Sands of the Solar Empire (The Belmont Saga)

by Ren Garcia

  Stenstrom stopped eating. “Dav, the Sisters had secretly investigated my mother and her House of Tyrol on suspicion of sorcery, black magic and demon-summoning several times in the recent past prior to her death. And, she was under Wirguild for nearly ninety years prior to that.”

  “Yes, Elders, rest her soul. Well, the Sisters, as far as I’m aware, did not issue any public edicts, condemnations, or statements on that matter regarding your mother; therefore, I wouldn’t give tongue to it on the debating floor if I were you. So, as I said, your pedigree is confirmed. Again, anything other than Calvert and the like and you’re fine. Next, the Admirals look at familiar standing.”

  “And that is?”

  “If the Admirals are to be given any credit, they do give hard work, accomplishment and seniority its proper due. Fleet crewmen who work their way up the chain are often rewarded—look at me. I started as a junior helmsman of a barely space-worthy Webber-ship, and look where I ended up. The Admiralty appreciates such things. Now, you do not have any direct familiar standing; however, you have an abundance of indirect. Your father, Lord Stenstrom the Older, has been the captain of the Caroline for nineteen appointments—he’s a beloved Fleet captain, any Admiral would say so, and, you, as his son, inherit a good deal of that positive will automatically. That alone is enough to check off on the Admiral’s familiar standing point.”

  “I wish my father could be here today.”

  “No family members allowed, unfortunately.”

  “What about my service as a Fleet Paymaster?”

  “That, Bel, is a negative. Don’t get me wrong. A Paymaster is a well-regarded occupation. However, I can’t think of any Paymasters currently in command of a Fleet vessel, warbird or otherwise. Paymasters generally aren’t associated with the command chair. They are thought of as little men, sitting in a stuffy office somewhere, counting beans, observing transactions, and cutting checks. And, to that point, the Admiralty is going to want to know why you became a Fleet Paymaster and not an active crewman or officer.”

  Stenstrom put his fork down and smiled. “Shall I tell them why, Dav?”

  “The truth, absolutely not! The truth, if I recall correctly, involves some sort of black magic ritual, robed, oiled females, and a heated knife plunged in your heart under a blood moon. That does not need to be spoken of on the debating floor. For the love of the Elders, think up a tawdry, mundane lie and stick to it. Don’t dwell on it in your thoughts either, for the Admirals shall hear them on the floor. Make your lie and your thoughts as boring as possible so that the point will be forgotten and moved on from for lack of interest. So, discounting the Paymaster connection, your father’s status shall grant you more than enough familiar standing to make the Admiral’s list. There’s one final category that the Admirals look at with high regard.”

  “And that is?”

  “Money, Bel. The Admirals always cater to Lords and Ladies who can offer up a brick of pledged cash.”

  “I’ve got one hundred thousand Belmont sesterces to offer up, and quite a bit more in reserve.”

  “Yes,” Davage replied. “Enough said.”

  The clock began chiming steadily. Davage looked up. “It’s near time. Come, let’s get you ready.”

  Stenstrom stood up from the table and wiped his lips. Davage approached and looked him over. “Let me straighten your shirt.” He busily began fussing with his frilly white shirt and complicated buttons.

  “Now, there are a few more things before we head out. As captain of a Main Fleet Vessel, you’re going to have to keep a few rules in mind. I’ll tell you what they are, and they might sound a bit contradictory, but hear me out. One, a warbird captain, as you are about to become, never takes an order from an admiral who is not within one hundred thousand stellar miles of his position.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. One of the reasons the Fleet has been so successful over the years is because we follow the principles given to us by the Elders. And the Elders never said anything about taking orders from a far-flung Admiral on the other side of League space who has no idea what your situation is. There are a handful of fighting Admirals out there, Admiral Carfax coming closest to my mind, and in war-situations you have to listen to them. However, discounting those select situations, it’s the captain, sitting there in the heat of battle that makes the decisions and calls the shots. Waiting for an Admiral to make a decision for you will get you and your crew killed. You know the man who replaced me on the Seeker’s chair?”

  “Captain Gona of St. Paris?”

  “Yes, Captain Gona. He’s gone off, retiring. He’s going to ferment grapes and make wine at his Remnath home I hear tell, hence the Seeker’s empty chair. Good for him. I am certain there are plenty of people who love Captain Gona; unfortunately, none of them may be counted as Fleet captains.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was considered a bore, an Admiral’s man. He listened to the Admirals, took their advice, and played taxi to them. He ferried them around the League and sat at their beck and call.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Davage picked up Stenstrom’s pistols, two old-fashioned lock-style pistols with well-worn wooden stocks and handed them to him. Stenstrom slid them into either side of his green sash, the stocks jutting out.

  “It’s terrible,” Davage said continuing. “Captain Gona took a proud warbird like the Seeker, my Seeker, and turned her into a lowly carrier pigeon, hauling freight and serving as Admiral Pax’s personal chariot. As captain, you’re going to be seeing a lot of tags and callouts for Admirals wanting this and Admirals wanting that—do not fall for any of it. Admiral Pax is notorious for doing so. He’ll send a blunt call out: ‘I want the Seeker to pick me up and take me to Planet X over here.’ He’ll make it sound quite important. He’ll even issue threats and posts warnings on what would happen should the Seeker not show up. You must take steps to ignore his bravado. There are two questions you have to ask yourself when considering ferrying an Admiral: One—does the Admiral have a sufficient amount of breathable air available to him? Two—does the Admiral have a quantity of untainted food and potable water to sustain him? If the answer to both of those questions is ‘Yes,’ then let the Admiral sit on his doffed-out ass and await the arrival of a scout ship as he is supposed to. Scout ships have to follow the Admiral’s orders; you do not. You’ve got a Main Fleet warbird, and you’re sitting on it. That makes you immune to an Admiral’s orders unless he’s within one hundred thousand stellar miles of your position, and do not forget that; therefore, it is often wise to know an Admiral’s itinerary when he’s out in the League and avoid those places where he’ll be at all costs. If you let the Admiralty in, if you play nurse-maid to them too often, you are done as a warbird captain. You will belong to them. You have to stand up and be blunt and rather merciless in your rebuff.”

  Stenstrom laughed. “I see. I’ll remember that. What’s the second rule?”

  Davage picked up Stenstrom’s heavy green coat. “When in the Fleet HQ, you have to respect the Admiralty. You have to bite your tongue, play their game, and abide by their rules. Here we are in the Fleet—here we have to play nice. I sound pretty rotten towards the Admirals, and, given some of the things they do, they deserve it, but truth be told, they’ve got a hard job. For many, they are the face of the Fleet to the League. They have to maintain relations, secure monies, which is an endless task, maintain the ships, and find the best people to fill the chairs when they come open. Here, you have to give them their due.” Davage looked at Stenstrom’s coat. “This coat you wear is not playing nice. The Admirals will pick up on it and give you no peace.”

  Stenstrom put his coat on. It was a beautiful coat: dark hunter green, silver and gold embroidery, and the letters HRN standing out in silver on the collar. Stenstrom took his locket and placed it in a pocket inside the coat’s breast. “Lilly picked this coat out for me. We were in Minz when she found it. I like it,” he said. “It makes me feel close to her.”


  “I advise you wear something else. Something … less inflammatory.”

  “As you said, I have to stand up to the Admirals. I shall do so with my coat. It’s just a coat.” He put on his huge triangle hat and adjusted it.

  “Yes, just a coat. And it’ll be just a piece of rotten fruit that comes raining down on you and your HRN coat. The Admirals pay for the right to throw things down onto the debating floor. It’s a traditional way of making a fervent point—this coat will give them their monies’ worth, I fear.”

  Davage then took the black, silk mask Stenstrom was wearing and straightened it. Stenstrom’s blue eyes sparkled through the holes. Davage shook his head. “You know, the first time I saw you wearing a mask, I honestly didn’t know what to think. I recall having you clapped in irons and I thought ‘Who in Creation is this fellow?’”

  “Just something I have to endure. I promised my mother I’d never endanger myself—she tended to be a worry-wart. This mask protects me from all things she conjured at me before she died. Elders, rest her soul.”

  “She sent demons at you with the thought of keeping you safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re certain you cannot take it off, if only for a few hours?”

  “If I do, the Admirals shall get to watch me die upon their floor. Remove my mask and the charms within, and I die.”

  Davage clapped him on the shoulder. “So be it. Just be ready to be rather inconvenienced this afternoon.”

  The clock stopped, and the door opened. An adjutant stood in the doorway. “Sirs, the gallery is assembled. The Admiralty awaits.”

  Davage turned to the adjutant. “Thank you, we’re coming.”

  Side by side, they left the room and began the short walk to the Admiralty floor. Stenstrom, fully decked out, could see the red carpeting and pools of circular light ahead. He could see the elevated gallery, dark, full of indistinct movement.

  “Oh, Lt. Kilos wanted me to relay you a message, Bel,” Davage said. “I believe she said she wants you to: ‘Knock ‘em dead’. She also wanted me to give you a little love tap across the jaw for her, but I think we can dispense with that for now. She, like Syg and me, is very proud of you.”

  Stenstrom laughed.

  Davage spoke again as they walked. “You know, Bel, the Seeker’s over forty years old—that’s pretty veteran for a Main Fleet Vessel that’s seen a lot of action—most warbirds cycle into the smelter long before that, and, I must say, I put her through my fair share of hell. But, no matter what, she always came through, always found the strength to get me, and Syg, and my crew home. Lord Milos of Probert, the designer of the Seeker and a good friend of mine, has always scoffed at the notion that these huge birds, these great ships he designed, have a soul, that we in the Fleet Captaincy are too sentimental assigning a great machine with feelings and a soul. Lord Probert is wrong, Bel; the Seeker has a soul and a heart to match. Captain Gona took away much of the honor she’d acquired, took away part of her soul. Give it back to her, Bel—she deserves it. Make her into a great warbird again, and she’ll never let you down.”

  * * * * *

  As Davage had predicted, the Admiralty floor rang out with thought. Voices filled Stenstrom’s head, turning the whole place into a surreal, noisy dream.

  I’m hungry.

  Did you see that beautiful woman in the lobby?

  Do my leggings make me look fat?

  Who’s this fellow we’re looking at today?

  Down on the red carpet in a pool of sterile light, he sat in the ornate chair as the Appointment began. Lord Davage stood and made his opening remarks.

  That’s Captain Davage down there. Oh, look at him .

  Did he say Paymaster, the Appointee is a Paymaster?

  He’s a Paymaster.

  Paymaster?

  Who’s his mother, again?

  Oh, he’s a handsome fellow, do you see?

  What’s he wearing? Is that a mask, or a trick of the light?

  Stenstrom watched Davage as he easily commanded the floor. His lovely Fleet uniform, his collar speckled with gold stars and ivy, his blue Vith hair tied in a bow as they did it in the north, his heavy CARG at his side. Stenstrom didn’t have the Sight like Davage did. Under the lights high overhead, he couldn’t see much in the crowd. He just knew there were a lot of people up there, rustling around, raining their thoughts down on him.

  Lord Davage disarmed the Admirals to a large extent. He spoke rather eloquently, describing Lord Stenstrom’s upbringing and pedigree in the House of Belmont-South Tyrol, his mother’s status as a lady of Tyrol, and, most importantly, his father’s legendary status as captain of the Caroline, for over nineteen appointments. That was a bedrock list of endorsements.

  I played golf with Captain Stenstrom last week. .or did I? Who was that?

  Are Tyrols of Esther or Barrow stock?

  He’s wearing mask, look there. I’m going to pay for a bushel of fruit. I’m going to hit him in the face. Miss, Miss—two bushels here, cabbage if possible. Ah!

  The Admirals muttered to themselves—very impressive. Lord Davage spoke well, as always, and brought up a number of excellent points.

  And then there was money, which always impressed the Admiralty. Lords and Ladies with ready cash were always looked upon with regard. The Fleet, mighty and graceful, was fueled primarily by privately donated monies. New ships, new research, new appointments, were all paid for privately, and the lord or lady who could offer up a healthy sum was always a welcome sight. Again, the Admiralty was impressed and de-fanged.

  He’s got how much??

  Belmont sesterces? How do those exchange into Grenville solaris? Wow!

  We can renovate the eastern Fleet wing with that.

  With Davage having thoroughly greased the Admirals, the remaining part of the Appointment should be a breeze, what with pedigree, familial connections, a stately mother, a legendary father and tons of ready cash, Lord Stenstrom should be an easy shoe-in.

  But then, Lord Davage had to sit down, and Lord Stenstrom himself stood and took the floor to be interviewed. That’s when the fireworks began.

  Lord Stenstrom was a commandingly tall figure. He towered over the tall Lord Blanchefort. He certainly looked the part.

  Look how tall.

  He’s a bean pole.

  Is that a uniform he’s wearing? Paymasters aren’t supposed to wear uniforms.

  From somewhere in the gallery, an Admiral spoke, or did he?

  “Lord Belmont,” came the voice. “How long have you been a Fleet Paymaster?”

  Stenstrom cleared his throat. “Three years, good sir. I was trained in Bern.”

  “And where did you receive your tenure for admission into the IBBAANA Brotherhood?”

  Stenstrom considered his response. “Calvert.”

  “Calvert, I see. And, aboard what ships did you serve?”

  “The Sandwich, sir, a frigate, followed by the New Faith.”

  The gallery rustled.

  “And, you have not been involved, as a crewman or an officer, in either the Stellar Fleet or Marines?”

  “No, great sir.”

  But, he’s wearing a uniform.

  It’s a lovely uniform.

  “Lord Belmont,” the Admiral continued, “you stand before us wishing to assume the captain’s chair of a Main Fleet Vessel, a warbird, yet you have created a career for yourself as a Paymaster. We wish to know why this is the case.”

  Tell a tawdry lie, Davage had said. Stenstrom thought a bit of truth would be better.

  “My late mother, fearing for my father’s safety through his years of service in the Fleet, wished me to practice a more sedate career. I became a Paymaster. I honored her request.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes sir. One should honor their mother.”

  The thoughts rolled in.

  I hate my mother.

  Perhaps he’s a grand Nancy-Boy.

  Oh stop it—he appears to be a good boy.


  “A fine sentiment. And, of course, Paymasters are an honored addition to our spaceward ships. But, what good can cash-shucking, and coin rumbling do you in asserting your merits as a ship’s captain?”

  “I commanded the New Faith for a time during the Kestral Affair, with glowing after commentary from Captain Davage.”

  Stenstrom stepped forward—the HRN on his collar glinted in the light.

  Hold up—what is that?

  HRN??

  What is `that’ doing on the Admiralty floor?

  The gallery was beginning to froth. “Good Lord Belmont, what, pray, are you wearing?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your coat? Where did you get that coat?”

  Stenstrom looked at his sleeves. “I purchased it on the open market. I fail to see what relevance my coat his in this matter.”

  “That coat, sir, is the costume of the Hoban Royal Navy. Perhaps you’ve heard of them.”

  Miss, I’ll have a bushel here. Fruit, make it rotten!

  He’s wearing a Hoban Royal Navy coat?

  Fruit! Give me fruit to throw!!

  Stenstrom was starting to feel he should have listened to Davage. “I have heard of them, after a fashion. I am not overly versed in their exploits. I simply liked the coat, so I bought it.”

  The Admiral spoke again. “Allow me to fill you in, sir. The Hoban Royal Navy was a far-flung assemblage of drunken yachtsmen who thought to take it upon themselves to post the defense of Hoban, in hopes of polishing their prestige and supplanting the Fleet in the region. That coat you’re wearing is one of many such costumes they chose to wear. A question, sir, know you the rank of the coat you’re wearing?”

  “I’m afraid I do not. Again, I am not well-versed in the organization.”

  “Grand Plantain, sir. You are wearing the coat of a Grand Plantain—the ranks of the Hoban Royal Navy were designated in fruits. Yet another ‘good idea’ those fellows had.”

  Grand Plantain?

  He’s a big banana, haha!

  Look at the banana!

  I am going to cast a fruit at him, to make him feel at home. Ya!