It appeared that with this, his business on the command center bridge had ended. Duhier felt it a bit anticlimactic, but he saluted and left. Upon exiting out the door, he spotted two guard NCCs; it looked as though they’d be the ones taking him to her office. Said office was mainly used for meetings and was spacious enough to accommodate all fleet command personnel. The room had high pile carpeting, and an ebony table large enough for a family of modest size to live on. Duhier was guided to the foot of that table. The two guard NCCs then stood at attention on either side of the door. Needless to say, there was no chatter between them. It was silent. Duhier placed his hands on his lap and waited in place. Since he was a tot, Duhier had gotten used to sitting straight and doing nothing of note while all eyes were on him. His father told him that patience was the most important attribute demanded of those born in the Imperial Family. He also said that few Abliars were born with such patience. Regardless, Duhier was confident he could stay like this for a day or two if he wanted to. And it was all the easier since fewer eyes were on him. Not that he’d be left alone for that long — unless the Commander-in-Chief had a hankering for torturing an Imperial.
At the other end of the wide table lay the Commander-in-Chief’s chair. The symbol of the Fleet Commander-in-Chief, the Lach Biharérr (Three-Headed Dragon) was embroidered on that chair, behind which hung the Eight-Headed Dragon in the imperial flag, as well as the intersecting twin thorns and stylized numeral 13 that made up the fleet flag, and the silver cross on black that was the Cotponic clan crest. This crest was famous among those of the Twenty-Nine Founding Families for its brusqueness. Legend had it the forebears of the Cotponic lineage took three seconds to draw two lines, making sure solely that they were perpendicular before leaving it at that. But the ratio of the lines that were drawn back then were passed down to the present day. The clan was rumored never to spend too much time undecided. While Duhier was used to seeing the Cotponic crest, there was something about that cross that always aroused anxiety in him. It made him restless, uncomfortable.
Couldn’t they have made the cross’s vertical line a little longer? Failing that, they could have at least made the horizontal line intersect a little lower on that line.
Criticizing the crests of other clans was an affront not even Abliars were permitted. Only Cohtponees could pick apart the Cohtponee crest, so no one breathed a word. Humanity’s hope lay in either a heroic soul willing to break the taboo, or a Cohtponee being born with any sense of aesthetics. He had a feeling everyone would conform to that hero’s artistic insight.
“Lonh-Glaharérr,” called a guard NCC.
Duhier stood up, and saluted facing the chair.
The Commander-in-Chief was by herself. She breezily returned the salute and took a seat.
Duhier stopped saluting and sat down. That moment, Cohtponee said “Stand back,” her voice quiet but clear.
“Yes, ma’am!” came a voice from behind her at once.
“Don’t let anyone in,” she added.
The NCCs left, leaving Duhier and Cohtponee alone.
Were this an imperial court, Cohtponee would have to show her respects to Duhier. While she was an imperial duchess, a rank of high regard even within the Imperial Palace, Duhier was a royal prince, not to mention the grandson of the Palace’s sovereign. But this was the field of war. Here, their positions were reversed. In fact, there was a huge gulf between a linewing starpilot and a Star Forces admiral; he could hardly look her in the face.
“An imperial decree has been issued,” she said, getting straight to the point. “And I reckon you know what that means.”
Imperial decrees bore the highest level of confidentiality. They were encrypted using the Empress’s own wristgear, and barring directives that were special cases, were not delivered via EM waves, but stored in memchips instead. The memchip was then inserted into a box, to be sealed by none other than the Empress herself. Only a select few wristgears — numbering fewer than a hundred in the whole galaxy — could decrypt the message. And there were more protections besides, like how the wristgear had to be worn by its owner when attempting to decrypt, and how the message erased itself instantly after reading.
Cohtponee slid him the memchip. “It’s stored in there. You should be able to access it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Imperials like him were granted the ability to decrypt the Empress’s encrypted messages when they were appointed as starpilots. Duhier’s wristgear was no exception. All he had to do was insert the information inside the memchip into the wristgear and recite the phrase only he knew.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid the password will get overheard?”
“No, ma’am. That isn’t it.”
“Then do it already. I’m a busy woman.”
Bearers of the Cohtponee surname were loath to put up with those who took needless amounts of time to do things, and this sentiment was coupled with uncertainty in the case of a boy who could one day be their ruler.
Duhier couldn’t help but ask: “Why are you giving me this information?”
“Your right to access this information arises from the fact you bear the title of “Fïac,” or in other words, that you are a potential successor to the Throne. As such, your direct superior hasn’t the right to know, and you should read the message with that in mind.”
Duhier didn’t feel that really answered his question. Just as Cohtponee said, he had both the qualification and ability to peruse the decree. That didn’t mean he was under any obligation to do so. Yet he hesitated to start piling questions on top of questions. Thankfully, the Commander-in-Chief picked up on this.
“Relaying the message to you was my idea.”
“I understand.” That was all she needed to say. If the Commander-in-Chief concluded that word should be passed along to him, then he was obligated to know the contents of the decree. He still had no idea why he was being told, but it would be unwise to ask any more questions.
“Hold your horses. There’s more.” Duhier caught a glimpse of dissatisfaction at the edges of her dark blue eyebrows.
“My apologies.” Duhier actually felt relieved.
“What that decree suggests is that there’s a possibility my fleet will be given a mission of great importance.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A mission more important than the current operation? Duhier couldn’t imagine what that might be.
“Depending on how things play out, my fleet might become isolated away from imperial territory.”
He wasn’t particularly shocked by this — as long as the period of isolation was temporary, it was nothing to fret over. There were times in the history of the Empire when ships and people were left without a means of transportation to the fleet. There were even times when they were cut off from communicating altogether. But what did any of that have to do with him?
“In that event, we’ll be turning to you as Her Majesty the Empress’s proxy.”
“Huh?” Now that was a surprise. “Will I be in charge of the fleet?” He’d anticipated the day would come, but he wasn’t prepared for that in any respect. If he didn’t at least graduate from military academy first, the soldiers of the fleet would be peeved.
“If the time should come that we believe it best to relinquish the right of command to you, that is what we’ll do. However, in all likelihood, your role will be ceremonial. Making the final decisions is my job. I plan to give the idea some thought as I examine you at work.”
“Forgive me, ma’am; I have another question,” said Duhier, unable to hold it in. “May I be allowed to ask it?”
He’d thought he’d never find himself above her in military rank. After all, even if he made it to the rank of Star Forces Admiral, at that point Cohtponee would be either retired or a casualty of war. The thought that the day they would swap seniority might not be far off unnerved him. He just had to figure out what was behind her decision.
Fortunately, Cohtponee nodded. “I’ll allow it. Ask your question.”
“In case our forces become isolated, I understand that the highest authority is the proxy of Her Majesty, no matter the scope.”
“You understand correctly.”
“Then, if that unfortunate state of affairs does come about, wouldn’t that make you Her Majesty’s proxy, Commander-in-Chief?”
“There’s nothing stopping Her Majesty’s proxy from choosing to turn to a different proxy.”
“That may be what military regulation says, but what led you to that decision?”
“Because I’m afraid that, depending on the circumstances, this may be a long-term problem.”
“I don’t understand,” said Duhier, confused.