Free Firstborn by Brandon Sanderson Page A

into hovering, holographic existence before him, Dennison could see that his ships had barely managed to destroy a dozen enemy fighters.
    Dennison stepped from the hologram, leaving the red ships victorious and the blue ships despondent. The hologram disappeared, its images shattering and dribbling to the command center’s floor like shimmering dust, the pieces eventually burning away in the light. Crewmembers stood around the perimeter, their eyes showing the sickly shame of defeat.
    Only Brell had the courage to speak what they were all thinking. “He really is an idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
    Dennison paused by the doorway. He turned with a raised eyebrow, and found Brell staring back unrepentantly. Another High Officer probably would have sent him to the brig for insubordination. Of course, another commander wouldn’t have earned such disrespect in the first place. Dennison leaned back against the side of the doorway, arms folded in an un-militaristic posture. “I should probably punish you, Brell. I am a High Officer, after all.”
    This, at least, made the man look aside. Dennison lounged, letting Brell realize that—incompetent or not—Dennison had the power to destroy a man’s career with a mere comm-call.
    Dennison finally sighed, standing up and walking forward. “But, you know, I’ve never really believed in disciplining men for speaking the truth. Yes, Brell. I, Dennison Crestmar—brother of the Great Varion Crestmar, cousin to kings and commander of fleets—am an idiot. Just like all of you have heard.”
    Dennison paused, stopping right in front of Brell, then reached out and tapped the man’s chest right in the center of his High Imperial Emblem. “But think of this,” Dennison continued with a light smile. “If
I’m
an idiot, then
you
must be pretty damn incompetent yourself; otherwise they would never have wasted you by sending you to serve under me.”
    Brell’s face flared red at the insult, but he showed uncharacteristic restraint by holding his tongue. Dennison turned and strolled from the room. “Prepare my speeder for my return to the Point,” he commanded. “I’m due for dinner with my father tomorrow.”
    * * *
    He missed dinner. However, it wasn’t his fault, considering he had to travel half the length of the High Empire. Dennison’s father, High Duke Sennion Crestmar, was waiting for him in the spaceport when he arrived.
    Sennion didn’t say a word as Dennison left the airlock and approached. The High Duke was a tall man—proud, broad shouldered, with a noble face. He was the epitome of what a High Officer should be. At least Dennison had inherited the height.
    The High Duke turned, Dennison fell into step beside him, and the two strode down the Officer’s Walk—a pathway with a deep red carpet, trimmed with gold. It was reserved for High Officers, uncluttered by the civilians and lower ranks who bustled against each other on either side. There were no vehicles or moving walkways on the Officer’s Walk. High Officers carried themselves. There was strength in walking—or so Dennison’s father always said. The High Duke was rather fond of self-congratulatory mottoes.
    “Well?” Sennion finally asked, eyes forward.
    Dennison shrugged. “I really tried this time, if it makes any difference.”
    “If you had ‘tried,’” Sennion said flatly, “you would have won. You had superior ships, superior men, and superior training.”
    Dennison didn’t bother trying to argue with Sennion. He had given up on that particular waste of sanity years ago.
    “The High Emperor assumed that you simply needed practical experience,” Sennion said, almost to himself. “He thought that simulations and school games weren’t realistic enough to engage you.”
    “Even emperors can be wrong, father,” Dennison said.
    Sennion didn’t even favor him with a glare.
    Here it comes,
Dennison thought.
He’s finally going to admit it. He’s finally going to let me go.
Dennison