XD:317 (Fourth Fleet Irregulars)

by S J MacDonald

  As they would see later, however, even that tiny little incident would be seized upon, primarily by Liberty League. The Fourth had, they would point out, ‘reduced’ Jenni Asforth from that brash but vibrant teenager to this ‘quailing’ young woman in no more than a matter of months, and the ‘filthy look’ she’d had from a petty officer had threatened dire retribution for breaking parade discipline.

  ‘I do wish they wouldn’t confuse us with the army,’ would be Alex’s only remark, when he saw that footage.

  That was, indeed, an issue that the Fleet had had with Liberty League for years. The League’s biggest and most vocal civil rights group had a whole division dedicated to campaigning on military issues, and fair enough, too, when they did uncover incidents of individual and even occasionally systemic abuse in military service. They did not seem, however, to be able to make the distinction between army basic training and that provided by the Fleet. Both kinds of bases looked the same to them, with large parade grounds and barracks. They didn’t seem to notice that they could spend all day at a Fleet base without seeing any kind of drill or bull parade, no squaddies being yomped about by yelling sergeants, no quick-march movement of personnel. Instead they would see recruits walking about, chatting, heading to classrooms and workshops, more like a college campus than a military camp. The army had nothing but scorn for the Fleet on parade, too. On the odd ceremonial occasions when the Fleet did parade, their notions of standing to attention were just woeful, while their efforts at marching parade would make, the army said, a cat laugh.

  They had a point, to be fair, as any footage of multi-service marching parades would see the army clop-clopping along like so many robots while the Fleet contingent strolled along behind, smiling and waving to the crowd. It was a mystery to both the army and the Fleet, therefore, why Liberty League seemed unable to distinguish between them, and a cause of frequent offence being given, too, to both services.

  This morning, the Fourth were upholding the finest tradition of Fleet parades by forming up into lines that were within a few centimetres of straight, holding attention for a dignified three seconds and then relaxing at ‘stand easy’ into leaning their weight onto one foot, looking about them and exchanging glances amongst themselves.

  As far as Alex was concerned, they were a credit to him. All of them were wearing the dress version of their uniforms, at Quill’s request, giving this the same status as if they’d been accepting the honorary freedom of a town, groundside. The Fourth’s dress uniform was black, chosen with no thought whatsoever because Alex hadn’t felt it important enough to give any more thought to than agreeing to the First Lord’s equally casual suggestion. They had all been surprised, when it was delivered, to find that the black version of dress rig looked far more distinguished than the traditional Fleet blues, albeit with a slightly menacing edge. All of the officers and crew attending the parade had volunteered to do so, even knowing how embarrassing it was going to be, and Alex felt quietly proud of them.

  It was embarrassing, too. Quill had spared them nothing, not even the ceremonious music. There was a podium decked with Fleet flags and the Fourth’s logo alongside ISiS Corps’, and there was a ceremonial scroll, tied with red ribbon, to be presented to Alex along with a ridiculously large bouquet presented by a ridiculously small child.

  And there were, of course, speeches. Quill made a speech. The director of the Cargo division made a speech. A corporate representative made a speech. And finally, Alex himself had to step up, to give the official speech of acceptance and thanks.

  It was, even he would be prepared to admit, an awful speech. He’d memorised it from the Fleet guidance on accepting such honours – the Fleet had protocols for every conceivable contingency – and delivered the standard text in such a flat, cold monotone that it sounded more like the prelude to a declaration of war. Buzz had spent some time trying to rehearse him, amongst the hundred other matters they were dealing with overnight, but had recognised very quickly that he was on a hiding to nothing with this one. This was, by definition, a formal public occasion, and there was just no way that Alex could overcome his Novaterran heritage to be anything other than rigidly formal at such an event.

  Eventually, however, the excruciating performance was over, the scroll and bouquet handed on to be taken aboard the ship. Once all hands had been properly shaken, they were escorted out of the flag-adorned hangar deck, leaving its fanfaring brass for the more gracious classical music being played at the reception for them.

  Here, though, Alex had to face an even more trying ordeal. Sparkling non-alcoholic drinks were being handed around along with gourmet hors d'oeuvre. These were the product of Marto’s own hands, as he had insisted on catering to the event. He was in the kitchens, supervising that personally, but found time to come out and greet Alex, to the unspeakable delight of his crew.

  Not even being embraced so effusively, kissed on the cheek and told he was a hero could break Alex’s public composure, though. He might be cringing inwardly, but both Fleet professional training and Novaterran heritage were at one, in this, in keeping him impassive.

  ‘You save kids,’ Marto declared, flinging an arm about his shoulders and posing with him in a beaming holo-opportunity for the cameras that were filming, even here. ‘I do not care how you do it,’ he told the camera, rather than Alex, ‘you do whatever you have to, to save those kids. And I, Marto, will cook for you, wonders and delights, to thank you, for the kids.’

  Alex suffered another pumping handshake and being told that he was a lovely boy, too, before Marto rushed back to the kitchens to see to the final frenzy of lunch service. But the food, when it came, was all that Marto had promised; wonders and delights, every dish an artistic creation. For dessert, he had created miniature replicas of the Heron, served on a black chocolate sauce scattered with glittering stars. When spoons broke through an inner crust in the tiny starships, spiced smoke emerged in a fragrant blowout. The rest of the Fourth’s contingent made suitably appreciative ‘oooh!’ noises at that, but Alex just ate his imperturbably.

  After the meal, they were led into a separate lounge for coffee and conversation. Here, Alex put on another painful performance. Lunch itself hadn’t been too bad. He’d been seated between Quill and the director of Karadon’s cargo division, both of them chatting away cordially since they understood his apparently cold manner was cultural conditioning and not something he could help.

  During the mix and mingle after lunch, however, he was introduced to what seemed like hordes of people. Most of them appeared to have been invited because they could be relied upon to behave politely. Some, however, were rather obviously frightened of him, while others were equally obviously holding themselves in reserve, keeping their opinions to themselves. There was no way that Alex himself could relax, surrounded by such unease. He barely even caught the name of one woman – something managerial at the Central Hotel, he gathered, and one of the few who managed a convincingly cordial manner.

  ‘...quite simply the finest chef in the known universe,’ she said, talking about Marto, ‘End of. We’d pay him anything he wants to work for the Central, of course, but no chance.’

  Alex looked at her, not betraying his reaction to that even by so much as a flickering eyelid. It was an unusual turn of phrase, that emphatic ‘End of.’, and he was reminded at once of the LIA agent who’d used the same phrase in their call earlier. It might be coincidence, of course, but just something in the cool way she returned his glance made him sure that it wasn’t. Was that meant as some kind of test, he wondered, to see if he would, A, recognise her from that unusual phrasing and if so, B, shout out in amazement, ‘oh, you’re the LIA agent!’

  He did A, but as his chillingly formal manner betrayed neither surprise nor curiosity, she gave a little smile, the tiniest possible look of reluctant approval. Then she moved on to be sociable to some members of the crew who were starting to huddle together, embarrassed by the stares of other guests.

  Alex was glad to
get back to the Heron. Just stepping back through the airlock to the familiar warmth and the scent of freshly brewing coffee seemed to ease the tension from his rigid shoulders. Buzz was there to welcome him back aboard, too, with a look of sympathy. The event had been broadcast live on station holovision, so he had no need to ask Alex how it had gone.

  There was no respite back aboard ship, though. He had only a couple of minutes to shower and change out of his dress rig before the diplomatic attaché was calling. He had an extensive list of further questions he wanted to ask, not satisfied until he’d got to the tiniest detail in the replies. As 1450 approached, Alex felt obliged to mention that he was expecting a visit from the senior customs officer on station, too, which did not go down well.

  ‘I believe that your XD orders are rather more important than fostering inter-service relationships,’ the attaché said, with cool reproof. He slowed down even more after that, too. It wasn’t petty, Alex understood, he was just concerned to ensure that Alex himself was making his diplomatic responsibilities his top priority.

  It did mean, though, that the first thing he had to do when he went to meet the Customs officer was to apologise for keeping her waiting. She’d been entertained in the secure zone for the best part of forty minutes. Given how sensitive the relationship was between Fleet and Customs even at the best of times, he was expecting high offence to be taken at that. The Customs Captain, however, just smiled pleasantly and said it was no matter.

  Alex looked at her in slight surprise. Customs had publicly applauded the Fourth’s success at Karadon. As the media backlash had turned on them, though, demanding why they hadn’t been able to deal with major drugs trafficking as ‘easily’ as the Fourth obviously had, Customs had become very tight lipped. In private, it was known, they were spitting nails.

  The biggest bone of contention in that was the highly classified scanner technology the Fourth had used in their operations at Karadon. It did little good for anyone concerned to tell the public that those scanners had been on final-stage field trials for that operation, and were due to be declassified and rolled out to Customs and other services in any case. The discovery that it would take months even for Customs on the central worlds to be using that technology had caused such outrage that the Fleet and Customs had had to advance that programme. Both had pulled off small miracles both in providing sufficient quantities of the scanners and in training personnel to use them.

  A massive inter-system collaboration had also been needed to organise a new patrol schedule for Customs ships. By this means, they’d ensured that there was always at least one Customs ship on patrol between Karadon and every world in the region, and always at least one Customs ship at the station, too, providing cargo checks for any ships that had missed that opportunity either at home port or from encounters with the patrol ship en route.

  There was a very definite sense, in that, of Customs having to run to keep up. Resentment of that was not helped at all by Customs knowing very well that their only part in the Fourth’s operations at Karadon had been to have their patrol ships sent away ignominiously. With all that history between them, both historical and recent, it was astonishing to Alex that Captain Lesley Odama could really be this friendly. Was she being sarcastic, he wondered? But no, her manner was relaxed and her smile apparently genuine.

  She wasn’t there to waste his time, either. Cordialities concluded, she got straight down to business, asking how active a part the Fourth intended to take in operations at the station.

  ‘We have no particular remit for that, this visit,’ Alex told her. ‘My orders are merely to consolidate relationships as part of our courtesy visit.’

  Captain Odama did not even attempt to hide her amusement.

  ‘This is you on a courtesy visit?’ she queried. ‘You’ve been here less than twenty hours and I have no doubt you’ve got more intel than we’ve got in the last twenty weeks.’ A little shake of her head, but a tolerant one. ‘The question is,’ she went on, before he could reply, ‘whether you are willing to share it.’ She held up a hand as he would have pointed out that the Heron had already transmitted a number of intelligence advisories to the Customs ship. ‘And I don’t mean the official advisories.’ She looked at him with calm good humour. ‘I know, for one thing, how much you rely on word-of-mouth information, which I have to say is very difficult for us because Customs require us always to cite our sources before any decisions are made on operations or funding. We can’t just say that some guy told us in a bar, or some skipper of a ship we prefer not to identify. Off the record, though, strictly between you and me,’ she gestured between the two of them to emphasise that, ‘I would really appreciate a heads up on anything you feel might be helpful. And bearing in mind that the LIA won’t even admit to us that they’ve a field unit here, I’d welcome any information at all that you can give without citing sources.’

  As Alex considered that, she held up her hands, palm outwards.

  ‘No notes, no recordings,’ she promised. ‘Totally off the record.’

  Alex thought about that for another few seconds, then reached over and touched a control on the desk. It wouldn’t actually stop everything that happened in the deck seven meeting room being recorded, but it would slap the highest level of confidentiality on that so that only the most senior admirals could access records of this conversation.

  He talked for the next ten minutes. Lesley Odama did not interrupt him once, beyond giving little ‘active listening’ nods. She did not make any comment beyond ‘thank you’ when he’d finished, either. Alex would have prepared to bet, though, that she could reproduce everything he’d said to her, accurately and in detail. Customs had also known that the Fourth was going to be at Karadon at this time, and had clearly not sent their B-team to be here for that. Captain Odama, in fact, also thanked him for having had the opportunity to see a little of the Fourth’s ship, since she would be getting command of a Seabird 37 herself within a few months.

  ‘The Fleet is selling us four of them from the Reserve,’ she explained. ‘Now that their operational value has been demonstrated so spectacularly. It’s taking a while to have them refitted for our use and our crews trained to operate them, but I hope to be back out here on active service in six months or so.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Alex said, and meant that. ‘I’m only sorry that I’m unable to offer you a full tour.’ Despite her higher sounding rank, Captain Odama was not recognised by the Fleet as being anything more than the equivalent of a commander. More importantly, her security rating was only eight ack beta, so there was no way Alex could allow her access to the rest of his ship.

  ‘That’s all right, thank you, skipper,’ she smiled. ‘I understand, of course, you’re testing new technologies. I can only hope they’re anything like as useful as the nano-scanners – truly amazing tech, that, a quantum leap forward in our arsenal. And you are, I have to say, far more gracious about it,’ she glanced and gestured at the meeting room, ‘than Skipper Alington.’ She looked curiously at him, with that. ‘Can I ask you, still off the record, whether the Fleet sent such a klutz here intentionally, so that spacers would be more inclined to turn to us?’

  Alex didn’t grin, though inwardly he was both laughing and groaning.

  ‘I believe not,’ he said, carefully. ‘And in loyalty to my colleague, there, I have to dispute the description of Skipper Alington as a klutz. He is a highly respected officer, carrying out his orders with meticulous care.’

  She gave him an ironic look.

  ‘When I came into port,’ she told him, ‘he summoned me to the Minnow as if I were a subordinate officer, then met with me in the airlock because I did not have clearance to go aboard his ship. In the course of an eleven minute meeting he spent eight of those minutes lecturing me on the importance of Fleet-Customs collaboration, in which his interpretation is very clearly that Customs officers should do as we are told by the Fleet. I have also got more than twenty reports on my desk of spacers commenting to member
s of my crew how clumsy and offensive Skipper Alington and the Minnow officers and crew are being in their dealings with them. So you will forgive me, skipper, if I hold to my opinion that the man is a klutz.’

  Alex saw her off the ship with a feeling of strong understanding between the two of them, at least. As he went back to his cabin, though, he was feeling just a bit harassed. He expected the media and activist groups to be attacking him, just took that in his stride, but having the LIA, the Diplomatic Corps and now Customs having a pop either at him or at his subordinate skipper was building stress into his day. That situation was not helped by the knowledge that there were at least thirty files waiting on his desk flagged for immediate attention, and ten times more merely marked urgent.

  All of them had to wait, however, when Buzz asked to see him asap. The moment he saw Buzz ushering an ashen-faced crewman into his daycabin, Alex knew that they had found the source of the leak about them having crossed League borders.

  Ordinary Star Tamas Delaver, known as Tammo to his friends, was the crewman Alex had mentioned to Harry Alington as having a cousin serving aboard one of the liners also at the station. He was one of the youngest members of the crew, too, at just turned seventeen. He was one of the Fleet’s high achievers sent to them on secondment. His ordinary star rank certainly did not reflect the wealth of qualifications and experience he already had under his belt. He was from a spacer family, not quite born in space but certainly spending most of his childhood on starships. He’d already been a qualified deckhand and pilot before he’d joined the Fleet, and there was no doubt that he’d be promoted to able star as soon as he reached the minimum age for that of seventeen and a half.