by S MacDonald
It was a decision he was going to regret.
Commander Mikthorn came aboard as a medical patient. He kept insisting that he was in no need of treatment but the fact that he staggered and pretty much collapsed in the airlock triggered an immediate medical response. He was whisked off to sickbay, protesting.
‘I’m fine,’ he mumbled, as they guided him into a zero-gee zone at the ladderway. Here, he went off sideways and had to be hauled back just before he’d have cracked his head on a ventilator. ‘I just nee’ a cup’l o’ mini’s…’
It was apparent even to the least qualified first aider on the ship that he was going to need considerably more than that. Those who’d met him at Telathor were shocked by the condition he was in. Ordinarily a plump, full-chested man with an expensive tan overlaying his natural honey-brown complexion, he had clearly lost weight and was now a sickly grey. He was bleary of eye and unsteady of feet, though still protesting semi-coherently as he was taken into sickbay.
‘He’s exhausted, skipper,’ Rangi reported a few minutes later. ‘Really, seriously exhausted. I don’t think he’s slept or eaten properly for weeks; he certainly hasn’t done either for the last six days. The stress of the journey, you know. I’ve put him to bed and he’ll need a programme of rest and supervised diet over the next few days. There’s certainly no way, on medical grounds, that I can allow him to be sent back by courier, at all, I mean, he can’t go through that again.’
This meant that he would have to stay with them until he was fully recovered, and that they’d then have to find him a berth aboard one of their own ships on the regular fortnightly rotation. Alex accepted this readily, since he did not yet understand what that would actually involve.
‘All right,’ he said, and told the medic, ‘I’ll see him tomorrow, if he’s up to it.’
Commander Mikthorn was up to it. Rangi Tekawa had given him a combination of very sophisticated drug and physical therapy treatments and a cup of herbal tea. Rangi himself was inclined to regard the patient’s improvement as largely due to the tea, but whatever the ratio of cause, the commander woke next morning feeling very much better. He had been asleep for the better part of fourteen hours. And, following a long shower, a therapeutic massage and a medically prescribed breakfast, he was feeling sufficiently himself again to insist on seeing the captain at the earliest opportunity.
Alex met him in his daycabin. As the commander came in, it was apparent that he really was feeling very much better. His arrival had that air of pomp and circumstance which was habitual to him, with his inflated chest and magisterial walk. Alex had thought, the first time they met, that Commander Mikthorn’s natural milieu ought to have been mayor of a provincial city, rather than Fleet officer. He hardly seemed like a spacer at all, something which only made sense when you learned more of his career path.
‘Welcome aboard, Mr Mikthorn,’ said Alex, offering a cordial handshake, though not a smile. ‘I trust you’re feeling better?’
‘There was nothing wrong with me, sir,’ said the commander, who would refuse to admit this even if shown footage of himself stumbling and slurring his words. He eyed the captain challengingly. ‘I was just tired,’ he asserted. ‘They made a ridiculous fuss, really. But still,’ he seemed to remember his manners, ‘thank you for asking, and yes sir, I am fine.’
He imposed himself into the offered chair with the air of a pouter pigeon settling to roost. He seemed a little disconcerted as Alex just sat down, himself. Fleet etiquette would require the skipper to offer his guest some refreshment, unless the interview was to be conducted on disciplinary or otherwise confrontational grounds. Always acutely sensitive to such social niceties, Commander Mikthorn felt the lack of such an offer to be a personal affront.
Before he had time to really take offence, however, the matter was resolved by the appearance of a burly man who whipped a tray onto the table, smiled briefly and had departed even as the skipper said ‘Thanks.’
Commander Mikthorn looked at the tray. It contained a mug of dark, marin-spiced coffee and a bowl of liquid that to the commander’s prejudiced eye looked like anaemic urine and smelt like a wet ditch. Dr Tekawa had put him on a diet which included a ban on all stimulants and an enforced, regular intake of various health-giving teas.
Commander Mikthorn’s eyes strayed to the coffee mug with a pitiable look of longing. The only coffee available on the courier was the microtab kind supplied by the Fleet. The only things it had in common with real coffee were that it was generally brown and liquid.
Alex turned the tray around so that the mug was on the commander’s side, and took the bowl of tea himself. He didn’t actually drink it, but it was a real sacrifice, even so. One of the rules Simon had imposed in his health regime had been the restricting of full-strength coffee to four mugs a day, so Alex was giving a quarter of his allowance that day to his guest. It wasn’t merely an act of generosity, either, in taking pity on another coffee-holic deprived of the good stuff. It was, he saw, an opportunity to establish a good working relationship with the man after some lukewarm social encounters and unhelpful correspondence.
If that was his hope, he was going to be disappointed. Commander Mikthorn certainly seized the coffee, but it never even occurred to him that the captain had given him his. If he had thought about it at all, he would have assumed that the steward had brought him the coffee he wanted and the tea that was evidently for the captain, but had stupidly put the tray down the wrong way round. If questioned, he would have supposed that the steward did not know about the medic’s embargo on him having real coffee for at least the next three days.
As it was, he never gave the matter a thought at all, but merely accepted the coffee as his because he wanted it. A sip found it the perfect temperature for a gulp, and he set it down with a satisfied ahhh.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, remembering courtesy but with a manner which made it clear that he considered this the most trivial of routine social exchanges. ‘And now, sir,’ he went straight on, in the manner with which he called meetings to order, ‘perhaps we could get straight to business…’
‘By all means,’ Alex agreed, looking at him curiously. He had already received a note of explanation, by then, which had come on the same courier as the commander himself. The note was from Froggy Croker, who had stayed on at Oreol as port admiral there while his deputy stepped up as acting port admiral at Telathor. Commander Mikthorn had arrived at Oreol, astonishingly, aboard a liner. He had evidently got a berth aboard it by issuing his own official Fleet travel warrant which the liner company was obliged to honour, after none of the Fleet or other official vessels going between Telathor and Oreol had agreed to taking him aboard.
Once at Oreol, though, he had insisted on his right to come out to the Heron on his own authority as the officer commanding the Second Fleet Irregulars in the Telathor sector. He had, he said, command rights, and an imperative need to deal with a crisis in the Second’s lab aboard the Heron.
I tried to order him back to Telathor, Froggy’s note explained, but he’s standing on a tripod of command rights, irregular status and mission imperative. In the end I said he could have a berth on a courier if it was really that important, thinking that would head him off. Obviously it didn’t. I can only say sorry and hope that whatever hassle it is can be speedily resolved. Good luck with it.
‘I take it,’ said Alex, ‘that it’s the refusal of Professor Parrot and his team to vacate the lab which has brought you out here?’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Commander Mikthorn heavily. ‘It is indeed.’ He seemed to be gearing up as he spoke for a speech which had been weeks in the preparation and practised many times, so Alex just sat with a quietly attentive expression and let him get it off his chest.
It was a lengthy speech, commencing with a lecture as to the commander’s enormous workload and immense responsibilities. The Fleet, he pointed out, had massive, but massive involvement with civilian research and development through universities and businesses, all of which
came under the edict of the Second Fleet Irregulars.
‘There are,’ he told the captain, ‘even now, forty seven projects on Telathor alone which are either wholly or partly funded by the Second Fleet Irregulars or involve some collaboration with our personnel, all of which involves tremendous workload in managing, coordinating and supervising effectively. And on top of that, my team has been overwhelmed by work relating to the mobile research facility located on the Heron. We have been inundated by correspondence relating to research opportunities, and some teams, indeed, have made their own way to Telathor to put their case in person, tying up a great deal of time for our senior personnel in dealing with them. And you would not,’ he went on, as an aggrieved note crept in, ‘believe how difficult it is to deal with these people. Herding cats has nothing on it. I mean, you expect a lack of discipline, order and sense when you’re dealing with civilians, but even the Fleet members display a deplorable lack of even the most basic discipline, slopping around in the most appalling clothes and using first names like they’re civilians themselves – some of them,’ his voice held a rising note as he remembered the enormity of the offence, ‘even tried first-naming Me – it took me some effort to get even a Mr, I can tell you, and a sir, it appears, is out of the question. And on top of that, I have head office sending out dictats which take no account at all of the realities of the situation I’m dealing with, not to mention the fact that decisions relating to the research facility on the Heron arrive from both Therik and Chartsey without any apparent communication between them.’
He looked accusingly at Alex, with that, as if that was his fault. Alex said nothing, though his expression was one of calm understanding. He was, himself, perfectly used to receiving official communiques from his base world, sometimes even in the same mailing as others from Chartsey. On a good day, they gave him the same information or instructions. On a bad one they were incompatible or downright contradictory. There had, for instance, been the memo from the port admiral at Therik telling him that she had transferred the Fourth’s scheduled maintenance budget to the shipyards at Telathor, which made sense given that they were going to be in the region for so long. This, however, had been countered by a memo from an Admiralty office refusing to recognise Telathor as their temporary base so that all invoices for work done at Telathor would have to be sent to Therik. This kind of confusion went on all the time in the Fleet and was resolved, always, by an executive decision on the part of the senior officer on scene. In this case, Commander Mikthorn.
He was not, evidently, a man who took executive decisions easily. He was essentially a procedures man, a solid by the book officer who liked to know exactly where he stood, what his orders were and what policy to follow in order to achieve them.
‘And now,’ he told the captain, ‘I have orders to organise provision for Professor Parrot and his team in a research facility in X-Base Haven, and to coordinate this with transport arrangements for authorised projects to the mobile research facility based on the Heron. This was already highly, extremely problematical given that two sets of authorisations had been issued from Therik and Chartsey, totalling five teams and forty six personnel when there are, as you know, only ten places available. But that situation, as I explained in my report and request, became entirely impossible when Professor Parrot and his team refused their orders.’ He made a complex flourishing gesture with both arms in an attempt to convey his bewilderment, outrage and frustration. ‘I did my utmost,’ he insisted, with the aggrieved note very evident now. ‘I did everything humanly possible, but nothing, of course, obviously, would satisfy the teams now waiting at Telathor. They have, as they say, every right to their time in the mobile research facility based on the Heron, with all the necessary paperwork and authorisations, and they are, most unfairly, holding me responsible for the hold-up. They are,’ he added, with an impressive pause, ‘complaining to head office.’
‘Ah,’ said Alex, his one contribution to the monologue, and one which expressed enlightenment as to what had driven a man like Commander Mikthorn all the way out here even in such horrible conditions. Official complaints were being made. Official enquiries would be held. And the responsibility for it all sat squarely on Commander Mikthorn’s head.
‘I had no option,’ said the commander, ‘but to come out here myself. In which regard I have to say, sir, as a matter of record, with no disrespect intended, I find myself…’ he paused and used the word delicately, ‘disappointed with the lack of support experienced from yourself in this regard.’
He stared at Alex reproachfully, and words hung in the air, the words Alex had written in response to the commander’s request for him to persuade or even compel the professor and his team off the ship; Having discussed the matter with Professor Parrot, I do not feel it to be appropriate for me to have any further involvement in the matter.
This, Alex had thought, should have settled it, making it clear that Professor Parrot and his team were welcome to stay on the Heron for as long as they wished. Evidently, Commander Mikthorn was not about to accept that.
‘They have the right to remain for the duration of the mission, under the terms of their research agreement,’ Alex pointed out, at which the commander gave an indignant snort.
‘Technically,’ he admitted, and with that, admitted much. ‘But,’ he stressed, ‘the Second Fleet Irregulars reserves the right, as always, to withdraw funding or support for any research project being conducted under its aegis, and specific to the mobile research facility based on the Heron, we retain the right and authority to withdraw teams subject to their project agreements or on issues of conduct or health and safety concerns. Any reasonable interpretation of the agreement signed with Professor Parrot would recognise that ‘for the duration of the mission’ entailed only the specified search operation investigating the origins of the Sector Seventeen Phenomenon, and should not be interpreted as the ongoing exodiplomacy mission. Professor Parrot’s conduct, too, has been far from satisfactory both in refusing to comply with an entirely reasonable request to vacate the facility for perfectly suitable facilities at X-Base Haven, and in his manner of responding to correspondence on the matter, which has been, I have to say, both defiant and rude. Finally, and most importantly, there are overwhelming grounds for considering their remaining here a health and safety concern. You yourself have recognised the dangers of extended periods spent aboard ship by implementing a policy of crew rotation on health-leave to X-Base Haven. I recognise that civilians are not compelled to comply with such policy but what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, sir, if it is not healthy or safe for your own people to remain aboard ship for extended periods then it is certainly not for Professor Parrot and his team either. So I have, on the grounds of my authority to do so, the Professor’s unacceptable conduct and overriding health and safety concerns, to ask and require that you assist me in removing Professor Parrot and his team, forthwith.’
This last was issued with an air of triumph, as if laying down a fist full of aces.
Alex looked back at him thoughtfully. He was trying not to be prejudiced by his irritation with the man’s pedantic manner, as with his persistence in such terms as ‘Second Fleet Irregulars’ and ‘mobile research facility based on the Heron’ where anyone else would just say ‘Second’ and ‘the Lab.’ He must, he reminded himself, make an unbiased, professional decision based purely on the evidence presented to him. And in that, to be fair, he had to recognise that from his own point of view at least, Commander Mikthorn had three very good points. He was under tremendous pressure to get new teams aboard, and it must seem, to him, entirely reasonable to relocate Professor Parrot to facilities at Oreol. He did, admittedly, have grounds to complain too of unhelpful and rude response to his correspondence, as Alex was aware the professor had simply written No on his letter and returned it. He had a point, too, about the health and safety issue. From his perspective, he ought to be able to count on the captain to back him up. From his expression, Alex thought that
he was even hoping for an apology from him for not having realised the seriousness of the situation earlier.
Alex, however, gave a very slight smile. ‘Those are good arguments,’ he conceded, then as Commander Mikthorn began to inflate, ‘But…’ the slightest of pauses to be sure that the commander understood the significance of that, ‘You have to understand the situation from our perspective too.’ He knew as he said that there was absolutely no chance of that happening, but he had to try. ‘Fundamentally,’ he said, ‘Professor Parrot does have the right to remain for the duration of the mission, which under established protocol is always interpreted as the point at which we return to our base world. Of course,’ he overrode the commander as the other man would have objected to that, ‘teams do often leave before that, by prior agreement or for convenience in heading back to their own worlds, but the fact remains that under that precedent and protocol the term ‘for the duration of the mission’ has to be accepted as meaning until the point when we return to base and cannot be retrospectively interpreted as ‘until a point where the nature of the mission has changed’. We are still, officially, on the same tour of duty as when we left Therik, even though we have now moved from exploration into exodiplomacy. Professor Parrot may be moved out with his agreement, but in his decision to stay he is standing on his rights and I have an obligation to defend his lawful rights, you know.’
‘But…’ said the commander, explosively.
‘Secondly,’ said Alex, his quiet voice silencing the other more effectively than a shout, ‘while I agree that you have cause to consider the Professor’s response to your request to be brusque to the point of rudeness, I have to tell you that we have no concerns whatsoever about the conduct of the Professor or any member of his team aboard this ship. On the contrary, they are an extremely well integrated team and a positive benefit to us in many ways. Thirdly, while your point about health and safety is perfectly valid, I should tell you that an agreement has been made for them to stay on the same basis as myself, under a structured, supervised health and fitness programme. If you knew Professor Simon Penarth, our consultant on health and safety matters, you would appreciate that that is a major concession from him and indicates in itself how important the research is that Professor Parrot and his team are engaged in. And that, you see, is the overriding issue which you haven’t taken into account. Professor Parrot’s team was given the utmost priority – unlimited time, unlimited funding – to work on the nanotech we were given by the Samartians. They have already made extraordinary advances in the…’ he became aware that the commander’s jaw had dropped and that he was staring at him in bewildered suspicion. ‘You are,’ Alex said, ‘aware of the nature of the research they are undertaking?’