Assegai

by S J MacDonald

  In one of the venues – normally used for karaoke – there was a competition going on. It was promoted as a ‘lookalike’ but it was actually an ‘actalike’, since competitors were all wearing the same costumes. Competitors stepped up onto a corner stage, where they had twenty five seconds to say something, either in role as Silvie or as Alex. The audience voted on how convincing they were, giving them a score. Those with the highest score in each quarter of an hour won a small prize, but it was the opportunity to get on stage and act daft which got most people up there.

  ‘Go on.’ Silvie was holding on to Jarlner with one hand as they stood watching this, but jabbed Alex in the back with the other, pushing him forward. And at his huh?, pushed him again. ‘Go on,’ she insisted. ‘I dare you.’

  Who could resist, Alex thought. Who could possibly resist?

  He couldn’t, anyway. So a few minutes later saw him step up onto the stage, where he put his hands behind him and stood calmly at attention, looking out over the crowd of about three hundred people, this being one of the smaller venues. It was astonishing, the difference in the way they looked at him – no mobbing, neither the furious yelling he’d got so used to over the years, nor the feverish excitement of more recent times. They were just looking at him with mild interest, many of them having their own conversations, sipping drinks, paying only half attention to the stage.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Alex, and stepped down. They gave him seventy eight per cent – quite realistic, to be sure, but nowhere near as good as the woman who saluted and said, ‘Saluté Valori!’

  Alex had heard of celebrities entering their own lookalike contests incognito and losing, but he’d imagined that to be a folk myth. But there it was, he’d come fifth in a contest to impersonate himself.

  He was still grinning at the sheer joyous absurdity of that when they got back on a shuttle and he was able to take off his mask.

  ‘That was…’ Bennet was flushed with merriment, too, hardly able to stop laughing. She sought for a word, and found one she had learned from Silvie, ‘Bonkers!’

  Alex too was still chuckling inwardly at the ludicrous experience on Karadon while the Trade attaché was introducing him to people in the solemn environs of a Diplomatic Corps event.

  The contrast was just so extreme, it became funny in itself. Davie had given orders for the hospitality venue to be ‘Embassy rigged’ and it was, therefore, just like every other Embassy reception suite Alex had ever been in. There was the reception room with its mirrored wall on one side and windows showing a holographic formal garden on the other, restrained floral arrangements atop classical plinths and a string quartet as soft background music. White coated stewards glided about distributing drinks and hors d’oeuvre with an unobtrusive grace in a whole other league from Simmy’s cheerful bounding. And when they went through to dinner, the table was set with all the quiet elegance the Diplomatic Corps epitomised. Not a gold candelabra in sight. And no bunting, either.

  But the dinner, at least, was not boring. The Corps, still mortified by their failure to protect Alex from being stuffed to the gills by every host on Chartsey, were very sensitive themselves to what they fed him, now. So the food was light, exquisite, and served in such tiny portions that Alex ended the dinner feeling that he could have eaten more. And the company, after the first self-conscious ten minutes or so at the table, soon relaxed into lively and interesting discussion. These were spacers, after all, and it didn’t take much gentle prompting from the Trade Attaché to get them talking about ships, and how cargo was running, and how they felt about the introduction of another titan-haul on a run to Chartsey. Spacers hated those – massive unmanned haulers on a pre-set route between two systems, never stopping, swinging out beyond their destination systems and curving around to head back on a never-ending, gigantic ellipse. Their long train of cargo had to be detached by shuttles during the two or three days they were in near-orbit to the system, and those for the return run hooked on, too, before it had gone out of range. It was the cheapest means of transiting cargo between two worlds, though extremely slow and vulnerable to what the Trade Attaché called ‘depredations’ – piracy, strictly speaking, though many spacers would not consider it such, helping themselves to a crate or two from the despised haulers depriving them of cargo.

  The question of how serious such pilfering was engaged the company in very animated discussion, with strikingly different points of view between the starship spacers and those who worked in cargo handling at the station. This, in fact, was the point of the dinner, the Trade Attaché facilitating a discussion on this emotive point in a friendly, civilised environment.

  If he’d been hoping that Alex would weigh in on the side of law and order, though, he was disappointed.

  ‘I can’t condone theft of any kind, of course,’ he said, when appealed to for his opinion on the matter. ‘But I can’t say it breaks my heart when I hear that a haul has arrived short of cargo.’ And then, challenged as to what he would do if he came across a freighter hauling a crate which had a titan-haul ID stamped across it, he reduced the table to shouts of laughter and cries of protest with his bland, ‘I wouldn’t notice it.’

  If the Trade Attaché flinched, and sighed, he covered it well. You couldn’t, he consoled himself, expect conventional views from the highly unconventional Captain von Strada.

  In fact, it was a conventional view. But it was the conventional view of a spacer, not a diplomat. And it had, at least, been a useful discussion… enlightening, even, as to why the Corps was finding it so difficult to engage even the regular Fleet in anything more than lukewarm interest in tackling titan-haul piracy.

  The dinner concluded, anyway, Alex went back to the Assegai with a feeling of relief. No fault of Quill’s, or of Karadon’s, but he’d be glad to see the back of the station.

  The Assegai was ready, only waiting for his return before they broke from orbit, with salutes exchanged and the ship curving away even while Alex was still showering and changing out of dress rig.

  He went to the command deck, with an hour to wait before he could open his orders. They were not alone; the Stepeasy had slipped out of orbit after them and assumed right-flank position as naturally as if they were another Fleet ship in company. This was obviously concerning Min a little. It wasn’t that she objected, really, but she had no orders concerning the Stepeasy and wasn’t sure how to regard the civilian ship, or even whether its presence would break the condition of isolation required before Alex could open his orders.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Alex assured her, when she raised the question of the Stepeasy’s status. ‘Sorry – I should have thought.’ He opened a screen and wrote orders on Admiralty letterhead, signing them with his flag rank and passing them to Min. They were operational orders, under exodiplomacy code, requiring her to treat the Stepeasy in the same way as a civilian support vessel and to give full cooperation to Ambassador North.

  ‘Thank you,’ Min said, relieved to have that clarified and on the record. ‘And – if you don’t mind my asking – will they be coming with us for the duration?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alex, and gave her an amused look. ‘I didn’t ask Mr North if he was coming with us, and he didn’t say,’ he told her. ‘He would take it as read, you see, apparent from the fact that the Stepeasy followed us out of orbit, that he’s coming with us for now. And it is equally well understood between us that he may stay throughout the mission or depart at any point, which he does sometimes without warning, just…’ he gestured to indicate the Stepeasy taking off at speed. ‘He has other interests, after all, other responsibilities. But my guess would be that he’s waiting to see where we’re going before he decides.’

  They all wanted to know that. It had been a hot talking point even before they’d left Chartsey, with speculation rising now to feverish anticipation. Four potential destinations had emerged as favourites in the inevitable shipboard book. Possibilities, after all, were limited by the fact that they had to be
at Therik in five months, as Alex had been promised by the First Lord. And the choice of destination, self-evidently, would be for the Samartians’ benefit. Sixships was the odds-on favourite, by far. It was within range for them to spend a couple of weeks there, and the conflict would certainly be of interest to a military culture like Samart.

  The second most popular possibility, though, was Cestus. Voted the League’s Most Boring Planet many times over the centuries, it was also considered the most likely world to host the first visit of quarians other than Silvie. That was not because it happened to be geographically closer to Serenity than any other world, but because their very calm, placid culture made them the safest option, both ways. Cestus, indeed, was perhaps the only planet in the League where an alien ship actually could land in a central square and declare, ‘We come in peace’ without causing mass panic. They might, it was joked, be served with a parking ticket, but any request to ‘Take us to your Leader’ would result in polite directions to the Senate building. Many on the Assegai thought it likely that they would be sent to Cestus for a kind of trial-run visit there with Silvie, and as a very quiet, orderly world where the Samartians might feel themselves at home.

  Third on the book when betting had closed on their departure from Karadon was the suggestion that they were not, in fact, going anywhere at all. There was plenty of unexplored space even here in the heart of the League, after all, and going completely off the beaten track would enable them to focus on the combat skills the Samartians were here to teach them, with any number of uninhabited systems where they could run exercises. Some of the crew were already talking about gaining a Van Damek plaque for their airlock, the award for exploration given by the Van Damek Society in honour of the League’s greatest explorer. Others, even more optimistic, were talking about blowing up planets.

  The last of the options to have attracted any significant betting was regarded as the long-odds outsider. Unaware that the President was whisking Alex’s parents off to Chartsey, some people thought it possible that the Assegai might be sent on a courtesy-visit to the captain’s homeworld. Novaterre, after all, had more reason than most to celebrate the achievements of its famous son. The Samartians would like it there, too, with a people so similar to them both genetically and culturally. And it was only right, people said, to give The Captain the chance to spend time with his family.

  All of them were possible. All would be valuable, in their different ways. Which the authorities had decided would be most valuable, though, could only be known when Alex opened his orders. And that would not, he knew, have been any simple decision.

  Technically, it was the special sub-committee formed to supervise the Fourth which decided what missions to prioritise – the reason they had been formed in the first place, indeed, had been to adjudicate on that, as arguments had broken out between the Fleet, the Diplomatic Corps and even system governments over what they wanted the Fourth to do. Both Dix Harangay and Ambassador Gerard would be able to put their cases, backing whichever mission they felt to be the most important, but there would be other pressures and lobbying too. And then, of course, there was the Presidential factor, as Marc Tyborne could effectively over-rule all that debate anyway by issuing orders to Alex as a Presidential Envoy. There would, for sure, have been an almighty ferocious wrangle over that decision.

  Just how almighty and ferocious, though, did not become apparent until Alex went to his cabin, locked the door and plugged the tape into a secure reader screen.

  He had been prepared, he thought, for anything. He had not allowed himself to think too much about it, and certainly not to allow himself to develop any preferences, hopes which might be disappointed. Whatever his orders, he would make the best of them.

  But his orders, to his utter amazement, were no orders at all.

  He had to read them three times – a first rapid scan, a second more careful reading and the third actually reading some of it aloud as if he couldn’t quite believe it unless he said and heard it, too.

  No orders. Well, not quite that. There were limits, and no authority could bring themselves to give a completely unconditional carte-blanche. And there were proposals, lots of proposals, seventeen case-of-need requests which had all been passed by the Sub-Committee as approved in principle.

  Which one he did, though, that was down to him. His choice – to be made in consultation with the Samartians, and with Silvie, but ultimately, his decision.

  ‘Well, I’ll be…’ said Alex, when he finally understood that this was for real.

  ‘Well, I’ll be…’ Min said, ten minutes later.

  Alex had called a briefing – Jarlner, Bennet, Silvie, Min and Davie, called to his flag daycabin because there wasn’t room for them all in his quarters, at least not in any comfort. They were sitting round the conference table there, after a pause in which an over-excited Simmy had run in with a tray of refreshments. She was on tenterhooks, herself, to find out where they were going, and so distracted that she scattered mugs around almost at random.

  When she’d gone, and people had swapped around the drinks to get their own, Alex simply put his orders on screens so they could read them for themselves.

  Davie was laughing, a mischievous snigger which told Alex he understood very well what was going on with this.

  Alex himself had been enlightened by a private message tucked in along with the official documents. It was from Senator Terese Machet, chair of the Fourth’s sub-committee. In it, she apologised for ‘dumping this on you’, explaining that it had become apparent that the committee could debate this for a year without coming to any quorum of agreement. Emotions had evidently been running high, too. I’ve chaired some fiery meetings in my time, she commented, but that’s the first time I’ve ever had to fine every member present, including myself, for unsenatorial language.

  The President, appealed to, had declined to break the deadlock. It was a deadlock, after all, because there was no clear winning case, and whatever decision he made would be tremendously unpopular. It was impossible. It was, he said, like being asked to judge a baby contest with seventeen mothers standing there ready to claw your eyes out if you didn’t pick theirs. So if they couldn’t decide for themselves, why not leave it to Alex?

  Dix Harangay’s had been a lone voice, protesting against that as both unfair to Alex and an outrageous subversion of two thousand years of Fleet service in which no commander, ever, had been told that they might pick and choose their own missions. Under Fleet rules, the views of a subordinate on various mission proposals might be asked for, and be taken into account, but the decision must always be that of the appropriate superior, never in the hands of the officer themselves.

  Dix, though, had been overruled. Everyone else involved had seen it as the only viable way out of the impasse. And everyone else involved, too, had secretly believed that Alex would choose them, because they, of course, were so obviously right.

  Did you know? Alex wondered, looking at Davie, and did not need to voice the question.

  ‘I just lost a million,’ Davie remarked, as casually as another man might say a dollar. Less than that, even. Davie would not even bother to pick it up if he dropped a million dollar cashcard. ‘My money,’ he said, evidently referring to a similar book being run on the Stepeasy, ‘was on Novaterre.’

  On the Stepeasy, as on the Assegai, nobody would scoop that pot, since not one person on either ship had even thought of the possibility that Alex might be given the choice of mission, himself. Under the established rules of such shipboard betting, that meant that the entire pot would go to the ship’s designated charity.

  That, anyway, settled the question of whether Davie had already known about this. And he promptly settled another.

  ‘But I’m with you, whatever,’ he said, waving at the screens showing the seventeen proposals. ‘No preference.’ He’d already gulped his coffee and got up as he spoke, clearly feeling that there was no more need for him to be here. ‘Let me know what you decide,’ he said,
and the door closed behind him.

  Alex looked at Silvie. She and Davie did not spend much time in close proximity, though they were both very fond of the other. Davie had learned techniques at Quarus which enabled him to dim his mind to tolerable volume while Silvie was around, and she’d had help too, learning how to block him. Alex understood the need for that – Silvie had once set up a demonstration of what it was like for her when Davie was at full mental activity. Alex, for all his stoicism, had screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears in involuntary self-defence. So he understood very well why Davie didn’t hang around, and why Silvie had that thoughtful, absorbed expression while he was there.

  Once he’d gone, she gave Alex a grin.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. She would have read all those documents, lengthy as they were, just as quickly as Davie had, in barely more than a glance. ‘I’d quite like to go somewhere I can swim,’ she said, ‘but whatever you think best will be fine.’ With that, she too was getting up. She had given her answer, and nothing more needed to be said.

  Alex gave her a smile and thanks, and as she strolled out, looked across at the Samartians, and at Min. The Samartians were looking polite, but he could see they were confused. Min was still re-reading the orders, as he had himself, trying to make sense of them.

  It would not, Alex realised at once, be fair to ask the Samartians for a response. It would be difficult to get them to express a preference, anyway, as they would never be expected to make such decisions for themselves at home. They did not have superhuman reading speed, either, and it would take them time to read through all the proposals, especially with all the complexity inherent in political documents.

  As for Min… feeling his eyes on her, she looked up, resolution forming in her face.

  ‘I…’ she hesitated, then spoke, decision made. ‘I do not feel myself to be qualified to offer an opinion, sir.’