by Phil Geusz
14
In a way, having the big decision behind me made life a lot easier. In some ways more fun too! James was obliged to attend the Academy by birth, so it wasn’t any great trick to set things up so we’d be in the same class. We even got to study together!
Or not-study, more often than not. Instead we went out running in the mornings and did pull-ups in the afternoon. Sure, the Academy sent us a little brochure warning us of their strict academic standards, but the fact of the matter was that both my friend and I were already studying at a level equivalent to their graduation requirements… in our weakest subjects! This sort of bothered me, not because we were so smart—though James certainly was!—but because it looked to me like graduation was going to be terrible easy in scholastic terms. I did a little research, and found out that once upon a time degrees from military academies had taken four long years to earn and tended to be among the most prestigious. In modern times, by contrast, the course of study took only a year and the emphasis was more on decorum and deportment. For example, we’d have to take two military science classes, one on basic strategy and tactics and the other on military courtesy and discipline. James and I asked for a copy of the strategy textbook, and just in our spare time we were able to teach ourselves enough to earn near-perfect grades on the study questions in less than two weeks. In fact, I found two math errors in the text and James snorted at one of the translations from Caesar’s “Gallic Wars”. Anyone with a good grasp of geometry and the maneuver-limitations of modern starships could understand basic tactics, and it looked to me like basic strategy hadn’t changed much since the time of Sun Tzu. “When you set out to take Vienna,” I typed in answer to the most difficult essay question, “take Vienna.” It was counted as wrong, of course, and the study-comp didn’t appreciate my little joke. But the larger point was that I didn’t need to get the question right in order to pass; the subject matter was just that easy. I laid awake a lot of nights afterwards trying to figure out why it was so easy, until I found myself imagining what Captain Blaine must’ve been like when he was a fifteen-year-old soon-to-be nobleman and attending the Academy. And even more, what his father might’ve been like if someone had dared give his child a poor grade. Then, somehow I not only understood it all but also felt terribly sorry for His Majesty.
A lot other stuff happened during those months as well. As His Highness had feared, he was indeed forced to make an unfavorable peace with the Empire. We got Marcus Prime back as part of the final deal; while other Houses suffered territorial losses of various degrees, Marcus’s strategic position both in physical and political terms once again paid us large dividends. The Empire would hold our home planet for a few more months as security against other concessions, then hand it over to us. They’d also use those extra months to scourge and pillage it as thoroughly as possible, of course. But what was a war-loser to do?
The worst part was when the Empire returned Stephen Marcus, James’s elder brother. Until the treaty was signed they hadn’t even admitted knowing he was alive. Now, however, they wanted to return him as soon as humanly possible. Ostensibly this was because he was badly injured—the Empire’s representatives claimed they had no idea as to how it’d happened—but they didn’t give us a clue as to how badly. Sir Robert arranged for everyone who was anyone to meet the rightful heir at the spaceport, along with the coffin containing the corpse of his dead mother. Everyone was terribly worked up, not least Mr. Banes. He concealed his worry with hustle and bustle, making me dress and re-dress no less than three times and requiring that I wear my Sword to the event. But the Imperials proved far crueler than anyone had reckoned. This didn’t become clear until Stephan came rolling across the terminal in a wheelchair with a vacuous grin on his face and drool glistening on his chin. We didn’t think he recognized anyone, though we couldn’t really be certain because his vocabulary had been reduced to about twenty words. A huge scar ran across his brow and then down the right side of his head where his skull had been crushed and then repaired. The Imperial medic bowed to Lord Robert and gravely presented a receipt. The temporary head of our House, white-faced in rage, signed it and handed it back. Then the Imperial removed a red medical datacube from his pocket, placed it atop Lady Marcus’s coffin, and strode away without uttering a word.
James’s eldest brother was all of seventeen. “That… That…” my friend muttered.
“Easy, now!” I whispered back. “You’ll have your chance at them.”
He raised his balled fists, then lowered them back to his sides. The right one, I knew, contained his dead father’s signet ring, which he’d been holding for Stephen ever since the loss of the Broad Arrow. A ring that would now never be delivered. “More than a chance,” he swore. “I’ll destroy them forever, if it’s the last thing in the universe I ever do!”
I nodded back and, decorum be damned, wrapped an arm around him. Presently, he was weeping on my shoulder.
No one complained.
15
James and I were still wearing black armbands in memory of Lady Maria when he and I arrived at the Academy, her state funeral fresh in our minds. “War is a terrible disaster,” His Majesty had declared during her eulogy. “One that weighs heaviest upon the weak and innocent. But there are things even less tolerable, and those who would disturb the honest labors of the universe would be wise to keep this in mind.” Even I knew that it was a warning shot across the Emperor’s bow; we might’ve lost the most recent round but there were still plenty more to come. And now, well…
For the first time, I was beginning to understand in my heart what war was all about. Stephen’s injuries, our own doctors had determined, might indeed have been the result an accident. And the Encyclopedia Britannica might’ve been the result of an explosion in a printshop, as well. It wasn’t something that could ever be proved, but the best in the business were of the opinion that it’d probably begun as a relatively minor skull fracture, then the damage had been systematically and cold-bloodedly enlarged in such a way as to remove the heir’s inhibitions and self-control—to get him to talk, in other words. Then, after he’d been wrung dry, they’d ruined him once and for all to cover up their own work. And then, lastly, sent back the empty husk in the hope that someday it might somehow interfere with the House of Marcus’s line of succession. James had been in an icy rage ever since the truth was shared with the inner family—he hardly ever smiled or laughed anymore.
And certainly neither of us were smiling or laughing as our limo first circled the Academy in a holding pattern while other cadets were unloaded, and then finally gently eased us to the ground outside the big, iron gate. “Well,” James observed as a pair of footbunnies dashed forward to open our doors for us. “We’re here.” I only just had time to nod back. Then the door flew open, the warm summer air swirled in, and it was time to begin.
There were young noblemen standing everywhere, it seemed, all gathered around in little knots and wearing bright new uniforms. I was wearing a uniform too, of course, though thank heavens it wasn’t entirely like theirs. Mine was made of much thinner, more breathable fabric and was equipped with outlets for ears and tail, though the tailors had done such a good job that the result looked just like standard-issue broadcloth. Only my sandals seemed really out of place. Those, of course…
…and the black cravat with the three white stars of the Sword of Orion that regulations required me to wear at my neck at all times. It rather stood out, I had to admit, against the glittering hereditary honors and orders of nobility that most of the rest wore.
So it was natural, I supposed, that silence instantly spread itself across the unloading zone the moment my ears emerged from the limo. “Greetings, sir,” the footbunny at my elbow declared. “We’re very, very glad to see you here.”
I smiled back and patted his arm; the extra “very”, I suspected, wasn’t scripted. “I’ll do my best,” I promised.
“I’m sure,” the servant replied with a bow. Then he was gone and James and I
were alone with our peers. Or rather, we were sort of alone together, surrounded by a large bubble of empty space. It went on and on and on, until finally James nodded at someone he knew. “Hello, Pieter!” he declared heartily. “How’s your sister doing? Did her broken leg mend well?”
A young blonde boy blushed. “She’s fine, James,” he replied. “I’m glad to see you.” His eyes shifted towards me, then away again.
James smiled wider and stepped forward. “I’ll never forget that picnic!” he declared, apparently full of good cheer. “And I’m so sorry that she fell. I only wanted to tag her!” Then he turned to me. “Have you met my friend David yet, Pieter? He’s rather a lot of fun, too!”
The boy’s face turned bright, bright red. “I… Uh…”
“Oh!” another boy declared. This one was Oriental, and wore many gewgaws indeed on his tunic. “So that’s who did such a good job dressing you this morning, James! Tell me, is he for sale?”
My friend’s face went rock-hard for an instant and something very ugly might’ve happened save for the fact that just then a whistle began blowing. “Young gentlemen!” an adult voice roared. “Over here! Immediately, please!” Then began the long, dull process of first getting everyone arranged in alphabetical order, then teaching us how to stand properly at attention and salute—“That’s all you’ll need for the next few days, but you’ll be doing rather a lot of it!”—and getting us assigned to our squads and residence halls.
“Squad One!” the red-faced Sergeant Piper bellowed at last. I pricked my ears—by virtue of having a last name that began with the letter “B”, that included me. “Form up!”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by “form up”, and apparently neither did anyone else because we sort of created an amorphous blob around him. “Damn you ignorant snotties!” the marine roared. Then he drew a line in the dirt with the toe of an immaculately polished boot. “Tallest on the left! Shortest on the right! Move, move, move! We haven’t all bloody day!”
Because he didn’t specify if he meant his right or our right—quite deliberately, I suspected—there was even more confusion. But finally we formed a ragged, ill-kempt line. “Well, young gentlemen!” he declared with his foghorn voice. “That only took maybe ten times as long as it should’ve.” He strode down to my end of the line—I was easily the shortest in the whole class, not just the squad. “Name?” he demanded, lip curled in disgust.
“David Birkenhead, sir!” I replied.
“I am not a ‘sir’!” he exploded in apparent rage. “I’m an enlisted man, you damned fool! Call me ‘Instructor-Sergeant’! And the proper form is ‘Birkenhead, David!”
“Yes, Instructor-Sergeant!” I replied. Apparently this was correct form, because though he glared at me for another endless second he then moved on the next cadet. His name was William Abercrombie, it turned out, and the poor kid was easily flustered. He stammered and choked and finally cried a little before the Instructor-Sergeant eventually moved on. Finally, once he’d insulted pretty much everyone, Sergeant Piper announced that it was time for our training to begin. “God help the king,” he declared, “if you represent the best and brightest of the realm! I’ve never in my life seen such a miserable lot of…” It went on and on, and I could see that some of the young noblemen, particularly those wearing the biggest medals, were growing angry. But the sergeant knew just when to cut it off and let his cadets blow off some steam. “As you probably know,” he began in a new, more respectful tone. “You are now walking on hallowed ground. Countless heroes have walked these paths, sat in these classrooms and slept in your beds before you. No less than five hundred and forty-six holders of the Sword of Orion have attended this Academy. You’ve therefore much to live up to.” I gulped at that. The number in the brochure had been five hundred and forty-five—were they actually counting me? “One of our most sacred traditions,” he continued, “is the Daily Mast. More cadets wash out over Mast than any other single cause.” He smiled. “And there’s nothing I like more than washing out cadets, gentlemen. So let’s get started right now!”
16
Sergeant Piper made us all run to the Academy’s physical training center, outside of which stood incongruously a single sailing-ship’s mast, fully rigged-out with ropes and yards. “This is the Mast,” Piper explained, once we were all lined up again from tallest to shortest. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
Of course we’d heard of it—it was famous across the universe and featured on the cover of our brochure. The colossal thing was a hundred and ten feet high, as near as James and I’d been able to figure out from the many photographs we’d analyzed, and had been transported all the way from Old Earth. Once it’d been part of an ancient ship of war.
“You will climb this mast halfway this week,” our Instructor-Sergeant proclaimed. “Next week three quarters of the way, and so on until by the time you leave this establishment you’ll be running up and down it against the clock three times a day.” He smiled evilly. “On the last day, the various squads will compete. The winners will be granted extra leave. The losers will perform the extra duties of those who’re gone.”
The others stared glumly, but Mast didn’t particularly worry me. James and I had been doing little but working out for weeks, since our academics were so well in hand. We’d found a river-bluff that we reckoned was just about the same height as the Mast, and had tested out all sorts of strategies. Now that I was finally up-close, it seemed to me that there were even more handholds here than at the cliff. So—
“Birkenhead!” Sergeant Piper roared. “Climb that mast!”
I didn’t know if I should verbally acknowledge the order or not—clearly part of our “training” was to be kept guessing about the rules as long as possible. So I did the next best thing and took off so quickly that if I was wrong I’d be halfway up the thing before the sergeant realized it.
We’d made a systematic study of climbing, James and I had, since the navy seemed to consider the skill so important. I’d been especially lucky, quite by accident coming across a documentary film about a group of stevedore-bunnies that hand-carried live plants and other non-containerable materials in and out of the deep hulls of spaceliners. While we Rabbits were in most ways more human than lapine in the hips and legs, these stevedores had discovered over the long years that the best way for our kind to climb long ladders with the least effort was by a series of tiny stutter-hops. And what was a cliff—or a ship’s mast—but a sort of ladder? Once I’d mastered the art James no longer even tried to keep up—I frankly didn’t think any human alive could. This wasn’t to say there weren’t any challenges at all. At one place I had to hang backwards from my hands and feet, dangling in the wind with nothing between me the cement far below. (I later learned that generations of cadets before me had named this passage the “Death Grip”.) And the little hole at the bottom of the crow’s nest was plugged. With my short arms, it wasn’t easy to reach around and lever myself in over the rim. (“The Writhe,”) Overall though… Well, our practice-bluff was a lot harder. And now that I knew the hopping trick, I could race up and down the thing over and over again. In fact, I actually rather forgot myself and spent a moment sightseeing at the top, it was so much fun. The entire Academy grounds were laid out at my feet, and there was James drilling on the quad! Then I remembered myself, however, and peered over the edge of the crow’s nest for further instructions. Sergeant-Instructor Piper was staring up at me with his mouth wide open. In fact, he stared so long that I reckoned he couldn’t tell where I was. So I waved my arms over my head. “I’m here, Instructor-Sergeant! At the top!”
The mouth finally closed. “Very good, son!” he shouted. “Come on down!”
It always took me a little longer to descend something than it did to climb it—I thought I was doing something wrong until I checked the films with a stopwatch and found out that the stevedore bunnies had the same problem. Bouncing was still the most efficient method, and it certainly beat conventional climbing. Th
e sergeant didn’t seem to notice, though. His mouth was hanging open again when I hit the bottom and, hoping it was the right thing to do, dashed madly across the ground to my previous place and resumed standing at attention.
Where I stood for a long, long time before the silence was finally broken. “Most impressive, Birknehead,” an aged naval captain declared as he stepped around the little concrete wall that served as an anchor for some of the Mast’s rigging. “Most impressive indeed. Show me again.”
I’d been in the navy before, as a ship’s boy. When a captain wanted something, I knew what to do about it. “Aye-aye, sir!” I declared, leaping forward and racing up the mast yet again. The officer was already waving me down when I got to the top, so I descended again without a break. He had me do it over and over and over, growing angrier all the while. “Sir!” Sergeant Piper protested as I departed on my ninth trip—by then I was beginning to breathe hard.
“Don’t bother, sergeant!” the captain replied as I bounce-bounce-bounced my way back up. He waited until I was halfway up before speaking again, underestimating my ears. “It’s our job to break his kind, and by god we’ll do it!”
“Sir!” the sergeant complained again, his face white with rage. Then he stood stiffly at the most perfect “attention” I’d ever seen, face expressionless.
After my forty-third trip aloft, as a climb of the Mast was generally termed, the unknown captain finally stopped me. “Birkenhead!” he snapped.
