by S MacDonald
Tan, it transpired, was very well informed. He knew very well that the Fourth had not had these cabins sitting idle just in case a VIP turned up; he knew that they had been part of the interdeck lounge and he knew how much work had gone into turning them into comfortable quarters for him. He had a lot of experience of travelling on Fleet ships, too, so was able to spot the things they’d done above and beyond anything he’d have expected even on a carrier. It was the little things that made it special – the ornaments and holoframe on the display unit so it didn’t look bare, the aromatherapy pod which filled the lounge with a warm sandalwood scent, the plump, inviting cushions on the sofa. Someone had pre-set the holoscreen over the desk with a cycle of views from his homeworld, a thoughtful touch. The sleeping cabin was snug, with colourful bedding and a shower already stocked with quality products. And there was, of course, the gift pack with all the things like shower robes and shipboard gear which the Fourth gave to all their passengers. The kit was based on that provided to prisoners and rescuees, and assumed that the recipient was arriving on the ship with no more than the clothes they stood up in.
In Tan’s case, that was very nearly the truth. He had two spare outfits, both of the skydiving kind in which he’d come aboard, and his official Diplomatic Corps tuxedo carefully stored in a roll-bag. Beyond that he had a compact traveller’s hygiene kit, a web hammock in a tiny stuff-pack and three very expensive gadgets. One was a VR set – tiny skin adhesive units which fixed above the ears, with hair-thin wires curving round beside the eyes. The second was a surprisingly powerful hand-comp, and the third was a personal drinks maker. All three were of the same cutting edge classified tech as the Fourth’s own computer systems, so after confirmation of that he would be allowed to keep and use them on board.
‘How very kind,’ Tan was genuinely grateful for the clothes and everything else they’d provided, even though he’d known they would and even though he knew that this was no more than they did for any passenger with VIP credentials. They had done this for him, with thought and care, and he did not take that for granted. ‘Please be sure,’ he asked Buzz, ‘to pass on my thanks to everyone involved in doing this for me.’
Buzz could see that he meant that, so he did as requested. Everyone who’d helped out with the cabins got a message to say that their passenger wanted to thank them and let them know how much he appreciated it.
This was a rare thing from any passenger, and evidently sincere. It raised smiles all around the ship, spreading as people told others that he’d made a point of thanking them. It was a small thing, of course, but nice to feel that their efforts had been valued. Alex did not need to listen in to any conversations to know that his crew had decided that Tan Ganhauser was a good bloke. Alex was impressed. Tan had eased his way into a closed group in awkward circumstances, the future mission leader here turning up without warning, and he had done it with grace and humour and in under an hour. If that was a measure of his diplomatic ability, Alex felt, the future of the Carrearranis mission would be in good hands.
That handover, though, was some months away, and in the meantime all the responsibility lay firmly on Alex.
He had a lot on his plate, right then. The deployment of the drones and the furore over the storm had both helped to steady things on Carrearranis, the one with reassurance and the other with laughter. These, though, had generated even more calls than they’d been dealing with before. As soon as there were clear night skies over any island they got calls telling them excitedly that the people there could see the drones, both the geostationary ones and those which were sweeping across the sky. This was something they’d expected the first time people saw the new lights, but what they hadn’t expected were the ongoing calls from islands any time the drones passed over them. Typically, these involved either telling them that the drones were passing overhead, as if they didn’t know, or asking what they were looking at. Many people shouted hello and waved to the passing drones, too, which the anthropology team complained was interfering with their observation of normal island life.
In addition to that, though, they had to cope with a lot of teasing.
‘Actually,’ said Buzz, ‘it’s good – they’re teasing and joking with us in the way they do amongst themselves, between islands.
Alex had just taken a call from a village chief telling him that a branch had broken from a tree and asking if they should run for the shelter. He’d barely got the question out before the villagers gathered behind him had fallen about with hoots of glee. Other pseudo-alarms had involved slight rain, a spilt stew pot and a man who’d lost a sandal. Alex chuckled, nodding agreement.
‘It’s good to see them having a laugh,’ he observed, and really didn’t mind that that laughter was at his expense.
He didn’t mind, either, the demands generated by the delivery of mail the shuttle had brought back. This included great swathes of stuff from Chartsey, in addition to the stack of correspondence about Tan Ganhauser which was a weighty chunk in itself. There were new orders from the Senate, a stodge of mission directives in which they basically told him, at great length and in almost impenetrable language, to keep doing what he was doing and not to risk either the safety of Carrearranis or that of the League. There was no mention of the Solarans in any of it – if they had been asked to come here by anyone at Chartsey, that had happened after Tan Ganhauser and this mail bundle had left.
In between having his leg pulled by villagers and reading through all the most important mail, though, he was continually interrupted by shipboard affairs.
Amongst them was the predicament of Ali Jezno. His mother was now suing him for compensation for the emotional harm and life damaging impact of him turning up on her doorstep as a zombie. He had lawyers handling that for him, but the problems of dealing with such a situation from so far away inevitably prolonged the stress and upset of it all. This time, the court had ordered that he be interviewed under courtroom conditions, to be asked a specified set of questions and the recorded interview sent under seal as a certified true copy.
Alex conducted the interview himself, and at once. Making Ali wait even till the next day would only add to his anxiety.
‘I’m so sorry, skipper,’ Ali said, well aware of how busy the skipper was, and making time for this when he should have been having his dinner.
‘It isn’t a problem,’ said Alex, firmly. ‘And it isn’t your fault.’
Ali gave a weak smile.
‘It is, though,’ he said. ‘I knew something was wrong, even though I didn’t know what. I should have had more sense.’
‘Not at all.’ Alex was emphatic. He was worried about Ali. He’d been doing so well, rebuilding his life after the injury which had so very nearly killed him. Only Simon’s controversial surgery had saved his life, implanting cloned brain matter to give him back full function. He had lost a lot of memories, though, and had had to come to terms with that and with the horrible discovery that the media was calling him a zombie. Strictly speaking, it was true that the surgery Simon had performed had the ghoulish medical term of ‘zombification’, but that did not make Ali any kind of sub-human or living dead. Alex had made arrangements for him to go back to his homeworld as part of his recovery, to see his family and learn as much as he could about the years now missing from his life. Even at the time, Ali had said he felt that there was something wrong in his relationship with his mother, though he had no idea what it was or why. Now, he knew only too well. She had already made a lot of money from selling her story about ‘my zombie son’ to the media, but she was evidently set on going for the really big bucks. Ali himself had no money beyond his salary, but like all members of the Fleet he was covered by a legal insurance which could pay out millions if the case was awarded against him. ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Alex repeated, because Ali could not be told that too often. ‘I encouraged you to go, and so for that matter did Simon. None of us could have known how it was going to turn out, and beating ourselves up about it isn’t sensible or
helpful. So,’ he prompted, ‘what do you say?’
Ali looked sheepish, and there was a tiny sigh, but he responded to cue.
‘I am safe, strong, and not going to worry about something beyond my control,’ he chanted, this being the affirmation Rangi had taught him for moments when his confidence was on the wobble. It worked, too. As he uttered the familiar words he unconsciously drew a steadying breath, released the tension that was holding his neck rigid and felt himself becoming calmer. ‘Thanks, skipper,’ he added, feeling again the strength of Alex’s care and support.
‘No problem.’ Alex felt far more personally responsible for Ali even than his usual care for his people. It had been his decision to allow Simon to carry out the radical surgery to save Ali’s life. It had been his decision, too, to keep him on the ship where he felt safe and at home, allowing him to rehabilitate here while he retrained to regain his qualifications. Ali had now reached the stage where he was allowed to work as a technician, a major step for him, and it was infuriating Alex to see him so knocked back by the antics of his greedy, unscrupulous mother. ‘So, come on,’ Alex said, with a purposeful air. ‘Let’s do this.’ And with that, he activated official recording and, having gone through the required legal formalities, began the questions sent by the judge. ‘Were you aware, at the time when you visited your mother’s apartment, that journalists would follow you and film your arrival at her door?’
Ali gave the full and frank answers requested, and when the questioning was done some thirty minutes later, signed the statement with an air of relief.
‘Thanks, skipper,’ he said, after Alex had signed it too and sealed the recording. The judge had asked that the interview be conducted by the commanding officer, as was usual for court-ordered interviews. It was comforting to Ali, though, to feel that the skipper had made this such a high priority. And he felt that it would carry more weight, too, with the interview having been conducted by a Presidential Envoy. Alex signed off on it with all his ranks and entitlements, including His Excellency, Ambassador for the Peoples of the League to the People of Carrearranis. If that didn’t impress them in court, Ali felt, nothing would.
‘My pleasure,’ said Alex.
His signature was in demand again shortly after that. While Ali was on a mess deck telling his friends about the latest instalment of his personal drama, Alex ate a hasty meal while reading more mail, then went back to the command deck. He’d been there for just a few minutes and was already on a call when Rossy Ross turned up with a hopeful expression.
Alex sighed a little, but only inwardly. He was expecting to have to invest quite a lot of time in discussing things with Sub-lt Ross before he’d see any benefit in terms of the new adjutant being able to deal with correspondence independently. Rossy had been aboard for a couple of hours, now, and had settled into his quarters in the wardroom, including having dinner there. Buzz insisted on maintaining the traditional half-hour gathering of all officers not actively on duty to have dinner together, as this, he said, was vital both for a united wardroom and for the welfare of the officers themselves. Alex, also by Fleet tradition, generally held the watch himself for this half hour..
Rossy, anyway, had unpacked his kit and had a leisurely dinner and Alex was really not expecting any more than that from him this evening. If he was being honest, in fact, he would have had to admit that he’d hoped to be spared the need to start going through things with him until the next day. But here he was, bright and brisk.
‘If I could just take two minutes of your time, skipper…’
Alex had heard that one before, but to his surprise Rossy really did mean two minutes. He had three things he wanted Alex to sign – a form of authority giving Sub-lt Ross permission to answer specified categories of correspondence without further reference to him, a memo to the Admiralty reporting that he had so authorised his Flag Adjutant as justified under specified regulations about pressure of work, and a blank stamp which could be applied to documents. This, he wanted Alex to write himself, not in datacode but in scribed alphanumerics.
‘It needs to say ‘Regards, AvS, Cptn.’’ Rossy informed him, handing him a screen with the message already set out in ancient alphabet, ready to be copied.
‘What?’ Alex occasionally signed himself by those initials, but he had never signed ‘Cptn’ and never would. If he used his rank at all it would be in official correspondence for which he was Fleet Captain Alexis Sean von Strada. ‘Cptn?’ Alex gave Rossy a pained look and the Sub grinned back.
‘Trust me,’ he said, with a calm confidence which made Alex actually look at him, re-evaluating the officer and the man. Rossy looked… different. It was subtle but it was there. Alex could see a potential for command in him which had not been evident before, the look of a man who had things totally under control. ‘I could explain,’ Rossy told him, and there was a gleam of laughter in his eyes. ‘But it would take at least a quarter of an hour and I’m afraid you’d find it horribly embarrassing.’ A quick grin and he offered a pen. ‘So if you would, please, skipper?’
Alex used his own pen, feeling that he maintained at least some dignity by doing so. He could scribe alphanumerics by copying, though he would have been at a loss to produce any hand-scribed text beyond his own name. His scribing was blocky, angular, formed of short crisp strokes and no curves – even the s was formed with three straight lines. It was a distinctive hand, sharp and emphatic. And it would do very well as the autograph Rossy would tag into letters. He was right, too, it certainly would have taken some time to explain to Alex that a good many of the important people writing to him were doing so because they wanted to share the glory, and that there was no greater prize in that than a reply from the great man himself. A letter from an adjutant replying on his behalf would not have anything like the same cachet, but a note in the captain’s own hand expressing regard, well, that was something. It would have taken some time, too, to explain to Alex just how carefully that message had been worked out, balancing respect with a flattering informality, even the abbreviation of Cptn after his initials chosen to impress civilians whilst at the same time being more intimate than the full formality of his rank. Such letters would be shown around with pride at the status it gave the recipient. Many of them would end up framed.
Alex had dark and well-founded suspicions about what Rossy meant by ‘horribly embarrassing’, though, and just wrote what was asked without any more questions.
‘Thank you, skipper.’ Rossy collected the signed documents back to his own comp, and at the same time, accessed the skipper’s desk screens. Using the authorisation Alex had just given him, he opened the captain’s in-box and pending files, stripping out everything that he now had permission to deal with himself. Seeing seventy four files whisked away, Alex looked at Rossy in surprise. ‘Mine now,’ Rossy observed, and was already getting up from the datatable with a smile.
Alex watched with a slightly stunned expression as his new flag adjutant walked away, then gave himself a little shake and grinned. Score one to Buzz, he thought, recognising that the Exec had been absolutely right; he did need a flag adjutant and Rossy was undoubtedly the right man for the job. The transfer had obviously done wonders for Rossy, too. The triumph of being headhunted for such an important role had boosted him from a capable but unremarkable Sub into an assured, authoritative officer. Score two to Buzz, in fact. Alex was still grinning as he answered the next call – an internal one, this time, coming from sickbay.
‘Just checking,’ said Simon, in ominous wrath, ‘that you’d have no objection to me handcuffing Rangi to his bunk if he refuses to comply with a stand-down order.’
‘By all means.’ Alex knew his Simon, and his Rangi. ‘Or I could sling him in the brig for mutiny, if you like.’ A squeak of protest in the background indicated that Rangi had heard this, as of course he was intended to.
‘Thank you,’ said Simon, and ended the call. Three minutes later a report was filed that ship’s medic Dr Tekawa had been placed on a ten hour
stand-down on the grounds of having exceeded safe workload limits. The exceptional circumstances permission Very had signed was also over-ruled on the grounds that Dr Tekawa’s case was utter gobbledygook and Very was a moron for signing it in the first place. Simon, evidently, had got around to reviewing Rangi’s activity log.
Everyone who’d been nagged by Rangi about overwork issues found it highly amusing that he’d been put on stand-down himself for it. Only one person said so, though. The first person who commented and started joking about it got Simon himself bearing down on them like a hypersonic juggernaut. The hapless crewman was rapidly reduced to a quavering assurance that he agreed entirely, health and safety was not a joking matter, and yes he understood now how important it was both for individuals and the success of the mission that they were all maintained in good health. After that, nobody said a word. Simon was back.
Alex, at least, was happy to see him. When Simon turned up on the command deck shortly after midnight, there was no look of apprehension on the skipper’s face as he greeted him. Simon knew well enough that he enjoyed a little quiet time after the setting of the nightwatch, ensuring that the ship was settled down before he went to bed himself.
‘I dunno,’ said Simon, plonking himself down into the seat on Alex’s left hand, ‘I leave you to it for a couple of weeks,’ he complained, ‘and it all goes to pot.’
Very happened to be nightwatch officer and Simon gave him a quick, admonitory glare across the table, at which Very pretended to be very busy and made every effort to pretend, too, that Simon was invisible.
Alex just grinned. ‘Good to have you back,’ he said, and then asked, curious, ‘Professional interest?’ He indicated the screens flowing with data from the planet. ‘Or marital disharmony?’ This would not be the first time Simon had sought refuge on the frigate after his latest marriage had gone sour.
