by Phil Geusz
"I know a little of the Empire and its ways," Heinrich continued. "Perhaps even more than a little. And here's my message for those who love it. Times are changing, and much that was once held sacred must be abandoned if there is to be growth. The kingdom is on the verge of a massive step forward, one much accelerated by David here. Royal art and science and economic development have always outpaced yours; only by virtue of extreme military prowess have you known success." He shook his head. "You're master warriors; His Majesty has personally acknowledged this to me more than once. And yet, in the long run history is ruled by forces more powerful than the sword. By every measure imaginable, Royal society is about to flower in a way few societies ever have. Free Rabbits will change everything! The lid is about to blow off, and once we get past our current difficulties—trivial ones in the greater scheme of things—King James will be forever remembered as one of the most successful monarchs who ever reigned. His grandfather saw to it that all the pieces are ready in place and waiting for him. Slavery is grossly inefficient; in military terms alone our strength will quadruple as our economy blossoms and we can afford more and better ships. The Marcus experience validates this entirely. No matter how great your bravery and no matter how accomplished your officers, you cannot prevail against such odds. Not unless we remain utter fools." He looked at me again. "And that era is ending as well."
There was a long, anguished silence among our guests. "But…" Hans sputtered. "But…"
"But we cannot free our Rabbits and still remain Imperials," Sir Jason observed, nodding slowly. He met first Heinrich's eyes, then my own. "This is of course precisely the socio-strategic nightmare that my uncle confronts each and every day of his reign. Nor should it be any secret to those with even half-functional eyes in their heads." He sighed and raised his glass. "May the Emperor find a wise solution."
I blinked; we'd agreed ahead of time not to toast either sovereign. But this… Clearly Sir Jason had allowed the passion of the moment to run away with him. So I raised my teacup and tried to set things right. "May both of our leaders be guided by wisdom," I amended. "And serve the best interests of us all."
Sir Jason's eyes narrowed; under my reformulation, I realized a moment too late, it could be argued that I was asking him to drink to the good of Rabbitkind right alongside that of humans. Especially since the words had emerged from my own very lapine lips. Then he shrugged and smiled. "All right. Given present company, I'll accept that."
Then everyone upended their glasses together, and for a very brief moment in a very small space there was genuine peace and brotherhood to be found in the galaxy.
14
Cleaning up after dinner was more a relief than anything. In some ways it was the first honest Rabbit-work I'd done in ages, and thus at a certain level it did my heart good. "It's all right, Frank," I reassured the chief Rabbit of the galley when I burst in after wishing the officers of Will of the People a fond farewell at the main locks. He'd been terribly upset at not being allowed to get started on his work right away, something that none of my kind found easy to take. "Nestor and I will take care of it all." Then I added an extra-nice smile for him. "Why don't you and the crew go outside and play some cards? We may need you later."
Frank reluctantly nodded; meanwhile Midshipman O'Toole (who was personally overseeing matters, precisely as I'd ordered him to) stood and continued to gawk. Suddenly I had an inspiration. "Tell me, Midshipman," I said as I stripped off my full-dress coat and hung my Sword over the dishwasher's operating lever. Some things never changed—it was the same model I'd been trained on back aboard Hummingbird. "Do you know how to play Old Maid?"
He nodded, though it was clear he couldn't imagine why I'd want to know such a thing. "Yes, sir."
I smiled again. "How about Crazy Eights?"
He nodded again. "Yes, sir."
"Good!" I replied. "Have you ever played either game with a Rabbit?"
His brow wrinkled. "No, sir! Whyever would—"
"Then I think it's about time you did exactly that!" I interrupted, smile widening as I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and steered him towards the same door that Frank and his gang had exited through. "You're in charge of these Rabbits, son, and that means that you ought to try and get to know them a little better. Don't you think so?"
"Well, sir… I mean—"
I never did find out what Mr. O'Toole meant, because I cut him off again midstream. "Now, you just sit and play cards with your Rabbits until I call for you, all right? It'll be amazing how much you learn about bunnies, I bet, if you trouble yourself to pay close attention. But be careful!"
"Careful, sir?" the midshipman asked as I whisked him through the door.
"Careful!" I repeated, nodding. "Sometimes we Rabbits try to pass off twos for threes, you see. If we think someone isn't watching closely enough." Then he was out and gone, so that finally Nestor and I could get on with the real task at hand.
There were a thousand different stratagems we could've employed to make our job easier, and one by one my aide and I had considered and discarded them all. Sir Jason clearly knew quite a bit that we didn't about what was going on behind the scenes in governmental circles on Wilkes Prime, and if he desired to pass that knowledge on to us, well… Dinner aboard Javelin was the obvious opportunity, while some sort of subtle, unobtrusive datacapsule was the obvious means. He was an intelligent man—after supping with him again I was more convinced of this than ever—and therefore I could count on him to make the message at least detectable, though for obvious reasons not glaringly apparent. On the other hand, I couldn't risk even the faintest possibility of unmasking such a well-placed agent by having his used crockery held separately or the serving-dishes he'd handled marked somehow. In turn, this meant that all the dishware had to be carefully examined, and by someone "in the know" at that. Since Nestor and I were the only ones "in the know", well…
At least we didn't have to scrub the cooking pans!
It was great fun at first. After so many weeks of politics, paperwork and command responsibility, it was rather pleasant to take the spray arm in my hand and, keeping a close lookout for I wasn't sure quite what, rinse down the plates one by one with a jet of steaming-hot water. It was simple, necessary labor with an immediate reward, something that made my inner Rabbit smile in a way it all too rarely did. Meanwhile Nestor operated the mirror-image facility on the other side of the galley, sometimes taking a break to come over, examine my work, and make checkmarks in his little book. It turned out that he outranked me in the galley, since he was rated a full-fledged steward while I was merely a steward's mate. So we took advantage of the opportunity to renew my certification, which was about to expire. My policy aboard Richard and Javelin alike had always been that if someone wanted a checkout to be rated for any job in the ship, they had a right make the attempt. So why shouldn't I enjoy the same privilege? It was a pity, really, that I'd not be present when the Second Space Lord examined my service folder after this particular cruise…
Still, washing dishes was washing dishes and while Jean and the other humans might love their fancy French cheese sauces, from a Rabbit's point of view disgusting was still disgusting. Yet I couldn't relax my concentration for a moment as I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed, then re-examined the dishes yet again as I loaded them onto racks and ran them through the dishwashing machine. Then I looked them over one last time before placing them carefully on the shelves. Soon they were all sparkling clean…
…and we'd found no message of any kind whatsoever.
"I just don't get it," I muttered as Nestor toted up my score on the dishwashing section of the certification form. Being somewhat distracted and not having exercised my dishwashing skills in a very long time, I'd forgotten to verify that a pre-heater was operational and that a secondary drain was open before proceeding. It was embarrassing, though I'd still pass. Barely. "It has to be somewhere. I'd have bet money on the crockery—it's by far the easiest and least conspicuous place."
"Table linens next," Nestor suggested. "Then we'll look over the furniture and the room itself." He gestured at the form. "Besides, that's what the drill calls for anyway."
Nestor cut me a little slack on that part of the evaluation; I was supposed to be able to properly clean the wardroom and rearrange it back into its 'lounge' configuration within a certain period of time, all by myself. Instead he helped, and we went over everything in such meticulous detail that it took us over four times as long as it should've. Still we found nothing. "It's just not here, sir," Nestor finally said after I'd upended Sir Jason's chair for the third time to examine its underpinnings. "Or if it is, it'll take special gear to find it."
I nodded and scowled—it was possible that Sir Jason might resort to something like that, but I didn't really believe it. He wouldn't want to involve any more people that absolutely necessary, and that included shipboard technicians not cleared for such high-level espionage work. In this case, it was actually safer to employ less subtle means. "Well," I said, twitching my nose in concentration and looking around the room. I'd polished the doorknobs, swabbed under the table, looked under all the chairs… And yet, it had to be somewhere.
Didn't it?
Finally Nestor sighed. "It's late, sir. You should go to bed. The spy-team is scheduled to run a sweep in the morning anyway, to look for bugs."
I shook my head. They weren't high-level cleared and thus were the last people I wanted finding something so totally unexpected, from their point of view at least. They'd certainly know a secret message for what it was, which was the worst outcome possible. "Let's at least finish cleaning up the galley and give the Rabbits the entire night off." I smiled faintly. "There's not all that much left to do. Besides… I still haven't earned my renewal."
Nestor smiled back. "If that's your pleasure, sir."
So we trooped back into the galley and returned to work. I scrubbed the pre-soak basin, while Nestor ran the sink-covers and the like through his own dish-machine. Then suddenly he froze. "Sir?" he said.
My ears perked up at his tone, then I turned around. "Yes?"
He pointed down into the bottom of his last bus-tray. "I think maybe…"
Then I was at his side. At first I had no idea of what he was so excited about. Then I saw it too. "A pea!" I whispered.
"We didn't serve peas," he agreed, nodding slowly. "But it was all mashed in with a dollop of green beans. Like someone was trying to hide it, sir. Then the whole thing fell off the plate and into the bus tub."
I nodded. Sir Jason hadn't had any way of knowing what would be on the menu, so a pea was as good a guess as any. Besides, a green vegetable of some sort was offered with almost every meal… I reached down and poked the thing with a clawtip. It was as hard as a rock.
"Bingo," I said softly.
15
I sent Nestor down to Engineering to get some solvent, while Mr. O'Toole performed a final inspection of the galley and then, still totally without a clue as to what was really going on, renewed my certification. "Uh…" he said softly, examining my score. "I'm supposed to caution you to bone up on your dishwashing skills, sir, even though you passed. Your score in that area is yellow-zone."
I blushed under my fur. "I promise!"
Then Nestor and I were sitting in my cabin, the plastic pea slowly dissolving in a bowl of paint thinner. "It's amazing," I commented as I stared down at the thing. "He even made a little dent in it, and colored one side a bit lighter green than the other."
"He probably makes models or something as a hobby," Nestor agreed. "Little ships or soldiers most likely, him being an Imperial."
Then the plastic pea went fuzzy, and before our eyes the outlines of a standard micro-datacube began to emerge. In practically no time we had it popped into Nestor's reader and he was scanning the contents.
"It's in two parts," Nestor observed. "My machine can't parse the second. It says the data is corrupt."
I nodded. "That'll be a report back to his handlers on Earth Secundus. We don't want to even try reading that; it'll all be supersensitive stuff we have no need to know about." Then I wriggled my nose. "What about the other?"
Instead of answering, Nestor simply handed the gadget over. Sure enough, the second entry was gibberish. But the first read "To Captain David Birkenhead, HMS Javelin". I smiled and clicked on it.
"Greetings, Captain Birkenhead," the message began. "Please believe me when I tell you that I've long hoped that someday we might meet again and perhaps even become genuine friends.
"First, I hope that you won't consider me a traitor. To me, 'traitor' means someone who's sold himself out for personal gain. I've never accepted anything even resembling compensation from your government for my services, nor do I ever intend to ask for such. What I seek—and have always sought, almost as long as I can remember—is peace and justice for all living sentients. I've found that I have little interest in personal aggrandizement. Both of us understand that I'm well placed to enjoy all of the wealth and power I might ever desire without having to accept the risk that spying carries with it. Beyond that I can offer no proof of my bona-fides, and will simply have to hope that you accept me at face value as a good and decent man.
"Of more immediate concern…
"You should be aware that your mission here was a lost cause before it ever began. The House of Wilkes swore a secret oath of fealty to the Emperor almost a year ago, hostages were exchanged, and everything they've done since has been at my uncle's direct behest. He now pulls all the strings here. The Wilkes nobility became convinced that the war was unwinnable—when in fact it's closer to unlosable, if competently fought and managed!—and switched sides in exchange for preferential status within the Empire. Wilkes, in short, is bought, paid for and owned by His Imperial Majesty. This has only remained secret because the Emperor wishes it so.
"I'm well aware that you have sufficient marines with you to seize Wilkes Prime by force, and for that matter enough naval firepower to blow my own pitiful little cruiser out of the sky anytime you like. But I warn you—His Majesty grows desperate for a victory, and it will not suit His purposes forever to keep this enormous diplomatic triumph a secret. Yes, David, you can easily take the planet. Almost at will, even. But, can you keep it? Doing so means controlling space systemwide. Are you prepared to take on, say… The entire strength of the main Imperial battlefleet? Your force is structured to hit and run rather than exchange sustained blows; this is obvious to the eye of any professional. While I have no certain knowledge of our fleet's movements, were I in your position I'd be deeply concerned. Examine your charts carefully, and you'll see that an openly-acknowledged side-change by the House of Wilkes realigns the entire strategic situation. Indeed, Wilkes Prime itself becomes a very attractive forward base for our heaviest ships. I've been expecting them to arrive here for several weeks.
"Also, as you've certainly inferred, I've been instructed by the highest authorities on your side to do absolutely nothing that might potentially expose me to my own government for what I am. I fear that I must concur with their judgment. I've only revealed myself to you here and now because of how trusted and important your own position has become. So be aware that circumstances may force me to once again fight you tooth and nail, David, even while at the same time it breaks my heart to do so. Though I'll assist you 'under the table' when and where I can, you should count on nothing whatsoever from me. My fondest hope is that we can remain 'one and one' forevermore, at least in the games that matter. I'm fully aware of how few Imperials have gotten off so lightly.
"Sincerely, Captain Sir Jason Tallsdale
"PS—Tell Nestor that he looks good in black, but the disguise isn't half so effective as he imagines. He should never stake his life on it; we Imperials are on the lookout for him almost as thoroughly as we are for you. Also, please let him know that my own personal steward Cloud wants his recipe for steamed turnip greens—he says the leftovers were some of the best he ever ate!"
16
I spent much of the remainder of the night pacing back in forth in my cabin, still wearing my galley-stained shirt and pausing from time to time to study a chart of the sector. Sir Jason was correct, I soon realized; Wilkes space with its dense concentration of jump points was indeed a perfect advanced base for the Imperial Fleet. I also had to assume that he was correct in his estimate that the Imperial Admiralty would probably take such a step; he was far more in tune with their current trains of strategic thought than I could ever be. Therefore my only logical course of action was to run for home as fast as the task force's engines could carry us, leaving the Emperor in command of all Wilkes space. Under the circumstances no one would blame me if I did exactly that; indeed, James would probably be extra-nice and make sure I knew how grateful he was to me for making the smart, difficult choice of retreating instead of the stupid, easy one of stubbornly fighting it out with an enemy I had no hope of defeating. I could almost predict James's exact words. "I sent you to exercise judgment, David. And I'm grateful that you did. I could've sent out any officer in the fleet to lose a task force, after all. It takes guts to know when to back down. And… Don't forget that we accepted the possibility of losing both Hashimoto and Wilkes when I made my bid for the crown. You preserved Hashimoto, so your mission was at least partially successful."
In my heart of hearts I knew that James was right; my task force couldn't stand up to the entire Imperial line of battle. Against such odds I reckoned that Javelin might last as long as an hour; perhaps two if she were lucky. But still… One didn't win wars by running away, and if I abandoned this planet someday it'd have to be wrenched back inch by bloodsoaked inch, at heaven only knew what cost in lives and treasure. Professor Lambert had preached the innate strategic advantage of offensive warfare over and over again back at the Academy, and I'd been one of his top students. Surely someone of my military philosophy and background could come up with something better than merely running away?
