Commander (The David Birkenhead Series)

by Phil Geusz

  “Sir!” Wu declared almost before I was finished speaking. “I have rough figures for you.”

  My eyebrows rose—for him to react so quickly he must’ve anticipated my order. “Yes?”

  “We’ll never make Point One without a fight, sir. It’s not even close. They’ll be all over us. And Point Two, where we came in, is asymmetrical. So, we can’t just go back.”

  I nodded. Four destroyers were more than we could reasonably hope to defeat. They could both outgun and outrun us. “Suggestions?”

  “There’s only one viable way out, sir, though I haven’t finalized the numbers yet. Point Three. We’ll be able to hit it with more than two days to spare. Though we’ll have to fight the corvette.”

  I nodded, carefully remaining expressionless. Point Three led deep into Imperial space. “I see. Then that’s exactly what we’ll have to do.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Wu replied, correctly interpreting my statement as an order.

  “Implement the course change as soon as you’re ready—there’s no point lollygagging about. In the meantime I’m going down below to congratulate our gunners. Every last one of you did an excellent job. Their performance, however, was truly outstanding.”

  19

  I had almost a month to think things over before we hit Point Three and translated into the innermost realms of the Emperor. During that period I studied up on our intelligence files, spent a lot of time talking things over with Uncle Robert, and of course worrying.

  “It’s war again, of course,” my adopted uncle said the moment we were alone together in my cabin. “They’re trawling for merchantmen, hoping to take a few easy prizes before the real shooting starts. They can gather intelligence from them.”

  I nodded back. The moment the Imperials felt that they had enough preponderance of force to bite off a chunk of Royal space and assimilate it, they’d invariably try to do so. The underlying logic was that each succeeding bite would make them stronger and us weaker, so that in the long term such a policy could lead only to victory. Since they had no interest whatsoever in peaceful coexistence, or at least not that anyone could discern, it was a highly logical approach. By dictating when and (even more significantly) where the wars would be fought, they could arrange things to their own maximum advantage. Usually such rigid consistency was an unfortunate trait in a military strategy, because it could be exploited by an opponents. In this case, however, the only counter anyone could think of was simply to be stronger than them, and able to defeat them anywhere, anytime. This, sadly, was not only impossible but grew more so with every loss of valuable territory. Eventually, the brighter minds of the navy were beginning to grasp, in order to defeat such a threat we’d have to begin taking the offensive and executing surprise attacks of our own. Javelin represented an early manifestation of that sort of thinking. But so far most of the Noble Houses remained too timid and reluctant to spend so much money. Until that changed, well…

  …the Imperials would continue to set up traps and snatch up helpless merchantmen during peacetime, I supposed.

  “It’s war, all right,” I agreed, sipping at my tea. “But that’s someone else’s problem right now. My specific responsibility is getting you back to a safe world. After that, I’ll worry about the war. And, if you haven’t noticed, we’re sort of headed in the wrong direction for that.”

  My uncle frowned. “David, your principal mission should be to do as much damage to the Imperials as possible. My personal presence here has little to do with anything.”

  I shook my head. “Sir, I can’t agree. His Majesty grows older and frailer every day, and you just about have to be an important part of his plans for the Succession.” My eyes narrowed. “This is just a guess, sir. But, tell me you’re not penciled in to take over Marcus’s holdings, once James is crowned. Making you one of the most important noblemen in the entire Kingdom, I’ll add. Then, tell me what other Marcus is groomed and ready for the position.”

  He looked away, just as I’d expected him to do. Then my uncle scowled and faced me once more. “You’re right, of course, as far as it goes. It is important that I get back home in one piece. It’s also important for you, as well. You were given this command solely for the benefit of your resume, it being rather difficult to make an admiral of someone who’s never actually commanded a ship. You’re meant for the Admiralty in the long run, to help set policy and strategy at the highest of levels. Someday, you’re liable to command the entire fleet. Plus there’s the Rabbit problem to think of—you’re a big part of that, too. That makes you at least as irreplaceable as I am, in my judgment. And yet…” He made a fist. “No one is so important that they’re excused from fighting Imperials, David. I’m not implying that you were shrinking from it—no man who knows what you’ve already done would imagine that for a moment. But… You see, I’m not going to shrink from it either.” He stood. “I’m a reserve captain, David, retired. And I once swore the same oath you did. I’m not empowered under regulations to take command, nor would I if I could. But… If you were to find a use for me, I’d be pleased to do my duty in any role you might see fit.”

  My uncle spoke brave words, and I knew that he meant every one of them. And yet… As I sat in my cabin sipping tea and studying star-charts, I found myself seeking the easiest, quickest path possible out of Imperial space. My ship was small and thin-skinned, and my cargo precious. There were times in war when discretion really was the better part of valor—what conceivable losses could we inflict that would be worth the loss to the Kingdom if my uncle were killed? The problem with the safe and sane approach, however, was that the odds against us surviving even the simplest, easiest available course through Imperial space were vanishingly small. Javelin’s epic raid, which many had doubted she’d live to see the end of, had taken her through eight Jumps in hostile space. Given where we were starting from, we’d be forced to make no less than eleven in a far-slower ship of less than a twentieth the battle-cruiser’s force. It’d take us well over a year, as slow as we were. Very likely the war would be fought and over before we arrived back home, in the unlikely event that we lived that long. We didn’t have nearly enough fuel or supplies aboard for such a lengthy cruise. No matter how much tea I drank or how long I spent staring at the charts, every available route led to our inevitable deaths.

  “Sir,” Nestor whispered after my third day spent secreted in the cabin. “The Rabbits are getting worried about you—they never see you anymore. So they’ve asked me to make sure you’re all right.”

  I nodded absently, still entranced by the chart. There were so many possible courses of action, some of which had little to do with what route we chose. Then I pulled myself back to reality. “Right,” I agreed. “Thank you. Tell you what—I’ll inspect the barracks at sixteen-hundred hours. That should make them feel a bit better. Please inform the sergeant.”

  Nestor nodded, but didn’t move. “They’re worried about the mission, as well. They know we can’t complete it, sir.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean, ‘can’t complete it’?” I stood up and thumped on a hull-brace. “With this fine ship and crew? I can’t imagine what you’re talking about!”

  My friend and servant, who’d been through the worst of the worst with me, smiled despite the fact that he knew I was lying through my teeth. “I’ll tell them you said exactly that, sir!”

  “Good!” I replied. “Please do.” Then and only then, I made my final decision. We’d take no unnecessary chances, and fleabites might be all we’d ever inflict, but by god we’d at least make the effort! Uncle Robert was right—it was everyone's duty to fight Imperials. “Take these to engineering for me, please,” I ordered, picking up a sheaf of crude drawings I’d made by hand. “Tell them I want this special gear fabricated as soon as possible, but not to actually mount anything on the outer hull without my approval.”

  Nestor glanced down at the drawings, and his eyes widened. “Sir!” he whispered. “That’s…”

  “Straight out
of the history books,” I replied. “Not original at all.” Then I sighed. “Have them get right on it, and tell them to draft as much help from other departments as necessary. Busy hands have less time to worry. Then send Mr. Parker down here to see me at his earliest convenience, please. He’s going to be the key to this whole enterprise, and I need to consult with him right away.”

  20

  For the next three weeks the ship was abuzz with rumors regarding the strange gear I’d ordered from engineering. While in general I believed that a captain should keep his crew well-apprised of his intentions, this time I left them utterly in the dark. It wasn’t due to security concerns—we were totally incommunicado. But it was better for them to have a mental puzzle to work on, I reckoned, than too much time to worry about what the future might hold.

  “He plans to use this thing to grapple an Imperial,” I overheard a Rabbit steward say while assisting a welder working on the new crane-boom one day. “It’s the only possible solution!”

  “No!” his human partner replied. “He’s going to pick up a vital cargo from a secret base, where they don’t have a crane! That’s what all the containers are for, too!”

  “Maybe,” the Rabbit replied, his nose wriggling furiously. Then they both returned to work as I nodded in satisfaction. The fact was, we just might pick ourselves up a valuable cargo somewhere if we were lucky. That was why I’d specified a functional crane and ordered that the dozens of deck-containers be functional as well as collapsible.

  First Officer Parker was in on the secret, of course; he had to be. Everything depended on his long years of experience as a merchant captain. Besides, I had Nestor fitting him out with uniform after uniform— green for Imperial Cargo Lines, gray for New Geneva Expeditors, sky-blue for Yan Interstellar Logistic Services… Soon he had more changes of costumes than there was room for in his cabin, and we dedicated the corner of a hold just to storing them all. But I didn’t say a word to Uncle Robert, as I wanted to use him as a sort of barometer. If he didn’t tumble to it then perhaps it wouldn’t seem so obvious to the Imperials, either.

  Getting the gear ready in time was difficult enough, but our biggest problem was the Imperial corvette waiting for us at Point Three. No, she hadn’t a prayer of outfighting us. But she was far faster than we were, and could easily follow us wherever we went broadcasting warnings and appealing for any Imperial-navy consorts that might be about to come finish us off. It was certainly what I’d have done in their place. Instead, while we were still a week out, they ducked through the point for a few hours. Then they returned and maneuvered to rejoin the destroyers, who also broke off pursuit. Why, I’d never know—the destroyers might’ve considered their merchantman-bagging operation to be more important to their overall war-effort than chasing us down, or perhaps the corvette was having engine problems or was short on fuel or stores or something. Or maybe there was a huge fleet sitting on the other end of the Jump waiting to ambush us, so that they didn’t need to bother. I could think of a thousand reasons why they might’ve done what they did, and as likely as not all of my guesses would be wrong ones.

  At any rate, the Jump proved totally uneventful. “Clear skies, Captain,” First Officer Parker reported after a minutes-long scan.

  I nodded as my heart slowed down to its normal rate. We were lucky, lucky, lucky! Doubly so, given that there were no settlements at this node. So, we truly had space to ourselves. “Thank you, Mr. Parker.” Then I turned to my astrogator. “Set a course for Point Seven,” I ordered. “Flank speed.”

  He blinked, clearly taken by surprise. If we traversed Point Seven, it’d take at least fifteen Jumps for us to get back into Royal space, instead of the minimal eleven at Point Four. “Aye-aye, sir!” he replied. “Let me calculate—“

  “It’ll take us nineteen days,” I replied, having worked it out long since in my cabin. “Or it would if we remained under full power. Which we’re not going to be able to do, unfortunately. I’m afraid that’s not going to make your job any easier.”

  Wu’s brow wrinkled. “Sir?”

  “We’ll have to power down the Field to work on the hull. Which’ll take days.” I sighed and pressed the little button that connected me with engineering. “Chief,” I ordered. “We’ll begin repainting the ship at oh-eight-hundred hours. Make your plans accordingly. Birkenhead out.”

  21

  No ship ever heads out into deep space without a little of this and a little of that aboard. This is especially true of warships, which might easily find themselves forced to repair extensive battle-damage light-years from anywhere. It was a good thing for us that this was so; our new cargo-containers, for example, were made largely of hull-patches, and the crane from spare structural members. We carried a fair amount of powder-paint as well, though not even my purser seemed to know exactly why. It took almost three days for my mostly-Rabbit able-spacer crew to first strip off our Royal markings, then paint green stylized Imperial Line “I’s” where they’d once been. Next we unfolded our cargo containers and arranged them in a hollow rectangle over our gunports, cabling them together in the process so that if we had to drop them in a hurry they’d all remain clustered together for an easy pickup. We mounted the crane well aft, in imitation of the usual Imperial practice. The final step was to drape superconducting tarps over the lot, so that the Field would flow easily over the new surface. Yes, the less-efficient shape would slow us down a bit and consume more precious energy. But that was how most merchies did things, after all—for them the extra capacity was well worth the loss. Besides, we could dump the whole mess on thirty-seconds notice and be in full fighting trim once more. Until then, however, it’d take a close examination indeed to perceive us as anything but the Imperial Lines cargo vessel we now seemed to be.

  It was truly entertaining, watching as the crew slowly figured it out. Where once they’d been pensive and nervous, soon humans and Rabbits alike were walking about with oversized grins on their faces. Nothing’s better for morale than a little hope, especially the sort flavored with the promise of fun and games. Hull work in deep space, especially painting, is both dangerous and exhausting work. Yet my little crew set to it with a will once the secret was out, completing the job almost half a day early and forcing poor Wu to perform his lengthy calculations all over again. We were just finishing up with the final tarp-stretching when Uncle Robert asked for a word in private. He didn’t look happy, and I thought I knew why. “David,” he began as soon as the cabin door closed behind him. “I know we’re in a tough spot. But… Do you really intend to resort to piracy?”

  I blinked, pretending innocence. “I’m not a pirate, Uncle. I’m a legally-sworn, uniformed king’s officer, and this is a king’s ship.”

  He scowled. “You know what I mean, David! You’re preparing to imitate a noncombatant. Sailing under a false flag is illegal, son! Forbidden under the laws of war!”

  “Are we actually flying a false flag?” I asked him gently, raising my eyebrows.

  “Well…” He sputtered for a moment.

  “False colors have been illegal since the Concordat of Boston in 2384,” I replied with a smile, having done my homework long since. “Though I’ll mention in passing that before then they were considered an entirely legitimate and honorable ruse de’ guerre for centuries. And I’ll also point out that almost every other provision of the Concordat has fallen out of effect, mostly due to having been trampled by the Imperials.” I smiled, then stepped over to my desk and flipped on my datascreen. With the touch of a single key—I’d anticipated this conversation—I brought up the external camera view I wanted. “See, Uncle? We’re perfectly legal!”

  He blinked, then leaned forward squinting at the display. It showed a closeup of our bridge and the ridiculous little mast we’d erected there for the ship’s colors. At the top was a teensy, tiny replica of the Royal flag, less than a square foot in area. “The Concordat,” I amplified, “speaks specifically of flags. Not of hull-markings or radio beacons. Nor does it
specify a minimum size.”

  Uncle Robert stiffened in rage. “David! How can you make such a deliberate mock—”

  But I wasn’t having any of it. “What exactly are the Imperials going to do about it if they catch us, Uncle?” I interrupted. “Execute us, like they’re going to anyway? Or maybe use it as a pretext the next time they attack without warning?” I crossed my arms and faced the angry nobleman. “Sneak attacks and prisoner executions are against the Concordat too, the last I heard. Or would you rather keep your hands nice and clean, die with a pure heart, and let the Emperor set the agenda for everyone’s future?”

  “Laws in warfare are important, David!” my uncle replied, though I’d clearly taken the steam out of him. “We shouldn’t descend to the level of our enemy.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “We’ve got a long, long way to go before we sink to the Imperial level, sir. Besides, you’re the one who insisted that we should try to put up an effective fight. Do you see any other way for us to do that? Right here and now, I mean, with what we have on-hand. Offer me a viable plan, and I promise I’ll consider it.”