Alex logged it, and told Buzz, and by default the rest of the crew, too, ‘It’s a go.’
A cheer went up, though it would have been unlikely for the mission to be pulled at that stage.
‘Any new information?’ Buzz queried, meaning any information that might have been gleaned from the Solarans.
Alex checked, and grinned.
‘The Diplomatic Corps has done a new translation of the Song of the Alari,’ he said. ‘According to them, it should read ‘He or She wanders in the gentle rain, thoughts of eternity, the flowers are falling.’’
‘I prefer our version,’ Buzz said, considering. But they were both busy, then, diving into the usual stacks of official communications from the Admiralty. Alex was trying to work out why the Records Office was claiming not to have received copies of their water consumption figures at the last time of filing, when a call came through from Admiral Vickers’ adjutant, telling him that the admiral wanted to see him in his office immediately.
Alex did not sigh, because Admiral Vickers was a flag officer and he would not set a bad example to his crew. So he just changed his uniform and went, leaving Buzz to carry on with the paperwork.
It was, Alex thought, quite possible that Admiral Vickers had received a letter from Dix Harangay, too, perhaps reminding him of his orders to give Alex full cooperation, or stressing how important his mission was. He wasn’t expecting, of course, that the admiral would apologise and offer whatever he might be able to do now to assist him. But he did think that Old Knickers might try to cover himself, here, with an on-record meeting trying to justify why he hadn’t given Alex the help he’d asked for.
Alex, however, had no idea what he was walking into. Though he knew it wasn’t good, the moment he saw the look of gloating triumph on the admiral’s mottled face.
‘Ah, von Strada!’ Admiral Vickers said, in the nearest Alex had seen to him being pleased to see him. And not in a good way, either. The admiral had a document in his hand, actually printed off on hard copy, thin plastic, as if it was something he intended to treasure, even to have framed. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that you have some questions to answer.’ He was clearly enjoying himself, dwelling on the moment. ‘Serious questions.’ He flourished the document in his hand. ‘Tell me, von Strada, did you really think that you could get away with it? Your officers and crew may be too misguided or intimidated to speak out, but you surely didn’t believe that you could continue to control civilians, once they’d left the ship?’
Since Alex had no idea what he was talking about, he just stood there, waiting for the admiral to stop relishing his gloat and tell him what was going on.
‘I have here,’ said the admiral, and having tasted the words, liked them so much that he said them again, ‘I have here,’ another flourish of the document, ‘a complaint filed against you, jointly signed by Professor Candra Pattello and Ms Tassandra Curlow.’
Alex maintained neutral gaze, though Davie North at least would have been able to see the tiny flicker that gave away how astounded he was by that. If he’d been reacting as he felt, indeed, he’d have said ‘What?’ and looked as bewildered as he was astonished. Candra Pattello had left the ship before Tass Curlow came aboard. There had been a few days when Candra Pattello was staying on Karadon and Tass was back and forth to the station, too, but as far as Alex was aware, the two of them had never met. And what complaint? The only thing the two of them had in common was that they’d both been obliged to leave the ship against their will, though for very different reasons. Tass might have been a bit of a nuisance at times, with her highly emotional pleas to be allowed to stay aboard and become a member of the Fourth herself, but she was harmless, amusing, someone they liked. Had they met at Chartsey, Alex wondered? That seemed possible: the frustrated student, angry that the Fourth wouldn’t take her ambition to become a spacer seriously and had packed her off home like a kid, and the embittered academic, furiously resentful and blaming them for being forced off what she’d considered to be her project. But even if they’d met and fired their grievances off in some kind of joint complaint, that should not affect Alex, here. Such complaints would be handled by the Admiralty, and Admiral Vickers had to know that.
‘It is,’ the admiral told him, with naked malevolence, ‘an accusation of physical assault against you, von Strada. Detailed, specific allegations of you assaulting a member of your crew – and not allegations, these, from protest groups, that you can dismiss, but witness statements from highly respected people who were actually passengers aboard your ship. Such allegations are so serious, from such credible source, such very credible source, so very serious, that I have no choice but to relieve you of your command pending full investigation. You are hereby so relieved. Furthermore, I am of the view that the allegations are so serious, and the probability of your attempting to interfere with witnesses and even to intimidate the crewmember involved so high, I see no option but to place you under arrest while full investigations are carried out.’ He touched a control on his desk and two very set-faced security people came in. ‘You will surrender your weapon immediately,’ the admiral told him.
It was, Alex could see, one of the happiest moments the admiral had enjoyed in a very long time.
Alex handed over his gun, saying nothing. He said nothing when the admiral told the Lt in charge of the security detail to arrest him, either. Nor did he respond when the Lt went through the required ritual of telling him, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of assault. You do not have to say anything and are advised not to do so until you have benefit of independent legal advice.’
Part of Alex wanted to laugh. It was just so utterly ludicrous – the only possible ‘assault’ that he could think the civilians could mean was that daft story going the rounds at Karadon, picked up by the media, alleging that Alex had punched one of his crew for being cheeky. But it couldn’t be that, surely – it just made no sense.
The largest part of Alex, though, recognised that this was no joke. He knew there was no point even trying to talk to the admiral about it, and that that indeed was what Admiral Vickers was hoping for, that he’d protest his innocence, demand to see the allegations and try to explain them to him then and there.
Alex knew better. Once due process had been activated in the Fleet on such serious charges as these, no appeal to authority to drop the charges would be considered. Investigations would proceed, with all the stately, grinding progress of a glacier. Alex would not be allowed copies of the allegations made against him until he had been interviewed. Then, after he was officially charged with the specific offence, his lawyer could ask for copies of charge-sheet documents and start to work with him on his defence. If the matter was handled expeditiously, it might come to the preliminary enquiry hearing within a few days. That hearing would determine whether there was a case to answer at a full court martial. If that was the ruling, he’d be taken back to Chartsey for that. And if he was found guilty of striking a member of his crew, he would find himself not only dishonourably discharged but very likely serving time in the same military prison he’d saved Jace Higgs from.
That wasn’t going to happen, he knew that. He could not be found guilty of assault because whatever allegations the civilians had made, he’d never laid a hand on any member of his crew, and he could prove it, too. Everything that happened on his ship was recorded, after all. Presenting that evidence, certified recordings of whatever incident they were claiming was assault, should get the case dismissed at the preliminary enquiry.
It was apparent, though, that Admiral Vickers was going to drag that out just as long as he could, milking it for all the malicious pleasure he could get out of humiliating him.
And it could not, obviously, be anything less than humiliating to be escorted from the admiral’s office, taken to the brig and processed into it as a prisoner in detention. He had to surrender his wristcom and all the contents of his pockets and sign a form to confirm that they had been properly listed. He had to be read his rights in
custody and sign to say that that had been done and that he had understood. He was asked if he wanted the services of a Fleet defence attorney or whether he’d be employing a lawyer privately. He asked, in a perfectly steady voice, that the Embassy be asked to provide a suitably qualified legal representative for him. Then he was put into a cell and told that he would be interviewed once his lawyer arrived. A rather anxious petty officer brought him a cup of tea, unasked. Then they locked the door and left him alone.
Alex sat at the tiny table, looking at the cup of tea. For the rest of his life, he would remember that cup – standard Fleet issue, blue outside, white within, cheap nasty tea from a vending machine, murky with powdered milk. Alex didn’t touch it. He just sat there, entirely expressionless, watching it get cold, a greasy scum forming on the surface.
He was there for seventy eight minutes, completely silent, completely alone. It was a terrible room – terrible in its bleak, hygienic officialdom. There was a regulation bunk with a thin regulation cover, stamped ‘Property of the Fleet’. There was a shower and lavatory with a modesty screen that would only conceal the torso, with a notice stating that prisoners might be monitored by security at any time for their own safety. There was a larger notice on the wall by the little table, listing prisoner’s rights. There were two small, hard, uncomfortable chairs facing each other over the table. There was a small holovision screen, but this was currently turned off, displaying a notice instead that explained that prisoners awaiting interview were not permitted outside calls or access to news broadcasts in circumstances where it was felt this might compromise investigation of the case.
Alex had no doubt that Admiral Vickers would have given a statement to the media already, announcing that he had relieved him of his command pending investigation into allegations that he had assaulted a member of his crew. Even when he was found innocent of those charges – and Alex would not allow himself to believe even for one moment that there could be any other outcome – the allegations would have been made, publicly, the arrest known.
Alex did not care about his public reputation. He would not have said, even, that his reputation in the Fleet mattered to him a great deal. Today, though, he learned that it did matter. And he learned, too, that humiliation had a form. It was a cup of cold greasy tea, congealing on a table.
He had nothing to do but sit and wait. Wait, and think. So he sat, and waited, and thought. This, he decided, definitely counted as an emergency that was preventing him from carrying out his mission. He could hardly believe that Admiral Vickers was really doing this to him, sabotaging the Fourth’s mission like this when he had to know, surely had to know that there was no way Alex von Strada would ever commit assault against a member of his crew or anybody else. But there it was – Dix Harangay had been right. Tari Snowden had been right. Buzz Burroughs had been right. Even Davie North had been right, shaking his head dubiously all those weeks ago and telling Alex, ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ over Candra Pattello heading to Chartsey.
They were all right, all of them, and Alex had been wrong. Arrogant, naive, so sure that he could handle anything that Knickers Vickers threw at him, so sure that the admiral would not betray the service both of them were sworn to, that he would put the Fourth’s mission above his personal feelings.
Thank you, sir, Alex thought, sending silent thanks to Dix Harangay for his foresight, his gut feeling that something like this might happen. Once his lawyer arrived, Alex decided, he would explain that he had confidential orders on the ship, arrange for that file to be opened, and play whatever ace Dix Harangay had given him. In the meantime, he would just sit here quietly and wait.
By the time the door opened, it felt like he had been in there for hours.
‘Your Excellency,’ the Lt who’d arrested him was standing at the door, ‘you’re being released.’
Alex gave him a look of freezing rebuke, in the moment before he recognised that the Lt did not appear to be mocking him, but instead seemed oddly embarrassed. And the ‘you’re being released’ part was encouraging, at least – perhaps the Embassy had come through for him already. Ambassador Snowden to the rescue. It was a comforting thought.
He got up, finding that there was another man out in the corridor with the Lt – a middle aged man in a central worlds business suit who he vaguely recalled meeting briefly at the Embassy reception.
‘Legal Attaché Tom Simpkins, your Excellency,’ the man introduced himself with a crisp handshake. ‘I do apologise for the length of time it has taken to obtain your release.’
Alex had absolutely no idea at all why the legal attaché was also addressing him as ‘your Excellency’, but it seemed wise to go along with it, since this was evidently part of the plan that was getting him out of here. So he just inclined his head, coldly dignified.
They gave him his belongings back at the charge desk, and as he put his wristcom back on he began to feel better.
‘No complaints about your treatment I hope, sir,’ said the petty officer who’d brought him the tea, then corrected himself quickly, ‘your Excellency.’
Alex just glanced at him and said nothing. He knew he was being unfair, with that. Bringing him the tea might have been an act of kindness, or sympathy. Alex suspected, though, that the petty officer had merely been hedging his bets, trying not to offend the skipper in case he got off. And it would be a long time before Alex would be able to drink Fleet issue tea again.
The Legal Attaché took him straight to an airlock, where a shuttle was waiting. It was one of the Heron’s shuttles. Jace Higgs was aboard, in the pilot’s place. He took one look at the skipper’s face and then focused all his attention on pilot controls, saying nothing at all.
‘If I may be of any further assistance, your Excellency, please do not hesitate to ask,’ said the legal attaché, and with that, and another brisk handshake and a nod, walked off.
Hoping that somebody would explain to him very soon why he had suddenly become ‘your Excellency’ and on what basis he had been released, Alex sat on the shuttle, a little dazed and very confused.
That state of bewilderment was not helped when the shuttle arrived at the Heron, just a minute or two later, and the hatch opened to reveal Buzz, grinning hugely at him.
‘Welcome back, your Excellency,’ he said, against a background of the crew yelling triumphant cheers. And as Alex looked at him with helpless incomprehension, Buzz told him, ‘And congratulations. You’re a presidential envoy.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘I just don’t understand,’ Alex said.
It was a crowded ten minutes later. He and Buzz were sitting in his daycabin, looking at documents open on the desk between them.
One of those documents was a letter of accreditation appointing Shipmaster Alexis Sean von Strada as a special envoy, empowered to act on behalf of the League President. It was signed by Marc Tyborne personally.
Presidents, Alex knew, appointed many special envoys – it was part of the routine process of government, with worlds so far-flung that it took weeks for mail to get back and forth to Chartsey. Special envoys were usually empowered to act in situations where there was dispute between central government and a system senate, beyond the ability of the League Ambassador on scene to deal with. They were trouble-shooters, appointed by the president but acting, of course, on behalf of the Senate. It was usually a temporary role, often a particular senator appointed to it, but sometimes diplomatic or military personnel, too. ‘Military personnel’ for this purpose, however, almost always meant very distinguished generals and admirals. Not, generally, frigate skippers.
Alex was still reeling from the shock of discovering that he was, indeed, an ‘Excellency’, at least for the duration of his appointment.
He was not the only one. The first person he’d spoken to was Tari Snowden – he’d gathered, by then, that she had been instrumental in securing his release, and had wanted to thank her. Tari, though, had been quite stiffly reserved, giving him a ‘you are entitled
to our full support and assistance, your Excellency’ before adding, with cool reproach, ‘I do wish that you had told me.’
Alex was honest with her.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said, and as she gave him a look that asked how anyone could not know they held one of the highest ranking appointments in the League, he explained, ‘Admiral Harangay gave me the letter in a sealed file and told me only to open and use it in case of emergency. I had no idea what was in it, myself.’
Tari had already been told that by Buzz, in fact, but she’d found it so hard to believe that she was sure, really, that Alex had to have been told what weighty appointment he was carrying. As she saw from the sincerity on his face, though, that he really hadn’t, she relented, shook her head, and laughed.
‘Well, you’re it, now!’ she observed.
‘Not for one moment longer than I have to be,’ said Alex, with a fervent note.
He was rather less forthcoming with President Tanaya, giving him a modified version of the truth.
‘You didn’t think,’ the president said, making a personal call that Alex had to break off speaking with the ambassador to answer, ‘to mention this?’ ‘This’ was a copy of the letter of accreditation, which the president was flourishing a hard copy of much as Admiral Vickers had the allegations from Candra Pattello and Tass Curlow.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Alex said, feeling that the president had every right to be offended, believing that Alex had kept something so important from him. ‘I was trying to avoid having to use it,’ Alex told him, and added, equally truthfully, ‘Not my style at all, sir.’
President Tanaya actually grinned at this, giving him a nod.
‘Good call,’ he told him, approvingly. If Alex had come into the system and presented his special envoy accreditation, he would have had to be treated with all the pomp and circumstance of a state visit. A special envoy, after all, was the direct representative of the League president, outranking even the most senior ambassador or senator. Socially, they’d have had to treat Alex as if he was the president of another system, here to attend some intersystem summit. To the strongly egalitarian Novamasians, that would be much resented as some twander from Chartsey swanking it on their world. ‘Good man,’ President Tanaya commended, and added, too, his world’s highest friendly accolade. ‘You’re a bobbin.’
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