to give his students nicknames. I was Travis Uriah Long, or Travis U. Long, which he thought sounded like Travis Oolong, which was a type of Old Earth tea. Hence, Travis Tea.”
“Travesty,” Heissman said with a nod, a small smile playing across his face. “And with your penchant for enforcing even minor regulations, the sarcastic direction was probably inevitable.”
“Yes, Sir.” Travis braced himself. “I'd appreciate it, Sir, if you didn't . . .pass it around too much.”
“Not a problem,” Heissman said. “Well. I've just been informed that Casey's going to be another month in dock, so everyone's leave's been extended. But you may be called up for more testimony at any time, so don't stray too far from Landing City.”
And then, to Travis's surprise, he rose to his feet. “Well done, Travis,” the commodore said as they exchanged salutes. “I look forward to returning to Casey with you. And as soon as possible.”
His eyes went a little distant. “Because I have a feeling Manticore's about to lose the nice, peaceful backwater status we've enjoyed for so long. I don't know how or why. I don't think anyone does. But I can guarantee this much: as of two weeks ago the RMN is no longer a joke and a political football. Someone out there has us in their sights . . .and we are going to figure out who.”
His expression tightened. “You said you were willing to die for the Star Kingdom. You may very well get that chance.”
The End
BEAUTY AND
THE BEAST
David Weber
“Lieutenant Harrington?”
Alfred Harrington turned. After the better part of two T-years, it no longer felt strange not to be addressed as “Gunny,” but it didn't feel completely natural to be addressed as “Lieutenant,” either. No doubt that would change. Everything changed, after all.
“Yes?” he said, raising one eyebrow as he looked at the man who'd addressed him.
He was a shrimpy little fellow. No more than a hundred and fifty-six centimeters—fifty-eight, at the outside—compared to Alfred's own two meters. Like a lot of Beowulf's population, he had the almond-shaped eyes of Old Earth's Asia, dark hair, and a complexion which reminded Alfred of Sphinxian sandal oak. And, on second impression, shrimpy or not there was something about him that suggested he might be just about as tough as sandal oak. It wasn't really anything a man could put his finger on. Just something about the way he stood, or about the well-defined musculature, perhaps. Or about the eyes. Yes, it was the eyes, Alfred realized. He'd seen eyes like that before. They might have been differently shaped, or a different color, but he'd seen them.
“I'm Jacques Benton-Ramirez y Chou,” the little fellow said.
“Gesundheit,” Alfred said, before he could stop himself, then shook his head. “Sorry. I don't suppose