Chapter Sixteen: Frank Exchanges of View

Chapter Sixteen

Frank exchanges of view

"Absolutely NOT!"

Admiral Stoici towered over the relatively diminutive form of His Excellency Sir Bunestrum of the County Marches, hands planted on hips and feet planted firmly on the deck of the Fuga Libero's Command and Control centre. Around them black uniformed aircrew and black overalled engineers tried to go about their business without attracting their commander's notice. The Admiral's face was an alarming shade of purple and there was a bulging blue vein on his forehead that looked to be on the verge of explosion.

Bunco met the angry man's glare with an implacably calm gaze. In his time the rotund little man had faced down people a good deal more intimidating than the good Admiral. "Admiral, I appreciate that you may have some reservations about such a course of action," he began, his emollient voice like oil on water, "but -"

"RESERVATIONS?!" The word exploded from the Admiral's mouth in a shower of spit and incredulity. "Even if he wasn't a traitor responsible for the near destruction of this vessel," the Admiral was not shouting, that would suggest a lack of discipline, but his words were certainly being projected with great force, "he has now lost the Fulcrum to the enemy twice." The black uniformed hulk of a man levelled a beefy finger at Bunco's face as he growled "I absolutely forbid you to aid him in any way - and you absolutely will not return a classified fighter aircraft to him." He removed the finger, but stooped deeper, so that his scowl was mere inches from the smaller man's nose. "I trust I am absolutely clear?"

Bunco did not blink. "Sir!"

The Admiral smiled and resumed his full height. "Good." He smiled and adjusted the collar of his jacket slightly as he turned back towards his command chair, his voice returning to more normal levels "I knew you'd see reason -"

"You misunderstand me, Admiral." Bunco interrupted, voice calm but Arctic cold. "I meant that when you address me, you will address me as Sir!"

The Admiral stopped, his shoulders visibly tensing, but he did not turn around. Bunco continued, his tone dropping another few degrees. "You are an Admiral in the Black Guard. I am a Major. While we are in different branches of the service, I accept that in military terms you outrank me."

Now the Admiral did turn back, about to launch into a new tirade, but Bunco raised a silencing hand that Stoici simply could not resist. "However, Admiral, 'Major' is not the only title I hold in this rebellion, as well you know. It is merely my rank in the field, so we all know where we stand in combat situations. Were this an active combat situation I would defer to your command."

Bunco took a pace forwards, holding the Admiral's glare. It seemed that the Bridge of the Fuga Libero, perhaps even the world, had shrunk to exclude everything but this confrontation. Certainly every other member of the Bridge Personnel were trying very hard indeed to not be included.

The rotund little man continued, his voice dripping icicles. "This is not an active combat situation, Admiral. It is a strategic  one. Must I remind you that I am also an Ambassador. That gives me the rights of a member of the Council of Skulls - and that, my bovine friend, means that you will not only address me as Sir, you will also kindly moderate your tone and refrain from issuing me with instructions!"

The vein in the Admirals forehead began to throb once again. His face purpled with barely contained rage and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Bunco pressed his advantage.

"The Viscount is no more a traitor than you or I. He's an idiot, I'll grant you that, and he showed poor judgement." The rotund little man paused for a moment and shook his head slightly. "Well, he showed compassion in point of fact, but I agree that in this case they appear to have been the same thing."

Bunco clasped his hands behind his back and stepped into the Admiral's personal space. Looking up at the glowering slab of career Airman he smiled sweetly. "I say, shouldn't you be standing to attention when being addressed by a superior?" The Admiral's snarl twisted further, but his huge frame snapped to rigidity and his bulging eyes faced directly ahead.

Bunco patted his elbow gently. "Jolly good. Now. It so happens that The Fulcrum is of massive strategic importance and I'm afraid of all the assets the Black Guard currently has at its disposal, myself and the Viscount are your best chance of getting her back. We will need the Viscount's 'van to do this, and we will also need his 'plane."

The little man took a step backwards and stood, hands still clasped behind his back and directed his gaze upwards. "A 'plane which, if you recall does not belong to the Black Guard in any case. Tristian built the Red Kite himself. The aircraft does not bear the Gear and Skull roundel. It is not a part of the Guard's Air Armada. Please do think carefully before exceeding your authority and presuming to requisition private property in future."

At this point the Admiral's rage was an almost physical presence. To be dressed down in this manner would have been intolerable in private, but here? In front of his crew? Such undermining of his authority was simply unconscionable.  Bunco smiled. "Now. I have already recalled the Red Kite. I imagine she will be docking in the next few minutes. I'll need to commandeer a couple of your engineers to help me transfer some of my equipment and then I'll be off."

He turned to leave, but paused momentarily and looked back at the apoplectic Admiral. "Obviously if I have any further instructions for you I'll let you know." He turned away again. "Now, I'm sure you have some duties to attend to. Carry on, Admiral."

The Admiral watched in impotent fury as His Excellency Sir Bunestrum of the County Marches strode off the Bridge with his head held high and the doors closed behind him.

-oOo-

"Oh come on Mike - this is serious!"

Brian looked at his scruffy haired companion with open disdain, but Mike was unperturbed. He waved his half empty pint glass in half drunken emphasis. The Spitfire pub had locked its doors long ago, but there were still many regulars putting some serious work into the following morning's hangover. "I am serious! The pakkies from the take-away said Ellie was being followed by a - and I'm quoting here 'a man in black wearing a bowler hat' - clearly Ellie had some info on Alien technology!" He planted his glass on the bar with a sense of satisfaction and looked to his audience for their applause.

It was not forthcoming.

Brian Barnes drew a deep breath. "Mike, even if the word 'pakkie' wasn't offensive-" he began,

"Which it is," interrupted Vicky, looking at her boyfriend with uncharacteristic disapproval.

"The Chatterjee's are of Bengali extraction," continued Brian, "Which is in India, not Pakistan. And as far as I know, all the Chatterjee kids were all born here." He paused to take a swig of his bitter and continued, "But even putting your casual racism to one side, the fact that they saw a man wearing black doesn't mean anything! If I was gunna stalk someone, I'd probably wear black too!" He rounded on the older man and wagged a finger in his face "You just keep harping on your fucking 'X-Files' conspiracy shite, while in the real world my girlf-" there was the briefest of pauses, "our friend is missing! Anything could be happening to her! This is not some bloody joke!"

Mike grinned a lopsided drunken grin, plonked his now empty pint glass on the bar and turned towards Brian, arms spread wide, as if in supplication. "Sorry mate," his words were not slurred, but were still heavy with alcohol, "either the men in black have got her or she's shacked up with somebody. Face it mate, some lucky bastard is probably shagging her senseless right now, and that must hurt - you as well as her, eh?!" He gave the younger man a conspiratorial nudge, "But c'mon, you've had your chance, time for some other bloke to have a go, eh? EH?"

Mike would probably have said more, but Brian's punch to the jaw knocked all the words out of his mouth.

-oOo-

Samar was still not full of the joys of spring. He was sitting in the back of Tristian's camper van outside the darkened Bengal Spice Take-Away, having extricated them both from Ellie's flat when his mother had bustled upstairs to tidy away the "tea things" and seen the mess Tristian had made on the carpet. It was nearly one in the morning. He was tired, he still didn't trust this black clad lunatic - and he had to say the stupid bowler hat with the flying goggles wasn't helping - and he was still not really sure what he was dealing with.

He shifted uncomfortably on the thin padding of the bench seat - so very different from the enveloping comfort of the driver's seat - and looked at the so-called Viscount who was fussing around a teapot. Finally the big man's patience cracked. He reached a hand out and pushed the teapot firmly to the table.

"Stop." He met the Viscount's startled gaze with an uncompromising scowl."Just stop. Put the damn kettle down and tell me what we're going to do."

Tristian prised the tea pot away from the big man's hands, grabbed one of his paper thing porcelain cups and deftly grabbed a small container of milk from the tiny 'fridge, dropping a glug into the cup with the same move. With his other hand he filled the cup with fragrant amber liquid from the teapot and threw in a couple of sugar lumps from a bowl on the counter top.

With an irreverently sweetened cup of Earl Grey in his hand The black clad man turned to his incensed interrogator.

Trisitan stared impassively at Samar for a long moment and then, very slowly, very deliberately, took a long sip of his tea. Then he delicately placed the paper thin porcelain cup onto its saucer, removed a crisp black linen handkerchief from the top pocket of his waistcoat, daintily mopped at his top lip and secreted the kerchief back into its pocket. All of his movements were conducted with deft precision and almost glacial slowness. And all without breaking eye contact.

And then, with an equally deliberate pace, He outlined the plan.

Samar listened.

-oOo-

Mike stood, hand pressed against his jaw, a look of primal hatred on his face. He had always seen himself as the Alpha Male of his little group, and this violent challenge from Brian - a man he'd credited with negative personality and less backbone had some as something of a shock.

Even as he rounded on his unexpected assailant though, he felt something wrong, some shift in the dynamic of the room. Fists clenched and still dropped into a fighting stance he flicked a sideways look at Vicky, the charismaless dumpy airhead whose worship he had taken for granted for so long. She was standing, arms folded, with an unforgiving tight lipped expression that bore down to his very essence.

He looked again at his opponent, boring Brian. A man he had always dismissed as a loser. A 'Beta' at best. And yet here he was, staring him down, unafraid, as a reaction to what? A joke about a bit of skirt? A bit of skirt that the loser wasn't even shagging? He simply couldn't understand it.

Mike ran his hands down his chest, smoothing down his faded blue denim shirt. He wished he'd been at home so that he could have ordered this upstart to leave, but they were still in the pub, so what could he do? Drawing himself to his full height he extended a hand to Vicky. "Brian," he purred, "I think you might have had a bit too much mate. Me and Vicky will be going now."

He gave his girlfriend  a knowing look and moved towards the pub door. He'd walked nearly ten yards before he realised he was alone. Startled, but trying hard not to show it he turned back and beckoned. "C'mon Vic!" His voice rang with hollow confidence, "Let's be off!"

Vicky didn't move.

Fixing his confused and angry stare with an utterly impassive visage she merely said "I'm off back to mine. I'll call you tomorrow."

For a moment Mike was frozen almost incapable of comprehending the defiance. Then he snorted, turned on his heel and stepped out into the warm late spring night.