The Thirteenth Man (5 page)

As Theode's whining dwindled in the distance, Charlie felt bad about putting Arthur in such a predicament. Still, he couldn't help but leave with a huge grin on his face.

 

CHAPTER 4

SUMMONS

C
harlie paused outside Arthur's study and asked a passing housemaid what room they'd assigned him. She frowned and said, “Why, your old room, sir.”

At the look on his face she lowered her voice and said, “His Grace wouldn't allow us to change it. Made us leave it exactly as it was the day you left, said we could clean it regularly along with the other rooms, but that was all. He always insisted you'd be back.”

Charlie couldn't exactly recall the condition in which he'd left his room, but it did appear unchanged. He had a closet full of old uniforms, though they were probably all outdated. He spotted a bunch of mementoes on a shelf, reached up and grabbed one at random: the sleeve insignia for the uniform of a spacer first class. He'd been so proud to receive that promotion at a very young age, and he had to think for a moment to recall his first time aboard a fighting ship, and the old chief who'd looked after him. That had been so long ago . . .

“T
each him well, chief,” Rierma said, then turned and left young Charlie in the care of the grizzled old spacer. At the age of ten, Charlie barely stood chest-­high to Chief Dekker.

“Come on, boy,” Dekker said, “follow me.”

Charlie had to hustle to keep up with the larger man as they headed deeper into the bowels of the ship, a task made more difficult by the fact that crew members going the other way paid deference to the old chief while they ignored Charlie, and he had to dance around them or get stepped on. Charlie was completely lost when Dekker finally came to a stop in a small barracks. There were about twenty other crewmen in small groups, all busy at one task or another. One group had some sort of weapon disassembled, with pieces spread out across the deck. Dekker halted in the middle of the barracks, and Charlie caught up to him.

“Listen up, you assholes,” Dekker growled, and one by one they all looked away from their work. Dekker stepped aside, leaving Charlie the center of attention. “This here's Spacer Apprentice Charlie Cass. He's gonna learn how to be a pod gunner. And you assholes are gonna teach him.”

Dekker turned to a spacer leaning casually against a bulkhead. “Stipko, get Spacer Cass his first weapon.”

Stipko retreated into some sort of supply closet, returned with a bucket and a sponge, and handed them to Charlie. Dekker looked at Charlie. “The first enemy a pod gunner has to learn to kill is dirt, 'cause if there's any dirt during the next inspection the CO comes down hard on our department head, then our department head comes down hard on me, then I—­” Dekker hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the other spacers in the barracks, “—­come down hard on them, then they come down hard on you. Got it, Cass?”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said nervously.

“You don't call me
sir
, kid. You call me
chief
.”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, “I mean chief, sir. I mean chief, chief.”

Several of the other spacers chuckled. Dekker turned on them slowly. “If the kid does his job, and one of you makes problems for him, I'm gonna be real unhappy. Then again, if he don't do his job, he's fair game.”

Charlie didn't wait for orders, got down on his hands and knees, wetted the sponge in the bucket and started scrubbing the deck.

“There,” Dekker said. “The kid ain't too smart, but he seems to have a good attitude. Maybe we'll make a spacer of him yet.”

C
harlie scrubbed decks and polished brightwork. There was a bit of hazing, but not much, and he had the feeling that Dekker was always in the background to make sure it didn't get out of hand. But after six months they put him in a pod and turned him into a lower deck pod gunner, and later that year he got his first confirmed kill in the border skirmishes with Istanna. And with the kind of pride only an eleven-­year-­old boy could feel, he'd gladly participated in “gunner's blood,” the ancient rite in which a half-­chevron is cut into a gunner's arm for each confirmed kill in combat, and his blood is spilled onto the deck of the ship in memory of comrades who had died before him. Charlie still had the scars of two chevrons, which was the only rank acknowledged among pod gunners, and rare for an officer to possess.

He'd served as steward's mate, machinist's apprentice, engineering mate—­every kind of job on every kind of ship they could think of. But after the first few years there'd been a vast difference between his duties and those of the other spacers. He spent half his time tutored by the officers on ship, or Paul and Roacka when he wasn't on a ship. And if his ship saw action, afterward, regardless of his rank, he was always called to an officer's cabin, usually the executive officer, to review the results of the action, and the strategies and tactics employed by both sides, whether successful or not.

It was common practice to swap officers between duchies with longstanding good relations, and Charlie served for three years with Rierma, Duke de Neptair. He spent two years in ser­vice with pinch faced little Sig, Duchess de Plutarr, an amazing, hard-­edged little woman who was the most demanding taskmaster he could remember. There were two years with Band, Duke de Merca, a towering giant of a man who had demonstrated the most amazing patience with a little boy just growing into a young man. And a short stint with Faggan, Duke de Jupttar, who was undeniably eccentric, and considered by everyone a bit crazy, though Charlie had liked him in an odd sort of way. Then he'd gone to the academy on Turnlee, and for the first time rubbed elbows with ­people whose rank among the nobility was all that counted. It was there that he first became aware that Cesare, Duke de Maris, was one of the most powerful ­people in the Realm, though none of that rank rubbed off on Charlie.

After Charlie graduated from the academy, he'd been serving with Cesare's guard for more than three years when the Syndonese war broke out. All of the senior officers on Cesare, Rierma, Sig, and Band's ships understood that Charlie was to be included in any command decision, though more often than not he merely observed and kept his mouth shut. And when he did speak, like any junior officer he never did more than politely suggest and recommend.
Begging your pardon, sir, but might I recommend . . .
And if ignored, or told to shut up, he was careful that it never got back to Cesare.

By the time of the battle at Solista he'd made lieutenant commander and was serving on the flagship of a flotilla of five capital ships with associated tenders and secondary vessels. Cesare had put Arthur in command of the flotilla, and Arthur had brought Charlie along, making it clear that Charlie's politely spoken recommendations were no less than direct commands from the duke. Their mission was to support a badly maimed fleet of His Majesty's ships during an orderly withdrawal from a battle that the Syndonese were winning decidedly. But as they approached Solista nearspace, their arrival had been unanticipated, and with the element of surprise Charlie saw an opportunity and took it. They flanked the Syndonese fleet, hit them hard without warning, and were able to inflict considerable damage before taking any themselves. Charlie's memories of the latter stages of the battle were still vague—­a byproduct of his injuries, they told him—­and he didn't remember much until he awoke in the hold of a Syndonese prison ship . . .

C
harlie stood in his room in Farlight, looked one last time at the sleeve insignia from so long ago, and had no problem recalling old Dekker's face.

“Lieutenant Commander Cass,” the computer said. “His Grace would like to see you in his study right away.”

“Has he moved his study since I was last here?”

“No, Commander. You should have no trouble finding it.”

When Charlie stepped into Cesare's study he found him in a heated argument with Arthur, who turned to Charlie and said, “He wants to make you an admiral.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Charlie said. “No admiral's stripes.”

At Charlie's objection the duke's face hardened. “Why not?” Cesare asked. “You earned them, and none of your fellow officers would object.”

Cesare was probably right about that, at least when it came to the men he'd shared the chain with. But other officers might regard such high rank on a young officer as undeserved. And he had to consider Gaida and Theode. “While I'm not too worried about my fellow officers, I'm concerned about Tw—­” He'd almost said,
Twerp and the witch-­bitch.

“Father,” Arthur said, coming to his rescue. “Nadama has plans, and giving Charlie too much rank could make Gaida his ally, and Charlie a target. And don't forget Gaida's family is still quite influential. It would be an unnecessary complication.”

Cesare emitted a low growl. “Ahhhh.”

Charlie asked, “What's the Duke de Satarna up to?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “He wants to marry Dieter off to Delilah. Lucius is getting old and can't last forever, or Nadama could help him along a bit—­then Martino could die of an overdose after he takes the throne, or something of that nature.”

At hearing Nadama wanted to marry his son and heir to the princess, Charlie felt a pang of jealously. And Charlie had heard that at any official function Lucius's heir, Martino, was never without a full drink and usually ended up stumbling about. His predilection for drink, drugs, gambling, and women was apparently no secret.

“With no heir,” Arthur continued, “Delilah would become queen, Dieter her consort, and in a few years he could be properly crowned.”

Charlie asked, “Could he really get away with that?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur said. “He'd have to move carefully, and patiently, but if he did it right, yes he could.”

Arthur turned back to Cesare. “Please, no admiral's stripes.”

“All right,” Cesare said, “but I'm promoting him to full commander, and I won't hear any argument on the matter.”

Cesare needed appeasing, and Charlie could see that Arthur understood that as well.

Cesare continued. “And I've got a flotilla I'm putting under his command: two heavy cruisers, two medium frigates, and three destroyers.”

Arthur started to object, but Cesare cut him off. “Charlie's my wild card. I want everyone to see him in charge of a significant force that won't question any order he gives. That's why I'm assigning his fellow POWs to him. That's two thousand men who'll do almost anything he says. That'll keep Lucius and the rest of the Nine on their toes. But it won't elevate his rank so much they'll fear I might elevate him further.”

Cesare turned to Charlie. “I want that flotilla in fighting shape, and ready for deployment anywhere in the Realm.”

It felt good to have Cesare barking orders at him again, almost as if the intervening years on the chain had never happened. Strangely enough, that simple return to normalcy made him feel more at home than all the welcoming embraces. The one thing keeping him from feeling truly happy, though, was the thought of Dieter and Del. He did want to have that dance with her, but the likelihood that would ever happen grew less with each passing day.

C
harlie took command of the flotilla, and after a little over two months on deep space patrol, he and his officers had it ready for whatever Cesare might throw their way. Cesare had sent Add, Ell, and Roacka with him to continue beating up on him, and Charlie was back in full health, though all three reminded him constantly he was one of their worst students.

Charlie was at his desk in a small office in the flagship reviewing performance reports when the computer said, “Commander, Captain Darmczek wishes to speak with you. He says it's urgent.”

An hour ago they'd down-­transited for a nav fix. It was standard procedure to contact the nearest de Maris outpost or relay buoy, from which Darmczek had probably received orders of some kind. “Patch him through.”

Darmczek's face appeared on a screen embedded in the surface of Charlie's desk. “Good afternoon, Captain,” Charlie said politely.

“We've got new orders,” Darmczek said. “We're to make for Traxis and proceed with all due haste. We're setting up the new heading now and realigning the flotilla. We should up-­transit within the hour. There's also an urgent message for you, coded private and sealed with a de Maris encryption key. I've forwarded it to your console.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing,” Darmczek said, and killed the circuit.

As the screen went blank, Charlie isolated his console from
shipnet
, sealed his office, and activated the security monitor. He brought up the encrypted message and entered the proper decryption sequence, then leaned back to watch the message. Cesare, Arthur, and Winston appeared as half-­sized three-­dimensional projections, Arthur seated casually on a large, plush couch, Winston standing calmly beside him, and Cesare pacing back and forth, an intense furrow on his brow. He stopped suddenly and looked at Charlie—­Charlie had to remind himself that Cesare was actually looking at a recording camera.

“Charlie,” Cesare said. “I'm sure you're wondering why I've contacted you with such urgency. Lucius has summoned me to attend high court at the Almsburg Palace on Turnlee.”

High court,
Charlie thought. That meant all nine dukes would be attending, with family and heirs.

Cesare continued. “Lucius's advisors have dropped some rather unsubtle hints that you're to attend with me. The royal summons conspicuously doesn't state when my attendance at court will no longer be required, so we'll have to be prepared for an extended stay.” Cesare looked over his shoulder. “Winston?”

Cesare's chamberlain stepped forward. “It's highly unusual, Charles, for the king to directly summon a commoner who's sworn to one of the Nine. This is an appropriate, though indirect, means of summoning you into the presence of the king, perhaps even for an official audience. His Lordship might have something to offer there.”