The aroma of fresh tea leaves in his mug were as welcoming as they were warming.
Out...
He exhaled over the top of the mug, both hands wrapped around the base, wisps of smoke scattering in all directions.
His eyes went to the floor to ceiling window in his office overlooking the Contari training grounds at the center of the family compound. Like all Cavaliere, Mansel was required to maintain his own villa within its walls. But blood, and particularly the right blood, was always the driving force behind promotion, glory, and honor.
Money also did the job quite well.
Mansel’s palazzo occupied a space at the southwest corner of the compound near the parade and training grounds. The villa’s gardens expanded east to the center of the southern wall, giving his “home” the most stunning of views. His manse was “his” in name only. Mansel had little interest in pampered life, but he understood he must always play the part. His villa dwarfed many belonging to other Cavaliere, the product of millions Mansel received after selling his father’s shipping business to a partner based on Ruiz.
Yet it was his work that engulfed him, a throbbing, continual drive to serve the Nación. If Mansel was on Malta, he occupied his office in the northeast corner of the villa leaving the remainder to important guests of the Lance to use as their own quarters.
He was terribly fond of his deep couch against the wall anyway.
Mansel set at his desk, a massive columned piece of native wood emblazoned with gold flake tinted with orange. The accents matched those on the plaster columns and wood trim, outlining shelves and shelves of ledgers – many his own, many not.
Chewing on the top of a pen, Mansel began going over the next ledger left for his review. The Ghosts had given him filters to last a generation, capital ship panels for battleships that were never commissioned, enough krakens to supply the Maltese military for seven Gallic conflicts, and a requisite tonnage of neon to build a sign highway to Omicron Lost.
Disgusted, Mansel threw the ledger down and leaned back.
Cotton? No. Food? Perhaps for a few months in our closest outposts. Ovens? Forks? Spoons? Goddamnit, did they even think about cooking? Clothes? I suppose Ghosts don’t need those, and if they don’t, damn our women and children, I suppose.
Mansel spat on the floor, a rich wood made from the same material as his desk.
“They’re here whenever you’re ready, Signore.”
Jan Rebinowitz poked his head into the office from the main hallway into the villa. Mansel gave him a friendly nod and turned his attention back to the ledger.
Jan was family friend from Ruiz, a bright boy. Mansel promised to look after him whilst a junker congregation went looking for the older Rebinowitz in the Sigmas. Needless to say, he was never found.
The son, in the meantime, had done well keeping Mansel’s affairs in order while he was away from Malta. He enjoyed the lavishness of the compound after a hard life aboard an asteroid, and Mansel could understand. Still, the bridge of the Esperanza felt like a true home, the crew his true family. Rebinowitz took it upon himself to adopt the trending Italian tongue that had taken over Malta. Mansel was a devotee of harsher-toned Spanish dialects, an increasingly “traditional” language even among his elders.
Mansel pulled his coat together across his chest and buttoned it from the middle. Since he began recruiting younger Lanciere, those of pure Maltese blood, the word traveled quickly of his management style. Mansel issued transports, freighters, and escort craft to willing pilots while Jan issued their assignments. Mansel allowed each pilot to keep 75% of the profit from each venture while retaining the other 25% to acquire more ships and maintain his increasingly growing fleet.
75% of anything must be more than half of these men have ever gotten.
Mansel strolled out to the porch of his villa, twenty new volunteers lined in rank at the bottom, carefully avoiding the gardens that lined the entry walk to the villa. They immediately came to attention and the heavy door shut behind their new commander.
Looking admiringly at the nearest column to his right, Mansel placed his right hand on the façade. Each column depicted a great event in Maltese history, with this once depicting the arrival and destruction of the Hispania. His hand rested on the ship’s depiction as he turned to the Lanciere before him.
“Never forget that you are first Maltese, second Lanciere, and third fathers, brothers, and sons.” He patted the column. “We are the blood of Malta – we bring her the goods she needs to survive, to defend her people, to smite her enemies, and to raise her children. We do not need glory, we do not thrive on gratitude – duty is our spark, our souls. Our conviction is to serve Malta in the most important manner possible. Many of you will bring her cryocubes to maintain her outposts. Others will distribute oil, glass, hull panels, and capacitors for her dreadnaughts. Still more will make her rich with gold, aluminum, and other precious minerals.”
Mansel took a step down from the porch.
“Some of you will be even more honored to ferry rice, breads, meats, water, and the other essentials her people need to thrive. Malta’s power derives not from her sabres, her wyrms, or her battleships. It comes from her families, her children, her women, and her sons. They are Malta’s most important resource.”
Another step.
“Many of you will die. Many of you will die far from home. When you do, Malta will mourn, and if I am here, I will pay your memory the respect it deserves and curse that I was not as fortunate as you to die in the Nacion’s service.”
A cheer rang from the small group in front of him. Mansel turned his back and proceeded up the steps.
“Now, to your homes and your families if you have them. If not, spend the next few days with your bothers, your sisters in the Nación. Mr. Rebinowitz will have your assignments in the next few days. Then. . . .”
He turned.
“. . . to glory.”
The Lancieres’ cries echoed throughout the villa’s entryway as the door closed behind him.
“Signore, why would you want them to know the risks? Won't they simply be scared away?"
Mansel shuffled back into his office and wrapped his hands around his mug.
Lukewarm. Still enjoyable, however.
With a look of relief, Mansel turned to his assistant.
“Once you teach men to welcome death, they are yours. They will never question you. They will never doubt you.”
Mansel tossed the ledger on his desk to Rebinowitz.
“They will serve Malta when she is in need.”
“But is Malta truly in need?”
Mansel sat back in his chair and unbuttoned his coat.
“In those pages, you’ll see just how much work we have left to us.”