Commodore (22 page)

...directly towards the rapidly-swinging muzzle. Beyond which, I was certain, the Imperials were struggling to load some kind of canister or beehive round that, if it were to go off before we were among them, would surely rip us all to bloody rags. At least it'd be quick…

There were a few lucid moments in the headlong rush—in one of them I glimpsed the Imperial officer's jaw drop in shock, and in another I consciously leaned forward and extended my Sword in the manner I thought least likely to cause me to unhorse myself at the moment of truth. Then in a flash I was beyond the gaping muzzle and slashing like a fiend at the Imperials, who still stood frozen in their tracks. Not for long—I very nearly decapitated their officer, and that was just the beginning. Then the stallion and I were past, and I became dimly aware than my men had indeed followed and were now surging over the gun and its crew like the Golden Horde, blasting and kicking and slaughtering until every last Imperial was as dead as their commander. "Stop!" I finally ordered as my overly-excited men killed the enemy over and over again. There was just
something
about a mounted charge, it seemed, something that turned the best of people into ravening beasts. "Cease fire! They're dead already, for the love of god!"

And so they were, it was soon highly obvious. The ground flowed with gore, my own first victim lying at the headwaters of his own personal river of the stuff. He looked pathetic lying there, and I felt anything but glorious or noble. Was he someone's dad, I wondered sickly? "Sir!" Heinrich finally gasped, eyes still aglow from the sheer spectacle of it all. "Of all the things I expected never to—"

But I wasn't having any of it. "Grab that officer's uniform," I ordered—Heinrich, not having planned to escape with the rest of us, was still dressed as a King's officer. "It's pretty clean, or at least the front side is. Maybe it'll pass at a distance. See if you can fit into it." Then I frowned and turned to the Rabbits. "I want you to pick out the bloodiest rags you can out of that mess, and wrap them around our own wounded. Make them look like dead carcasses. Got it?"

The marine-bunnies nodded, but were obviously mystified. "Good," I replied. "Move! Move! Move!

42

It wasn't the first time I'd had people under my command think I'd gone mad, and with a sigh I realized it probably wouldn't be the last. But to set the proper example I personally festooned Nestor in the bloodiest, nastiest improvised bandages I could find, tying them in such a manner that it looked like he'd been gutted and the rags were holding his chest-cavity shut. Then I lashed him onto a horse next to another Rabbit as if he were a corpse. By then Heinrich was wearing his new uniform—he was a captain of the Imperial Artillery service—and I helped him daub the last little bits of gore out of his shirt as the rest of the wounded received the same treatment as Nestor. Lastly, just as we were finishing up, I handed my friend a standard Imperial baster-rifle that'd been lying among the enemy dead. "Carry this at port-arms all the time, like you're always ready to fire on a moment's notice. From here on Fidel walks out in front sniffing, too. Now we're a hunting party, you see. Hunting for escaped Rabbits and human refugees. Successfully too, I might add. I expect the Imperials will approve."

Suddenly Heinrich's eye went wide, then he grinned and shook his head. "David, you're a genius."

"Not really," I answered. "But I bet it works."

It did, too. Just a few minutes later an Imperial floater showed up, but Heinrich's arrogant wave and the subdued countenance of we Rabbits caused it to fly right on by after a bare moment's hesitation. Perhaps two hours later a squad of Imperials in a larger, armored floater arrived to check us out more carefully. Heinrich's authentic upper-class Imperial accent coupled with the obviously-dead 'guerillas' was proof enough of our bona fides for this crew, though the lieutenant in charge urged Heinrich, his putative superior officer, to file the proper paperwork before future hunting expeditions. And that was that.  Sergeant Lundberg shook my hand and offered me an honorary certificate from the escape and evasion school, but I didn't feel much like accepting any more honors just then. All I could think about was the Imperial I'd killed with my Sword. For some reason his death bothered me even more than most, though I had no idea as to why.

Fidel ran ahead just before dark to alert his owners that we were coming, so that by the time we arrived half a small barn was ready for us to take over. The locals really rolled out the red carpet, stuttering and stammering as they offered the finest food and drink remaining in their larders. A doctor came by and looked our wounded over— he put a cast on the leg of the human marine, and after long study of his instruments administered injections to the far more numerous victims of the shockwave. About half came around then and there, including Nestor to my great joy. Then and only then were we allowed to rest and think about the future.

43

Though the Resistance propaganda people tried to make a lot out of the fact that I'd "come out of the mountains to lead the freedom fighters in person", pretty much everyone from Nestor down did their best to see to it that I never took a single unnecessary risk. Mostly I spent my time sitting around in a moderately luxurious rural safehouse waiting for an Imperial raid that never materialized. The whole setup reminded me altogether too much of being interned on Geneva Station, except that'd felt more honorable somehow. "I'm sorry the Royal Fleet never came," Nestor said on one of my worst days. "It was a good plan, sir, and deserved better."

I nodded but made no reply. There was nothing I hated more than losing at anything, especially for stakes that really mattered. And every single day that passed served to rub more salt in the wound of my defeat. The last remnants of the mountain fortress were still holding out heroically, but it was clear that their days were numbered and that everyone who was going to get out alive already had. The escapees didn't include either my old friend Jean or Midshipman O'Toole, who should've still had his whole life ahead of him but now was probably already crushed and broken under some anonymous cave-in. The Resistance raged on more fiercely than ever, but the cost was growing incalculable. Everywhere you went, my few visitors claimed, there were Rabbits dangling from nooses for crimes either real or imagined. Meanwhile car bombs exploded in the streets, the Imperials took hostages and exacted savage reprisals, civilians died by the score...

...and I sat warm and safe and comfortable, drinking tea with my closest friend.

Damnit!
I raged inwardly. If my plan had worked, it would've been worth all this! But with no Royal fleet to hit the enemy while he was vulnerable all the blood and suffering were wasted and purposeless. Which made me a butcher in my own eyes, not a strategist. "If you ever find yourself fighting fair," the Professor had always said, "you've done something terribly wrong." Well, I was certainly fighting fair now, and would be for quite some time to come. Or the forces left behind after I was evacuated would be fighting fair, I reminded myself bitterly. Myself, I was going home to a royal reception that I'd proven myself unworthy of, and most likely would be awarded some sort of noble title that I neither wanted nor had earned. Why, oh why, wouldn't they let me stay here to at least fight and die honorably amidst the ruins I'd created?

I was giving serious consideration to attempting an escape from the safehouse by the time Heinrich finally sent me a message. He'd taken charge of trying to find me a way off-planet, since his accent and relative obscurity went a long way towards helping him mingle with our enemies. "The Imperials have re-opened the planet to trade," his note explained. "And the danger has attracted the usual sort of entrepreneurial riffraff. Rabbits and other Wilkes Prime livestock are still banned from leaving the planet, but I've hired a smuggler to carry myself and a crew of highly-skilled Rabbits off-world regardless. So you and Nestor and any five of your fellows you may want to bring along are life-support-system technicians now; sorry, but there's no room for more. Be ready to move on Thursday."

By the time Thursday came I was feeling worse about things than ever. Heinrich had told me that he had room enough to bring five more Rabbits home with him besides myself and Nestor, yet how were they to be chosen? The whole operation was ultra-secret to begin with, and there were other complications as well. Wounded Rabbits, for example, would've given the whole thing away, as would spreading the word too far and wide. So in the end it was largely Hobson's choice—Heinrich had long assigned nothing but Rabbits to my personal guard on the excellent grounds that he could be dead-certain of their loyalty. Four of these were now combat veterans; indeed one of them—Samuel—had fought beside me back on Zombie Station and was now such an excellent and highly-decorated NCO that even human marines never before exposed to Rabbits cheerfully accepted orders from him. We couldn't afford to lose a Rabbit like him, I decided, carefully ignoring the part of my mind trying to remind that this was exactly why James was attempting to preserve my own life. Then I pulled the names of three others out of a hat without asking for volunteers to stay behind; if I even so much as hinted that this was what I expected of them it'd take a crowbar to get them off Wilkes Prime. The last slot I saved for the most promising Volunteer Sergeant of the Resistance that I could lay my hands on, a young delicate-looking lop-bunny who made a specialty of close-assaulting Imperial armored fighting vehicles while on patrol. I wanted him along for propaganda purposes, in case we ever needed to set up a Rabbit-based Resistance anywhere else. He'd earned a Sword in my estimation, and I was going to do my damnedest to see that he got it despite the way my own reputation was certain to suffer back home after I'd made such a bloody shambles of things.

"You secured the Hashimoto worlds without a fight," Nestor reminded me as we packed our few personal belongings into backpacks marked "CleanAire Environmental Systems Services". There was plenty of room for baggage, we'd been told; it was the hidden part of the smuggler's hold that'd be crammed over-tight with the five of us bunnies in it. "You made an important contact I shouldn't talk about too much here and now. You delayed Imperial operations by weeks if not months by killing off the upper Wilkes nobility and creating an insurrection. An insurrection that's still likely to succeed in the long run, I'll add." He looked at me oddly. "Sir... Most officers would consider that to be a pretty fair outcome on such a difficult mission. In fact, most would've never even imagined that anything more might be possible."

I shrugged. "Maybe I'm spoiled. Maybe the other victories came too easily—I don't know. But..." I sighed. "I'm being forced to abandon my
men
, damnit! To leave them here to fight and die while I go home and sit by a comfy fire!" My fists balled. "It's wrong!"

Nestor shrugged. "Maybe it's wrong and maybe it's not, sir. It's not my place to say." He paused and met my eyes. "But it is a Royal Command—one which you must obey. So I think 'abandoning' isn't at all the right word for what's happening here, sir. And I'll kick the ass of anyone besides you who ever dares use the term. Even a human. Because you don't deserve to be accused of that. I only wish you'd stop accusing yourself."

I sighed, then threw my brushes into the backpack. I'd grown rather attached to my brushes; one of the smallest had been with me aboard
Broad Arrow
oh so many years ago. They were so well broken-in that some Rabbits might consider them worn-out, and I'd have no difficulty convincing anyone they belonged to a slave. "I've killed thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—to no worthwhile purpose. There's not much worse an officer can do, in my book at least. And that's all there is to it."

Nestor shrugged. "Whatever you say, sir. Heaven knows I've tried my best." Then wordlessly he shouldered his pack and, knowing better than to offer to help me with mine, tromped out. 

44

I had to give whoever'd worked out our getaway a great deal of credit—the entire concept was brilliant. And so were our disguises. We Rabbits were all dressed in very nice and professional-looking coveralls that had "CleanAire Shipboard Services" stenciled across the back. Each of us was equipped with a leather belt full of well-worn tools as well—something not easy to come by on Wilkes Prime just then because we'd destroyed so many—and a Rabbit-style respirator dangled around our necks. Except for Samuel and I, of course. We were wearing ours, because the large white chlorine tank we carried slung between us on twin shoulder-poles had not-so-accidentally sprung a tiny leak. "CleanAire is the
BEST
Air!" the tank read on one side. "We Sink Shipboard Stink!" the other claimed.

Whoever forged Heinrich's spaceport pass did an equally good job; the Imperial shore patrolman in charge at the gate didn't even blink. "Hardpoint 334 is down the right taxiway, then when it forks bear right again," he explained in a bored voice. So far, apparently, the war hadn't yet been a very exciting one for him. "It's the worst slot on the field—I'd make sure the owner pays you cash."

"Of course," Heinrich replied. "And thank you."

Then we were rattling along down the taxiway in our little service-scooter, trying to look like overworked slaves headed out on yet another job. Samuel and I merely stared at our own feet; carrying the tank was the heaviest work, and among slaves this was an indication that we were the least bright. Still, I glanced up every now and again to see what I could learn. While we were only permitted access to the civilian part of the spaceport and almost all the key military installations were therefore too far away to make out much of, there was still plenty to take in. For example, I was amazed at how little traffic there was on-planet—normally a world cut off from trade and then reconnected to the economic network experienced a huge surge of traffic as pent-up demand was relieved. But there was no evidence of such here—the entire spaceport, largest on the planet, was currently playing host to not many more ships than I might expect to see at any given time at a second or even third-class field back home. And what few ships I saw were small and obsolescent—one even bordered on ancient. So... Why so many old ships and so little traffic? Could it possibly be that the Imperials were running that short on tonnage? If so...