Admiral (14 page)

I felt myself blushing under the fur. "The entire Marcus family has been so incredibly good and honorable that—"

I never got to finish the sentence. The heavy, long-range slug entered under James's right armpit, struck his spine, and was deflected just enough to bury itself deep into my own right shoulder. Not that I knew it at the time—all I felt was James jerk suddenly, then go limp in my arms as I tried to support him but somehow could not. "I once dreamed…" James said as he toppled—the words were remarkably clear and distinct.

But no more of them came before I was tackled and body-slammed to the ground. There was shouting and confusion.

"The prince is hit too!" someone shouted, and for the first time I realized that I was also wounded.

"D-a-a-avid!" Frieda howled from somewhere—all I could see was a small patch of concrete directly in front of my nose. 

"I'm here!" I replied. "Get down, love! Take cover!"

"She's going to be all right, Your Highness," a preternaturally calm voice said into my ear—there were thousands of people screaming and panicking all around us, and if I hadn't been a Rabbit I doubt that I could've made out a word. "There's a dozen trained men taking care of her, just like we are you. Please, don't do anything but lie limp. You've been hit badly, and trying to walk will just make it worse."

"Frieda!" I cried out, trying to pull away. "James!"

"He's out of his head," the man said—it was nearly true, I had to admit. Everything had been so sudden, so out of the blue… "On the count of three, lift and carry. Reggie! Commandeer us a room and a doc!"

They didn't even let me
try
to walk on my own. Instead I was thrown onto a stretcher and carried into the Hall of Nobles at a dead run. That was when the pain
truly
hit—it was debilitating blowtorch agony, of the sort I'd not experienced since grappling the
Will of the People
. I was also all wet, I finally noticed. It was blood. But not mine, so much. Judging by the smell, most of it was human. "James!" I wailed again.

"Be still!" a whitecoated man with the Royal coat-of-arms embroidered on his lapel ordered. He poked and prodded for several long moments, then turned to a new figure. "This one will live," he finally declared. "It's not all that serious, thank god. Just messy, and probably almighty painful. I'd like to give him something for that."

"Nothing that'll cloud his mind," a familiar voice ordered. It was Uncle Robert, by god! Dressed in full House Lord court regalia…

…and smeared with more of James's blood.

Suddenly my chest went cold. If he was with me instead of James… "No!" I wailed. "No, no, no!"

Then the elderly man's hand was gripping mine, firm and hard and implacable. "Damnit, David!" he roared. "Must you
always
figure things out so quickly?" Then he sighed and I saw that he'd been weeping too. "You're right, son. It's over for him. The king is dead."

"L-l-l-ong…" I stuttered. "L-long live the King!"

Suddenly Robert was staring intently in into my eyes. "My god, son! That's not for
you
to say! Haven't you figured the
rest
out yet?"

Then I laid my head back onto the pillow and closed my eyes. "No!" I wailed. "Never, without him!"

"We must crown you
immediately
," my uncle urged. "Right now, before we even treat your wound. And you must be seen wearing the crown, as well. Or else the succession crisis from hell will erupt! We might even split back up and begin fighting amongst ourselves all over again!"

Suddenly Nestor was at my side as well. "Your uncle is right, sir. You may not be thinking clearly yet—heaven knows no one would blame you if you aren't. But… It's just like before. If not you, then who? The navy is loyal to you personally. So are the Marcuses and the Marcus allies and even the House Lords of the rump of the Empire, which could otherwise be expected to form a natural center of opposition. Plus, no one else would satisfy the freedmen. They'd riot endlessly, imagining you'd been cheated somehow. You're the only one who can hold things together, sir. At least until a clear line of succession is established."

"Nooooo!" I repeated, closing my good fist and slamming it down on the bed. "Never! And
doubly
not like this! Oh god! Poor James!"

"His Highness is in terrible pain," the physician interrupted. "The slug is lodged in the shoulder joint itself. You people must—"

"There's no
time
for that!" Robert replied, eyes cold and hard and calculating, just as they'd been during the time of the coup. "David… Damnit, son! I know it hurts, but you
must
do your duty!"

"Duty," I muttered. Then I laughed, and perhaps it sounded a bit hysterical? "Duty is all I know, Uncle. And now it's all I'll
ever
know. Was my life ever really my own, or was that just an illusion too? I mean… I wasn't even allowed a happy wedding day!" I closed my eyes and laid my head back onto the too-soft pillow. "So go get the crown and Frieda and the rest of the high muckety-mucks and let's get it over and done with." I shifted in my stretcher, creating more waves of pain quite on purpose. They felt fiery and out of control, which was somehow fitting then and there. "And damn every one of you heartless aristocratic bastards to hell!"

23

Forty-two years later, in His Majesty King David's private office

"It was the strangest thing," His Highness continued, after a long pause. "Of course everyone thought a rogue Imperialist must've shot James. And yet… That didn't turn out to be the case at all. The killer wasn't even
aiming
at him! He was one of Gwendolyn's old teenage flames, was all. Over a period of years he went slowly mad and, well…" His Majesty shrugged, eyes downcast and still pain-filled after all these years. "If he couldn't have her, apparently in his warped mind no one else would either. So he set out to kill her and then himself. But he didn't figure his windage properly. That was what made the difference between life and death—a madman's error while calculating windage." He met my eyes again. "James would've willingly died for her—that I'm certain of. They were very much in love. It was too bad they hadn't conceived a child yet. Or maybe it was for the better after all—certainly a male child would've raised uncomfortable questions about which candidate had the best claim to the crown upon my own death." He sighed again. "Look at me—here I've promised to bare all to you in exchange for your promise not to publish this book until everyone I've named and their children's children are all dead, and still I'm holding out on you. Old habit, I fear.” He shook his head and licked his nose. "The real truth is that James and Gwen were using birth control, in order to delay matters until the gene-splicers on Marcus Prime could produce the best, finest, most promising embryos possible for them. He intended to be succeeded by generation after generation of what amount to supermen. While Frieda and I didn't have to wait—all the work and planning to accomplish pretty much the same thing was finished before we were born. It was all part of the original breeding plan."

I nodded and smiled encouragingly as my little sound-box sucked up every word. His Majesty always kept his promises; certainly he'd kept every one he'd ever made to me. Long ago and fresh out of college, I'd caught his eye by being willing to work as part of his domestic staff—and therefore under the direct supervision of multiple Rabbits—long before manumission was anything resembling a reality. In fact, or so His Majesty claims, I was the first human anywhere outside the military to work under Rabbits. It'd simply seemed like the right thing to do at the time, so far as I was concerned. It did the Rabbits in question a lot of good, and perhaps me as well. I'd had a dream of writing then-Captain Birkenhead's biography someday. He promised me an exclusive on the topic, and now half a century or so later he was offering me so much behind-the-scenes material that, well… I wasn't sure anyone would believe me, if the original voice-recordings didn't survive! This was fabulous! If only it could be released during my own lifetime! Though of course it was obvious why this could never be.

"I guess that's about it, really. You know at least as much as I do about what's happened since then, Henry. Being my private secretary and all that, I mean. I can't think of anything significant during my reign I've held back from you. You're family, after all."

I smiled back—it was true enough. Over the years I'd slowly taken over Lord Nestor's role in His Majesty's life, as his former batman moved on to greater and greater responsibilities in his own right. Currently he was serving in two key positions in government, as both Treasurer and Minority Leader in the House of Lords. One day, I was willing to bet, he'd be Prime Minister. And probably sooner rather than later—as the primary author of the New Compact that nowadays formed the basis of our government, Nestor in many ways commanded as much respect as His Majesty himself. Though, of course, Lord Nestor would've been horrified at the very idea.

"We've grown and grown, Henry," His Majesty continued, sipping at his beloved tea. "All the various humanities, beyond all reason. King Albert should get the credit for most of this, as I've explained over and over. And maybe part of it was Nestor's fascination with democracy, as well. Mostly, all I've done is stand back and watch everything around me bear fruit and multiply."

That was a damned lie, though I smiled and nodded regardless. King David told lots of lies when he should've known better—another of his favorite whoppers was that my father Dr. Lambert had actually won the Wars of the Imperium simply by writing his books on strategy. During his time as our monarch so far, David had helped society along in a million ways, nudging here and calling in favors there and even strong-arming the last few House Lords who didn't want to give up their feudal rights by taking up personal command of the Fleet and showing up on their doorsteps with it. He had an uncanny ability to reveal just enough of the mailed fist that lay ever-waiting beneath the velvet fur to persuade others that going along with his plans might be for the best after all. It was he who'd tripled the number of universities in a decade and quadrupled the trade schools which at first were the primary educational resource of the freedmen. His uncle was legendary for his skill at back-room deal-making, but in the end even Lord Robert himself was forced to acknowledge David as the all-time champ. "We had no idea how well he'd do at first," he often said. "In fact, we didn't have a
clue
. But we're plenty glad we adopted him regardless!"

"Well, then!" His Majesty muttered, blushing a little. After all these years he could still be a bit awkward socially at times, particularly with humans. It was a scar that most ex-slaves seemed to carry, and who could blame them? "I suppose we're finished at last then, eh?"

"I suppose so," I replied, rising. His Majesty hadn't surrendered
all
his power to Parliament, nor even most of it. He felt that the institution should prove itself stable and competent for a few decades first. Who could fault him for being so conservative, after he'd seen so much of the last civil war in person? "Though I must admit, Sire, that I'll miss these little sessions enormously." I bowed, something I was normally excused from in the Royal Presence. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I can only hope that my final draft will even halfway measure up to the Rabbit who inspired it."

He laughed. "You shore do talk pretty." It was a private joke between us; one day long ago we'd overdosed on the elaborate formulas of Court correspondence—"His August Lordship would most humbly submit…", for example—and shared a glorious half-hour writing up the most ridiculous, extravagant and ultimately meaningless letter ever penned in the Royal Palace. King David could be like that sometimes—if something was meant to overawe, he usually found it irresistibly funny instead. It was a small part of why everyone—everyone!—seemed to love him so. Then his smile faded. "Now, Henry, if you'll forgive me I have pressing business in the Throne Room. It's all very urgent, and
must
be dealt with before I can finally see Frieda again. So if you'll excuse me…"

I nodded and exited as quickly as I possibly could, trying on the one hand not to show him my back and on the other hoping to be unobtrusive about it. But David was in essence already gone, studying his notes through strong, clear eyes that gave lie to his grizzled fur and stooped body.
He'll be around for many years to come,
I reassured myself the same way I always did when leaving the Presence. It wasn't that I didn't have faith in the Heir, Prince Albert. Far from it! He was a good friend, in fact; I'd tutored him in law during his teens and we still shared a nip of whiskey and a poker game now and again. But genetically engineered or no, how could he ever compare to
David Birkenhead
, at the mention of whose name galaxies trembled and stars shifted in their courses, who'd dared leave his footprints on Imperious herself? Who'd done more than any other hundred men to win the long wars, no matter what he himself might claim? Who'd been born a slave and would die a king, and whose reign was marked by the brightest and best era that Mankind had so far known? How could
any
flesh-and-blood heir measure up to such a living legend? I frankly didn't envy him the task.

I sighed and patted the data-cube in my pocket—so
many
things about His Majesty were clearer now that I knew the full, unvarnished truth. I'd been told more than even his own wife and children knew—for example, the navy
still
didn't understand why His Highness had so categorically refused the Academy's request to erect a statue of him standing at rigid attention atop the sacred Mast, eyes facing the approaching dawn. Most supposedly great men were lessened when the truth about their past finally came out, but somehow King David's stature was only enhanced in my eyes. I suspected the same would hold true in the far future, when at last my work would be released to a galaxy hungry to learn more about a personality that fascinated them still.