Captain (7 page)

I blinked. That duty had been
so
miserable… "I see, sir."

"I was wrong to do that," he continued. "How wrong I'm only now beginning to appreciate. Hearing about Blaine's apology made me want to get that off my chest, David. I'm sorry to have done that to you."

I smiled a little. "In the end it came out okay."

He smiled back. "Indeed it did." Then the expression faded. "You've transcended your Rabbithood, David, at least within the navy. Those men out in my waiting room—they're good officers, most of them. They've commanded ships, made life-and-death decisions… Some have killed almost as many Imperials as you have. Yet they were as giddy as schoolgirls at the prospect of meeting you. And this knowing full well that you'd been moved ahead of them in line—many have been waiting
weeks
to see me. They didn't resent it at all, because, well… I'm not sure there's even a word for where you stand with them." He shook his head. "No ex African slave ever accomplished anything even remotely like that, David—if they had, I'd know. Some achieved remarkable things, yes—Frederick Douglas, for example, is one of my personal heroes. But… There's something special about winning victories, particularly during a losing war. It makes a man a hero in a way that nothing else can." He looked me up and down. "Or a Rabbit, perhaps."

I felt myself blushing again. "Sir, I—"

Once again he cut off my words. "David, your fellow officers used to mutter and curse about you—that doesn't surprise you, does it?"

"No, sir," I admitted.

"Today," he continued, "if I were to remind the mutterers of this they'd be deeply ashamed. You should know that there's a sort of unwritten rule on the subject these days. Everyone is allowed to claim they believed in you from the very beginning, even when we all recall quite clearly that they didn't." He smiled again. "Success has a thousand fathers. Not many officers will be as bighearted or as honest as Blaine, David. They won't admit their mistake. But they
will
respect you, and the Rabbits who come after you. Of all the services you've performed for your sovereign, I'd consider that the largest and most important."

I worked my lips, but no words came out. The subject was making me acutely uncomfortable.   

"Anyway," Admiral Panetta declared. "I just wanted to get that off my chest." Then he leaned back in his big leather chair and took another sip of rye. "So, we've dealt with the past. Now comes the larger question. What of the future?"

I wriggled my nose in thought for a moment before replying. "The truth is… I haven't thought much about that, sir."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?" Then he looked down at the folder on his desk—
my
folder, I suddenly realized. Over which he was all-powerful. "His Majesty has commanded that your life not be risked again—a decision with which I completely concur, by the way. We agree that you're far too valuable for that. And, that you've faced enough danger."

I gulped. "I'll gladly go wherever I'm ordered, sir."

"Of course, David." He smiled. "I'm not in the slightest doubt of that." He idly flipped a couple pages. "When I make this sort of decision, I usually try to balance two factors—the needs of the individual and the interests of the service. So let's look at those first." He flipped a couple of pages. "Officers of your age and length of service are almost always in need of some sort of resume upgrade. Administrative officers tend to be short on field-command experience, while those who've captained small vessels as lieutenants or commanders tend not to have held responsible positions in long-term developmental projects." He closed the folder. "But once again you're unique, David. While there was a lot of doubt about your fencibles in the beginning—and once again, I was on the wrong side of the argument!—today there are thirty-eight fencible vessels devoted to convoy escort alone. We've even taken them interstellar, where they were originally intended to be a localized force. Our flag officers shudder at the very
thought
of doing without these ships and crews." He looked me directly in the eye. "You headed one of the most successful, quickest-moving procurement programs in the entire history of the navy, David. That's a fairly solid resume entry, if you ask me! And as for your combat and command record…" He shook his head. "Son, I can only wish that my own was as spectacular."

I shifted awkwardly in my seat.

"As far as the good of the service… Every flag-officer in the fleet will request you specifically by name, once word of your escape makes it out to the front lines. But they won't get you; as I said, you're not to be placed at risk again." He took another sip. "I'd send you to the Office of Strategic Planning, here in this very building. But they insist on nothing but War College graduates, and sadly for all your virtues you're not that."

"I've read the texts," I replied. "And… I'd like to attend, sir."

He nodded. "I'd like to send you. But classes have been suspended for the duration—we need the instructors in the field." He paused. "I'm sorry, David. I'd arrange it in a minute if I could."

"Of course, sir," I replied. "I understand."

"So…" he continued, re-opening my folder. "I find myself confronted with the problem of placing a grossly
over
qualified officer for once, instead of someone needing to be helped along." He turned more pages. "You've been spending quite a lot of time in the Hall of Nobles recently, haven't you?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir. It's…. Marcus House business."

He smiled. "The navy well appreciates the importance of House business," he replied. "Especially just now, with the succession at stake." His eyes narrowed. "You and James are very close. Like brothers, some say."

"That's a fair description, sir," I admitted.

He nodded. "Then that's a factor as well. He'll be counting on you. Your orders will state very clearly that when your leave runs out you're still to be permitted to spend as much time as you deem necessary on your family's affairs, at least until the situation stabilizes. Which dictates an independent assignment of some kind, one in which you're obliged to report directly to no one." His smile vanished. "The navy can't openly take sides. But we most emphatically do
not
support a regency. It'd be a strategic calamity of the first magnitude. Is that clear, David? From our point of view, any measures you take with that in mind will be considered consonant with your duty, no matter what they are or how they might impact your primary assignment. This includes the dispersal of funds and use of official navy transportation, at your discretion—you'll be assigned a purser qualified to file the necessary confidential paperwork. There'll be a secret addendum to your orders regarding all this."

I gulped. That meant I was being trusted, utterly and completely. Most officers went their entire careers without having half so much confidence placed in them. "Thank you, sir. But—"

"So," he interrupted a third time. "We need to find you a billet that's not terribly demanding in terms of time, or at least one where you can lean heavily on a subordinate who we'll ensure is completely and totally sympathetic in regards to the true circumstances." He smiled. "And preferably a position that takes advantage of your unique personal status. It'd also be nice if it were close to the capitol, so you can commute easily." He closed the folder one last time, then offered his biggest smile yet. "David, have you ever considered becoming the Academy's new Commandant?"

13

Fortunately I didn't have to take up my new command right away. The old Commandant, Captain Hess, was stepping down early because he'd suffered a terrible tragedy in his life. His two sons had both recently died in an obscure and unimportant battle out in the middle of nowhere, then his wife took an overdose of pills in order to join them. The captain was every bit as devastated as could be imagined under the circumstances, and one didn't hurry a man along after such an experience. Hess had served the navy both well and nobly for almost forty years; indeed, only truly outstanding officers were ever placed in charge of the Academy. Traditionally they were there to serve as role models as much as anything else.

So instead of being super-eager to step in like I usually was, I did the decent thing and remained on leave. This allowed Hess to finish out the spring semester, even though my orders permitted me to take charge right away. Admiral Panetta was deeply worried about Hess's mental state, but after meeting him in person it was clear to me that that booting him early would've been crueler still. All the man had to look forward to was a suddenly cold and lonely retirement—normally the Academy job was reserved for men with just a year or two of active service left. He was genuinely grateful to me for not pressuring him and welcomed my presence whenever I chose to visit the campus, which was almost weekly. "Don't even bother calling first, Commander," he assured me with what looked like the first smile to enliven his features in months. "Everything will always be open to you. Thank you so much for your kindness! And while we've already got a commencement speaker lined up for graduation, would you be willing to give a speech as well? I know who full well who the snotties
really
want to hear from!"

This worked out well for me on several different levels. For one thing it left me with very little actual work, excepting a bit of preparatory study and investigation. That allowed me more time with Uncle Robert, which he at least felt was crucial. Not that he was making any noticeable progress—things finally gridlocked so tightly at fourteen to ten on all crucial issues that he invoked a rarely-use parliamentary procedure to force the House of Lords to cease considering any meaningful business at all until he could consult with James, who was expected to arrive in-system any week now. While the maneuver was good for a short-term stall, it was also a major confession of weakness. "Perhaps they
are
going to attempt to crown either Patrick or Juro," my uncle mused after Nestor and I showed him our mess of a chart. He smiled when he saw it, then hung it up on his office wall so we could modify it in light of his own backroom, non-public knowledge. When we were done the split was clearer than ever— it was the shipping interests we were ranged against, all right, along with the miners and the farmers. The one thing that all the opposing Houses except one shared in common were economies based on the so-called "base" industries. The ones that produced the raw materials at the bottom of the economic food-chain, in other words—high-bulk low-cost materials.

I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. "It's impossible, sir!" Nestor declared. "For them to crown anyone but James or Stephan, they'd just about have to be—"

"Dead," my uncle finished for him, meeting his eyes coldly. "If that shocks you, you're not half as smart as I thought you were."

There was a long, cold silence during which Nestor simply stared off into the distance. "We're already being as careful as we can be," Uncle Robert said eventually. "The reason it's taking James so long to get here is because he's traveling a roundabout route—even
I
don't exactly what day he's due to arrive. But still…" He sighed and shook his head again. "What lunacy an assassination would be, during a time of war!"

"Unless they
want
us to lose," I observed eventually.

My uncle frowned again. He didn't like that sort of talk—it wasn't proper for Peers of the Realm to speak of each other as even potential traitors. "What would they possibly have to gain?" he demanded in reply, not for the first time. "The Emperor has reduced every other House save his own to mere vassalage. He's had the heads of three House Lords! Aligning with him is
suicide
!" 

"Of course," I agreed. But I didn't sound very confident, and there was good reason for it. No one could be certain of what was going on, or of what was going through whose minds. "Marcus has grown very strong indeed," I observed at last. "So much so that we with our closest allies are economically more powerful than the rest combined. In the long run advanced tech pays considerably better than freighters and wheat fields. Our votes in the Hall don't represent our true influence. We've grown and grown, while the rest have progressed far more slowly. Grant us the crown and its influence as well, and in some ways we
become
the Kingdom." My eyes narrowed. "Perhaps someone fears us more than they fear the Emperor?"

"But
why
?" the chief Marcus strategist replied, throwing up his hands. "We've always been on the up-and-up with everyone."

"Perhaps," I muttered, staring at the chart. While Marcus might be supreme among the ruling families, another had attempted in recent decades to offer us at least a limited degree of competition.  They'd built universities, funded extensive research and attracted academic talent from all over human space. Indeed, my good friend Heinrich's father, possibly the top Field theory man alive, worked for them. While they'd made a late start and still weren't nearly as good at innovation as we were, their House had made considerable progress in building their economy beyond the bulk minerals and cargo shipping that'd been their stock in trade for practically forever. "But others may not agree that we're so benevolent." I sighed and shook my head. All I had was a gut feeling, one which had first come to me for the entirely silly reason that their Lord sat next to the Emperor's old seat in the Hall of Nobles. And yet… Everything lined up!
Everything
! "It's Wilkes," I whispered, shaking my head. "They've cut a deal with the Empire. Nothing else makes sense."