Carrearranis (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 5)

by S MacDonald

  Alex smiled slightly. The Fleet did this too – you would know you were in Fleet premises on any world, anywhere, just from the smell of the pine decontamination fluid shipped out and supplied to all ships, space stations and groundside premises. There would be the same furniture, too, even the same range of official pictures on the walls. The Fleet and the Corps did have a great deal in common.

  In the Diplomatic Corps, though, respect for superiors was carried to a degree even the highest sticklers in the Fleet considered a little much, at least for everyday use. People scattered out of the way of the Envoy and Ambassador like slaves scuttling out of the path of strolling emperors. Bowed heads and murmurs of ‘Your Excellencies…’ acknowledged their passing, making Alex feel acutely uncomfortable though Tan just smiled and nodded affably while continuing to chat to Alex, pointing out the features of the embassy as they made their way through it.

  The most important of these, as far as Alex was concerned, was an operations control room. It was on the ground floor, a spacious enough room equipped with workstations on levels which fell in concentric half circles, all focussed on a huge holoscreen. This was itself divided into sections, each displaying the current state of operations. Some of them were obvious to Alex’s eyes, like Comms, Traffic Control and Emergency Response, but others, given equal importance on the display, struck him as odd. Was it really of operational significance to know what meetings were currently taking place in the offices here? He looked in vain, too, for the central datatable and Corps equivalent of a watch officer. There was none, as Tan confirmed.

  ‘Why would there be?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t a starship. We group our operational stations in the same venue for convenience, so that everyone can see what else is going on, but there’s no need for a mission-controller, as such. Emergency Response co-ordinates, of course, at times when they declare a crisis, but other than that, each department just does their own work. But do, please, come and see what you think of the Council chamber.’

  This, which was to be the seat of government on Carrearranis until such time as they constructed one of their own, was also and immediately familiar to Alex.

  ‘Uh…’ He looked around it; the circle of plinths with their desks, the workstations behind, the emblematic floor in the centre. This was a Senate Committee Room, translated from Chartsey to Carrearranis.

  It took a moment for Alex to spot the differences… the adjustments made to plinths and furniture so that Carrearranian delegates could sit comfortably and be at the same level as the League representatives, and the change to the emblem. The League emblem was much smaller than usual, and this was because it had been surrounded by a motif of tiles – five hundred and ten of them, each displaying the number of an island in Carrearranian numerals. The numbers were gold, a touch of opulence which gave them equal status with the central emblem.

  There were no such adaptations in the room which Tan considered to be the heart of operations in the embassy. It was on the top floor – occupied more than half of the top floor, in fact, the half facing out over the view. Passing briefly through the second floor, which was all offices and meeting rooms, Tan ushered him up into the Reception Suite with a look of happy pride.

  Alex stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was the huge mirrored wall, the enormous crystal chandeliers, the ornate flower arrangements on their classical stands. Only the view from the windows told you that you were not on Chartsey, but Carrearranis.

  Alex walked over to the nearest window and stood there looking out. It was a spectacular view. The embassy had been built part way up the slope of the shield volcano, about a kilometre up from the coastline. The landing pad was out of sight behind them, so the view was undisturbed by the shuttles flying in and out. Below him, Alex could see the glossy, neatly organised pods of the greater embassy, with the silvery path of the walkway laid over the dark, ropey surface of the basalt. Beyond that the slope ran down to a coast of coves, rocky headlands and beaches of black sand. The sea was an intense, clear ultramarine, sparkling in the sunlight, with the nearest island a whale-like hump on the horizon. Above, wispy clouds drifted. Big Moon was visible, in three quarter phase, a rough ovoid which currently looked like a rugged banana.

  That sea, Alex mused, had been lapping at these islands for thousands of years without seeing anything more than small wooden boats with their bright cotton sails. Within another year, a fleet of high speed hover boats would be providing public transport between all the islands. Not long after that, there would be oceanic liners full of tourists. The main port for them would be here, on this island – on the far side of the island, but still, here. There would be jetties and docks, hotels and the passenger spaceport. Where there was now barren basalt, too, landscaped tropical gardens would be crafted. There would be beach-side cafes serving sanitised, vat-grown versions of Carrearranian food and drink, and there would be shops where Carrearranian handicrafts could be bought at extortionate prices.

  It would all, Alex knew, be done with the lightest possible touch, zero environmental impact, positive benefits for the people of Carrearranis and the founding of an economic base which they would need as they developed into a world engaged in intersystem trade. All the same, it felt very special, a privilege, to be here before all of that happened.

  He smiled as he looked round, feeling no envy for the man who’d have the task of overseeing all those changes.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said, and whether he meant the reception room or the scenery was left open to opinion.

  ‘Come and see the dining room,’ Tan said – that was next door, with the usual grand tables and shimmering lights. There was no adaptation especially for Carrearranians here, and no need for one. Embassy dining rooms frequently had to accommodate guests with very different body shapes, and an Embassy dinner was no trivial affair, either, but generally took all evening. For the comfort of their guests, therefore, all the dining chairs were height and width adjusting, accommodating to your body size and weight as you seated yourself, and providing a footrest, too, at a comfortable angle. ‘Are you sure,’ Tan asked earnestly, ‘that you don’t want to host an event here?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Alex, though he was duly complimentary about the splendours which had been achieved here, and so fast, too, amazing. Tan beamed.

  ‘It mattered a lot to our people,’ he confided, ‘to impress you.’

  ‘Consider me,’ said Alex, ‘impressed.’ Then, with a glance at the time, ‘But I do have to get back to the ship… sure you won’t come?’

  ‘Positive!’ Tan returned, flicking it back with a grin. ‘That is one holo,’ he stated, ‘that I have no wish at all to appear in, thank you.’ As Alex gave a little snort of wry amusement, Tan’s manner sobered. ‘Seriously, though, Alex – huge respect.’

  He held out his hand and Alex shook it, understanding that there was a great deal Tan Ganhauser could not say. He was holding himself aloof from the whole issue of Alex having declared hostilities and occupied this planet on behalf of the League. He hadn’t registered any protest against it, but then, he hadn’t registered any support, either, at least not officially. His position in this, he had said, had to be neutral, as the Ambassador In Potentia, he had no actual right to a say in such decisions.

  And on this occasion, too, he did not choose to step above his role in order to stand up and be counted, as he had on the question of the Codicil granting Carrearranians their status as humans. On this occasion, the signing of the official treaty confirming the agreement made at the first-footing encounter, Tan Ganhauser was notable by his absence.

  The occasion passed off with suitable pomp and ceremony. Arak came aboard the ship for it accompanied by the elders who had followed him into that uber-elder status. It made sense, the Carrearranians had recognised, to have a chief elder for the planet for each of the fields of expertise as well as the overall chief of all the chiefs. The thirty eight regional elders in each field had talked it out amongst themselves, deciding which of the
m was best suited to taking that leading role and working closely with the offworlders. The quickest of those decisions had been made by the technology elders – Arlit, of course, agreed upon unanimously as the obvious choice in a matter of minutes. The healers, though, had still been haggling it out up to an hour or so before the signing, with the victorious one hastily invested as elder elder healing elder just before the shuttle arrived to bring them up to the ship.

  It wasn’t democracy, of course, nothing like it, but Alex was happy enough to welcome them aboard as the equivalent of System President, Minister for Technology, Minister for Health and so on. And it did not seem to matter much that they represented a population which would hardly have been rated a small town on any League world. This was their world, and they stood proudly, representing it.

  The signing of the treaty took place in the quarantine zone, with gravity and air set to Carrearranian for the comfort of their guests. It did not take very long. First, there was the singing of the anthems, led by the choir. The Carrearranian anthem, it had been agreed, would be the song which Arak and the islanders had sung in their first greeting to the offworlders, a song of joy, of morning breezes and a sparkling sea. The choir sang it on a wavering note, without harmonies, Carrearranian style, and the Carrearranians themselves joined in with it enthusiastically. Then came the League anthem, which they droned and warbled along with, with even greater energy.

  Then came the declarations, in suitably archaic language which the Carrearranians had had to memorise verbatim for the occasion. Alex signed the treaty on behalf of the people of the League, and Arak signed it, too, on behalf of his own people. He had learned to use a light pen especially for this, and with the datacoding of his name already provided, tapped each of the symbols in turn in the symbolic act of signature. Official witnesses were then asked to sign in their turn – Arlit was one of them, on the Carrearranian side. For the League, one of the signatory witnesses was Skipper Milli Walensa, who’d come over from Border Station especially for this event. The other was Buzz Burroughs, making this emphatically a military matter with no Diplomatic Corps signatories whatsoever.

  After that, the choir led the entire ship’s company in a rendering of the Gloriatzi. This classical anthem was a favourite in sports stadiums and had become an unofficial anthem of the Fourth’s, too, as they had learned to sing it in full choral splendour. They were keen to do justice to the occasion and the frigate rang with joyful voices. They sang in parts, and in full harmony – one of the odder aspects of coming to serve with the Fourth was that you weren’t aboard the ship for long before Jonas Sartin would assess your vocal range and hand you the appropriate part for soprano, tenor or whatever range you sang in best. Altos predominated, carrying the splendid crescendo with a majestic chorale which moved Jonas himself, conducting the choir, almost to the edge of tears.

  The Carrearranians, though, were as polite about this confusing cacophony as the offworlders were about their drone-song, merely exchanging resigned glances and waiting for it to be over.

  The post-signing hospitality event went off rather better. The galley had come up with a concoction designed to please the Carrearranian palate – a blend of fruit juices with a good dash of vinegar and a smidgeon of fiery pepper – which went down very well with their guests. The nibbling snacks, too – fish on brick-hard crackers – were enjoyed.

  ‘I thought your food would be disgusting,’ Arak commented frankly. ‘But this…’ he took another cracker from the tray, ‘isn’t bad.’ He bit, and munched. ‘Not bad at all.’

  Alex glanced at the tray. The galley had provided crackers he had not been able to bite through when he sampled them ahead of the event. The lumpy chopped fish on them was the densest, most rubbery fish steak from the Embassy II’s extensive stores, marinated in eye-wateringly sharp vinegar liquor and topped with raw chilli peppercorns. ‘A bit bland,’ said Arak, ‘but not bad.’ He looked up at Alex. ‘Are you sure you won’t have one?’

  ‘Thanks, but no,’ said Alex, and indicated the other trays being offered to the company. ‘I’ll stick to the pastries.’

  These were hors d’oeuvre of the kind served routinely by the Diplomatic Corps, pleasant little fancy pastries of a kind that most people from most cultures would find palatable. The Carrearranians had been offered these too, of course, but on Arlit’s advice, had left them alone. Only the Health Elder had picked up a mushroom fancy, sniffed it, crushed it between his fingers as he tried to feel how hard it was, and exclaimed in disgust at the gooey crumbly mess.

  ‘It smells of sick,’ he said.

  ‘I did say,’ Arlit reminded him. ‘And their food doesn’t taste of anything, either – you might as well eat cotton pods. But here…’ he snared a steward bringing around the Carrearranian snacks, ‘try these, they’ve made these specially.’

  On the whole, Alex felt, the hospitality event came off rather well – definitely better than the usual kind of formal social event where he was concerned, anyway. He was not at all ill at ease with these guests; on the contrary, all that he was concerned about was ensuring that they felt safe and were comfortable during their first trip away from their world.

  He and the others helping him achieved that, anyway, though the Carrearranians did not stay for long. A tour had been arranged, if they wanted to see around the ship, or at least, a visit to the command deck. Arak, though, declined.

  ‘Another time,’ he said, and explained honestly, ‘it’s just too strange here for us… it’s been nice to see, but we want to go home now.’

  So they departed, and shortly after that so did Milli Walensa, heading back to her command on the Minnow. She and Alex found time for a coffee, though, before she went. That was, as always, a relaxing time out, a rare opportunity for Alex to give vent to a grumble or two, as well as catch up on Fleet gossip. On this occasion, Milli had a scandalous story to tell him about a patrol ship skipper, relieved of command after being discovered in more than compromising circumstances with the engineer.

  After all the exclamations of No, and Really? and a good laugh about it had been enjoyed by both, Milli asked if Alex wanted her to take Commander Mikthorn off with her, while she was here. It had been the Stepeasy’s tender which had brought her, taking the opportunity to bring out supplies, and it had been arranged, before, that the tender would take the commander away.

  ‘What?’ Alex was startled – he had almost forgotten that the last time he and Milli had spoken in private, he had told her that the commander was a right pain in the backside and that he’d love to boot him right back off the ship, too, and would, if it wasn’t for Rangi laying down a medical certificate that he wasn’t fit to travel. ‘Oh!’ He remembered the conversation after a moment, and laughed. ‘Oh no – he’s fine, now!’ he assured her. ‘He’s working as admin support for the lab – doing well with them, too, actually has them keeping the place reasonably tidy and eating at least one proper meal a day.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve told him he can stay as long as he wants.’

  To his surprise, Milli dropped her head theatrically and groaned.

  ‘What?’ Alex asked again, and saw that though she was laughing as she lifted her head, she was shaking it, too, and her laughter held a rueful note.

  ‘Oh, Alex… you know, don’t you, that he was writing off to people describing the Fourth as using cult indoctrination techniques?’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Alex, grinning a little as he recalled descriptions of himself in terms of a cult guru, exercising charismatic influence over his crew far beyond that of legitimate warship command, and with an element of intimidation, too, as they dreaded his terrifying rage. Even the gift pack and warm welcome they routinely provided for all their passengers, he remembered, had been compared with cult methodology. ‘But he wasn’t well, then,’ Alex observed. ‘And all the people he wrote to have been informed of that.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ said Milli, with a dry note. ‘But do just try for a moment, could you, to put yourself light years away from
all this, in the head of someone who has never actually met you or been aboard our ships. First there’s this allegation made by a senior Fleet officer that the Fourth is operating like a cult, then there’s a letter from your medic telling them that he’s suffering from stress so take no notice of anything he said, then they get told that he’s changed his mind about you so completely that he’s now working for you. Do you not see that this might just be considered cause for some suspicion about what’s been going on out here?’

  Alex gave a hoot of glee even at the thought. ‘Come on!’ he said. ‘No-one in their right minds could give any credibility to that.’

  Milli, who was rather more in touch with media and activist opinion than Alex would ever be, regarded him a little sadly for a moment. He was so brilliant, in so many ways, and yet, even with all the experience he had had since founding the Fourth, still had this disastrous blind spot. It might be described as naivety, or a kind of innocence, quite extraordinary in a man of his standing. Or perhaps not, she mused – perhaps it was that innocence, the honest, honourable nature of the man, which made him such a fine commander and successful exodiplomat.

  ‘There are,’ she commented, ‘a great many people out there who would meet your definition of ‘not in their right minds’, Alex.’ Then she grinned philosophically, recognising the inevitability of what was going to happen, here. ‘Bet you a dollar,’ she said, ‘that before we get back to Therik, Liberty League’s campaigning against you will be calling the Fourth a cult, with you as its guru.’

  Alex found that hilarious. ‘No way,’ he said, and in a comment he would remember a few months later, when he handed over the dollar, ‘They’ve got more sense!’