Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4)

by S J MacDonald

  And Alex did just that, taking his down-time there from then on. The crew, seeing him having a game of triplink there with Misha Tregennis, were quite surprised. They were even more surprised to see him there late that evening, going to the lounge for his quiet time before turning in. It had been noted, too, that he’d pushed his seat back from the command table quite frequently, all day, sitting back, obviously taking a bit of a break.

  ‘What’s happened to the skipper?’ was a frequent question as the day went on. There was some anxiety over that, too. Skipper von Strada was their north star, their point of certainty no matter how far from home they might be. ‘Is he okay?’ people wondered, with worried speculation about the possibility that he might be on some kind of medical order, ill or exhausted.

  By mid-afternoon, though, all became clear. Simon had already identified one of the worst offenders for busting workload regs – Cadet Officer Tina Lucas. She no longer had the exceptional-workload permit that Rangi had agreed to while she was shadowing the captain, and on record, at least, was keeping just within the rules. Because she was working with all the officers in so many different capacities, though, she was never under anyone’s direct supervision for long. And she was, as Simon had noted, adept at slipping work under the radar, carrying out tasks in such a way that they would not flag as work activity.

  He was only waiting for Tina to make one mistake. At lunchtime, she made it. Instead of taking the half hour break she was scheduled for and sitting down to eat a proper meal, she grabbed a snack roll and some candy from the galley hatch and ate it on her way to engineering.

  Simon pounced. He intercepted her before she got to engineering and asked her pleasantly what she was doing. When she made the even bigger mistake of using the word ‘just’ in her explanation, that she was just grabbing a snack today because she was a bit busy, Simon smiled.

  And, for the next two and three quarter hours, he followed her, delivering his lecture. He was perfectly friendly about it, his manner earnestly helpful. But he just would not, not shut up. The only place she could get away from him was the lavatory, and even then he waited outside, resuming what he’d been saying at exactly the point he’d broken off as soon as she opened the door. All attempts to reason with him and point out that he was disrupting her work and being really really annoying had had about as much effect as attempting to reason with a dripping tap. She’d eventually gone to the command deck in the hope that Alex or Buzz would see what was going on and intervene.

  Alex, though, just laughed.

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me you busted workload,’ he said, seeing Simon right at her elbow. He was, at the time, giving her an extremely detailed account of the effects of stomach ulcers.

  ‘Sir,’ Tina said, half pleading and half desperate. ‘I just grabbed a working lunch, sir. And he won’t stop.’

  At the word ‘just’, though, Simon did stop. For one wonderful moment Tina thought she’d actually won, as the concerned, insistent drone broke off. Then she saw the look, heard the sigh, the air of a man prepared to do this as many times as needed to get his point across. Then he started the lecture again, afresh, all the way from the beginning. Tina looked for a moment as if she might howl at that, but managed to keep her composure, looking back at Alex with yearning appeal. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sorry, Ms Lucas,’ Alex said, a little sympathetic but mostly amused. ‘You are on your own in this one.’ And as she looked at him, as if wondering as if this could be some kind of test, he told her, ‘Professor Penarth has taken on responsibility for monitoring health and safety regulations with respect to workload. This will be his version of a friendly intervention. And I would, I really would, strongly advise that you refrain from using the word ‘just’ in that context.’

  By mid afternoon, when Tina finally cracked and begged for mercy, the Heron’s shipboard jargon had acquired a new verb – to be Simoned, defined as being landed on like a ton of duralloy for working when you shouldn’t.

  Within a couple of days, though, that too was absorbed into shipboard definition of ‘normal’. Anxiety about the skipper turned quickly to amusement – it had of course been noticed that Simon had gone to his daycabin at four in the morning, though it was assumed that he had got the skipper out of bed and talked to him in the daycabin. Some few were indignant over this civilian newcomer giving their skipper a hard time and even interfering with the way he carried out his command. Most, though, saw that the skipper himself was fine with it, and had a laugh, too, speculating on how the skipper himself had responded to The Lecture.

  The message was received and understood, though. It wasn’t long before people were adjusting their workloads, officers taking conspicuous mini-breaks too and crew absorbing the new message that to do so was not ‘slacking off’ but good practice to keep up performance, long term. Once Simon had taken down the worst offender on the mess decks, too, there was no longer any kudos to busting workload. The Able Star was the proud owner of twenty seven overwork logs from Rangi. He was determined not to let Simon get to him, giving him a ‘Come on if you think you’re hard enough’ attitude and blanking him out. He lasted for six and a quarter hours before he cracked. The lecture was bad enough, but the revolting pictures Simon put in front of him of stress-induced medical conditions, while he was trying to eat, just finished him off.

  Simon was, without doubt, an asset to the ship. He even managed to get hands-on with the Ignite, helping to machine the casing.

  The Devast team were not impressed, though, either by the fact that the civilian medic was being allowed to work on ‘their’ missile, or with the design for the casing Micky Efalto had come up with. It looked like a whole different kind of animal – no boxy grey tube, this, but a sleek beast with fins like flames. It was a glossy, deep blood red. Towards the nose, quite small but striking, the word Ignite had been etched into the casing and filled with black micro-crystals to create a dark, jewelled blazon.

  The Devast team looked appalled, when they were invited to see the casing.

  ‘Fins?’ Mack queried. ‘It doesn’t need fins!’

  That was true enough. Space tech only needed aerodynamic design if it was intended to enter atmosphere, like the flicked up wings on their fighters. The Devast team had taken some pride, even, in creating the missile on uncompromising functionality design.

  Micky Efalto folded his arms and looked at them.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you may not have noticed, but the first reaction of nine out of ten people when they see the Ignite is ‘Is that it?’, at which you immediately have to start defending how it looks by what it does. If you want to sell this to the SDF and system governments then you have to give it a wow factor groundsiders will respond to. This...’ he rested a proprietorial hand on the missile, ‘not only does the job, it looks the part.’

  ‘Well, whether it does the job remains to be seen,’ said Jate.

  ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ said Micky. The missile casing was a shell, at that point, with the interior no more than a quarter-built lump and a lot of parts in storage boxes. It wasn’t the one they’d be test firing – they’d use one of the Devast missiles for that – but they were all determined that they’d have this one built and bench-tested before the Devast team left the ship, forcing them to admit that it was, in fact, just as good as their own.

  In the meantime, though, they had plenty of other things to occupy them. The days went by so quickly, it came as quite a shock to some of them to realise that they had already been on this journey for three weeks.

  That was a big day, on the Heron, especially for the newcomers. Fleet regs required that newcomers to a ship be under closer supervision during their first month aboard, and specified, too, various training they were expected to receive during that time. With the week they’d spent in shakedown at Therik, that meant them clearing transfer, in Fleet jargon, three weeks to the day after they had left port.

  There was a certain amount of ceremony to that, which the Fourth carried
out just as it would be done on any other Fleet ship. Each newcomer in turn went for a brief meeting with Buzz Burroughs in the skipper’s daycabin, both of them signing the paperwork which confirmed that all necessary training had been achieved and that the Exec was satisfied that they were fully competent to undertake their duties. Buzz then brought them to the command deck for a traditional ‘word’ from the skipper, one of the few times the regular Fleet expected crew and skipper to shake hands.

  Since this was done in rank order, the first to be congratulated was Jonas Sartin. He hadn’t finished all his training, yet, not by a long way, but he’d achieved everything humanly possible in the time that he’d had, and Buzz was so warmly complimentary that Jonas was positively blushing when he came to the command deck.

  It was nearly three hours later before they got to the lowest ranking of their rookies, Banno Triesse. As a first voyager, the rules regarding him were rather different – far more restrictive, with many assessments ranging from his technical skills to confidence level and social interaction with the crew.

  He had aced every assessment, and knew it, but there was still a touch of anxiety in his manner when he went into the cabin for his meeting with Buzz. In theory, if Buzz or the skipper had decided that he wasn’t up to their standards after all, they could fail his probation and dismiss him from the ship. That would mean him having to go aboard the Stepeasy. If they wouldn’t even offer him a posting at their base, he could end up out of the Fourth – and therefore out of the Fleet – altogether.

  That didn’t happen, of course. He was brought to the command deck, grinning with delight at the lovely things Buzz had had to say about his commitment, his energy, and what a credit he was to them, all round.

  Alex himself removed the half-pips of a probationary star from Banno’s collar, and fastened on the insignia of an ordinary star rating, second class. The Fleet would not allow him to give Banno any higher entry-rank than that, regardless of the fact that he had more actual starship experience than many of their officers. The Fourth would move him up the ranks as quickly as regulation allowed, though, and Buzz had already said that he should set his sights on making petty officer within two years.

  ‘Thank you, skipper.’ Banno shook hands with Alex so fervently that he was reminded of encounters with Marto. Fortunately, Banno managed not to embrace him, or to burst into tears. The strength of his feelings was in that ardent handshake, though, and the over-brightness of his eyes. If Alex hadn’t given him this chance to turn his life around, he’d be out there now trying to get berths on freighters. And since no shipping company would hire an officer with a criminal record, he’d be left scrambling for work in the kind of dodgy company that had got him sent to prison in the first place.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Alex, and meant that. Whatever his reservations about the civilian rehab scheme might be, and still were, there was no denying that they’d struck gold, with Banno Triesse.

  The crew felt so, too, with a huge cheer from them at his becoming a full member of the crew, and so many of them getting him drinks at the party that evening that if they’d been alcoholic, he’d have ended up in sickbay. The party was held in the gym, for all of their shipmates – they couldn’t be called rookies or newcomers any more, they were part of the crew on the same basis as everybody else. It wasn’t much of a party, really – just three hours of loud music, soft drinks, dancing and the kind of half-yelled, half-mimed conversations people had in noisy crowds. Any kind of party at all was such a rare event on a Fleet ship, though, that they’d talk about it for some time, telling mates what a great time they’d had.

  There was certainly a slightly hungover feeling about the ship next day, though nobody had drunk anything stronger than dry billy, a non-alcoholic beer they’d acquired a taste for while at Tolmer’s Drift. The ship seemed quiet, people getting on with their work but perhaps just a little subdued.

  Mako Ireson seemed a bit depressed, too, when he came to the skipper’s daycabin. Alex had asked to meet with him, there, privately.

  ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,’ Mako said, when Alex had welcomed him to the daycabin and invited him to sit down. ‘I know I don’t stand any chance of making the grade, and it’s okay, I understand.’

  It had been made clear, by then, that any of the Second’s team who wanted to go with them across the border would have to apply to do so, on the same basis that Simon Penarth had been brought aboard. That meant they would have to list what skills they could offer, and what benefit their presence would be to the mission. They would need at least one senior officer supporting their application, too.

  Mako was all too aware that his own position on the ship was far more tenuous even than that of the Second’s civilians. He’d been pushing things even coming on this trip, with no real need for him to be monitoring Banno Triesse. At the time, he’d been able to justify his presence a bit with the fact that he could be useful if the Fourth should take any prisoners aboard during the mission. Now, though, there wasn’t even the smallest justification for continuing to monitor Banno Triesse, and not even a brig for him to do routine inspections on. He had absolutely nothing to do in his LPA capacity, and no skills, he felt, that could be of any mission benefit. ‘You know I’d do anything to come with you,’ he said, regretfully. ‘But I do understand, skipper. You can’t take passengers, this trip.’

  Alex gave him a slightly confused look.

  ‘Sorry, Mako?’ He queried. ‘Are you saying you do want to come with us, or not?’

  Mako realised that what he had said might have been taken as a euphemism, along the lines of using ‘I’d really love to, but…’ to get out of accepting an unwanted invitation.

  ‘Oh, I want to come!’ he said, with a tone of heartfelt sincerity. ‘Of course I do! I’ve racked my brains trying to think of some way I might justify asking to come. But I’ve got nothing, you know, the only work I can do is helping in the galley and you don’t need me for that.’

  Alex looked even more bewildered.

  ‘You’re serious?’ he asked. ‘You really think that I’m going to ask you to leave the ship?’

  Mako looked doubtful. ‘Well, aren’t you?’ he responded.

  ‘Er – no?’ Alex broke into a grin, then, shaking his head. ‘I actually asked you here,’ he told him, ‘to ask you if you’d be willing to take on managing the interdeck for us.’ As Mako stared at him he went on, explaining, ‘Now that you’ve finished monitoring Mr Triesse, and with the brig having been dismantled, there isn’t much you can do in your LPA capacity. I have a request, though, from Mr North, supported by Buzz, that we appoint you, in a civilian capacity, as the interdeck steward. We’re not talking about you serving coffee,’ he clarified, ‘it’s an admin role, organising events, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mako’s eyes widened. ‘Davie has asked for me?’ His manner made it clear that he really meant why?, and Alex smiled.

  ‘Yes, and no surprise to me – I was going to make a similar suggestion myself.’ He said. ‘Mr North just got in first with his request.’ He could see what Mako was thinking, astonishment turning to doubt. ‘And no, this is not any kind of being kind to you so we can take you along as our little pet civilian.’ He shook his head again, helplessly amused.

  ‘You just don’t see it, do you? You think you’re still that hapless rookie who didn’t know port from starboard and walked right into zero-gee zones. Just stop for a moment and look at yourself, okay? I know you have no technical skills but in sheer terms of shipboard competence, you’re every bit as able as any member of the crew. You can suit up in under eight seconds, recognise and respond appropriately to every alert in the lexicon, you’re confident in freefall and you are totally at home with all our regulations, policy and procedures. You take an active part in all our drills, and frequently get involved as chaos-maker, assigning casualties and damage. That isn’t as chaotic as it used to be, frankly, because you do now have a good idea of what kind of damage is liable t
o result from various scenarios, and that in itself indicates how much you have learned. I would have no hesitation in rating you entirely safe and competent, Mako, none at all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mako said, and a look of shy delight came onto his face. ‘Thank you. I have felt that I’ve got better at things, this trip, but I don’t have any technical skills and no hope of acquiring any – I tried, you know, I tried to do the entry level assistant tech course, but I couldn’t get past the first module. They tell me I’d have to go right back to high school science courses to build up what I’d need to know, and since I failed those the first time round and the resits, I don’t think there’s much point, really. I know I am, you know, the pet civilian. And I don’t mind that, really – fair enough. But if you really think I could be useful…’

  Alex laughed.

  ‘Mako, you are overlooking abilities that more than justify your inclusion on this or any other mission,’ he said. ‘Your social skills are superb, of course, that natural friendliness that made the crew take to you right from the start. But has it not occurred to you, at all, that you are gifted in exodiplomacy?’

  He could see that it hadn’t, as Mako looked stunned, even lifting a hand to point to himself in a silent, Me?

  ‘Yes, you,’ Alex confirmed, and marvelled, ‘You really don’t see it, do you? You’ve spent the last month working with Shion, and with Mr North, getting on just as well with them as you do with everyone aboard, and that was the case from the moment you met them. Most of our own new crewmembers needed a few days to get over the awe of meeting them, and some, even now, never quite manage to forget that Shion is alien, and Mr North gehs. But that was never any kind of issue for you, you made friends with both of them, straight off. I don’t think you appreciate, yourself, quite how rare an ability that is, particularly amongst civilians. We joke about it, but we really have had people pass out or have panic attacks when they’re introduced to Shion, and very few people are at ease in Mr North’s company – even those who aren’t intimidated by his being gehs are often awkward, knowing how wealthy he is, so rich and powerful, they don’t quite know how to relate to him. I’ve seen you working with him, often, just as natural and easy as you are with everybody else. Mr North says that you’re a natural born exo-diplomat and I agree with him entirely. Actually it would be very helpful even if you could just take on the running of the interdeck – we didn’t expect, really, that it would need any more management than the routine admin we already do for the gym as a social venue, but it seems to be taking on a life of its own. It’s certainly generating a significant amount of extra work for Buzz, most of it admin that there’s no reason a civilian couldn’t undertake. So if you could do that for us, that’d be great. But Mr North wants you on the team, too, in his role as exodiplomacy consultant, as the exosuite steward. He wants to be able to train you in that role, to assist him if we are lucky enough to reach the point where Samartians come aboard the ship. Would you be willing to work with him on that?’