Firstborn

didn’t want a failed warrior as a son.
    * * *
    “Of course there will still be a need for commanders,” Kern scoffed as a servant ladled soup into his bowl. “What makes you think otherwise?”
    “The Reunification War is nearly over,” Dennison said.
    Kern’s dining chamber was a compact version of one in an imperial mansion back on the Point, complete with marble columns and tapestries. The High Admiral’s rank forbade his fraternizing with his other Sub-Commanders, but Dennison’s higher birth and relation to Varion Crestmar made him an exception. Kern seemed able to relax and dine with Dennison—as if he didn’t see him as an underling, but rather as a young family member come to visit.
    Kern snorted at Dennison’s logic. “There will be insurrections for some time yet, Dennison,” he said, attacking his soup. Kern lived like an imperial nobleman, but he was far less reserved than most. Perhaps that was why Dennison got along with him.
    “Yes, but Varion and his officers will be free to handle them,” Dennison said, ignoring his own soup.
    “All men age, and new blood needs to replace them,” Kern said.
    “The empire doesn’t need me, Kern,” Dennison said. “It
never
has. Only my father’s stubbornness keeps me here.”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Kern said. “Either way, I have my orders. How is your training coming?”
    Dennison shrugged. “I fought the Marcus Seven battle four more times today and lost twice. Still can’t win it consistently.”
    “Marcus Seven,” Kern said with a frown. “You’re taking your time. At this rate, it’ll take you another year to get through Varion’s archive.”
    “At least I’m not complaining any more.”
    “No,” Kern agreed. “You aren’t. In fact, you actually seem to be enjoying yourself.”
    Dennison took a sip. “Perhaps so. My brother makes for an interesting subject.”
    “When you first came on board, I could tell you hated him.”
    Dennison rested his spoon back in his bowl. “I suppose I did,” he finally said. “At the Academy, I was never given a chance to succeed—the other boys challenged me to battles before I was ready, each one wanting the prestige of defeating Varion’s brother. I became a loser before I could learn otherwise. I didn’t choose my path—Varion chose it for me. “But, now . . .” Dennison trailed off, then he looked Kern in the eye. “Could any man really hate him? How can you hate someone who’s perfect?”
    Kern seemed troubled. Finally, he turned back to his meal. “At any rate, you should soon have a chance to meet him.”
    Dennison looked up, surprised.
    Kern took a sip of soup. “The Reaches are nearly subdued. In two months, Varion will meet with an Imperial Emissary on Kress, where they will hold a ceremony welcoming him back to civilization. You may attend, if you wish.”
    Dennison smiled broadly. “I do,” he decided. “I do indeed.”
    * * *
    Dennison was surprised by how bright the colors were. Kress was a sparsely inhabited world near the border of the Reaches. Its weather was obviously unregulated, for the wind blew strongly against Dennison’s face as he stood in the speeder’s door.
    Dennison stepped onto the soft ground, sneezing and raising a hand against the bright sunlight. The vibrant green grass came up to his knees. What kind of world was this to greet a returning hero? A pavilion had been erected a short distance away, and Dennison made his way there. Here, at least, a local weather regulator had been set up, and the wind slowed as he entered the invisible confines of its influence. There, he unexpectedly found his father standing with a delegation of high-ranking ambassadors and military men. Sennion’s perfect white uniform was a pristine contrast to the wild lands around him.
    A small pavilion on a rural world? Why not meet Varion with the adoring crowds he deserves?
    Dennison could see a drop-ship descending through the wild air. He stepped up beside his father. Dennison hadn’t seen him in over six months, but Sennion barely nodded in acknowledgement. The drop-ship fell like flare. It plummeted, slowing only when it neared the ground, its plasma jets carelessly vaporizing the grass. The weather-sphere kept the wind of its landing from unsettling the pavilion’s dignified occupants. Dennison edged a bit closer to the front, waiting eagerly as the drop-ship doorway opened.
    He had seen pictures of Varion. They didn’t do him justice.