by S MacDonald
President Tyborne had not been impressed. He had accepted Alex’s own assertion that the blast of comms which had stripped out their own comms and hullside scanners had not been intended as an attack, that it had been at most defensive and most probably an inadvertent outcome of incompatible technologies. The LIA had a role to play, to be sure, in ensuring that a newly discovered world did not present any threat to League security, but that did not entitle them to scream ‘the sky is falling!’ any time they saw something that they didn’t understand. President Tyborne had been forthright in expressing his views of the correct position for the LIA in the unfolding mission, and it was very definitely a step back from the front line, monitoring events with a calm and impersonal eye. Director Arnthony was to make that clear to every member of the LIA on scene, and he was to offer his apologies, too, for any nuisance that their over-zealous interference might have caused.
Director Arnthony had had to swallow that, and had laboured many hours over his apology, adjusting it in the light of news which was passed to them by couriers on their way to Chartsey. The day when he’d discovered that the Heron had fired on the shuttle and threatened to seize the Comrade Foretold and put everyone aboard it under arrest had been one of the toughest days of his life. It sat on him like gall and wormwood that he was going to have to apologise for that, when what he actually wanted to do was grab von Strada by the throat. Being cut off as he embarked on the ordeal of his apology and having to sit there listening to von Strada chatting about some harvest and people having sex, well, it hadn’t made him happy.
‘Sorry about that,’ Alex said, returning to his own stiff manner as he turned back to the LIA Director, ‘Arak is the de facto head of state and his calls carry maximum priority.’
Director Arnthony could not object to that in principle, although his lip did curl slightly at the notion of describing that shabby little primitive as any kind of head of state.
‘Indeed,’ he said, with a glacial edge, and with that embarked upon his apology again, this time with a glare so ferociously determined that it was clear that if Alex did not hear him out this time and accept the apology pronto then there was going to be Trouble with a capital T.
‘It has been particularised,’ he snarled, ‘by executive authority…’
The apology was made, even if much of it was incomprehensibly jargonistic and uttered in a tone more appropriate for the declaration of hostilities. It was duly accepted, too, with equally insincere assurance that no offence had been taken. Then they shook hands with firm professionalism and mutual loathing, and parted on that basis.
The following day, the biggest issue on Arak’s Island was nothing to do with the Embassy at all, or even the Heron. A major decision had to be taken, one of importance to the community, and one of far more moment than what might be going on up beyond the sky.
The decision concerned a lad called Junit, who wanted to go with the others to the cotton harvest. He had gone on a couple of visits to neighbouring islands, itself a mark of growing up, the first time in company with his parents, and the second with the elders on the other island keeping an eye on him. It was a big step from that to being allowed to go off with the other young people to unsupervised and distinctly adult fun.
It was a serious decision, and seriously considered. The elders met in the space before the singing stone, the centre of their village, with Junit and his family, with anyone who had nothing more important to do gathered around as interested observers. The meeting was a formal one, Carrearranian style, with the passing around of a community cup and a communal chanting of the Rules of Life. This, in their culture, held much the same significance as singing the anthem did on League worlds, marking the occasion as significant. This done, though, they continued in just the same chatty conversational manner as always, often talking across one another or odd conversations going on at the same time.
For those accustomed to following Carrearranian conversation, though, there was a discernible structure. First Junit himself was allowed to ask the elders for permission to go on the harvest and to make his own case about being grown up enough, strong and sensible and trustworthy. Then Junit’s family, including parents, uncles and aunts and even older siblings, had to give their view that he was ready to go harvesting and that he would behave in a way which would do credit to the village. At various points in the discussion each of the elders was asked to give their opinion from their various fields of expertise, too. The healer was asked if Junit knew how to look after himself and others, to which he said yes, with some rambling anecdote of how Junit had helped another child who’d cut his foot on a shell. The educator was asked if Junit knew how to keep himself safe and how to behave, to which there was a rather longer discussion about an incident in which he’d jumped off a rock into the lagoon, which children were told not to do as it was considered too shallow there for diving. There was also long discussion, involving his family, on Junit’s tendency to get sulky when he didn’t get his own way. These Junit himself was evidently obliged to listen to without saying anything – at any rate he sat there, rigid and dark with embarrassment, as his parents said that they really didn’t want to have to live with how moody he’d be if he wasn’t allowed to go. Possible alternatives, including sending him on a visit to a cousin who’d settled on another island, were also debated. Further on, the village midwife confirmed that Junit knew about sex and could be trusted not to grow any wild babies, and at that Junit’s head dropped down so that he could stare at the ground with the expression of an adolescent willing it to open up and swallow him. Still, though, there was no protest from Junit, and no move to jump up and storm away in a pubescent tantrum. If he did either, the elders would immediately conclude that he was not yet mature enough to go on the trip. So he sat still and kept quiet.
It was, apparently, worth it. Once all the elders had had their say it was concluded that, with some reservations about how sulky he could be, they were satisfied that he was grown up enough to go on the trip. Decision made, permission granted, the boy who’d sat down with them stood up as a man, acknowledged as having adult rights in his society. There were celebrations in the village to mark the occasion – singing, lots of singing, lots of food and some of the sour fermented fruit juice that did service as wine, gifts of new clothing from his family, a general slapping of him on the back and some giggling and teasing from the girls. Junit was a man, now, and fair game for flirting with.
‘I can’t help having mixed feelings, though,’ Tan admitted, when he and Alex were talking about that on the command deck. ‘I mean yes, of course, full respect for cultural sovereignty and with physiological differences taken into consideration, too, I do understand that he has passed through the major stages of puberty and is physically mature. I respect, too, that there are flaws in a system which draws a purely age-based line across definitions of child and adult, and there is something to be said for including considerations of physical and emotional maturity. I can see, too, that great care went into this as a community decision, I’ve no argument with any of that. But all the same I can’t help feeling a little uneasy… he’s barely thirteen, after all, in League Standard years. On a League world, no question, it would be child abuse.’
Alex said nothing, just looked at him sideways. He could feel Tan handing him back that ticking bomb, putting it firmly back into his hands and giving it a prod for good measure. It was no coincidence that Tan Ganhauser had just made a public on-record statement that he considered that the Carrearranians were not protecting their children from exposure to sexual activity before they were of an age to make such decisions for themselves.
Alex himself remembered how much he’d resented that ‘age of adulthood’ law, himself, as an adolescent. League Standard years actually meant Chartsey years, with the date of your birth and your age for legal purposes being calculated according to the Chartsey calendar.
This, however, was never compatible with the natural calendar of any other world. On Novaterr
e the year was shorter than the Chartseyan. Every year, Alex had had his birthday celebrated by Novaterran years, the time and calendar by which the planet operated. By local time, he had been seventeen and three quarters before he’d reached the date at which he officially became fourteen in Chartsey years. Only then had he been able to leave high school, drive a car or do any of the things restricted to adults only. People from other worlds whose years were much longer than Chartsey’s might reach legal adulthood when their local age was only twelve. It had seemed to Alex quite an arbitrary and a very definitely Chartsey-centric line, imposing a standardisation across so many different worlds, genomes and cultures. But there had been no arguing about it then, and wasn’t now. Even attempting to make a case for local determination of the age of adulthood and of consent gave rise to the darkest suspicions about your motives. And where the protection of kids was concerned, Alex himself was more ferocious than most.
Tan knew that very well, of course, and was playing on it deliberately, pushing a button which he knew Alex could then use to justify an occupation of Carrearranis. Institutionalised child abuse could certainly be used for that purpose, if Alex chose to regard what had just happened there as a child’s family and the Carrearranian authorities condoning and encouraging him to have sex before he was of the legal age of consent. Tan also knew that Alex did not see it that way, and could indeed have made a case that those rules did not apply here as Carrearranis was not a League world, and that what had just happened there had seemed very caring and responsible to him.
Alex, though, said nothing, at which Tan smiled gently.
‘Just a thought,’ he said, and knew he was winning when Alex gave a very guarded Hmmn.
Tan was clever enough not to push it, though, changing the topic to the delivery of the comms Alex had asked for. The Embassy had been making them to the Fourth’s specifications as they made their way from Telathor. Alex had asked that they make as many as they could, with thirty thousand as a minimum. The Embassy team were keen to demonstrate their superior capacity by sending over a crate which contained the hundred and twenty thousand comms which had been the upper limit on the wish list.
Alex knew that due appreciation was required, and gave it obligingly, expressing amazement at how quickly and efficiently the Embassy could handle such manufacturing tasks in comparison with the Heron. Tan accepted his compliments on their behalf, reiterating that everything on the Embassy II was the Envoy’s to command.
‘And we won’t,’ Tan promised, with a little twinkle, ‘burden you with hospitality, knowing how busy you are with the mission. Just…’ he held his thumb and forefinger slightly apart, indicating that this was a very small exception, ‘one hour tomorrow, for the holo and reception.’
It seemed like an extraordinarily long hour to Alex von Strada. The holo which Tan had referred to was the official one required when any ambassador took up residence in a new embassy. It was being required now even though Alex was not going to take up any kind of residence aboard the Diplomatic Corps ship and would have almost no involvement with them day to day, either. He was the Envoy, and the Diplomatic Corps wanted their holo. Aware that they had already done considerable damage to their feelings by agreeing not to host dinners or full dress receptions in his honour, Alex had conceded that it was the least he could do, to let them take their holo and shake hands with the senior people.
Just having the holo taken, though, turned out to involve a great deal more fuss than anticipated. He was welcomed aboard the ship to a full honour guard, for a start, and with a lot of people there waiting to be introduced. Then he was ushered off with quiet deference to the Ambassador’s Suite, now the Envoy’s Suite in recognition of his superior status. It woke memories of being in the identical office on the Embassy III, with the Ambassador there telling him what he should have done in his handling of first contact with the Gider. This time, though, he was not sitting in a visitor’s chair to be lectured, but was shown to the big chair itself. Here, with at least thirty people in the room and looking on, a hairdresser and makeup artist were fluttered forward.
‘Just perhaps a little touch to deal with the…’
The words ‘slight shadows under your Excellency’s eyes’ were not uttered, as those eyes met those of the makeup artist’s and the artist broke off and backed away hastily. The hairdresser said nothing. He had a keener instinct for the captain’s reaction to any offer of gloss, wax, or dealing with that single grey hair visible over his left ear.
Alex had agreed, reluctantly, to being addressed as ‘Your Excellency’ while aboard the embassy ship. Insisting on ‘captain’ or ‘sir’, he had gathered, would throw everyone into a bustle and undermine the whole foundation and hierarchy of the Diplomatic Corps. ‘Be kind,’ Tan had asked, and advised, ‘Just grit your teeth for an hour.’
Alex gritted his teeth as he was posed for the official holo – actually posed, with the official holographer telling him how to sit and flitting forward to adjust the angle of his hand on the surface of the desk. Alex had had many official holos taken through his Fleet career, as the Fleet required them any time you joined a new ship or had a promotion. Such holos, however, were nothing like this, consisting only of ensuring that you had the right ID on and standing to attention for a moment while the holocamera flashed to get a true-light image. He had been filmed by hordes of media over the last few years, too, but none of them had ever asked that he drop his left shoulder just a fraction, please, and turn his head ever so slightly to the right. He felt like a puppet. And it wasn’t over, even when the holographer had finished snapping off shot after shot with Alex sitting like a dummy at the desk. Now, it seemed, they had to have the official group shot too, with all the attachés in their correct positions gathered around him. It seemed to take an age to get them all into positions and poses which satisfied the holographer, and then again there was the long, long interval of snaps and adjustments and more snaps until the holographer was entirely satisfied. Alex was surprised to see, when he glanced at his watch, that the holo-taking had only taken just under ten minutes. He would have sworn it was more like half an hour.
But if that was bad, it was nothing to the slow torment of the reception. It was defined by Diplomatic Corps protocols as an informal reception, meaning that Alex himself wore groundside rig rather than dress uniform, and those he was meeting were in business suits rather than the official Diplomatic Corps tuxedos. Even so, it was a more than grand enough event for Alex. It was held in a reception room with the traditional embassy mirrored wall and ornate flower arrangements on stands, with white-jacketed stewards gliding about. There were about two hundred people waiting there to be introduced to him, too. There were eighteen attaches on the ship, all of whom had been at the airlock to meet him. Between them they had sixty eight assistant attaches, each of whom had at least one intern and all of whom were waiting to be introduced in the reception venue, along with the ship’s captain and senior officers. The only person in all of that Alex was genuinely pleased to shake hands with was the captain of the Embassy, an old aquaintance.
There was, however, very little opportunity to talk to him. It was understood that this was an opportunity for His Excellency to meet his diplomatic staff, not to chit-chat with the Fleet contingent who were regarded as hardly more than taxi-drivers, getting the ship where they wanted it and keeping it running so they could get on with their work.
Alex, therefore, shook hands and smiled, shook hands and smiled, and kept on doing it to the seemingly endless procession of attaches and assistant attaches paraded in front of him. After that he greeted interns in batches – they were the most junior of those considered to be actual members of the Diplomatic Corps and not merely employees, as they had sworn an oath of service and were entitled to wear the official regalia. They were not, however, of a status to shake hands with His Excellency so were named in groups and bowed their heads to him in a courtesy the Diplomatic Corps referred to informally as ‘the doff’.
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sp; Alex returned it with the tiny inclination of his head that he’d been taught during a crash-course in Diplomatic etiquette. It was, he reminded himself, nothing more than the Corps equivalent of returning salutes from cadets, and the fact that it made him feel silly did not mean that the custom itself was silly, just that it wasn’t the etiquette with which he himself had been trained.
He got through it, therefore, giving himself stern reminders to behave as was appropriate for His Excellency the Presidential Envoy, but all the same it was a slow torment and he felt he’d been at it for at least three hours before they released him with another ceremonial send-off at the airlock.
‘Well done, dear boy,’ said Buzz, handing him a mug of coffee and a doughnut as he came back through the frigate’s airlock.
‘Thanks,’ said Alex, feeling that he’d earned it, and relaxed into a happy smile at the sounds and scents of his own ship. ‘Glad that’s over,’ he admitted, and went off to his cabin to shower and change, munching on the doughnut as he went.