by S MacDonald
He demonstrated, opening a small case from the kit in front of himself. ‘This,’ he said, ‘for the benefit of those of you who haven’t used one before, is a taste generator – just slip it into your mouth, so, and when activated it will generate what I assure you is a fully authentic taste of Carrearranis. The other items in the kit are mouthwash tabs and vomit bags. Participation in this is required for anyone wishing to be considered for groundside assignment, but you are, of course, free to withdraw from the training at any point.’
Nobody moved.
‘All right, then,’ Rangi said, having paused just long enough to confirm that they were all going through with it, regardless of his warning. ‘The flavour I have chosen is the most common drink consumed on the islands, other than water. It is, I suppose, the Carrearranian equivalent of a spritzer or fruit squash – some crushed fruit, some water, some of the vinegar liquid, usually left to stand for a while and given a good shake before it’s drunk. So, ladies and gentlemen … taste generators in place, please…’
Only three of them needed the vomit bags, though quite a few more grabbed for the mouthwash tabs and there was quite a lot of gagging, coughing, spluttering and bad language.
Alex sat calmly, the taste generator still in his mouth. It was turning his stomach too, but he did not betray that by as much as a flicker. Novaterran self-control could have its advantages.
Rangi looked at him. Alex looked back. The moment went on, and on… and then Rangi cracked up laughing.
‘Sir,’ he acknowledged, and deactivated all the taste generators from his control screen, flooding them with a cool, cleansing taste like mild antiseptic.
Much to their relief, even those who’d been sick were told that they had passed the training. They knew, now, what eating and drinking on Carrearranis would actually be like, and that was all that was required. It said a great deal, too, that even after graphic descriptions of how horrible it had been, not one person who had their name down for groundside training pulled out.
For Commander Mikthorn, that was not a consideration anyway. He expected to be gone before they reached the stage of first-footing and even if he had still been around, would not have been on any list for potential groundside visits. He had recovered sufficiently by then to be quite active, with a programme of exercise and leisure activities organised by Rangi and Mako, but he felt himself to be in limbo. He wasn’t part of the mission here, and his future seemed so very remote and uncertain that it hardly even seemed real. There was just the ship, day to day, with a feeling that things might just go on like this indefinitely. He knew, though, that they wouldn’t keep him as a passenger for ever, so when he was asked to a meeting with the captain, he felt pretty sure that they were going to fix up for him to leave.
He was all the more sure of that because the meeting was held in the captain’s daycabin, an unusual degree of privacy which he took to indicate in itself that it was not going to be pleasant. Bearing in mind the explosion of wrath he’d witnessed in Alex von Strada the previous day, it was with some trepidation that he made his way up through the ship. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach and a dry feeling in his mouth as he stepped through the door. There, he paused, feeling a little confused because he’d expected it to be a meeting just between the two of them, and another officer was already there.
Commander Mikthorn knew him, of course. Sub-lt Kit Travers had come in for vitriolic comment in the reports that the commander had been firing off by every courier. He was the Fourth’s liaison officer to the lab. He was also a researcher in the field of applied astrophysics – the Second had tried to recruit him straight out but Kit did not want to give up shipboard service, so this was felt to be an ideal solution for him, dividing his time between shipboard duties and working in the lab. In Commander Mikthorn’s opinion, back in the days when such opinions were blazing in him with the fervour of hellfire, Sub-lt Travers was useless. He had no authority over the Parrot team in his role as a liaison officer, and was merely part of the expensive, directionless chaos which characterised what went on in the lab.
‘Please, come in.’ Alex greeted him pleasantly and waved him to one of the seats at the little conference table which did double duty as his desk. Frigate skippers were not given any great degree of space or luxury in the Fleet, so Commander Mikthorn had to move in sideways to sit down, and the chair, a standard Fleet issue one, had a short stiff back and a seat not much softer than steel. Oddly, though, it felt quite homely, the kind of furniture and décor he’d been used to all his working life. ‘Thank you for coming,’ Alex said, ‘I’d offer you…’
The door opened. Banno Triesse appeared, deposited a tray, gave his usual rapid grin and had departed before any of them could say anything.
‘He does so enjoy that,’ said Alex, and handed over a cup of tea to the commander, taking another for himself and giving the Sub a mug of dark, rich coffee which Kit seemed just a little embarrassed about. ‘I’ve asked you here,’ said Alex, ‘to discuss a couple of alternatives with you, Commander. Dr Tekawa is very happy with the progress that you’ve made in your recovery, as are we all – it is very good to see you up and about again, and looking so much better.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Commander Mikthorn said. ‘I’m feeling much better now, thank you.’
‘Good. Anyway, Dr Tekawa says that you can start to think now about undertaking some light duties, which he feels would be beneficial to you… he’s discussed that with you, I think.’
‘Yes sir,’ Commander Mikthorn felt himself blushing. Rangi had been prodding him gently to help out at the level civilian passengers were allowed to, with a little basic training. It was basic, too, far beneath even the lowest level of qualification of a competent ordinary star. For a Fleet officer to undertake such work would be demeaning, and it was little comfort to Commander Mikthorn to be told that no less a personage than Senator Terese Machet had worked as a galley-rigger while she was travelling with them. Commander Mikthorn had very few tatters of self-esteem remaining to him, and was not eager to relinquish the few he had left. Rangi, therefore, had said that he’d look into the possibility of finding some quiet office work which he might be able to do.
‘Good,’ Alex said again. ‘So, we’ve been considering possibilities, and I have two suggestions. One is that you might, if you wish, assist my Flag Adjutant, Mr Ross, with administrative duties. If you could help out for two or three hours a day, ideally after the mail arrives, that would certainly be helpful.’
‘Sir,’ Commander Mikthorn said, cautiously. Working as an assistant to a Sub-lt would be demeaning, too, though not as much so as fetching and carrying tea.
‘The other possibility,’ Alex said, ‘is that we ask you to help out with the lab.’ He smiled as the commander gave him a shocked look, then looked over at the young officer who was trying to both drink his coffee and pretend he didn’t have it. ‘Mr Travers?’
‘Ah.’ Kit put his coffee down on a grav-safe ring and turned to speak to the commander himself, his manner frank and friendly. ‘We do need help,’ he said. ‘As I’m sure you noticed, sir, the intensity of the work going on in the lab does mean that we’re often skating round the rim of a catastrophe curve as far as health and safety issues are concerned. I try, I really do, but we…’ his glance included the skipper, ‘realised long ago that my position with regard to enforcing health and safety regs has been compromised by the fact that I am also part of the research team. The skipper himself is the only one they take any notice of, so all I can do when things get to breaking point is call the skipper in for backup.’
Three weeks ago, Commander Mikthorn would have seized upon an admission like that with a cry of triumph. Now, he just looked incredulous, turning to look at Alex himself.
‘I have to go in there sometimes,’ said Alex, ‘and give, well, firm advice. They have a tendency to go without sleep for extended periods, which is my biggest concern – the tech in that lab is extremely high powered and it doesn’t make me
happy to know that the people operating it are often sleep deprived. They don’t eat properly, either.’
‘We do try,’ Kit said, with an earnest note. ‘We provide healthy meals at regular times and do everything we can to get them to eat, but if you can get them to the table at all they more often than not just gulp a few mouthfuls and head straight back to work. Usually,’ he added, feelingly, ‘taking the food with them, which is then abandoned half eaten wherever they put it down. Freefall safety is just not something on their mental radar – it’s a full time job for a rigger, in there, just keeping on top of it. And a thankless job, too – they yap like Chihuahuas when you tidy up their stuff, and if they put a half-eaten sandwich down they get highly indignant if they reach for it three hours later and find out that it’s gone. As for rest breaks and getting them to go to bed, lord, if I had a dollar for every time one of them has said, ‘in a minute’ to me over the last few months, I’d be thousands better off, that’s for sure.’
‘I have,’ said Alex, ‘twice had to resort to the ultimate sanction of threatening to turn off their lab tech if they don’t go and get some sleep.’
‘But…’ Commander Mikthorn had personal experience of how tight the Fourth was on enforcing workload regulations, and he’d seen the notorious Simon at work, too. ‘Surely… Professor Penarth…?’
Alex looked down at his desk. Kit looked up at the ceiling. There was a moment, then both of them started to grin, glanced at one another, and both burst out laughing.
‘Oh – sorry,’ Alex recovered quickly, though still with a broad grin on his face. ‘We’re not laughing at you,’ he assured him. ‘It’s just – well, evidently you’ve noticed how fiercely Simon enforces workload regulations, and a good thing too, we are indebted to him. So we did, yes, obviously, put him on the case when we saw that the research team was overdoing things so much that we felt they were working themselves into the ground. So, when an opportune moment arose, when five out of the eight of them were over-limit and Mr Travers was unable to persuade them to go to bed, we called in Simon, you know, the big guns, or as I have heard him referred to, Dr Doomsday. Anyway, in he went, and I for one confidently expected to hear, in very short order, that all the researchers were tucked up in their beds. That was at just after midnight. At four in the morning I went to see what was happening and discovered not only that they were all still up and working but that Simon was helping them.’ His grin broadened again at the memory. ‘I mean, Simon!’ he said. ‘And when I pointed out that he was supposed to be getting them to go to bed, he told me that they’re civilians so the workload regs are only guidelines for them.’
‘They won’t listen to Rangi at all,’ Kit observed, and with another little chuckle, ‘One time when he tried laying the law down with them, they told him he was being a little irritating, and would he please leave.’
‘So you see, we’ve had to cut them quite a lot of slack,’ Alex said, ‘and I only go in there when absolutely necessary, or they’d very soon stop listening to me, too.’
Commander Mikthorn gazed at the man widely regarded as the most frightening officer in Fleet service.
‘Um,’ he said, seeing that some kind of response was expected but finding that he could think of nothing more intelligent to say.
‘We’re not suggesting,’ Alex resumed, ‘that you could make them adhere to a regular routine – frankly, we recognise that that isn’t possible, not for anyone, and we do also have to accept that the kind of geniuses we have working in that lab don’t work well under a restrictive regime. If you could just do the project admin and get them to eat at least one proper meal every day, that’s the most that anyone could ask for.’
Commander Mikthorn felt himself reeling. After everything that had happened… to be asked to do the project admin for the very team which had precipitated the crisis in the first place…
‘Me?’ He heard the squeak in his voice and made an effort to drop it an octave. ‘Sir?’
‘Well, you know, you are a very efficient administrator,’ Alex observed. ‘Which is why the Second recruited you in the first place. There is, as they and we recognise, a need for some calm supervisory role over projects from people who don’t get all caught up in the excitement of it but keep a level head and ensure that things are being done as they should be. That’s why we have a liaison officer here, providing just that supervisory eye over the welfare of the lab team as well as keeping them safe aboard ship. With no disrespect to Mr Travers, that hasn’t worked as well this time as it usually does – as he said himself, his supervisory role has been compromised by the fact that he is also a member of the team. So an outsider, really, stands more chance of being listened to. And you – and I hope you will forgive me here for being rather blunt – you do have a couple of advantages there. The first is that they all, particularly Professor Parrot, very much regret the part that they played in breaking you down to the point of collapse. Professor Parrot feels very bad about returning your letter with just No written on it – he wants very much to apologise for that, and would have done so if Dr Tekawa hadn’t prevented it. But there it is, see, he and the rest of them are feeling bad about what happened to you, they feel very much that they owe you one, and that gives you, do you see, an advantage.’
‘Play that guilt for all it’s worth,’ Kit agreed.
Commander Mikthorn’s mouth fell open a little, and as he realised it, he closed it back up with a snap.
‘I know,’ Alex admitted, ‘not strictly according to the Fleet’s handbook on personnel management, but legitimate, I feel, in their own best interest. And you do have the other ace, too – I mean, honestly, who better to advise them on the dangers of overwork and over-investing than someone who is able to speak from your own experience?’
As he made sense of this, Commander Mikthorn understood that he was to embody a kind of Awful Warning, a living example of the consequence of stress getting out of control.
This was an outrageous request to make of any man, still less one still in convalescent rehab. To ask him to use that breakdown as pressure in advising the very team which had triggered it in the first place went beyond outrageous.
‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ said Alex. ‘But Dr Tekawa seemed to think you might be up for it.’
Two things suddenly became very clear to Commander Mikthorn. One was that this suggestion had been made by Rangi Tekawa himself. The other was why Rangi was not at this meeting.
‘Uh…’ Commander Mikthorn drew breath to say that it was an awful thing to ask him, totally out of order, upsetting, and that he would be having very strong words with Dr Tekawa to make his feelings clear on the matter. What came out, though, to his own surprise, was, ‘I’d need to think about it…’
Why the heck had he said that? Fleet training, he realised. When you were being put on the spot by a senior officer, you didn’t just say no, you asked for time to consider and then came back with a negative once you’d been able to frame it with a suitably courteous excuse.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Alex. ‘No rush – take as much time as you like. Discuss it with Mr Travers if you like, and if you want to, pop into the lab.’
Commander Mikthorn mumbled something appropriate, thanked the captain for his time and departed, stunned.
He’d got halfway down through the ship when he stopped, staring ahead of him with only the vaguest idea where he was. He’d been trying to make his mind up whether to go straight to sickbay now and tell Rangi Tekawa what he thought of him, or whether to go to the interdeck lounge and calm down first, preparing what he wanted to say before he went looking for the medic.
All at once, though, it was if some part of his brain opened up in a realisation that left him just standing there, overwhelmed by the discovery.
‘You all right there, Mr Mikthorn?’ A couple of passing techs stopped, looking at him with concern, one of them already putting a hand to his medipack.
‘What?’ He was startled back to awareness of his surro
undings. ‘Oh! Yes.’ He gave himself a little mental shake, and gave the two crew a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Thanks – I’m fine.’
‘If you’re sure…’ they were not entirely convinced, but let him go, looking after him as the commander turned about and started to walk resolutely back the way he had come.
He went straight to the lab, paused for just a moment outside the door, and then stepped inside.
It took a few seconds for anyone to notice him. They were all at work, most of them lost in their own little worlds and two of them having an incomprehensible argument. It was one of these who spotted the commander, staring at him for a moment as if he was the Ghost of Cabin Fifteen, then exclaiming in surprise.