“Fleet Captain Newell finds himself under orders to obey a council that has never met. One of its members is dead, and no other member of that council is present in this system, yet it is in this system that his interests lie. Owensford, Whitlock, and I know that this system was important to Lermontov, and to Falkenberg. We know that Carleton Blaine as governor of Tanith offered alliance to Sparta. We’re certain that Captain Newell and his squadron should stay here and protect Sparta. But whose orders do they follow?”
Lysander shook his head in wonder. “Are you asking me, General Owensford?”
“Permit me, sire,” Dr. Whitlock said. He came forward. “There’s a sense in which I don’t belong in here, but maybe I better explain something. King Lysander, if there’s one thing history shows us, the worst kind of government anyone ever had was a council of soldiers. Maybe one soldier can govern and maybe not, but investing supreme power in a council of military officers is about the worst thing that can happen. Lermontov knew that. He made up a council of two officers and two politicians in the hopes they’d balance off, but you’ll note he cautioned them to name someone as commander as soon as they could. What he didn’t put in that public last will he put in private messages to me and Hal Slater. I’ve shown those to the other Fleet people here. What he told us to do was use our judgment on whether to offer command to King Alexander. We also know Colonel Falkenberg approved hailing King Alexander as commander if the necessity came up.”
Before Lysander could react to that, Hal Slater began to speak. “The CoDominium is gone. Something has to take its place, and we have no time to build anything,” Hal said. “There aren’t many people we can follow. Falkenberg has always made it clear that he won’t accept supreme command. So we’ve been discussing this, and we’ve all agreed, and we’ve come to tell you that agreement.”
Hal Slater limped forward. He was joined by Peter Owensford, then Fleet Captain Newell. Boris Karantov and Colonel Farley. Admiral Forrest. They stood in a row.
“This is just a little awkward,” Hal said. “We’ve lost the ceremony for this over the past thousand years. But we mean every word of it.” He raised his arm, not outstretched as Germans once did, but high, palm forward. “Hail. Ave. Ave, Lysander, Imperator.”
The greeting was said carefully, self consciously at first, then repeated, this time with more enthusiasm. “Ave Lysander, Imperator.”
It was echoed by the others in the room, officers and petty officers, representatives of the Fleet, voices blending together into a mighty shout that rang through the palace, and was echoed back to the audience chamber. The words washed over him, and Lysander stood, his expression unreadable.
“AVE, LYSANDER. AVE,
LYSANDER, IMPERATOR.”
“Bring us together,” Caldwell Whitlock said, his voice low and almost unheard, and then the cry rang through the palace again.
“AVE. AVE LYSANDER, IMPERATOR!”
THE END