‘Well, very difficult sums, evidently,’ said Dix. ‘And that’s all you’re getting on that.’
Faced with a barrage of demands for the truth about the Levets, the First Lord smiled.
‘I can confirm that Dr Naos was instrumental in making calculations that enabled the Heron to localise their search, and there is no doubt that that, very directly, saved their lives. The lifepod would not have been discovered in time if standard search patterns had been followed, so both Dr Naos’s calculations and Skipper von Strada’s decision to prioritise searching that area first are to be commended.’ He ignored the hoots, whistles and derisory cat-calls that inevitably greeted any praise of Alex von Strada.
‘So you’re not, again, even going to consider removing him from his command, despite the fact that he blew up a space station at Sixships, and that he lied, here, misrepresenting what happened in the rescue even to the Levets themselves?’
Dix looked back into the glare of cameras, blandly official and very slightly bored. ‘I can not comment on the demolition of the Amity moonbase, as I have stated before, because it is subject to official review. With regard to the rescue of Mr and Mrs Levet, it was entirely legitimate to give them a non-classified version of events, given that Dr Naos’s presence on the ship was, at the time, classified.’
‘And will you comment on the rumour that the Fourth has only come clean about the presence of Katie Naos on the Heron because a child, a child, spotted her aboard the ship?’
‘I will only say that we became aware that her presence had become known to members of the public, and that being the case, Skipper von Strada, acting with my full knowledge and approval, issued a statement.’
‘So it is a security cockup, then. It was supposed to be classified but it got leaked. Will there be an enquiry into that, your lordship?’
Dix handled that, and the rest of the barrage, with superb aplomb. He waved aside Alex’s apology, too, when they met, later that day.
‘These things happen,’ he said, philosophically. ‘And it does just go with the territory where you’re concerned. Relax, Alex. It’s a social occasion. You could at least try to enjoy it.’
The occasion, indeed, was the tea party Alex had himself suggested to Bull Stuart. In the light of what Shion had had to say to the president, it was no longer being held in her honour in any official way, but she had been invited to it, along with Alex and Davie North, as an informal gathering.
Alex did, in fact, enjoy it, rather to his own surprise. Bull Stuart had invited guests, with the possible exception of Harry Alington, that Alex could be at his ease with. And he didn’t feel the need to poker up, even with Harry Alington. Davie, too, was on fine form. Since the invitation had said ‘informal’ he was gracing the occasion in a pair of violently coloured surfer shorts and his favourite flickball t-shirt. His retinue had, indeed, made extensive preparations for the visit including ensuring that the route to and the reception room itself were fully decontaminated. Two of Davie’s own staff were stationed in the galley, too, ensuring that food prep came up to their exacting standards. Davie himself, though, could not have been easier to please. He mingled cheerfully with the other guests, consuming improbable quantities of cake as he charmed them with friendly conversation. After about half an hour of this he strolled over to Alex, his manner one of smiling innocence.
‘I am now,’ he informed him, ‘on first name terms with everybody here.’ A slight but pointed pause. ‘Captain.’
Alex laughed. ‘Good for you,’ he said, and after an identical slight but pointed pause, ‘Mr North.’
Davie hooted merrily, scoring a point for Alex with a finger-stroke in the air between them.
‘I really thought I’d get you, that time,’ he admitted, then, eyeing Alex up and down appraisingly, ‘Still, it’s good to see you out and about.’ He glanced across the room to where Shion was laughing at one of Dix’s stories. The expression in his eyes softened, and just for a moment, Alex glimpsed a rather forlorn regret. ‘Good to see Shion having fun, too,’ Davie observed.
Alex agreed, making no comment at all on the feelings that he’d noticed. Whether Davie had intended for him to see that or not, there was nothing to be said about it. If Davie’s feelings were warmer towards Shion than those of a friend, it was entirely obvious that her feelings for him were, at best, those of an older sister for an amusing kid brother. He might be able to overcome all obstacles of difference in species and culture, but when a woman saw you as a kid brother, there was just no hope.
If his heart was aching, though, Davie gave no further sign of it, and was soon laughing very merrily, too.
Alex managed not to, because he felt it would be rude to laugh at Harry Alington’s discomfiture. But he stored it away, to chuckle at later.
Harry was being, well, Harry. He had obviously got over his resentment at not being told about Shion, in his delight at being able to meet her informally like this. He was fluting, affected, unbearably precious. When he got an opportunity to talk to Shion he was almost quivering with the ecstasy of meeting royalty.
‘Such an honour, your grace,’ he oozed, and Alex would not have been the slightest bit surprised to see him bow. Calling her ‘your grace’ was a faux pas in itself, since it had been made quite clear to all the guests that she was to be addressed as Shion.
‘Shion, please,’ she said, her own manner socially charming, with that ‘darling’ note in her voice Alex recognised as a sign that she was on company manners. ‘And we have met before, of course,’ she said, meaning that to be a gentle reminder of their previous introduction aboard the Heron. It had been a passing courtesy, no more, as Alex showed the corvette skipper round his ship. Harry had taken no notice of her at the time – she was only a Sub, nobody important, barely even a blip on his social radar.
‘Indeed – at the banquet,’ Harry said, choosing to forget that now-embarrassing first encounter. ‘A wonderful occasion, just magnificent. Such glory!’
Shion looked at him with mild surprise.
‘Glory?’ she queried.
‘Yes, yes!’ he gesticulated in the way he usually did when talking about the Glory of the Sixty Four, the Fraternity of the Ring, the beauties of opera or some other high-faluting thing he was burbling on about. ‘Seeing you come into the banqueting hall with your attendants, like that, was just breathtaking, so beautiful, so glorious.’
Shion raised an eyebrow.
‘That isn’t a word I would use, myself,’ she observed, pleasantly, but with a faint note of bewilderment. ‘For us, to appear in such a role is an act of humility. It requires, after all, that you place yourself entirely into the hands of others, utterly dependent upon them to dress and to feed you, reduced to the status of an infant. It is something we carry out with grace, to be sure, and I hope I conducted myself with proper grace, yesterday evening. Such events are, you see, symbolic amongst my people, symbolic of the inter-dependency between those of what you would call the ruling class, and those who undertake work at their direction. It is an act of grace to acknowledge our dependency on them. For me, independence, the ability to dress myself in clothes I choose to wear, feed myself by my own labour, meet people as their equal, is far more important, that’s real.’
Harry just didn’t know what to say. Seeing his flabbergasted look, Davie went off into peals of laughter.
‘You’ll never get him to understand,’ he told Shion, through his giggles. ‘He actually thinks it would be wonderful to have a personal retinue waiting on him day and night.’
Shion’s expression conveyed ‘Weird!’, though she murmured polite surprise, and Alex was obliged to turn away, so as not to embarrass the other skipper even further by laughing at him.
There was one more revelation at the event. Shortly before it broke up, Davie strolled over to Alex again and asked him casually to look after Terese, while she was travelling with him. It took Alex a moment to realise that he meant Senator Machet.
‘She’s a cousin,’ D
avie told him, as Alex looked back enquiringly. ‘Very distant, even by our standards – branches of our families are related by marriage eight generations back.’ He spoke with the assurance of someone who could name every member of his and associated family trees for the past two thousand years and more. ‘But still, you know, a relative. Something of a black sheep, obviously.’ He saw the quirk of Alex’s eyebrows and grinned.
‘Not obviously.’ He observed, and explained, quite kindly, ‘our families generally don’t go into politics. It’s considered ethically compromising – our role is very much to stand apart, supporting the principles of democratic government, not attempting to take part in that government ourselves. Terese, though, is something of a social crusader. She made the absurd decision as a teenager to attempt to live for a year on minimum wage, and the experience has, frankly, warped her judgement. She’s a lovely person, I’m quite fond of her myself, but it is only fair to say that our families do consider her to be, you know, more than a bit out there. Identifying problems in the way government is run is one thing, after all, but actually standing for election on a campaign of addressing those issues has taken her over the line we imposed on ourselves many generations ago. We don’t have any direct contact with her now, obviously, since she became a Senator. But I still have a certain family feeling towards her, and I’d appreciate you taking particular care of her.’
Alex gave him a puzzled look, working that one out. Davie had to know that such a request was entirely out of order, and that Alex would snub him for it, very properly. He looked at Davie’s angelic smile, and broke into a grin, himself.
‘Just how furious is she going to be when she finds out you told me that, and asked me that?’ he queried, and knew he was right when Davie widened his eyes, looking like a hurt child.
‘Captain!’ he reproached. ‘As if I could have any other motive than concern for my dear, dear cousin.’
Alex gave him a speaking look, and Davie sniggered.
‘Okay, payback,’ he admitted. ‘She wouldn’t come,’ he gestured at the tea-party. ‘She called me a social parasite with the dress sense of a ten year old. The social parasite thing, okay, she’s entitled to her opinion on that, though I like to think I do enough for society to justify my existence. But the dress sense thing, that hurt.’
Alex looked at his green and purple surfer shorts and the orange t-shirt, and politely refrained from comment. Davie laughed, eyeing Alex’s uniform in return. Alex was in shipboard rig, since the occasion was an informal one. Shipboard rig was many things – comfortable, practical, and high quality protective clothing, too. Nobody, however, could describe it as glamorous. Davie, too, politely refrained from comment, and Alex grinned back. As so often with Davie North, he felt a sense of connection with him, of communication without the need for words.
‘Well, you may be assured that we will take every care of Senator Machet, as we do of all our passengers,’ Alex said, mock-formally, and Davie chuckled.
‘I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire,’ he said, but did not elaborate.
Alex did not expect to get on with the Senator at all, other than in fulfilling his obligations as her host. He had every expectation that she was going to be a time consuming nuisance, an imposition to be endured with courtesy. When he was told next morning that she would be coming aboard in the afternoon, he acknowledged that philosophically. The president’s ship would be leaving that evening, along with the Eagle and patrol ship escorts.
‘How many people is she bringing with her?’ Alex enquired. A request had been made, with all due courtesy, that the Senator limit her retinue to no more than five. Alex was not expecting her to bring servants with her, but was under the impression that Senators did not go anywhere without a host of aides, secretaries, publicity managers and security people. She would not need to bring her own security for a stay aboard ship, but they were assuming she’d want at least some of her own staff.
‘None, sir.’ Arie McKenna had been detailed to make the arrangements with the Senator’s people, and still looked a little surprised, herself, at how easy that had been. ‘It’s just going to be her,’ she clarified, as Alex gave her a startled look. ‘Though she does, I gather, have quite a lot of baggage – her aide mentioned a couple of crates.’
‘Oh,’ said Alex, and then, weighing up the inconvenience of large quantities of baggage against the absence of the expected gaggle of aides, smiled. ‘Well, that’s no problem.’
The crates, along with several suitcases, were brought aboard during the course of the day, accompanied by members of the Senator’s staff who saw them safely stowed in the hold and in her quarters, then departed. The Senator herself arrived, as scheduled, at 1700.
Alex was there to meet her at the airlock, as her status required. He was in a very happy mood, too. Buzz had surprised him at lunchtime by handing him a shoreleave pass. Alex’s immediate protest that he was far, far too busy to take leave had been silenced by Buzz telling him that the First Lord had himself, personally, instructed Buzz to see to it that Alex had some time off the ship.
There was no arguing with that, but as Alex resigned himself to having to spend the three hour pass on Karadon, wondering whether Quill would be free to spend the afternoon with him, Buzz had sprung the real surprise. He had arranged, he told him, for Alex to spend the afternoon aboard the Ladygo, the V-2-8 racing yacht that had arrived at the station not long after they had, themselves.
Alex had spent a blissful afternoon aboard the V-2-8. There had, to be sure, been an initial awkwardness as the crew had welcomed him aboard. Alex was so infamous from media reports, after all, and though they’d been assured by Buzz and by many other spacers that those reports were entirely unfounded, it was still a bit of a daunting experience, meeting him.
That awkwardness, however, did not last five minutes beyond an invitation to see the yacht’s engines. The fanatical gleam in Alex’s eyes and the nature of his questions had made it obvious that he was a fellow worshipper at the shrine of the holy V-2-8, and before long they’d all been talking tech so fast they’d completely forgotten to be uncomfortable. By the time he came back to the Heron, Alex had even had the dream-come-true opportunity to take the helm, as the Ladygo’s crew had taken the yacht out of parking orbit so he could take it for a bit of a spin. He had shaken Buzz’s hand when he went back aboard, thanking him, and would certainly spend many hours, over the next few weeks, telling him and anyone else who was interested just how perfect the V-2-8 was.
For right now, though, he’d just had time to shower, change and deal with the most urgent files before having to go to the airlock and welcome Senator Machet.
‘Thank you, skipper.’ She shook hands with him, briefly, her manner cordial. She was dressed as he’d seen her before, in an expensive business suit, hair and makeup salon perfect. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties, with sea-green eyes, ash-blonde hair and a cultured, central worlds accent. Alex could see no resemblance between her and Davie North at all, though there was no reason really why there would be, the relationship between them being so tenuous. ‘No, I don’t want to be any trouble,’ she assured him, in response to his offer to escort her to her quarters and be at her disposal, then, for a tour of the ship. ‘I’ll be perfectly happy with the usual orientation.’ She smiled at Rangi, ‘If Dr Tekawa wouldn’t mind?’
Rangi beamed. ‘Please, call me Rangi,’ he requested, and took her away, already chatting with his usual boyish enthusiasm.
Alex went to the command deck, feeling cautiously pleased at this beginning. She might well turn out to be a nightmare, later on, wanting to know the ins and outs of everything from command policy to the operation of the laundry, but for right now, at least, she wasn’t being any bother. He was peripherally aware of her being shown around the ship, greeting people courteously as Rangi introduced them, and demonstrating calm competence in the negotiating of zero-gee ladderways. But he had, as always, plenty of other things to occupy him. One of
those things, today, was a request from Shion to be allowed to launch the fighters for an honour escort as Fleet Alpha departed the station.
‘You do that, don’t you?’ she queried, as Alex looked doubtful. ‘Flying displays, in honour of VIPs?’
‘Well, yes,’ Alex said. ‘Though our fighters aren’t actually operational yet, and that’s normally something that’s only done for ceremonial events. I could, I suppose, authorise it as a training flight, and we could make it an unofficial send-off.’ He looked at the hope on her face, and smiled. ‘No superhuman manoeuvres though, right?’
Shion made a cross-my-heart gesture, grinning delightedly.
‘Thanks, skipper!’
So, as the Fleet Alpha prepared to depart on schedule at 2100 that evening, the Heron launched their fighters. Shion, acting as wing commander, was piloting her favourite Firefly. Technically all three fighters were identical, but any pilot knew that individual craft all had their little quirks, a particular feel, and Shion said that Firefly was more joyful than the others. Jace Higgs was on her right wing, piloting Bluebottle, and Hali Burdon was on her left, in Wasp. Shion had said that the three of them had been practising a routine, in simulators, and had promised that the display would be a credit to them.
It was all of that, and then some. The Fleet’s official fighter display team, based at Chartsey, might have had the edge in set-piece manoeuvres, but the Heron’s wing was every bit their equal in close-order stunts. Shion had obviously been watching footage of the official display team in putting together her own routine, but with her own particular spin on that. The fighters orbited the station again and again, switching to a new mode of flight every time they passed the presidential transport – spins, tumbles, wingtip manoeuvres, precision flying at its best.
The spacers certainly appreciated the show. They knew, after all, how difficult the swarm class fighters were to pilot, and it was obvious to anyone who knew anything about spacecraft that the Fourth was now flying theirs with the stabilisers off.
XD:317 (Fourth Fleet Irregulars) Page 41
