‘That is what I am here to discuss…’
Five
‘Remind my steward to use less starch in future,’ said Kulik, fidgeting with the stiff collar of his shirt.
‘I shall pass on the message,’ said Shaffenbeck, in an absent-minded way that conveyed that he would do no such thing because Kulik was never happy with the starch of his collars. Throughout their time together the captain’s shirts had always been understarched or overstarched depending on mood, as though there were some infinitesimally small sweet spot that he desired that no mortal could ever attain.
‘And remind me never to accept an invitation to one of these gatherings,’ Kulik continued. He moved his agitation to the heavy brocaded cuffs of his coat. Never comfortable in full dress uniform, the captain was sweltering, positive that rivulets of sweat were coursing down his face.
Turbine-like fans in the launch bay’s ceiling spun lazily, doing little to disperse the body heat of the hundred-or-so assembled officers who had come aboard the Defiant Monarch at Admiral Acharya’s ‘request’. Kulik knew as well as every other commodore, captain and commander present that such requests were not ignored without good reason. As well as the visiting ship commanders, each with their seconds and some with other hangers-on, there were nearly two dozen lesser officers from the Defiant Monarch and the same number again of petty officers marshalling the small army of attendants serving drinks and food.
‘Wine or water?’ asked Shaffenbeck, accosting a passing steward.
‘Both,’ growled Kulik. A moment later a fluted glass of bubbling white wine was in his right hand. The captain swiftly downed the contents and the empty glass was exchanged for a stein of almost clear water. Surprised, Kulik sniffed the contents. It didn’t smell of anything. He cocked an eye at Shaffenbeck. ‘Non-reclaimed hydrates? The admiral really is trying to impress us.’
‘Tenders were moving about thirty thousand litres of the stuff from Lepidus this past week,’ said Shaffenbeck. Kulik knew he could rely on the lieutenant to be abreast of everything going on around the fleet. It was the main reason he overlooked his second-in-command’s abuse of the command comms channel, which by regulations was for the ship’s captain only.
‘And what of the admiral himself?’
Saul nodded to the left. Kulik turned and saw Acharya standing in a gaggle of attentive captains and commanders, his flag-captain Brusech like a bodyguard beside him. Acharya was an unimposing man, of average height and features. His one distinguishing mark was a scar running from his right ear to his lip, a ragged line of red against almost white skin. In contrast Brusech was a giant of a man, with a black bushy beard streaked with grey, his head covered in an unruly mop of the same. Instinctively Kulik ran a hand across his scalp, checking his hair was smoothed down.
‘Stories say that the scar was suffered in combat at the hands of pirates around the Perithian Nebulae,’ Shaffenbeck said.
‘And less favourable tales claim Acharya fell down a flight of stairs whilst drunk,’ countered Kulik. Despite his dislike of Acharya’s grandstanding and obvious politicking, Kulik was inclined to favour the former explanation. ‘I served with Acharya briefly on board the Lord of Hosts, you know?’
‘I did not realise. You must have only been an ensign?’
‘Not quite. I was twelfth lieutenant. Acharya was second. He was competent, fair. Nothing spectacular but nothing terrible, either. I suspect he would have made flag rank eventually, even without licking the boots of the Lord High Admiral. Was very fond of quoting Eskenstein’s Navis Tacticus Superium every few minutes. I think he must have memorised it, but never really learnt it.’
‘Ah, and here comes the other godly being,’ said Shaffenbeck, stepping back slightly so that Kulik could see past him.
‘Hush your blasphemy,’ Kulik replied automatically.
The lieutenant’s retreat revealed the crowd parting for a short but handsome man, officers peeling aside like waves at the prow of a seagoing ship. The new arrival was dressed in stark black — a rarity amongst the usual dark blue that signified a period of officer service in the prestigious Sol fleet — and wore a peaked cap that cast a deep shadow over his face from the stark lighting strips overhead.
The man nodded and smiled in response to greetings from those around him, his head moving left and right constantly as if seeking out something. His search was successful as he spied Kulik and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Admiral Price,’ said the captain with a nod and a slight bow.
‘Rafal. Good to see you,’ said Kulik’s immediate superior, Admiral of the Rimward Flotilla. Price tucked his cap under his arm, revealing slightly ruffled shoulder-length blond hair, and suddenly he seemed in his late thirties rather than early fifties. He grinned, wiping away another ten years with the boyish expression. Kulik could well understand the rumours that Price embodied the Naval tradition of having a girl — several girls — at every station he visited.
‘I was not expecting you, sir,’ said Kulik. He glanced towards Acharya, who had noticed the appearance of his rival and was making his way through the throng in their direction.
‘My invitation must have been lost in the warp somehow,’ Price said with a wink. ‘I’m sure Solar Baron Crziel Acharya, Admiral of the Fleet, fully intended for me to attend.’
Kulik rubbed his chin thoughtfully and turned as Acharya approached.
‘Dominius, I thought you would be too busy with berthing orders and requisitions mandates,’ said Acharya. His voice was slightly higher pitched than most men’s, though it made up in volume what it lacked in gravitas. ‘After all, I thought you loved that sort of thing. If I had known you would prise yourself away from your desk and forms I would have sent a cutter for you.’
‘Such consideration would have been unnecessary, Admiral Acharya,’ Price replied evenly, ignoring the insult. ‘As it is, my lighter will be taking me back to Colossus where I shall raise my flag.’
Kulik looked sharply at Price.
‘Sorry, Rafal, here are your orders,’ Price continued, slipping a small envelope from the pocket of his coat. He handed it to Kulik and then returned his attention to Acharya. ‘Any word for the fleet from the Lord High Admiral yet?’
Acharya shook his head slowly. There was the brief exchange of a glance between the admiral and his flag-captain. Price noticed it too.
‘I see that perhaps you are finally going to show some initiative,’ said Price.
‘The chain of command exists for a reason,’ said Acharya. ‘It would be anarchy if we all started interpreting orders to our own satisfaction. That is, as you well know, the sort of thing that would get a man relegated to a life of convoy baby-sitting and patrols to half-remembered star forts on the segmentum rim.’
Price’s smile faded. He was about to speak but stopped himself, instead relieving a passing steward of a small glass of some amber-coloured liquor. He sniffed the contents of the tumbler and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Neoscotian whisky? The real thing?’ There was genuine appreciation, perhaps even awe, in Price’s voice and expression. He took a sip. ‘By the Emperor, it really is!’
‘A century old, and more,’ Acharya said smugly, taking a glass of the same from the steward, who had stopped at Kulik’s elbow. He held the drink up to the light and turned it to and fro, gold refracting onto the pale flesh of his hand. ‘Thirty thousand light years from home, and still as pure as the sunlight that fell on the grain that made it.’
‘If only I had known.’ Price paused to gulp down the remaining contents of his glass, eliciting a wince from Acharya, who must have paid a small fortune just for one bottle of the precious alcohol. Price’s eyes widened a little and he gave a slight shudder of pleasure. ‘If only I had known that influence could bring such rewards, I would have started kissing Admiral Lansung’s arse years ago.’