By David Weber
What expense victory? The struggle with the Republic of Haven has resumed . . . disastrously for the big name country of Manticore. Admiral woman Dame Honor Harrington, Steadholder and Duchess Harrington, the one positive Allied commander of the outlet section of the hot struggle, has been recalled from the Sidemore process to command 8th Fleet. we all know 8th Fleet is the Alliance's basic offensive command, which makes it the normal task for the girl the media calls “the Salamander.” yet what many of the public DOESN'T comprehend is that not just are the megastar state and its Allies badly outnumbered via the Republic's new fleet, yet that the percentages are going to get progressively worse. 8th Fleet's task is to one way or the other hinder these odds from crushing the Alliance sooner than the superstar nation can regain its strategic stability. It's a role which won't be performed cost effectively. Honor Harrington needs to meet her ambitious duties with inferior forces while she copes with tumultuous alterations in her own and public existence. the choice to victory is overall defeat, but this time the price of victory could be agonizingly excessive.
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Extra resources for At All Costs (Honor Harrington, Book 11)
Wrong,’ Kevin said. ’ Fat said. ’ ‘Kevin’s got the corpse now,’ David said. ‘To hold up. That was the whole point of the cat’s existence. ’ ‘God did,’ Kevin said. ‘So God created a refutation of his own goodness,’ Sherri said. ’ ‘God is stupid,’ Kevin said. ‘We have a stupid deity. ’ ‘You just need two cats,’ Kevin said. ’ But he could obviously see where she was leading him. ‘It takes –’ He paused, grinning. ’ Sherri said. ’ Sherri said. ‘They –’ Again Kevin hesitated. ‘They are their purpose.
He did not know his own life was on the line. This was 1971. In 1972 he would be up north in Vancouver, British Columbia, involved in trying to kill himself, alone, poor and scared, in a foreign city. Right now he was spared that knowledge. All he wanted to do was coax Gloria up to Marin County so he could help her. One of God’s greatest mercies is that he keeps us perpetually occluded. In 1976, totally crazy with grief, Horselover Fat would slit his wrist (the Vancouver suicide attempt having failed), take forty-nine tablets of high-grade digitalis, and sit in a closed garage with his car motor running-and fail there, too.
This issue had now passed over into Horselover Fat’s theological world as a problem for us – his friends – to field. It would have been simple to tie the two together in Fat’s case: the dope he did during the Sixties had pickled his head on into the Seventies. If I could have arranged it so that I could think so, I would have; I like solutions that answer a variety of problems simultaneously. But I really couldn’t think so. Fat hadn’t done psychedelics, at least not to any real extent. Once, in 1964, when Sandoz LSD-25 could still be acquired – especially in Berkeley – Fat had dropped one huge hit of it and had abreacted back in time or had shot forward in time or up outside of time; anyhow he had spoken in Latin and believed that the Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath, had come.