Midshipman (The David Birkenhead Series)

by Phil Geusz

  All five of us, plus Professor Lambert, spent the bulk of every day preparing for the tournament. The two sides had agreed that the first day would be devoted to chess, at which Heinrich excelled and I was passable. The Yans would represent us at cards on the second day, while Heinrich and James would play something ancient-themed on the third. The fourth day it’d be James and I teamed up for a twentieth or twenty-first century conflict. In the unlikely event that the two teams were tied at that point, a modern-era space battle would decide things. I was passable at those as well, and the same could be said for James. But modern three-dimensional combat was so difficult and complex that major real-life battles were usually planned by experts with lots of high-powered computer help. Professor Lambert hadn’t emphasized them much, because he said our brains needed to physically mature further before we could truly appreciate what we were studying. He hoped that by the time we were old enough for staff college, he’d have written a new textbook for us.

  So all through the trip the Yans played cards and studied probability tables. It was a near-certainty that they’d be playing poker, so that was what they hit the hardest. I spent most of my time at the chessboard, since that was where I needed the most help. Heinrich grimly worked at learning what he could of modern space-war, driven all the harder by being told he was too young to truly master the subject. James labored at learning his old-school ships and aircraft better, though he never did lose his annoying tendency to confuse the strong points of the Me-109 with those of the Zero. And perhaps Professor Lambert worked hardest of all, darting from table to table and clearly worried to death. Sometimes I had to smile and shake my head, sitting there watching him over my chessmen as he encouraged the Yans to raise in larger increments or Heinrich to think more three-dimensionally. After all, it was sort of funny in a way. As a civilian, I was willing to bet, he knew nothing at all of the code books that were our real reason for the trip. How much more would he have fussed and fidgeted, I had to wonder, had he known that some of us were risking a lot more than merely losing a tournament?

  28

  New Geneva was the most strictly neutral place in the universe. The entire realm consisted of a single large station orbiting a dead star, one of only a handful of such facilities to be found anywhere. Professor Lambert explained to us during the trip that all such stations were the result of unique strategic and economic circumstances. This was because they cost so much to build and run. In the case of New Geneva a direct route between the capitol worlds of our Kingdom and the Empire had been discovered very late in the game, when a new Jump-point prospecting technique was developed. The route was too useful commercially to be ignored; in peacetime, ships sometimes actually had to queue up in line to Jump. Being by far the most direct available way to get from here to there, it was of huge military importance as well. In the end the two rival governments had agreed to declare the Geneva Passage a neutral zone and jointly financed the building of Geneva Station for purposes of supporting commerce. Only the government of New Geneva itself was permitted weapons, and again both sides cooperated by keeping Geneva armed to the teeth so that their enemy could never slip by. The Station was effectively the largest dreadnought ever built by a factor of perhaps ten, minus the propulsion system. Someday, everyone believed, the agreement would come apart and the Station would be blown to flinders with terrible loss of life. But so far the arrangement had proven surprisingly durable. Even in wartime, it seemed, people needed a place to trade with the enemy. Not to mention insert spies and slip through codebooks…

  Because the Station was so crowded our rooms were even smaller than the ones back at the Academy. It was only for a week or so, though. And no one would ever inspect these particular quarters, so none of us were about to complain.

  Our ship docked slightly more than a day ahead of that of our opponents. Professor Lambert declared this a holiday and urged us to wander the station and relax as best we could. “Gaming is a mental exercise,” he explained, “and minds need rest too. Please go out, see the sights, and do anything except thinking about gaming. I don’t want to see you again until fourteen hundred hours tomorrow, when we’ll form up to greet our opponents.” Then he smiled. “I’m proud of each and every one of you. And I smell an upset in the air.”

  James and I couldn’t discuss the codebooks out loud, of course—not in a place where there might be a microphone under every chair. But we’d talked the matter over at length back at the Academy and therefore knew just what we’d do. Whenever we were out and about, one of us would carry a codebook and handle it very casually, half-inviting anyone who wanted the thing to steal it. The other copy would always be left back in the rooms, right on top of everything and easy to find. We also had been most carefully instructed to get a look at whoever lifted it, if at all possible. But the main thing was just to make the delivery.

  Sadly, New Geneva proved to be a much duller place than I’d imagined. The entire galaxy pictured the Station as an excitingly cosmopolitan place, where someone with money might obtain anything his heart desired. Neither James nor I, however, were much interested in the sort of stuff we found for sale. We already had all the luxuries we could ever want. And neither of us were into either drugs or sex. While I was almost sixteen, no human prostitute could ever hold any interest for me. (Whenever I dreamed of romance, for some reason it was always of Frieda, the classmate I’d left behind on Fire Lily Day so long ago. The Imperials were still holding Marcus Prime, though supposedly not for much longer. So I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive.) And while James might well indeed have been tempted to sample certain forbidden fruits, the New Geneva government had agreed to provide him with such a substantial security detail that, well… Even the Yan brothers wouldn’t have stood much of a chance of escaping their attention. So we walked the straight and narrow, left James’s Greek grammar book lying carelessly about from time to time, and pretended we weren’t bored as we played mini-golf in variable gravity fields with kids several years younger than ourselves. It was still better than our best day at the Academy.

  The next day after lunch we got all dressed up in our class-A’s and James (being the highest ranking) inspected us minutely. He didn’t cut us a single break, which was right and proper considering that we were about to officially meet our Imperial opposites for the first time in history. Even I got dinged for not having enough of a shine on my Sword. At least he didn’t write me up over the fact that I was shedding— it was that time of year, so I couldn’t help it. Despite frequent full-body vacuums I left dead fur swirling behind me like a blizzard wherever I went. To compensate as best as possible, my friend rearranged our marching order so that I went last. That way no one would have to pass through the noxious cloud I left in my wake.

  James chose to march us all the way over to Lock Ninety-Two, where the Imperial’s liner was to dock. At first I resented this a little—hadn’t we done enough marching back home? But as we passed through the station everyone stopped and stared at us, clearly admiring our swagger and precision. We were naval officers, after all, or soon enough would be. Not boys playing games. So why should we not be proud? I can’t speak for anyone else, but I certainly held my head straighter and squared my corners better than I ever had on the parade ground back home. And from what I could tell the notoriously unmilitary Heinrich, stationed directly in front of me, pretty much felt the same way. All this time, I mused, he’d known how to march properly after all…

  We formed up in a rigid line at the airlock and stood at ease, as confident and proud as we’d ever been in our lives thanks to James’s genius in marching us. Our uniforms were perfect, our shoes were slabs of ebony, our brasswork shone like the sun. And, I knew deep in my heart, my Sword showed up not least of all.

  The Station trembled slightly as the liner clamped on a mere minute and a half late—a superb performance on the part of her captain. Then there was the usual delay as pressures were equalized and such. Having spent so much time on an engineering deck
myself, I knew exactly what all was involved and tried to predict when the hatch would finally swing open. Now! I whispered to myself. Rather to my surprise, the seal cracked as if at my command.

  The first person through was a petty officer, of course; it was his job to verify the automatics and ensure that all was well. When he was done the first class passengers came bustling into Geneva—wealthy traders, rich old women, nobles wearing golden orders on their chests, all with Rabbits carrying their luggage. Each and every one of these bunnies stared at me wordlessly as they passed for just as long as they possibly could; some of them actually tripped over each other. Then there was a long pause during which no one emerged.

  “Ten-hut!!” James declared, catching some insignificant hint I’d missed. Instantly we all snapped-to, just as the sounds of marching began to emerge from the liner’s hull. Clomp, clomp, clomp—it shook the Station itself! Numerous feet stamped as one, in a steady monotonous drumbeat that was just a tiny bit slower than our own accustomed tempo. As they emerged I saw why. They were not only goose-stepping, but stamping down extra-hard with heavy riding boots. One arm remained rigid at their side, while the other was swung twice as far as if to compensate. The overall effect was as arrogant and overwhelming as could be. Clomp, clomp, clomp! And there were at least twenty-five of them!

  I wanted to gulp, or at least lick my nose. But just then wasn’t the time to play dumb-bunny, mission be damned. Instead I held my gaze level and icy as the Imperials marched out, formed a line that couldn’t have been drawn straighter with a laser, and then saluted in an elegant two-stage movement. Their arm began at their side, then they covered their heart, and finally they stuck their fists straight out in front of them at shoulder-level. After that they stood as motionless as statues, while I wondered how much muscle it took to maintain such rigidity in such an awkward pose.

  “Hut!” James declared, as calmly as if we found ourselves confronted with five times as many Imperials as expected every day of the week, all of whom could obviously march our pants off. “Birkenhead, hut!”

  Rigidly I took two steps forward and saluted with my Sword; this gesture required two elegant motions as well, and by now I pretty much had it down. This was a good thing, as the Imperials were saluting me personally as the wearer of such a high decoration. Ordinarily they’d have refused to acknowledge mere fellow cadets.

  “Hut!” their commander acknowledged, spinning beautifully on his heel “Ri’face! For’ard, hut!” Then, without so much as a single word of acknowledgment or greeting, they crashed off into Geneva Station making ten times as much noise—and turning ten times as many heads—as we ever had.

  29

  “I sometimes despair,” Professor Lambert declared over dinner, “of us ever overcoming such a highly militarized state.”

  James nodded solemnly in reply, but the rest of us said nothing. The gaming team was gathered in a private room at one of New Geneva’s finest steakhouses. Everything must’ve cost a fortune—each of us had our own private waiter-bunny, water-and-bread bunny, and general helper-outer-bunny. Normally the Academy didn’t offer cadets too many five-star dining opportunities. Station security had insisted, however, for James’s sake. No one argued the matter further. Besides, whoever was paying could probably well afford it. I was particularly glad that the Rabbits here had so much contact with us customers, because they knew what foods I’d like and rearranged my portions accordingly. It wasn’t often that I had a chance to spend my own money, but these Rabbits I tipped well indeed. I could only hope they were allowed to keep at least part of it.

  “They’re only a quarter of our size, in terms of population and resources,” the professor continued. He’d been present at the airlock earlier in the day, but had remained in the background as befitted a civilian during ceremonial activities. “And yet…” He shook his head. “It’s humiliating, is what it is. They’ve won four wars against us now, and the other three could at best be called draws. Each time we grow a bit weaker, and they stronger.”

  “They consider us decadent,” James opined, once he’d finished chewing on a bite of meat that must’ve been very succulent indeed. I’d learned to sit uncomplainingly with humans while they ate dead animals—it was their nature, after all. But the smell still bothered me. “Weak, flighty, effeminate.”

  “And so we are, by their standards,” Yan Ho offered. I blinked and perked up my ears; the Yan brothers almost never spoke of their own accord except to each other. “Our Academy is nothing compared to theirs. They kill cadets in training every week. And yet thousands clamor to attend, where we have to scrape and make demands to find dozens.”

  “Their entire social structure is centered around the armed forces,” Yan Chang agreed. “On our side, bloodline and family means everything. That’s important there too, but who you are in the army or navy is what really counts. Officers are treated like gods on the streets. My father trades with them; we lived on Imperius itself for five whole years.” He shook his head and met his brother’s eyes. “We were miserable!”

  “I’ll bet,” Professor Lambert agreed. Then he sighed and set down his fork. “It’s a pattern that repeats itself over and over again throughout history. Militarism is obnoxious, oppressive, nasty, and brutish. It’s also a damnably efficient and effective way to unify a human society.”

  James scowled. “They started out as republican revolutionaries. One-man/one vote types. Which is pretty much the opposite of an Imperium.” He shook his head. “I’ve read books on the subject, Professor. But I still don’t really understand how the Republic ended up with an Emperor.”

  “It didn’t, in some ways,” our strategy professor replied with a sad smile. “Emperor Tallsdale is technically President-For-Life. As was his father, and his son will inherit the title after him. They still have elections every six years. Anyone can run for anything. So long as they don’t mind ending up dead afterwards, that is.”

  “The root problem,” Heinrich suggested, “is that they can’t form a government without the blessing of the military. If the Army or Navy Secretary resigns, the cabinet falls and Parliament is forced to offer a more acceptable slate.”

  “In the beginning that might’ve been it, maybe,” James replied. “But now… their Parliament’s dead. It’s degenerated to the point that nowadays it’s just a place where Emperor keeps his closest friends all together in one place so he can keep a better eye on them.”

  “Heh!” Professor Lambert replied. “Well spoken, James!”

  He blushed. “Actually, His Majesty said that when I was visiting him last summer. To the Foreign Minister.”

  There was a long, long silence after that. Long enough for us all to eat another course, in fact, and move on to dessert. Usually that was my least-favorite part of a formal meal. Humans crave sweets far more than do we Rabbits, so normally I forced down a little bit of something and then felt sick later. But this time the Rabbits took care of me and offered me a plate of dried banana chips. Manna from heaven, it was! For a while I even forgot to follow the conversation, they were so good!

  “…is a problem not amenable to most traditional solutions,” the professor was saying when I finally returned from paradise. “In the long run militarist societies eventually collapse of their own weight. They stifle innovation and trade, which are any society’s lifeblood. But the process is slow—it sometimes requires hundreds of years.” He sighed. “The problem is that I’m not certain we loyalists can hold out that long.”

  “Trade helps,” Yan Chang offered. “Our society is much wealthier than theirs, and they know it. My father’s outlet on Imperious is his most profitable of all. You can’t buy advanced merchandise anywhere else on the planet.”

  “And as you said,” Heinrich added, “they don’t invest nearly as much in science as we do, except for stuff that’s directly military-related. My father left the Empire because he couldn’t get funding, and look where he is now! That sort of thing will bite them, in the end.”


  James nodded. “Our king is beloved, by and large. And our people believe in their government. You don’t need secret prisons and internal spy networks when everyone’s happy.” He frowned. “Except to counter theirs, of course.”

  There was a long, thoughtful silence. “Professor?” I finally asked.

  “Yes, David?” he replied with a smile.

  “You said that many militarist cultures have persisted for centuries. But that means others don’t. Right?”

  He nodded, and I wriggled a bit nervously in my seat. No matter how old I grew or how many medals I won, I’d never enjoy being the center of attention. “Then… What usually brings down the failures? What are militarist societies vulnerable to? In the shorter term, I mean?”

  He smiled and looked dead into my eyes. “The short-timers quite often fall because they couldn’t adapt quickly enough to new circumstances, David,” he replied softly. “It’s not a sure thing, mind you—several of the nastier examples of the breed have thrived on continual upheaval. But as a rule they’re far more vulnerable than freer societies to any form of fundamental change in the basic order of things. Whether said fundamental change be economic, technological, or…” His grin widened, and his eyes bored into mine.

  “Social.”

  30

  We awoke bright and early the next morning, breakfasted in our rooms to make Security happy, then formed up once again in our Class-A’s. At first I thought James was going to march us down to the tournament area, but at the last moment he ordered “Fall out!” instead. I was a little disappointed at this. Then I thought things all the way through and realized that my friend was right. Yes, marching yesterday had indeed been a lot of fun, and had built up our confidence enormously. But that was then and this was now. We couldn’t outswagger the Imperials; that was obvious to anyone with eyes. So our best bet was to abandon swagger entirely and find a new way to gain a psychological edge. Besides, the tournament room was only a couple hundred yards away, the journey broken by an elevator trip roughly halfway through. So far as I knew, no drill manual in the universe dealt with proper elevator etiquette. “Select floor button, hut!” I pictured James declaring solemnly, and so arrived on the main floor with a big grin on my face. Which was even better than swagger, I decided.