“They only took us to the mess deck,” Licia explained, “to have lunch there and meet some of the crew. But they said we couldn’t see the ship because a lot of it is, you know, top secret stuff, so when they took us around we had to close our eyes and they put their hands over our eyes too, saying, “no peeking!”. It was really funny! They’re ever so much nicer than I thought they’d be, just really lovely and friendly. A lot of them are like, our age, too, even some of the officers. Anyway, we just wanted to say what happened, and thank you to the Fourth for saving us, because we know now that the Demella was so dangerous, with those people on it and the ship in such a state, too, anything could have happened to us, really. And White Star has been lovely, too.” She beamed, suddenly, at Jon Quilleran. “Mr Quilleran has been so kind, looking after us here.”
For reasons obscure to the teenagers, many of the journalists burst out laughing at that, as Jon Quilleran assumed an air of aloof dignity. It had not taken the media long to discover the link between him and Alex von Strada. One of the reasons he was here managing this press call was, in fact, because his captain had asked him to go on camera himself and explain that situation. If he didn’t, as she’d observed, his silence would be interpreted as confirmation of what the media had leapt to believe.
“Commander – Commander Quilleran!” Sadie Kettle, ABC, grabbed the lead again and this time directed her question at him. “It is true, isn’t it, that you were a cadet on Chartsey with Alex von Strada? And that you were a guest at his wedding?”
“Yes, we were in the sixty four together,” Jon agreed, since there was no point in denying it. “That’s something the Fleet does every year, the top cadets from all sixty four of their academies across the League go to Chartsey for their final months of training. Alex and I were room-mates and became friends. I was never even remotely a contender for the top spot, me. I graduated sixty second of the sixty four and was shuffled off into a very boring groundside assignment. White Star offered me a job and I took it, simple as that. Alex and I stayed in touch, though, as much as spacers do when we’re off all over the place. Yes, I was at his wedding and no,” he held up a hand, emphatically, as that clamour arose, “I will not make any comment at all on either his daughter or his divorce. Those things are private and should be respected as such.”
As a groan went up from the frustrated journalists, Quill threw them a bone.
“I will tell you one thing about him, though,” he said. “We arrived at the Chartsey Academy within a couple of days of each other, okay? Me, I turned up with my kitbag, a suitcase and bags of duty free stuff. When I unpacked I was doing the thing, you know, putting up posters, holosnaps, mementoes, making the space my own. Alex’s bunk looked like nobody was using it. The only thing on his holoboard was a study timetable. I thought he hadn’t unpacked yet so I suggested that we might go for a look around once he’d unpacked his gear.” He grinned at the memory.
“He said, “I already have,” he recalled. “And that’s Alex, all right? He’s the most focussed, dedicated person I have ever met. We used to play this game as cadets, deciding what kind of cars people were like. Alex and me, if we were cars, I’d be a sports car with every gadget going and a high end sound system, he’d be a racing car stripped down and engineered for nothing but speed.”
The journos were not fobbed off by that, not interested in stories of Alex von Strada as a cadet.
“There have been many calls between the Queen of Cartasay and the Heron over the last twenty five hours,” one of them got in faster than the others. “Can you confirm that some of those calls have been between you and von Strada?”
“We’ve spoken briefly a couple of times, yes, of course we have,” Quill replied. “We’ve been friends for ten years, of course we’re going to talk. I called him yesterday after they came back into port, to congratulate him on the seizure and ask if everyone was all right. He called me this afternoon to tell me they were sending over Ms Simmington and Mr Eldon and asked me to take particular care of them.”
Alex’s actual words had been, “They’re so dumb it’s terrifying. Do what you can for them will you, Quill?” but Jon Quilleran wouldn’t disclose that, obviously. Instead he smiled at the teenagers, “They’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
The journos, however, had already got what they wanted from Licia and Zak.
“There are rumours, Commander,” said one of the journos who’d started those rumours, “that your relationship with von Strada may be professional, as well – rumours that you didn’t really leave the Fleet, but went to work for Fleet Intel and are working for White Star undercover.”
Quill gave a perfectly genuine crack of helpless laughter. He had, in fact, dropped out of working for the Fleet for exactly the reason he’d given. He’d sailed easily into the top slot at his remote, provincial academy, enjoying his time there under a cheerfully indolent commandant. Arriving in the cut-throat competition of the sixty four had been a huge shock. He was no longer the star of his academy but one of the poorest performing cadets in the class. His shipboard placement hadn’t gone well, either, as his skipper and exec had agreed with his instructors at Chartsey that he lacked authority and did not seem wholly committed to Fleet service.
“Fleet Intel,” he said truthfully, “wouldn’t have even looked at me. Not that I was ever interested anyway. Frankly, I only joined the Fleet in the first place because I wanted to travel and I thought the uniform looked cool. When that didn’t work out for me as well as I’d hoped, I was more than happy to accept a job offer from White Star. Of course, I appreciate that this is exactly what I’d say if I was working for Fleet Intel, but honestly, no, I’m not. The Fleet and I parted company a long time ago, without regret on either side.”
“Isn’t it strange, then, that you’ve stayed friends with von Strada?”
“No, not at all. We’re very different people, obviously, but if there’s one thing we do have in common it’s that we’re both totally up front about who we are and what we want,” Quill said. “And Alex is not the kind of guy who drops you as a friend because you’ve switched to merchant service.
“No,” he answered the next question, “I don’t intend to go aboard the Heron. For one thing they’re operational and both Alex and I are kind of busy just now, and for another, the Heron is highly classified – and no, I don’t know about the experimental tech they have aboard and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you, so don’t waste your time asking. They’re not open for ship visiting, anyway.
“I won’t comment on the operations or the allegations being made about the station, either – that would not be appropriate from a White Star officer. All I will say is that White Star is entirely focussed on ensuring the safety and welfare of our passengers. The decision has been made to evacuate anyone off the station who wishes to leave, and I, along with all White Star’s officers and crew, are making every effort to enable that to happen as calmly as possible.”
“Isn’t it true, though, that the Fourth has agreed to pay you twenty five thousand dollars for every passenger you take?” one of the more militant journalists cut in, aggressively, and Quill gave a patient smile.
“I believe you will find that question addressed in the information already released to the media,” he said. “If it needs clarification, however, no, the Fourth is not paying us anything to take passengers off the station, nor were they involved in the decision to offer emergency berths. Both White Star and Red Line captains made that decision themselves, having determined that the situation on the station was such that there were reasonable grounds to fear for the welfare of passengers asking to be evacuated. Under space law, such passengers are not charged for their passage but any ship taking emergency passengers aboard may claim salvage fees from the authorities when they go into port. The amount of those fees depends on the circumstances and the length of the journey, and will be negotiated between White Star and the Space Salvage Board. Twenty five thousand dollars a head is at the upper end of wha
t might be claimed for passengers taken to Chartsey and the actual figure settled is likely to be considerably less than that. We are not, however, concerned with how much money head office may negotiate for having carried these passengers. Our sole concern is to provide for them to the best of our ability. So,” he indicated the two teenagers who were looking a bit disconcerted to find the media focusing their questions on Jon Quilleran now instead of on them, “unless you have any further questions for Ms Simmington and Mr Eldon, I think they should be left alone, now, to rest and recover from their ordeal.”
Licia seemed a little disappointed that the journalists accepted that with only token protests, but she and Zak allowed Quill to usher them away.
Over on the Heron, Alex and Buzz watched this press call going out live. At the point where Licia told the journalists about their meeting with Alex and him asking them not to give interviews, Buzz held out his hand in a “pay me” gesture and Alex slapped it, acknowledging that he owed his second in command five dollars. Neither of them said anything, though. There was nothing to say, and a great deal of more important matters demanding their attention.
Amongst those was the redeployment of Tom Sutherland and Murg Atwood. As much as they were both enjoying their stay aboard the frigate, their cover roles had to be maintained. As far as other spacers and the media were concerned, both were being detained and interviewed on the Heron. Both were said to have declined the offer of lawyers from aboard the station and to be giving the Fourth their full cooperation.
Feeling amongst spacers, though, was pretty strongly that what had happened to them wasn’t fair. Tom and Murg were well known amongst the spacer community and many people felt that if they’d been given the same opportunity for voluntary searching as the rest of them, they’d have taken it. There was, therefore, huge relief when a request went out from the Heron, asking for an engineer.
Tom Sutherland, it emerged, was going back to the Fancy Free. Murg Atwood was remaining in protective custody aboard the Heron, having turned state’s evidence. Tom had been released, though, and was to be allowed to head back to Therik with his ship. For that, he would need an engineer. There was no difficulty about that. Spacers were a very fluid community, frequently changing ships, and there was always a floating population of them on Karadon, in between ships and looking for berths. They’d cleared off the station, too, being taken aboard all the freighters that could make room for them, and Tom had his pick of several applicants.
Tom, therefore, went back to the Fancy Free. He would still have one more active part to play before he left the scene, but he would no longer be working with Murg.
Parting from her was unexpectedly difficult. There had been times in the last year when he’d have willingly given ten years’ pay even for a few hours away from her, but now that the moment of parting had come he felt strangely concerned. They’d been left, tactfully, to have a minute together in the wardroom before he departed.
“Well, good luck,” said Murg.
“You too,” he answered, and there were several seconds of awkward silence. Then Tom ventured, cautiously, “I’m sorry if I ever, you know, upset you.”
Murg looked at him. There were many things she could have said about unfair, unreasonable behaviour, about Tom pulling professional rank in domestic matters and frequently behaving like an arrogant pig. On the other hand, she was aware that he had just as much reason to complain of her angry silences.
“Ditto,” she said, and held out her hand, giving him a nod. They shook hands with some relief, and Tom grinned, then.
“Maybe we’ll be able to meet up in a few months, have a laugh about all this and get back to being mates,” he said.
“That’d be nice,” Murg agreed, though mentally substituting years for months. “But you watch your back out there, okay?”
Tom nodded, and they stepped back from gripping hands, Murg giving him a smart salute.
“Sir.”
“Chief.” He acknowledged, and left the wardroom without looking back.
Alex paid him the compliment of seeing him off at the airlock, much to Tom’s embarrassment.
“Stay focussed,” Alex said. He knew how exhausted Tom was, and how much he was yearning for this operation to be over and done with. It was at times like that an agent made mistakes. If the Landorn gang figured out that he was an undercover agent, he would be at very real, very serious risk.
“Yes sir,” Tom assured him, and added as warmly as Fleet protocols allowed, “Thank you, sir.” He was still not convinced that his cover would hold for much longer, with everyone on this ship knowing his true identity, but he had very much enjoyed the wonderful relief of just being able to be himself for a while, amongst friends. It was comforting, too, to feel that Alex had everything under control. He would like, he felt, to come back to this weird, oddly scented ship some day, to get to know these people better.
For now, though, he was focussed on the job in hand, and departed with a purposeful air.
Later that evening, the media was treated to another flare of drama as Tom Sutherland attempted to go aboard the station. Permission for him to do so was refused by security. Ambit Persane issued a statement to the media saying that in the circumstances they did not feel it to be advisable to allow Mr Sutherland aboard.
“The circumstances” were that Tom Sutherland was demanding to see Leo Arad. Giving a compelling performance as a man on the edge, he said he wanted to confront Leo Arad with having sold his wife a crate full of drugs. Frustrated of being allowed to go aboard the station and told that Leo Arad was not taking calls from anyone, he vented his rage at the media instead. This involved allowing reporters from ABC and TNN to come aboard the Fancy Free.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said, having shown them the ship and given them an entirely fictitious account of his accommodation and treatment on the Heron as a prisoner. “My marriage is over and my business is hanging by a thread. The authorities may still decide to prosecute either Murg or both of us and the ship may still be subject to seizure – Skipper von Strada has said he’ll do what he can for us but there are no guarantees. Those swine on the station did that, and now they haven’t even got the stones to face me. Well, I’m challenging them to! Come on, Mr Arad! And you, Mr Jorgensen! And you, Mr Dayfield! Stop hiding behind your security people and PR people, you drug dealing cowards, and face one of the people you did the dirty on!”
Having thus ensured that the Karadon board would be up late into the night again, dealing with the media barrage over that, Alex got an early night and slept like a baby.
Chapter Thirteen
Four days later, it was Alex’s turn to be woken in the night. Sam Barlow, holding the watch, called him just after three in the morning.
“Sorry to wake you, sir,” he said, “but I thought you’d want to know that three Customs ships have just arrived.”
Alex considered this for a moment. He could see the three ships on his bunk screen. They were small, narrow gunboats displaying Customs emblems. They’d evidently been assigned to the outer ring kept for Fleet and Customs ships, too, and were riding at orbit directly behind the frigate. Alex looked puzzled. The agreement the Admiralty had with Customs was that they would keep their patrol ships away from the station while the Fourth was on operations there.
“I’ll be right there,” he told the Lt.
It took him only seconds to pull on a uniform and scruff a comb through his hair to make himself presentable. He also pulled his bedclothes straight and clipped the freefall safety button, on sheer force of habit. The skipper’s quarters on the frigate were rather grandly described as a suite. In practice what that meant was a daycabin just about big enough for six people to squeeze into for a meeting, and a sleeping cabin no more than twice the size of the narrow bunk. Both cabins were starkly official. The only personal touch in either of them was a holoframe on the bunk-side shelf that was showing images of a small child. As he left the cabin, Alex touched his finge
rs to his lips and then to the frame, which stilled into a picture of the three year old Etta doing a clumsy dance.
His thoughts, however, were focussed on the situation. If Customs had turned up here in direct breach of the agreement between them and the Fleet, something had obviously gone wrong somewhere. He was thinking of possibilities and deciding that it was most likely that they’d brought urgent information for him from Therik as he went onto the command deck.
This time, however, his guess was wrong.
“Captain Ternalt is requesting permission to come aboard and meet with you as a matter of urgency, sir,” Sam informed him, as the skipper went over to the table. Like all starships, they ran with a skeleton watch between midnight and 0600, with no routine maintenance or other work scheduled for the nightwatch. There were only five people on the command deck, a couple more in engineering, a guard in the brig and a pair of techs on roaming patrol. The ship was dimly lit and very peaceful. It would only need one word from Alex to get the stand-by watch roused, though, or even the whole ship brought to action stations.
He didn’t give that word. There was no point waking people up until he knew what was going on.
“What’s his clearance?” he asked. For answer, Sam pulled up a profile of the Customs officer, putting it on screen. Alex’s eyebrows rose a little. Captain Ternalt only had seven ack beta security clearance, nowhere near high enough for him to be allowed to walk about the Heron. “Direct him to airlock seven,” Alex told the Lt. “And rustle up a Sub to see him aboard. I’ll meet him in the interview room.”
“Sir,” Sam acknowledged, and buzzed the Sub on standby as junior watch officer, getting them out of bed, too.
Alex made his way down through the sleeping ship, dropping easily down zero-gee ladderways. They had sited the new wardroom and the brig on deck six, with their entrances close to airlock seven. A high security hatchway sealed the area off from the rest of the ship and there was no classified tech in that sector. Even the security-paranoid Second had agreed to that being used both for holding prisoners and entertaining guests aboard who didn’t have security clearance to see the tech being tested in the rest of the ship. They had also managed to fit in a small multi-purpose office known as the interview room.
Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars) Page 17
