The manager brightened a little. “He is, if I may say so my Lord, exceptional. Chefs have come from throughout the Sphere to study his techniques.”
“That’s good,” said Aaron, looking out through the suite doors as a massive dining table was carried past, “because I’ll be taking him with me as well.”
The manager’s mouth hung open. He blinked. Blinked again. “But of course,” said the manager, “but of course.”
Aaron relaxed on the balcony outside his suite, feet propped on an ottoman, a fresh batch of company reports on his computer pad, a cold drink made from some sort of fresh-squeezed cactus juice in his hand. His view extended down a strip of parkland through the heart of the old city, to a dockside amusement complex that seemed to operate all day and most of the night.
He’d spent almost an hour the previous evening looking down at its colorful lights and spinning rides. Everything—even the boats that cruised the harbor—seemed to be outlined in strings and lines of colored lights. He’d even sent for a pair of binoculars, so he could watch the people from behind the ferro-glass canopy that protected him from snipers.
Part of him wanted to be down there, too. Walking the boardwalks, peering into the shops, smelling the spicy intoxicants wafting from every food stall and vendor cart. Oh, to be a fledgling cadet, feeling powerful in his new uniform, a beautiful and deeply impressed young lady holding his hand, seeing those spinning lights reflected in her eyes.
He pushed the thoughts away. Such things were for overgrown children, not for men of title and power. Those days were gone. They would not come his way again. He tried to work, and suddenly found himself unable to concentrate.
He took his feet off the ottoman and climbed out of his deeply padded wicker chair. He stood next to the railing, looking out, reaching up to put his fingertips against the cold glass. He was a long way from forty, but could he be feeling old?
Or perhaps just alone. There were aspects of life that were passing him by in the rush to power.
There were women, of course. Companions, flings, but his requirements for anything beyond that were very strict. He would not be merely choosing a wife, but a duchess, and perhaps something more than that. There was the matter of heirs as well. There was far more to consider than his own pleasures and whims.
He sighed. Perhaps it was merely his current project or his close brush with death that had put such thoughts in his mind—some kind of primitive nesting instinct calling to the modern man.
The phone on the table next to his ’puter chimed, rescuing him from his melancholy.
He tapped theANSWER button, and Captain Clancy’s holographic image floated above the phone. “Okay, Duck. I put up with you shanghaiing my crew, messing up my cargo bays, and painting my ship like a spaceport whore, but you got welders down there cutting a hole in my hull.”
“Technically, they’re notching into the corner of the number one bay door.”
“You’re putting a hole in the part that keeps the outsides out, and the insides in. Same thing, Duck.”
“Trust me, Captain, I’m as concerned about that as anyone.” He chuckled. “I’m one of the insides that needs to stay in. The armor surrounding the opening will be four times as thick as the hull surrounding it, and there will be four armor-plated pressure doors. It’s a hole in your hull, but an exceptionally well-protected hole.”
“Yeah, well, you should have consulted me.”
“I would have, if there’d been time. The shipwrights are literally working without blueprints, with two structural engineers on-site designing things as they go.”
“I reckon you must trust these engineers of yours quite a bit.”
“They’re both Republic Navy veterans. They’ve spent fifty years between them putting battle-damaged ships back together, under fire and in the worst of conditions. I’m certain our ‘hole’ will be just fine.”
Clancy nodded, and the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch up almost imperceptibly. “Well then, I guess you got it covered.” The almost-smile abruptly ended. “But next time you tell me first. This is a ship, not your blasted summer house.
“I don’t even know what all this mess you’re putting on my ship weighs. When we lift, I’m going to have to give her full throttle, base my weight calculations on our acceleration, then redo all my center-of-gravity adjustments and orbital calculations on the fly. It won’t be no picnic, I tell you.”
Aaron grinned. “Your reputation says, Captain, that for you it is a picnic. Kind of like making an emergency takeoff under fire, with no notice, and with fifty tons of unexpected ’Mech aboard.”
“Well, yeah, I guess it’s kind of like that.”
“Which reminds me. We don’t have time right now, but I want to upgrade the armor on that entire bay door, and possibly the interior bulkheads as well. Maybe at the next nondiplomatic port of call.”
The French doors opened, and Deena stepped out onto the deck. She placed a new stack of papers on the table next to his ’puter, then stood patiently to see if he needed anything else from her.
“Maybe,” said Clancy. “I’ll say this for you, Duck. You keep me amused. Been laughing my ass off watching my boys hauling in this sissified furniture of yours. It’s gonna look even funnier floating around in free fall.”
“The style is called recoco—”
“Rococo,” Deena corrected.
“Rococo,” he continued, “and it will all be bolted to the floor.”
Clancy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “So, for half the voyage it’ll just be something to bang your head on. Coulda pointed you at a place’ll sell you any kind of folding furniture you want. Quality stuff, too.”
“I’m sure. And it would look like quality storable furniture too. Listen, Captain Clancy, it’s not like I’m trying to install this on your bridge. You did say that what I did in the cargo bay was my business. Is that arrangement still true?”
“Yeah, well, ’cept for that hole in the hull. But I still gots the captain’s prerogative to make fun of foolishness when I see it.
“Well, I’m gonna go keep an eye on those welders of yours. Clancy out.”
The display blanked, and Aaron turned to Deena. “You’re giving me that look.”
“What look?”
“That skeptical, ‘I can’t tell him what I really think because he’s the Duke’ look. I do value your opinions, you know. What is it?”
“He’s right about how absurdly impractical this furniture will be on a DropShip. Not to mention the carpets, the tapestries, the paintings, the art, the gourmet chef.”
“Chef Bellwood served on the liner Ian Cameron. He’s an accomplished zero-gravity chef as well.”
“Which means, I suppose, we’ll be installing a second kitchen for that?”
“Later. Until then, he can work out of the officers’ mess when we’re not under boost or on a planet.”
She sighed. “Lord Governor, I enjoy interior decorating as much as anyone, but haven’t you forgotten there’s a war on? That people have died—continue to die—while we’re playing house on a spaceship?”
“Of course not, Deena. But these things are neither for my comfort nor my vanity. They are for show. Some things are all the more impressive precisely because they are so extravagantly impractical. To build our coalition, we have to win the hearts of the people whose planets we visit, and those of their leaders, as well.
“This is the symbol of power, of confidence, of victory. They will all be drawn to this, wish to align themselves with it, hope it will rub off on them. This is the pull that will bring our coalition together.
“And the little show you’ve arranged for Shensi, that’s going to be the push.”