Free Commodore by Phil Geusz

preparations to make as well, and at first I found myself totally at a loss as to how to handle them. Now that I knew Sir Jason was a spy, it was reasonable to assume that he might wish to somehow communicate with us. But by what means? Because of the impromptu nature of it all, we had no prearranged signals, methods, or codes. Nor could I even so much as hint to anyone except Nestor that there was even the possibility of a message being sent to begin with! In the end I had mostly to trust Sir Jason's own common sense—after all, he'd been at this sort of thing for far longer than I had. Still, I took some basic precautions. Among them, I troubled myself to look up Midshipman O'Toole, the Rabbit-wrangler in charge of Javelin 's various stewards and galleys. "Mr. O'Toole," I greeted him in my cabin after returning his nervous salute. Because I'd dumped so many of my own duties upon Josiah I hadn't spent nearly enough time with my officers, and the boy was clearly terrified at the sudden, unexplained summons. "You've done nothing wrong. Relax, son."
    He smiled slightly, but didn't unbend at all. "Thank you, sir."
    I smiled back. "You had no way of knowing this," I began. "But the wardroom dishwasher makes a most annoying sound. Or at least it does to a Rabbit's ears. Up until now I haven't said anything. But we have the big dinner with the Imperials coming up, you see."
    His brow puckered in confusion. "Yes, sir?"
    I smiled again. "It's loud and piercing. And I'll need to be at my sharpest. So, no one is to wash so much as a single dish that night until I grant permission. Is this understood?"
    He blinked. "Sir?"
    "Furthermore," I continued, rising from my chair and pacing back and forth, "Well… Let's take advantage of this situation and turn it into an opportunity. No one is to launder any table linens, pre-soak a single piece of flatware… I'm rated as a steward's mate, you know. My qualification is still current, or at least it was the last time I checked. I think this'd be a good time for me to look into how these matters are handled aboard Javelin , don't you? And maybe even see if I still have the touch. So, not a single glass or dish is to be washed, no linens laundered… Nothing is to be cleaned up any more than is absolutely unavoidable without my personal order. New dishes are to be brought out, but the old ones will simply be set aside unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?"
    Poor Mr. O'Toole's jaw dropped. He must've thought I was going mad—after all, my time was so valuable these days that more often than not I was delegating my inspections of Javelin 's turrets and engine room to various subordinates. And suddenly I wanted to play steward-bunny? "Y-y-y… Aye-aye, sir!"
    I nodded and stared deep into his eyes. "Not a single dish!" I warned. "And for that matter… Don't scrape the plates, either. I want to personally oversee the entire cleanup process, from start to finish. Got it?"
    "Yes, sir!" he repeated, eyes bugging.
    "Good," I replied, my smile renewed. "This is a very important matter to me, son. I'd advise you to make sure your Rabbits are one-hundred percent clear on what they're to do, and then personally make certain they do it."
     

13
    It was a lot more pleasant to play host than to be a guest, I decided as the Imperials stepped through the airlock to receive their salute. Or at least it was more pleasant when one was at war. Indeed, it was simply amazing how much easier it was to relax and have a good time when one didn't continually fear capture, possible torture, and then death at any given moment.
    "Tench-hut!" Heinrich bawled; he'd insisted on personally giving the command, being the senior marine in the task force. As one a hundred and fifty pairs of heels clicked together. Or almost as one, I couldn't help but note. There was a bit of "fuzz" to the sound, meaning that the execution was slightly less than perfect. I wanted to scowl, but held my face impassive regardless. So the