Commodore (The David Birkenhead Series) Read online

  The final result was that I had to lean far too heavily on people like Josiah, who did so much for me while receiving relatively little professional recognition. In many ways Commander Parker was the true captain of Javelin these days, and were he not the elderly, modest and pragmatic man that he was there might've been much friction over the fact. Eventually I was forced to task him with half of my paperwork on top of his own while I was so busy ashore on Hashimoto Prime. In order to make my gratitude a bit more substantial I wrote a letter to James and Uncle Robert seeking special recognition for him. Since he was already a Marcus subject I asked that he be named a Friend of the House and suggested that given his key role aboard Richard he might deserve a knighthood as well. In some ways this was rather cheeky of me, since formally my own House standing was fuzzy at best. But unless I missed my guess he'd receive word of both honors just as soon as the return mail caught up with us.

  The thought of the look on his face the first time I called him Sir Josiah made me smile wide as Javelin leapt like a well-bred racehorse across over a hundred light-years of void, then rematerialized not far from Wilkes Prime. Indeed, I was still smiling as the bridge screen updated itself…

  …and revealed an Imperial light cruiser orbiting placidly around Wilkes Prime.

  8

  "Evasive action," I ordered instantly. At such short range Javelin's thin armor was terribly vulnerable to rapidly-worked medium-caliber weapons. Plus, light cruisers were sometimes armed with torpedoes. "Hard a-port, Lieutenant Clarke!" Then I turned to the weapons officer. "Open fire when your weap—"

  "Sir!" Josiah interrupted. "Her beacon indicates a flag of truce."

  My mouth froze in mid-word. "Repeat!" I demanded. "Amplify!"

  "She's under a flag of truce, sir. And look! She's hove to right next to a planetary defense battery."

  I blinked and looked closer; sure enough, the Imperial was positioned so as to be at the shore battery's mercy. Suddenly I realized that my fists were bunched and my ears and tail stood stiffly erect; with an effort of will I forced myself to relax a little. "Well," I said. "That was certainly exciting!" A nervous ripple of laughter spread across the bridge as I pondered our next move. My original plan had been to send a greeting message much like the one that had proven so effective at Hashimoto Prime; indeed, I was wearing my full-dress uniform with that very purpose in mind. That, however, was clearly no longer the proper approach. "Seek permission to orbit, Lieutenant," I instructed my navigator. "But also inform traffic control that we'll be holding our current position until the rest of our squadron comes through. It'll help keep anyone from getting too trigger-happy."

  "Aye-aye, sir," Clarke replied with a nod.

  Then I turned to Josiah. "Offer the Imperial passing honors," I directed. We weren't quite 'passing' in the technical sense, but considering that we'd maneuvered so threateningly and that our turrets had actually begun to swing in their direction, at least a minimal level of courtesy seemed in order.

  "Aye-aye," my first officer replied, reaching down to flash our running lights in the traditional underway greeting. Our enemy replied promptly, then signaled. "Captain Sir Jason Tallsdale of the Imperial Cruiser Will of the People to Captain of Royal Battlecruiser Javelin," Josiah read aloud. "Greetings!"

  I scowled. While it wasn't enshrined in any specific regulation, navy tradition frowned heavily on making unnecessary contact with an enemy, especially during wartime. Then again, I admitted to myself, I was the one who'd rather thoughtlessly offered passing honors to begin with. And circumstances were hardly what one might call normal. Then my heart froze. "Jason Tallsdale?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir," Josiah replied, his grey eyebrows rising. "Is the name familiar to you?"

  "Very!" I replied with a nod. Then I pressed the 'audio only' button on the arm of my command chair. "Captain Tallsdale!" I replied, my voice filled with something that bordered on genuine good cheer. "This is David Birkenhead, commanding Javelin."

  "Ha!" the reply came back. "And I feared we'd never meet again, David! Drawn any erotic bunnies lately?"

  Suddenly everyone on the bridge was looking at me as if I were a madman. "We've run afoul of one another before," I explained. "At a wargaming contest. He and I ended up personally tied, one to one. Neither of us were particularly happy about it. And yet… I must say that in some ways he impressed me." Then I pressed my button again. "No, I fear not. And I don't suppose you've lost any more Gibraltars, or else you'd not hold your current command."

  "Not likely," he agreed. There was another long pause. "I should officially inform you that I'm here under a flag of truce, for the purpose of negotiating an exchange of Wilkes and Imperial civilians who were caught in enemy territory when the fighting began."

  I nodded to myself; not only was this a perfectly legitimate pretext but there was precedent for the various Houses to work such things out with the Empire individually. Marcus had done precisely the same during the last war. Though under current circumstances I of course didn't believe a word of it. "Your flag will be honored," I replied. "As a further courtesy, I'll also inform you that a considerable force is following two hours behind me. Don't be surprised when they translate through."

  "Thank you, David," Sir Jason replied. There was another long pause. "Would you be willing to dine with us tonight aboard Will of the People? Ambassador Kiril can't make it—he's too busy with negotiations. But my officers and I… Honestly, David, I'd enjoy it very much."

  My mind raced, and I decided to play for time. "Another member of the gaming team is with the rest of my squadron," I replied. "Heinrich Von Schtolen, who played three times as well. If we're going to hold a reunion, let's do it properly and include him as well. Which I fear means waiting until tomorrow."

  There was another long pause. "Tomorrow it is, then," Sir Jason agreed. "We'll be in communication regarding details later. In the meantime, Captain Birkenhead… Farewell!"

  9

  Nestor and I spent the next hours furiously scouring the databanks for everything we could learn about Sir Jason Tallsdale and Ambassador Kiril. Or Nestor did, more correctly speaking. I had to remain on the bridge. First I officially informed the Wilkes people about their new sovereign (they seemed remarkably unsurprised at the news of James's accession) and then sat through tedious hours of overly-fulsome welcomes and long-winded justifications for why an Imperial cruiser just so happened to be parked in their system right then. "The negotiations have been in the works for months," Lord Randolph Wilkes assured me over a full three-dimensional videolink from his sumptuous office. The walls were paneled with Earthgrown teak, the furnishings were beautifully-preserved antiques, and every painting an original masterpiece. "His Majesty was kept fully informed, even though strictly speaking it's a purely an internal House affair. Perhaps the paperwork was lost in the succession?"

  "Perhaps," I replied from behind my most sincere smile. I was going to be forced to invade this world, I was already beginning to suspect. Which might kill millions and lay waste to entire continents, for I was in no position to employ risky half-measures. And all of this would unfold right in front of the cameras of a legally-protected Imperial, who'd record it all and make propaganda movies that'd be replayed for who know how long to come. Unless I arranged somehow for the obnoxious cruiser to disappear without a trace… Then I sighed and shook my head. Thoughts like that were side-effects of too much exposure to Machiavelli, I reassured myself. That was where such bloody-minded ideas came from!

  It was a great relief when dinnertime finally rolled around and I was able to leave the bridge. While there would be formal briefings and meetings later that evening and throughout the course of the day tomorrow—indeed, most likely my life was about to transform itself into nothing but a long series of briefings and meetings punctuated by vital decisions that had to be made far too quickly on the basis of insufficient information—I knew from experience that I'd benefit more from dining with Nestor than from all the rest combined. A certain chemi
stry and trust had developed between us that knew no equal in my life, and I'd come to respect his spongelike brain more than that of any other. Excepting only that of His Majesty King James, of course, who happened to be a genius as well.

  "…begin with Sir Jason," he was saying as he tossed up a very nice salad for us. We both preferred plain fare in private, in part because we were constantly force-fed the fancy stuff at formal events. He looked up and met my eyes. "You've never spoken much about him, sir. Perhaps it'd be most constructive if you told me what you already know?"

  "Sure," I agreed. "He and I were both part of our respective academy's gaming teams, at the big match on Geneva Station. We played each other twice, and won one game each."

  "Then he was the one who beat you in the Roman game and lost in the finale," he replied thoughtfully as he carried our plates over to my small, private table. Meanwhile I'd been filling our glasses with icewater. Nestor didn't like it, but sometimes I took care of the drinks myself just to prove that I wasn't helpless. After all, I'd once been a fully-qualified ship's boy myself. So I had as much right to fetch and carry as he did, even if I didn't do it quite so often these days. "I seem to recall that you felt Sir Jason was more, well… is humane the right word?" I nodded. "More humane, then, than most of the other Imperials."

  I smiled as we sat down and began eating. "That's what impressed me about him. From his last name and the way he was treated we all figured that he was a member of the Emperor's family, and yet…" I shook my head. "Not only was there a general atmosphere of civility about him, but he resigned gracefully after I beat him in that last game. Even while he had a coach screaming in his ear not to give in." I sighed and shook my head. "Don't get me wrong—he was hardly a weak competitor. In the Roman game…" I winced at the memory, even after all these years. "Well, when it was over he gloated in a most painful manner. Not that I didn't have it coming, mind you—it was right and proper for him to do so, then and there. But…" I shook my head and sighed again.

  Nestor nodded. "There was something about an erotic doebunny drawing?"

  I grinned. "Yes. I drew one myself during the chess match, of course. You've heard all about that. Well… He sketched another and handed it to me after winning the Roman game. I still have it somewhere, I think."

  My aide nodded again. "It's in one of your drawers, sir. I came across it by accident once, and wondered what it was." His nose wriggled thoughtfully. "It was remarkably well rendered, wouldn't you say?"

  "Yes," I agreed. "Add that to his resume; he can sketch very nicely when he puts his mind to it."

  "It was very detailed," Nestor replied. Then he scowled and went silent for a time.

  "Anyway," I continued. "That's pretty much all I know about him. The truth is that I didn't have much free time to worry about such things back then, so I never got around to looking up his actual relationship to the Emperor. Though I'll admit I've wondered what happened to him more than once during idle moments." I tilted my head. "So…. Who is he?"

  "The Emperor's eldest nephew," he replied as I speared another bit of lettuce and chewed on it. My, but it was good stuff! "By his next-eldest brother Croyle, who died at Marcus Nine not long after Jason was born."

  I nodded; Marcus Nine had been a major battlefleet engagement, another of the long series of them that had killed far too many good men but accomplished little else.

  "His mother also died around that same time," Nestor continued. "Though we don't know how or of what. So, Sir Jason is an orphan. It appears that he was raised in the Imperial Palace, though not in the Emperor's familial wing. Nor was he educated alongside the Emperor's own children."

  I nodded slowly. This was interesting! "So… His uncle stepped in and adopted him, but not co-equally with his own kids."

  Nestor nodded back. "He was probably handed off from one tutor to another every year as he grew up, sir. That's the Imperial tradition. It dates back to even before the breakaway."

  "He never had any real parental support, then," I mused with a sigh, feeling the sympathy that only a fellow orphan like myself could experience for someone even worse off. "Nor any meaningful continuity in his upbringing. Just cold, temporary tutors."

  "Except for the domestic staff, one might assume. His nurse and the like. But of course they were just Rabbits." Nestor shook his head. "I expect they were extra-kind to him as a result."

  "Probably," I agreed, remembering how well the Marcus footbunnies had cared for and about me during my own difficult teen years. "Anyway… How about his professional career?"

  "Fairly straightforward, sir. He's followed the standard nobility-path, though his climb has been a bit quicker than most. It's hard to tell if that's because of his bloodline or if he's a genuinely competent and able officer. We don't have many specifics to go on—while he's known been to have been present at several victories, it's always been as a subordinate so far. Never as the ultimate commander. From our side his performance looks adequate, but in fairness he's never found himself in circumstances where it was possible for him to really stand out and be noticed. The way that you have, for example. I'd frankly suspect that it's all bloodline, sir, except that you think so highly of him."

  I nodded and took a long sip of water. "He's achieved more than we can see, then," I decided eventually. "Otherwise, he'd never have been given this particular mission. It's practically as independent and responsible a command as my own."

  Nestor blinked; obviously he hadn't considered that angle. "Quite possibly, sir. Or…" His nose wriggled thoughtfully. "Prince Neville has proven rather a disappointment, sir. Maybe we should keep that in mind."

  My eyebrows rose. Neville was the Imperial Prince we'd taken prisoner aboard Richard. He was still rotting away on Geneva Station, though we knew from confidential sources that the New Genevans had offered his release as a form of apology for my "tragic" escape. Apparently, his Imperial father had decided, he was doing the family cause more good right where he was at. While we hadn't had enough time to locate and snatch all his personal papers during the capture, we'd gotten enough to be fairly certain that dear little Neville, who'd once been such an attractive and winning child, had grown up into an incompetent autocrat of epic proportions. At the time I'd surmised that the Imperial Navy had put him in command of a nearly-wrecked heavy cruiser crawling back home for repairs because that was the best way to get rid of him for the longest time possible without him losing face, and it turned out I'd hit the nail directly on the head. His diary was a long series of whines and complaints about the absence of luxuries, high society and leave-time in naval life, punctuated by sullen jabs against those superior officers who dared order him to keep better formation and the like. This was one of the key shortcomings of any hereditary leadership system—while some noble families such as that of Marcus seemed to produce an endless series of capable, effective men, they were the exception rather than the rule. Dukes and Lords gave birth to hopeless incompetents too, it seemed. Based on what we knew Neville wasn't capable of running a hamburger stand, much less a warship or (in the event of the death of his two elder brothers) an Empire. While his Imperial Majesty hadn't been able to bring himself to allow his beloved son to die when he frankly should've, well… That didn't mean he had faith in him as a potential heir, either. "Sir Jason is number four in line for the Imperial throne, then?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir," Nestor confirmed. "And given recent events on our side of things, well… You can bet His Imperial Majesty has given considerable though to the matter of his own bench-depth. He's probably all in favor of more of it."

  I nodded back. "So," I mused, leaning back in my chair. "This could be Jason's big chance to shine, eh?"

  "To prove he's every bit as good as his cousins," Nestor agreed. "Who he just about has to be intensely jealous of. Seeing as how he was given such short shrift as a child, I mean."

  I shook my head and sighed. Somehow that didn't seem entirely right. Yes, Jason had every right to be angry. But I'd met him whe
n he was still young, and he hadn't struck me that way at all. Perhaps he was too intelligent to allow his emotions to rule him, was all? If that was the case, then he was even more formidable a foe than I'd given him credit for. "Perhaps," I replied. "But… It doesn't seem to fit what I remember."

  Nestor shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir. It's the best that I can do with what I have."

  "Of course," I replied with a smile. "Don't worry—you've done a truly excellent job. Now… How about Ambassador Kiril?"

  My aide's eyes narrowed and his ears folded back flat. "He's a beast, sir. Pure and simple."

  "How so?" I asked, somehow unsurprised. If one was going to send an inexperienced young officer off on an important independent mission, then from the Imperial point of view it'd be best to match him with a proven civil-service performer. And by Imperial standards, pretty much all "proven performers" would appear to us to be beasts.

  "Lord Kiril is His Imperial Majesty's second cousin, sir. And, incidentally, third-cousin to the sitting Head of the House of Wilkes. He's actually in line for the job himself, though in the eleventh slot. Were he not disqualified by being an Imperial, I mean."

  I blinked. "What an amazing coincidence, that he'd be the one sent out to negotiate for a prisoner exchange with the same House he's so closely linked to by blood!"

  Nestor grinned. "Yes, sir! In any event, such negotiations are far below Kiril's paygrade. He's always served as an Imperial Governor before this, dating all the way back to when he was a young man." The little bunny looked down at the ground. "His specialty was pacifying newly-captured worlds, sir. Before the Emperor turned them over to their new Houses. He was most recently in charge of the occupation of Marcus Prime."

  Suddenly my ears were down and my eyes narrow as well. "Really?"

  Nestor nodded. "Yes, sir. It's the only world he's ever been in charge of that we've eventually gotten back. But he was the one who issued the worst of the occupational decrees, sir."