Admiral (11 page)

Not that I was the only one carrying scars. The Imperials had decided that Frieda was a very able slave indeed, and therefore she'd been forced to marry. And marry and marry and marry again, in fact, since somehow she kept failing to litter despite the fact that her medical tests all came up normal. It was the gengineering again, of course—the Marcus doctors had made plenty certain in various subtle ways that she wouldn't become pregnant with the wrong fetus and spoil several generations worth of planning. When she told me—weeping, of course—about her previous husbands, well… The experience was awkward and unpleasant in more ways than I could possibly count. It wasn't the other Rabbits—how could I fail to forgive
them
, especially when they were being forced as well? But it also turned out that Frieda still didn't know about her being gengineered any more than I had at first and, well…

She wasn't cleared to know!

It was possibly the most miserable, ridiculous situation I'd ever faced. I loved Frieda and she loved me—the pheromones made utterly certain of it. And yet…
everything
depended on the gene-cutting remaining secret. Though my beloved had done so much for not just for her own planet but for the various species of the humanities, well… James and I were still perfectly capable of losing our crowns over this sort of thing. It was our great vulnerability, a shared weakness that we dare not expose to anyone, ever. But how could I tell my love, when in so many ways I still knew so little about her? Was she prone to gossip with the girls? Did she suffer from a pathological need to impress others? Did she talk in her sleep, for heaven's sake? It wasn't cruel or calculating or sadistic not to tell her the whole truth just yet. Rather it was prudence, or perhaps even self-preservation. This was especially true because I'd begun speculating with considerable unease about the purely human side of the Marcus family. Long ago I'd noticed that unlike other Houses they seemed to produce nothing but superior leaders, generation after generation. How much of that was coincidence? Or that James was such a stunning genius? Or that His Majesty King Albert was infertile with every female he ever slept with save just the once, with a Marcus noblewoman? Had a Marcus doctor gotten to him while he was still an infant, perhaps, and arranged matters decades before the fact? Oh yes, it was
definitely
self-preservation not to let my secret spill; in fact, I rather wished that I'd never been told about the matter myself! On the other hand, how could I so thoroughly mislead someone I cared so much about?  If I didn't tell her right away she'd be
furious
when she found out, and strictly from her own point of view she'd have every right to be.

Finally, Nestor and I cooked up a plan. One evening he asked to dine with my beloved alone, and during dinner the conversation somehow drifted around to slave-improvement breeding programs, which were entirely legal and accepted. He explained that she and I had been part of such a program, a very advanced one of great intensity meant to produce slaves of the highest possible capabilities. This, he explained, was probably why we had such strong feelings for each other, and only for each other. My friend also explained that this information could be terribly embarrassing to me, and that it was important to the future of all the ex-slaves that it not be leaked. "People need to see David as a sort of everyman," he explained, sharing only a fraction of the truth. "Not the result of special breeding. That's too much like the human nobles."

Wide-eyed she'd nodded and sworn her everlasting silence, and that night we made love that would've been perfect had it not been for the sense of guilt that came with founding such an important relationship on nothing more substantial than a politically-convenient lie. My god! Couldn't I even find my long-lost love without the royalty-thing screwing it all up?

Apparently not.

Still, the biological imperatives between us were, well…. Imperative. I didn't mislead or mistreat her any more than I could help, and she displayed an almost unlimited amount of patience, a trait she'd perhaps perfected under the Imperial whip. The hard-wiring of the brain is far more subtle and important in our day-to-day lives than almost anyone gives it credit for; we could probably have treated each other like dirt and
still
been incapable of not loving one other with all our hearts. All I could do was hope that love both conquered all and forgave all, as the poets claimed. I did what I could, including salving my own conscious by writing and ring-sealing a dated letter that explained how much I wished I could tell her the whole story and why it was that I hadn't been able to. Who could know? Perhaps someday I might be able to deliver it to her after all? By then she might even have been a princess long enough to begin to appreciate how much wisdom there was in the old saying, "Uneasy lies the head upon which rests a crown".

By the time our journey was almost over, Frieda had mastered the basics of the princessing business. She knew how to dress, how to behave in Court, what to expect from the less privileged, and how to exist without privacy. Her table manners were polished, and it was shocking to see how effortlessly she absorbed the arts of high-society repartee and conversation. While there were still plenty of rough spots—some due to a lack of female nobles to practice with, while others had their root in her pragmatic nature as a Rabbit—I personally found her idiosyncrasies to be charming more than anything else. After all, I shared many of them myself! And so on the last night before we Jumped to rejoin the First Fleet portion of the blockading forces, she and I hosted a huge dinner for all the hundreds of officers and nobles aboard all of our ships who could make it, along with each and every Rabbit and Dog. We announced our engagement there, holding hands and looking deep into one another's eyes. "We've both got a few miles on us," I observed, "and carry scars from where we've been and some of the things we've been obliged to do. But—" here I snuck a quick kiss—"we're going to be married regardless."

The officers had already guessed, of course—they were polite, but it would've been dishonest to feign surprise. And Nestor had known for ages. But the rest of the ex-slaves, well… "Hurrah!" they cried over and over again, highly-decorated marines and normally-phlegmatic footbunnies alike bouncing about like excited kits, while the Dogs howled in joy. "Hurrah!"

And then the furred among the crowd picked Frieda and I up and carried us down
Javelin
's corridors on their shoulders for a time. It must've been the most undisciplined and inappropriate behavior seen aboard a king's ship since I couldn't imagine when. But no one seemed to mind. Over and over again Frieda and I found ourselves locking eyes and losing our souls in the depths of each other's shimmery orbs. It went on forever and ever, until finally we were deposited on the deck just outside the Royal Suite. "Three cheers!" called out Juan Baptiste, one of my lead footbunnies. "And a tiger!" The result nearly deafened us all, then Juan smiled and opened the outer door for me. "Now you two get at it," he whispered with a wink. "Even if it's still a mite early, legally speaking. So that my children and their children's children will have sovereigns as worthy of our love and respect as we do."

18

I'd like to be able to say that I felt as calmly self-assured as I tried to appear on
Javelin
's bridge when we finally burst through to join the First Fleet, which with its sister organization was maintaining a tight blockade around the Imperial core worlds. A thousand million things could've gone wrong in the many months that'd passed since I'd ordered them here. The Imperial Fleet might've sortied and against all odds won a resounding victory, the Yans might've been detected and our whole overlarge diplomatic contingent slaughtered in revenge, there might've been another coup attempt back home… But it only took me seconds to see that all was well, and in many ways would remain well forever after. For, neatly formed up under the massed guns of the
Bard
-class battleships drifted the remnants of the Imperial Line of Battle, the core of the Emperor's strength and the ultimate source of all his power to make mischief.

They'd surrendered at last—the long, long nightmare was finally over.

It didn’t take me long to catch up on what'd happened and how. According to Admiral Regan, my peace-waging campaign had been so successful and impossible to conceal that a bloody palace revolt had erupted, led by "sane" Imperials who wanted to accept our terms. The Emperor's nephew had led this movement, he explained, and though he perforce remained on Imperious attempting to consolidate his power he'd sent representatives to wait for me and make his submission as soon as I returned. The new Lord of the House of Boyen—the only title he claimed—seemed like a good, responsible man, the admiral opined, the kind of person one could do business with. And of course that was how the history books would always tell it, even though within hours I had a report from the Yans in my pocket that told a very different story indeed. It didn't matter, I supposed. Jason was indeed someone with whom we could do business; in fact I'd trust him with my life, as he'd done at least twice with me. The truly important thing was that
the wars were finally over
! There'd be no more bloodshed and violence on the industrial scale—it was
done
and, best of all, done
properly
and
permanently
!

The First Fleet had of course already held many rounds of celebrations, but we Third Fleeters spend another whole day staggering around with smiles on our faces, just as we had after Frieda and I were reunited at last. Then it was our turn to celebrate and dance in the corridors; Frieda and I chose long, slow waltzes. Finally, two long days after I really should've, I wrote a public letter to Jason formally accepting his submission to the Crown and recognizing his legitimacy as the House-Lord of Boyen. In my note I made clear that the Imperial core-worlds were every bit as welcome back into the kingdom as any other, and that while war-crime trials would be held there'd be no reprisals or reparations. Then I sent it on to Imperious—or Boyen Prime, as it was once more properly named—via my fastest courier ship for proclamation in all public places. Along with it I sent a private message to Jason expressing my satisfaction with the outcome and reassuring him that I was certain James would feel the same way. I also recognized his Rabbit-friend Cloud for his services by naming him a Knight of the Realm, and encouraged both to come a-visiting as soon as circumstances allowed. "We have so much to talk about, you and I," I explained. "It'd be my great pleasure to get to know you better. You make a much better friend than enemy. Besides, Lord Nestor is dying to swap recipes with Sir Cloud."

Then all that was left was for me to honor my defeated enemy as best I was able. The ex-Imperial ships had been stripped of all but a skeleton crew, barely enough to keep the engines running and maintain formation. Admiral Regan had been very strict with these men—they were allowed practically no contact with their Royal jailors, for example, and none whatsoever with home. Regan was convinced that these vessels were destined to form a new battle squadron in our own navy, and he lived in constant fear that their crews would scuttle them. He sent over inspection crews daily, and these crews were quite deliberately made up of the most arrogant officers in his entire organization. "I'm trying to drive home the fact that we've won and they've lost, sir," he explained.

It was the purest nonsense imaginable, of course. We'd soon be scrapping three-quarters or more of our own existing ships, much less adding a squadron. After all, who was there left to fight? All we really needed was a fleet composed of pirate-chasers and dispatch-vessels, plus enough of a Line of Battle to deter any Houses that might consider breaking away as Boyen once had. The
last
thing we needed was an additional squadron of ponderous battleships that required non-standardized parts, technicians, and training. Yes, we'd probably keep one ex-Imperial ship as a memorial, but it'd most likely be something small enough to land, like a destroyer. The rest were destined for the shipbreakers, who'd be so overwhelmed with the sudden boom in business that it'd take years, maybe even decades for them to scrap the dreadnoughts alone. All in all it made for a pretty little problem—Admiral Regan was young for his rank, and would be one of the navy's movers and shakers for a long time to come. So, it'd certainly be best not to offend him if I could help it. Yet, I felt myself actually feeling sorry for the ex-Imperial crews who were surely lonely, far from home, and being systematically insulted every single day.

So I first did what any king's officer of my rank might be expected to do. I took a tour of several of the captured ships, ooh-ing and ah-ing politely as the Imperial officers proudly showed off what they considered to be their vessels' greatest strengths and advantages. Instead of being cold and distant, however, I did my best to bond with these one-time enemies. I wore coveralls rather than a dress uniform, for example; simple workwear identical to that worn by any other Rabbit on ordinary service, save that mine had an admiral's rank-rosette sewn onto them. Then I went crawling and climbing into the dark and greasy places with my former enemies, sometimes even further than my own Dog-guards could follow. Or at least I did until one Imperial rating, whom I'd followed down a main-battery accumulator tube, whispered in my ear that there was a 'madman' down in Engineering who meant to assassinate me. "Your Highness," the barely eighteen-year-old Imperial rating explained. "If he'd ever met you and seen how you really are, he wouldn't be talking like a fool. But
please
, don't go down there!"

Well, I developed a headache and
didn't
go down there, it so happened. Neither, however, did I inform my security people about the incident. It was largely our own fault, so far as I was concerned, for treating these particular Imperials so shabbily in defeat. I began making it a point to invite them to Royal functions aboard
Javelin
just as I habitually did with our own officers, and made heavy-handed suggestions to Admiral Regan that perhaps he ought to follow my example. I also not only arranged for the Imperial and Royal officers to hold joint seminars on professional matters such as tactics and logistics so that they could learn from each other, I attended more than a few—and learned more than a little!—myself. While it would've been naïve of me to imagine that everyone's hard feelings could be done away with so easily, well… A little respect goes a long way towards soothing bruised egos. And with any luck it made for fewer assassins as well.