It was beyond ridiculous, that. And it was so, so wrong. The Quarus mission had been achieved through massive team effort and Alex had done no more than his job. He could think of many, many people more deserving of a tickertape parade than him, and would have handed his place to them in a heartbeat, given the choice.
As it was, he bore it with stoic determination, as he did all the other torments Chartsey inflicted. Of these, the stadium appearances were perhaps the most bizarre. Every city on Chartsey had organised a day of celebration as part of the Fourth’s month in port. These had been staggered so that every city could claim at least one or two members of the Fourth at their centrepiece event. And arrangements had been made for Alex himself to attend a representative event in each of Chartsey’s eighty four national regions.
He was not expected to spend more than half an hour at each event, and they were all planned in just the same way. Each city had organised an event at their biggest venue, usually a sports stadium, to celebrate the new relationship with Quarus. The theme, always, was self-congratulatory – look how far we’ve come, look how sophisticated we are, look at us, reaching up and out to the stars, how great are we? Protest groups were kept very firmly away, no clamorous chanting allowed to spoil the party. And it was a party – a very big party. Besides the hundred thousand or so lucky enough to get tickets to be in the stadium itself, every city was busy with subsidiary events, giant screens in public places and all the excitements of a festival. Fancy dress and face-painting were so ubiquitous that those few wearing normal clothes and not having their faces painted with quarian scales were the ones who stood out as abnormal. There were street performers everywhere, every city vying with its neighbours to lay on the biggest and best party of the century.
And into this, onto a specially prepared landing platform within the stadium itself, a Fourth’s fighter would come in to land. That was a spectacle in itself, with an escort of System Defence Force fighters and police vehicles circling above the city as the fighter came in very slowly, firing a deafening crack of salute just before it landed.
Out of this, after a minute or two, would step a small figure in a high-necked tunic and narrow pants, all black but gleaming with quantities of silver insignia. Short cropped dark hair showed flecks of grey under the stadium lights, his face set in an extraordinary grimace. It looked rather as if a granite statue had attempted to contort itself into an expression of constipated benevolence. This, in fact, was Alex’s best effort at looking affable in a public situation.
What happened next – eighty four times, at the rate of three or four a day – was that His Excellency Fleet Captain Alexis Sean von Strada, Presidential Envoy, Ambassador to Quarus, was made much of by local dignitaries, escorted to a podium with his image magnified on enormous screens behind him and all around the stadium and city, upon which he delivered a speech.
It was a very good speech. It was, indeed, a superb speech, crafted by a team including expert socio-psychologists. One of them was Buzz, consulted in the matter both as an eminent socio-psychologist in his own right and as Alex’s second in command. Buzz had advised on phrasing, with an eye to Alex’s natural speech patterns and minimising the damage he would do to the speech itself with his inevitably robotic delivery.
In the event, his robotic delivery was held to be a large part of the speech’s effectiveness. Even the dimmest viewer, by then, had had it hammered into them that Novaterrans were naturally reserved in public and that it would be easier for Alex to strip naked on stage than it would for him to crack a grin and behave casually in an obviously formal situation.
Which was true, in fact. He’d overcome his nudity taboos relatively easily, training to use quarian style bathrooms. But no amount of courses, counselling or effort could get him to be relaxed in situations where everything in him was compelling dignity.
His speech, therefore, apologised for that, made some jokes which were all the funnier for being delivered utterly deadpan, then made some statements which would have been ludicrously melodramatic if delivered with any kind of emotional impetus.
‘Humanity stands on the threshold of a second age of exploration and discovery.’ He declared, over and over again, to enraptured crowds. ‘It has been my great privilege to play a small role in that endeavour.’ Pause for cheering. ‘Exploration and discovery can only take place, however, when a society is ready – not just technologically but in every way. There must be open-minded curiosity in exploration, joy in discovery, the hand of friendship ready to be extended. And I could not be out there, exploring, discovering and making friends in the name of the League, if we as a people were not ready for that.’ Another pause, this time for emphasis, gazing steadily around the stadium and into cameras, ‘It is evident that we are ready.’ Pause for redoubled cheering. ‘It makes me very proud to be in the service of the League, seeing these celebrations of our friendship with Quarus.’
He could look around as he said that without a hint of a chuckle at the absurd sight of a hundred thousand people in fancy dress costumes, wigs and makeup.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, people of (Insert name of city), Saluté Valori.’
This was one of the most famous lareen phrases to have survived the millennia since Chartsey had been ancient Cartasay. Even the culturally illiterate recognised it and understood that it meant ‘I salute the brave’. And as Alex accompanied it with an elbow-snapping salute, stadia and the cities around them went wild with delight. Right there in that moment they all felt part of something tremendous, amazing, and in that moment there was such an intensity of feeling that they would have done almost anything Alex von Strada asked. Most of them saluted him back, anyway, and it was a fact that every stadium appearance triggered at least five thousand people calling to ask for an application to join the Fourth. His appearances were inspirational, and strangely, all the more inspirational for the fact that in the midst of all that high emotion he himself remained so calm and controlled.
‘It isn’t right, you know!’ A group of Liberty League demonstrators managed to grab some camera time on day twenty four, at which their leader shushed them so that he could have his say without distractions. Their leader was in his forties, ostensibly a student but in fact a full time activist. ‘There’s something very strange going on,’ he declared. ‘People seem to be forgetting all the things we know about von Strada and how the Fourth operates – the illegal operations, the human rights abuse…’
Liberty League, as with many other anti-Fourth campaigners, had experienced something of a schism as news of the Fourth’s role in exodiplomacy had unfolded. A minority had been prepared to accept that the authorities had been misleading them up till then and that the things they believed about the Fourth might not actually be true. There’d been a fierce debate before such apostates had been purged, leaving those who remained even more fired up in their quest to expose the Truth about the Fourth.
‘It’s almost as if,’ the Liberty League exponent said, with a tone of dark suspicion, ‘people have been drugged…’
It wasn’t the only conspiracy theory doing the rounds. One of the weirdest was a belief that Quarus didn’t exist, that there was no such planet, that the government had just made the whole thing up for ineffable reasons of their own and that the alleged quarians were just people in daft costumes. And their ‘proof’ of this, for the thousands who believed it, was that Silvie never showed herself at Chartsey during the whole month of the Fourth’s visit.
For the billions of people who were longing to see her, of course, it was certainly a disappointment that she wouldn’t come to the capital world. For those authorities who remembered her previous visit, however, it had to be admitted that her decision came as something of a relief.
And as far as Alex was concerned, it was a very sensible decision. There was no part of Chartsey’s oceans where Silvie would enjoy swimming – in fact, her first and only venture into the capital’s oceans had ended in tears, with Silvie weeping at the horrible destruct
ion of their natural biosphere. She hadn’t been any more enthusiastic about their cities, either, and was not at all keen to repeat her visit.
She did not, however, have to spend the month cooped up on the ship. The Diplomatic Corps had a host of entirely private facilities available for her, many of them at moonbases or on space stations. Silvie visited several of these, accompanied by Shion, and spent quite a lot of time at a spa facility created especially for her.
Rather more surprisingly, she was spending time aboard the Assegai, too. Alex hadn’t been able to visit it yet himself, but Silvie had expressed an interest and had gone over to see the quarters being developed there for quarian passengers.
She’d come back full of praise, not just for the quarters themselves but for the ship and its crew. They were cool, she said, as at ease around her as you could expect any humans to be at first meeting, open and friendly, with much the same kind of buzz as there was on the Heron. And Min Taylar was just great, a deep well of patience and good humour, keen for Silvie’s advice on the aquadeck, but wanting nothing more than that from her. It was, Silvie said, very restful.
So, she went back. And before long, she was as likely to be aboard the Assegai as she was aboard the Heron, and all the more so during the day when the Heron was hosting a non-stop influx of visitors.
Alex didn’t get to see her for more than two weeks, but he got regular reports reassuring him that she was well and happy, and an occasional message telling him that herself. He found time, too, to flash a note to Skipper Taylar, thanking her for the care she was taking of Silvie and Shion, too, for which she sent back an even briefer note reading simply ‘Pleasure and privilege.’
It was on the thirty second day of the visit that Dix Harangay got into a car with him. The First Lord had made a journey across two continents just for the opportunity to join Alex in his car for an eighteen minute journey. It was, in fact, the only way that Dix could get to speak with him in private, at least without cancelling an event. And that, with all the planning and people waiting and a media pack ready to cover every second of every event, was not to be contemplated.
‘Alex.’ Dix greeted him as the car door closed on the both of them.
‘Hello, Dix.’ Alex was surprised, but realised at once that the First Lord had come all this way to grab a meeting, so didn’t waste any of that time with exclamations. ‘What’s up?’
Dix smiled, though there was concern in his eyes. He had seen Alex at several social occasions over the past three weeks, and had noticed a slight weight gain. He’d been assured, though, that the Heron’s medical officer was supervising Alex’s welfare very closely… not the fearsome Simon, who’d stayed at Serenity, but Rangi Tekawa had his own line in forceful authority when called upon, and he would not let Alex become so exhausted that it made him ill.
That had been a comforting thought for Dix, at least until he found himself in close quarters with Alex. Sunlight exposed the poor condition of Alex’s complexion. It wasn’t pallor, exactly, but a slack, unhealthy look around the jawline and under the eyes. The weight gain was more noticeable at close quarters, too – just a couple of kilos, perhaps, but a flabby couple of kilos. His eyes did not have their usual piercing quality, either, but seemed guarded, as if Alex had withdrawn into himself.
Dix made no comment, but it did make what he had to say feel just a little harder.
‘I need a word,’ he said, as if to prepare Alex for what was already obvious… he would not be going to these lengths if the news was good, after all. He could just have called.
‘Ah,’ said Alex, as the car lifted off. They had, as usual, a police escort – a car ahead and another directly behind, followed by a convoy of conspicuous dark saloons which nobody was supposed to realise were secret service minders. Alex was so used to this by now that he took no notice of anything going on outside the car.
‘There is,’ said Dix, ‘a situation…’ he paused for a moment but Alex could be of no help, since he genuinely had no idea what Dix was talking about. He was out of the loop even on the most mundane of Fleet and spacer gossip, spending so much of his time in meetings and appearances. ‘It involves,’ Dix hinted, ‘the Samartians.’
Alex’s eyebrows rose.
‘Problems?’ He asked.
‘Hmmn.’ Dix said, and told him, ‘They arrived last week. And it is – a little awkward. Provisional decisions had to be made out at Samart, of course, when the team there were agreeing terms for the exchange, with no time to refer it back to us. So it was provisionally agreed that two of the officers would come to serve with you in the Fourth, both to be trained in our ship tech and to work with you in developing combat strategies which our ships can use.’
That was a crucial point. It had been discovered that one of the reasons the Samartians had been able to beat off Marfikian attack was in the design of their ships. Quite apart from the fact that these were terrifyingly dangerous and had conditions no League crew would put up with for an hour, they were near-system craft incapable of even a short intersystem journey. The League, therefore, was looking for ways to adapt Samartian combat skills to the abilities of Fleet ships, and with no false modesty Alex recognised at once that this was right up the Fourth’s alley.
‘But the thing is,’ Dix said, ‘they are here – and the Fourth, of course, isn’t going to be available for at least six months. So we have, obviously, been re-negotiating. And they have, thankfully, accepted placement on the Assegai instead.’
Alex looked pleased, if a little regretful that he wouldn’t have the benefit of having them aboard the Heron.
‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ he said, then, seeing Dix’s cautious expression, ‘Not all right?’
‘There is,’ Dix admitted, ‘a condition.’ He paused for a moment, then broke it as gently as he could. ‘They want you, too.
Alex looked perplexed – a sign in itself of how weary he was, since he was normally quicker on the uptake than that.
‘Me?’ he queried. ‘But…’
‘It is a sticking point,’ Dix told him, which Alex understood meant that it was an ultimatum, that unless the Fleet delivered Alex as promised in the first place, the exchange of officers might well be withdrawn entirely. ‘They want you, specifically – a compliment, of course, both to your perceived military skill and the confidence they have in you as a diplomat. But that is the thing, you see, Alex. They do want you, are insisting on you. And the Senate… well, I hardly need to tell you that this relationship is of vital importance to the League, so I’ve been told, basically, to make it happen, any way I can, but make it happen.’
He paused, and when Alex remained silent and attentive, told him quickly, ‘I’m not even considering pulling the Heron from leave, obviously, of course not, you’re long overdue as it is. And I’m not suggesting for one moment that you take over command of the Assegai, either – that’s inappropriate and unnecessary. But what I am going to suggest – have to suggest – is that while the Heron goes on to Therik, you take a five month assignment on the Assegai as liaison officer. The duties will be very light – fascinating, too, no doubt, working with the Samartians – but plenty of time to rest and catch up with your, uh, reading…’ he was trailing off at that point, fixed on the points of a gimlet stare, but took a breath and ploughed on manfully.
‘Quite as good as a shoreleave, really, a change is as good as a rest, and all that. And at the end of five months you go back to the Heron and the Samartian officers can choose, then, either to stay with the Assegai or go with you.’ He looked hopefully at the captain, trying not to let it be obvious that he was holding his breath and bracing himself for what he knew would be an entirely justified indignant protest.
Alex turned his head and looked out of the window, though paying no heed to the astonishing view. The skies of Chartsey, as always, were solid with criss-crossing streams of traffic, from the low-and-slow levels within the first kilometre above ground to the hypersonic lanes up in the stratosphere. There we
re at least a million vehicles to be seen through the limousine window, and that just a tiny fraction of the traffic surging around the League’s most populated world, day and night. And any part of that which crossed the path of Alex’s car was being slowed right down and even halted to give his VIP convoy a clear route. It was something normally only done for visiting System Presidents, but Alex didn’t even see the thousands of cars being held up for his convenience. He was thinking. He was thinking hard, and rapidly, and coming to a decision.
There was a pang, of course. His parents had not come to Chartsey this time. As thrilled beyond measure as they were by the revelation of their Lex’s high powered role in such amazing events, they had taken the advice of the Diplomatic Corps and stayed on Novaterre. They would not have been able to spend any time with Alex here, anyway, and the global celebrations in themselves would have been rather too much for them. But it had been agreed that they would come to Therik; a tremendous adventure for them in itself. Alex had been looking forward to having them staying at the base, and to some discreet sightseeing on a world he knew they would find beautiful. He’d been anticipating, too, a good many quiet days spent working on the antique shuttle he’d bought as a shoreleave project. There was even a hope, vague but persistent, that Yula Cavell might turn up, and that they might be able to spend some time together. He and Yula weren’t partners, as such. What they had, if anything, was more like a serial holiday romance, broken off when duties took them separate ways.
So, on the one hand, months of R&R at the Fourth’s base on Therik, surrounded by mountains and wild scented heather, spending time with his parents, renovating his shuttle and maybe, just maybe, rekindling his romance with Yula.
And, on the other hand, months more on a starship, away even from his own crew and burdened with yet more responsibility for a relationship of vital importance to the League’s security and future.
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