A Question of Taste Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Question of Taste – Denny Flowers

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Terminal Overkill’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  A Question of Taste

  Denny Flowers

  Tempes Sol smiled as he felt the Motive Force radiate from the factorum’s antiquated machinery. Even after all his years of service to the Mercator Lux it still felt like a minor miracle – the raw power of a distant storm or blazing star harnessed to light a flickering lumen or initiate a chemical processor.

  He glanced at the foreman as the factorum shunted into life, seeking recognition in his haggard face. But the older man’s expression was sour, as though he were chewing a spoilt rat-steak.

  ‘Is that it then?’ he said, the roar of the machines seemingly insufficient evidence of the power tap.

  ‘Yes,’ Sol replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘The Foundas contract is complete.’

  The older man frowned. ‘You sure? We’ve had outages before.’

  ‘That was under your previous contract with the Mercator Pyros. Now that your power is provided by the Mercator Lux there will be no further shortages. Providing you pay your bill.’

  ‘And how do we resupply?’

  ‘You don’t resupply,’ Sol sighed, irritation creeping into his voice. ‘The factorum is now powered by a solar array. So long as the sun burns, the machines will run.’

  The foreman grunted, clearly dissatisfied. He leant against the railing, peering down at the conveyor belt below, where the workers had begun loading the first shipment of slag. Sol found his gaze creeping to the square of the man’s back. It would be so easy to give a gentle push and bring the conversation to a satisfying, if abrupt, conclusion.

  The foreman turned, glancing at the guilder from over his shoulder.

  ‘What happens when the sun is gone?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I know the sun goes away at night,’ the older man continued, a smug smile staining his face. ‘I might not have been outside the hive, but I’ve heard stories. What am I supposed to do when there is no sun?’

  ‘The sun doesn’t… At night the factorum will run off the spare capacity harnessed during daylight,’ Sol replied, swallowing his frustration.

  ‘And if it doesn’t come back?’

  ‘If the sun stays dark?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Sol sighed. ‘I can only assure you that in the event of the sun disappearing, running this facility will not be your prime concern.’

  The foreman grunted something in response, turning away.

  Sol stepped forward, resting his weight on the rail, his gaze directed at the conveyor belt below.

  ‘The Foundas contract has been negotiated and sanctioned,’ he said. ‘If you are at any point dissatisfied with the service provided, I encourage you to direct your concerns to my representatives. But unless you encounter an actual problem, I consider the matter closed.’

  ‘The Guild of Flame powered this place for a generation,’ the foreman muttered. ‘Every quarter of a cycle we’d be resupplied. We knew the weight of each barrel, how long it could burn, how much could be done. Then it’s all changed. No one talks to us. No one cares about the people running the place.’

  Sol turned his head, his gaze meeting the foreman’s. Perhaps something carried in his expression, for the older man took a step back, his hand running nervously through his thinning hair.

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to disrespect–’ he began, but Sol cut him off with a wave of his hand, the fingers glimmering, slivers of microcircuits embedded beneath the skin.

  ‘You are unhappy with the new arrangements?’

  ‘I just don’t understand why–’

  ‘There is a great deal you do not understand about the arrangements,’ Sol continued. ‘For that you have my sympathy. Like you, I am not privy to the reasoning behind my superiors’ decisions. It can be frustrating. But I have been tasked with finalising this power tap, and I will do what is required to ensure it is a success. If you do not feel you can be a part of that I can only say I admire your dedication to your principles and offer you my hand.’

  He extended his right hand, the microcircuits glinting.

  The older man stared at it a moment.

  ‘… No,’ he said. ‘I understand my place. I did not wish to offend.’

  ‘If only the God-Emperor granted all such wishes,’ Sol replied with a tight smile. ‘With that I must bid you farewell. I have a prior engagement and I am already running late.’

  Credence Sorrow was based out of a pristine hab-block he’d named the Memento Mori. While most of the building was given over to his regular operations, he had kept the thirty-third floor entirely for his own private use.

  When Tempes Sol arrived breathless at the building’s main entrance the doorman was waiting, expectant. It was difficult to tell if he’d encountered the man before. The thralls of the Mercator Pallidus all bore a certain similarity, their onyx robes and ivory collars insufficient to mask the wearer’s bulky frame. There was something in the eyes too. Sol felt as though those eyes were looking through him to the meat and bone beneath his skin, but he was greeted graciously enough, the slab of a man offering a low bow as he gestured to the main elevator. Still, he could not ignore the distinct crimson tint that was visible beneath the man’s fingernails – a reminder of his less genteel duties.

  The elevator glided silently upwards, time enough for Sol to adjust his robes and at least attempt to look presentable. When the polished steel doors opened, Credence Sorrow was waiting for him. As always, he was immaculate, every hair perfectly positioned, his robes impeccable. He was clad solely in midnight, except for a gold signet ring on his left hand, set with an amethyst gem.

  ‘My dear Tempes,’ he said, leaning close and planting a chaste kiss an inch from Sol’s cheek. ‘I was starting to worry that something terrible had happened to you.’

  ‘My apologies, I was delayed downhive.’

  ‘I can see that from the state of your boots,’ Sorrow replied. ‘You must have been wallowing in the very dregs of the underhive. Do please enter.’

  Sol crossed the threshold, his footsteps resonating against the polished floor. He glanced down, frowning at the unfamiliar material.

  ‘This is new?’

  ‘Wood. Imported from off-world,’ Sorrow replied with a pained smile. ‘Terrible choice in hindsight – extortionately expensive and requires near constant maintenance. But I wanted to treat myself. I’m sure you understand.’

  He motioned for Sol to follow, gliding soundlessly though the entry hall towards the rear chambers. Sol struggled to keep pace, trying to ignore the clunk of his own footsteps, his dataslate clutched to his chest.

  ‘Auroras is already here,’ Sorrow continued as they threaded a path through the myriad doorways. ‘She just concluded the clean-up after that messy business in Salvation and is really looking forward to seeing you – it’s been an age since we’ve dined together.’

  ‘There was the Dust Falls Symposium.’

  ‘Yes, but our more senior partners did insist on dominating the conversation. I prefer when we three can gather in a more intimate setting. Chew the fat, if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  He turned a corner. Ahead lay the main dining chamber, its doors flanked by servants in sombre robes. Neither was quite the doorman’s stature, but each wore an echo of his expression. They bowed as the guilders approached, grasping the doors’ ivory-white handles and drawing them open.
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  The room beyond appeared almost intimate, the table a modest circle of polished silver, lit only by the ornate ivory chandelier that loomed above. But Sol knew how Sorrow could play with the space, using light and shifting partitions to reconfigure the room to his needs. There had been banquets here where two dozen chairs were arranged in neat rows. Now there were only three, and none were occupied.

  Sol frowned, glancing around the chamber. The candlelight revealed little, but he could just make out a woman’s silhouette by the window, her form framed by the neon glow emanating from Hive City.

  Auroras Drift turned as he entered, her head nodding in acknowledgement but her eyes divulging nothing. The rest of her face was hidden by a gilded respirator, silver cables trailing to a canister discreetly secured at the rear of her corset. Her hands rested on a sceptre of office, adorned with the symbol of the Mercator Temperium.

  ‘Well met, Lord Sol,’ she said. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘And I you, Lady Drift,’ Sol replied with a slight bow. ‘How is the air trade?’

  ‘Buoyant,’ she said without a trace of humour. ‘I have just concluded purifying the plains of Salvation. I hear you secured the Foundas contract from the Mercator Pyros. My congratulations.’

  ‘They elected not to bid for it. I’m surprised you weren’t aware of that.’

  ‘I’ve been busy and neglected to keep pace with your dealings,’ she shrugged smoothly. ‘My apologies for any offence.’

  Before Sol could reply Sorrow stepped between them.

  ‘There can be no offence between friends,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, would you please sit? I have procured some wine from Helmawr’s own vineyards. Don’t ask me how I got it – let’s just say nothing is too good for such lovely rapscallions as yourselves.’

  He clapped an arm around Sol’s shoulder, steering him towards the table, Drift trailing in their wake. Sol moved to sit but Sorrow’s grip suddenly tightened, his ring digging into Sol’s shoulder.

  ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to wake a sleeping zeph.’

  Something bobbed beside the chair, a hideous airborne sack of teeth and stubby limbs. It was snoring from half a dozen mouths at once, the sound reminiscent of a swarm of rats being strangled by a melodeon.

  Drift sat beside the beast, patting it absently on what might have been its head. Sol found his own seat, adjusting his place setting to make room for his dataslate, ignoring the slightly pained look that crossed Sorrow’s face. A servant emerged soundlessly from the shadows, filling their glasses. Sorrow raised his.

  ‘If you will indulge me, I would like to make a toast. To good friends and greater profits.’

  Sol echoed the gesture, taking a sip of burgundy liquor. It was irritatingly perfect. He glanced at Drift. Her respirator was still in place and she drank from a silver tube resembling the proboscis of some grotesque insect. His gaze shifted to Sorrow, who was doing his best to ignore the slurping noise.

  ‘Well then,’ Sorrow said, gaze fixed squarely on Sol. ‘Our first course is something new. I’m not going to say too much, and we’re still playing with the recipe, but the flavour is delectable.’

  More attendants appeared from the shadows that surrounded the table, placing before them dishes of polished ossein upon which a tiny portion of lucid pink mousse quivered expectantly. Whatever his other sins, Sorrow could never be accused of gorging his guests.

  Drift glanced at the appetiser, appraising it as her fingers made a minor adjustment to her faceplate.

  ‘I do wish I could persuade you to remove that device,’ Sorrow sighed. ‘The air in this room is entirely breathable. Your people saw to that.’

  ‘Sadly, I must decline due to a delicate constitution,’ Drift replied. ‘But I have filtered the aroma for impurities and can confirm that what remains is entirely pleasant.’

  ‘Well, that’s gratifying,’ Sorrow smiled, before turning to Sol. ‘And you, my friend? Thoughts?’

  ‘I was thinking about the Catallus contract. I believe you are overseeing the bids?’

  Sorrow tutted, waggling his finger as though scolding a wayward juve.

  ‘My dear friend, I invited you here to sample some of the delicacies we’ve been developing. I need you to focus your refined palate and give me constructive feedback. Once dinner has concluded I will be happy to discuss your little proposal, but for now please focus on your meal. Now – how do you feel about the consistency? Too dense?’

  Drift’s laughter broke Sol from his stupor.

  He blinked, focusing on the glass. He’d drunk too much, the wine pairing perfectly with the main course of charred grox-steak with plum dressing. He had to concede it was excellent. He’d only dined on real grox meat once in his life, but from what he could remember the synthetic meal was virtually identical. He could barely taste the acidic tang common to corpse-starch.

  He hadn’t meant to drink. Perhaps it was nerves. He wanted the presentation to be faultless, his cadence precise. Still, his dining companions did not seem to have noticed his lapse. They were occupied discussing the furnishings.

  ‘I do so adore your chandelier,’ Drift said, gazing at the candles flickering above. ‘Is it a Gi-Ger original?’

  ‘You have a fine eye. Well, two in fact,’ Sorrow replied with a smile. ‘Yes, I was lucky enough to commission this piece and actually watch the artist install the work. His reputation as a genius is richly deserved – what that man can produce from the human spine is truly remarkable.’

  ‘Is that the only medium he’s used?’

  ‘Indeed, each piece handcrafted,’ Sorrow nodded. ‘Expensive, but I felt I was owed something after the profits made from that unfortunate incident in Slate Town.’

  ‘That was the nitrogen leak wasn’t it?’ Sol asked, interrupting. ‘As I recall a thousand dead from a faulty regulator.’

  The barest frown creased Drift’s brow.

  ‘I believe it was not the regulator that was at fault,’ she said, voice terse. ‘The workers miscalculated the processing volume.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sorrow nodded, his expression momentarily grave before brightening. ‘Still, I was fortunate enough to have a team of grinders in the area, so nothing went to waste.’

  ‘And are these taken from the bodies?’ Drift asked, gesturing to the chandelier.

  ‘Would that they were,’ Sorrow replied. ‘That would be real poetry. Sadly, those workers didn’t have the bone density for this sort of piece. This is mainly House Goliath, though I think some of the bobeches were carved from the vertebrae of House Delaque. It is apparently better suited for detail work.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ Drift said. ‘I was not under the impression House Delaque had spines.’

  They both broke into braying laughter.

  ‘What about you, Tempes?’ Sorrow asked, turning to him. ‘How was your main?’

  ‘Filling,’ Sol said. ‘Now, regarding the Catallus contract, I would–’

  ‘Dessert first,’ Sorrow smiled. ‘Let me just freshen your glass.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sol replied as the attendant refilled his drink, ignoring the objection.

  ‘What is for dessert?’ Drift asked. ‘I cannot believe you can top the main.’

  ‘Ah, now this I’m really proud of,’ Sorrow said. ‘I think it will prove popular with Hive Primus’ more prosperous citizens. Luxuriously soft and sweet with just a little crunch. Old Terran recipe, only possible with Grade A refined corpse-starch.’

  ‘Good to know,’ Sol replied. ‘I have heard some rather troubling stories about a contaminated batch turning up downhive.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Sorrow replied with a fixed smile. ‘No doubt just another fanciful tale from the underhive. Then again, I don’t find business taking me downhive much any more. You’re the one with his ear to the und
erground.’

  ‘If by that you mean I listen, then you are correct. I admit it is a tad galling that you do not extend me the same courtesy.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sorrow sighed. ‘If you insist on being a bore then we can do business first and dessert after.’

  He leant back in his chair, glass in hand. ‘Well then?’ he said, nodding to Sol.

  ‘… Are we alone?’

  Sorrow rolled his eyes, rising from his seat and making for the door. He tapped a sequence on a discreet control panel tucked against the frame, before returning to his seat.

  ‘There, the room is hermetically sealed,’ he said. ‘Can we please get on with it?’

  ‘I want to bid for the Catallus contract,’ Sol replied, his fingers dancing across his dataslate.

  ‘Understandable,’ Sorrow nodded, leaning back in his chair. ‘Sadly the bids have already been received and the contract will almost certainly be awarded to representatives from the Mercator Pyros.’

  ‘I can run it more efficiently and reliably,’ Sol continued, handing the slate to Sorrow. ‘On average I can save six per cent in the first year, and that’s not accounting for potential supply disruptions. The promethium pipelines feeding that sector are antiquated – you should anticipate significant delays at least thrice per cycle for maintenance and so on. If you work with me, I can guarantee reliable power.’

  ‘I see,’ Sorrow replied, briefly glancing at the reams of data. ‘Well, I would not question your calculations, but this contract is not just about numbers. There are some political complexities that have to be considered.’

  ‘Nepotism,’ Sol muttered, draining his glass.

  ‘Now that’s unfair,’ Sorrow said. ‘If I were to award you the contract, then the Mercator Pyros might choose to take some of their other business elsewhere. Half my holdings are powered by the Pureburn family. You do not have the infrastructure to fulfil those contracts, they do.’

  ‘The Pureburns!’ Sol spat, slamming his glass down. ‘They’re the worst of the Mercator Pyros. Headed by a geriatric who clings to his privileged position, and by doing so condemns Hive Primus to stagnation.’