by Gav Thorpe
Vangorich was about to reply, but held his tongue. Could he really fall on his own sword to protect the greater stability of the Imperium? Was he that dedicated? More importantly, did these mysterious inquisitors believe that he would, and so risk everything on the presumption?
‘I see that you begin to understand the gravity of our situation.’ Wienand watched him intently as she stepped closer, dropping her voice. ‘We must indulge in a brief period of mutual preservation. That is why I have come here, to your inner sanctuary. I declare amnesty. You will have my full cooperation if you promise me yours.’
There was no way Vangorich could take her at her word, but conversely his own promise would be equally meaningless, so why did she ask for it? Was she really that scared of what the Inquisition, or at least parts of it, intended to do?
‘All right, an amnesty for the moment. Better that we exert ourselves to the frustration of Lansung’s ambitions than expend energy circling each other without effect. What did you have in mind?’
Wienand laid a hand on Vangorich’s shoulder as she stepped even closer.
‘Your aim is good, Grand Master. If we can force Lansung out into the fleet there is a chance that we can repair some of the damage he has done in the Senatorum in his absence. We might even get very lucky and he’ll be blasted by the orks. However, simple argument is not going to be enough. Events, my dear Drakan, will have to conspire to force the admiral to move his fat hindquarters onto the bridge of a starship.’
‘What events?’
‘That is what I am here to discuss…’
Five
Lepidus Prime – orbital
‘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. Pric
e 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.’
Acharya’s cheeks reddened and his lips trembled with anger as he glared at Price.
‘Of course,’ Price continued, with some bitterness, ‘I was too busy baby-sitting convoys and running supplies to half-forgotten outposts, wasn’t I?’
With a snarl, Admiral Acharya turned sharply and stalked away, tossing his glass carelessly aside, the expensive liquor splashing on the deck. Brusech sighed and shook his head.
‘Come on, captain,’ said Price, turning in the opposite direction.
Kulik stepped to follow but was stopped by Brusech’s hand on his arm. The huge man glanced left then right and then leaned down to speak softly in Kulik’s ear.
‘A word of warning, Rafal. Admiral Acharya has sent orders to the coreward fleet to make translation. He’s going to lead a relief force to Port Sanctus.’
‘Sanctus? You mean the orks haven’t overrun the shipyards there yet?’
‘Latest reports are that the docks and orbital platforms are still holding out. If we can break the blockade, the Sanctus sector fleet will be added to our strength.’
‘So why haven’t I received these orders yet?’
‘Price,’ said Brusech, looking over Kulik’s shoulder at the receding figure of the admiral. ‘Acharya wants to leave behind the rimward fleet, make it look like Price was sat on his arse twiddling his thumbs while the coreward flotillas earn the glory.’
‘And how am I to know that this isn’t some ploy of Acharya’s to get Price to break ranks and head off on his own, earning him further scorn from the Lord High Admiral? If the admiral goes against orders again, Lansung’s all but promised to have him hung for mutiny.’
‘Let’s not play this game, Rafal,’ said Brusech. He straightened up and laid an arm across Kulik’s shoulders. He smiled at the other officers milling around them and kept his voice quiet. ‘You and me, we’ve got to keep the admirals focused, right? Believe me, I have no desire to jump into Port Sanctus with half the available ships. We don’t know how strong the orks really are, but I’d rather have every gun I can and see some go unfired than go into that fight without everything we’ve got. Trust me, Rafal, there’s no good to come of this if we don’t all go.’
‘And I assume you’ve said as much to Acharya? Cheap jibes aside, it really isn’t like him to show this kind of independence. Has he received word from the Lord High Admiral?’
‘No orders from Terra. I’d have seen them. I tried convincing Acharya not to go this way, but he won’t listen.’ Brusech shrugged, setting the tassels of his epaulettes swaying like clock pendulums. ‘Seems he’s taking advice from some young commodore, name of Sartinus. I don’t know this Sartinus but he’s got connections back on Terra and now he’s got the admiral’s ear too. Acharya’s claiming the plan is his own, of course, but I smell Sartinus all over it. Don’t ask me why some commodore fresh out of the Sol fleet is so eager to get us to attack Port Sanctus.’
‘That’s all well above my station, I’m sure,’ said Kulik. He offered his hand to Brusech. ‘Thank you for the alert.’
‘Just get Price to come along,’ said the other flag-captain, shaking Kulik’s hand. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
Brusech nodded and walked away, long strides taking him after Admiral Acharya. Saul fell in beside Kulik as the captain headed off after his superior.
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked the lieutenant.
‘Brusech seems to be on the level,’ said Shaffenbeck. ‘Word around the fleet is that he’s the sort of captain you want in a crunch. Dependable, straightforward, honest. Come to think of it, I’ve no idea what Acharya sees in him.’
‘Less of that, lieutenant,’ Kulik replied. ‘If the admirals want to use us in their game, that’s fine, but let’s not choose sides.’
‘I think the sides have already chosen us, sir,’ Saul replied stiffly. ‘Admiral Price is using the Colossus as flagship and Acharya wants nothing to do with the rimward fleet. I would say I know whose hand is feeding me.’
‘That might be true, but Price isn’t blameless. Like you say, he’s decided to start playing this game too.’
‘So are you going to tell him what Brusech said?’
‘Certainly. It’s going to be no secret when Acharya’s ships leave their berths, so I’d rather not have it look like I don’t know what’s happening. I should have realised something was amiss when I received the invitation to this… gathering. Most of the men here are Acharya’s. A final send-off, no doubt.’
Price had been waylaid by the intervention of various junior officers looking for favour, or simply to meet one of their heroes – Price’s reputation as a maverick had earned him some admirers amongst a certain type of officer. He was about to step into the corridor that joined the cleared landing bay with the neighbouring flight deck when Kulik caught up with him.
‘Took your time,’ said the admiral, clearly in a surly mood after his encounter with Acharya. What had probably started out as a bit of light-hearted goading in Price’s mind had turned personal and sour very swiftly. ‘What did that enormous oaf want with you?’
‘Sir,’ said Kulik, with just enough admonition in his voice that the single word had become a catch-all reproach. It was a trick he had learned from Shaffenbeck.
Price looked at him sharply, mouth curling with displeasure at the captain’s tone.
‘Captain Brusech is a capable officer, and we are fortunate that he is around to temper Admiral Acharya’s excesses.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ said Price, a little petulantly. ‘Anyway, what were you two conspiring about?’
Kulik related the conversation almost verbatim, while they traversed the linking corridor and entered the next flight bay. Cutters, shuttles and lighters from dozens of ships were packed into lines on either side of the exit strip. Admiral Price’s was close at hand, as befitted his rank.
‘We’ll take the Colossus’ cutter, mine can head back to the Indefatigable,’ announced Price, absorbing the news from Kulik. The air crew that had been fussing around the admiral’s shuttle slunk back into the gloom between the bulky craft.
They walked in silence across the deck, heading for Kulik’s lighter, which had been parked somewhat further away from the main deck than was polite for an officer of his rank. Just as with the ship’s berth, Admiral Acharya was displaying his disdain.
‘
We won’t go, of course,’ said Price as they reached the Colossus’ shuttle. One of the junior lieutenants, Cabriot, oversaw the deck crew moving the boarding steps into place. Kulik said nothing as they ascended to the craft, preferring not to say anything in front of the lower ranks.
‘I think that would be unwise,’ said Kulik when the door to the captain’s cabin had been sealed, leaving the captain, admiral and lieutenant to speak without being heard. ‘That’s what Acharya wants you to do. If you don’t go and the relief attack fails, he can blame you for not supporting his fleet.’
‘But if I do go, we’ll probably win and that smug bastard will take all of the credit for the action,’ replied Price. ‘His decision; let him live by it or die by it.’
‘And the men that serve in his fleet? Is it their decision?’
‘They knew the risks when they joined up,’ Price said quickly. ‘We don’t get to choose where the enemy are, nor where we might be required to lay down our lives.’
Kulik considered this for a moment, appalled by the sentiment. Price must have read something in his expression.
‘What? You look like you’ve just found out your favourite port doxy has the under-pox.’
‘Forgive any forwardness, but this isn’t like you, admiral. That’s the sort of thing I’d expect to hear from the likes of Acharya. You never struck me as a commander who sees his men as expendable. This rivalry with Acharya, it’s changing you into something I don’t think you intend. If we let Acharya charge off with just his fleet more men will die. Most of those ships will not come back, and you know that’s true.’
Price said nothing for a little while, but sat staring at the decking. When he did speak, he was quiet, showing the humility that had earned Kulik’s respect ten years earlier when they had first met.
‘Sorry, Rafal.’ He looked the captain in the eye and moved his gaze to Shaffenbeck. ‘Your captain can be quite the moraliser, can’t he? He has a keen insight at times.’
