JACOB ZAVALA'S SIXTH DESTROYER: a long-overdue fan fiction in the Honor Harrington universe

[Copperfox]

I'm already setting up a _parody_ of David Weber's far-future military novels, this version being related to my own "Dystopian Earth." But what I _now_ offer is explicitly fan fiction, universes removed from any "Spacebullies" material. Thus, David Weber's canonical characters-- Duchess Admiral Honor Harrington and the rest-- will be portrayed under their original author-bestowed names. I make no ownership claim to characters invented by Mister Weber or his co-author Eric Flint. This novelette takes place years after the events of To End In Fire.

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Bill Steadman, a no-nonsense gentleman renowned across the Talbott Quadrant, smiled. "Confound me if it ain't weird havin' a pulser shaped like my old chemical-propellant six-gun."

"Technically, Bill, it's a twelve-gun," Anton Zilwicki drily observed. "Rail-gun physics, purely penetration. If the pulser darts had even the diameter of a B-B, the same velocity would send each dart through twelve centimeters of ceramacrete."

Catherine Montaigne-Zilwicki, a slender, dignified woman, a head taller than the computer hacker plus heavyweight wrestler to whom she had finally gotten church-married, hugged him from behind. "Anton, darling, once little Priscilla reaches fifteen standard years, you'll be asking Mister Steadman to lend the pulser back to you." Priscilla, the youngest Zilwicki offspring, reinforced a pretended pout with an unconvincing foot-stamp.

Twirling the verified-as-unloaded handgun, the interstellar beef merchant holstered it while addressing the Manticoran parliamentarian. "No plainsman on Planet Montana would ever misbehave toward a female."

Queen Berry of Torch, Anton and Cathy's middle daughter (whose gently capricious nature had won the hearts of that planet's formerly enslaved people) pointed a playful thumb at her tomboyish elder sister Helen. "Mister Steadman, try to persuade Helen to stay out of any chastisement. When you were fighting to stop offworld high-rollers from taking over Montana, you showed you were slow to anger. Helen's the opposite."

Helen objected, and this not in jest. "I've never killed anyone."

Mildly, but resolutely, the "Mouse Queen" said, "The detail of not killing your target is not proof that your violence was justified. Don't think I never notice you bullying Paolo. If a man beat you up without cause, you'd yell bloody murder. But you're gambling hard on your boyfriend's patience. Don't cry to Dad and me if you punch or kick Paolo over some remark you don't happen to like, and then he finds his backbone and never speaks to you again."

A younger woman, around Helen's age but not related to anyone, joined the conversation. (She was here as the research lead for the impending expedition). "But what if a marine biologist visiting this sector wanted you to misbehave a little? Honestly, I think you'd be putting me off even if you didn't have Prolong giving you more time to decide on a mate."

Turning, Bill touched the brim of his custom-fitted Stetson. "Miss Ingrid, I think you know, I think even the Queen and her Consort know by now, that you'n me are on the trail to collectin' celery for the treecat guests at our wedding. All the same, a waiting period is a smart custom; just in case of any second thoughts, either of us backing out won't count as breach of promise."

Leaning into Mister Steadman's arms, Ingrid Cole leaned into him. "Glad Bernardus van Dort made things right with you and our lot. When you and I trade vows, he'll furnish a no-faking banquet speech."

 

[Copperfox]

The next day, Bill and Ingrid caught a shuttle up to Montana's one large orbital dock. Gathered around it were six recent- model warships. The shuttle pilot, Tammy Highland, a local woman whose family had always favored the Steadmans, was more than glad to tell facts to her prestigious passengers.

"Do you see the missile-tube configuration on that Avalon-class light cruiser? It was a major job transforming the bow and stern tubes to use the Mark-Sixteens Rolands carry."

Intending no disrespect, a young man in Ingrid's team asked: "That much redesigning to add only two more missiles to the ship's offensive armament?"

"The Rolands themselves were designed around the Mark 16's. The length of any dual-drive missile wouldn't allow it to fit in broadside batteries. The fuselage length would thrust each missile clear through the outer hull, into the crew spaces. And the overhaul is justified by the punch a Mark 16 delivers. What's more, the broadside space thus freed up is space to install missile defense.

"Of course, any warship can tow missile pods astern, but this in turn places a drag on the impellers. And we're not heading for a fight. The Moishe Dayan is carrying only one reload per missile tube.