Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4)

by S J MacDonald

  Alex, having done his part with suitable gravitas, retired to the command deck and left them to enjoy the wedding party. Seeing the buzz of wedding preparations which had consumed the ship for the last few days now culminating in all that noisy fun which would go on till the small hours, Alex smiled. Having civilians aboard could be beneficial in all sorts of unexpected ways.

  The day after the wedding, Jermane and Mako sat in the interdeck lounge, gazing at the holoscreen with enraptured eyes. Mako was silent, absorbing the spectacle. Jermane, inevitably, was talking.

  ‘It is just incredible to think that we are the first people ever, ever to see this,’ he observed.

  They were passing through a cluster of stars, buried deep in the nebula. Gunny had plotted a course that took them close by a binary system of such splendour that the civilians were mesmerised. One of the pair was a neutron star, the other a great red-gold blaze. Plasma was streaming between the two, spiralling around the smaller neutron star in a vast, beautiful swirl of light. The spacers had given it a few minutes of their attention in passing, debating amongst themselves whether it was prettier than other firefall binaries they knew. For Jermane and Mako, though, it was a wonder that had held them spellbound.

  ‘I just don’t understand how they can be so blasé about it,’ Jermane said, with a gesture at a table where several members of the crew were having a laugh, paying no attention to the scenery at all. ‘I know they’re very goal oriented and this is just a means to an end for them, and yes, okay, they’ve seen things like this before. But how can you look at something that magnificent, knowing you’re the first people ever to see it, and just go, ‘that’s pretty’ and wander off to play cards? Doesn’t it just fill you with a sense of the majesty of the cosmos?’ He adopted his ‘quoting poetry’ voice as he went on, ‘This speck of living dust are we, falling in infinity.’

  Mako took no notice. It seemed to be psychologically impossible for Jermane Taerling to be silent for more than three minutes at a time, unless he was asleep. His continuous blathering could get on your nerves if you let it, but Mako was a spacer in that respect at least; tolerant, able to zone out other people’s annoying habits. He was thinking of his family, wishing that his wife and children could be here with him, seeing this, knowing that no amount of describing it or even holos could bring them anywhere near the experience of being here. Not that he would be able to tell them about it, anyway. As far as they and all other family and friends would be told, the Heron would have been on an uneventful patrol in the Dortmell sector. This might well be a secret Mako would have to take to his grave. And that, somehow, made him feel even lonelier than the mere gulf of distance between them.

  Even so, he knew, with a little pang of guilt, that if someone appeared right now able to offer him a teleport that would take him right back to Therik, this moment, he would not take it. He had to see, to be part of what happened at Samart. As the binary system they’d named Honeymoon Falls fell away behind them, his gaze fixed on the tiny red dot that marked their destination.

  He was not the only one whose thoughts were focussing on what would happen when they got to Samart. Later that day, Shion came to see the skipper.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she told him, sitting down on the command deck and looking at him steadily. ‘I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I want you to take the combat bar off so that I can pilot wing command even in fights.’

  Alex’s eyebrows flicked up almost imperceptibly and Shion held up a hand to fend off his immediate response.

  ‘Don’t just say no,’ she said, and though she tried to make that sound like a courteous request, her manner carried considerable authority. ‘Please listen to me. I know that you had good reasons for making that decision and I respect your right to do so, clearly, you’re the skipper and making the best decisions there not just for me but for the people I’d be putting at risk if it turned out I couldn’t fire at live targets after all. But things are different now, skipper. Really different. I’ve been training people up as pilots and practicing these manoeuvres with them for hours every day. They’re good – don’t get me wrong, here, I have total confidence in them. But let’s be honest here, I’m better. I’m the best pilot you’ve got, and that may be the edge that makes the difference, if it does come to combat. I can’t honestly tell you that I’ll be able to kill other people if it comes right down to that – I don’t think anybody can really say that, a hundred per cent sure, until they’ve found themselves in that situation. All I can say is that I will do my best, always, and that I just can’t stand the thought of having to stay behind on the ship when my pilots, the people I’ve trained, are putting themselves on the line. They’re my people, I have the duty and the right to do everything I can to protect them, simple as that. So, will you let me pilot ops, please?’

  Alex didn’t hesitate. He too had been giving this a lot of thought, and some private discussion with Buzz, too. He had only been waiting for Shion to make that request, to be sure it was coming from her and a hundred per cent wholehearted. Looking into her dark eyes and hearing the fierce sincerity in her tone, he had no doubt about that.

  ‘All right,’ he said, startling her extremely since she’d expected, at best, a lengthy discussion. Seeing her astonishment, he broke into a grin and held out his hand to her. ‘Consider yourself a full serving officer, Shion.’

  ‘Really?’ She saw the confirmation in his face and gave a whoop of delight. ‘Real!’ she exclaimed, and shook hands with him. ‘Thanks, skipper!’

  Fifteen

  It took them thirteen weeks and four days to traverse the Ranges, with no worse adversity than having to spend nine days pretty much heading backwards. There were some hours of discomfort now and again, notably in crossing a feature they nicknamed Chatterbox Ridge. It was an area of turbulence which fell just short of being rated dirty space, just safe enough for the frigate to navigate. Since the alternative was to spend at least a week retracing their steps and then who knew how long trying to find a way around it, Alex made the decision to push through.

  It wasn’t an enjoyable six hours. As with all areas of wave-space turbulence, the engines were thrown into energy surges and troughs that made them grumble irritably. There was heavy vibration, too, a teeth-chattering shudder that gave the Ridge its name. The ship made odd noises, creaks and sighs that made even experienced spacers a little uneasy. It was at times like this that tales of haunted ships could seem rather more plausible, as lights dimmed for no evident reason and long breathy sighs seemed to come from the fabric of the ship itself. There were, of course, scientific explanations for that, as the crew knew very well, but that did not prevent them carrying out whatever private little rituals they might have for warding off restless spirits. Even Buzz gave the ship a quiet pat and sang a few words under his breath ‘to settle it’.

  None of that, though, was regarded by any of the crew as beyond their normal experience of working out in space. They were, as Jermane had commented, extremely goal oriented – this traverse was only significant to them to get them out to Samartian space. If they failed to establish a relationship there, it would be a total waste of time.

  They were continuing with their training, carrying out drills every day even though these were now on simulators alone. Alex was also in training for his diplomatic role, studying what little information they had and learning as much as he could of their best guess at what the Samartian language would be like. Teams were chosen for all the various scenarios they could come up with, too, and rehearsed to deal with as many contingencies as they could.

  On day thirty three into the run, that role play involved a reception of Davie, playing the part of Samartian ambassador. His brief for that session was to be confrontational, to give Alex a workout of his diplomatic skills.

  The first part went well enough – Davie pretended to board through the airlock on deck seven, where Buzz and the reception team provided a ceremonial welcome. Davie –very stiff backed and poker face
d – was escorted to the exo-suite and shown through into the conference room where Alex was waiting.

  Alex had needed some persuading about that. Fleet etiquette would require him to be at the airlock in person to welcome a VIP guest aboard. As Davie had pointed out, though, Presidential Envoy protocols trumped Fleet ones in this regard. For the purpose of this negotiation, he was representing the League President in person, so must conduct himself with high and stately dignity.

  Alex therefore played his part with due ceremony as ‘the Samartian ambassador’ was presented to him. Davie was firmly in role, his manner steely. He sat down facing Alex, glaring at him. And, having refused offers of refreshment with curt dismissal, he went straight on to the attack.

  ‘Narros var etes...’ he was speaking the hybrid that was the best they’d been able to come up with, using the four known words of Samartian, its known roots and general principles of linguistic evolution such as the tendency for words to contract over time. Alex was having to work with that using his own knowledge of the theoretical language, the translation matrix on a screen in front of him and a backroom team speaking to him through an earpiece. Combined, these gave him the sense of what Davie was saying as, ‘Tell me, why should we even consider opening negotiations with a people so cowardly, untrustworthy and dishonourable as the League?’

  Alex regarded him with glacial dispassion. Then he data-coded what he wanted to say in no more than a few subtle gestures on one of the screens open in front of him.

  ‘What reason have you to accuse us of that?’ he asked, reading the phonetically-displayed translation.

  Davie gave a contemptuous snort.

  ‘You promised friendship to Perisos and a hundred other worlds,’ he said. ‘You swore to support and protect them. They had no space faring capacity of their own, no means of defending themselves. Then you, by your stupid recklessness, gave the Marfikians the technology they needed to attack other worlds. And when they attacked worlds that you had sworn to befriend, worlds you were sworn to protect, you ran like rats and left them to their fate. Do you deny it?’

  Alex took his time, making sure that he understood what had been said and translating what he wanted to say, himself.

  ‘I am not responsible for decisions made eighteen hundred years ago,’ he said. ‘Our government made the decisions they did to protect our own worlds. Whether they were right to do so or not is a matter for the judgement of historians. I am here now.’ A significant pause. ‘Do I seem to you a man who would break his word, or run like any rat?’

  Davie surveyed him for an insultingly long time before giving another derisory noise.

  ‘Even if I was willing to take your word,’ he said, in tones that made it clear that he wasn’t, ‘what guarantee do we have that your government would honour any promise you made here, today, next year, next decade, next century? Can you swear on your life and honour that your government would never betray us?’

  Alex considered. He was realist enough to know that he could not give such an undertaking. Changes of government often brought changes in policy, and it was entirely possible that within a few decades, the League might decide that it was no longer in their best interests to foster an alliance with Samart.

  While he was considering a response, though, he could see an ‘urgent’ banner flashing over Jermane Taerling’s name on the list of advisors. The way that worked was that the backroom team of analysts and advisors were based in the lab, monitoring everything that went on. They could feed data and observations to Alex via the screens in front of him, or directly through his earpiece. It was up to Alex to set at any given point which of them could be talking to him. They could, however, alert him to the fact that they had something important to say by flashing their names on his list. A tap of a finger gave Jermane access to the earpiece, which he launched into immediately.

  ‘You have to defend the honour of the League, skipper!’ He sounded scandalised. ‘Tell him that Prisos and others broke the Foundation before we did, and that most of those worlds hadn’t signed the Foundation Treaty anyway!’ As he spoke, he was putting dates and statements onto Alex’s briefing screen, which he recognised as the established Diplomatic Corps position on what had happened back then.

  Alex turned off Jermane’s access to his earpiece and ignored the briefing.

  ‘Only a fool would swear to certain knowledge of what will happen next year, next decade, next century,’ he said. ‘All I can swear to is that I believe that our government is sincere and committed to forming an honest and honourable relationship with Samart.’

  Davie continued to be confrontational, eventually leaving without any agreement for further communication, despite Alex’s best efforts. The debriefing session, however, turned out to be even more conflictual than the role play itself.

  ‘You can’t just accept it if someone insults the League over what happened back then,’ Jermane insisted. He was still fizzing with indignation. ‘The official position on this is that the League acted legally and properly, and whatever your personal feelings may be on that, Captain, you are obliged to uphold the official position as His Excellency the Presidential Envoy.’

  Alex rather liked the interpreter, finding his constant prattle rather more amusing than annoying, and having a high regard for his nerve, too, in having accepted being marooned in a tiny survival dome as he had. He had encouraged Jermane to feel free to give his opinion, both on linguistic and diplomatic issues. On this occasion, however, his manner was definite.

  ‘I am not,’ he said. ‘There is nothing in my orders that requires me to spout that propaganda. Nor would I have accepted orders that required me to defend the indefensible.’

  ‘Propaganda, sir?’ Jermane was appalled.

  ‘Propaganda,’ Alex stated, emphatically. ‘The facts are very clear, Mr Taerling. The League made first contact with worlds which did not have their own spacefaring capability. It is clear that the intention from the outset was to work towards those worlds becoming members of the League, themselves.’

  Davie nodded confirmation, interrupting with the certainty of someone who’d grown up absorbing the history of the League as another child might learn their alphabet.

  ‘The Foundation process was entirely geared to making other worlds economically dependent on the League for the provision of space-tech and the development of intersystem trade,’ he said. ‘Whether you regard that as legitimate aid and benefit to those worlds or as economic imperialism is a matter of opinion. The facts, however, are that we made those worlds dependent on us under promises of friendship and protection.’

  ‘Where they were on the Foundation continuum is irrelevant,’ Alex said. ‘We had befriended them, made them dependent on us, made promises of ongoing support and protection. And then, when the Marfikians attacked, we retreated at speed to defend our own worlds. You may argue that that was a necessary sacrifice, a kind of Firewall decision of our own, that if we’d tried to defend all we would have lost all. But you have to accept that from the perspective of those worlds, we did abandon and betray them. It is, I feel, important to respect their right to that view as part of trying to build a new relationship now. We never had a relationship with Samart to begin with, of course, but given the history of our relationship with other worlds, I do feel, myself, very strongly, that ‘Why should we trust you?’ is an entirely legitimate question.’

  Jermane had to accept that – Alex was the Presidential Envoy, after all – but it was clear that he was shocked to find that the Envoy held such radical views. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Alex von Strada’s dedication to the service of the League was beyond question, indeed, he might even have gone so far as to call such opinions unpatriotic.

  As it was, he just had to accept that this was how it was going to be, focussing his own attention on the technicalities of the translation matrix.

  So, on and on, the journey continued, busy with training and debate, but with a feeling of timelessness, of wandering within a laby
rinth. It began to feel as if they had been in the nebula for months and might never get out of it again.

  Then, all at once, they burst through into open space. There was tremendous cheering as they saw the star-field ahead, the brilliant swirl of galactic centre. They were out, they were free. And they were on the Samartian side of the Ranges.

  Simon baked them a celebratory cake in honour of their achievement. The Van Damek Society awarded plaques to any ship which registered a previously un-navigated route – obviously, the Fourth would not be able to register this traverse with the civilian society, but Simon made them a replica of the Society Plaque, in triple layer sponge and bronze icing.

  Alex ate his on the command deck. From now on, either he or Buzz would be there round the clock. The ship was being held at standby alert, as near to action stations as they could get while maintaining normal operations.

  All the drills had stopped, now, other than the routine freefall session during morning clean-through. This was it, now, the moment they had come all this way for and been training so hard for.

  They had emerged just six days from the point at which it was believed that the Samartians could detect and would respond to incursion of their space. Exactly how they managed that level of detection and rapid response was one of the questions Alex was hoping to get an opportunity to ask. Even the most sophisticated deep space scanner arrays could not give League worlds more than a few minutes warning of incoming ships. The Samartians had several hours, at least. And they were able to respond far more rapidly than Fleet ships could, perhaps even hinting at some kind of communication system beyond the League’s current capability.

  The Heron approached on a zigzag course. As Buzz had observed, a heavily armed warship of unknown origin barrelling straight at your world would make even the friendliest of people react defensively, so it was best to make as non-threatening approach as possible. The broad tacking trajectory made it clear that they were not on a direct, attacking strafe. Or at least, they hoped it made that clear. It was hard to be sure of anything when much of the information you had was either ten thousand years out of date or so vague as to be more legend than fact.