Commander (8 page)

It was just as well that I’d been able to slide Jean into a command spot so quickly—his ship-purchasing mission with the House buyers had utterly flopped. It wasn’t his fault by any means; the issue was one of sheer economics. The shipbuyers had been instructed to collaborate closely with Jean when and where possible, but no one could’ve foreseen that they’d arrive back home just in time for the largest, most impressive auction of used interstellar vessels in recorded history. These were
Javelin
’s prizes, or at least those that’d broken through the blockade and made it back home to Royal space in one piece. They were the wildest assortment possible, of varying design, age, and purpose. Even more they were mostly very slow, which was part of why
Javelin
had been able to run them down and force their surrender to begin with. These traits combined to make them highly uninteresting to the fencibles. I had to admit, however, that in terms of renewing the House’s merchant fleet at a bargain price, well… They buyers couldn’t have done much better. Besides, there were sentimental factors involved as well. A small portion of the proceeds went into James’s pockets, as his share of the prize money. He in turn donated it to the recovery efforts. And I did the same when I learned that the Prize Court had ruled that since Zombie’s successful defense had made most of the captures possible, we were entitled to an equal share. The sum wasn’t all that large, but the newspapers gave our donations prominent headlines indeed. And, I was rather touched when the second-largest of these ships, a bulk-gas tanker, was rechristened the
David Birkenhead
. (The largest, of course, became the
First Duke of Marcus
.)

So Jean was pleased indeed to be rewarded with an independent command after what a less understanding superior officer might’ve considered a complete failure. He did very well indeed; the endless headaches associated with his vessel being the first of its kind seemed to roll off of his back like water from a duck, and his social rank was complete assurance that
Richard
and its crew would be treated with dignity and respect wherever it went. Best of all, Snow sent me a letter assuring me that he was treating the Rabbits well. In my book, there was no higher authority than that.

Fortunately for the fencibles, Heinrich’s purchasing mission proved more successful. This one had ordered eighteen brand-new ships, of which a round dozen were mining-support craft and thus near-clones of
Richard
. We accepted every last one of these latter into the fencibles even before their keels were laid down. These would be the first of the shared-duty ships that would constitute the bulk of our fleet, as we could only justify a single full-time flagship. The House of Marcus bent over backwards cooperating with us on these, up to and including letting us help select their officers and crews long before the ships were delivered. Soon Sergeant Piper was out bellowing and screaming on the parade-ground again, while a mixed platoon of humans and Rabbits stared in slackjawed awe at his mastery of the art of profanity. The plan was for each crew to receive their ship while still in uniform and on active duty, under the orders of her merchant-marine skipper. Then they’d go through a naval-type shakedown until everyone and everything was in full fighting trim. After she passed her final test we’d put her guns in storage and let her serve in her civilian role for two years or so. At that time we’d retrain and requalify everyone all over again. It was the best balance between military necessity and civilian economic need I’d been able to come up with, though because it was based entirely on seat-of-the-pants judgment rather than any kind of actual experience I fully expected to have to make changes in the future. But we had to start
somewhere
.

Heinrich also brought back some bad news. “The Imperials are astir,” were the first words out of his mouth when I greeted him upon his return. “They’ve laid down a battlecruiser of their own, sir—maybe she’s even a match for
Javelin
. And they’re demanding the same trade concessions they just relinquished.” This was hardly unexpected news—our triumph in the last conflict was very much akin to my victory at chess during the war games of so long ago. Yes, I’d beaten my opponent. But by any reasonable measure he remained a far more competent player than I’d ever be, and the ploy I’d used against him would work only once. In any rematch, he’d be far more likely to defeat me than I him. The Imperial forces and even the base Imperial economy were designed to fight a series of short, sharp wars, consuming the Kingdom in small, easy-to-swallow bites. We’d disrupted them this last time not by outfighting them, but rather by jamming up their internal traffic flow so badly that it was impossible for them to prosecute a successful war until the mess was resolved. Well, it
was
resolved now, though they’d been forced to sue for peace in order to make it happen. And even though we’d taken and swallowed a small bite of
their
territory for once, the core Imperial forces were still practically undamaged and ready to try again. Near as anyone could tell, their leadership was ready as well. Readier than ever, in fact, after being humiliated. So, in the minds of most of us Royal officers, at least, it wasn’t a matter of if there’d be another war, but when.

“I see,” I replied with a smile. “Well, we’ll just have to be ready for them then, won’t we?”

“We will be, sir,” he answered. “Or at least
here
we’ll be ready. The fencibles, I mean. And the rest of the House of Marcus, for that matter. I’m truly impressed with how much our friend James is accomplishing. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but he ordered two hundred atmospheric-defense fighters. That’s as many as any five other worlds!”

I nodded, scowling at the memory of how the last remnants of the Marcus fighter squadrons had sacrificed themselves to cover the launch of
Broad Arrow
so long ago.

Apparently James hadn’t forgotten either; our fliers had been hopelessly outnumbered, and he clearly didn’t intend to allow that to happen again. The purse-strings had been similarly loosened for the purchase of fleet-support facilities and surface-based defense battalions. It was hoped that some of these latter could be made up of Rabbits, and though Henrich didn’t know it yet his next assignment would involve planning and implementing their training. Ground fencibles, they’d be called, counterparts to the part-time fighting men who’d once manned shore batteries.

“They caught us by surprise last time, Heinrich. It was one of the saddest, most wretched things I’ve ever seen. But times have changed and the element of surprise is gone. If they attack us here again, they’ll damned well wish they hadn’t.”

14

It came as quite a shock when one day I suddenly realized that I had well over a thousand individuals under my command. Some of them were part-timers, yes—the crews of the eight mining ships we’d so far welcomed into the fencibles, for example, as well as the Rabbits of the single ground-fencible unit that Heinrich was still struggling to bring into service. This last was still a long way from being combat-ready; it was to be scattered out among a dozen of Marcus Prime’s satellites, both natural and artificial, and equipped with old weapons that’d been scavenged from scrapped dreadnoughts. Both the nature of the job itself and the scattered condition of the unit demanded significant initiative and decision-making capabilities far down into the lower ranks—in some locations, there wouldn’t be a human to seek guidance from within many light-minutes.

My classmate at first had great difficulty replicating my success with the Zombie Rabbits. It wasn’t his fault; he simply couldn’t bond with them in the same way that I could. So I not only sent out Fremont and Nestor to aid and advise him, but finally shucked off all the responsibilities I could manage and gave the matter my personal attention.

The Rabbits in question, it didn’t take me very long to decide, were made of very good stuff indeed. Though they weren’t graves registration bunnies who perforce had a good grasp of what combat might be like, they were one and all experienced spacehands. No truly stupid individual—human or Rabbit either one—ever lasts long working in vacuum, nor do those deficient in the common sense department. And yet… It was the early days of
Beechwood
all over again. The Rabbits were too timid even to meet my eyes when I first arrived, much less ask questions, though every last one had begged for the opportunity to serve with the fencibles. I was certain that given time something could be made of them, but the fact was that there was only one of me and I had so many, many other fish to fry. It was a pretty problem indeed, and one that might’ve proven insoluble without Fremont and Nestor’s expert help. “Sir,” Fremont suggested when I held a private Rabbits-only meeting on the subject. “How about if we just
show
them?”

So it came to pass that the three of us spent a week in class together with the other Rabbits, learning how to serve as crewmen on obsolete weapons that we’d almost certainly never have cause to operate again. It was fun, really—even though the patient, long-suffering petty officer in charge of the class was “in on the gag”, it was clear by the end of the first day that he was growing weary of the endless questions we three came up with. We even asked for an extra break now and again; the other Rabbits were frozen in shock! (Afterwards, I made sure that these breaks were incorporated into the schedule permanently, even if it did add a couple days to the course. These Rabbits weren’t merely learning how to fire guns. They were being introduced to an entirely new role in life and society, and it was obvious to me that we were attempting to move them along far, far too quickly.) I also turned-to for deck-swabbings and such with the rest of the mob, to demonstrate that one form of work was as important as any other. While they of course didn’t achieve full psychological independence in that single week, it was enough to infect them with the virus and that was what mattered most. While I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to see them in charge of setting the kingdom’s monetary policy or designing new hyperdrive systems, given a little support from their officers and well-written guidelines the best of the group would likely prove able to make good, rational decisions on when to shoot and what to target.

And who could say? Maybe their grandkids might someday set monetary policy and design hyperdrives after all?

I left Fremont to act as Heinrich’s consultant, but had to bring Nestor back home with me. I felt guilty sometimes about holding him back by keeping him on as my personal batman and aide; there weren’t half enough Free Rabbits to go around and the more I grew to know my undersized friend the better I appreciated his true capabilities. It would’ve almost certainly been better to send him to some university or another—I’d never even heard of anyone else learning so much so fast solely through independent study. He was obviously officer or executive material in his own right, save for the fact that he remained so painfully shy with everyone but me. Which I couldn’t blame him for, of course, after what’d been done to him for so long. Even more to the point, he absolutely refused to even consider any other career. “You freed me, sir,” he explained once when I broached the subject. “Even more than you did the others, and at far greater risk. I owe you everything, and don’t want any other job.” I kept him on without rank, like Fremont, so that he’d be free to come and go pretty much as he pleased. He served as my runner, butler, cook, aide, servant, and quite often good friend and confidante. Every time I walked past a work-gang of bunnies maintaining flower beds or collecting garbage, I thought of how Nestor’s talents had been squandered as a mere cabin-servant, never mind the continual abuse. How many other Rabbits like him were being wasted as menial laborers? His Majesty had once told me that in his view half of his subject’s talents were being frittered away via the mere fact of slavery. The older I grew, the wiser His Highness became.

One morning when I arrived at my office, not long after I finished working with the gunner-Rabbits, there was a fancy envelope waiting for me atop the rest of my mail. It was Royal stationery, and while I’d seen it’s like before none of the rest of my staff had. I opened all of my other correspondence before dealing with it, out of sheer sadism I suppose, then broke the fancy seal and opened it up. It was a short, straightforward little note, commanding me to meet with a Royal Herald at the family estate at my convenience. I handed it to the gaping Nestor. “Take care of that for me, will you?” I asked. “Schedule it for either this evening or anytime tomorrow—I can’t get out of today’s inspection tour at this late date.”

“Aye-aye, sir!” he replied, still gaping.

Someday, I decided, I’d have to find a way to bring Nestor to His Majesty’s personal attention. He worked so hard for so little reward—the least I could do was give him a memory or two.

Humans, I’d heard, often had great difficulty distinguishing one Herald from another. This was because of their heavy, ritualized makeup, and the effect was quite deliberate. The Heraldry had evolved because no monarch could be in more than one place at once, while his responsibilities often demanded exactly that. Each Herald therefore served as an alter-ego. His Highness chose however many he thought necessary from among the very best and brightest of his subjects, and it was a foolish sovereign indeed who failed to give his fullest attention to the selection process. In many ways no king could be better than his Heraldry. Everything about the group—their effete, overly-foppish court dress, their stylized makeup, the fact that they gave up their own names while in service to the Crown—reflected the fact that their role in life was to subordinate themselves to the needs of their sovereign. It was a Herald’s business to understand not just his king’s policy, but to be intimately familiar with the thought-process and underlying philosophy from which it was derived. That way they could go to the places His Majesty couldn’t and make the on-the-spot decisions that the physical limitations of time and space prevented the monarch from being able to make himself.