Excerpt from What Hope Wrought, coming February 2016

Admiral Vikensa had a private galley above the mess. He had adopted a pose for me: he faced away, at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. The sun was going down in a storm of orange and red. When I came in, he turned to face me, leaned against the plate glass.
I hate posers.
I popped a salute and he returned it casually. “At ease,” he said.
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“I think you want me to help find you a boat.” His accent was slick, sexy. Spanish, maybe. He seemed to know it, too.
“How do you know that, Admiral?”
“Why else would soldiers risk getting their feet wet?” he said.
“Good question. We were just looking for a safe harbor, so to speak. The boat thing came up as my lieutenant analyzed some data. We need all the nuclear vessels not registered with the fleet.”
He gestured, indicating the table between us. “Perhaps you will join me for some decent food. The Wizard says you have been in the field for some time.”
He was creeping me out. I wanted to say ‘no.’
“Thank you, Admiral,” I said instead. Mission first.
“Call me Umiel,” he said. He sat, took covers off a pair of dishes. “Chicken a la king, broccoli florets, potatoes au gratin.”
“Beats jellyfish,” I said.
“That it does.” He spooned some food onto the plate in front of me as I sat.
“Are you eating?” I said.
“Rank has privileges, as they say, but I think if my crew eats processed jellyfish, I eat processed jellyfish. But for special guests, I put on this little show. Go ahead, eat.”
“Special guests?” I sniffed at the food, wary because he wasn’t going to have any.
“The Wizard sent you, yes? Directly? That makes you special.”
“What do you know about him?”
He picked up a heavy glass, poured water from a carafe. “Glacial ice runoff, from the last of the glaciers around the North Pole. This water is a million years old or more. All Earth’s water is so old, in essence, or even older. Did you know most of the water you drink came here from space, riding in comets?”
“Nothing, then?” I said.
“Oh, much more than nothing. But what can I say? What he chooses to reveal... A man should be permitted his discretions.”
“What about indiscretions?”
“I prefer,” he said, “not to indulge in them.”
“Then what is all this about?” I set down my fork, having tasted none of the food.
“Have you composed a poem?”
“You’re confusing me,” I said. “Are you able to find the ship we want? Are you willing to do so? And am I free to go, Admiral?”
“Yes, and yes, and yes. And this: before going into battle, the ancient Samurai would compose their death poem. A few lines only, usually, to express their hopes for a noble death, that they might die well. And to accept that the outcome of the battle might be dissolution. The acceptance helped them perform legendary feats of heroism and courage, such as cutting out their own entrails in ritual seppuku. Noble nihilism in a barbaric era.”
“That’s what this dinner is for, then.”
“Yes.”
I picked up the fork, tasted the chicken. After years of artificial food and processed jellyfish, it was an amazing flavor, texture, temperature. Warm and creamy, sweet and savory at once. It tasted like a spring long past, a gathering with family passed an age ago. Like youth. I was almost getting used to such luxuries.
“This vessel’s captain is sending coordinates and a transponder frequency to your lieutenant now.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“I said, call me Umiel,” he said.
He stood, turned back into the window. The sun was almost gone now but the riot of sunset continued, augmented now by a literal storm on the horizon: lightning stroked the sea from a low sky while the sunburst colors faded into purple. The Admiral slowly became a silhouette, then just a shadow as the room darkened. No lights came on.
When my plate was empty, flavors clinging to my teeth and tongue, I stood slowly to attention. And said:
“Once, when I was young,
“I tasted fine things, green things.
“But tonight is dark.”
Umiel didn’t move, didn’t say anything, didn’t turn around. If he could see my reflection in the plate glass I could not tell. I turned and left, eight strides to the door. Turned and saluted the dark, closed the door behind me.