Free Alternate Generals by Roland Green, Harry Turtledove, Martin H. Greenberg

were not. Warrior gone with all hands. Defence sunk, and only 117 of her crew recovered. Six of eight destroyers . . . Scorpion and Racoon were still afloat, but of the others only a very few hands had survived. Only 83 of the Germans, Admiral Souchon not among them. Black Prince and Duke of Edinburgh were both in need of major repairs, unable to do more than limp back to Malta. Admiral Milne had already expressed his displeasure with the loss of so many ships and men, and, as he had put it, "reckless disregard of his duty to his superior." He foresaw that Milne would take credit for the success, and condemn the method by which it had been achieved. Like Codrington at Navarino, he would be censured for having exceeded his orders, while the Admiralty shed no tears over the vanquished enemy. Well, they would have retired a one-legged admiral anyway.

    A tap at his door introduced yet another problem.

    "Sir." Wray stood before him like a small boy before a headmaster.

    "Captain Wray," Cradock said mildly.

    "I was . . . wrong, sir."

    "It happens to all of us," Cradock said. "I've been wrong many times."

    "But—"

    But he wanted to know what Cradock would say about him, in his official reports.

    "Captain Wray, I never finished telling you the story of that hunter," he said. A long pause; Wray looked haggard, a What now? expression. "I sold him," Cradock said. "To a man who wanted a good hack." Wray seemed to shrink within his uniform. "Have some tea," Cradock offered, seeing that the message had been received.

    "Nothing can change the nature born in its blood," he said, quoting a Greek poet, most apt for this ocean. "Neither cunning fox, nor loud lion." Nor coward, though he would not say that. He could take no pleasure in Wray's humiliation, but in the Navy there were no excuses. That was the great tradition.

     

And To The Republic For Which It Stands
Brad Linaweaver
 
"He that once enters at a tyrant's door
Becomes a slave, though he were free before."

    —Sophocles

    Even Caesar dreams. There is no surprise in this. Perhaps the surprise is that ordinary people dream, or can dream at all—hoping for a better life that never comes. Only nightmares tell the truth.

    Caesar's dreams are usually rehearsals. The general, the politician, must always plan, even when consciousness sneaks away like a harlot in the dark. Alone with his visions, he sees the land and sea and people as the gods must see them. Early in life he learned that free will exists, but only for leaders. Once a choice is made, free will becomes a phantom as inexorable law grinds out its verdict. What is true in the blood-drenched mud of the battlefield is true for the white marble sarcophagus of the Roman senate.

    He wakes in the hot night and turns in bed to see his wife still asleep. Calphurnia is not as beautiful as his first two wives but he loves her more. Her breasts are perfect, smooth hills rising and falling like legions marching over countless landscapes of countless campaigns. He touches them, touches her, and feels a force less terrifying than love. Her sigh reassures him that in her arms, he is accepted; he is at peace.

    Love demands more—as does his love for Rome. Love demands the spilling of blood, the conquest of peoples, even the agony of civil war. Love requires constant proof of devotion.

    He has a sour taste in his mouth that can only be removed by wine. He can't sleep anyway so he carefully leaves the bed. No need to wake his wife if the stroking of her breasts failed to rouse her. He needs to walk, to think. This night of March the fourteenth there is much to think about.

    When he gets in this sort of mood he envies his soldiers. Their souls are pure because their worries are, if not small, at least manageable—getting laid, getting drunk, not being a coward. Whether the battle is won or lost, they are judged by how they behaved as men. Only men. They are not judged by the standards of a god.

    He pours himself good,