element of the surreal had intruded. The bulkheads of the wardroom were obscured almost entirely by fabulous Chinese and Persian tapestries and the tables were set with fine china and real silver on ornate cloths. Wine was in evidence, as well as vodka, beer, rum and even mulled ale. Chamber music filled the wardroom.
As for the crew, the, spartan Soviet military veneer had slipped considerably. Beards and moustaches were in evidence, some quite elaborate. Hair was longer. A few of the men wore earrings.
Many of the jumpsuits bore marks of individual ornamentation; gold brooches and jeweled clasps, silver pins and hammered bracelets, emerald and ruby necklaces of inestimable worth worn over the shoulders as aguillettes. Some of the men had their sleeves rolled up or cut off entirely, exposing intricate tattoos, blazing with color. It was a bizarre combination of a medieval feast and a pirates’ mess. The only element lacking was a cadre of buxom serving wenches.
They were conducted to the captain’s table and Drakov rose to greet them. Four men were seated at the table with him and they rose to their feet as well.
“Gentlemen, and lady, please be seated,” Drakov said, indicating the places set for them. He had changed his jacket for a 17th-century British naval admiral’s coat, festooned with gold braid, heavy gold epaulets upon the shoulders. Lace showed at his throat and cuffs. “Allow me to introduce you to my senior officers.”
They sat down and Drakov turned to the man on his immediate right, a thin, dark-eyed, evil-faced Sicilian with coarse black hair and the manner of a Medici poisoner. “This is Santos Benedetto, whose name will be known to you three àcademicians.’ Santos, aside from myself, is the last surviving member of the Timekeepers. After our last meeting, in Zenda Castle, I encountered Santos in one of our old rendezvous places. He helped me to begin this venture.”
Benedetto gave them a dark stare and nodded. He wore 27th-century black base fatigues and a warp disc on his left wrist.
“Santos knows you three only too well,” said Drakov, smiling. Then he introduced Verne and Land to his second-in-command. “The gentleman beside Santos is Barry Martingale, late of the 20th-century American Special Forces. When I met Sgt. Martingale, he was pursuing a career as a mercenary soldier and being terribly underpaid. I offered to remedy that situation and he graciously accepted.” The beefy, sandy-haired Martingale twitched his lips in what might have been a smile and said, “How do?” His muscular frame was sheathed in khaki—sharply creased trousers and an African bush jacket.
He had a pencil-thin moustache, a square chin and foggy gray eyes.
“The man on my left,” said Drakov, “is General Count Grigori von Kampf, late of the famed Imperial Black Hussars of Czar Alexander. Count Grigori comes of a colorful lineage. His father was a Russian aristocrat and his mother a Kirghiz Gypsy. We are old acquaintances and I could not embark upon my venture without him.”
Count Grigori was huge, with shoulders like a Goliath and a chest like a wine cask. A former cavalry officer, it was a wonder a horse could have been found anywhere large enough to support him. His hands were easily twice the size of Finn Delaney’s, and Delaney was not small. The lower half of Count Grigori’s face was hidden by a square, luxuriant beard and large handlebar moustaches curled out from beneath his nose. His hair, both on his head and on his face, was gray and curly and his eyes looked Oriental, dark as anthracite. He still wore the uniform of an officer in the Black Hussars, a jet black tunic with ornate buttons and a stiff, high collar.
“
Otchen priyatno,”
he said, his voice a basso profundo.
“He says he’s very pleased to meet you,” Drakov translated. “Count Grigori has received the benefit of implant education, but he refuses to speak English. He considers it a barbarian tongue. He is,
As for the crew, the, spartan Soviet military veneer had slipped considerably. Beards and moustaches were in evidence, some quite elaborate. Hair was longer. A few of the men wore earrings.
Many of the jumpsuits bore marks of individual ornamentation; gold brooches and jeweled clasps, silver pins and hammered bracelets, emerald and ruby necklaces of inestimable worth worn over the shoulders as aguillettes. Some of the men had their sleeves rolled up or cut off entirely, exposing intricate tattoos, blazing with color. It was a bizarre combination of a medieval feast and a pirates’ mess. The only element lacking was a cadre of buxom serving wenches.
They were conducted to the captain’s table and Drakov rose to greet them. Four men were seated at the table with him and they rose to their feet as well.
“Gentlemen, and lady, please be seated,” Drakov said, indicating the places set for them. He had changed his jacket for a 17th-century British naval admiral’s coat, festooned with gold braid, heavy gold epaulets upon the shoulders. Lace showed at his throat and cuffs. “Allow me to introduce you to my senior officers.”
They sat down and Drakov turned to the man on his immediate right, a thin, dark-eyed, evil-faced Sicilian with coarse black hair and the manner of a Medici poisoner. “This is Santos Benedetto, whose name will be known to you three àcademicians.’ Santos, aside from myself, is the last surviving member of the Timekeepers. After our last meeting, in Zenda Castle, I encountered Santos in one of our old rendezvous places. He helped me to begin this venture.”
Benedetto gave them a dark stare and nodded. He wore 27th-century black base fatigues and a warp disc on his left wrist.
“Santos knows you three only too well,” said Drakov, smiling. Then he introduced Verne and Land to his second-in-command. “The gentleman beside Santos is Barry Martingale, late of the 20th-century American Special Forces. When I met Sgt. Martingale, he was pursuing a career as a mercenary soldier and being terribly underpaid. I offered to remedy that situation and he graciously accepted.” The beefy, sandy-haired Martingale twitched his lips in what might have been a smile and said, “How do?” His muscular frame was sheathed in khaki—sharply creased trousers and an African bush jacket.
He had a pencil-thin moustache, a square chin and foggy gray eyes.
“The man on my left,” said Drakov, “is General Count Grigori von Kampf, late of the famed Imperial Black Hussars of Czar Alexander. Count Grigori comes of a colorful lineage. His father was a Russian aristocrat and his mother a Kirghiz Gypsy. We are old acquaintances and I could not embark upon my venture without him.”
Count Grigori was huge, with shoulders like a Goliath and a chest like a wine cask. A former cavalry officer, it was a wonder a horse could have been found anywhere large enough to support him. His hands were easily twice the size of Finn Delaney’s, and Delaney was not small. The lower half of Count Grigori’s face was hidden by a square, luxuriant beard and large handlebar moustaches curled out from beneath his nose. His hair, both on his head and on his face, was gray and curly and his eyes looked Oriental, dark as anthracite. He still wore the uniform of an officer in the Black Hussars, a jet black tunic with ornate buttons and a stiff, high collar.
“
Otchen priyatno,”
he said, his voice a basso profundo.
“He says he’s very pleased to meet you,” Drakov translated. “Count Grigori has received the benefit of implant education, but he refuses to speak English. He considers it a barbarian tongue. He is,
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