‘That’s still more than enough time for dinner at the Temple,’ he said, in tones which made it clear that he was not going to take no for an answer this time. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You’ll love it.’
Alex gave him a look which had Quill hooting with merriment, but then, expecting that Alex would have other calls and a lot of mail to deal with, he brought the call to an end.
‘See you at 2000,’ he said, and waved again as he closed down the screen.
Alex did have other calls, but only three of them made it through to his desk. One was from the skipper of the Herring, who’d called to offer his compliments and to inform him that he was holding sealed files for delivery to the Captain in person. The second was from the skipper of the Customs ship, also offering compliments and inviting the captain to dinner, or to any meal that he could fit into his schedule.
The third was from the LIA – anonymous, this, transmitted from a comm which had withheld its identity while transmitting a Fleet security code.
Compliments again, Alex saw, and doubted very much that they were sincere. The LIA had never had a very high opinion of the Fourth. Their suspicion that the Fourth were less than competent in intelligence matters had been confirmed when the Fourth had failed to notice that a passenger they’d put aboard a liner as a security risk had changed ships to make her own way to the station. The Fourth had been obliged to ask the LIA for help in dealing with that, which the LIA had done with some snarky remarks about being happy, of course, to clear up the Fourth’s mess for them.
That, though, had been only the opening salvo in an organisational culture-clash which had culminated in the Fourth firing on an LIA ship.
It was, perhaps, inevitable. The LIA were what they themselves would have been prepared to concede as ‘professionally paranoid’. It was their job, after all, to guard the League by imagining all the worst that could happen and taking every step possible to prevent it. They were particularly jittery where exodiplomacy was concerned, with the dreadful example of how bad things could get before them, always, in the shape of the Marfikians. That, indeed, had gone just about as wrong as it was possible for first contact to go, with the Marfikians reacting to the arrival of the Excorps ship by sending out fleets of attack craft, wiping out cities on any world which refused to submit to their rule. The League, as a body, existed in its current form because they’d retreated behind the borders they felt they could defend, abandoning all the worlds beyond. And their entire effort, since, had been in maintaining that border and system defences against a Marfikian invasion which might be launched at them at any time.
The LIA, therefore, had been in meltdown over the Fourth’s mission to Samart, fearing that they would prove to be as much a fearsome enemy to the League as they were to the Marfikians.
But that was nothing, nothing, to their panic over the mission to Sector Seventeen. The LIA had known as well as any spacers did that there was hard evidence behind the mythology of the Space Monster of Sector Seventeen. They had worked out, too, that there was a possibility that one of the systems in the Telathor Ranges might be inhabited, potentially by a highly advanced civilisation which chose not to engage with the primitive and disease-ridden humans. They had insisted on sending their own ship along to observe the mission and advise the Fourth on security issues, which their leading agent on scene had interpreted as basically preventing them undertaking the mission at all. There had been high words, not the least of which had accused Alex of betraying the League, even the human race itself, by making contact with a world which might wipe them out.
The recognition that there had, in fact, been nothing to fear had not appeased the LIA. Everyone from their top brass to their field agents felt very strongly indeed about the arrogant irresponsible way the Fourth had carried on, and it was doubtful that they would ever either forgive or forget the fact that his ship had fired on theirs. So whatever courtesy or cooperation might be offered here, for sure, would be through gritted teeth.
As it was. Their message informed Alex that they would, under orders, provide him with whatever intelligence he might require and that he was entitled to call upon them for specified services, at need. A call-code was provided where a message could be left. But it would, the caller indicated, be preferable, in the interests of security, if contact with them could be kept to a minimum.
Alex respected their evident wishes by not even acknowledging receipt of that message, but he did reply to the others. Inter-agency relationships between Fleet and Customs were not of the warmest, either, and Alex was under standing orders to promote friendly cooperation with them at every opportunity. Customs and Excise, after a somewhat wobbly start, had decided that they liked Alex. He had achieved great things in the war against drugs, and had done so without rubbing Customs’ noses in it, too. On the contrary, he had involved them, sharing advanced tech which had been a significant asset in their ability to detect drugs in transit, and sharing intelligence with them, too, which had enabled them to make their own spectacular hauls.
More significantly, though, Customs credited Alex with being responsible, if indirectly, for the decision to allow them to have a squadron of Seabird class frigates. Before that they’d been restricted to gunboats with limited range and operational clout. The success of the Heron’s anti-drug missions, though, had convinced the authorities that Customs could use the same type of ship, so they had, to their joy, become the proud operators of real warships.
It was one of the Seabirds at the station then – the former Cormorant, now the Excise Service 3621 as Customs did not name their ships. Their compliments were sincere, and their invitation so pressing that Alex had to accept or risk causing offence. Lunch, therefore, was agreed upon for the following day, with the Customs skipper invited to the dinner Alex would be hosting on the Assegai in the evening.
The Herring’s skipper would be coming to that, too, in suitably modest role as a young corvette skipper. And he was, indeed, looking quite over-awed as Miloris Forley showed him into the captain’s daycabin a few minutes later.
Alex watched this performance with a professional eye, mentally scoring Skipper Arrison an A. Several As, indeed. He got one for presentation, so very much the first-command skipper meeting the Fleet’s most famous flag officer, with his groundside-rig uniform slightly stiff with starch, a fraction too much gloss on his hair and a mightily self-conscious dignity. He got one for field skills, too – the momentary surprise at finding himself shown into such a small, plain cabin providing perfect cover for the quartering sweep with which he took in every detail of everything there was to be seen. And he got another for cover skills, with not the tiniest betrayal that he and Alex already knew one another.
‘Skipper Arrison, sir.’ Sub-lt Forley introduced him, carefully avoiding bestowing the H which so many people gave the skipper on the unconscious assumption that it was far more likely to be Harrison than Arrison.
‘Sir!’ Naro Arrison snapped off a salute, which Alex returned, having risen to his feet to greet his visitor.
As soon as Miloris had gone, however, at a nod of dismissal from the captain, Naro dropped the act.
‘Good to see you, Alex.’ He grinned, shaking hands, and dropped into the chair by the desk with the ease of a friend. ‘You’re looking well,’ he observed, by which Alex understood him to mean ‘a lot better than you were when you left Chartsey.’ Even liners had made it to Karadon before the Assegai, after all, and couriers had brought the news here a lot quicker than that, so Naro was well informed.
‘Likewise.’ Alex surveyed him with pleasure. The last time they’d met, Naro had been under cover as First Mate on a freighter which was actually an intelligence unit. The ship was Yula Cavell’s, and besides the times they’d worked together, Alex had been a passenger aboard the Calliope from Chartsey to Therik.
Now, clearly, Naro was back in Fleet assignment. Naro Arrison was in fact his real name and this was his mainstream career…not a cover, precisely, since he returned to
it between covert ops assignments, gaining the ship-time which would justify his promotions. Nobody asked where he disappeared to for anything up to a year at a time, since anyone who knew that also knew that he was one of Admiral Smith’s people. So this was, genuinely, his first ship command, with skipper’s pips acquired just eight months before.
‘Congratulations,’ Alex said, acknowledging that with a glance at the younger man’s insignia, and Naro laughed.
‘Likewise!’ he retorted, and with that drew out a bundle of sealed tapes from the high security clip in his pocket.
Four tapes, Alex saw, the coin-sized discs only used for files so sensitive they could not be transmitted over even the most secure comms system. They had been brought here from Chartsey and given into Naro’s care, to be handed by him to Alex, and nobody else.
‘There you go…’
Alex signed for the tapes. One of them, he knew, contained his orders. But he also saw at once that there was a very familiar restriction tag on it – a code which told him even he would not be able to access that tape until the specified time and conditions.
The time was a minimum of fifty four hours away, and the conditions specified that even after that the Assegai must be an hour distant from Karadon and away from space lanes before Alex could access it.
This was routine to Alex. Even regular Fleet ships might well have such orders, intended to ensure that their destinations were not public knowledge. For the Fourth, it had become unusual to get their orders any other way.
‘Thanks,’ he said, putting that into the rack where it would remain locked for the next couple of days. The other three were restricted, too, to Captain’s Eyes Only, to be opened only when he was alone in a secure environment. He had a pretty good idea of what they contained, already – one was from the Diplomatic Corps, updating him on anything he might need to know and, no doubt, including a good deal of tactful advice. The second was marked with the grandiose seal of the Presidential Office. That, Alex knew, would be irritating waffle, President Tyborne still attempting to cling on to him, staking his claim, my presidential envoy.
The third, and the one Alex actually wanted to read, was from Dix Harangay. That too would have operational updates, any news relating to Samart or Quarus. But it would also, for sure, have a memo from Dix himself, bringing him up to speed on how things were at Chartsey… or at least, how they’d been eight days ago when this tape had been sent.
‘We have a ton of mail for you, too,’ Naro told him. That was an exaggeration – even printed out to hard copy, the quantities of official and personal mail already transmitted to the Assegai would hardly have amounted to a ton, but it still amounted to thousands of files. Even then, Alex could see his own personal mail box notching up ninety seven letters which had made it through screening as originating from family, friends and authorised correspondents. This was mail which had been making its way to Chartsey, routinely copied and held at Karadon as it would be at every station and port which handled it. At the Assegai’s arrival, the system had transmitted all the mail it had on hold for them, with the ship’s own systems rejecting all the mail it had already received and sorting the rest to its recipients.
The official mail-box, however, remained firmly at zero. Whatever tonnage of mail had been heading his way from across the League had been rejected by the Assegai and redirected to the office of the First Lord. There were, indeed, two letters there from system presidents, but both of them were private, off-letterhead letters from friends… the presidents of Telathor and of Carrearranis. There was a letter there from his parents, too, and one from Yula Cavell.
Courtesy, however, required that Alex entertain Skipper Arrison for a few minutes, and duty that he opened the official tapes first. So he did what was polite, and dutiful.
And he was, at least, entertained by the slapstick of Simmy’s bringing coffee. She appeared within a minute of Naro sitting down, bursting into the cabin with her usual tempestuous fizz. Speed and efficiency, as always, couldn’t be faulted, as she’d brought just the kind of tea that Naro liked as well as a mug of the good stuff for Alex. But instead of the discreet glide in and out of a polished flag steward, she strode in, beaming at them both and announcing, ‘Coffee!’, depositing the tray on the desk with a cheerful thump. Naro, who’d been sitting with his legs stretched out and his whole attitude one of easy familiarity, only just had time to pull himself upright and assume a suitably respectful manner as Simmy burst through the door, and for all his cover skills Alex could see that he was taken aback by the teenager’s explosive arrival.
‘Uh?’ he said, when Alex had thanked his steward and she’d departed like a happy little human whirlwind.
Alex just looked innocently back at him, as if he couldn’t see at all that there might be anything to comment on in the conduct of his steward.
‘Ah,’ said Naro, demonstrating the kind of observational and analytical skills which made him one of Admiral Smith’s best agents. ‘Buzz?’ he queried, recognising that Simmy had been chosen both because Alex would not be able to refuse her, and to amuse him.
Alex nodded, and pushed the tray towards his guest.
‘Thanks.’ Naro picked up his tea, and as he did so, a thought seemed to strike him. ‘Will she,’ he queried, ‘be stewarding at the dinner tomorrow?’
‘Top table, yes,’ said Alex, straight faced.
Naro made the little trilling noise with which he signalled merriment.
‘That will be something to look forward to!’ he said.
Alex thought so too, but merely smiled slightly and picked up his coffee.
Naro didn’t stay long – he knew what was manners, too, and stayed only the five minutes Fleet etiquette demanded. Miloris Forley, evidently, was waiting nearby to take charge of him again and bustled him away to be introduced to Min, at which point Alex was able to lock the door and open the Captain’s Eyes Only files.
They were just as he’d expected – quantities of reports from the Diplomatic Corps and a long, careful memo from Ambassador Gerard doing everything but admit that he was having kittens over the unforeseen collision between two major exodiplomacy missions which by rights should never have got anywhere near one another. At no point, in anybody’s plans, had it been intended to introduce Samartians and quarians. But there they were, on the Assegai together, and all in Alex’s hands. Ambassador Gerard wanted him to know that Alex had his full confidence in handling that, but at the same time, to offer just a few words of advice… twenty three pages of advice, in fact, which Alex read through with a gathering sense that Ambassador Gerard had no kind of confidence in him at all.
The letter from President Tyborne was even more disheartening. Besides the jargonistic guff which Alex had come to expect in Marc Tyborne’s missives, it contained an assurance that made Alex groan aloud.
The President wanted him to know that he was deeply appreciative of Alex sacrificing his right to leave in the service of the League – something he’d already said many times – and that he was deeply sympathetic to the fact that this meant Alex’s parents would be missing out on spending the five months of his leave with him.
He felt, said the President, personally responsible for that, and deeply concerned at how disappointed Alex’s parents, such wonderful and charming people, would be by that news. So Alex was not to worry, he said. He, personally, would make it up to them. He was sending a ship to bring them to Chartsey, where they would be his guests, and he would ensure that they were brought to Therik to meet Alex there in five months.
‘Oh, lord.’ Alex closed his eyes briefly, wishing that he could tell the League President how deeply infuriating he found that interference in his family. But even then, he knew that he was being unfair, even selfish. If it was organised properly, he knew, his parents would love the experience of being guests at one of the historic presidential houses, and it would indeed be good to know that they were being taken care of and would be at Therik when he got there.
If it wa
s organised properly, and if President Tyborne wasn’t allowed to overwhelm them with pomp and circumstance. Alex had his doubts. And worse, he could see that the ship had already been on its way to Novaterre while he was still at Chartsey – Marc Tyborne had kept this from him and only sent to tell him about it when it was too late to do anything about it. So Alex did not feel in the slightest bit grateful.
He was puzzled, too, by a comment the president made towards the end of his letter.
You are not to worry, it instructed him, about the situation with GT. The legal people have it all in hand.
What, Alex wondered, was GT? What situation? If GT was a code, it was not one he had the key for.
Interesting, he thought, and probably something he should be worrying about if the president was telling him not to. But it would wait, and perhaps some other of his correspondence might shed some light on it.
There was no reference to it in Dix Harangay’s letter, anyway. What it did have was an apology and some acid remarks about Dix himself only just having discovered the president’s plans for Alex’s parents. That made Alex feel better, relieving his mind of the uncomfortable thought that Dix might have been aware of those plans and not told him.
It made him smile, too, when Dix assured him that he would see to it that ‘Joe from the Embassy’ took care of his parents, throughout. ‘Joe from the Embassy’ was how his parents knew Josippe Pascale, actually a cultural attaché – aka intelligence operative – who was responsible for their security provision. They had no idea about the cordon of protection around them, or that the friendly guy who called in for coffee and helped out in the garden was actually their shotgun. But if Joe was looking after them, Alex knew, his parents would be both safe and comfortable.
Thanks, Dix, he sent mental gratitude to the First Lord for that, and read on, as Dix brought him up to date on Admiralty wrangling.
Assegai Page 21