We’re going to ski down, she told him, blithely. It looks like fun.
Alex glanced at the current risk assessment being generated by the Diplomatic Corps, noting that neither Shion nor Davie had ever skied before, and that they were talking about going down a very dramatic, black-rated run. If either of them had been human, that would have been suicidally dangerous. As it was, the Diplomats had given it a cautious amber rating, suggesting – without much hope – that they might take a skiing lesson before setting out.
They should know better than that by now, Alex thought, and have a lot more confidence in Shion and Davie’s abilities, too. He had no doubt himself that, having observed other people skiing, they would be doing trick jumps and acrobatics as they came down the mountain. They would, indeed, have to be careful not to betray superhuman strength and agility as they did so, restricting themselves to, at most, what might be achieved by olympic athletes.
Alex smiled as he imagined the harassed Diplomatic and Intel teams trying to keep up with them. But then, seeing that his car was about to come in to land at Admiralty HQ, he turned off his pocket comp and assumed his stony public-face demeanour.
He went straight to the Port Admiral’s office on the top floor, where he was ushered through at once with a murmur that the Admiral was expecting him.
‘Alex.’ Port Admiral Mackada came to meet him with a friendly smile, which Alex returned since they were in private, greeting her with an equally casual, ‘Morning, Jen.’ She was in her mid-forties, a cool and crisply dignified lady. The transfer of the Fourth from Chartsey to Therik had dumped a world of hurt on Jen Mackada, but she had never once complained. ‘Good news,’ she told him, and as she gestured hospitably to a chair, ‘We’ve found out who was behind buying you those shares in the Ladygo.’
Alex gave her an intrigued look as he sat down. That was a mystery that had been bugging him for nearly five months. He’d visited the classic V-2-8 racing yacht Ladygo during a visit to ISiS Karadon – he was a classic starship enthusiast and had thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to go aboard a V-2-8, the classic yacht for all serious classic enthusiasts. He’d certainly talked about his visit afterwards, telling anyone who was interested about the V-2-8’s finer points, but it had been nothing more than a trivial personal matter.
Trivial and personal, at least, until they returned to Novamas months later and he received a majority shareholding in the consortium which owned the yacht, a hundred thousand dollars of shares bought anonymously and registered in his name.
He had handed the shares over to the Port Admiral immediately, but had been wondering ever since who was behind it. Nobody who knew him could possibly believe that he would accept such a gift, still less that he would accept it from an anonymous giver. Fleet Intel had not been able to track the purchase, as it had been made by brokers acting on behalf of a client they refused to identify. Alex had been convinced from the start that the gift had been hostile, an attempt to corrupt or at least smear his reputation. If so, it had worked. The media and campaign groups had made all the mileage they could from the incident. They refused to believe that he had voluntarily handed over the shares immediately he found out about them. Most reportage either hinted strongly that he’d been caught with the shares and forced to hand them over to the Fleet. The rest just said so straight out.
Alex would give a great deal to know who was responsible for that. Someone, clearly, who was happy to pay a hundred thousand dollars just to embarrass him.
‘Who was it?’ he asked, with a searching look at her. She was obviously relaxed about this, even amused.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t believe it,’ she said, sitting down herself and giving him a grin. ‘Well, you would,’ she amended, considering. ‘Your life is so crazy anyway, this probably rates as quite normal.’ She could see that he wasn’t going to rise to this teasing, though, so just went straight on and told him, ‘It was Marto.’
‘What?’ Alex sat up straight, a horrified look coming onto his face. One of the more bizarre aspects to the publicity storm that blitzed around the Fourth was the minority contingent not campaigning against them but in support of them. Just as with the anti-Fourth lobby, this was always founded in what the various organisations believed the Fourth was doing rather than any understanding of the reality. It was arguably even more annoying to have the kind of people Alex would never want to be associated with hailing him as a hero than it was to have other people he did have respect for railing against him as a villain.
Marto, in that, was undoubtedly one of their highest profile supporters. The League’s most famous celebrity chef had been deeply moved by the Fourth’s anti-drugs campaign at Karadon, and had as a result of that declared himself to be a hundred per cent supportive of Skipper von Strada and the Fourth doing whatever was necessary to put a stop to drug trafficking there. His support had manifested both in cooking extraordinary meals for them, which had been very welcome, and in tearfully embracing Alex in public, which had not. ‘Seriously? Are you sure?’
‘Definite,’ she confirmed. ‘Proven beyond doubt. And no conspiracy, either – a personal gesture of appreciation of your operations at Karadon, no more. He is pretty wealthy, you know – has made a fortune from his restaurants and an even bigger one from his media career. And he is convinced that you saved hundreds of civilian lives at Karadon, including his own. I know, I know,’ she held up a hand to forestall his objections, ‘But this is Marto we’re talking about; highly emotional, impulsive, egotistic, not a man noted for calm or common sense. Did it never occur to you that it might have come from him?’
‘No, not at all,’ Alex admitted, and as he realised the truth of it, groaned. ‘Oh, that is just so… I may never live that one down.’
Jen chuckled. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But I do have to tell you there’s a heads-up on this. Marto has already talked to the media at Karadon. He was, I gather, devastated by the reportage that bounced out there, seeing that what he’d meant only as a gift to someone he feels such admiration and gratitude towards had actually caused you such embarrassment, even accusations of taking bribes. So he went straight to the media in a state of high emotion and told them the shares had come from him, and what he thought of such allegations being made against the finest, bravest, most heroic man he’d ever met.’
As Alex winced, she laughed again, though there was some sympathy in her tone as she told him, ‘We’ve got about two days before that news hits Therik.’
She did not need to tell him what would happen when it did. Marto’s impassioned championship had already made news across the League, raising an outcry from anti-Fourth campaigners. Some of them had described him as an ‘apologist’ for the Fourth. Some had gone further, alleging that the Fourth was paying or somehow manipulating the famous chef in an attempt at improving their public image. Everyone, but everyone, would have something to say about it when the news broke that it was actually Marto who had tried to give him the shares in the yacht.
‘Oh, well,’ Alex said, with a resigned sigh. This was as close as he ever came to cursing, and Jen grinned. It would, she knew, have been much easier for him to cope with this if it had turned out to be the act of bitter enemies trying to discredit and disgrace him. He was used to that kind of thing, after all. When it came out that it had been his self-declared biggest fan who’d tried to give him those shares, though, the Fleet and spacer community would fall about laughing. Alex would, naturally, rise above that with due dignity, but it would be years before the Fleet and merchant spacers gave up making jokes about it.
‘Never mind,’ she consoled him. ‘It could have been worse.’ As he gave her a speaking look for that, she chuckled again. ‘Okay, okay.’ She held up a hand in an appeasing gesture, indicating that she wouldn’t tease him any more. ‘Pax. I’ll let you have the files, all right?’
That was a significant concession. While he was officially still on leave, all operational matters regarding the Fourth were landing on Jen’s desk. She was only han
ding on to him such mail as she felt was compatible with ‘light administrative duties’. He understood that this was in no way an attempt to hijack his command, but a genuine concern about his workload and welfare, so had accepted that with good grace. It wasn’t as if he had any choice about it, after all.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome,’ she returned, just as politely. ‘But that’s not all – I have mail for you from Dix, to be passed on if convenient.’ Her grin conveyed that Dix Harangay knew very well that by now Alex would be back at work, with or without her approval. There was no way to stop him working, as Dix knew better than anyone, short of locking him in a cell without a comp or comms, and even then you couldn’t stop him thinking. ‘I suppose you’ve heard that Top Cadet went to Tinika Lucas.’
Alex nodded, looking intrigued by this change of subject. Discussion about the hot contenders for the Top Cadet position was a staple of conversation in the Fleet, as keenly followed amongst them as debate about sports stars. If Alex had been putting money on it, his bet would have gone on Tinika Lucas to win. News of her success had already reached Therik a few days before, along with confirmation that she’d been posted to the Falcon.
‘Cadet Officer Lucas, however,’ said Jen, ‘has appealed against her posting.’
Alex’s eyebrows shot up, with a ‘She did what?’ reaction that made Jen grin again.
‘Her argument was,’ she told him, ‘that by ancient custom, the top cadet gets the most prestigious posting available, and she made her case that by rights that ought to be the Heron.’
Alex’s jaw dropped slightly.
‘You’re kidding!’ he protested.
‘I am not.’ She put her hand on her heart, then tapped at a panel on her desk, transferring the paperwork to him. ‘See for yourself.’
She was quiet for the minute or two it took him to read the documentation, including the covering note from Dix Harangay addressed to Alex himself.
When he read the What goes around comes around comment, Alex couldn’t help but break into a grin. The only other cadet in recent years who’d have had the chutzpah to try something like this had been Alex himself. He could only admire Cadet Lucas’s ambition and determination, really. On the other hand, he didn’t want her on his ship if she was going to be a problem.
‘What’s she like?’ he asked Jen, looking up from the files.
‘Couldn’t say,’ Jen replied. ‘I haven’t met her yet myself – didn’t want to give her any inflated sense of her own importance.’
Alex laughed. He knew that the courier had arrived from Chartsey about four hours ago. As he saw the wicked gleam in her eyes, Alex knew at once what she had done.
‘You’ve left her sitting in reception?’ he queried, and she grinned confirmation.
That was a little unkind – Tinika Lucas would have staggered off the courier, jelly-legged and with her ears still ringing from incessant engine noise. It would have been considerate, really, to assign her quarters where she could have a shower and a decent meal, rather than keeping her sitting in reception for hours.
‘Do you want to see her?’ Jen asked, and at his nod of assent, tapped controls that would tell security to have Cadet Officer Lucas escorted to her office.
When she arrived a couple of minutes later, both of them surveyed her with silent appraisal. Tina Lucas, however, was giving nothing away. She was the very model of Academy-trained decorum. She did not look directly at them as she snapped off a textbook salute, and neither her expression nor tone as she gave them ‘Good morning, ma’am – sir,’ held any hint of personality. She had a Fleet kitbag with her which she set on the floor and stood to attention next to it.
‘Cadet Officer Lucas,’ Jen acknowledged, and after a slight pause, informed her, ‘I have passed your application to Captain von Strada for his consideration – Captain?’
Alex nodded thanks for her handing the matter to him, looking at the cadet, himself, with unemotional scrutiny.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you expect me to be impressed, Ms Lucas? Or flattered?’
‘Sir, no sir,’ Cadet Officer Lucas responded, promptly.
‘Captain Buchanan,’ Alex observed, ‘is an officer I hold in the very highest esteem.’ That was true, in fact. The Falcon’s captain had been a strong influence in Alex’s own career. Alex had even been known to quote him, on occasion. ‘Had Captain Buchanan taken offence at this,’ he told her, ‘I would not even consider you for a placement.’
That too had been apparent from the files – Dix Harangay had asked Captain Buchanan if he wished to note any complaint against the cadet for disrespect. He had, on the contrary, given her his support, filing a comment to confirm that he too considered she would have greater opportunities aboard the Heron than she would aboard his ship. Alex could just imagine him saying that, too, with his quiet, thoughtful manner.
‘As it is,’ Alex continued, ‘I have to tell you that we are in no way prepared to have a cadet aboard, and that having to organise training, schedules and mentoring for you would be a significant demand on officers who will already be working flat out. So can you, Ms Lucas, give me one good reason why I should take you aboard?’
She did not hesitate, not for one moment.
‘I can be useful, sir.’
Alex looked mildly interested, though a gleam of amusement did show in his eyes.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
Tina Lucas looked at him directly for the first time, and it was as if she answered, calmly and firmly, You name it, I’ll do it.
‘I have technical and administrative skills, sir,’ she said, clearly meaning ‘beyond that normally expected of a final year cadet.’
As Alex considered this, she gave him a steady look, her brown eyes quietly determined. ‘I can organise my own training programme, sir,’ she suggested.
Alex very nearly did grin then, particularly as he imagined what his executive officer would have to say about that. His own decision was made in that moment. In fairness to her, however, there were things that had to be said.
‘Hmmn.’ He looked at her searchingly. ‘And you do understand, do you, all the implications there would be in you doing your placement with us? Professionally and personally?’ He did not give her time to respond, but went straight on, laying it out clearly. ‘Professionally, you’d be allying yourself very emphatically with the Progressive element within the Fleet. You may not think that matters much at this stage of your career, but I have to tell you it does, very much. You will, for sure, have already outraged a good many Old School officers, and given how highly placed so many of them are, that can only make your career more difficult. The more closely associated you are with us, the more difficult that will be.’
He spoke, there, with the conviction of personal experience. He had learned the hard way that enemies made so heedlessly at the age of nineteen could cause you major problems even years later.
The look of intelligence in her eyes made it clear that she understood very well that they were talking, there, about the Third Lord, Admiral Cerdan Jennar, and those traditionalists in the Fleet who supported him.
‘And personally, too,’ Alex went on. ‘However carefully people may have told you about the security issues involved in serving with the Fourth, you can have no idea how intensive and wide ranging that is until you experience it – by which time, of course, it is too late. From the moment you are known to be serving with the Fourth, you will be vulnerable to media intrusion and a whole range of security issues from activists shouting abuse at you in public to very serious terrorist threats. There is no such thing, for anyone serving with the Fourth, as a normal life. Any time you leave the ship or base you are under security conditions. You can’t even take a shoreleave pass to go for a quiet meal out of uniform, at least not without prior arrangement with security and suitable protection. Our personnel frequently come under attack, not just verbally but actual physical attack. We’ve had shoreleave groups who’ve had their dr
inks spiked, been punched, even had chairs thrown at them. And fair warning, Ms Lucas, if the police are called to a restaurant where chairs and food are being thrown, their tendency is to arrest the Fourth’s personnel even when it is entirely apparent that they are the innocent victims. You need to think about that seriously, you really do. As Fleet personnel, we are very used to being treated as people of high social standing. It is difficult and highly stressful to find yourself the focus of such rage and hatred simply because of the uniform you wear. Here...’
He got up and gestured for her to accompany him as he led her across to one of the windows. It faced the front of the Port Admiralty building, with its frontage square and neat flowerbeds. Jen’s office was on the eighteenth floor, so the tumult of demonstrators and media down there were tiny. Even as they watched, more and more of them were pouring out of buses and a nearby subway, heading for the frontage like hundreds of ants surging in on a blob of candyfloss.
One of the more cerebral media stations had actually run their own analysis of the dynamics of this situation, observing how long it took for news that von Strada was at the Port Office to be leaked, how quickly various campaign groups responded to that, how that then triggered a rapid surge in the presence of the media themselves to cover the protests, which in turn drew in a swiftly gathering crowd.
Alex had been here for about half an hour. It was a high response time of day – neither the media nor the activists tended to respond with any great enthusiasm at four in the morning, but during office hours, particularly given dry weather, the response would be rapid.
‘When I arrived a quarter of an hour ago,’ Alex told the cadet, ‘there were only about twenty journalists hanging about, mostly freelancers mooching on the chance of scoring footage they could sell to the big boys. There were only a couple of protesters, too – members of Liberty League maintaining their round-the-clock vigil. Look at it now. Those are Outside Broadcast vans, setting up, and that’s the police, establishing barriers to keep the various protest groups away from each other – very often, you see, they have almost as many issues with one another as they do with us, so the police have to implement what they call ‘demonstration calming procedures’ and anyone else would call riot control.
Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) Page 5
