by Ben Jeapes
“This is the version that Starward’s psychologists threw at me,” Gilmore said. “The ships I started on weren’t big. They are-” He remembered the king’s phrase “-a comfortable size to rule. Sure, I got routine promotion, but ... I always ended up back where I was. So they recommended a transfer to the RSF. I could handle the Fleet; I just can’t handle anything bigger-”
“-on Starward’s scale of things,” the king interrupted. He was beaming, perhaps at having his words repeated back to him. “Working for a small operation like my Fleet, Commander, you excel. You have clever ideas, like charging scuttlers on full flame. Don’t say you don’t know it.”
“Perhaps,” Gilmore said. He knew it but had never really believed it. If he tried, he could remember the way things always seemed to fall into place, as they had when that last scuttler was detected; but he rarely did remember, and it didn’t change how he felt. He was a good ship’s captain by his current standards but only fair by the standards of the big wide world; and by the standards with which he had set out into his adult life, he was a failure. “If sweep duty is worth excelling at,” he added.
Prince James finally spoke. “It’s an essential contribution to our interests, Commander.” He looked slightly shocked that anyone could think otherwise of sweep duty.
“Throwing people off rocks so we can mine one hundred percent of them instead of ninety. Oh yes, vital,” Gilmore said. The prince began to bristle before his father interrupted him.
“So with all that in mind, Commander,” the king said, “do you think you could handle the Ark Royal?”
At last! Gilmore had been wondering when that would come up. And since the king had researched him so thoroughly he could no longer even joke that they had got the wrong Gilmore. They meant him.
“I’ve only heard rumours of her, so far,” he said. “I have no way of knowing.”
“Sensible answer,” the king said. “Diplomatic. That’ll be useful on a diplomatic delegation.”
Gilmore breathed out. Another rumour confirmed, and he was first to know. “So, you are going on the Rusties’ delegation,” he said.
“Of course I am,” the king said. “Wouldn’t have built the Ark Royal for any other reason. James will be my delegate and you will be my captain.”
“Can I ask why you’re going, sir?”
“Why? Same as everyone else. Can’t afford not to.” The king put his cup down, sat back and fixed Gilmore with his gaze. “You’re a lucky man, Commander,” he said. “You couldn’t cut it in one system so you managed to find another one, still doing what you want. Most people don’t have that choice. They don’t succeed, they’re out.”
“Unless you’re king,” Gilmore said. The king laughed.
“So you would have thought,” he said. “But I want to move on too. You see, here is my kingdom, and I’m proud of it. It’s not just an asteroid miner, it’s the biggest ship yet built and seven and a half thousand human beings are glad to call it home. Rusties have come to see it and they were impressed. The people who live here are happy and the place is flourishing. That makes me happy in my turn.
“And we’re still a joke! Who out there really takes us seriously? No one. My business rivals and partners respect me but I’m still Mad King Richard to them. I want to make us something to be reckoned with and that is why I want to send someone on the delegation.”
“Do you subscribe to the trap theory?” Gilmore asked. Few took the invitation completely at face value and the most popular interpretation was that the whole thing was some elaborate trap set up by the aliens. Why was a completely different matter.
“I don’t subscribe to theories.” The king looked over at the prince. “James?”
The Prince of Wales leaned forward, putting his cup down so he could concentrate more on Gilmore. He gave the impression of seeking to convert Gilmore to a cause. “We had Ark Royal built because we needed a ship,” he said. “You know it’s a condition that delegates provide their own to travel on?” Gilmore nodded. “Now, we have a ship, we have several ships, but we want to do this properly. Diplomatic delegations don’t travel in sweeps, do they? They have proper military escorts. Hence, His Majesty’s Starship Ark Royal. Good name, don’t you think? Traditional. Apt for the UK’s first starship. Here, take a look. I’ll copy it to your own aide if you like.”
He passed his aide over to Gilmore, already activated. Ark Royal’s specs were on the display and Gilmore flipped through them.
“She’s a freighter,” he said at once. “A Morrison.”
“Her essential frame is that of a Morrison Class 7,” the king said. “It was easier to adapt than build from scratch and it seemed best to adapt a small ship.”
“Why?” Gilmore said.
“Oh, there was the time frame, for one thing, and even I am subject to board agreements, shareholders ... I can’t justify spending that much money on her. But I’ve spent more than enough. You’ll find the equipment on board and the ship’s AIs are state-of-the-art. With just three people in charge, two at a pinch, you could take her anywhere.”
Gilmore browsed through idly, noting the brand names of the engines, the life support, the centrifuge ring ... Indeed, the king didn’t believe in false economy. He was buying quality.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“She came out of the L5 yards a month ago and she’s presently undergoing space trials. So, Captain, what’s your answer? Will you take her?”
Gilmore sat back in his chair and stared at the holographic floor overhead.
“Why me?” he said.
“You’re perfect for the job,” the king said, “and as you showed so recently, you can take a bad situation and make it work in ways that others haven’t thought of. You’re flexible.”
Gilmore barely heard him. His mind was whirling with the realisation that these two must actually expect him to succeed. You didn’t put a man in charge of a diplomatic mission and expect him to make a balls-up.
First thing to do, he thought, is get a good engineer and go over the ship with a fine-tooth comb-
Ah, yes.
“The delegation leaves in a fortnight,” he said. “It doesn’t give me much time to recruit a crew.”
“No need,” the king said. “You use Australasia’s existing crew.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult, then,” Gilmore said. “There’s fifteen of them-”
“No.” The king looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you have more than six, yourself included. Take your pick of the best of them.”
“Six?” Gilmore exclaimed. “I’m expected to take a crew of six on a trip like this?”
“Ark Royal is years ahead of Australasia,” the king said. “I assure you, the ship’s automation systems are par excellence, you’ll have the best quality AIs on board ...”
“At least ten. At least!”
“No, Captain.” The king still sounded regretful but looked quite resolute. “I’ve spent a large amount of budget on providing you with a state-of-the-art ship and I only have funds left for six crew. I’m sorry, but there it is. And I imagine you’ve already got two places filled, no?”
The king knew every detail of Gilmore’s career but still Gilmore was irritated at being taken for granted: even more irritated that the king was absolutely right. Hannah Dereshev would be his first choice of first officer, and that meant Samad Loonat as chief engineer. Two places filled.
“Commander Dereshev has just been offered command of her own ship,” he said, careful to include Hannah’s new rank.
“But surely you’ll mention it to her?”
Gilmore changed the subject. “I’m not sure how you plan to impress the Rusties,” he said, “with a crew of six. The other ships will have armies of negotiators on board.”
“My son is an excellent negotiator,” the king said with a smile, and looked at his watch. “Now, Captain, there are other details to brief you on and I have appointments to keep. You’ll need various authorit
ies and powers to make this work and we’ll send them through to your aide. Everything else, James will tell you about.” He stood; Gilmore and the prince rose as well. The king took Gilmore’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Thank you, Captain. Now I’ll leave you two together – I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.”
- 5 -
6-8 April 2149
Samad Loonat left the Officer’s Club with a spring in his step. He had been going over Ark Royal’s specs on his aide. The ship’s main engine was a spanking new Saab/Messerschmidt 300 that made him salivate when he thought of working on it. He was going to a ship with the latest and best tech on board, he was going on an historic voyage and he was getting a pay rise to boot. Life was good.
It was also good, he thought, to see the change in Michael Gilmore. The man was a million miles removed from the withdrawn, downcast one who had returned with Australasia to UK-1. Mike had a new challenge to take his mind off his perpetual fear of screwing up.
A lanky, straw blond man in RSF uniform stepped straight into his path.
“Peter?” said Samad. He frowned at the other man’s worried look. Lieutenant Peter Kirton, Australasia’s software officer, usually looked worried anyway but now it was more pronounced.
“Erm, may I have a word, sir?” Kirton said.
They could have gone back into the club but Samad had things to be getting on with. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped to one side to clear the sidewalk. “How can I help?”
“I’d, um, like your advice, sir. You’re my line officer, even if we’re off duty, and they want an answer soon, and-”
“Wait, wait.” Samad held up his hands. “Start at the beginning. Who are they? Loan sharks? Ex-wives? Missionaries?”
Kirton didn’t seem to appreciate the humour and Samad remembered he hailed from Mars, where jokes about missionaries – or ex-wives, or probably loan sharks, or just about anything – just weren’t funny. Oops. “I’ve been offered a job,” Kirton said.
“Small world,” Samad said.
Kirton’s eyes widened. “You too, sir?”
“Ark Royal?” said Samad.
“Sir?”
They looked at each other with the blankness that comes from a complete lack of communication. Samad broke the silence. “Tell me about this job, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not sure if I should take it, sir. I wondered if you’d heard of it? It’s in ‘N’ wheel and the codename is Woodcut.”
“Oh.” ‘N’ wheel – that was where the power systems were. Samad hadn’t heard of any new projects to do with the power systems, either officially or through the grapevine. “No, never heard of it. Why did you apply for it in the first place?”
“I didn’t, sir. They contacted me.”
“They contacted you? My advice is take it! It sounds like you’ve been headhunted and that’s a compliment.”
“Sir, can I show you something?” Kirton handed Samad his aide. “This is the waiver they want me to sign.”
Samad’s eyes scanned over the text and grew rounder. “Wow! No talking about it, no writing home, no mentioning of it to partners or diaries or goldfish or ... oh, look, you can dream about it. That’s okay, then.” He looked up hopefully: no, that joke hadn’t worked either. “Seriously, you shouldn’t be talking about this to anyone-” Abruptly he handed the aide back to Kirton. “-including me.”
“I know, sir. but ...”
“Does all the secrecy bother you?”
“I’m ... I’m just not sure what my rights are in this situation, sir.”
“Nuts to rights,” Samad said. “No one ever got anywhere by standing on their rights.” He smiled: Senior Officer’s Reassuring Smile No. 3. “I doubt there’s anything dodgy in this, so go for it.”
Kirton actually smiled. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
He hurried off: Samad turned in his own direction. On a whim he took out his aide and ran a query on Woodcut: nothing. He shrugged, put it back at his belt and set off home.
“Good day, dear? Yes, thanks, nice day, lovely.” Samad had come up to the door to the apartment where he and Hannah lived, and he tapped in the access code. “Oh, and did I mention I helped a young lieutenant work out all his problems ...” The door slid open and he went in. “... and learnt all about the mysterious Woodcut.”
“So I heard,” said a man’s voice by his ear. Samad yelped. The newcomer was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms folded and a look of cold amusement on his face. He had dark shaggy hair and pronounced five o’clock shadow: quite reasonable, Samad thought, it being five o’clock. “I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about it, Mr Loonat.”
“You’re not my wife,” Samad said, recovering.
“No, I’m not the good commander. I’m just Mr Leroux, I’m Head of the Security Division-” Leroux straightened up. “-and I want to know why, 20 minutes ago, you made an enquiry about Woodcut through your aide.”
Oops, Samad thought again. “Then it’s your lucky day,” he said.
“You’re going to tell me?”
“No. Everyone needs to learn at some point that they can’t always get what they want, and today is your turn. Do you have a warrant for being here, Mr Leroux?”
“Let’s forget about warrants, shall we?”
“No, let’s not.” Samad held up his aide. “Record all, transmit copy to Hannah. Mr Leroux, I want a warrant or I want you out.”
Leroux shrugged. “Then let’s do it the hard way. I don’t need a warrant to arrest you on matters related to the internal security of the Royal Space Fleet, and in that regard you, Mr Loonat, are under arrest.” His hand darted out and grabbed the aide, switching it off as he flipped it shut. “And under such terms,” he added with a smirk, “I’m also allowed to impound your aide.”
*
Gilmore sat in his apartment in ‘C’ wheel, the crystal chips that held the files of Australasia’s crew on the table in front of him. Three positions filled: three to fill. Who to give them to? A lot of choice-
He had Hannah and he had Samad, as he and the king had known he would. They all knew it had been a cheek, a major cheek, for Gilmore to ask a just-qualified captain if she wouldn’t mind remaining a first officer for a bit longer, but ...
When Gilmore had transferred to the Royal Space Fleet, one step ahead of burn-out, severe depression and a breakdown, it had been Hannah who in her quiet and efficient way had helped him get a crew and ship into shape, and in the process helped rebuild his own esteem. He needed her.
“A personal message,” said his apartment’s resident AI. Its voice was female, which was simply the voice it had had when it came from the shop. Gilmore had never seen the point of pretending AIs were people: a human was a human and a speck of crystal was a speck of crystal, so why try to compare the two?
Ships had their own personalities, of course, but then, a ship was a ship.
“Show it,” he said, and a life size image of the sender, a young man, appeared just next to a holo on the mantelpiece of the same person, taken a few years earlier as a boy and grinning happily at the camera. A delighted Gilmore knew the young man’s age to be 17 years and ten months. Well, well, he thought.
“Hi, Dad,” the image said. “Joel. You know, your ... um ... son?”
Gilmore winced. The question was not unreasonable.
“Well, I passed out, Dad. Um ... nothing great. Grade blue.” Joel grinned and it was exactly the same grin as the boy on the mantelpiece. It robbed him in a moment of his carefully acquired adulthood. “Sounds familiar. Must be in the genes, hey? Anyway, I’m now a fully qualified Middie and it seems ... well, the one line recruiting like mad right now is the RSF, and they’ve taken me. So I’m off to UK-1 in a fortnight’s time, ETA April 11th.”
Gilmore shut his eyes and groaned. He was to leave UK-1 on the eighth.
Joel shuffled, as if uncertain what to say, then suddenly grew more confident. “Um ... I know you’ve always said the RSF is a dead-end line, and believe me
it’s not quite what I had in mind, but ... well, like I said, they’re recruiting and I’ve got to start somewhere.” The grin again. “’Course, that’s not what I told recruitment. They think it’s my life’s ambition to work for the Fleet.”
You think, Gilmore thought.
Now the awkwardness was back.
“Um ... ah ... Dad, when I registered, I had to decide what I was going to call myself from now on. Um ... I ... I decided on Gilmore, if you don’t mind.” Joel blinked bashfully at the camera. “So I’m Mr Midshipman Gilmore,” he said, as if he could scarcely believe it himself. “And I’m going to be King Richard’s loyal subject too. Well, um ... I thought I’d let you know I’m coming. I’ll tell you my news when we see each other. If we see each other. I mean, you might be off-station all the time I’m there ... anyway, we’ll catch up, Dad. Bye.”
The image froze and Gilmore stared at it, drinking in the latest picture of his son. Joel’s mother – and his father – had thought she was marrying a dynamic, up-and-coming young spacer. It hadn’t worked. Joel had been a toddler when the inevitable happened and Gilmore hadn’t had the heart to take him away from his mother.
When Gilmore had moved to UK-1, contact had become even rarer.
“House, record reply,” he said. “Audio and video.”
“Recording,” said House. Gilmore cleared his throat.
“Ah ... Joel. Good ... yes, very good to hear from you. Very good indeed. And congratulations, and I’m very pleased you’ve chosen Gilmore, not that the name’s copyright or anything. Um. You’re welcome to put up here when you arrive, but I won’t be seeing you because I’ve got news of my own ...”
*
“You’re being obstructive, Mr Loonat,” said Leroux. They were in a private interview room in the Security offices: just the two of them, Samad couldn’t help noticing, which he suspected was a violation of rights it would probably be futile to try and enforce. Leroux had all the authority of the king behind him.
“You’re being obnoxious, Mr Leroux,” Samad said.
Leroux got to his feet and stared down at him across the desk. It was a ploy that Samad recognised: he had been seven years old when an NVN man, an armed thug of the forces of the Confederation of South-East Asia, had glared down at him in exactly the same way as the Loonat family left their newly appropriated home. There was no way he was going to be intimidated by it coming from an unarmed civilian.