Captain (11 page)

Then I sighed and returned to my filthy scheming.

Our family meeting had continued long after the Yan brothers excused themselves and set off about their skullduggery. The remaining three of us talked long into the night, and we'd tentatively agreed on how best to divide our efforts. Uncle Robert, knowing full well that this would likely not turn out to be the case, was placed in charge of assuming that we'd all made a terrible mistake and that James was about to be crowned with the full consent of the other Houses. Even this most optimistic of all scenarios required an enormous amount of work and planning, plenty enough to keep him busy. Much of his effort would prove useful under any conceivable circumstances. Even more importantly, his activities along these lines would reassure the Wilkes-Hashimoto group that their secrets were still their own and serve as a smokescreen for our
real
preparations…

…which were being handled by James and I, along with our closest, most reliable staff members. We were laying the groundwork for what amounted to a coup, and doing everything we possibly could to ensure that we succeeded no matter what was thrown at us. It would've been great fun had it been a game; indeed at times we forgot ourselves and laughed like the boys we'd so recently been at a particularly nasty trap we were laying at the feet of our foes. Then one or the other of us would remember that the final outcome was most likely going to involve a significant numbers of hangings, and that who would occupy the nooses was still very much in question. Then all the fun would disappear and we'd sober up once more.

There was one unanswerable question at the heart of things, and that was the matter of timing. Coordination was impossible without it, yet perfect coordination was the key to controlling the flow of events. James and I agonized long and hard on the matter, and we almost consulted the Yans again.  They were already fully engaged on an equally important mission, however, so we had to settle the matter on our own. "I'll take care of it," I croaked at last, not wanting to speak the awful words. "I'm pretty sure I can make it happen."

My blood brother nodded soberly. "It's right and proper, David. A
good
thing. We both know it." Then he hugged me tight, and we wept for a long time in each other's arms.

Other aspects of the plan weren't nearly so soul-rending. Captain Hess had practically begged me to address the Academy's student-body; he was thrilled when I asked him if it would be okay if James preceded me on the podium. After all, he was an alumnus too. "We don't give many speeches together anymore," I found myself explaining to Admiral Panetta from behind carefully blank eyes. "And you and others are always encouraging me to address my fellow officers more often. Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone?" I let my eyes narrow slightly. "Or maybe even more than two birds?"

The Second Space Lord blinked, and for a moment I read nothing but stark terror on his features. For the first time the reality of it all was coming home to roost in his heart. "Exactly what other birds," he asked slowly, "do you propose to kill? I mean… Do you have solid proof that these other birds exist at all?"

"Not yet," I answered softly. "But soon, I hope. Very soon."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, David. Truly I am. But—"

"His Lordship the Duke of Marcus is expecting to address the cadets of the Academy next Wednesday at three in the afternoon," I interrupted. "The Commandant has already approved. His Lordship wishes to invite all available serving officers of the fleet—I'd like to invite them as well, but of course my feelings on the matter are of miniscule importance compared to
his
." I smiled tightly, then rose to leave without having been invited to do so. "This speech may or may not be noteworthy in the greater scheme of things; who can know for sure in times of such uncertainty? And it'll be difficult to arrange on such short notice; I grant you that. But it's of the greatest imaginable importance to the Duke; of this I assure you." Then I bowed formally. "I advise you to make your decision accordingly, sir."

21

We were down to forty-eight hours before the big speeches and growing very nervous indeed when the Yans finally came through for us. It was about one in the morning. James and I were scowling over our drafts in my apartment office when Nestor knocked respectfully on the door. "They're here, sirs," was all he had to say. "With a prisoner."

Instantly we were on our feet and moving; the success or failure of the Yans's mission was central to everything and we'd been sweating bullets over it for days. Sure enough the twins were waiting for us in the living room, and with them was a middle aged man whose eyes continually sought out the floor. All three were dressed in garish nightclub clothing of the sort favored by the lower classes. The prisoner had been roughed up some, though not excessively; the scent of blood and bruising was heavy in the air. He'd have looked far worse if the Yans had really wanted him to. Therefore I assumed the man's injuries derived from his capture rather than spirited interrogation. "Well!" James was the first to ask. "What do we have here?"

"Proof," Yan Ho replied. "Or the closest you're going to come to it."

"Captain Gunderson. He's a smuggler-pilot," Chang amplified. "His sort mostly transports illegal luxuries into the Empire. That's not a crime as far as our laws are concerned, so we generally don't pay too much attention to them on our side of the border. But, every once in a while..."

"They all hang out at the same places," Ho continued, taking up after his brother so seamlessly that I sometimes wondered if telepathy was involved. "Once we figured out that the Wilkes and Hashimotos would just about have to hire someone like him if our suspicions were correct, well... There aren't all that many to choose from. And we knew just where to look."

I nodded, then stepped a bit closer. "What was his cargo going to be?"

"Information," Ho replied. He grabbed the smuggler's arm and shook it. "Wasn't it?"

"I keep telling you," he muttered, jerking the limb away and still not looking up. "I have no idea why the Wilkes people hired me. It's an honest, legal contract."

Ho met my eyes, then turned back to the prisoner. "Maybe this particular commission is legal. I'll grant you that. But tell me something. Are you by chance the same Jerome Gunderson wanted for breaking the quarantine on Marcus Three? How about transporting stolen goods from Dunbar Prime? And then there's the little matter of your forged ship's registration…"

He stood mute, still staring at the floor.

"You were willing to take on a second commission for your next cruise, so you could make twice as much. A commission consisting of cargo that all by itself would've loaded your ship to the gills!" he continued, his tone angry and aggressive. "As long as it was headed to your pre-planned destination, that is, and wouldn't slow you down any. Our load wouldn't have left you a single spare cubic foot in your holds. So what was the initial shipment, if not information?"

He shook his head. "Yes! I've already admitted that I was to carry a message; there's nothing illegal about that. Plenty of people commission fast ships to carry news."

Chang smiled. "To Marcus Prime? For the House of Wilkes?"

James's eyebrows rose. "To Marcus Prime?"

"Oh, yes!" Chang agreed, nodding. "To Marcus Prime. And... Refresh my memory, Mr. Gunderson. What was your stand-by alert to be? The indicator that you should keep your engines warm and running from then on, I mean. So that you could leave on a second's notice."

"It's not illegal to carry a message," he repeated. "And you know it."

"What was your alert?" Chang asked again. "Let me help you remember—you warned me to have my shipment aboard before it happened, because afterwards you weren't even going to so much as open the cargo lock."

Mr. Gunderson scowled mightily, then sighed and lowered his head again. "The death of His Majesty," he replied softly.

Then Chang turned to James, fire burning bright in his eyes. "Do you understand the import of this, my lord?" he asked.

James paled. "Yes, I think I do." Then he turned to the smuggler. "Legal cargo or not, sir... Don't expect me to show a lot of compassion towards someone standing by to pass on the order to assassinate my elder brother."

22

"Of course it's flimsy," James replied to his uncle later that evening. Or early the next morning, rather. "But in the real world smoking-gun evidence isn't exactly easy to come by. Especially on short notice."

I nodded, thinking of how I'd once reasoned out that the battle-cruiser
Javelin
was being pursued by heavy Imperial ships based on nothing but circumstantial evidence. If I'd gotten it wrong, Nestor and I and many others would all have died. Yet the available evidence had been thin indeed and all the wishful thinking in the universe hadn't provided any more. "You have to work with what you've got," I observed. "Not what you might wish for."

Uncle Robert sighed so deeply that his shoulders heaved under his nightshirt. "I'll grant that it helps the picture come together," he agreed with a reluctant nod. "But…
What if we're wrong!
"

I nodded again; his point was entirely valid. If we were right, so far as I could tell our proposed actions would be fully justified in the eyes of history. Or at least we certainly thought they would be. But
oh
! If we were wrong…

In that case hell had no fires hot enough.

"Perhaps we ought to wait a few hours," my uncle suggested. "Maybe once that Gunderson character has sat in a Marcus cell a little longer he'll feel more inclined to talk."

I shook my head. "The Yans think he's already spilled all he knows. And so do I. After all, there's no reason for the Wilkes's to have told him any more."

"And David has to see the Second Space Lord this morning, if this whole thing is to come together," James added, glancing at the clock. "He has to leave in about three hours."

"Then there's my other little errand as well," I added, unable to meet their eyes.

"Right," James agreed, nodding and looking away as well. Then he turned back to Uncle Robert. "It's make or break time," he explained. "Do we do this or not? I say again, it must be unanimous. Either we all agree, or we don't make the attempt."

Uncle Robert's lips worked for many long seconds before he replied, then very reluctantly he nodded. "I don't like it," he explained. "Not one bit! But where there's this much smoke there
must
be fire!"

"And you, David?" he asked me gently. "I won't blame you if you don't want to go through with this. It's… Ugly."

Dawn was just breaking in the window beyond James's shoulder, I noticed. I liked dawn; it was my favorite time of day. Perhaps I'd have time to go look at the Mast I couldn't allow myself to climb anymore before my appointment at the navy office? Then I shook my head a bit to clear it. "I'm a Marcus," I replied. "And a Rabbit. And a naval officer as well. As near as I can tell, this is right and proper from all three perspectives." Then I sighed. "But you're right, James. I've done some ugly things in my time, and been some ugly places. This, however, in its way is the nastiest of them all."

23

My little visit to the Second Space Lord went exactly as anticipated; it concluded with terrified acquiescence. Admiral Panetta was a good man, I decided, but once this little affair was over he needed to be gently put out to pasture. His instincts had been in the right place all along, or else he'd never have placed me in a position to accomplish as much on behalf of James as I had. On the other hand, he clearly lacked the nerve to actually carry through with this sort of thing. He'd have chickened out early on without my continual prodding. Then I paused and thought the matter the rest of the way through. No, once we were in power ourselves we'd need a man
just exactly like him
in that slot. Capable, yet weak-willed. Which was why he was there to begin with. The older I grew and the more I learned about real-world politics, the smarter His Majesty grew. And, of course, it was he who'd hand-picked the admiral for that specific slot. Now I understood why. It was someone like
me
who'd be a genuine threat in such a powerful posting…

I sighed at that, and wondered if I'd ever be clean and decent again.

My next major stop was at the Palace. First I dropped in to visit His Majesty's sickbed—the poor old man looked wearier and tireder and more broken than ever. He was even beginning to smell dead. Then my favorite Herald and I sat down to enjoy lunch together in the back room of a very exclusive restaurant indeed. More exclusive, in fact, than almost anyone knew. It was secretly run by our House security department and guaranteed to be one of the most bug-free places on the planet. Well… Free of non-Marcus bugs, at least. His Majesty had never known, and I suspected he'd have been saddened if he had. It was a very popular place with the House Lords, and even His Highness had been known to break bread there now and again.

"…so awful, him just lying there like that," Martijn said with a sigh as he ate his green beans. He'd insisted on ordering a vegetarian meal for my sake, even though I'd urged him to enjoy whatever he liked. "Both living and dead at the same time."

"Yes," I agreed, not having to fake my melancholy expression in the slightest. I'd loved the man too, after all. Despite what was coming next, my affection was very, very real. It was vital that I never forget that, lest my soul be utterly forfeit. "It's terrible they way they're prolonging his agony."