ONE WEEK KING - Bracewell Port II
16 Apr 2018Commander-Wingnut
The socializing was the most tedious part. The Empire was unique in the way that it combined two practices from Ancient Terra.On the one hand, you had old-fashioned, upper-crust elbow-rubbing - such as balls, courts, and even (I'm not making this up, dear reader), a tea party or two. Men in suits, women in elegant formal dresses, much clinking of champagne glasses, crystal chandeliers, and caviar plates. All converged and babbled in parties pulled together by the especially well-to-do stratas and castes of nobility.
Then on the other, you had the online aspect. There was an elaborate and complex tradition of using social media. As much power and status was flaunted across a interstellar web of faster-than-light communication. Mass media, social media, black forums, teleconferences and livestreams with audiences that numbered in the hundreds of thousands... entire dynasties - even war came and went in Imperial cyberspace.
Mind boggling, really.
::--::
"Sir Grieves?" Archer was recalling the words of a slightly inebriated Squire at one of these posh formal events.
"He's good folk, a real upstanding citizen, provided you don't make fun of his character."
"Oh? What's wrong with his character?" he had asked.
"His .... er.... his tic.
Don't call attention to his tic, if you know what's good for you.
As in, seriously, don't even ask about it."
It is just not your business.
::--::
Archer had found out quickly.
Now, Sir Marlin Grieves was easily sliding his way past the milling crowd to approach Archer.
Acher nodded deferentially - hand folded just so, legs straight, shoulders squared.
"Outsider Robert Archer," the Knight of Gits greeted silkily.
He was tall and stony, flat of nose and low of mouth like a gargoyle with a goatee.
When Grieves spoke, only his lips moved - barely parting with the slightest of undulations whenever he purred out a thought.
::--::
"We have business to discuss, Outsider. A moment, if you would kindly?"
"Of course, Sir Grieves," Archer agreed. "How may I be of service to the Brotherhood tonight?"
"It is with great pleasure that I would like to greet you, for the first time, as an ally.
Your reputation is now such that you are one of us, one of the Brothergood of Jitt -
BLEH-LEH-LEL-LEB!
::--::
The room fell still and all eyes were on them. Archer was the only one with an expression of shock.
Staring at Grieves, whose face had already returned to its usual regal bearing, it took a moment to process that the Knight had stumbled on a word and stopped to correct himself.
In doing so, Grieves' eyes had rolled halfway back up into his head - as if he'd restarted his brain mid-sentence. He'd lost control of his lips and tongue - flapping them uncontrollably like a goat desperately trying to lick water out of a birdbath.
Once satisfied that it was not their business, the crowd resumed talking to one another. His eyes still wide, Archer continued to listen as Grieves recovered his train of thought.
::--::
"Excuse me. That is to say, the Brotherhood of Gits.
You, my friend, are now one of us.
With this, I am formally vested with the power to appoint you as a Serf."
Archer could only nod, speechless.
"May your service bring you glory and honor, in the name of the Emperor and the Princess."
::--::
It was at about this moment a Squire - the same one that had consulted Archer - appeared at the door.
Scanning the crowd, he spotted the two of them and hurried over, whispering most urgently.
"Sir Grieves, please excuse my audacity.
There's been a mistake.
You cannot make Mister Archer a Serf."
With a jolt of startlement, Sir Grieves pulled himself erect and cocked an eyebrow.
"And why, pray tell, is a Squire suggesting that I err?"
"Instructions from the Duke.
Master Archer has actually been offered a position as a - well, a Master- in the Emperor's Navy!"
::-::
Both men, in stunned silence, stared at the Squire - excuse me - the new Master, whose expression was just as startled as theirs.
Grieves, to his credit, was agile in matters of diplomacy.
He shook off his disbelief long enough to smile brightly and extend his arms to embrace a very confused Archer.
The Squire's communicator chirped.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he excused himself and began arguing with it in a staccato whisper.
"My friend, this is good news!" boomed Grieves jovially.
"This morning, you woke up as an Outsider, to become a Serf in the same day, and now the Emperor has made you a -
"A Squire, sire."
BLEH-LEH-LEL-LEB
flapped Sir Grieves again. This time, a few flecks of spit escaped onto the floor, where a sweeper robot dutifully - er - swept in to clean it up.
The Knight of Gits immediately smacked himself in the forehead, finished rebooting. Placing one eyebrow exactly three millimeters higher than the other, Grieves assumed his most dictatorial smolder of disapproval and swivelled.
::-::
"I'm sorry, what?" sputtered Archer.
"I'm sorry, what?" sputtered Grieves.
The Squire shrugged helplessly and indicated his hand-held device.
Sir Grieves snatched it away and peered at it with nostrils flared and eyes squinted suspiciously.
As he read the letterhead, his lips sank below his chin, and some color drained from his face.
"I don't believe this. Promotion... from Master... to Squire... requisition for an Imperial Clipper... permit to the Achenar system - by the Emperor's Palace, this is all official!"
"Yes, my sire. I cannot explain it, either."
Archer didn't have any answers. This was all seeming very familiar somehow...
---
Bracewell Port, HIP 5700
The Next Morning...
::--::
The conference room was gratuitously spacious for what amounted to a private interview.
It was also gratuitously dark, with a single, hot floodlight staring down in the center of it.
In the center of its pool was Squire Robert Archer
(formerly Master Robert Archer, formerly Outsider Robert Archer, actually Rear Admiral Commander Wingnut of the Federal Navy Reserve)
and he was trying very hard to keep more of his sweat inside him right now.
Before the Squire, stood three men gathered about a small round table with a pitcher of water and four glasses.
The first was the gaunt Sir Marlin Grieves, that one was easy to recognize.
"Squire."
"Sir Grieves."
"These are my commanding officers.
General Guadalupe Hofer, and General Dexter Gilbert, both of the Imperial Navy."
"General. General."
::--::
The man introduced as General Hofer was square-headed and broad-shouldered, the sort of big man who seemed the sort to duck AND turn whenever he wanted to fold himself through a doorframe.
One of his eyes was a dark blue, and seemed to drift lazily off course whenever Hofer stared at one thing for more than a moment.
The other eye was a coppery brown color that caught the light. It too, drifted wildy.
Or was that the other way around?
Was the blue eye the lazy one, or the brown one?
With growing discomfort (and some disoriented nausea), Archer realized he wasn't going to figure it out.
Attention, Robert Archer.
You're being asked a question.
He snapped to.
::-::
"Do you understand why we have called you in today?" asked Hofer.
His voice sounded like a hullplate being dropped onto the floor.
"I plead ignorance, my General," Archer replied carefully.
"I have been home but only a few short days.
The circumstances perplex me as they do you."
The other General, Gilbert, cleared his throat.
::--::
This man was short - only four feet tall, even though his posture was ram-rod erect. it was no problem at all for him to carry his nose high.
His hair was brilliant yellow (blonde seemed too pale a word for color this vibrant).
The goatee on his chin came to a point so sharp Archer was convinced Gilbert shaped it with a flat file every morning.
But what really sprang out - excuse me - was the starched and tightly coiled mustache that extended for a solid six inches whenever Gilbert fidgeted absentmindedly with it.
"That's exactly it, though, isn't it?" Gilbert inquired, stretching out one end and letting it snap back with a military-sharp "SPRUNGGGG" noise that all four men could hear echoing through the room.
::--::
"You have been in Her Glory's Navy for only one day, Squire Archer.
One day."
Now it was Sir Grieves speaking.
"This rate of progression is extremely unusual.
Would you care to explain to me exactly what you were doing all day?"
Archer knew he was in trouble.
His mission was blown already.
With a deep breath, he steeled himself for the only three words he could think of.
"My job, milord."
With the tick of a clock, Grieves' eyebrow climbed exactly three millimeters - no more, no less. (How did he -do- that?)
He then looked to Hofer, then to Gilbert.
::--::
The two Generals stared reprovingly - whether at Grieves, Archer, or both, it was impossible to tell (especially in Hofer's case, damn him).
Then they stepped about the table and flanked Archer on either side.
This was it. Whatever came next, it wouldn't be pleasant.
Archer could not help but start taking bets on how long it would be before they tortured his true identity out of him, and how much it would hurt.
DAMN the Federation and their games.
::--::
"Do you seriously expect us to believe you made nice with sixteen minor factions and four starports in less than twenty-four hours?
Do you really believe that one man could do the same work as a small ARMY of slaves?"
Say nothing, Archer. Volunteer nothing.
And above all else, it is better to stay silent than to tell a lie.
::--::
General Hofer lingered, his face close enough to Archer's that the scent of gin was just barely perceptible.
The blue eye was now on the left, and the copper one was now on the right, which only disquieted Archer even more.
(Which was the lazy one, and why do they keep switching places?!)
::--::
Impatiently, General Gilbert stopped twiddling his mustache.
The door-stopper twang it made this time no longer sounded jovial.
He then reached down and drew.
A long and wicked-looking saber was now in his hand.
"You were asked a QUESTION, Squire. Take a knee."
Archer began to sweat. "General?"
The point of the sword rose to his throat. Archer swallowed.
"Take your knee, before I take your head."
::--::
Shivering gently, Archer slowly descended to one knee, then the other. General Gilbert raised the sword...
.. and flatly smacked it sidewise against one of Archer's shoulders.
Before the Squire could flinch, the sword flipped, and slapped against the other one, leaving a pair of smart welts.
"Under the power vested in me by the King of Dukes, I dub thee a Knight of the Emperor's Navy.
May Her Glory ever smile upon you. Arise, Sir Robert Archer."
Somewhere in the room - bleh-leh-lel-LEB?! Archer knew it was Grieves' eyes rolling back as he almost choked on a mouthful of ice water.
::--::
Archer, shaking even harder now and all of the color drained from his face, began to stand.
"WAIT." came the gravel-crunching voice of the giant Hofer.
His eyes had switched places again - this time Archer was almost certain of it!
The others looked at him.
"I object to this."
SMACK-SMACK!
Archer sank again as his shoulders were slapped by another sword - this one a broad-bladed cutlass whipped upon him by Hofer.
"And by the power vested in ME by the King of Dukes," snarled the lazy-eyed giant.
"-I- dub thee LORD Robert Archer, of the Imperial Navy.
May the Emperor's Grace warm your mantle forevermore."
::-::
Again Sir Grieves, a mere Knight of the Brotherhood of Gits and suddenly the lowest-ranking person in the room, sputtered and wheezed.
-None- of this was going the way it was supposed to!!
If you were to take a plastic ruler, slap it to the desk, and pluck it like a harp, it would still lack the enthusiastic verve of General Gilbert's impressive mustache.
At this point, they were descending the elevator to see Archer off to the "Selfless Jester" and on his way.
Serf - excuse me, Master - no, that's Knight , except now Lord Robert Archer of the Imperial Navy was standing behind the Generals shoulder-to-shoulder to Knight Marlin Grieves.
SPRUNNNNG-G-G-G-G
And both of them were wishing quite quietly that General Gilbert would stop doing that.
Archer was about to break the nervous silence, when Hofer spoke first.
::--::
The hunch of his back ground the ceiling of the elevator as he peered down at the other two.
"Now, Lord Archer. I just wanted to let you know where we stand.
We know you're not one of us."
One could almost see the exclamation point explode out of Archer's dome.
He stiffened his parade rest, aware of Grieves doing the same.
Eyes shuffled about. Hofer's won, natch.
::--::
"Our intel show that you were an Imperial Slave; a cloned one, at that, that somehow managed to attain financial emancipation.
Your records are very consistent and surprisingly clean.
Save for some drug-running charges, your career was absolutely unremarkable.
Then your ship vanishes from our fleet quite suddenly, and the next thing we know, you're coming home in a Fed ship."
Hofer had been in the Imperial Navy for thirty years, and this was the longest thought anyone had ever heard him speak.
::--::
SPRUNNNNG-G-G-G-G
General Gilbert, eyes closed in thought, twanged his mustache again.
Joining in, he added. "And not only do you come home safe, you're actually productive.
Quite eager to please. A real captain of industry, mover and shaker all in one.
Did you really think we would believe any of it for even a moment?"
Hofer grunted at the newly minted junior Lord.
"We had you made the moment we saw you, Archer.
Nobody in the Empire gets by so quickly, not without some foul play involved.
Foul play of the most sinister sort."
Gilbert again. "You're a brigand."
Hofer: "A dastard."
Archer's eyes bounced from one insult to the next, his brow ticking.
From next to him, Sir Marlin Grieves joined in from the back row.
"Naught but a greasy freebooter!"
::--::
All three of them swiveled to face Sir Grieves.
He quickly busied himself with smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt.
Archer growled ominously at Grieves.
"Naught but a greasy freebooter, MY LORD."
Sir Grieves nodded, keeping his nose up somehow and staring at nothing straight ahead with the most intense of interest.
"Aye, my Lord Archer."
But nothing else to add, he quite loudly managed not to say.
::--::
"Fact remains, you obviously are no Slave."
"Probably never even been in an union."
"Either you're a spy - most likely Federation."
::--::
Yup, Archer/Wingnut thought to themselves.
This is where the stories end.
I'm not gonna be writing about this part anytime soon.
::--::
"Or something even more valuable.
Something the Empire could actually use.
You, my dear friend, are a PILOT-COMMANDER."
This time, it was Archer who almost swallowed his tongue.