Commodore

by Phil Geusz

  Thus the Imperials lost another crucial weapon. And thus I spent yet another long, sleepless night, haunted by the vision of the young reporter. Yes, I'd learned, she'd indeed had a baby. A son, in fact.

  Who she'd named after the hero of the day—David Birkenhead Williams, in his case. And who I in turn had made an orphan.

  30

  "It couldn't be helped, sir," Nestor said as he delivered my tea the next morning. I was bleary-eyed, drained, and essentially dead on my feet from the sleepless tossing and turning of the night before. My aide knew well what was bothering me—he was as fully aware of the circumstances as I was, and even though it was probably wrong for me to show favoritism towards one victim over another I'd asked him to keep tabs on little David for me. "It was better than abandoning the planet to the Imperials, sir. And better than invading ourselves, as well. For almost everyone, in the long run. You shouldn't let it gnaw at you so much. In fact, you should be proud of coming up with such a good plan to begin with. It's working, sir."

  I sighed and nodded, then looked deep down into my cup as Nestor bustled off to perform his other duties. Currently my bed was a military bunk bolted to the wall of a former broom closet. I sat on the edge of the thin, unyielding mattress for a long moment. On a certain level it would've been far better for little David and all the rest of the innocent, non-political citizens of Wilkes Prime if I'd never come at all, if I'd allowed their leadership to sell them out to a total tyrant without a fight. My own homeworld had suffered terribly under the Imperial boot, yet the kind of ever-escalating never-say-die fight that I planned for this one would be far more destructive in every possible way. More dead, more ruins, more terrible psychic scars on a population that still didn't have a clue as to the degree of horror they were facing. And for what? I was most acutely aware of how closely my methods were coming to resemble those of the Emperor—total ruthlessness had been the secret to his success, and the more bloodthirsty and atavistic I grew in reply the nearer I came to accomplishing his ruin. But what was it all for, anyway? The Emperor was fighting for personal power and aggrandizement, of that there was no doubt. He could almost be said to be fighting for fighting's sake, and his entire leadership along with him. That was clearly wrong and evil, and also something that could definitely not be said of James or the vast majority of his officers, myself included. So in terms of that one measure, at least, I could solidly claim that we held the moral high ground. This war wasn't of our making, we didn't launch surprise attacks and snatch up worlds whenever we thought we could get away with it, and we never took lives without reason. We did, however, kill whenever it was sufficiently expedient for us to do so—little David's recent loss of his parents attested to that in spades. And so for that matter did my private stash of death warrants. I'd been forced to fill out a pair of them in order to have two high-ranking Wilkes nobles executed for treason without public trial. There'd been no doubt whatsoever of their guilt—they stood condemned from their own mouths and had sworn vengeance on James and I at all costs. With the Imperials ready to land literally at any moment and not half enough non-Wilkes noblemen available on the planet to constitute a jury… Well, I could've put them into a cell, I supposed, and stationed half a squad of marines there to shoot them the moment the Imperials threatened to take the facility. But I badly needed the marines elsewhere, it so happened—there were never enough of them to go around. And under no circumstances could I risk allowing the pair to escape and possibly form the nucleus of a puppet House under the Emperor. So I whipped out the death warrants, and…

  Expediency. It all came down to expediency. Would I still have executed them had they protested their innocence and loyalty in the face of all the evidence to the contrary? Or even if the evidence had been slightly questionable? I was glad I'd never have to know. But these days I was beginning to question more than just myself—I was also beginning to wonder about the rights and wrongs of other things as well. By what right had I been empowered with pieces of paper that meant life or death to everyone around me? Who was I to decide for the people of Wilkes Prime that a terrible paroxysm of violence was to invade their lives and destroy their homes and families instead of someone else's? For that matter who was James to declare himself king and take the throne against the will of the Noble Houses who were traditionally empowered to ratify such matters? We were better than the Emperor in some ways, yes.

  But were we better in all ways?

  Finally I sighed and sipped at my tea again, then began brushing myself down for the long, brutal soul-killing day ahead. Nestor had gone through a long, difficult flirtation with representative democracy. Most educated humans of a certain mindset did so as well, until eventually they grew out of it and accepted the reality that, like communism, it'd failed every single time it'd been tried. The people always eventually demanded more from the state than it could deliver, and the politicians invariably did their best to provide it until something or another broke down under the strain. Either that or a "strong man" like the Emperor pushed everyone else aside and took over. Or sometimes they failed to spend enough on defense and were overwhelmed from the outside. Or the bureaucrats slowly took over from the inside. In any event too much freedom was as unsustainable as too little; the history books proved it.

  And yet… I hated the fact that we Rabbits were slaves in every fiber of my being. But could it be that at another level most humans were mere slaves as well? Now that was a scary thought indeed!

  Was there—could there even possibly be—any ethically legitimate way to govern at all?

  Finally I shook my head and began to put on my uniform. There was no sense wasting so much time woolgathering when there were definite, concrete things that needed to be done in the here and now. I had a planet to defend and the entire Imperial line of battle hovering not all that far over my head—wasn't that enough trouble for any one Rabbit to deal with? Perhaps someday I might find myself in a position where I might be able to do something about the imperfections in men's (and apparently Rabbit's) souls and the way that these weaknesses and limitations cast longer and longer shadows as one rose in rank. But for now I had to accomplish what I could reasonably hope to accomplish and not waste time on matters that lay for above my pay grade—perhaps above anyone's pay grade.

  We were better than the Imperials, if far from perfect. And for now that would simply have to be good enough.

  31

  Breakfast brightened me up a little, as it always did. We'd arranged things so that all the higher-ranking officers in the command bunker always ate as many meals together as possible. That way, we could get to know each other better. A subordinate who understands his commander's underlying goals and personality is in a far better position to correctly interpret orders and discern underlying intentions, so I made it a point to eat with my officers as often as possible. Given all the lunching and dining I was doing with other various notables, well… The communal breakfast was my only real chance to build my command structure in this way, so I tried never to miss it.

  "Good morning, sir!" Heinrich greeted me from his seat on the far side of the room. I waved a silent reply and smiled; we all sat together at a round table so as to dispense with precedence of any kind. Today I found myself with an empty slot on my right and Midshipman O'Toole on my left. O'Toole was currently in charge of setting up the living arrangements and such at our alternate headquarters, which was located in an old copper mine. In ordinary circumstances that job would've gone to a senior lieutenant, but the midshipman wasn't even shaving yet that I could tell. According to Heinrich, he was bearing up well under the stress and held enormous promise. "Good morning, middy!" I greeted him in as cheerful a tone as I could manage. "How are the eggs and oinkers today?"

  He smiled; 'oinkers' was Academy slang for pork-sausage. "Quite good, sir. Though I doubt you'll be indulging."

  "Absolutely not," I agreed as a plate of nice, sweet hay appeared. Thankfully it was the human-food that was short on this particular c
ampaign; simple hay remained unrationed for the moment as local supply still exceeded demand. The situation was the dead-opposite of that I'd faced on Zombie Station, where the humans ate well and we Rabbits starved. Turnabout, I supposed, was fair play. "This right here is the stuff for me! Mmm-mmm!"

  He smiled, as I'd hoped he would, and the youthful exuberance of the expression seemed to light up the whole room. "So," I asked after taking my first bites. "What's our new home going to be like?"

  The expression faded. "Grim, sir." He shook his head. "I've rounded up all the bunks and kitchen gear and such that we'll need, but it's hot and damp and is going to remain so no matter what I do."

  "No one expects miracles, son," I replied with a nod. The mine was located in a mountainous area near the center of Heinrich's last, most powerful stronghold. It had multiple entrances in the most unexpected places, spread over several miles of territory. There was all the shaft space we'd ever need and more for stuff like ordnance storage, a hospital, a communications center powerful enough to remind the entire planet that we were still alive, and more. An absolutely vital railroad line ran smack through the center of the stronghold, so that we'd be able to inderdict the large-scale movement of both freight and fuel simply via the act of holding out. Two of the planet's five best fuel-farms were within artillery range. The moment a tanker landed at one, we could blow it to smithereens even long after losing control of the air. But best of all, the mine's owner had failed to update the government-registration paperwork for years so as to conceal his profits and avoid taxes. The shafts extended five times as far as any outside records indicated. "Just make it as livable as you can, and pack in all the food and such you can round up. Don't worry about final dispositions— dump the stuff inside and we'll sort out the rest later."

  He nodded. "Yes, sir. That's pretty much how Commander Von Schtolen told me to do things, and I've been doing exactly that." He colored. "It won't be pretty, sir."

  I smiled back. "In war, not much is."

  Conversation languished a bit as the midshipman ate his oinkers and I nibbled at my hay. Then he looked up at me for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether or not to speak. Finally I smiled. "Son, I don't bite. Not at the breakfast table, at least. What's on your mind?"

  He looked down at his plate. "Sir… Last night at that press conference…"

  I felt my face go hard and stony, though I hadn't willed it. "Yes?"

  His eyes rose to meet mine. "Sir, I don't quite know how to say it. But…" Then he was looking down into his plate again. "I was so proud when I found out that you'd be in command of Javelin, sir. Even though my job was just wrangling the steward bunnies, it made me feel warm and excited inside. I always did my best every single day, hoping you'd notice how clean the galleys were kept and how well-disciplined my bunnies were. Then when we arrived here and suddenly I had so much responsibility, well… You should see my letters home, sir. And even more the ones I got back, until our mail got cut off. My parents can't believe I sit at the same table with the only living being to ever win two Swords, and then left his footprints on Imperious as well. Now…" His face contorted as it tried to express feelings that even its owner didn't fully understand. "All I can say, sir, is that you're the bravest person I've ever met. Not just to have made such a difficult choice but to then stand up before the world and acknowledge it. I thought I was honored to serve under you before, but at the time I only understood half of who you really are and what it takes to be like you. I mean, I expected the strategic insight and the physical bravery and even a little of your sheer stubbornness. Professor Lambert spoke endlessly of you, and…" He looked up and grinned. "I was captain of the gaming team too, sir."

  "Really?" I asked, returning the expression. "Perhaps we might play something sometime, if circumstances allow."

  O'Toole's jaw dropped. "That'd be… I mean…" Then he composed himself again. "Anyway, sir, what I wanted to say was that Professor Lambert taught me that war stinks no matter what, and that no one can hope to wage it without carrying at least a little of the odor for the rest of their life. Somehow, though… Sir, you've given me a lot to think about. And I just wanted to let you know that I admire you more than ever."

  32

  Soon three more assault carriers full of Imperials showed up, and we knew it couldn't be much longer. "Where are they all coming from?" Jean demanded at breakfast the day after their arrival. "Their economy ought to be too exhausted to produce such a force!"

  "Where there's a whip, apparently there's a way," Heinrich observed. "Though I bet..."

  Jean and I sat and waited patiently for Heinrich to finish with his long, slow thoughts. In this regard he resembled his mathematical-genius father. "We knew the Imperials had more troop-carriers under production," he continued eventually. "And I suppose they're part of the force here. But the ships themselves are only partial weapons-systems. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if the newest vessels don't have their own landing-craft. Or if the marine contingents are only partially-trained."

  I nodded and smiled encouragingly. "And this means..."

  He shrugged. "Nothing in practical terms, I fear. They have plenty enough strength to force a landing against anything we can muster, and the shortcomings of their green marines won't show so badly against irregular forces." He shook his head. "We've accepted a defensive role here, David, with all its inherent shortcomings. In this sort of situation, the most we can hope for is that the Imperials make a mistake or two we can catch them in."

  But the Imperials didn't make any more mistakes, or at least not for a very long time. Knowing we were totally impotent outside the atmosphere, they held drill after drill to perfect their landing skills, each time causing a near-panic among the civilian population. Yes, it seemed that Heinrich was right— two of the troop-carriers apparently weren't equipped with assault boats. But he was again correct in that there wasn't any way we could make him pay for the lack. It was immensely frustrating.

  So, when the landings finally came it was almost a relief. This time they ignored New Queensland entirely, which was a little disappointing since we'd evacuated the last marine from there months ago to be redeployed in Heinrich's stronghold. We hadn't expected the Imperials to waste a landing force there under the altered circumstances, but there'd always been the hope. Similarly, this time we weren't up against a thrown-together aerospace effort. The Imperial fighter squadrons were handled skillfully indeed, so much so that our losses far exceeded those of the enemy's. This was because our fighters were outnumbered—a little math will soon demonstrate that all other things being equal a relatively small numerical superiority will soon produce surprisingly disproportionate results. Heinrich was practically snarling by the time he was forced to withdraw his few remaining aerospace craft into the stronghold's tunnels to be saved for special missions, but I didn't think he had proper cause for anger. Our plans were solid and our men gave their all. There were just too many Imperials, was all.

  By then Nestor and I were watching the battle from the mountain stronghold's command center—the old Wilkes installation was known to the enemy and sure enough was nuked a few hours after being abandoned. While my tea was as pleasant in the tunnels as anywhere, the same couldn't be said for much of anything else. The air was every bit as hot and damp as Midshipman O'Toole had predicted—the proper word for the atmosphere was 'fetid', Nestor and I had long since decided.

  "Here they come for real," Jean observed as the assault boats came racing down through the atmosphere we no longer controlled. Here and there one of our better-camouflaged missile batteries got off a shot, and one or two actually blotted their targets from the sky. But our batteries never lived very long afterwards—within seconds of being unmasked an Imperial fighter would smother the entire area with cluster munitions. More encouraging in my book were the enemy's ground-losses. While some of these were inflicted by the regular-forces Wilkes defense battalions, the vast majority of the lost enemy assault boats died as a result of being sm
othered in cheap explosives launched from one-shot volunteer-type throwaway launchers. I shuddered to imagine what the relative cost-to-loss ratio might be—assault boats were expensive! Marines too—certainly far more so than barely-trained Rabbits. It got so bad for the enemy that he finally abandoned two of his three landing zones altogether and concentrated his remaining boats on a single beachhead just out of artillery range of our stronghold. The Imperials took losses there as well, but were able to create such an overwhelming concentration of force that eventually all open resistance became futile.

  "And that's that," Jean observed sadly. "The textbooks say that an invasion's half-won once you've seized a secure beachhead."