by Neil Clarke
Dennison was taken aback by his father’s lack of formality, and some of the passersby stopped to regard the strange sight of a High Duke acting with such passion. Dennison stood within his father’s stiff grasp, reading the man’s eyes. It isn’t the High Emperor, is it, Father? Dennison thought. It’s you. One genius son isn’t enough. For you, one success and one failure simply cancel each other out.
“Go prepare yourself,” Sennion said, releasing him. “The Stormwind is expecting your speeder in three days, and it’s a seventy-hour trip.”
“With permission, Your Majesty, I don’t think this is the command for me,” Dennison said, kneeling before the speeder’s wallscreen.
The High Emperor was a middle-aged man with a firm chin and a full face. He was balding in a time when most men got scalp rejuvenations, but his refusal to enhance his appearance lent him a weight of . . . authenticity. He frowned at Dennison’s comment. “It is an enviable post, Dennison. Most young High Officers would consider it an amazing opportunity.”
“I am hardly like most young officers, Your Majesty,” Dennison noted.
“No, that you certainly are not,” the emperor said. “However, I would think that this post’s near proximity to your brother would interest you.”
Dennison shrugged. “To be honest, Your Majesty, I don’t know Var-ion. I’m curious about him, but no more so than another person might be. I maintain my petition to be released from this commission.”
The emperor’s frown deepened. “You need to show more initiative, young Crestmar. Your pessimism has been a great annoyance to the High Throne.”
Dennison glanced down—it was always bad when the emperor switched to the third person. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I really have tried—I’ve tried all my life. But I received near-failing marks at the Academy, I never managed to even place in the games, and I’ve bungled every command given me. I’m just not any good.”
“You have it in you,” the emperor said. “You just have to try a little harder.”
Dennison groaned softly. The emperor had obviously been speaking with his father again. “How can you be so sure, Your Majesty?”
“I just am. Your petition is denied. Is there anything else?”
Dennison shook his head.
Admiral Kern was not waiting for Dennison in the docking bay when he left the speeder, but that wasn’t unusual. Though a High Officer, Denni-son was still a junior one, and Kern was one of the most powerful admirals in the Fleet.
Dennison followed an aide through the flagship’s passageways. They were surprisingly well decorated for a warship, adorned with the twelve seals of the High Empire. This was an imperial flagship, designed to impress inside and out. The aide led him to a large circular chamber with a battle hologram at its center. Though the air sparkled with miniature ships, only one man stood in the room—this wasn’t the bridge, but a simulation chamber very similar to the ones Dennison had used at the Academy.
High Admiral Kern was young for one of his rank. He had a square face and thick dark hair, and he was large enough that one could imagine him as some ancient general with a horse and broadsword, yet he had the typical reserved mien of an imperial nobleman. He didn’t look away from his battle as Dennison entered. The edges of the room were dim, the only illumination coming from the illusory ships and the glowing ring that marked the hologram’s edge. Kern stood at the center, not directing the progress, just observing. The aide left, closing the door.
“Do you recognize this battle?” the admiral suddenly asked.
Dennison walked forward. “Yes, sir,” he said, realizing with surprise that he did. “It’s the battle of Seapress.”
Kern nodded, face lit from below, still watching the flitting ships. “Your brother’s first battle,” he said quietly. “The beginning of the Reunification War.” He watched for a moment longer, then waved his hand, freezing ships in the air. Finally, he turned eyes on Dennison, who gave a perfunctory salute—really more a wave of the hand. Might as well establish what he was like from the beginning.
Kern didn’t frown at the sloppy greeting. He folded his arms, regarding Dennison with a curious look. “Dennison Crestmar. I hear you have something of a smart mouth.”
“It’s the only part of me blessed with such virtue, I’m afraid.”
Kern actually smiled—an expression rarely seen on a High Officer’s lips. “I suspect that was why your father sent you to me.”
“He has great respect for you, sir,” Dennison noted.
Kern snorted. “He can’t stand me. He thinks I’m undignified.”
Dennison raised an eyebrow. When Kern said nothing more, he continued. “I feel that I must warn you, sir, that I am poorly suited to this commission. I doubt that I will fulfill your expectations of a squadron leader.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to put you in charge of any ships,” Kern said, laughing. “Forgive me, but I’ve seen your records. The only question is whether you’re a worse strategist or tactician.”
Dennison sighed in relief. “Then what are you going to do with me?”
Kern waved him forward. “Come,” he said, motioning with his other hand and restarting the hologram.
Dennison stepped into the hologram. He’d seen the battle before— one couldn’t graduate from the Academy without taking several courses on the mighty Varion Crestmar. Varion’s ships were outlined in white. He had two command vessels—one a simple merchant ship, the other his imperial longship—and he controlled only four dozen fighters. Fewer ships than Dennison had been given to waste fighting pirates.
“Tell me about him,” Kern requested, watching Varion’s longship as it approached the battle.
Dennison raised an eyebrow. “Varion? He’s more than twenty years older than I. I’ve never even met him.”
“I’m not a parlor visitor asking about your family, Dennison. I’m your commander. Tell me about Varion the warrior.”
Dennison hesitated. Varion’s longship, the famous Voidhawk, slid forward. Varion’s forces were laughably small compared to those of his enemy—the rogue planet of Seapress had boasted a fleet of five massive battleships and nearly a hundred fighters. Two decades ago, at the nadir of imperial power, such a fleet had been impressive indeed.
The Seapress ships, however, didn’t form up to attack Varion. They simply waited.
“Varion is . . . ” Dennison said quietly. “Varion is perfect.” Kern raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”
“He has never lost,” Dennison said. “He was given his first command the very day he left the Academy. Within five years, he had risen to command the entire Imperial Fleet, and was charged with regaining control of the Distant Sectors. He’s fought that war his whole life, and he’s never suffered a single failure. Hundreds of battles, and he’s never lost once.”
“Perfect?” Kern asked.
“Perfect.” Dennison said.
Kern nodded, then turned back to the battlefield. The blockish merchant ship had pulled ahead of Varion’s flagship, and was ponderously making its way toward the Seapress array.
“It all started here,” Kern said.
As the first in his class in the Academy, Varion had been offered positions aboard the grandest fleet flagships. He had turned them all down, accepting a lesser post aboard a ship commanded by a regular officer— one who wasn’t noble.
Article 117 of the Fleet Code allowed a High Officer to use his rank as a nobleman—rather than his military rank—to take command of any ships where a low officer was in charge. It was an article rarely invoked, for if the nobleman fared badly, the emperor was permitted—even expected— to have the man executed.
Varion had used Article 117, taking command of the Voidhawk and its small fleet, the commoner captain becoming his XO. Varion’s first action had been to ignore their standing orders, striking out instead toward the rebellious colonies on the Western Reaches.
“He took the merchant ship by force, you know,” Kern said. “As if he were a pirate. I reme
mber the High Emperor’s fury. He ordered a half dozen longships to hunt your brother down. But Varion’s ruse wouldn’t have worked otherwise. Seapress—like most of the rebel factions—had spies in the upper ranks of the Fleet. They had to believe that Varion was going rogue. That was why he seized command so rashly and why he captured a merchant vessel, then towed it to Sea-press as a ‘gift.’
“Nobody on his ship resisted him. That is your brother’s most impressive attribute, Dennison. He’s not just a tactical master. He’s also an amazing leader. And an amazing liar.”
The image of the merchant ship rocked suddenly, its engines blasting with unexpected strength. It gained momentum as the Seapress capital ships began to turn, their commanders confused, their own engines firing belatedly. The merchant vessel rammed the Seapress flagship, then both ships twisted and rammed into a second carrier vessel.
“He’s also void-cursed lucky,” Kern noted.
Dennison nodded as Varion’s line burst with motion, fighters streaking away from his flagship, his smaller gunboats moving to enfilade the three remaining Seapress command ships.
Kern held up a hand, and the ships froze. He turned toward Dennison. “All right,” he said. “Your turn.”
Dennison frowned. “You want me to take command?”
Kern nodded, leaving the hologram and typing a few orders into the control panel. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Dennison raised an eyebrow. “What will that prove?”
“Humor me,” Kern said.
The simulation began again. The massive Seapress command ship rolled weakly to the side, the hole in its side belching flames as oxygen escaped into the void. Seapress should have blown Varion from the sky the moment he entered their space. An imperial longship, with a commander fresh from the Academy, committing treason? They should have seen through the ploy. But they hadn’t. Somehow Varion had convinced them.
Dennison shot a look to where Kern watched from the shadows. What did he see? A young Varion? Dennison and his brother were said to be very similar in appearance. The biggest difference was their hair: Dennison’s was black, but Varion’s had started turning a silvery grey on his twenty-second birthday. By twenty-five, he had already acquired the nickname Silvermane.
“Launch the fighters in three formations,” Dennison said, turning back to the hologram. “Order the Darkstring to mark four-seven-one and tell it to hold position, firing on any ships that try to escape those wounded flagships. I want the Fanell to take up position to my lower port flank, then provide cover if any fighters get too close.”
The battle began, and Dennison fought. As always, he tried. He tried hard. The insubordination and cynicism disappeared whenever he entered a battle hologram. Standing within the fray, ships swarming around, above, and below him, he abandoned his habitual pessimism and really tried.
And he lost horribly. The Seapress ships cut down his fighters when Dennison failed to give them proper covering fire. He lost the Darkstring when the mortally damaged Seapress flagship rolled too close, then self-destructed. When he tried to retreat, enemy missiles tore out the back of his command ship, and left him to suffocate as life support fizzled. The hologram switched off.
Dennison sighed, turning back toward Kern.
“I’ve seen worse,” Kern finally said.
“Oh?” Dennison said. “You’ve seen recordings of my Academy fights?”
Kern didn’t respond. He stood, tapping his chin in thought. “You asked what you are doing here,” he finally said. “Since you’re not going to be given a command.”
Dennison nodded.
“The High Emperor wants me to turn you into a leader,” Kern explained. “But I don’t intend to throw away any men on you. Therefore, I’ve found an instructor to train you.”
“Who?”
“Your brother,” Kern said. “Get used to this room, Dennison. You’re going to be spending a lot of time here. I want you to go through every one of Varion’s battles, studying his methods and his strategies. I want you to read every major profile written on him. You will become the empire’s foremost expert on Varion Crestmar—you will memorize and you will practice until you can fight this battle, and any other, just as he would.”
“You’re kidding,” Dennison said flatly.
“You should get busy,” Kern said, then tapped his control pad. A list of dates and battles appeared on the wall. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Lord Kern, sir,” Dennison said, speaking with an attention to formality he rarely invoked. “I’m not my brother. I never will be.”
“That’s no reason not to try and learn from him.”
“He destroyed my life,” Dennison said. “From the first day I entered the Academy, I was fated to fail. How could I do otherwise, considering what others expected of me? Let me study someone else. High Admiral Fallstate, perhaps.”
Kern thought for a moment, then shook his head. “You’ll do as I order, son.”
·
Each battle was a blow to his self-esteem. Even after studying Varion’s tactics, even after watching the battles replay over and over, Dennison had trouble winning. The simulator had a random factor in its programming so that he couldn’t just memorize and make the same moves that Varion had.
Dennison sighed, rubbing his forehead as he watched a holographic replay of his latest battle. His year aboard the Stormwind had passed quickly and with an odd sense of distortion. He felt removed from events in the empire. His entire world was shrunken to an endless replay of strategies, tactics, and failures, centered around a single individual.
Varion.
The replay of Marcus Seven continued. By this point, Varion’s fleet had grown to several thousand ships, and had official imperial support. Varion hadn’t even been at this battle in person; he had directed from his flagship many light-years away. The larger an object was, the longer it took to reach its destination via klage—so, while visual communications were essentially instantaneous, flagships could take months to travel between distant points of the empire.
These limitations frustrated Varion, so he had split his forces into two different battle groups, sending them in opposite directions. Dennison understood Varion’s reasoning now—a year of studying the Silvermane had immersed him in the worldview of a man he’d spent his life trying to escape. Who was Varion Crestmar? He was perfect. Dennison could no longer say that with even a hint of sarcasm.
Every day spent living his sibling’s life through battle brought the two of them closer. Dennison found himself spending his extra hours in the hologram room, looking over his recorded battles, then watching Varion’s handling of the same conflict. He stopped looking for the strategies and instead focused on the man. What kind of person was this Varion Silvermane? He had been separated from his family for two decades, living in glorious self-imposed exile because the war effort required all of his attention.
Many of these early battles in Varion’s campaign made perfect sense. Back then, Varion had still needed to persuade the emperor that he was worthy of trust and support. Dennison could see why the planet Utaries had had to be crushed quickly, because of its ability to rally other planets to its cause. He could follow the logical connection between subduing the Seapress people, then moving on to the less powerful—yet technologically superior—Farnight union.
As the Reunification War proceeded, however, Varion’s choices grew baffling. Why had he gone after New Rofelos when doing so had exposed his forces to division? What had been the purpose of committing so many of his forces to conquering Gemwater, a planet of little strategic importance and even less military power?
Questions like these haunted Dennison. Varion’s true genius was in his ability to connect battlefields, to lead his fleets from one victory to the next, always gaining momentum, expanding his war to second and third—then tenth and twentieth—fronts. He didn’t just destroy or subdue, he converted. Before Varion’s conquering began, the empire had barely held enough ships to defe
nd its ever-shrinking border. By Marcus Seven, however, the Fleet had contained more ex-rebel ships than official ones.
Varion was bold and daring, willing to take risks. Yet he was also lucky, for those risks always brought returns. Or was it luck? Dennison’s father would have scoffed. “Each man has responsibility for his own existence,” would have been the characteristic pronouncement.
In the hologram, Dennison’s flagship exploded in a spray of metal and light. Varion was perfect. And Dennison was perfectly incompetent. He didn’t make this acknowledgement despondently or with self-pity. It was simply a fact. Varion had won Marcus Seven in barely two hours. The fiasco Dennison had just watched was a recording of his fourth attempt. He’d needed seven tries to win.
Dennison sighed, rising and leaving the hologram chamber. He needed to stretch. The lavish passages of the Stormwind were oddly empty, and Dennison frowned, walking along the carpeted corridor until he encountered a minor aide. The man paused briefly, saluting and showing the same discomforted confusion the junior officers usually gave Dennison. They weren’t certain what to make of a High Officer who hadn’t been given a command, yet was important enough to share dinner with Admiral Kern every evening.
“Are we in battle?” Dennison asked.
“Um, yes, sir,” the younger man said quickly, eyes darting to the side.
“Be off with you then,” Dennison said, waving the man away.
The junior officer eagerly dashed away. Dennison stood, frowning to himself. Had he really been so absorbed that he hadn’t noticed the battle alarm? Not that Kern’s flagship was really in any danger. This would be a minor battle; Varion’s personal fleets handled all the serious fighting. Still, Dennison would like to have watched the fight. He headed for the bridge.
The Stormwind’s main bridge was larger than those of ships Dennison had commanded, but the central feature was still the battle hologram. Dennison left the lift, ignoring salutes as he stepped up to the railing, looking down. Kern himself stood in the hologram, but said little. He was a traditional commander; he left most of the local decisions to his squadron commanders, who flew in smaller gunships or longships that were in the thick of the battle.
