have him captured with the rest of us and let things devolve to Commander Mane of the destroyer Cataract than leave him in charge. At least Mane would have the sense to realize that he was out of his league and obey his orders to fall back and preserve the force intact for another day. Or so I fervently hoped!
Since this was a military dinner, rank-precedence trumped social-precedence and therefore I was the first to step out of Will of the People 's lock and onto her main receiving deck. "Tench…. Hut!" an Imperial sergeant of marines rasped out, and with a sound like thunder fifty or so pairs of booted heels crashed together as one. It was impressive even though I was expecting it—while shipboard marines were always capable fighters, it was in the nature of things that drill and parade-style discipline suffered aboard ship. This was no one's fault—scandalized sergeants had been decrying the tendency for millennia. The root problem was that there wasn't sufficient space aboard a typical man-of-war for enough in the way of square-bashing to keep everyone sharp. These men, however… I raised my Sword in salute by way of returning the courtesy. "Two!" the sergeant barked, and again there was thunder as half a hundred blaster-butts struck the deck a single blow. Javelin was the darling of the Royal Fleet; in some regards she could even be considered its flagship. And yet, I had to admit to myself, my own command couldn't hope to match such a display of rigid discipline.
"Greetings, Captain Birkenhead!" Sir Jason declared, his dozens of medals jangling as he stepped forward to grip my hand. I had to smile at that; by tradition the bearer of a Sword of Orion wore no lesser decorations, so my chest was completely bare save for the fire-lily emblem of the House of Marcus. In my opinion this was by far the more impressive look, and the fact made me feel at least a little better about the marines. Then one by one the others stepped through and were greeted, until last of all Nestor emerged blinking out into the bright lights, nose wriggling and carrying what for him was a rather large insulated box. No one paid him any attention, however, as he was wearing formal Marcus footbunny livery and had dyed himself coal-black for the occasion. He was also wearing black contact lenses, which were a special rush-job from sick-bay, and had teased his ear-fur for hours to make the appendages appear much fuller and longer than they actually were. The result was that even I wouldn't have recognized him save for the dead giveaway of his personal scent. "Ah!" Sir Jason said when he finally noticed my aide cowering behind Jean's legs. "This must be your personal chef?"
I nodded and smiled. "His name is Patrick. It's very kind of you to be so hospitable as to allow him to share your galley, sir," I said with a little bow. Then I clasped my stomach, frowned, and shook my head. "But ever since Zombie Station…"
He smiled and nodded, then grinned down at little Nestor. "Regardless of what form they might take, war wounds are always badges of honor in the Empire. I'm sure our own Rabbits will be glad to offer Patrick any assistance he may require."
It was unusually nice, I decided about two hours later, to sit and openly eat so much Rabbit-style cuisine at a table full of humans. Back in my early days as a youth with the House of Marcus and then at the Academy, I'd been required to force down as much "normal" food as possible so as to fit in better, and in retrospect it was amazing how little fuss I'd made about it. No one had been so cruel as to try and ram a pork chop down my throat; it was understood that there were natural limits. But if everyone else was eating heavily-buttered peas or cheesy corn soufflé, well… in those days I'd been expected to make whatever effort it took to down my full portion no matter how awful it was for me. If I suffered endless stomach-cramps later, well… Antacids and laxatives were always available. I'd
Since this was a military dinner, rank-precedence trumped social-precedence and therefore I was the first to step out of Will of the People 's lock and onto her main receiving deck. "Tench…. Hut!" an Imperial sergeant of marines rasped out, and with a sound like thunder fifty or so pairs of booted heels crashed together as one. It was impressive even though I was expecting it—while shipboard marines were always capable fighters, it was in the nature of things that drill and parade-style discipline suffered aboard ship. This was no one's fault—scandalized sergeants had been decrying the tendency for millennia. The root problem was that there wasn't sufficient space aboard a typical man-of-war for enough in the way of square-bashing to keep everyone sharp. These men, however… I raised my Sword in salute by way of returning the courtesy. "Two!" the sergeant barked, and again there was thunder as half a hundred blaster-butts struck the deck a single blow. Javelin was the darling of the Royal Fleet; in some regards she could even be considered its flagship. And yet, I had to admit to myself, my own command couldn't hope to match such a display of rigid discipline.
"Greetings, Captain Birkenhead!" Sir Jason declared, his dozens of medals jangling as he stepped forward to grip my hand. I had to smile at that; by tradition the bearer of a Sword of Orion wore no lesser decorations, so my chest was completely bare save for the fire-lily emblem of the House of Marcus. In my opinion this was by far the more impressive look, and the fact made me feel at least a little better about the marines. Then one by one the others stepped through and were greeted, until last of all Nestor emerged blinking out into the bright lights, nose wriggling and carrying what for him was a rather large insulated box. No one paid him any attention, however, as he was wearing formal Marcus footbunny livery and had dyed himself coal-black for the occasion. He was also wearing black contact lenses, which were a special rush-job from sick-bay, and had teased his ear-fur for hours to make the appendages appear much fuller and longer than they actually were. The result was that even I wouldn't have recognized him save for the dead giveaway of his personal scent. "Ah!" Sir Jason said when he finally noticed my aide cowering behind Jean's legs. "This must be your personal chef?"
I nodded and smiled. "His name is Patrick. It's very kind of you to be so hospitable as to allow him to share your galley, sir," I said with a little bow. Then I clasped my stomach, frowned, and shook my head. "But ever since Zombie Station…"
He smiled and nodded, then grinned down at little Nestor. "Regardless of what form they might take, war wounds are always badges of honor in the Empire. I'm sure our own Rabbits will be glad to offer Patrick any assistance he may require."
It was unusually nice, I decided about two hours later, to sit and openly eat so much Rabbit-style cuisine at a table full of humans. Back in my early days as a youth with the House of Marcus and then at the Academy, I'd been required to force down as much "normal" food as possible so as to fit in better, and in retrospect it was amazing how little fuss I'd made about it. No one had been so cruel as to try and ram a pork chop down my throat; it was understood that there were natural limits. But if everyone else was eating heavily-buttered peas or cheesy corn soufflé, well… in those days I'd been expected to make whatever effort it took to down my full portion no matter how awful it was for me. If I suffered endless stomach-cramps later, well… Antacids and laxatives were always available. I'd
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