Ричард Бейкер - Valiant Dust

“If I am not mistaken, your Ilium-class cruisers influenced the design of our own class,” the Dremish officer said. “Our navy was almost nonexistent two generations ago, so our shipbuilders made a habit of basing their work on the most successful foreign designs. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say.”

Sikander inclined his head, and decided to change the subject. “Which of the Empire’s systems do you call home, Ms. Aldrich?”

“I am from Gotland. Are you familiar with it?”

“Not much more than the name, I fear. It’s an older system, isn’t it?”

“The second-oldest in the Empire,” Aldrich said. “It’s renowned for its excellent university, and its rings. Gotland is one of the few terrestrial planets with visible rings, although one really can’t see them in the middle of the day. Where are you from, Mr. North?”

“Kashmir. I grew up on the planet of Jaipur.”

“Kashmir, really? I was not aware that Kashmiris served in the Commonwealth officer corps.”

“There aren’t many of us.” Sikander indicated the emerald-green sash on his dress uniform. “That’s why my insignia is a little different from everyone else’s. I hold a Kashmiri rank as well as an Aquilan one.”

“Do you—” Oberleutnant Aldrich started to ask, but she was interrupted by Captain Harper, who raised his voice for attention.

“Rather than standing about in the hangar bay, might I suggest that we repair to the wardroom?” Panther ’s captain said to the officers mingling on the deck. “Our mess stewards have quite a dinner planned, and we shouldn’t keep them waiting. This way, if you please.” With Captain Markham beside him, he led the way to a passageway heading forward from the hangar bay.

“We’ll continue the conversation later,” Aldrich promised Sikander. They fell in with the rest of the group, following the two captains.

The internal passageways of SMS Panther did not look very different from those of Hector, Sikander decided. The paint was a different color—a bright eggshell white, as opposed to the slightly darker taupe that filled the passages and compartments of Aquilan warships. Markings on hatches and fittings were in Nebeldeutsch, just similar enough to the Anglic spoken in Aquila that many words were the same, only spelled a little differently. Enlisted men in parade-dress uniforms stood at intersecting corridors, helping to mark the path to the wardroom and perhaps discourage any of Hector ’s officers from wandering off to examine sensitive areas of the ship.

The Aquilans found the Dremish wardroom appointed with white linen tablecloths and formal place settings. Sikander noted that small placards showed each officer’s place at the table; Captain Markham must have provided a list of guests ahead of time. When he took his seat, he found himself between Owen Kalb and Otto Bleindel; Helena Aldrich sat across from him. Harper, Markham, Braun, and Randall were seated around the head of the table; as the third-ranking Aquilan present, Sikander was closer to the head than the foot. No doubt the Dremish checked everyone’s date of rank to make sure they arranged the table correctly, he reflected. The Dremish navy had a reputation for punctiliousness, although Sikander hadn’t spent enough time around Imperial officers to see if it was deserved or not.

“Drink, sir?” a mess steward asked him as he settled in his place.

Sikander glanced over at the two captains. Two more stewards poured wine from elegant-looking decanters for both of them; in case of doubt, it was always good practice to follow your captain’s lead. “What is the white?” he asked.

“Gray Mountain Viognier ’96, sir.”

He’d never heard of the vintage, but if it was six years old and Captain Harper was serving it to impress, it was probably good. “Excellent,” he told the steward.

“Mr. North, correct?” the Dremish civilian said as Sikander sampled his viognier—a dry and crisp vintage, quite good. “I hear that you’ve met the sultan. Tell me, what do you think of him?”

Sikander glanced over, remembering the introductions. Otto Bleindel, he recalled. “We only exchanged a few words, Mr. Bleindel. He seemed like a man with a gentle disposition, although I think Captain Markham could tell you a thing or two about his zeal for gardening.”

“I’ve heard a few stories to that effect, too.” Bleindel sipped at a glass of ice water. “In ordinary times I would think the Gadirans lucky to be in the hands of a ruler whose chief concern was his own palace grounds. Regrettably, there are times when rulers cannot afford to be gardeners. In Gadira, this might be one of those times.”

Major Kalb gave a sour laugh from Sikander’s other side. “The only reason the sultan holds on to his throne is because Montréal lavishes arms, military advisors, and economic aid on his regime. Without the Republic’s support, Rashid would be deposed within a day.”

“Perhaps, but his policies have succeeded in bringing quite a bit of offworld investment to Gadira,” Sikander pointed out. “I wonder if Sultan Rashid is cleverer than we all think he is. I am fairly certain that his niece is, anyway.”

“Ah, you have met the amira, then?”

“Yes, I have. I received the distinct impression that she pays attention to a lot of things her uncle doesn’t have time for.”

“I thought so, too,” Bleindel said. “In fact, the first time I met her, she was climbing on a grav tank and interrogating a Montréalais major about the proper maintenance and training procedures.”

“As they say, amateurs study tactics, and rank amateurs study strategy,” Oberleutnant Aldrich observed. “Professionals study logistics.”

Sikander laughed, and sipped his wine. “That saying has been around forever.”

The talk turned to the peculiarities of Gadiran society, but was soon interrupted by a dizzying array of courses from the wardroom galley—soup, salad, a cheese-plate appetizer, and the main course, small roasted fowl stuffed with rice pilaf and lamb kebobs made with local vegetables. “Our chief mess steward suggested that featuring the local cuisine might be a novel experience,” Captain Harper explained as the meal was served. “And, of course, the ingredients and seasonings are fresh, since we were able to purchase them in the market of Meknez just yesterday.”

“We appreciate the efforts of your mess stewards, Captain,” Markham replied. “I can see that we’ll have to think up something special when it’s our turn to host you.”

No warship could truly replicate the fine dining experience of a five-star restaurant or a formal diplomatic dinner, of course, but Sikander had to admit that Captain Harper’s mess stewards had made a very credible effort indeed. Hector ’s own cooks would be hard-pressed to equal the effort when the time came to reciprocate. The kebobs were especially good; lamb was something that Sikander enjoyed at home but that rarely turned up on Aquilan menus.

Over dessert and after-dinner drinks, the conversation turned back to Gadira. “I must say, it is a relief to know that there is another warship representing a responsible power here in-system with us,” Captain Harper observed. “Should conditions continue to deteriorate on the ground, the firepower of a second cruiser might make a great difference in efforts to restore order.”

“I sincerely hope that it will not come to that,” Captain Markham said. “The best outcome would be for the Gadirans to work out their own troubles without overt interference from any outside power. I suspect we could only make things worse in the long run.”

“ Someone needs to take matters in hand,” Harper said. “The Caidists are about to overthrow Montréal’s puppet sultan, and the Republic doesn’t have the will—or the right—to subdue the planet for the el-Nasirs. I for one don’t believe that Dremark or Aquila must stand aside and do nothing when the Montréalais have allowed this disaster to develop. It’s time to secure our own interests.”