The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [3]
He wasn’t looking forward to the coming interview, and spent the time glaring at blank walls. All the decorative paintings, the three-d star map with Imperial banners floating above the provinces, all the standard equipment of a governor general’s office on a Class One planet, were gone, leaving ugly places on the walls.
The guard motioned him into the office. Admiral Sir Vladimir Richard George Plekhanov, Vice Admiral of the Black, Knight of St. Michael and St. George, was seated at the Governor General’s desk. There was no sign of His Excellency Mr. Haruna, and for a moment Rod thought the Admiral was alone. Then he noticed Captain Cziller, his immediate superior as master of MacArthur, standing by the window. All the transparencies had been knocked out, and there were deep scratches in the paneled walls. The displays and furniture were gone. Even the Great Seal—crown and spaceship, eagle, sickle and hammer—was missing from above the duralplast desk. There had never in Rod’s memory been a duralplast desk in a governor general’s office.
“Commander Blaine reporting as ordered, sir.”
Plekhanov absently returned the salute. Cziller didn’t look around from the window. Rod stood at stiff attention while the Admiral regarded him with an unchanging expression. Finally: “Good morning, Commander.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Not really. I suppose I haven’t seen you since I last visited Crucis Court. How is the Marquis?”
“Well when I was last home, sir.”
The Admiral nodded and continued to regard Blaine with a critical look. He hasn’t changed, Rod thought. An enormously competent man, who fought a tendency to fat by exercising in high gravity. The Navy sent Plekhanov when hard fighting was expected. He’s never been known to excuse an incompetent officer, and there was a gunroom rumor that he’d had the Crown Prince—now Emperor—stretched over a mess table and whacked with a spatball paddle back when His Highness was serving as a midshipman in Plataea.
“I have your report here, Blaine. You had to fight your way to the rebel Field generator. You lost a company of Imperial Marines.”
“Yes, sir.” Fanatic rebel guardsmen had defended the generator station, and the battle had been fierce.
“And just what the devil were you doing in a ground action?” the Admiral demanded. “Cziller gave you that captured cruiser to escort our assault carrier. Did you have orders to go down with the boats?”
“No, sir.”
“I suppose you think the aristocracy isn’t subject to Navy discipline?”
“Of course I don’t think that, sir.”
Plekhanov ignored him. “Then there’s this deal you made with a rebel leader. What was his name?” Plekhanov glanced at the papers. “Stone. Jonas Stone. Immunity from arrest. Restoration of property. Damn you, do you imagine that every naval officer has authority to make deals with subjects in rebellion? Or do you hold some diplomatic commission I’m not aware of, Commander?”
“No, sir.” Rod’s lips were pressed tightly against his teeth. He wanted to shout, but he didn’t. To hell with Navy tradition, he thought. I won the damned war.
“But you do have an explanation?” the Admiral demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
Rod spoke through tightening throat muscles. “Sir. While commanding the prize Defiant, I received a signal from the rebel city. At that time the city’s Langston Field was intact, Captain Cziller aboard MacArthur was fully engaged with the satellite planetary defenses, and the main body of the fleet was in general engagement with rebel forces. The message was signed by a rebel leader. Mr. Stone promised to admit Imperial forces into the city on condition that he obtain full immunity from prosecution and restoration of his personal property. He gave a time limit of one hour, and insisted on a member of the aristocracy as guarantor. If there were anything to his offer, the war would end once the Marines entered the city’s Field generator house.