Realpolitik

Georgios Mandas didn't care for his new office. It was too big, too echoing. The wooden panelled walls were too far away, the portraits hanging on them Admirals he didn't recognise from Millennia earlier. Lighting was provided by a ridiculously ornate chandelier, blazing with electro-candles and the floor was covered in carpets so rich they crackled with static. A servitor stood in the corner, its arms replaced with drinks dispensers and its toothless mouth drooling sputum. True, the window gave a fine view of the interior of Salamis base but Mandas would rather have been standing on the bridge of a starship, feeling the deck rocking under him as the shields soaked up fire. Sadly he was a rear-admiral and as a Flag officer a certain level of pomposity was expected.

Mandas leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the Nalwood desk. Nalwood, a stupendous extravagance since the planet Tanith burned during the Sabbat's World Crusade. The cost of this desk could have fed a dock-rat family for a year, but to the Admiralty it was one frivolous waste among hundreds. Mandas was a mature man, with the olive complexion common to the dock rats of Tectum, his age was in the triple digits yet thanks to expensive Juvenat treatments he had the vigour of a man in his thirties. He wore tight black boots, polished to a sheen and a dark frockcoat, tightly buttoned with a high collar. His attire was oddly plain for a Flag officer, merely gold trim at the wrists and golden epaulettes and a single medal on his chest, an overlarge 'U' icon pinned to his breast.

That one medal was worth more than gold braiding and a plethora of awards. It marked Mandas out among the Admiralty, gifting him a station a common-born man like him could never hope to reach. Awarded for valour against the Word Bearers during the Great Refusal by the hand of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself, Imperial Regent and Lord Commander of the Imperium Entire, it had been taken from the Armour of Fate and marked Mandas as the 'Hero of Tectum'. That title had won him a Flag Rank, marriage to the youngest daughter of the Lord Admiral of the St Karyl Sector and set him up with wealth and influence. None of which made him feel any better at this moment.

The cause for his sullen mood was the portly Commissar sitting across the desk saying, "Don't forget you've got dinner with the Yannatos family tonight. Your wife wants you there promptly this time."

Mandas rubbed his brow as he muttered, "Deetor, why do I have to go?"

"Because the Yannatos banking clan are stinking rich and your father-in-law wants you to curry favour," the reply came.

Mandas glared at his Commissar resentfully. Deetor Kaath-Dousmanis hailed from a lesser branch of the sprawling Dousmanis household, the Lord Admiral's own family. He had been a nobody, a late son to a minor household, not expected to achieve much in his life. On a ship he had been diffident and ineffective, which suited Mandas as it gave him free rein, but as adjutant to a Flag officer he excelled. His grasp of politics was second only to his exacting memory for the endless dinners, dances, concerts and receptions that made up life among the aristocratic Old-blood of the Admiralty. Between the Commissar and his wife the Admiral's life had become a whirlwind of engagements, toasts and palm-shaking, but he had to admit without their aid he would be utterly lost. The downside was Deetor had embraced the life of fine dining and heavy drinking with gusto. His frame had always been portly but now he was diving headlong into obesity, if he kept this up the Rear-Admiral would have to commission him a suspensor belt to reduce his weight and allow him to walk.

Mandas groaned, "Can't my wife go alone?"

Kaath-Dousmanis tutted, "Your wife isn't the Hero of Tectum. Your father-in-law wants to show you off, you're his prize asset."

"His pet simian more like, brought out to dance for the amusement of the masses."

"Now, now," Kaath-Dousmanis chided, "You have important responsibilities, making faces doesn't help. You need the Yannatos banking clan to be awed by your presence. You father-in-law has plans for that clan."

Mandas muttered, "Why should I care what they think?"

Patiently Kaath-Dousmanis laid out, "Because while you're charming their patriarch you will convince them to extend a line of credit to the Ateos ship-wrights. With those loans the shipyards can refit Rogue Trader Carthae's flotilla for an expedition into the Heraculan Deeps. In exchange he's promised us eight thousand plasma relays he's not using... and you need those plasma relays to refit your Cruiser squadron."

"Horse trading!" Mandas spat, "That's all this is. Currying favours and greasing palms."

"This is how the game is played," Kaath-Dousmanis reminded him, "You need more influence if you are to get anything done."

"It shouldn't be necessary, the Mechanicus should have delivered those relays to Athena Drift Dockyard three months ago. Instead they mysteriously got rerouted to Kymarna yards."

"What do you want me to say?" Kaath-Dousmanis sighed, "The Word Bearers left Tectum wrecked and rebuilding is slow. The Primarch gutted Battlefleet Karyl to rebuild his Indomitus Crusade. Everybody is left scrabbling for scraps, taking whatever they can get. Every admiral is convinced his project is the highest priority and they aren't shy about grabbing what they can. Its a knife-fight out there."

"I hate it," Mandas growled, "Give me a ship and an enemy I can shoot at any day. I can't do schmoozing and arm-twisting."

"Well, you'd better learn, You're falling behind everybody else."

Their conversation was interrupted as a small vox-horn built into the desk chimed and a feminine voice issued forth, "Admiral Mikolas to see you, Sir."

"Send him in," Mandas replied eagerly.

Kaath-Dousmanis stood up and brushed off his ever-expanding belly as he said, "Best I wasn't here. Remember what we discussed."

"I know, I know," Mandas snapped.

The Commissar waddled out and moments later another man stormed in. He was ancient, even by Imperial standards, five hundred years old and still strong. His face was pale and liver-spotted, his head bald and eyes rheumy. He had long surpassed the age Juvenat treatments could disguise his years and was forced to walk in a clanking exoskeleton, his body held aloft by grinding pistons and rods. Yet for all that there was fire in his eyes and a firm set to his jaw. Flintof 'Ironheart' Mikolas, the oldest and most cantankerous Admiral in Battlefleet Karyl. He was a fierce soul, beloved by among the ranks for his harsh tongue and unflagging ardour. During the Great Refusal the old warhorse had eclipsed a hundred junior captains, fighting longer, harder and more brazenly than any man had a right to do. Mandas has long admired this man and in his honest moments believed Mikolas should be wearing the Primarch's medal, not him.

Mandas stood up and walked to greet the old admiral as he said, "Admiral Mikolas, good to see you."

Mikolas' lips pulled back over ceramic teeth as he chortled, "Rear-Admiral Mandas, I see you've got your arse nicely settled."

Mandas scoffed, "I don't intend to get fat and lazy."

"None of us do, at first," Mikolas muttered sullenly.

"Amasec?" Mandas offered.

"Make mine a double," Mikolas agreed.

As the servitor poured their drinks Mandas steered the old Admiral over to the window and remarked, "The office is too plush for me, but I do like the view."

"Seen it," Mikolas quipped as he took a glass filled with amber nectar, "Not impressed."

"It has its merits," Mandas argued, "Look."

Indeed the window looked out of the First Concourse of Salamis base. The epicentre of Imperial power in the Sector. The ancient space station had suffered greatly in the cruel tides of war but looking out over the interior one would not know it. Vast boulevards teemed with the rich and powerful, going about their indolent lives indifferent to the woes of the billions starving in the Hive cities and manufacturing hubs of Greater Tectum. Richly furnished buildings lined the avenues, looking over the crowds with stately grandeur. Statues of noble heroes were being carefully repaired by artisan-masons, labouring to undo the ugly bolt-rounds and claw marks that Chaos had left upon them. On the corners orchestras played soft music, and fountains bubbled as noble ladies drifted by, their gowns competing with each other for ornate finery. Over all cyber-cherubs floated, showering incense onto the heads of the rich and powerful.

Mandas pointed to a particular building and observed, "You can see the offices of the Phalaris merchant-clan from here."

Mikolas squinted and then laughed, "Oh yes, I see. You want to remind me I owe you a favour. Yes it's true, your advice was most timely. My household's holdings were mauled by the invasion, damn near broke our finances. I was facing hard times until you tipped me off your father-in-law was offering contracts to their consortium. Invested everything I had left and its paid off big-time. Not very subtle of you to remind me, but I get the point."

Mandas supped his amasec, enjoying the peaty flavour, as he asked, "I need to ask you about something. There have been a lot of troubles with supply lines, a lot of diverted shipments and countermanded orders. Parts go missing, work crews get reassigned, officer deployments changed without warning."

"You've noticed it too," Mikolas sighed, "Yes, its a tussle and a half. Forget appearances of civility, behind closed doors the knives are out and they are bloody."

Mandas nodded as he murmured, "My wife and Commissar are always on at me to make more connections, to flatter and dazzle and schmooze my way up the greasy pole. I hate it, I want my squadron to be out in space, fighting the enemies of Mankind."

Mikolas snorted, "Don't we all, but you should listen to your advisors. You're an Admiral, a Dousmanis no less, and you have to learn how things work. Backroom dealing and favour trading, that's what it all comes down to. If you don't play the game you're finished. There are plenty out there who want you to fail, because you're a threat to their designs, because you might eclipse their power base or simply because they think you're a weak link in the Dousmanis household. You have to be ruthless and merciless, learn how to stick the knife in where it hurts, because others will be looking to do the same to you."

Mandas lowered his eyes as he lamented, "I knew to expect rival households to fight me, but its the way my friends turn on me that hurts. People who should be on my side, who smile to my face and promise to support me, while they're busy stealing supplies from under my nose. It's not right."

"That's your mistake," Mikolas sighed, "You're still thinking in terms of friends and rivals, allies and enemies. Let me explain one thing to you: you don't have any friends. There's the people you use, people you control and everybody else is an enemy."

"How do you think such things?" Mandas asked.

"Continuous practise," Mikolas elaborated, "Three kinds of people exist in your world now. Cattle, that's common folk, junior officers and such. They do what you tell them, when you tell them. Make sure they keep in their place and never know you're robbing them blind. Then there are assets, you cultivate them, make deals and trade favours, but never trust them, they'll turn on you given half a chance. And lastly threats: business rivals and other households. You have to learn to be ruthless with them, use whatever dirt you have, whatever edge you have to bring them down. If you hesitate, they will destroy you."

Mandas turned to look at him and asked, "Is that why you betrayed me?"

Mikolas spluttered on his amasec as he spat, "What?!"

Mandas growled, "Don't play me, I know it was you. You're the one stealing my supplies, rewriting my orders and stealing my officers. You must have taken me for a fool, too bull-headed and blind to see what you were up to, but I caught on at last. You've been sabotaging my squadron all along, pulling strings to divert my resources to rebuild your own formations!"

Mikolas stared at him for a long moment then sneered, "I thought you'd never catch on. Yes I did it, I saw you wallowing about like a fat foul waiting to be plucked and I seized the opportunity. Don't act surprised, I told you, you don't have friends anymore. You were a good Captain, but as an Admiral you're a threat and I haven't lived five centuries by waiting for my rivals to fire first."

Mandas glowered back as he hissed, "Well... that makes this easier."

Suddenly the concourse below erupted into wailing alarums and screaming people as black Rhinos piled in. They drove through the crowds, only narrowly avoiding running over fleeing people and rolled to the buildings of the Phalaris merchant-clan. Doors slammed open and black-visored Naval provosts poured out, shoulders gleaming with the signs of the Lord Admiral's authority. They rushed the doors with shotguns in hand, brooking no resistance. All was calamity and alarm as they disappeared within, leaving bedlam in their wake.

"What going on?!" Mikolas cried in concern.

Mandas grimly informed him, "The Phalaris merchant-clan has been under investigation for some time. Evidence points to them being involved in the Word Bearer attack. They smuggled Chaos agents into positions where they could do most harm, supplied detailed maps of the defences and deployment schedules. The Phalaris family are Traitors, as are all who deal with them."

Mikolas stomped about as he roared, "But I've dealt with them! You told me to invest in them."

Mandas' eyes hardened as he snapped, "Oh yes, your name will feature heavily in their dockets. Worry not though, I can intercede with my Father-in-law, tell him you had nothing to do with their treachery. He will understand your plight and with luck we can keep your name from the Inquisition."

"Inquisition..." Mikolas spluttered in dread, "You.. you set me up!"

"I did," Mandas growled, "I needed leverage and now I have it."

Mikolas ground his jaw then spat "What do you want?"

Mandas declared, "Stop stealing my shipments, help me get my squadron back into space and place your household under the Dousmanis' aegis. Your house will stand with the Lord Admiral's from now on and who knows, you might even profit from it."

Mikolas stared long and hard, face glowering with anger, but then he snorted, "Well played boy, I didn't think you had it in you but you have some balls. It seems you've learned the game of politics after all. I thought I was schooling you but actually you were teaching me. Maybe you'll hack it as an Admiral, but don't get too comfortable. I admire your boldness but I won't forget this, one day we'll cross swords again."

"I look forward to it," Mandas said, "But next time, I won't wait for you to strike first."

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