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  Then I laid my head back onto the pillow and closed my eyes. "No!" I wailed. "Never, without him!"

  "We must crown you immediately," my uncle urged. "Right now, before we even treat your wound. And you must be seen wearing the crown, as well. Or else the succession crisis from hell will erupt! We might even split back up and begin fighting amongst ourselves all over again!"

  Suddenly Nestor was at my side as well. "Your uncle is right, sir. You may not be thinking clearly yet—heaven knows no one would blame you if you aren't. But… It's just like before. If not you, then who? The navy is loyal to you personally. So are the Marcuses and the Marcus allies and even the House Lords of the rump of the Empire, which could otherwise be expected to form a natural center of opposition. Plus, no one else would satisfy the freedmen. They'd riot endlessly, imagining you'd been cheated somehow. You're the only one who can hold things together, sir. At least until a clear line of succession is established."

  "Nooooo!" I repeated, closing my good fist and slamming it down on the bed. "Never! And doubly not like this! Oh god! Poor James!"

  "His Highness is in terrible pain," the physician interrupted. "The slug is lodged in the shoulder joint itself. You people must—"

  "There's no time for that!" Robert replied, eyes cold and hard and calculating, just as they'd been during the time of the coup. "David… Damnit, son! I know it hurts, but you must do your duty!"

  "Duty," I muttered. Then I laughed, and perhaps it sounded a bit hysterical? "Duty is all I know, Uncle. And now it's all I'll ever know. Was my life ever really my own, or was that just an illusion too? I mean… I wasn't even allowed a happy wedding day!" I closed my eyes and laid my head back onto the too-soft pillow. "So go get the crown and Frieda and the rest of the high muckety-mucks and let's get it over and done with." I shifted in my stretcher, creating more waves of pain quite on purpose. They felt fiery and out of control, which was somehow fitting then and there. "And damn every one of you heartless aristocratic bastards to hell!"

  23

  Forty-two years later, in His Majesty King David's private office

  "It was the strangest thing," His Highness continued, after a long pause. "Of course everyone thought a rogue Imperialist must've shot James. And yet… That didn't turn out to be the case at all. The killer wasn't even aiming at him! He was one of Gwendolyn's old teenage flames, was all. Over a period of years he went slowly mad and, well…" His Majesty shrugged, eyes downcast and still pain-filled after all these years. "If he couldn't have her, apparently in his warped mind no one else would either. So he set out to kill her and then himself. But he didn't figure his windage properly. That was what made the difference between life and death—a madman's error while calculating windage." He met my eyes again. "James would've willingly died for her—that I'm certain of. They were very much in love. It was too bad they hadn't conceived a child yet. Or maybe it was for the better after all—certainly a male child would've raised uncomfortable questions about which candidate had the best claim to the crown upon my own death." He sighed again. "Look at me—here I've promised to bare all to you in exchange for your promise not to publish this book until everyone I've named and their children's children are all dead, and still I'm holding out on you. Old habit, I fear.” He shook his head and licked his nose. "The real truth is that James and Gwen were using birth control, in order to delay matters until the gene-splicers on Marcus Prime could produce the best, finest, most promising embryos possible for them. He intended to be succeeded by generation after generation of what amount to supermen. While Frieda and I didn't have to wait—all the work and planning to accomplish pretty much the same thing was finished before we were born. It was all part of the original breeding plan."

  I nodded and smiled encouragingly as my little sound-box sucked up every word. His Majesty always kept his promises; certainly he'd kept every one he'd ever made to me. Long ago and fresh out of college, I'd caught his eye by being willing to work as part of his domestic staff—and therefore under the direct supervision of multiple Rabbits—long before manumission was anything resembling a reality. In fact, or so His Majesty claims, I was the first human anywhere outside the military to work under Rabbits. It'd simply seemed like the right thing to do at the time, so far as I was concerned. It did the Rabbits in question a lot of good, and perhaps me as well. I'd had a dream of writing then-Captain Birkenhead's biography someday. He promised me an exclusive on the topic, and now half a century or so later he was offering me so much behind-the-scenes material that, well… I wasn't sure anyone would believe me, if the original voice-recordings didn't survive! This was fabulous! If only it could be released during my own lifetime! Though of course it was obvious why this could never be.

  "I guess that's about it, really. You know at least as much as I do about what's happened since then, Henry. Being my private secretary and all that, I mean. I can't think of anything significant during my reign I've held back from you. You're family, after all."

  I smiled back—it was true enough. Over the years I'd slowly taken over Lord Nestor's role in His Majesty's life, as his former batman moved on to greater and greater responsibilities in his own right. Currently he was serving in two key positions in government, as both Treasurer and Minority Leader in the House of Lords. One day, I was willing to bet, he'd be Prime Minister. And probably sooner rather than later—as the primary author of the New Compact that nowadays formed the basis of our government, Nestor in many ways commanded as much respect as His Majesty himself. Though, of course, Lord Nestor would've been horrified at the very idea.

  "We've grown and grown, Henry," His Majesty continued, sipping at his beloved tea. "All the various humanities, beyond all reason. King Albert should get the credit for most of this, as I've explained over and over. And maybe part of it was Nestor's fascination with democracy, as well. Mostly, all I've done is stand back and watch everything around me bear fruit and multiply."

  That was a damned lie, though I smiled and nodded regardless. King David told lots of lies when he should've known better—another of his favorite whoppers was that my father Dr. Lambert had actually won the Wars of the Imperium simply by writing his books on strategy. During his time as our monarch so far, David had helped society along in a million ways, nudging here and calling in favors there and even strong-arming the last few House Lords who didn't want to give up their feudal rights by taking up personal command of the Fleet and showing up on their doorsteps with it. He had an uncanny ability to reveal just enough of the mailed fist that lay ever-waiting beneath the velvet fur to persuade others that going along with his plans might be for the best after all. It was he who'd tripled the number of universities in a decade and quadrupled the trade schools which at first were the primary educational resource of the freedmen. His uncle was legendary for his skill at back-room deal-making, but in the end even Lord Robert himself was forced to acknowledge David as the all-time champ. "We had no idea how well he'd do at first," he often said. "In fact, we didn't have a clue. But we're plenty glad we adopted him regardless!"

  "Well, then!" His Majesty muttered, blushing a little. After all these years he could still be a bit awkward socially at times, particularly with humans. It was a scar that most ex-slaves seemed to carry, and who could blame them? "I suppose we're finished at last then, eh?"

  "I suppose so," I replied, rising. His Majesty hadn't surrendered all his power to Parliament, nor even most of it. He felt that the institution should prove itself stable and competent for a few decades first. Who could fault him for being so conservative, after he'd seen so much of the last civil war in person? "Though I must admit, Sire, that I'll miss these little sessions enormously." I bowed, something I was normally excused from in the Royal Presence. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I can only hope that my final draft will even halfway measure up to the Rabbit who inspired it."

  He laughed. "You shore do talk pretty." It was a private joke between us; one day long ago we'd overdosed on the elaborate formulas of Court co
rrespondence—"His August Lordship would most humbly submit…", for example—and shared a glorious half-hour writing up the most ridiculous, extravagant and ultimately meaningless letter ever penned in the Royal Palace. King David could be like that sometimes—if something was meant to overawe, he usually found it irresistibly funny instead. It was a small part of why everyone—everyone!—seemed to love him so. Then his smile faded. "Now, Henry, if you'll forgive me I have pressing business in the Throne Room. It's all very urgent, and must be dealt with before I can finally see Frieda again. So if you'll excuse me…"

  I nodded and exited as quickly as I possibly could, trying on the one hand not to show him my back and on the other hoping to be unobtrusive about it. But David was in essence already gone, studying his notes through strong, clear eyes that gave lie to his grizzled fur and stooped body. He'll be around for many years to come, I reassured myself the same way I always did when leaving the Presence. It wasn't that I didn't have faith in the Heir, Prince Albert. Far from it! He was a good friend, in fact; I'd tutored him in law during his teens and we still shared a nip of whiskey and a poker game now and again. But genetically engineered or no, how could he ever compare to David Birkenhead, at the mention of whose name galaxies trembled and stars shifted in their courses, who'd dared leave his footprints on Imperious herself? Who'd done more than any other hundred men to win the long wars, no matter what he himself might claim? Who'd been born a slave and would die a king, and whose reign was marked by the brightest and best era that Mankind had so far known? How could any flesh-and-blood heir measure up to such a living legend? I frankly didn't envy him the task.

  I sighed and patted the data-cube in my pocket—so many things about His Majesty were clearer now that I knew the full, unvarnished truth. I'd been told more than even his own wife and children knew—for example, the navy still didn't understand why His Highness had so categorically refused the Academy's request to erect a statue of him standing at rigid attention atop the sacred Mast, eyes facing the approaching dawn. Most supposedly great men were lessened when the truth about their past finally came out, but somehow King David's stature was only enhanced in my eyes. I suspected the same would hold true in the far future, when at last my work would be released to a galaxy hungry to learn more about a personality that fascinated them still.

  In order to return to my own quarters, I had to pass by the primary entrance to the Throne Room. The guards all knew me by sight, of course, and were well aware of my position and responsibilities. So were most of the petitioners; even the nobles backed away as I thrust myself forward and peeked though the little window. From there my view was directly up the main aisle and then to the Throne itself. By now my liege was sitting there in his formal robe, which somehow always looked rumpled no matter how many times it was recut and restyled. He was doing his best to concentrate on the woman who was addressing him, but his eyes wandered regardless. Finally they met mine…

  …and then fell immediately to the floor.

  My god! Did he actually think that I disapproved of him now that I knew he'd once killed his commanding officer and that his famous charge at Wilkes Prime was actually an act of mutiny? Or that in a time of terrible urgency he'd arranged the murder of even his own most beloved sovereign? Clearly this was the case, but… What could I do about it?

  For a long moment I was puzzled to no end. Then I noticed that a Rabbit-family was standing in line to make a petition. They had two kids, a boy and a girl perhaps eight and nine years old respectively, who weren't wearing their formal best. Clearly, the plan was for them to wait outside. "Excuse me," I greeted the parents while wearing my most official smile. "Could I borrow your children for a moment?"

  Not ten minutes later, everything was arranged. No one asked any questions; after all as His Majesty's secretary I was in charge of his personal schedule, and as his known confidante, well… Let's leave it at "it wasn't much of a problem".

  So when the current petitioners finally completed whatever long, dreary business they were about, instead of Mr. and Mrs. Rabbit being next their kids went in. Wearing ordinary shorts and playclothes and not knowing the first thing about Court etiquette they wandered in cute as buttons. "Excuse me," the Royal Chamberlain asked, looking down at his schedule. "Are you supposed to be here?"

  "Mr. Lambert says so," the girl replied, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

  By now His Majesty was grinning like a child himself—he loved this sort of thing, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it. "Then you're supposed to be here, sure enough!" he declared, ending all argument. "Now… What is your business before your sovereign?"

  The boy started to speak, but his sister cut him off. "You're King David?" she asked.

  "Uh-huh!" he replied. "I sure am!"

  "But you're not wearing a crown!" the boy complained, unwilling to remain silent any longer.

  "Shut up!" his sister ordered. "Hush!" Then she turned back to His Majesty. "We just wanted to thank you, sir."

  David's eyebrows rose. "For what?"

  "For fixing things so we could grow up free," she said.

  "We're from Boyen Ten," the boy interjected. "They used to keep Rabbits as slaves there!"

  "He knows that, dumbhead!" the girl snapped. Then she turned back to David. "And for helping us grow up in peace and… p-p-prosperity, too. Mr. Lambert says your pain and sacrifice made our lives possible. Once he explained, we sort of wanted to thank you."

  "Yeah!" the boy echoed. "Thank you bunches!"

  Then she curtseyed, he bowed, and both retraced their footsteps towards the entryway. "Thank you, King David!" the girl repeated one last time over her shoulder as a large, gruff marine held the door open for her. "Bye!" Then they were gone…

  …and His Majesty sat quivering on the throne, tears pouring down his cheeks. I smiled and waved again through the little window, then silently mouthed "Thank you!" myself.

  It seemed the least I could do.

  OTHER TITLES FROM LEGION PRINTING

  By Phil Geusz:

  Corpus Lupus

  Descent

  Transmutation NOW!

  Wine of Battle

  Novellas:

  A Left-Handed Sword

  Lagrange

  The David Birkenhead Series:

  Ship’s Boy

  Midshipman

  Lieutenant

  Commander

  Captain

  Commodore

  Admiral

  By Fred Patten

  Already Among Us, an Anthropomorphic Anthology