by Phil Geusz
One morning when I arrived at my office, not long after I finished working with the gunner-Rabbits, there was a fancy envelope waiting for me atop the rest of my mail. It was Royal stationery, and while I’d seen it’s like before none of the rest of my staff had. I opened all of my other correspondence before dealing with it, out of sheer sadism I suppose, then broke the fancy seal and opened it up. It was a short, straightforward little note, commanding me to meet with a Royal Herald at the family estate at my convenience. I handed it to the gaping Nestor. “Take care of that for me, will you?” I asked. “Schedule it for either this evening or anytime tomorrow—I can’t get out of today’s inspection tour at this late date.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” he replied, still gaping.
Someday, I decided, I’d have to find a way to bring Nestor to His Majesty’s personal attention. He worked so hard for so little reward—the least I could do was give him a memory or two.
Humans, I’d heard, often had great difficulty distinguishing one Herald from another. This was because of their heavy, ritualized makeup, and the effect was quite deliberate. The Heraldry had evolved because no monarch could be in more than one place at once, while his responsibilities often demanded exactly that. Each Herald therefore served as an alter-ego. His Highness chose however many he thought necessary from among the very best and brightest of his subjects, and it was a foolish sovereign indeed who failed to give his fullest attention to the selection process. In many ways no king could be better than his Heraldry. Everything about the group—their effete, overly-foppish court dress, their stylized makeup, the fact that they gave up their own names while in service to the Crown—reflected the fact that their role in life was to subordinate themselves to the needs of their sovereign. It was a Herald’s business to understand not just his king’s policy, but to be intimately familiar with the thought-process and underlying philosophy from which it was derived. That way they could go to the places His Majesty couldn’t and make the on-the-spot decisions that the physical limitations of time and space prevented the monarch from being able to make himself.
Sometimes, however, a Herald merely represented his monarch socially. I was rather relieved at first when all this particular one seemed to want was to dine with me. I both admired and respected His Majesty on a deep and personal level, and liked to flatter myself that he was rather fond of me as well. So it was reasonable to assume that the Herald was merely making sure that I received a little personal attention out of sheer sentiment. “Please thank whoever’s responsible for the glazed carrots,” I made it a point to whisper to my footbunny just as the meal ended. “And for that wonderful plateful of dandelion greens as well.”
The Rabbit’s face lit up, then he bowed. “It’s our greatest pleasure, sir, as always. Besides, we get the leftovers.” Then he removed my last plate and disappeared.
“Heh!” James laughed from directly across from me. He was sitting quite a bit further away than usual, because we were eating at a round table. I didn’t know for sure exactly why that was, but strongly suspected it was due a rather nasty bit of potential social and political awkwardness. Like a Royal Governor, a Herald was the sovereign's direct personal representative and therefore accorded nearly the same level of pomp and ceremony that normally accompanied the corpus of His Majesty himself. But not quite as much— while there were few people who could displace a Herald from the head of a table, one of these happened to be the Royal Heir. Was James the rightful heir, or wasn’t he? That thorny little issue remained yet unsettled, though of course His Majesty was more than eager to make the claim official. It wasn’t yet, however, creating an awkward dilemma that’d been quietly resolved by dispensing with seating precedence altogether. I smiled and shook my head as the footbunnies whisked the last of the dishes away and served coffee and tea. It was a good thing that I’d made my career in the navy instead of the House’s protocol department—the subtle yet vital complexities of it all would’ve driven me mad in no time flat.
“His Majesty,” the Herald observed after a time, “is quite pleased with the recovery here on Marcus Prime.” He looked around the still-devastated dining room, shorn of its marbles and finery. “He feels that you’ve done a good job of keeping your priorities straight.”
Both James and Uncle Robert beamed. “This was once a frontier world,” the latter replied. “Our ancestors were pioneers. They lived in a corrugated-steel hut for over twenty years. Compared to them, we have it easy.” He gestured around the room. “I’m merely grateful that His Majesty’s representative is content to dine in such humble surroundings.”
“You’ve purchased fighters and artillery instead of sculpture and flatware,” the Herald countered. “His Majesty is pleased; you’re in the front lines now. It’s good to see that at least one of the Noble Houses grasps the full implications of this.” He sighed into his coffee, then turned to me. “His Highness also wishes me to convey his specific congratulations to you as well, David. He sent you here to create a working auxiliary fleet out of nothing, and is pleased at the progress you’ve made.” He smiled. “It was my full intent to inspect your brave little Richard, but I understand she’s out on a long mission. So perhaps I might inspect your training facilities instead?”
I gulped. A Herald's inspection was a great honor, one not to be spurned. “Yes, sir! Of course! At your convenience.”
His smile widened. “I’m eager to meet more of your Rabbits, of whom so much is asked and who seem so capable of delivering.” Then he scowled slightly. “You know, don’t you, that the Admiralty wants to shut you down?”
I nodded. It was rapidly becoming an open secret. “They believe His Majesty is foolish to be wasting so many resources on us.”
“So far, you’re making them look foolish instead.” The Herald produced a sheaf of papers from his puffy sleeve, then slipped on a pair of ridiculously tiny spectacles. “Richard’s efficiency ratings are as good as any vessel of equivalent size in the entire fleet, yet she operates at a fraction of the cost due to the fact that we paid so little for her. The Admiralty emphasizes over and over again that she’s not capable of handling nearly so many missions as a purpose-designed vessel, and that’s true enough. But she’s quite able to deal with many routine matters, thus freeing up a more expensive regular-navy ship for other duties.” He smiled again. “The Admiralty predicted that, given the shattered infrastructure on Marcus Prime and the need to train so many personnel from scratch—above all the Rabbits!—it’d take you at least five years to put an even minimally-functional vessel into service. Certainly, it would’ve taken them that long. Yet you've commissioned a quite worthwhile ship in just over twenty-three months, with many more in the pipeline.” He lowered the papers and met my eyes over the spectacles. “His Majesty has long believed that the navy has become a bloated, bureaucratic top-heavy nightmare. An old-boys club, in other words, where titles matter more than actual fighting capabilities. When an able officer does arise, the others quickly smother him as a threat to the status-quo. You were quite deliberately selected to demonstrate what can be achieved via genuine competence, leadership ability and willingness to work, and placed outside the regular-navy system so that no one could place artificial obstacles in your way. The results speak for themselves.” He tossed the papers down onto the table and crossed his arms. “Your sovereign is more grateful than you probably realize.”
I didn’t know what to say, really. So instead I just looked down at the tablecloth. “It was the others who did the real work.” I finally whispered. “We could do a lot better now that we’ve got some experience under our belts. In some ways we were just plain lucky.”
“Your team was indeed the secret to your success,” he agreed. “Or so our sources indicate. But… David, you’re the one who created and led that team, and therefore you’re also the one who must accept the credit for its successes. Most of your luck you made yourself.” He smiled again. “You’ve proven yourself to be a highly competent administrator as well
as a superb combat leader, which is a rare combination indeed. One that merits nurture and support.” He reached back into his pocket and pulled out two rather battered rank emblems. “You’ve been promoted, by Royal decree. These badges were once His Majesty's own, and his father’s before him. Congratulations, Commander! His Highness is delighted, and hopes you’ll wear them in good health. You’re to select your own relief, then report to the Academy in time to take part in the next session of the Naval War College. After you’re knighted, of course.”
15
A person is supposed to feel good when they're promoted, and even better when they're knighted. Besides which, being selected for the Naval War College was a major honor in its own right. Perhaps a tenth of all Academy men would eventually be admitted to the War College; and being chosen so young meant that if I lived long enough I was certain to fly my own flag as an admiral someday. But I couldn't say that I was pleased, no matter how happy everyone around me was. Congratulations came pouring in from every direction imaginable—even Captain Blaine sent a costly spacegram once he heard the news.
"Congratulations, Shipmate!" it read. "I feel so proud every time I read of another of your exploits—perhaps it's best that you didn't end up as my servant after all." I accepted the letter in the spirit in which it was intended—Sir Leslie meant well—and wrote him a nice reply congratulating him on his own accession to the command of the elderly light cruiser Fury. He'd do well, I predicted, in that for all his shortcomings he’d at least proven himself willing to face the enemy and fight him savagely to the death despite whatever odds might obtain. This might be the bare minimal qualification for a naval officer, but Sir Leslie possessed it in full measure and therefore was entitled to my professional respect.
The problem with my promotion, I decided within a few days, was that it'd been too easy. In order to gain admittance to the Academy and be trained as a midshipman, I'd had to grapple an enemy cruiser and burn myself more than half to death in the process. To earn my lieutenancy, I'd at least adequately improvised a defense of the critical Zombie Station. In my heart, therefore, I'd felt that these ranks were at least arguably earned via solid accomplishments. This time, however, all I'd done was sit at a desk in Rabbit Town, filling out paperwork and arranging my staff so as to take maximum advantage of the available pool of talent. At no point had I even so much as missed a meal, much less been under enemy fire. Indeed, in some ways serving in my old hometown and rubbing elbows with so many of my fellow Rabbits had been the most pleasant duty I'd ever known—it was almost as nice as I’d imagined having my own engine room might be. And yet, here I was being promoted and rewarded again, this step forward mattering every bit as much to my career as the other far more dearly-earned ones. It didn't feel right, somehow; like the whole world was being turned topsy-turvy. In the end I reminded myself that the last time we'd spoken His Majesty had implied that he was going to promote me again as soon as he could regardless. He'd also hinted that some sort of ennoblement was eventually in my future as well. So, rather uneasily, I justified the new honors to myself as sort of a second-stage reward for Zombie rather than for pushing paper.
"Baloney, sir," Nestor contradicted me when late one night I shared my opinion with him. "How do you think most officers get promoted most of the time, especially when there's no wars being fought? Not everyone can always serve in the front line, sir, and you shouldn't expect to either. There are other worthy accomplishments besides success in combat, and if I were you I'd accept the Herald's explanation at face value. It's not like Heralds tend to be pathological liars."
I sighed and nodded; he was right, of course. Or at least my head felt that way. Somehow my heart didn’t agree, however, and I grew increasingly depressed as I wound down my command responsibilities and prepared to hand things over to Jean, who I'd tapped to take over. "Just give Fremont his head," I advised. "And I'll transfer Snow back dirtside for you as well, last thing before I leave. That'll still leave you short on training-bunnies. But I just can't spare Nestor."
"Of course, sir," Jean replied, bowing his head. War College classes were only offered once a year, and several weeks remained before I needed to leave. That gave me plenty of time to assist Jean with what would be a very difficult transition. Still, I felt that he was better suited for the job than anyone else I could name. His personal prestige and endless patience in dealing with Rabbits would prove invaluable. Jean was miserable over losing his command, of course—a ship was every naval officer’s dream. However, Richard was about to be laid up in the dockyard for modifications—we were going to mount torpedo tubes on her as an experimental installation. A vessel in drydock brought far more headaches than joy to her commander, which made the switch at least a little easier for my friend to bear. For now I'd left her in the able hands of her first mate. But eventually the plan was for me to assume command myself and ferry her to Earth Secundus, since I was was going that way anyhow. The Navy Department wanted to formally evaluate her before undertaking another fencible program elsewhere. Besides, I'd never yet commanded a ship. This constituted a gaping hole in the resume of any officer of my rank. It was time to see if I was made of the right stuff.
"David..." Jean began. Then he tried again. "Sir, I want you to know that no one can ever fill your shoes. What you've accomplished here is—"
"Nonsense!" I interrupted, my tone sharp. "I made dozens of mistakes, and every last one of them held us all back. You'll be fine."
"I hope so, sir," he replied doubtfully. "But... This has grown into what by rights ought to be a full post-captain's command. And I'm still just... I mean..."
"Read your history," I encouraged him, my voice softening. "Once upon a time, you'll find, quite low-ranking officers were assigned daunting tasks indeed. William Bligh of the Royal Navy was a mere lieutenant when he was ordered to sail halfway around the world into seas only recently explored, on an economic mission believed to be of the greatest importance to the British Empire. In the American West, army lieutenants regularly were placed in charge of planning and building forts hundreds of miles from anywhere." I smiled. "We've grown fat and wasteful, imagining that it takes a half a ton of gold braid to make an intelligent decision or to carry any responsibility. We're the future, you and I. Standing at the beginning of a leaner, more flexible navy. In fact, we're proving the concept."
He nodded. "You're the beginning, sir. It's my privilege to merely follow."
16
I’d met all of Richard’s officers before, of course; most of them more than once. Her first mate was Josiah Parker; I’d interviewed him no less than three times before accepting him into the fencibles. My hesitation hadn’t had anything to do with questionable qualifications—far from it! He’d been Richard’s captain back while she was still a merchant-marine mining-service vessel; in fact it was Parker who’d put her into a cometary orbit and taken to the lifeboats rather than see her captured. He knew every rivet in Richard’s hull, and according to Jean watching him finagle his longtime command into and out of a tight drydock was something to be remembered. Given Parker’s wide experience and skills, he could easily have done better for himself than stepping down to first mate of his former command. Besides, he was over fifty years of age. This was borderline for active space duty in a combat vessel, and I also felt it was reasonable to wonder if he’d resent serving under what must seem to him a mere child. Finally, however, during the third interview he broke down and told me the truth. The Imperials, it seemed, hadn’t taken it kindly when he’d made it so difficult for them to recover his ship. His wife, his eldest son, his youngest daughter and three Rabbits who’d acted as their servants and practically been family members in their own right were all executed in reprisal. “I have plenty of money,” he explained through the tears, once his usual stony reserve finally broke down. “It was banked off-planet. In fact, I could easily buy a freighter of my own. But… I admit it, sir. I want to serve His Majesty, to do everything I can to stop these awful….” Then
he broke down entirely, and ended up weeping in my arms.
