Assegai

by S J MacDonald

  No contest, then. The slight, selfish pang he felt at losing the shoreleave he’d been so looking forward to was so fleeting even he was hardly aware of it. In its place came a sense of purpose, rushing up with all the things he would enjoy about this, too. Months out in space – no hassle from the media or anyone. The chance to work with Samartians again, a people for whom he had the highest respect. And the chance to be a semi-passenger, too, on the Fleet’s newest and most advanced warship.

  ‘What about Silvie?’ he asked, turning back to Dix with an enquiring look.

  ‘Whatever she wants, of course,’ Dix felt a rush of relief, seeing that Alex wasn’t going to try to argue this. ‘She can go with the Heron, or with you, or we’ll make arrangements for her to be taken anywhere she wants to go.’

  Alex knew at once that Silvie would choose to go with him. She already liked the Assegai, its aquadeck and its crew. She wasn’t, he knew, very impressed with Therik, didn’t rate its oceans and had already seen as much of it as she wanted to. Davie had been suggesting that he might take her to visit another world while the Fourth was on leave – Flancer, perhaps, the world where he’d spent his own childhood. Given the option of coming with him on the Assegai, though, Alex knew she would take it.

  ‘All right,’ he said, and nodded acceptance.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dix, with heartfelt gratitude for Alex taking it so well. ‘I am sorry – it is totally unfair and unreasonable to ask it of you.’ He had been prepared to make stern speeches about obedience to command, duty and selflessness had they been required, even willing if it came to it to lay down a rank-pulling, ‘it’s an order, and that’s that.’ Alex’s capitulation, though, had disarmed him. ‘I feel bad about it,’ Dix admitted. ‘But it really is an absolute sticking point and so vital for the interests of the League, I really have no choice.’

  Alex gave him a look which conveyed understanding and then, unexpectedly, chuckled.

  ‘I can imagine,’ he confided, as Dix looked a question at him, ‘that the Samartians were not impressed by any argument on the lines that I’m overdue for leave.’

  Dix had to laugh too, shaking his head.

  ‘They were mystified,’ he confessed. ‘And when they finally did understand that we were effectively saying it was more important that you went on holiday than honoured the agreement we’d made at Samart, well… I think ‘unimpressed’ pretty much covers it. I had to apologise, and give them my word, personally, that I would find some way to make this work.’

  ‘We will,’ said Alex. Dix could have hugged him for that, or at least, given him a manly pounding between the shoulder blades, or at least, a firmly gripped handshake and hearty thanks. Actually, he settled for an appreciative grin, covering a surge of gratitude and affection for the man who’d turned ‘I’ into ‘we’ with such good humoured confidence.

  ‘Excellent,’ Dix said, and went on briskly, ‘You can board the Assegai on the 18th and they’ll launch immediately. They’re still on shakedown so it will be a training flight…’ a little sidelong grin at Alex at that, sharing the joke as they both knew the training flight would become operational, ‘but I daresay we’ll find them something to do. Your job will just be to liaise with the Samartians, facilitate the learning exchange, both ways. One of the officers will be Bennet, by the way.’

  He smiled as he saw Alex’s face light up with pleasure at that. Bennet had been the first of her people to board a League ship, venturing across to the Heron in an exchange of junior officers insisted upon by the Samartian high command. It was not, as Alex had understood, that they considered Bennet expendable, any more than he had the young Sub the Fourth had sent in exchange. It was simply that they understood so little about one another that misunderstandings and embarrassment were highly likely. A senior officer in the Samartian service could not lose face, but a junior could make mistakes without irreparable loss of dignity and without causing diplomatic offence, either.

  Alex had liked Bennet very much. The courage and curiosity with which she’d boarded what was, to her, a huge alien ship had won his admiration. He knew exactly how much nerve that took, after all, having done it himself.

  ‘Excellent,’ he echoed. And then, mindful of the effort which Dix had put in to coming to tell him this in person, however difficult a conversation that might be, he gave the First Lord a smile. The limousine, having flicked briefly into hypersonic lanes, was already starting to descend. As Alex’s wristcom adjusted to yet another time-zone, it also flashed up a reminder telling him where he was going and why.

  They were in the Rezame District, it informed him, a national region in the far north, national capital Joklane. He had four engagements here – a visit to a Fleet Veterans Home where the residents were so very very old that they would neither know who he was, nor care, followed by a drop-in inspection at a brigade of high school Fleet Cadets, and a lunch being held in his honour at Joklane City Hall. It was actually mid evening by shipboard time and he’d had lunch three times today already, but it was lunchtime at Joklane so lunch it would be. After which he would transfer to a fighter to be dropped in at the Joklane Millennium Stadium and make his speech. It would, thankfully, be the last of the eighty four stadium appearances, though his schedule remained unrelenting. Even today, after the stadium speech he was due at the Embassy to attend a reception being held for prominent business people keen to explore the commercial opportunities the new relationship with Quarus had thrown open. Quite what he was expected to do in that was a mystery to Alex, particularly given that the only honest thing he could say was that there were no such opportunities. Trying to negotiate trade deals with quarians was about as purposeful as discussing the price of nectar with butterflies. They could not even begin to understand what you were talking about. Alex, however, was merely required to shake hands, be as genial as he could manage and generally ‘promote the benefits of a developing relationship with Quarus.’

  There would be food, of course. There was always food. Far far too much food, and far far too often.

  ‘Just,’ said Alex, already conscious of an uncomfortably replete feeling, with five events still to go before the merciful release of midnight, ‘if you could do something about the catering, Dix…’

  For a moment Dix thought he meant aboard the Assegai, and when he realised that Alex was talking about here and now he was quite taken aback, almost shocked by how casually Alex had changed the subject to something so unimportant. So relatively unimportant, anyway. Then, looking again at the unhealthy slackness of Alex’s skin and the flab he was gaining despite every effort, Dix realised that for Alex at least, this was a far more immediate concern.

  ‘Uh, yes – sorry…’ guilt assailed him as he remembered promising Alex that he wouldn’t be subjected to torture by repeated overfeeding. ‘We have tried,’ he said, ‘and are trying, really, Alex, we are. But you know how it is…’

  Alex did know, only too well, and sighed. Even if his hosts understood that he’d already been crammed full of enough over-rich food to feed him for days, they didn’t seem able to stop themselves serving the glorious banquet prepared for the occasion. So much had already gone into it, for a start, with all the anxious planning of menus and sampling of dishes before the enormous undertaking of cooking and serving a fabulous meal for hundreds of people. And there were, too, issues of pride – not one city on this or any other planet would want to be known as having offered their guest of honour toast and coffee.

  For the same reason, Alex was not in a position to be able to refuse the meals that were set before him. To refuse even to taste it would cause massive offence. And no amount of strategic manoeuvring of food around the plate could disguise the reality of how much of it was left when it was cleared away, so some small part of it, at least, just had to be consumed. Alex knew that there were Admiralty people there, involved right from the menu planning stage and still imploring ‘something very light and simple’ on his behalf even as the meals were being served. But nobody, eve
r, could bring themselves to offer less than their finest.

  ‘Seventy six blancmanges, Dix,’ said Alex, with a quiet but accusing note as the limousine glided down to land.

  Dix made a small, hiccupping noise. Blancmange was a classic Novaterran dessert. In fact it was the classic Novaterran dessert. They did actually have quite a range of desserts, but the only one offworld chefs tended to know about was the blancmange. And this, somehow, had been established as a particular favourite of Alex’s.

  And oh, did the chefs go to town on that. Blancmange was a decorative centrepiece in Novaterran cuisine, often adorned with elaborate sugar-work. Nothing, however, as elaborate as the chefs on Chartsey came up with, each competing to be more spectacular than the last. The actual blancmange, a rather bland set custard, was quite lost under all the astonishing furbelows. It turned up everywhere, carried in to great ta-ra as the crowning glory of banquet after banquet, even making surprise appearances on breakfast buffets. Alex, who was obliged to take first helping from every one, had been keeping count. ‘Seventy six,’ he repeated.

  Dix was still laughing as Alex got out of the car, closing the door quite firmly behind him.

  Four

  By his last day on Chartsey, Alex’s blancmange tally had risen to ninety three. The last eight days, the final week of the visit, had involved a good deal of flitting about to smaller scale events. These, Alex knew, had been selected from all the mass of applications to have him visit all manner of charities, educational establishments, civic venues and private functions. Eighteen thousand elementary schools had put their names in for the chance to have Captain von Strada address their assembly. Twenty three thousand locally-based charities had asked for him to support them with a visit to a fundraiser.

  The Diplomatic Corps had done well, selecting a representative array of these events and scheduling them to minimise the amount Alex had to be bouncing around between time zones. What they hadn’t been able to do was to convince even the smallest and briefest event that it was not necessary to provide anything in the way of refreshment for their guest. Faced with quite fierce instructions that they were not allowed to provide any kind of sit down meal, hosts nonetheless insisted upon providing a buffet, which Captain von Strada, of course, of course, would not be under any pressure whatsoever to partake of. Only when the time came they just had to show him the buffet and offer him a little of this and a little of that, and always in ways which would have made refusal an offence.

  Alex was on medication to prevent him gaining any more weight, but his digestive system was in turmoil. By the end of the month even the sight of a sugar-crusted blancmange was enough to make him want to put a protective arm across his stomach. He didn’t, of course. Dignity was upheld. But by the end, he was counting the hours to the time of release.

  It came, of course, eventually, and with it a surprisingly difficult farewell to the Heron.

  His crew did not want Alex to go. Suspicion had arisen amongst them that this was a first step towards taking Alex out of commanding the Fourth altogether. Feeling was strong that the Admiralty would be keeping him on Chartsey and shunting him into an office.

  The thought had crossed Alex’s mind, too, but Dix had had assured him that he would be returned to Therik at the end of five months with the Fourth ready for him to resume command for their next mission.

  The Heron’s crew, however, were not so easily convinced. They had already lost the other two ships which had been part of the Fourth’s squadron – a shocking blow in itself. The corvette and patrol ship had been sent to Dortmell to work with Customs on anti-drugs operations while the Heron went to Quarus. They had done so well with that that the Senate had directed the Admiralty to extend their stay there on indefinite assignment.

  Alex was happy about that. It was something he’d seen coming and which he was genuinely pleased about. It was great that the other half of the Fourth was doing such good work in anti-drugs operations, and Skipper Milli Walensa had earned that independent command.

  For many on the Heron, though, it felt as if they were being reduced. And they were going home without their skipper. It felt wrong. And he’d spent so much time off the ship in the last month that it felt as if they had already lost him. So the ritual three cheers as he stood at the airlock ready to depart had a somewhat muted air.

  ‘I will,’ said Alex, shaking Buzz’s hand, ‘see you in five months.’

  Buzz smiled back. He was to skipper the ship back to Therik, a routine matter for an officer of his rank and experience. It would, he knew, be rather more difficult to convince the crew that they really hadn’t lost their skipper for good.

  ‘Count on it, dear boy,’ he said, and gave him a brief hug. ‘Have fun,’ he said, and let him go with a pat between the shoulder blades.

  ‘You too.’ Buzz had an enormous family who descended on him at every long leave, keen not only to spend time with him but to sweep him up in loving arms and bear him off to Flancer for keeps. In this they had allies within the Admiralty who were keen to see him go too, for no better reason than that they felt it was unfair for an officer beyond retirement age to be blocking a promotion to which younger officers had a moral right. Buzz, Alex knew, would resist them all. He wasn’t done with adventuring yet. ‘I will see you all,’ Alex looked into the airlock cameras, addressing every member of his crew as if speaking to them individually, ‘at Therik.’ And then, as a parting joke, ‘Be good for Mr Burroughs.’

  And with that, he left the ship.

  Five

  It was a six minute flight from the Heron’s parking orbit to the Assegai. Alex spent all of that time looking forward to the ship he was joining, watching as it emerged on screens.

  It was a magnificent ship. Ten decks of elegant planes formed a sleek outline. Closer to, he could see the massive gun-turret pyramids studded across the hull, the lozenge shape of powerful comms arrays. Below, the carrier deck was sealed off by protective panels, concealing the angular indent in the belly of the ship. The Assegai was carrying fighters. Until the day before, they’d been carrying ten of the Jettoni class, standard deep space fighters in the Fleet. They were equipped for two people to pilot, with a tiny space aft into which a gunner was squeezed.

  Now, Alex knew, there were three Swarm class fighters under that protective outer hull, together with four remaining Jettoes. And that, he knew, was at the request of the Assegai’s new pilot instructor – Shion, of course.

  Shion had apparently taken it as read that where Silvie and Alex were going, she would go too. Nobody had objected, though there’d been some discussion over whether she’d be allowed to work as one of the ship’s officers or accompany Alex as a member of his staff. Shion herself had settled that. She would never accept any role in which she felt herself to be a passenger. She must, she said, be an active contributor to any society in which she lived, and since it was self-evident that she could make the most valuable contribution on the Assegai as a pilot instructor, that was what she would be.

  It was one of his own people who was piloting Alex now, though – recently promoted Chief Petty Officer Jace Higgs, who’d wangled it somehow so as to be duty pilot this watch. As the shuttle approached, the outer hull revealed a hatch, previously invisible, as a panel slid away and exposed the airlock.

  Alex got to his feet, bracing himself for one more ceremony. He had asked if he might be allowed to come aboard through the port airlock, sparing himself and the ship all the hassle of mounting a ceremonial welcome. They were, after all, in the final stages of preparing for launch, so it would be considerate just to come aboard privately.

  Word had come back to him, though, emphatically. No.

  As in so many aspects of Alex’s visit, it had been the media who’d been the prime consideration. The Admiralty’s PR department were alert to anything which might be interpreted as an insult, and allowing him to board a Fleet ship without due ritual would certainly fall under that heading.

  They were right to be sensitiv
e. The media had worn out their capacity for unbounded admiration in the first couple of weeks. Week three had seen more controversial headlines creeping in, criticising this or that aspect of the visit. By the eighty fourth stadium appearance, after all, making exactly the same speech as he had at the first, there was realistically nothing left for the media to report. In week four, they had begun – tentatively, at first – to be critical of the visit itself. Just the day before, a leading economist had featured in the headlines with a shocking estimate of just how much the visit had cost, not only to provide, but in lost production because of all those city-wide parties. And that morning… but Alex was still, as yet, happily oblivious to what had happened that morning.

  As he got up, so did Jace Higgs, coming to stand this side of the airlock so as to form part of the honour guard. He was, Alex saw, looking at him like a spaniel seeing its human departing with suitcases.

  He had more reason than most to feel attached. It was on his account, originally, that Alex had fought the Admiralty with such ferocity that Dix Harangay had eventually put his ship onto irregular terms of service just to shut him up. That, at the time, had been the only way in which Alex could get back the crewman who’d been a helpless victim of Admiralty politics. Eventually, and very quietly indeed, the Admiralty had admitted that Higgs should never have been sent to military prison in the first place, and paid compensation accordingly. Jace Higgs could have left the service then, with enough money to set himself up for life. But here he still was, a bedrock member of the Heron’s company.

  ‘Come back to us, skipper,’ Jace said, in the moment before the airlock opened.

  Alex looked back at him and grinned. He had stood sponsor to Jace Higg’s child, a boy who was currently getting into mischief at the Fourth’s base on Therik.

  ‘Be sure of it,’ he said, the nearest he could come to promising something when there was, after all, always a remote possibility that something would happen to prevent him from keeping his word. And Alex would never give his word unless he was entirely sure that he could deliver on it. But that ‘be sure of it’ was enough, a personal assurance from the skipper carrying more than enough weight for Jace. ‘Enjoy your leave,’ said Alex, and in the next moment the airlock was swinging open so Jace moved smartly into attention and assumed the general demeanour of a non-communicative robot.