"David Weber - Worlds of Honor 4 - Service of the Sword" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weber David)

to have Judith become some other man's prize, so tied into her vac suit was a version of the dead
man's switch, rigged so that if Ephraim died, or even if he viewed their situation as hopeless,
Judith would also die.
What Ephraim didn't realize was that Judith knew all about the switch, and had disabled it
while leaving the circuit sufficiently intact to hide her tampering from routine equipment checks.
She re-checked the suit every time she put it on, reassured in the knowledge that the suit was only
issued to her when the situation was critical, and her captors too distracted to do more than scan
the telltales.
Thus Judith came to revel in her shipboard time.
As her confidence grew, Judith didn't restrict her education in ship systems to when she was
aboard Aaron's Rod. Ephraim had purchased training simulation software for the use of his sons.
Both the software and the VR rigs used for the most realistic training were expensive beyond
Ephraim's usual prudent parsimony. However, he dreamed of one day commanding a privateer
fleet with his sons as captains. The actions of this fleet would make the name Templeton famous
throughout Masada, earning the clan a posting at the forefront of the action when the day came to
make a decisive strike against the heretics on Grayson.
Fourteen year-old Judith discovered the best times to extract a VR rig from the lockers.
Unlike her stepsons, who gloried in battle scenarios, she concentrated on the boring programs:
Piloting a ship. Preparing for a hyper translation and adjusting to post-translation nausea.
Checking and understanding astrogation coordinates. Scanning for communications.
In careful secrecy, Judith forced herself to learn how to get the most out of each of the
preprogrammed routines that ran the essential ship stations, knowing that when her time came she
would likely have to do without much in the way of a crew.
Judith was working her way through a particularly complicated scenario dealing with the
aftereffects of a power surge following a return to N-space, when the VR rig was jerked off her
face.
"What do you think you are doing?" Ephraim's senior wife hissed.
***
Like every other member of his graduating class, Michael Winton was given an opportunity
to visit his family before reporting to his new assignment. It was good to be home, though
Michael's suite at Mount Royal Palace seemed unnecessarily large and rather empty without
Todd's explosively effusive companionship.
Empty, that was, unless Beth's son, Roger, came exploding into the room. Roger was three T-
years old, with all the energy and curiosity that could be wished for in that delightful age when a
baby is becoming distinctly a little boy.
When Roger reached his sixth Manticoran birthdayтАФwhich would make him just over ten, by
standard reckoningтАФhe would be subjected to a comprehensive battery of physical and mental
tests meant to guarantee that he was suited to be the next king. Until then, Michael would
continue to hold the title Crown Prince and be next in the succession. Remembering his own
encounter with a similar battery of tests, Michael had no doubt that Roger would pass with well
over the minimum requirements.
Seven more years to go, Michael thought without the least trace of wistfulness. Then I can be
just plain Prince Michael againтАФand if Beth has another kid or two, I'll drop so far down the
succession I'll be like Aunt Caitrin, just another superfluous noble.
He grinned at the thought, swinging a delightedly shrieking Roger around and around in
circles. He thought there was probably no one less superfluous than Duchess Winton-Henke, his
late father's younger sister, but he knew she'd enjoy the joke as much as he did.
All in all, Michael didn't mind having someone else make his bed, having the luxury to sleep
late, the opportunity to wear something other than his uniform. The business of the Star Kingdom
did not precisely stop because the Crown Prince was home from school, but Beth found excuses