Commander (2 page)

It grated on the other surviving Zombie Rabbits too, particularly Fremont and Snow. They’d been accorded exactly the same sort of favorable treatment in a relative way, though they were still sleeping on straw sacks and behind a locked door. I made it a point to go visit them regularly—I’d made them marines, damnit, and fully intended to see each and every one of them become a Free Rabbit before it was all said and done. Wherever I went on the base people turned and stared, and even the highest-ranking of officers opened their doors to me. So I was able to get them the best of hay, decks of cards, and all the thousand other luxuries they’d so richly earned. But on the matter of the locked door and slave’s accommodations I found myself unable to make an inch of progress. Standard protocol was apparently to yes me to death to my face, then pretend nothing had been said when it came time for action. Finally I wrote His Majesty himself and asked if he could help, as my personal word of honor was at stake.  I didn’t receive a written reply; instead a Royal Herald journeyed all the way out to my cabin to see me in person. “I’ve spoken personally to the Rabbits,” he explained. “And I’ve let them know that the Throne fully backs your promises. Your friends understand that this isn’t as simple an issue as it might appear to be on the surface. Rome wasn’t built in a day, David. His Highness asks that you remain patient.” But he did do me one favor, at least. I’d made even more unfulfilled commitments to Nestor than I had to the rest—he’d never received any of his reading lessons, for example. With the Herald’s help I was able to persuade the navy to release the little Rabbit to serve as my personal sick berth attendant, even though I wasn’t of high enough rank to rate one. The medical types were still deeply concerned about the state of my digestive tract. After shorting myself so badly of hay for so long I was still having all sorts of troubles and while I was definitely stronger I wasn’t putting on half as much weight as I should be. So Nestor continued to serve as my helper, and on my end I went through the “Dick and Jane” books with him one-on-one until soon he could sound things out for himself, do basic math, and all the rest. “Thank you, sir!” he gushed, practically vibrating with excitement after reading his first word. “I never… I mean…” Then he simply hugged me rabbit-fashion and wept for a very long time.

Up until Nestor’s arrival I’d lived a very simple, nearly monastic life. The cabin was one of Uncle Robert’s favorite retreats, deliberately rustic and primitive. I’d spent most of my days hauling water, preparing my own food, strolling down unimproved trails and admiring the beautiful trout that lay sparkling in the various pools of the nearby stream. My uncle had built the cabin specifically for the pursuit of these fish; the building was decorated with old flyrods and mounted trophies. But once there were two of us, well… Nestor abhorred inactivity as much as I did—it was a common Rabbit trait. So soon he was the one carrying buckets and preparing the food and such, which left me with far too little to do. Finally I dug out my unfinished report on the failure of
Javelin
’s number eleven control rod.  The battlecruiser’s chief engineer and I had worked like the dickens trying to figure out what’d gone wrong with the thing, once I’d recovered enough to help him out. We never did succeed, however. The entire failure sequence, from start to finish, occurred so quickly that the quantum nature of time itself had prevented any data from being recorded. One instant the thing was working perfectly, the next it was gone. This was unacceptable when so many lives and a vessel of such importance were at stake—only a quick reaction by a Field-suited watchstander had saved the ship.

So I’d taken the approach of examining the other control rod data, to see what slight aberrations their instrumentation might’ve picked up as number eleven shattered. And sure enough I’d found a pattern—there’d been a microscopic rise in both temperature and neutrino flux in each and every rod, directly proportional to its physical distance from the failed unit. This was the first time, so far as I could determine, that evidence of a rod’s failure had ever been detected in adjoining bays.
Javelin
’s Chief encouraged me to write this discovery up for the professional journals as a separate paper—“It was your idea after all, so why not?” Now that I had time, I did so. And eventually
The Fleet Engineer’s Journal
ran the thing. It was buried deep in the back, and the byline read “Acting-Lieutenant David Birkenhead, Rated Engineer” instead of the more-prestigious “Serving Engineer”. But just having my name in there at all marked one of the greatest days of my life. Father had read the
Journal
like the Bible, and I’d always thought of its authors as godlike beings whose minds operated on a different level than those of mere mortals like me. If I were indeed a Serving Engineer, the publication would’ve entitled me to wear little red pins in my specialization badges. It was quite a prestigious thing; maybe one in ten engineers ever earned a set of ‘reds’. But in my case it didn’t matter, I supposed. Not being an engineer, I had nowhere to put the things anyway. Except maybe to glue them to the scabbard of my Sword. Which I actually considered for a moment before, reluctantly, pushing the thought aside. Finally I just bought a nice frame for the magazine itself—someday, maybe I’d find a good wall to hang it on.

James also came by to visit sometimes, and once or twice I returned the favor. We weren’t children anymore, so we no longer laughed and played and dashed about together. Instead we sat, sipped Nestor’s wonderful tea, and maybe walked the trails for a few hours. Or discussed old times and shared our dreams and ambitions. Sometimes close childhood friendships fall apart later in life. Ours, it was eminently clear, would remain solid. We were more brothers than friends, by virtue of shared background and (perhaps even more importantly) shared traumas. One cold morning out by the trout stream we formalized our relationship via an ancient ritual. First we slit our right hands open with a fillet knife. Then we pressed the wounds together, palm to palm, and became blood brothers. It was something we should’ve done long since, probably while we were still boys. “When I become king," James promised me, “You shall be foremost among my advisors and trusted above all.”

“When you are king,” I replied, “I’ll offer up my last drop of blood for you. Because you’ll be a good and wise king, which is a gift beyond price to any people.”

Eventually the current king commanded me to the palace to receive another honor. It’d been almost seven years since I’d last seen the old gentleman face to face—in that regard I was very much looking forward to the ceremony. Even though I’d been a mere child, His Majesty's simple and genuine nature had made a deep impression upon me. In a few short minutes, I’d come to love him. Plus I’d get to see James again. Yet otherwise the whole thing was a royal pain in the kiester. I had to have a special white-silk robe and hood made, allow a makeup expert to doll me up like a mannequin, and even spend most of a morning riding in a
wheelchair
, for heaven’s sake, to avoid showing up in scuffed slippers. But when I got there it all turned out to be worth it. His Majesty loved his little surprises, and there at last stood the Zombie Rabbits, all as paint-smeared as I was. Snow, who looked especially lost, was wearing a white robe identical to mine. Despite the strict protocol I smiled wide at him as I followed James into the throne room, he once again honoring me by standing in as the representative of the House of Marcus.

It turned out to be a beautiful ceremony after all, one almost worth all the fussing about. The program began with the lesser awards—every Zombie Station veteran received at least one; His Highness was unstinting indeed. Then Chief Engineer Lancrest was awarded a Staff of Hercules and a field-of-battle promotion. Next it was Snow’s turn in the spotlight. His Majesty saw how frightened he was and took a few extra moments to steady the pure-white rabbit down, asking him simple questions about this and that and pretending enormous interest in the stammered, incomprehensible answers. Finally he presented the Sword, Snow saluted His Majesty even more awkwardly than I’d done as a teenager so long ago, and the whole Court bowed to him just as they’d once done to me.

Then it was my turn.

“Lieutenant Birkenhead," King Albert addressed me after a long moment spent staring deep into my eyes. “You've served me so well that I fear I’m experiencing difficulty finding words and symbols to properly express my gratitude. Never before has a second Sword of Orion been awarded to a living hero. And never, may I say, has a second been so richly deserved.”

Then something unexpected happened. The last time I’d been awarded a Sword, two efficient Court aides had taken care of the actual buckling-on and such. This time, however, His Majesty himself rose to his feet, joints creaking with protest, and hobbled his way in my direction, carrying a little box.

“Sir!” I protested as the whole Court inhaled in a single loud gasp. “Please, don’t hurt—“

“Quiet, David!” His Majesty shushed me. “Shut up and be honored, for once.”

So I bit back my words as His Majesty limped forward, bent painfully over, and snapped a brilliant orange warp-gem into the pre-drilled hole in the hilt of my Sword. My jaw dropped at the sight of the thing; it was the biggest I’d ever heard of, and colored perfectly to match my House’s fire-lily emblem. Warp-gems were the most valuable stones in the universe; about once in ten million running-years they formed on the end of a control-rod in a hyperspace drive. They were made up entirely of juvenile matter, derived from imbalances in the quantum foam and given advanced structure by the action of the engine. Once it was determined that a warp-gem was forming aboard a given vessel, if at all possible her captain by tradition abandoned his mission and made a half-Jump into hyperspace. Then he remained there as long as feasible so that it could grow and grow and grow. The result was usually well worth the diversion in both aesthetic and financial terms.

Most certainly, this one was.

“Thank you, David,” King Albert whispered directly into my ear. “You’ve done so much, and what I can offer in return is so little.” Then he smiled. “Will you come and see me in my office again afterwards?”

“I’d like nothing more,” I replied, speaking the simple truth.

“Excellent!”

The rest of the ceremony passed in a sort of blur. His Highness manumitted all the Rabbits, making my word good at last, and awarded them back-pay befitting their respective ranks. Then James accepted them as special charges of the House of Marcus, essentially meaning that we were going to act as their protector in a universe not exactly designed with free Rabbits in mind. It was the best possible outcome, so far as I could see. Then His Majesty awarded me twenty square miles of choice land on Earth Secundus. This also made the assembled courtiers gasp—there were no other individual owners on Secundus, all available real estate being either part of His Majesty's holdings or else parts of grants awarded to the various Noble Houses in exchange for past services to the Crown. But I didn’t think that was what had caused the shockwave.

The real reason, I suspected, was that as a manumitted Rabbit I wasn’t legally allowed to own land at all. And everyone in the room damned well knew it.

4

“So, David!” King Albert said as he eased himself down into his well-worn office chair. His joints snapped and crackled as he did so; His Highness had been an elderly man when last I’d sat with him, and he’d aged considerably since. “Today you offer me a rare pleasure indeed. It’s not often that I get the chance to meet with someone more famous than myself. May I have your autograph?”

I felt my face flush as I sat down in my own chair. Already the chocolate milk was sitting there waiting for me. “Sire, I…”

His Majesty grinned like a little boy. It did good things for his wrinkles. Then he let the smile fade. “Seriously, David. Let me get this out of the way first. You’ve done this kingdom an enormous service, at I can’t even imagine what personal cost. My military staff is still shaking their heads, trying to figure out how you pulled it all off.”

“Part of it was luck,” I admitted. “We had just the right weapons, and—”

“Bah!” the old man interrupted, waving my argument away. “Humbug! Your weapon, ultimately, was your mind. Given different tools to work with, you’d simply have found different solutions. This is the mark of the great warrior, and it’s written all over you.” 

I gulped; the words were a near-quote from one of Professor Lambert’s books on strategy. Apparently His Majesty and I had similar tastes in reading material. And, in part because of their source, the praise was so far as I was concerned of the highest grade possible. I felt myself turn even redder. “It was the Rabbits, mostly,” I eventually replied. “Without them—”

Once again my sovereign waved away my words. “Yes,” he agreed. “They were great heroes— that’s why they were honored so richly. Every time I picture them close-assaulting that cruiser behind a screen of corpses, well…” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “But you led them, David. Even more, you dreamed up an attack that…” He shook his head. “I won’t belabor the point any further, for both of our sakes. But I also won’t accept it when you demean your own role in all of this—not for an instant! Son, have you any idea what a shock wave you sent through Fleet Headquarters? I’m briefed every morning on the military situation, first thing. For weeks no one could figure out why the Imperials weren’t advancing by leaps and bounds. At first they thought it might’ve been to throw us off balance, then maybe it was due to some sort of massive unexpected equipment recall. After that a dozen theories went the rounds, all mutually contradictory. But no one—
no one
, son!—ever imagined for a moment that somebody was holding fast somewhere and discombobulating things for the enemy. Not a soul! The
last
thing they ever dreamed was that some upshot junior officer had enough grit in his soul and brains in his head to do what none of them had ever managed—hold the Imperials back with inferior forces and thereby disrupt their entire war plan. And by now our reserves are all in place, while theirs are still in complete disarray.”