Assegai

by S J MacDonald

  ‘She wouldn’t have listened,’ Alex said. ‘The more you told her what a useless pilot Lagner is, the more she’d have wanted to give him a chance. She’s kind, see, and she doesn’t like to see people unhappy. The thing that concerns me, frankly, is this issue of Silvie going over there and telling you that Lagner is – as I believe she put it – functionally nuts.’

  A grin flashed over Naro’s face – that, in fact, had been the one bright spot in his day.

  ‘It is a sensitive issue,’ Alex pointed out. ‘Strictly speaking, we are not allowed to take any notice of any comments Silvie may make which violate the emotional privacy of any member of the crew, and definitely not in any situation where there is a potential disciplinary element. But we are, on the other hand, allowed to take note of any warning she gives us that the mental health of a member of crew is such that they are a danger to themselves or to others. Quite where ‘functionally nuts’ falls in that continuum is a matter for debate.’

  ‘It would be,’ Naro agreed. ‘But I had Lagner in sickbay myself long before Silvie came over, and my medic had your Dr Payling come over, too, to do a full psych work up. And it turns out,’ he added, ‘that believing yourself to be the best pilot in the known universe and reframing events to make yourself the hero does not actually make you insane, under Fleet definitions, or even unfit for duty!’ He cast up his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Deluded, yes, they said, but not delusional, not medically speaking. So no grounds to kick him off on medical discharge. And since Min ruled that the thing was misadventure, no grounds to court martial the mogger, either. So the only thing I can do is transfer him out. With, if it needs saying, the strongest possible note on his record that he is not, under any circumstances, ever, to be allowed in a pilot’s seat again.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Alex said, and spent a few minutes chatting with Naro, then, restoring his friend’s equilibrium so that he sent him off a whole lot happier than when he had arrived.

  He was not surprised, though, to find that as Naro left, Min was coming in.

  ‘I’m not here to look for approval,’ Min told him, firmly, as she came in and stood by the door, evidently not intending to stay. ‘Shion is under my command as an instructor, the incident was mine to deal with and I stand by my findings on it, don’t need your opinion. All I want to say is that I do hope we’re not going to have any issue of you intervening by telling Shion she can’t take people out on test-runs any more. Because that, I do believe, is my decision.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alex, and gave her a broad grin, ‘That’s me told.’ It was, he found, a novel experience to be on this side of the desk when a high-principle officer came striding in to defend one of her people. And he liked Min all the better for it, too. ‘Absolutely, Min – no interference,’ he assured her. ‘I only asked to see Shion in my role as exodiplomacy liaison, to debrief and support her, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ Min said, her hackles going down, and gave him a quick, half-apologetic, answering grin. ‘Shared responsibility,’ she acknowledged.

  For a moment he thought she was going to leave, but after a visible hesitation she came further into the cabin, her manner changing. She was sober now, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

  ‘There is… something,’ she said, coming to stand on the other side of the desk. She needed no invitation to sit there but was making no move to do so. Instead, her hand had gone into her pocket, and she was looking at him with a slightly uncertain, evaluative glance. Then she made up her mind. ‘I was asked,’ she said, ‘to give you this…’ she drew out a tape of the same kind as the ones used for classified material, though this one was sealed merely as ‘private and confidential.’ ‘In,’ Min said, ‘specified circumstances… which I believe are now met.’ She put the tape down on the desk, making no attempt to give it directly into his hand. ‘I am,’ she told him, ‘very sorry, sir.’

  And with that, she turned and left the cabin with an air of quiet finality.

  Alex picked up the tape, saw the code which identified the sender, and knew at once what it was. The sender was Dix Harangay, sending him the first truly private, off-record letter of all their years of correspondence. He had given it to Min, only to be handed to Alex if he found out about his ex-wife’s emergence into the media spotlight.

  Alex closed his hand around the tape, feeling quite tempted to put it straight to disposal, unread. But Dix deserved better than that, so he composed himself, plugged it into a screen, and read.

  If you are reading this, then I have failed in my responsibility to you both as your CO and as your friend.

  It was, as he read on, a heartfelt apology, explaining the dichotomy Dix had been in. On the one hand, he was bound by the injunction he himself had been instrumental in serving on the Fleet, legally bound to protect Alex from the distress it would cause him to be exposed to media reports about the death of his child, or his divorce. On the other hand, as the story had exploded onto screens, he had known that it was impossible, sooner or later, Alex would find out. He felt, in those circumstances, that he had owed it to him as his commanding officer and as his friend to break it to him, himself. But Alex had been so exhausted and run down, it would have been brutal to tell him then. Both Legal and Medical departments had told him that he must not break the terms of that injunction and tell Alex what was going on. So here it was. All he could do was hope that when Alex did find out he would be far enough away and physically recovered enough to be able to cope. And to offer him, as always, his constant friendship and support.

  Alex wrote back, thanking him, assuring him that he had done the right thing, and asserting firmly that he was fine, nothing to worry about.

  And then, as if feeling the need to prove it, he went to see how the Samartians and the training group were getting along.

  It was only later in the afternoon that he was able to catch up with Silvie, by which time he’d got over the emotional impact of Dix’s letter and was able to have a laugh with her, commenting on how well she was getting on with Marto.

  ‘I’d have thought he was very loud, emotionally,’ he observed.

  ‘He’s just silly,’ Silvie said, with a grin. ‘He doesn’t feel any more strongly than anybody else, really – all that shrieking and throwing his arms about is just for performance.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Alex. ‘I hate to think that anyone could be functioning at that level of hysteria for real.’ They shared a chuckle, relaxing on the aquadeck, Alex watching idly as little jets of water blipped up along a zig-zag which might have meant more to him if he’d recognised its geometric progression.

  ‘He’s taught me to cook omelettes,’ said Silvie, with a note of satisfaction. ‘I’ll cook one for you, if you… oi!’ She leaned over and prodded him on the arm, making him laugh. ‘That’s just rude,’ she scolded, and Alex, who had indeed felt a stab of dismay at the thought of Silvie cooking for him, apologised.

  ‘That is just a very scary thought,’ he admitted.

  ‘And that,’ she said, ‘is just insulting. I am quite intelligent, you know, and technologically skilful. I could take this ship to bits and put it back together without looking at a manual, and you know it. So why, I ask you, this alarm and despondency at the thought of me heating up some simple proteins and seasoning?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Alex. ‘Maybe it’s the fact that the last time you attempted cookery you blew up the oven?’

  ‘That,’ said Silvie, with dignity, ‘is a gross exaggeration. I blew up the cake,’ she corrected, and after a moment to consider. ‘And the pan. But the oven was intact.’ She broke into laughter herself as Alex was not even attempting to contain his glee at that. ‘Right, that does it!’ she declared. ‘I am making you an omelette!’

  ‘What – right now?’ Alex protested.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Silvie conceded, sensitive to the over-feeding he’d endured at Chartsey. ‘Not right now.’ Then, having regarded him for a few seconds, ‘I will wait,’ she said darkly,
‘until you are not expecting it.’

  Alex had a sudden rush of flickering images, all of them involving Silvie laying in wait for him or stalking him around the ship, armed with an evil grin and an omelette pan.

  ‘Ohhhh!’ he said, once he’d managed to stop laughing, and giving her a look of the deepest affection, with no need for words, I do love you, Silvie.

  And me you. Her smile answered, and she reached over, this time, hooking her little finger onto his in a pinky-hug.

  Alex let himself float on a current of contentment. He had held hands with Etta like that, when she was toddling along. This was the same, in that feeling of unbounded trust and love. And yet not the same, because Etta had been too little to give anything back but giggles and adoring looks. And Silvie, his grown-up child, was letting him know that she was there for him, too, ready to support him if he should stumble.

  She knew, he realised. She’d heard about the money-grabbing ex-wife doing things so hurtful to Alex that everyone around him had closed a cordon to protect him from even knowing about it. And she knew, too, that he knew, and that he had been hurt by it. Alex would have said that it was only a glancing blow, but Silvie, no doubt, could sense what pain was lurking below the denial. And she was there, would always be there, when he needed a hug.

  ‘I’m going to the Fiesta, tonight,’ she said, for the sheer fun of triggering the surge of emotions she knew that would generate in Alex. It was, emotionally, like the kind of theme park ride that tossed you down water-slopes and span you around. He leapt out of contentment with a jolt of alarm, thoughts whirling as he thought about all the things which could go oh so wrong with that, an analytical level making very rapid plans while worry and hilarity fought for control over his thinking.

  It resolved, as she knew it would, into amusement, tickled by his awareness that she had, of course, done that to him on purpose.

  ‘Really?’ he queried, and Silvie grinned, nodding confirmation.

  ‘You should come too,’ she said, and hooted with glee as the emotional ride took another plunge and dizzying spin. So much so, indeed, that she let go of his finger, taking a moment to clear her own head. ‘I mean it,’ she said, while Alex was still laughing, and as he gave her an incredulous look, became persuasive, ‘Come on! I know you don’t do parties, but this will be amazing!’

  ‘You have got,’ said Alex, ‘to be kidding.’

  ‘No, no – honestly,’ she lost her giggle and assured him, evidently serious, ‘this is an amazing opportunity, Alex! In what other place, at what other time, could you go to a party dressed as yourself and nobody will take the slightest bit of notice?’

  That struck him. Karadon held a weekly Fiesta, a fancy-dress event which sprawled across several venues. It was a one of the station’s most popular events. The theme – chosen by management – was not revealed by them until the morning of the Fiesta, giving people only that day to sort out their costumes and thereby generating an exciting sense of scramble. In reality, of course, management already had ample costumes on that theme available before they announced it, but tourists always bought in to the scramble-effect, with high excitement and salons booked out in the hours running up to the party.

  Today’s theme, rather obviously, was in compliment to Silvie, and to Alex. People could either dress as a quarian, or for the less flamboyant, dress up as the Fourth’s Captain. Rumours that Silvie herself might be mingling with the crowd had generated such a frenzy that the management had had to quickly make more costumes to meet the demand. There would be about eight thousand people there, all in fancy dress, and several hundred of them at least would be dressed up as Alex. And they would look like him, too. Holo-masks came with the costumes.

  ‘And we could,’ Silvie suggested, ‘take Jarlner and Bennet.’

  Alex envisaged that, and felt his resistance wavering under a kind of vertigo, like the impulse people felt sometimes when right on the edge of a high drop, just to take that little step forward…

  ‘I’m already committed,’ he objected, and was conscious of a little pang of regret as he said it. ‘Dinner?’ he reminded her.

  There had been a polite but intense wrangling over who would have the honour of being Alex’s host for this, his last evening at Karadon. The station itself, the Fleet, Customs and the Diplomatic Corps had all made strong claims, along with rather more optimistic bids from liners and a couple of the bigger private yachts.

  The Diplomatic Corps had won. There wasn’t an Embassy on Karadon, as such, since the League Government did not recognise Independent Space Stations as sovereign entities meriting an ambassador, but there was an Embassy office, with five attaches in post along with supporting staff. They had played their hand superbly, suggesting not a social event but a working dinner, to be hosted by the Trade Attaché, with spacers and people from Karadon Freight as his fellow guests. This was, genuinely, the kind of thing the embassy did, and did very well, too, facilitating the kind of networking which built good working relationships. Spacers had, for too long, been very wary of dealing with Karadon Freight, knowing very well that at least some of its top people had to be heavily involved in the drugs trade there. And spacers, too, had been wary in their dealings with the Fleet in recent years. In particular, they had been reluctant to give them any information they might have about drugs in transit. That was not because they were afraid, though a healthy fear of the drug gangs was in fact pretty sensible, but because of a disastrous policy by the previous First Lord which had ended up with spacers who shared information about drug running being prosecuted and sent to prison for involvement in it themselves.

  Alex had gone a long way towards healing both those rifts, with his dramatic purging of the drug gangs from Karadon and the absolute assurance that he would protect the anonymity of any informative source. So it would, indeed, be a very positive thing, widely reported through the spacer community, for him to support clean trade at Karadon.

  He had accepted the invitation, anyway, and with a little grin, too, as he saw that the attaches had got the use of a venue aboard the Stepeasy for the event. Davie, he knew, had declined to host it or even attend it, but he’d been happy to allow the attaches the use of a hospitality venue, and with that, the opportunity to see aboard the Stepeasy and meet Alex, the dinner had become the spacers’ social event of the year.

  ‘You can still go to that,’ Silvie told him, ‘I’m going early, anyway, and I won’t stay long – people get drunk and it all gets too rowdy. So – just for an hour, yes?’

  It needed a little more persuasion than that, and conversations with Jarlner and Bennet, but 1900 saw the four of them heading on to the station.

  Alex was feeling ridiculous. He wasn’t in dress uniform but in the costume version of it Karadon was supplying – a thin, flimsy disposable thing with oversized plastic insignia. He was also wearing a holomask of his own face, over his own face. And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, Jarlner was dressed exactly the same.

  Bennet was dressed up as Silvie, too, both of them in the siliplas costumes and fantasy makeup the station had created as ‘Silvie’ for the event. It felt like having doppelgangers, and all the more so when Silvie tucked her arm through Jarlner’s as they boarded the station, and Bennet promptly did the same with him. She had, after all, been told to follow Silvie’s lead.

  So, they went through the party like two couples attending it together. Close observation would have revealed that they were accompanied everywhere they went by a floating group of between ten and twenty people, too, tracking them discreetly. This was their security cordon, far enough away so as not to be intrusive, but close enough to intervene fast if anything untoward should occur.

  It didn’t. It was early in the evening, yet, and fewer than half the guests had arrived. Few of them were intoxicated – the people who were inclined to get there early tended to be the ones who intended to leave early, too, before the phase in which too much alcohol had been consumed. For some of the younger tourists, after all,
a party wouldn’t be a party unless they ended it wrecked, staggering, vomiting or waking up next day with somebody they didn’t know.

  The early-birds, therefore, tended to be the rather older, more sensible types, happy to have fun and a liberating drink to give them the social courage to have a dance or two, but mostly just happy to enjoy the atmosphere.

  Silvie certainly did that. She was hanging on to Jarlner not for physical support but to anchor herself emotionally. That was something she would normally do either with Shion or with Alex, and spoke volumes as to her respect for and trust in the Samartian’s integrity and self-control.

  Jarlner didn’t let her down. However amazed he might be himself by the fancy dress party, he was conscious, every step, every moment, of his responsibility to care for Silvie, keeping her steady when the rush of the crowd’s excitement might sweep her away.

  And it was, Alex had to admit, an extraordinary experience, moving through a crowd like that, dressed up as himself, with nobody even looking at him beyond a passing glance. And everywhere he looked, too, there were people dressed as him. There were tall von Stradas, and short – fat and thin, male, female, all manner of them. They all looked very serious. Holomasks moved in unison with the facial expressions of the person wearing them, but these had been set so that even the biggest grin was portrayed as a tiny quirk. Voices, too, could be disguised, with a throat-mic adjusting the wearer’s natural tones to Alex’s voice and neutral, Central-worlds accent. Most people had chosen to keep their own voices, though, so there were chattering, giggling and heavily accented von Stradas all around.

  It felt, Alex thought, like being in a movie dream-sequence, so fantastic it didn’t seem real. They moved through the venues, following Silvie. In some of the venues there was dancing, in others there were games – mostly involving people getting very wet – with dining rooms, buffets and bars. And everywhere, of course there was music – loud, foot-jigging music, with acrobats, magicians and flamboyant dance troupes generating the Fiesta vibe.