Lieutenant (The David Birkenhead Series)

by Phil Geusz

  Like I said, he wasn’t stupid.

  Communicating with Javelin was problematical at first—our suit-to-suit communicators didn’t have half enough range. But I finally established a link by broadcasting on the interstellar distress frequency. Using that for military traffic was a violation of the laws of war, but attempting to tote up the number of such violations that occurred during almost any large-scale military encounter tended to evoke rapid dizziness anyway. For my own part I’d already run up such an impressive sin-count that one more wouldn’t matter. “Captured Imperial launch to Javelin,” I said in the clear. “Do you read?”

  “Loud and clear, launch. We note your beacon. Who and what are you?”

  “Zombie’s survivors,” I replied, knowing that my words would incense every Imperial listening in. Which they certainly were, of course. Security no longer mattered so much, now that I knew for fact that the sky was at least momentarily clear. “This is Midshipman Birkenhead again. We’re doing our best to match your vector. However, we won’t make it on our own.”

  A long, long silence followed. “Who was your tutor, Midshipman?”

  By then I was tiring of the game. “Mr. Banes,” I replied. “And James has a heart-shaped mole on his left butt-cheek as well. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen it.”

  “Well…” the voice replied with a chuckle. “We won’t be verifying that one, I don’t think. At least not up here on the bridge.”

  I still wasn’t in any mood to laugh. “Sir, there are nineteen Royal servicemen aboard, many of whom have recently survived combat of the utmost savagery. Two are wounded. All have served their sovereign well, if I’m any judge. Plus I have a prisoner here who’s wounded too.”

  There was another long pause. “That’s an Imperial boat,” he pointed out. “I’m not sure what it’s capabilities are.”

  I turned to the pilot. “Life or death,” I warned him.

  “Life,” he replied. “I’ve long since decided. Please, let me speak to them directly?” With commendable efficiency he reported on the capabilities and fuel status of his craft. “We can’t close you,” he finished up. “But we ought to manage something fairly near to it. It depends on exactly when the engines fail.”

  “Right,” the captain replied. “I see.” There was an endless delay before he answered back, while every man and Rabbit aboard awaited word of their fate. “Damnit,” he muttered. “I could never face His Majesty again if I didn’t at least try. Stand by for docking instructions.”

  40

  After that, it was all an endless, excruciating ride. The engines grew hotter and hotter, and our eyes remained so firmly fixed to the gauges that we hardly looked up when Zombie finally imploded and over half the Station vanished from our universe. Heaven only knew how many Imperials died in the collapse—it was a shame at a certain level, because no one really had to have been killed at all. There’d been plenty of time for their marines to either move forward of the primary bulkhead or else climb into an assault boat in an organized manner. But it hadn’t happened that way, for a thousand reasons. I looked guiltily down at my feet for a moment, realizing that Lancrest’s booby-traps and my own barriers across the main corridors probably had a lot to do with the inflated body count, though not nearly so much as Javelin’s main battery.

  Did every commander feel guilty about how many of the enemy he’d slain, I wondered? Or was it just me?

  My respect for Imperial hardware grew by the minute as we raced towards our rendezvous with the raider. None of us, including our prisoner, ever expected for a moment that the boat’s engines would hold out long enough us to complete our docking maneuver. But they stubbornly refused to blow despite massive abuse. Imperial blasters were more powerful and their grips slimmer, their demolition charges more potent and easier to set up… I’d learned a thousand lessons, having actually fought a campaign largely using the enemy’s own hardware. Even their warships were tougher and faster and more powerful, with the sole exception of brand-new Javelin. But that sole exception was plenty good enough for me, right at the moment.

  We were still sweating bullets over the engines and maneuvering to dock when three Imperial battle-cruisers flashed into Zombie space, from the same node and along the same vector Javelin had used. They opened fire instantly, but our rescuer stood firm and refused to spoil our docking by taking evasive action. Instead the Royal ship held steady and fired back, the bolts crossing in mid-trajectory. The first Royal salvoes missed, and so did the second. I heard later that Javelin scored a lucky hit on the third, however, though I didn’t see it because by then we were pouring through the dock into the big, safe hull beyond.

  Though I’d ordered everyone else to leave their weapons behind, I forgot about my own in all the confusion. I was the last one out, being all the way up in the cockpit, and chose to assist our prisoner myself. “You’ll be treated as well as I can arrange,” I was promising him as neatly-uniformed marines leapt forward and snatched my Imperial blaster out of its holster. The crew was treating us as hostiles, of course—it was the only prudent thing to do. Still, the marine lieutenant in charge should’ve known better than to try and relieve me of my Sword. “His Majesty gave me this with his own hands!” I shouted, slapping his filthy mitts away from the hilt. “And by god I’ll surrender it to no one else!” It was stupid, of course. But it’d been a long, hard day.

  “Leave it, Peter,” a new voice interjected just about the moment I was about to test my hand-to-hand combat skills for the first time ever. It was a good thing I didn’t have to—like the rest of my crew I’d been living in null gee for months without access to a centrifuge and could barely even stand.

  “Thank you, sir!” I addressed the new arrival, a much-decorated commander. Most likely he was Javelin’s first officer, since her captain could hardly leave the bridge during combat. I did my best to snap to attention…

  …but the world spun, and suddenly I found myself lying on the deckplates.

  “My god you’re a wreck, Midshipman!” he declared, taking in the dull eyes and patchy fur and wasted musculature that'd greeted me in the mirror every morning for I didn’t know how long. But his voice wasn’t critical. Instead, he seemed… awestruck. Then he pulled himself together and raised his voice so that all could hear. “We’re currently in action,” he explained. “So I have to hurry back to the bridge. Until we can find time to sort things out you’ll all have to be considered prisoners of war—I’m sure you understand why this is necessary. I promise you’ll be treated with dignity and respect.” The main guns fired again, and he turned to the marine officer. “And that one there? You let him keep that Sword, you hear? Or I’ll know the reason why!”

  Then he turned to face me, saluted as if he were on a parade-ground, and left before I could react.

  41

  They gave me a private cell, at least, and access to a datapad so I could type up my after-action report. It was an old naval tradition that this be delivered the first minute possible—nothing short of brink-of-death wounds was accepted as a proper excuse for delay. Fortunately I had the Station’s log-chip with me to serve as the bulk of the document, and I’d already written out two different versions of the events leading up to my taking command of Zombie Station.

  In one of them I’d killed my captain, and in the other I hadn’t.

  It was tempting—terribly tempting, in fact—to simply fail to mention that one teensy-weensy little part where I’d drawn my Sword, slashed my CO’s throat, and then dragged a bawling Nestor to safety. Only the cabin boy and I could possibly know the true story, and he’d certainly never talk once I made it clear to him how important it was to Rabbits everywhere that my name remain clean and unbesmirched. No one else would ever know.

  So while composing the final section covering our counterattack with the nuke and subsequent escape from the Station I considered what I should do. Then just as I was finishing up I felt Javelin’s smooth, powerful engineering plant warp space and Jump us out of the
system. For a time at least combat would be unlikely. The hands would be released from Action Stations to get a little rest...

  …and the captain would be coming to see me, expecting his report.

  I was sick unto death, exhausted, battle-weary and perhaps might even be able to credibly argue that I was temporarily insane from all the stress I’d been under for so long. There were a thousand excuses I could’ve made for filing a false report, in the unlikely event it were ever discovered to begin with. But every time I even considered doing so I somehow found myself picturing His Highness scowling at me, and not offering chocolate milk. Or Father, turning away from me in disgust. So I deleted the sanitized version and resolved to stand by the truth. Then for the first time ever—I’d never handled such a high-level document before—I pulled out my signet ring and touched it to the receptacle as proof of my identity. “That’s for your captain,” I explained to the brig sentry as I handed it to him. “He’ll be expecting it.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” he replied with a salute.

  “By the way,” I asked before he could go. “I still haven’t heard. Who is your captain, anyway?”

  The man smiled, clearly proud. “He’s Captain Lord Quenton,” he replied. “Sitting Earl of the House of Quenton.”

  I blinked. “Thank you.” Lord Robert had spoken several times of the House of Quenton—it was a smaller House, but a proud one indeed. The Earl was his good, respected friend. More often than not, Quenton found itself allied with Marcus in the various squabbles of the nobility. Though precisely what that meant under the current circumstances, I couldn’t say.

  It took Captain Quenton far longer to come see me than I’d anticipated— almost half a day, in fact. Apparently he had important ship’s business to attend to first, or else perhaps he’d decided to read the report. I spent the time gorging on hay and sleeping, since my body was so far behind on both counts. In fact, I was busily sawing logs when he finally arrived.

  “Sir!” I spluttered as I leapt to my feet…

  …and once more collapsed to the deck. “Sir! I’m so sorry that…”

  “Never mind, David,” he answered, his tone gentle. He smiled and gestured for a chair. “Let’s both sit, if it makes you more comfortable.”

  I blushed bright-red under my fur. I hated being treated like an invalid, but the fact was that I couldn’t remain vertical for long. And probably wouldn’t be able to for many long days to come. “Thank you, sir.”

  His eyes shifted to my ceremonial weapon, which was leaning up against the back of the cell wall. “I see that Frank left you your Sword—I’m pleased that he did.”

  My blush deepened. “I’m afraid I made a fuss, sir. When I really shouldn’t have.”

  “Heh!” he countered. “You’ve made more than one fuss recently, David. And quite large ones at that.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you know that you disrupted Imperial merchant traffic for four Jumps in all directions?”

  “I… I hoped I would, sir. Or that we would, I should say. Everyone worked so hard! But I couldn’t know, of course.”

  “No,” he continued, his voice still soft. “You couldn’t know for sure. Which makes it all the more remarkable.” The Earl’s deep brown eyes burned into mine. “Compared to the mess you made of their logistics, the direct combat damage you inflicted on the Imperials is almost nothing. Yet even that alone…” He shook his head again.

  “Everyone worked hard,” I repeated. “And was very brave. I think that Snow deserves a Sword, sir.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I think so too. If he gets it, he’d be the second Rabbit to receive one. While fighting in close proximity to the first. Do you expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

  “I… I…” But no more words would come out.

  “Your report was thorough, professional and complete,” he said. “It was also remarkably modest. You can be quite certain that I’ll be making certain appendages and endorsements, including the testimony of at least three witnesses on your account, as well.”

  I gulped. Three witnesses were the minimum required for the award of a Sword.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, then crossed his legs. “There’s one thing I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind. How did you know to risk everything on capturing the Imperial boat, instead of waiting for rescue?”

  “Because… Sir, there had to be capital ships chasing you. Otherwise you’d never have charged the cruisers. Would you?”

  He titled his head. “You inferred that much from my maneuvers alone?”

  “Yes sir,” I answered. “How could I not?”

  The Earl shook his head, sighed, and stood up. “If only…” he muttered. Then he met my eyes once more. “For what it’s worth, I fully intended to pick you and your people up until our number eleven control rod shattered without warning. After that I was forced very much against my will to write you off. Until of course you captured the boat. That changed everything.”

  Something relaxed inside of me that I hadn’t realized was taut. “I see, sir. And understand.”

  He nodded again, then folded his arms. “That leaves just one bit of official business between us.”

  My eyes fell; I knew what was coming next.

  “Are you quite certain,” he demanded, “that your report was both correct and complete in all details? Including the circumstances under which you found yourself in command of Zombie Station, that is? If not, I’m prepared to, ah… Testify that you weren’t entirely yourself when you wrote that part. For the greater good of the service, that is. My word of honor as a nobleman. This sort of thing has been done before, under certain conditions.”

  I looked down at my feet. “That’s the key word, sir. Honor. So… Yes, sir. That’s how it happened. I killed him. In cold blood. Or perhaps it was hot blood—even I’m not sure which.”

  He nodded again. “I see. And very much respect your decision.” He straightened his spine and assumed the commanding posture that no one but a ship’s captain issuing orders can match. “Then in that case, Midshipman David Birkenhead, I find myself forced to place you under arrest for the high crimes of mutiny and murder of a superior officer.” He paused. “As there are insufficient officers available aboard to convene a court-martial, I hereby offer you the option of honorable parole instead of close arrest. Do you accept?”

  “Yes sir,” I replied, still staring at my feet. “Thank you.”

  “Then in that case I declare you confined to His Majesty’s Ship Javelin until further notice,” he declared. “Later, perhaps, we’ll expand that radius a bit. Once we get home, that is.”

  I blinked—there wasn’t anyplace for me to go except aboard Javelin! That meant… My arrest was meaningless!

  “Your parole officer will be Midshipman James Marcus,” he further declared, the faintest trace of a smile revealing itself behind his granite face. “You'll be required to formally report to him at regular intervals to prove you’ve not escaped. Shall we set the interval at, say, once every five years?”

  By then all the Academy discipline in the universe couldn’t keep the smile off of my face. “Sir!”

  “And, one last thing. My engineer suspects that we might’ve lost that control rod due to a design flaw. This is still quite a new layout, you know, and all the bugs aren’t worked out yet. So… He’s requested a special assistant to help him investigate the matter more thoroughly—someone to help him interpret the readings and such. I’m aware that we don’t have a Field suit to fit you, so you can’t perform any hands-on work yourself. But… Would you be interested? Once you’ve recovered, I mean. As temporary duty.”

  “I…” But by then, I could only nod.

  “Excellent,” he replied. “By the way, that job carries an acting-lieutenant’s rating—I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Sir! But—“

  “And now,” Captain Earl Quenton declared with a formal bow, “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Someone’s waiting outside to see you. Though I hope
he doesn’t insist on showing you that mole again—if he does, I don’t want to know about it.” He grinned. “Half the ship’s still laughing about that one, David. He’ll never live it down.”

  “But—“ I tried to stop him, and to explain that I hadn’t been in any way in a joking mood at the time. He left before I could find the words, however.

  Then somehow my best friend James who I’d despaired of ever seeing again was opening my cell door, weeping almost as hard as I was. And for the first time in I didn’t know how long, I knew that everything was going to be all right.

  David Birkenhead’s adventures will continue in Book 4: Commander

  Available October, 2012

  OTHER TITLES FROM LEGION PRINTING

  By Phil Geusz:

  Corpus Lupus

  Descent

  Lagrange

  Left-Handed Sword

  Transmutation NOW!

  Wine of Battle

  The David Birkenhead Series:

  Ship’s Boy

  Midshipman

  Lieutenant

  Commander

  Captain

  Commodore

  Admiral

  By Fred Patten

  Already Among Us, an Anthropomorphic Anthology

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  1 “…setting the course

  2 The Marcus clan held

  3 Lord Robert’s office

  4 Graves Registration

  5 I shocked the

  6 I’d fully expected

  7 Lieutenant Jeffries

  8 For a few

  9 We held a

  10 The first thing

  11 If there’s anything

  12 Because of the

  13 Up until my

  14 By the time

  15 I don’t know

  16 “Come on!”

  17 Nothing ever

  18 The chief, his