Martine promptly opened the packet and handed them around the command deck. Alex took one, too, munching contentedly as he went back to reading files.
He was still there, shortly before one in the morning, when he finally got to read his personal mail. Most of the letters were from friends, but there was one from his parents, too, from Novaterre. It had their customary Both well tag, to assure him that the letter contained no bad news. They had also learned to send their mail both to the Fourth’s base at Therik and care of the Admiralty at Chartsey, as the Admiralty would forward mail to wherever they were on operations and that might well, as this letter had, reach them first.
It would, Alex felt sure, contain no news of any note whatsoever. His parents lived a very quiet, suburban life, and since they had tacitly agreed that they wouldn’t talk about ‘The Fourth’s thing’, their letters were almost always about the garden, the neighbours and news of purely domestic interest.
So, with all the important official mail dealt with and the ship settled down for the night, Alex opened his letter, anticipating a comfortable account of the tropical plants his parents were attempting to grow in their far from tropical garden, and perhaps of a trip they were considering going on the last time they’d written. They had a liking for gentle river cruises. It was entirely typical of them that, having seen a trip advertised to somewhere they wanted to go at a price they could easily afford, they would hesitate over it for months before finally making a decision. It was a constant source of wonder to them that they could have produced a son as adventurous as their Lex, and a frequent source of wonder to Alex himself, too. At one point, aged nine, he had sneakily carried out a DNA-based project for a science fair, just to test for sure that they really were his parents.
Today’s letter, however, was nothing like the usual domestic burble.
They had had a visitor. A Visitor, in fact, as they used coding which gave the word a capital letter and exclamation font.
The Visitor had been the League Ambassador to Novaterre, coming to see them at the personal request of the League President.
They called from the Embassy and said you were all right, no bad news about you or anything like that, but could one of their people come round to see us privately, and we were – well, you know, Lex, we’ve never had anything to do with an Embassy before so we were a bit flustered, but we hardly liked to say no, really, so of course we said that they could come and we arranged a time and then the next day a car pulled up – a nice car but not a limousine or anything. There were two of them in it, a lady in a smart blue suit and a young man carrying a briefcase. The lady was ever so nice – she introduced herself as Charli and was just so nice, friendly and ordinary, you know, only when she was indoors with us she told us she’s the LEAGUE AMBASSADOR! We should have known who she was, really, but you know we stopped watching the news. The young man called her Excellency and everything, and she showed us her official ID, but she just laughed and said please, call her Charli, so we did!!! She had a cup of tea, too, like anybody might, nothing grand about her at all.
But then she told us – Lex, she was asked to come and see us by the President!!! The League President. President Tyborne, on Chartsey. She told us that he sent her a letter asking her to come and see us and tell us, from him, how proud we should be of our son. She said he couldn’t write to us himself because everything about you is so classified, but he wanted us to know that if the truth could be told, he’d be inviting us to Chartsey to watch you being honoured with the Canelonian Cross and a full Fleet parade. That’s what she said, that the President says you should have the Canelonian Cross and a Fleet parade with fighters saluting you and everything. She said she couldn’t tell us why, that even people in the Fleet don’t really know what you’re doing, but you and your ship have done things that are tremendously important for the League. We knew that there was more to it than you could tell us, of course, and we’ve done our best to do as you asked and not taken any notice of what it says on the holly, but we had no idea that you were working for the PRESIDENT! Charli says you’re like a presidential troubleshooter, sent in to sort things out when other people can’t. We understand why she couldn’t tell us about it, and why you can’t talk about it, either. Lex, love, we have always known that the things they were saying about you weren’t true, and we believed you when you told us that what you are doing is important, but we just had no idea. You’ve always been a hero to us, but you’ve become so much more than we ever even dreamed you would be. We just could not be any more proud of you, Lex, just absolutely bursting with it. We know that you’re a tremendously important person now who knows the President and does things you won’t ever be able to tell us about, but to us you are always our son, our Lex, so clever and so brave and out there having adventures just like you said you would when you were a little boy. Please look after yourself too, Lex, love, eat properly and make sure you get enough sleep. We are thinking of you every day, sending you all our love. We have had a portrait made of the holo you sent with you in your captain’s uniform, and put it in the lounge. And know that we say goodnight to you every night, before we go to bed, and hope that you’ll be safe. So goodnight, Lex, and bless you, with all our love – Mum and Dad.
‘Everything all right, dear boy?’ Buzz asked, and it was only then that Alex realised he had been sitting stock still, staring at the letter for several minutes.
‘What? Oh!’ He looked up, and his stunned look changed into a beatific grin. ‘Yes,’ he said, and then added, in rare personal disclosure, ‘Wonderful. From my parents. They’ve had a visit from the Diplomatic Corps.’ A mischievous chuckle. ‘They’ve put my portrait – in captain’s rig - up in the lounge.’
Buzz laughed too, but very warmly. He understood the significance of that; well aware that Alex’s parents had been struggling to cope with his career in the Fleet even before his ship was moved onto Irregular service. They had a display cabinet in their dining room dedicated to pictures and souvenirs Alex had sent them from worlds around the League, but, significantly, the latest framed picture of him, in pride of place, was still the one taken at his graduation. For them to have moved into displaying an image of him in his captain’s uniform was a major step forward, and for that to be so prominently displayed in the lounge rather than relegated to the dining room spoke volumes as to how proud they were.
‘Oh, lovely,’ Buzz said, really delighted for him.
‘Isn’t it?’ Alex agreed, and for the first time felt a genuine sense of gratitude and even liking for President Tyborne. Of course it was a trivial thing for him to tell an aide to dash off a note to the Novaterran Ambassador, but he had taken the trouble to do that, knowing that it was something he could do for Alex. And it was something Alex valued far more highly, too, than any parade or medal. He would treasure this letter, always.
He read it again, then, just to be absolutely sure that it was for real, then started to write back to them, telling him how proud he was of them, too, for all their support both through his childhood and through these years when they hadn’t been able to understand what he was doing but had stood by him anyway, never a word of complaint at the awful things that were said on the news about him.
There was, of course, lockdown security around them, though Alex had arranged it so that they would barely be aware of it. They had signed the papers enabling the Fleet to take out Protection of Privacy Orders on their behalf, and they had agreed, too, to having a number installed on their comms which they could call for help at any time. They were, however, unaware of the Defence of the League Act injunctions which had been taken out, protecting their identities and keeping the media at a very firm distance. They were unaware, too, that the local counter-terrorism units had them on a high-risk list and under round the clock protection. As far as they were concerned they were able to go about their normal lives, unrestricted and unafraid, and that, Alex felt, was just how it should be.
He had finished writing to them and had responded i
n a rather lighter vein to letters from friends, before the Customs ship came into orbit.
It was quite something to see. Customs had been persuaded to buy several of the Seabird-37 frigates which the Fleet had laid up in reserve, having seen how effectively the Fourth had used theirs in operations at Karadon. Previously to that, they had only had the use of patrol ships – fast, to be sure, but with nothing like the patrol range, resources or firepower needed for major operations.
Customs had, by now, stationed most of their Seabirds at ISiS, using them as a base from which they patrolled nearby shipping lanes. So it was, for the Fourth, like watching a sister ship come into port.
A strangely distorted sister ship, though. The Customs and Excise vessel carried no fighters, of course, and had none of the field-trials upgrades like the Heron’s actinic comms arrays or pyramid-concealed cannon. It didn’t even have the upgrades other Seabird-37s still in Fleet service had had by now, so it looked oddly old fashioned. The paintwork looked very different, too, in the Customs cream and red. Where the Fleet emblem and the name Cormorant had been proudly displayed was now the Customs and Excise coat of arms and the identification DSPV-06. Customs did not name their ships, and the frigates had been re-registered as Deep Space Patrol Vessels.
As the ship came into orbit, it could be seen that it was towing a yacht. This was instantly recognisable as the kind of yacht favoured by the diving fraternity – originally quite a decent eight-berth ship capable of making intersystem journeys comfortably, it had been customised almost beyond recognition. The owners had managed to get hold of corvette manoeuvring thrusters which stuck out from the hull like grotesque thorns. They had outsized, powerful scanners, too, and four large cannon mounted on the hull. There was no law against any ship arming itself for self-defence, and even starseekers had the kind of automatic pop-guns which could take out small debris to prevent a collision. As any spacer would see at once, though, these cannon were intended for blasting through comet clouds and debris within wild systems.
System diving was considered the ultimate adrenalin sport by those who took part in it. There was an elite status to it since you had to be wealthy in order to afford such a yacht, and there was huge pride in getting your name on a previously un-dived route. The fact that there was a high probability of your ship being destroyed every time you dove through a wild system at high superlight speeds was what gave the adventure its thrill, so warning participants about the dangers only tended to make them cheer.
If this ship had been diving, it was clear they had been very lucky. Three pieces of their ridiculously oversized hull tech had been ripped away, the hull itself was scored and dented and one of the outer airlock doors was missing altogether. It was clearly powered down, and one look at it would tell any spacer that it was an insurance write-off. The hull tech could be replaced, but the tell-tale splintering pattern around the missing airlock showed that the hull structure had taken such a wrench that the airlock had exploded off its hinges.
If the Fourth had carried out that rescue they would have disposed of that yacht at once, taking it out of shipping lanes and reducing it to tachyons with a well-placed missile. And not merely because it was more convenient, or even because it was fun, but because putting a yacht under tow like that meant that the towing ship could only proceed slowly, themselves. The Customs ship could have been here eighteen hours ago if they’d ditched the yacht. In their place, knowing they were expected there for an operational rendezvous, Alex would not have thought twice.
Clearly, though, Customs had different priorities. And something of an attitude, too. As they came into orbit they flicked a punctilious salute to the Fourth’s ships, which was promptly returned, but in the next moment their skipper was signalling a request for Captain von Strada to go aboard the DSPV-06 at his earliest convenience.
‘Cheek!’ said Buzz, with an indignation that was very unusual for him. He was usually the most placid of men, but this insult made him look quite cross. ‘Shall I explain the protocol?’ he asked Alex. ‘Or will you?’
Alex grinned. He understood very well why Buzz was so annoyed. One of the many deep rooted historical issues between the Fleet and Customs was a mismatch between the way they ordered ranks. Customs called even the most junior skipper of one of their little patrol ships a captain and were of the view that this made them the equivalent of Fleet captains, though captain was a flag rank in the Fleet and held only by officers who commanded carriers, squadrons or other high-command responsibilities. Since they had acquired the Seabirds, they had given their frigate skippers the title of Senior Captain, and it appeared that this particular Senior Captain was attempting to assert seniority over Alex by telling him to come aboard his ship for a meeting.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Alex said, having a shrewd suspicion himself of what was really going on with that. ‘Let’s not start with bickering over etiquette – my dignity can stand it, I believe. And besides,’ he admitted, ‘I’m curious.’
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ Buzz conceded, looking at the Seabird with a mix of interest and dismay, himself. ‘Poor old Cormorant,’ he said, since he had served aboard that ship himself more than three decades ago.
‘It’s getting a new lease of life,’ Alex reminded him. ‘Better than mouldering away in the Reserve.’
Buzz looked unconvinced, but said no more. Alex sent a message to say that he would go aboard the Customs ship in half an hour. That, he felt, was both dignified and considerate, giving the other ship time to deal with the formalities of coming into orbit with survivors and a wrecked yacht.
And time to deal with the media, too. It was quite strange for the Fourth to see another ship being the target of the media barrage for once, no cameras pointing in their direction as the media shuttles jostled for the best camera angles and the Customs ship was blitzed by signals from the media pack at the station.
Within moments, they had released an obviously prepared statement. The yacht was the Billy Bob, registered at Telathor. It had been damaged attempting a system dive route known as Angels’ Weave, more than three weeks ago. It had taken them nearly two weeks to reach the shipping route where they had found another ship and asked for help. The freighter Dominica had taken the yacht under tow and taken all six passengers aboard, providing what medical assistance they could. A passing courier had brought the news to ISiS Kavenko so the DSPV-06 had responded. They had taken the Billy Bob under tow themselves and transferred the passengers to their own sickbay for medical treatment. The divers had only been able to maintain the atmosphere aboard the Billy Bob at minimal pressure, and had lost their water tank, too. They were all suffering from pressure-related conditions and dehydration, though all had been stabilised and were expected to survive.
They were transferred at once to the hospital aboard the Kavenko, an ambulance shuttle making four trips to carry them across, each trip pursued by the media while their researchers found out everything they could about the people on board.
By the time Alex went over to the Customs ship the story was in full blaze, with the media pack clamouring around the hospital and nobody, just for a while, taking any notice of the Fourth.
Alex was not alone as he boarded the other ship. Yula had raised no objection to his going there but she had reminded him to follow the new security procedures. That meant that a fighter-trained pilot had to take him across and remain aboard the shuttle, ready to make a high-speed withdrawal if there were any problems, and Alex must also be accompanied by an armed escort.
For this occasion, the pilot was the leading star who was on call anyway and already held a fighter pilot licence. The armed escort was one of their supernumerary Subs on-call for boarding operations that watch. Sub-lt Field was a solid, fierce young woman, incensed, herself, over the impudence of Customs in summoning their captain. She was very much on the watch for further slights, even if there was no real likelihood of needing to protect the skipper from physical attack.
Further insult w
as indeed delivered as they were admitted through the airlock. Since Alex was a flag rank officer they should by rights have been greeted by the skipper personally, or if for some operational reason that was impossible, then by the Exec. Not, as here, by the Lt who was deck officer of the watch.
Sub-lt Field scowled ferociously when she saw the nervous Lt, drawing her dark eyebrows together and pinching her lips into a thin, sharp line.
The Lt glanced from Captain von Strada to her and back again, and swallowed. Customs had been recruiting a lot of people to crew these new ships, many of them ex-Fleet, and just the way the Lt was standing made it clear that he was ex-Fleet himself, and having to force himself not to give a Fleet salute. Customs had decided long ago that while they would have ranks aboard their ships, it was not in keeping with their fundamentally civilian organisation to salute one another, or other services.
Just to make things even worse, a security alert was flashing at the airlock, wall panels flashing red and a computer voice intoning ‘Weapons detected – Alert – Weapons detected – Alert…’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the officer managed to over-ride the alert, after some increasingly frantic poking at a control panel on his side of the airlock, and looked mortified. ‘Do, please – welcome aboard. Sir. If you would please come this way, Captain Durannon is waiting to meet you.’
He led them the few metres from the airlock onto the command deck, though they had to wait for several seconds before the hatch was opened up. This hatch on the Heron always stood open unless the ship was on alert, but Customs apparently kept it closed.
As they stepped through onto the command deck, Alex saw at once that the old command console was still in place. It perched a metre higher than the cramped datatable below it. Practically every station was on a different level, come to that, as the designers had felt this gave the command deck an exciting dynamic, particularly when coupled with the chunky, angular style of the consoles.
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