by Phil Geusz
Commander
The David Birkenhead Series
Book 4
Phil Geusz
First Printing September 2012
Published by Legion Printing, Birmingham, AL
Copyright Phil Geusz, 2012
Cover Art by Octavius Cook
ISBN: 9781301628452
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without explicit permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
1
The walk from the Navy Headquarters holding cell to the courtroom proper was the longest of my life. Everyone kept telling me I had nothing to worry about, including Mr. Wong. He was the high-dollar attorney Uncle Robert had hired to represent me. “If there was even the slightest chance of your being found guilty,” he reassured me over and over, “then your parole would’ve been revoked. Or at least made far more restrictive.” This was true, of course, and only one of many not-so-subtle little omens that hinted at what the Powers-That-Be thought of the case against me. Like, for example, the daily presence of the Royal Herald sitting immediately behind my place at the defendant’s table, taking in every word of testimony in stony silence. He even stayed during the top-secret parts. Or the thermos of chocolate milk mixed by His Majesty's own hands that this same Herald personally delivered to my cell during those times when regulations absolutely demanded that I remain behind bars. So I really shouldn’t have been so worried as I stepped forward to face the court martial that’d been convened to investigate the loss of Beechwood and of Zombie Station under my legal command, plus other unnamed (to the public at least) “high crimes and misdemeanors”. But I was, of course—the penalty for one of said high crimes was to be hung by the neck until I was dead, dead, dead. And no one, no matter how many battles they’ve been through or how many tokens of Royal support are on display, ever faces the verdict of a capital trial without at least a few qualms.
“Look on the table in front of the Chief Officer of the Court,” Mr. Wong had just explained to me. “Your Sword will be lying there in plain sight. For most Midshipman it’d be their ceremonial dirk, but in this case it’ll be your Sword. Anyway… If the point is aimed at you—which it absolutely, positively will not be!—you’ve been found guilty. In that case, we’ll appeal and His Highness will certainly grant you clemency. It’ll be pointed away, however, which means you’ve been found not guilty and can cease and desist with all this irrational anxiety.”
The bailiff—a grizzled old marine master-sergeant who'd have treated me with the utmost correctness even if he were certain I was guilty of murdering a dozen children, led me to the little spot in front of the Court where I was supposed to stand and receive the verdict. My eyes rose to seek out the little table I’d been told about...
…but the courtroom had been set up for humans, not Rabbits. I was too short to see my Sword at all, much less which direction it was pointing in! So I gulped, then stood my ground regardless. In a few more seconds I’d learn my fate from the Chief Officer himself, a certain Admiral Benbow.
“Acting-Lieutenant David Birkenhead,” he eventually intoned, eyes hard and severe. “It is my sincere pleasure to inform you that the court has absolved you, as the senior surviving officer, of all responsibility for the loss of His Majesty’s Auxiliary Vessel Beechwood. It is the opinion of this court that your actions in regard to said loss were in accordance with the highest traditions of the service.”
I kept my face impassive. I was being tried in regards to Beechwood only because regulations required that the ranking survivor be court-martialed whenever a ship was lost. By no stretch could I ever have been held culpable. Even at my lowest moments, I’d never feared being held responsible for losing an unarmed to ship to overwhelming force. No one could’ve prevented it.
“Furthermore, Lieutenant Birkenhead,” he continued, “You’ve also been absolved in regard to the matter of the loss of Zombie Station. Indeed, your tenacious defense of this facility to what amounts to the last round from the last gun was, in the opinion of this Court, not only in accord with the highest traditions of our service but brilliant in both conception and execution. Lieutenant, in this matter you are not merely acquitted but most honorably acquitted.”
I gulped. While I’d not really been all that afraid of being found guilty on this charge either, the fact was that during the last stages of the battle I’d destroyed an important defensive facility worth billions of credits, and done it in such a way that it could never be rebuilt. Many of our strategists, I knew, were rather vexed with me over that part—already snarky articles on the subject were appearing all over the navy’s professional publications. So while I felt like I’d done at least an okay job overall, well… I hadn’t exactly expected to be “honorably” acquitted either, which carried with it the court’s implied endorsement of my actions. To be “most honorably acquitted” was far more than a negation of the charges—it amounted to a major pat on the back.
“Unfortunately, Lieutenant,” Admiral Benbow continued, his eyes still locked with mine, “I cannot report that we’ve most honorably acquitted you on the confidential charges. Though I wish to make it very clear for the permanent record that the Court would’ve done so unanimously given the opportunity. However, the Provost Marshall has seen fit to withdraw these charges as inappropriate instead.” He smiled slightly. “Advance, Lieutenant, and retrieve your Sword. Wear it proudly in defense of His Majesty’s realms, and know that I’m proud to call you a brother officer.”
Then he and the whole Court stood and saluted me.
2
“Most sweeping acquittal in navy history,” Uncle Robert read aloud from his datapad several hours later. He and James and I were sitting in the back of an air-limo, flying in lazy circles while the crowds that’d gathered around our penthouse to greet us thinned down a little. There’d been a near-riot at the Navy Building when the verdict was announced, one severe enough that for a time I’d been asked to return to my cell for my own protection, and as near as we could tell similar celebrations were taking place at every naval installation on the planet. “David, David, David!” the crowds were shouting…
…and more than half the merrymakers were Rabbits.
“Birkenhead’s stand at Zombie Station coupled with epic Javelin raid to lead to resounding victory,” James read off of his own screen. The prediction didn’t come from a particularly credible source—the Fleet Intelligencer wasn’t a bonafide professional journal, catering to civilian navy buffs more than anyone else. Still, I looked down at the floorboards and felt myself turning bright red under the fur. Altogether too much was being made of the affair. Yes, I was glad to be acquitted. Yes, I felt that I deserved to be acquitted, at least on the first two charges. But all I’d done was my simple duty, the same as any other officer might’ve done under the circumstances. The real heroes were the Rabbits who’d accomplished so much against such terrible odds, along with Chief Lancrest and his handful of technicians—I’d said so over and over again in my report. So, why didn’t anyone seem to believe me?
“David Birkenhead,” Uncle Robert continued, this time quoting an actual, real naval journal. “Hero of the age.”
I gulped and turned redder. “Please… I mean….”
“Hah!” James laughed, setting aside his reader. “I told you he’d react that way.”
“And I didn’t argue with you,” Uncle Robert replied, flashing the widest smile I’d ever seen from the normally careworn man. “So let’s take it easy on him… After one more thing.”
My ears drooped; I couldn’t help it. But the head of the House of Marcus kept right on going. “David…. The Empire is sending out peace feelers. This is very private information. They’ve already agreed to cede Marcus Prime, immediately upon signature of the treaty this time around. And they’ve made other concessions as well. Concessions, David! From the Empire! In exchange for peace! Do you understand what this means?”
“We’ve finally won a war,” I whispered.
“Yes!” my adopted uncle agreed. “Exactly! Not a single Imperial invasion succeeded, son. In every last instance we were able to turn them back though in some cases it was a very near-run thing indeed. Why? Because of the logistic logjam that you and Javelin’s captain created. And he’s a big enough man that, quite rightly, he grants you and your ragtag little crew most of the credit. Neither main battle fleet has fired a shot in this conflict, nor are they likely to at this late date. All the key fighting on our side was done by a single battle-cruiser… and you.” He paused. “Now…” He reached out with a single finger and raised my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Try to turn that brilliant strategic mind of yours in another direction for a moment. His Lordship the Earl of Quenton fought his battles while in command of the best, most glamorous ship in our navy. He also fought them professionally and well. The history books will duly recognize him and the critical part he played. But, son…” Uncle Robert shook his head. “What miracles you performed, with practically nothing to work with! After so many lesser men had failed before you when equipped with so much more. Who do you think is going to be remembered for a thousand years?” A single tear rolled down his cheek. “You’ve altered the course of military history, David. There’s no question of that; this is the first time we’ve ever extracted concessions from the Imperials. But, you being who you are, I think that your accomplishments are going to change the very fabric of our society. In a way that’s long, long overdue.” He scowled. “You’re not merely a commoner by birth—you’re a slave. The universe is turning itself upside down, and you’ve become the pivot-point around which it’s all swiveling.” Then he lowered his eyes. “David… The greatest privilege of my life, perhaps even the purpose of my life, is to help you along when and where I can. You’ve long been one of us Marcuses, and we’ve always been proud that this is so. But today… I feel that I sit in the presence of true greatness. And I wanted you to know that.”
3
I spent most of the next few weeks living in a Marcus-owned cabin on the park-like capital world, Earth Secundus, resting deep in the woods and feeling terribly useless. By now I’d accrued more leave-time than I could ever possibly make good use of. First there were the fifty-two days I’d built up due to length of service, then I’d been “shipwrecked” twice as defined by regulations, which entitled me to another sixty days for each occurrence. Above and beyond that, all Javelin crew members had been granted a special thirty-day leave as a reward for their successful cruise, and I was listed on her books as well due to my special assignment in engineering. Plus, well… Near as I could tell, no one really knew what to do with us Zombie defenders regardless. Chief Lancrest and I were still exchanging pleasant notes now and again; he and his entire crew had been given extra-nice quarters at the navy yard and told they weren’t going to be reassigned for the foreseeable future. This was hardly a punishment for most navy men—it was clearly meant as a reward and had been accepted as such. But in my case it grated; I wanted to know where I was going next so that I could study and prepare.
It grated on the other surviving Zombie Rabbits too, particularly Fremont and Snow. They’d been accorded exactly the same sort of favorable treatment in a relative way, though they were still sleeping on straw sacks and behind a locked door. I made it a point to go visit them regularly—I’d made them marines, damnit, and fully intended to see each and every one of them become a Free Rabbit before it was all said and done. Wherever I went on the base people turned and stared, and even the highest-ranking of officers opened their doors to me. So I was able to get them the best of hay, decks of cards, and all the thousand other luxuries they’d so richly earned. But on the matter of the locked door and slave’s accommodations I found myself unable to make an inch of progress. Standard protocol was apparently to yes me to death to my face, then pretend nothing had been said when it came time for action. Finally I wrote His Majesty himself and asked if he could help, as my personal word of honor was at stake. I didn’t receive a written reply; instead a Royal Herald journeyed all the way out to my cabin to see me in person. “I’ve spoken personally to the Rabbits,” he explained. “And I’ve let them know that the Throne fully backs your promises. Your friends understand that this isn’t as simple an issue as it might appear to be on the surface. Rome wasn’t built in a day, David. His Highness asks that you remain patient.” But he did do me one favor, at least. I’d made even more unfulfilled commitments to Nestor than I had to the rest—he’d never received any of his reading lessons, for example. With the Herald’s help I was able to persuade the navy to release the little Rabbit to serve as my personal sick berth attendant, even though I wasn’t of high enough rank to rate one. The medical types were still deeply concerned about the state of my digestive tract. After shorting myself so badly of hay for so long I was still having all sorts of troubles and while I was definitely stronger I wasn’t putting on half as much weight as I should be. So Nestor continued to serve as my helper, and on my end I went through the “Dick and Jane” books with him one-on-one until soon he could sound things out for himself, do basic math, and all the rest. “Thank you, sir!” he gushed, practically vibrating with excitement after reading his first word. “I never… I mean…” Then he simply hugged me rabbit-fashion and wept for a very long time.
Up until Nestor’s arrival I’d lived a very simple, nearly monastic life. The cabin was one of Uncle Robert’s favorite retreats, deliberately rustic and primitive. I’d spent most of my days hauling water, preparing my own food, strolling down unimproved trails and admiring the beautiful trout that lay sparkling in the various pools of the nearby stream. My uncle had built the cabin specifically for the pursuit of these fish; the building was decorated with old flyrods and mounted trophies. But once there were two of us, well… Nestor abhorred inactivity as much as I did—it was a common Rabbit trait. So soon he was the one carrying buckets and preparing the food and such, which left me with far too little to do. Finally I dug out my unfinished report on the failure of Javelin’s number eleven control rod. The battlecruiser’s chief engineer and I had worked like the dickens trying to figure out what’d gone wrong with the thing, once I’d recovered enough to help him out. We never did succeed, however. The entire failure sequence, from start to finish, occurred so quickly that the quantum nature of time itself had prevented any data from being recorded. One instant the thing was working perfectly, the next it was gone. This was unacceptable when so many lives and a vessel of such importance were at stake—only a quick reaction by a Field-suited watchstander had saved the ship.
So I’d taken the approach of examining the other control rod data, to see what slight aberrations their instrumentation might’ve picked up as number eleven shattered. And sure enough I’d found a pattern—there’d been a microscopic rise in both temperature and neutrino flux in each and every rod, directly proportional to its physical distance from the failed unit. This was the first time, so far as I could determine, that evidence of a rod’s failure had ever been detected in adjoining bays. Javelin’s Chief encouraged me to write this discovery up for the professional journals as a separate paper—“It was your idea after all, so why not?” Now that I had time, I did so. And eventually The Fleet Engineer’s Journal ran the thing. It was buried deep in the back, and the byline read “Acting-Lieutenant David Birkenhead, Rated
Engineer” instead of the more-prestigious “Serving Engineer”. But just having my name in there at all marked one of the greatest days of my life. Father had read the Journal like the Bible, and I’d always thought of its authors as godlike beings whose minds operated on a different level than those of mere mortals like me. If I were indeed a Serving Engineer, the publication would’ve entitled me to wear little red pins in my specialization badges. It was quite a prestigious thing; maybe one in ten engineers ever earned a set of ‘reds’. But in my case it didn’t matter, I supposed. Not being an engineer, I had nowhere to put the things anyway. Except maybe to glue them to the scabbard of my Sword. Which I actually considered for a moment before, reluctantly, pushing the thought aside. Finally I just bought a nice frame for the magazine itself—someday, maybe I’d find a good wall to hang it on.
James also came by to visit sometimes, and once or twice I returned the favor. We weren’t children anymore, so we no longer laughed and played and dashed about together. Instead we sat, sipped Nestor’s wonderful tea, and maybe walked the trails for a few hours. Or discussed old times and shared our dreams and ambitions. Sometimes close childhood friendships fall apart later in life. Ours, it was eminently clear, would remain solid. We were more brothers than friends, by virtue of shared background and (perhaps even more importantly) shared traumas. One cold morning out by the trout stream we formalized our relationship via an ancient ritual. First we slit our right hands open with a fillet knife. Then we pressed the wounds together, palm to palm, and became blood brothers. It was something we should’ve done long since, probably while we were still boys. “When I become king," James promised me, “You shall be foremost among my advisors and trusted above all.”