Captain (2 page)

Freedom
, my heart wanted to answer. But instead it was Nestor who spoke. “I’d very much like to read more on the Guadalcanal campaign of 1942 and 1943,” he suggested. “The local library is sparse on the subject. And the Naval Battle of Balikpapen, as well.”

I smiled. The books weren’t for him—they were for me. The paper I was writing dealt with the inherent advantage of the offensive stature in warfare. Guadalcanal and Balikpapen were the exemplars I was using to make my point. “We’d also still be grateful for access to a martial arts tutor willing to work with Rabbits,” I added. Nestor was absolutely nuts about the martial arts, and I’d promised to take lessons with him if a suitable instructor could be found. Which so far, sadly, had proven impossible.

“Right,” the ambassador agreed, rising to his feet. Then he smiled again, as always, and shook my hand. “I can’t thank you enough times on behalf of His Majesty for the magnificent—”

But just then the usual good-bye formula was interrupted by a sudden, insistent knock on our front door. Then it burst open. “Excuse me for interrupting, sirs,” a Genevan marine officer said, looking a bit shamefaced. While my apartment was indeed technically a cell and my jailors therefore had the right to open and close its door whenever it pleased them, they tended not to make a habit of it and were unfailingly polite whenever circumstances forced the issue. “But our government has just received a message, and I’ve been instructed to deliver it to Sir Chester as quickly as humanly possible.” He handed a slip of paper to my companion. “My sincere sympathies, sir.”

Nestor’s ears rose as the ambassador read, and so did mine as the color slowly drained from his face. “It’s His Majesty,” he said finally, just as one of his own runners came tearing up outside our door, the Royal diplomatic communications service proving only slightly less efficient than that of the New Genevan military. “He’s suffered a massive stroke. It’s feared he may not survive the night.”

3

His Highness was an old man, I reminded myself again and again through the long, sleepless night that followed. He’d lived a long, relatively good life despite the burdens of the throne, and had ruled brilliantly given what he had to work with during an era of steady decline. Indeed, I was convinced that he’d sown the seeds of an eventual renaissance, knowing full well that he’d never live to see them bear fruit. And yet… And yet…

I spend most of the hours of darkness weeping into my pillow. From the moment I’d met His Highness, even though I was still a boy, I'd felt there was some sort of special bond between us. During my internment, I’d learned that he felt the same way. At first weekly, then almost daily we’d begun writing each other personal notes. They’d started out as the standard formalized letters of congratulation for my recent romp through Imperial space, but had rapidly turned into something more as time passed. It was almost as if he’d seen the end coming, I could now understand, and was indulging himself with a friendship that he couldn’t have afforded as a younger man. He’d poured his heart out, speaking of his deepest self-doubts, worries, the terrible guilt he felt over the deaths of so many of his subjects in this wretched series of conflicts that somehow he couldn't seem to bring to an end… It was an awful thing to be a king, I could now see, a wretched, miserable soul-eating existence whose few compensations did almost nothing to ease the terrible burdens of power. Yet His Majesty had borne the load for decade after decade without flinching and (so far as I knew) never revealing any of his own self-doubts to anyone for even a moment. He was the greatest of many great men it'd been my privilege to know. I’d probably never come to admire even James so much, because in his case I knew him
too
well.

And now this great soul lay dying or dead—our news was several weeks old. His brain was certainly damaged beyond all repair according to the news reports. Not once but several times during that endless night I turned my lamp back on and re-read the last letter I’d ever receive from my Royal friend, which had ironically arrived about half an hour after the news of his stroke. It was far shorter than most. “Dear David,” it read in the crabbed, simple handwriting that’d grown less and less steady over recent months. “I don’t feel well today, and my schedule as always is far too full. So I won’t be writing much, except to say that I hope someday you’ll find the burden of great responsibility far less onerous than have I. In my experience Rabbits tend to be happier creatures than humans, and in this regard I very much hope that your birthright carries true. As always, I look forward to seeing you again and making plans with you regarding both your own future and that of your fellow Rabbits. It's my fondest hope to live long enough to see both grow and prosper.”

And that was that, the last words I’d ever read from this man who’d come to mean so much to me. It was said by some philosophers that each man’s death, in effect, marks the passing away of an entire universe of knowledge, feelings, dignity, and wisdom and therefore all deaths ought to be mourned equally. But all men
aren’t
equal, not in their hearts and souls where it truly matters. And so for many hours I lay inconsolable, my own universe a poorer and more wretched place than it’d been only a few hours before.

I still felt like garbage the next day, of course. So did Nestor, though he tried to hide it for my sake. We downed our morning hay in silence, neither of us up to much in the way of light conversation. Then I dressed formally in my full dress uniform for once, on the off-chance that I might have to deal with official calls from the New Genevans in regard to His Majesty's health. Then I sat numbly in our little living room, watching the talking heads analyze and re-analyze the news from Earth Secundus, which was of course no fresher than it’d been yesterday. “This is a terrible blow to the kingdom, with the succession as yet undetermined,” one commentator claimed. “It may well lead to civil war.”

“But…” the other talking head replied. “They’re
already
at war, with the Empire!”

“Exactly, Doug,” the first replied with a tight little smile. “Which is why a civil war may well in turn lead to the end of the kingdom itself.”

I frowned angrily, then snapped the set off. He was absolutely correct, of course, and I couldn’t stand to think about the fact that just down the hall Prince Neville was probably watching precisely the same newscast and bouncing off the walls with joy at the impending death of a man whose chamber pot he wasn’t fit to empty. “Damn!” I swore, making a fist and pounding the arm of my chair. Then I turned to Nestor. “He’s right, of course. And here we are, stuck where we can’t do a thing to help James.”

“You could issue a public statement of support,” my friend suggested. “The Genevans would allow that through, I think. I mean, if James
does
eventually succeed to the throne, well… Our friends here won’t want him already angry at them over what amounts to trivia in the larger picture.”

“That’s true enough,” I allowed, wriggling my nose in concentration. Suddenly everything was in flux, and all the rules had subtly (or in some cases perhaps not so subtly) changed. “I think I’ll do exactly that, Nestor. Thank you. And we’ll see how things unfold from there.”

4

I wasn't halfway done composing the statement before there was another knock at my door. This time it didn't come crashing open, however—whoever it was, they were polite enough to wait for Nestor to let them in. "Admiral Kranmetz," my friend announced formally. "Here to see you, sir." I gulped and dropped my pen, then nervously tugged my uniform into shape. Rear-Admiral Kranmetz was the commander in chief of Geneva Station's armed forces. While I'd dined with him once or twice, it'd been at crowded tables with a dozen or more of his officers sitting between us. He and I hadn't exchanged twenty words in all the time I'd been under his supervision, though rumor had it that he was far more capable a flag officer than his current rank would indicate. He'd never rise any further, however—the New Genevan Navy was a small enough force that its structure justified only a single admiral to command its entirety.

"Good morning, sir!" I greeted him with a smile as I stepped through into our living area. "Please, have a seat! Would you care for some fruit juice? Or perhaps tea?"

He accepted both fruit juice and a chair, and we spoke of polite nothings for a few moments as Nestor got us both squared away. "I'm terribly sorry to have dropped in on you like this," he explained finally. "But I wanted to offer you my personal condolences, you see. I'm aware of how close you were to your sovereign."

I nodded and looked down into my cup. The New Genevans had promised not to snoop on any of my direct personal correspondence with His Majesty—the same privilege was extended to communications between Prince Neville and his father, so turnabout was fair play. Most likely they'd actually kept their word; while New Geneva was indeed a formidable fortress, either of their majesties could and probably would blot it out of the sky if offered a provocation serious enough to justify the enormous expenditures involved. So, as intended from the getgo, the New Genevans tended to be honest brokers and men of their word. Just because they weren't actively snooping didn't mean they had to pretend to be blind, however; His Majesty's letters had arrived hand-addressed on Royal stationery, and my own replies had been directed to his personal chamber. "Thank you," I replied, making a sincere little half-bow from my chair. Then I sighed and wiped away one last tear. "Truth be told, I'm not yet over the shock."

He nodded back. "Quite understandable, of course." Then he crossed his legs and leaned back. "Your House finds itself in quite a difficult situation as well, I suppose."

I smiled. Now we were getting to the
real
reason why I was being graced with such a high-level visitor. "Perhaps," I answered. "Or perhaps not. His Majesty openly supported James as his successor, you know. That's no secret. While I have no special inside knowledge on the matter—I give you my word on this!—I wouldn't be at all surprised if he made it official in his last will and testament."

The admiral nodded again. "Of course—that's virtually a given. But… Will the Noble Houses line up behind him? Or support a Regency regardless?"

I smiled—he was again asking a question to which he must already know the answer. "Marcus is of course the largest and most economically important of the Houses," I replied. "We've long been on the leading edge of several fields of technology, plus our economy is far more efficient than anyone else's. Largely because of the way we treat our Rabbits and Dogs, I'd submit. Being relatively free, they work harder and contribute more. They're even becoming soldiers. Spacemen too, you may've heard." I smiled, displaying my oversized incisors. "So we're in a good position to make our claim stick."

He smiled back, but the expression faded quickly. "Even so, your House's capitol world has only recently been freed from enemy occupation. The Imperials looted it practically to the bedrock. Though Marcus Prime hasn't been attacked again, defending it is draining your treasury something fierce. Marcus isn't the powerhouse it was ten or fifteen years ago—it
can't
be, after what it's been through."

I shrugged. "This last decade has been a rough one, yes. But what of the
next
ten years, sir? Who's situated best to grow? Marcus began as a very minor House indeed, but its overall history has been one of growth without limits. By tradition we're innovators, experimenters… Long-term planners, in other words." Then I scowled. "Let me speak frankly, sir. I don't know how you feel about empowered Rabbits. But we make up almost half of all sentient beings here on Geneva Station, just as we do overall in the rest of colonized space. Marcus created Rabbits, and now Marcus is leading the way in integrating them into mainstream society. This has been going on for many years now—certainly longer than I've been alive. Today, on most planets Rabbits own nothing and contribute little except brute labor and domestic services. On Marcus worlds, they run small farms and businesses. My own father was a working ship's engineer, sir! In your position, you can't help but know how difficult
that
certification is to earn. Once again, we're on the leading edge of yet another major step forward." I shook my head and smiled. "In comparison to the long-term benefits we'll reap from this one social advance alone, the Occupation was nothing."

His eyes narrowed. "And the other Houses? How do they line up? Will they support James and a Marcus-led Kingdom?"

I shrugged. "At least some will. Many Houses owe us favors and allegiance due to past services—some of these involve matters of blood, which are held to be especially sacred. Vorsage, for example, will stand with us to the bitter end—their Heir is one of my closest personal friends. I've met the Earl of Quenton—he saved the lives of my entire command at Zombie Station. We can certainly count on their support, as well. Kandoro has long known that the passing of this last king of their line marks the end of their time in the sun—given that His Majesty was also their titular head and that he's openly supported James, well…" I sighed. "We have allies, sir. Will they be enough? I can't know. And at this point I don't think anyone else can, either."

There was a silence, one that Nestor finally broke. "If I may, sir," he said to the New Genevan admiral as he refilled his juice glass, "I'd like to point something else out as well."

Kranmetz's eyebrows rose; clearly, he wasn't accustomed to footbunnies offering their opinions on important matters of state. "Indeed?"