By David Weber
What expense victory? The conflict with the Republic of Haven has resumed . . . disastrously for the celebrity country of Manticore. Admiral woman Dame Honor Harrington, Steadholder and Duchess Harrington, the only triumphant Allied commander of the hole part of the hot warfare, 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 common task for the lady the media calls “the Salamander.” yet what lots of the public DOESN'T recognize is that not just are the famous person country and its Allies badly outnumbered through the Republic's new fleet, yet that the chances are going to get gradually worse. 8th Fleet's activity is to by some means hinder these odds from crushing the Alliance ahead of the famous person country can regain its strategic stability. It's a role which won't be performed affordably. Honor Harrington needs to meet her ambitious tasks with inferior forces whilst she copes with tumultuous adjustments in her own and public existence. the choice to victory is overall defeat, but this time the price of victory can be agonizingly excessive.
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Additional resources for At All Costs (Honor Harrington, Book 11)
Maybe she'd given one of them a bum steer, and this was payback time. "I'll just go up and have a quick look," I said, and took our cups to the sink. "You be careful, August," she told me. To my immense surprise, she reached down and held out an old cricket bat that had been leaning against one table leg on her side. "Take this. " Then she insisted on a final cup of cocoa for both of us, so I rolled my eyes to heaven and gave in. I packed Great-aunt Tansy off to bed early in her slightly sour old-lady-scented ground-floor bedroom at the front of the house, and went upstairs.
She twinkled at me naughtily. " I shrugged, led her to the kitchen. Good grief, I'd fallen from some sort of creepy thriller into a Jane Austen novel. But no, Tansy had long been an aficionado of faiths. Last time I was here, she'd been attending a Theosophical revival temple of some sort, the Annie Besant Occult Chemistry Fellowship. I settled Mrs. Abbott with a cup of tea, went back and collected the spoiled breakfast from outside Tansy's door, nibbling at the bacon like an anxious raccoon.
I learned to round up a few thousand head of cattle at a time from the back of a bounding Suzuki bike, 800 ccs and lean as a greyhound. On a blazing 41-degree-Celsius Summer Day (which in Chicago was Winter Day, or would be in a few hours' time when December 33 was done), I ate ritual damper and rum cake with the other jackaroos and two hotly pursued jillaroos, drinking Bundy rum and Coke and singing western laments. American West, that is. Nothing is more unnerving than hearing three black aboriginal stockmen whose ancestors had dwelled in that part of the country for upward of 50,000 years singing "The Streets of Laredo" in totally unself-conscious American hillbilly accents.
At All Costs (Honor Harrington, Book 11) by David Weber