Assegai

by S J MacDonald

  Boarding the Assegai was immediately familiar. The destroyer had the same grey paintwork and smell as any other ship in regular Fleet service – an aroma comprised of cleaning chemicals, a faint waft of lubricant and the allegedly pine-scented freshener used in the air-con. He was emerging into the usual arrival concourse – a relatively small space even on this ship, with the main airlocks port and starboard, a hatchway for’ard giving access to the command deck and another to a narrow passageway leading aft.

  The traditional welcome was there too, of course – the skipper standing front and centre with a line of officers behind and a dual rank of crew standing honour-guard.

  First impressions of the skipper and crew were very positive. He and Min Taylar had flitted past one another at a Presidential dinner a few days before, but there’d been no opportunity for conversation. Nor had Alex been able to visit the ship before boarding it today – this, indeed, would have been the opportunity Dix would have given for a visit, had it not been for the change of plans.

  ‘Welcome aboard, sir.’ Skipper Taylar’s smile made it clear that she’d be happy to move to informal terms with him as soon as that was appropriate. She was a solid, heavy-featured woman with a high forehead and the kind of haircut which announced that she really didn’t care what she looked like so long as it was neat and comfortable. But she had warm amber skin that seemed touched with sunshine, a slow broad smile and a gleam of amusement in her deep brown eyes.

  ‘Thank you, skipper.’ Min had graduated two years ahead of him, not from the elite Class of 64 on Chartsey but from the Academy on her homeworld, Mandram. She hadn’t even graduated first of her class, coming out sixth from a class of seventy two graduates. But she had worked her way up through the ranks with a combination of ability, tact and quiet determination, achieving her skipper’s rank just five years ago and now holding one of the most prestigious commands in the Fleet.

  Her officers, too, were all high flyers – by definition, everyone serving aboard this ship had been rated as above average ability, since that was the criteria for a posting here. Some of them were old friends – several, indeed, had previously served with the Fourth – but there was no opportunity then for anything but the ritual of introducing the senior officers. An honour guard of ratings standing to one side was not introduced, but they were doing their best to convey the crew’s feelings with chest-bursting pride and an attention stance so rigid that they were scarcely even breathing. The news that Captain von Strada was coming aboard for five months, that he was bringing Ambassador Silver and Shionolethe with him, and that they would have two Samartian officers on training exchange, had sent the Assegai’s crew into such a furore of excitement that their Exec had been obliged to ask them to quieten down. Now, they were each and every one of them keen to show The Captain how efficient they were. And Alex was ‘The Captain’ to them, with audible capitals and an implication that he was the only captain in the Fleet, or at least, the only one they cared about.

  ‘If you’d care to come this way…’ Min indicated a hatchway for’ard of the entry concourse, to which Alex assented and walked with her the short distance through to the command deck.

  It was just as he’d expected, having seen both specs and holos of the Defender class interior. The command deck here was perhaps three times the size of that on the Heron, with a higher deck clearance making it seem even larger. The layout, however, was familiar. There was a curved datatable at the airlock end, equipped with five impressive chairs – the command table, of course. Next came two rather bigger datatables set lengthwise, side by side, with a multitude of rather less impressive chairs. These were traditionally known as the astrogation and ops tables, respectively, though there were seats there for every department on the ship. Beyond them, lining the ovoid space, were departmental work stations – helm, life support, comms, all the usual command deck teams. On the Heron, that meant a console with a chair or two. Here, it meant a work-space angled off the central space, banks of consoles and screens and three or four people at work.

  They were prepping for launch, of course, so every seat was occupied, with a busy hum at least until Alex came through the hatch. At sight of him, everyone who absolutely had to keep on talking did so through muting headsets, while everyone not actively working a console got to their feet and stood to attention.

  Alex signed aboard the ship – a very different procedure from reading himself in as commander, it required merely that he was logged aboard in his capacity of Liaison Officer, gave a formal salute to the ship and had his hand shaken again by the skipper.

  ‘Mr Forley will show you to your quarters,’ Min beckoned forward a young man who’d been hovering in the background. He looked, Alex thought, like a startled gerbil, with his little round dark eyes staring with apprehension and his tightly-compressed lips making his cheeks puff up.

  ‘Mr Forley,’ Alex greeted him, with an appraising look and a slight but friendly smile. Sub-lt Forley rocked back a little under the impact of that, but gathered himself heroically and stepped up.

  ‘Sir!’ he barked, with an intonation which made it apparent – had it not been so already – that he was very newly qualified and still inclined to revert to the Academy Yap in times of stress. Miloris Forley was not, in fact, part of the Assegai’s complement, though he would be accommodated as a guest in their wardroom. He’d been whisked aboard just two days ago and told that he would be working as Captain von Strada’s adjutant.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ Min told Alex, ‘I’ll take you to the training deck.’

  Alex smiled acknowledgement. Regulations required that the first thing anyone did after signing aboard was to take a shower and change their clothes – something so second nature to spacers whenever they came back to their ship that it would have felt weird not to.

  So, Miloris Forley escorted him to his new quarters, though both of them knew that Alex could have found his own way there, blindfold. It was hardly very difficult. The Assegai was equipped to carry a flag officer in addition to its skipper, so there was already a flag suite just aft of the airlock concourse. His door was directly opposite that of the skipper’s quarters, in fact, their accommodation mirrored in everything but a slightly larger daycabin to signify the flag officer’s higher rank.

  Alex knew that he was going to loathe those quarters before he even went in them. His own preference was for a compact, minimalist living space. Even on the Heron he’d effectively given over his daycabin to be used as a meeting room while he slept, worked and ate in one room. It was multi-functional, of course, a desk which flipped into a dining table and a sofa which flipped into a bunk, but it was very small and very plain and that was just how Alex liked it.

  Here, he had a suite which comprised an outer office for an adjutant, a daycabin equipped with a conference table, a formal dining room for entertaining, a bedroom and a private lounge/diner. They were furnished in just the same way as flag accommodation at the Admiralty, with dark, heavy furniture, a great deal of vat-grown leather and a number of official holo-portraits on the walls.

  His steward on the Heron had insisted on packing his gear for him and bringing it over earlier in the day. He had wanted, in fact, to come with him, apparently under the impression that there was nobody on the Assegai who’d be capable of bringing him his meals. He’d made a spirited attempt to be, as he’d put it, ‘excused leave’ so that he could go with the skipper, but even he hadn’t been able to get past the Fleet’s absolute rule on taking mandatory leave. Alex, it appeared, was the only one being exempted from that. And Shion, arguably, but then, Shion had been able to play both the superhuman and exodiplomacy cards.

  Banno Triesse, anyway, had been refused, and had been so woebegone about it that Alex had allowed his request to be able to pack for him and bring his gear over. He’d done a good job - everything was where Alex would expect it to be in his lockers, and the shower had been programmed to work just the way he liked it. Someone had even put a mug of coffee in hi
s sleeping cabin for him, hot and strong with marin, perfect.

  Alex drank the coffee, had a stinging-hot shower and pulled on a crisply laundered shipboard rig.

  That felt good. He’d spent almost all of the last month in dress uniform, ludicrously, even when Fleet protocol would have required normal groundside rig. Now at last he could wear comfortable gear again, with the soft deck shoes, light overalls with their magnagrip patches for holding tools, an open collar and a minimum of insignia.

  ‘Sir!’ Miloris Forley was waiting in the outer office, trying to look busy. He leapt to his feet at Alex’s arrival, as if fearing that Alex was going to demand what the hell he thought he was doing, sitting at the adjutant’s desk.

  It would, in Miloris’s opinion at least, have been a fair question. He had no idea what he was doing, really, no special training in admin, no experience and no clue as to what was expected of him. He knew what he wasn’t expected to do. He wasn’t expected to deal with any of The Captain’s correspondence, calls or paperwork until The Captain himself gave him those duties, in which eventuality he would be told what to do. For now, he’d been told, he was simply to ensure that The Captain had everything he required, run whatever errands he was given, and otherwise stay out of the way.

  ‘Skipper, please,’ said Alex, and then, recalling that it might be awkward having two skippers on the one ship, ‘or captain.’ He was amused, seeing the young officer’s naïve enthusiasm and recognising at once that this was Dix Harangay’s doing.

  He was right, too, it was. Dix knew how much Alex enjoyed mentoring people – more than enjoyed, really, it was at the core of who he was. He would miss that on the Assegai, not having any active role in command, so Dix had sent him a young officer to train and develop. It would have been unkind to refer to Miloris Forley as a pet, but that was effectively what he was, a pet Sub chosen to amuse Alex and give some scope to his nurturing instincts. And the Fleet would get a superbly mentored officer at the end of it, so a benefit all round.

  ‘Sir!’ Miloris yapped, then gabbled a correction, ‘Captain,’ a gasp for breath and an anxious plea, ‘Shall I tell Skipper Taylar that you’re ready, ssss… captain?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Alex, already heading for the door, ‘But I’ll go to the command deck, anyway.’

  Miloris evidently did call, since Min met him on the airlock concourse. She had changed her clothes, too, from the formal rig required to welcome the captain aboard, and was equally casual in her shipboard gear. The only difference was that she and everyone else around was in Fleet blue, while Alex retained his Fourth Irregulars grey.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked. Alex was about to give a courteous assurance that everything was lovely, thank you, but as he caught the gleam of humour in her eyes, decided to be honest.

  ‘Not really to my taste,’ he admitted, and knew that had been the right decision when she gave a little gurgle of mirth.

  ‘Didn’t think it would be,’ she observed, then, in a consoling tone, ‘We’ll look at alternatives tomorrow, all right?’

  Alex grinned back and said ‘Thanks’. He was, he understood, to occupy those daunting, pompous quarters only until the ship was safely away from prying eyes, after which protocol could be set aside for comfort. He’d done the same thing himself when Senator Terese Machet had travelled on his ship, giving her the bunk on a mess deck she’d asked for while her VIP suite was officially occupied but actually unused.

  And for now, with the ship already rising from orbit, there was only time for Alex to visit the training deck and have the briefest of tours before they battened down the hatches for the launch.

  The training deck occupied about a third of the mid-ship space on deck one, four decks above the command deck which occupied the geographical heart of the ship. On other Defender class destroyers, this top deck midships space was a multifunctional facility, able to be set up in any number of configurations. On the Assegai it was a dedicated training zone, equipped with simulators, seminar rooms and workshops. And also, now, a secondary wardroom.

  This was necessary because of the group now assembled there waiting to meet Alex. In the usual way of human endeavours, the originally simple plan had become exponentially more complex the more people became involved with it. One of those complexities had been the introduction of a trainee group – ten officers, additional to the Assegai’s own complement, sent purely as students. It was not yet entirely clear exactly what it was that they were here to study – Samartian combat skills, of course, and Samartian culture in general, but with no defined curriculum. Alex had been told just the day before that he was going to be providing ‘command and exodiplomacy master-classes’, but again, with no specified curriculum. The whole thing had the air of something flung together by several committees and authorities operating at cross purposes, which was indeed what it was. The trainees themselves still seemed rather bewildered, as well they might be, ripped out of their various postings within the last week and flung aboard the Assegai with very little idea what they were going to do there. Though there were, as yet, only nine of them present. Having made the eminently sensible decision to allocate officers who were already at Chartsey, the various authorities involved had then somehow decided that they must, absolutely must, include an officer who was currently somewhere out in deep space. She had been at Carrearranis, which was as far away from Chartsey as you could get and still be in the League. But she’d been recalled when news first arrived that the Samartians were sending exchange officers, and the feeling appeared to be that she was entitled to a place on the Assegai. They would, Alex had gathered, be picking her up at ISiS Karadon, their first destination.

  All of the trainees were command-rank officers, ranging from a skipper in his forties to a recent command-school graduate Alex already knew very well.

  ‘Great to see you, skipper.’ Dan Tarrance shook hands with him with a wide, happy grin, in stark contrast to the courteous reserve of the others.

  ‘Likewise,’ Alex grinned back. Dan had been Computer Sub on Alex’s first command, headhunted by him for the role as he’d been the top cadet graduate of his year. Dan had served aboard the Heron, too, during a period of secondment to the Fleet’s Research and Development unit, otherwise known as the Second Irregulars. He had matured, Alex saw, both physically and professionally, carrying himself with the assurance merited by his Commander’s insignia. But he still had that frank, boyish grin. And something more, too… ‘But what is that?’ Alex enquired, with a gesture towards Dan’s face.

  Dan laughed. He was sporting a beard – very unusual even in civilian life and almost unheard of in the Fleet. It met safety regs, naturally, but it was an extraordinary thing to see on the face of any spacer.

  ‘It’s a goatee,’ Dan told him. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Hmmn,’ Alex considered him judiciously. ‘It makes you look like a pirate.’

  ‘Ah harrrr, me hearties!’ Dan hammed it up and as Alex laughed, everyone relaxed. Not too much, though. There were a few discreet chortles, but everyone was still very much on their best behaviour. And Alex, with a keen eye for a social dynamic, recognised that they had already, even in the few days they’d been aboard, established their own group culture. It was obvious to him, too, that the guarded formality of the group was being cued, and enforced, by the most senior amongst them. Skipper Hevine, indeed, was looking askance at the laughter. It wasn’t clear whether he disapproved of Alex joking with the most junior member of the group, whether he was on the alert for favouritism or whether he felt that it might cause the young commander to get above himself. Whatever the reason, he quelled inappropriate mirth with no more than the force of a repressive personality.

  Alex felt the disapproval, but gave no sign that he had done so. These were only brief introductions, anyway, calling into the wardroom on the way to the Samartian Suite.

  This was a very grand name for a very small couple of cabins. In this, the Admiralty had won out over the Diplomatic Corps
. While the Samartians were in the care of the Corps they had been provided with all the luxury that the diplomats considered mandatory for VIPs. The Admiralty, however, had taken the advice of their own people in Alex’s own reports and the views of the Fleet contingent currently at Samart. So they had provided what the Samartians themselves wanted to be comfortable, rather than what was appropriate for their status.

  The result was a tiny sleeping cabin which did not, at first glance, even appear to have any furniture. There were four small sitting mats attached to the deck, and sleeping cocoons stowed neatly under freefall netting on one of the walls. Besides that there were two kitbag-sized lockers and a shower.

  The Samartians, Alex knew, would have dispensed with the shower, given the choice. Water was far too precious a commodity on Samart to waste it on washing, so even civilians kept themselves clean with a daily hygiene wipe. One of the more sensitive issues in bringing Samartians aboard their ships had been explaining to them that their standards of personal hygiene were insufficient… that they would, in fact, trigger biohazard alerts unless they learned to take showers, and to take them several times a day. They had done so, though familiarity had not made the experience any more pleasant for them – it was, for them, a duty to be endured, always, no kind of pleasure.

  They had clearly taken showers very recently, though, with a fresh scent of toiletries and fresh laundry about them as they greeted Alex.

  For Alex, meeting Samartians again, there was that strange sense of recognition, like a passing glimpse in a mirror.