There was a certain irony to that – the Fourth did have far more than their fair share of the kind of space-lawyers who’d kick up like stink over officers trying to deprive them of their entitlement to shoreleave. It was quite normal in the Fleet, too, to regard attendance at such things as groundside parades as tedious chores – so much so that the Exec traditionally asked for volunteers. In the Fourth, Buzz often had to exercise considerable charm to get people to volunteer for such events.
Here, though, everyone recognised the overwhelming, impossible scale of the demand for Fourth’s people to attend things, and they were pitching in with wholehearted effort. It was, anyway, almost as much fun and sometimes even more fun to go to PR events as it was to go on shoreleave. That had rarity value too, as PR events were very rarely fun for the Fleet and certainly not for the Fourth. At Telathor, they really were enjoyable. Volunteers were allowed to pick up whatever invitations they wanted from the thousands on offer every day, and there was always something – a charity they wanted to support or an activity that chimed with their personal interests. So for nineteen hours a day, members of the Fourth might be found anywhere around the planet, engaging in a whole host of activities – giving talks at schools was popular, as was taking part in charity fundraising, but they also attended sports events, art exhibits, concerts and the like, in uniform, as official guests of honour. Basically, anybody organising anything at all on Telathor while the Fourth was in port would invite them to attend it, both because they wanted to make them welcome and, admittedly, because the presence of even a couple of ratings at your event would immediately give it cachet and get it on the local news.
They really could not have been working any harder to fulfil the brief of their courtesy visit. And it was all going remarkably well, too, other than for the few exodiplomacy hiccups with Silvie.
And then, on the twenty third day of their visit, everything changed.
Eleven
Alex was on his way to a drinks reception. He had just come from a dinner, and after the reception would be attending a parade. This would be an eight minute journey in the car, so Jun Desmoulin had slotted himself in for catch-up time with the captain.
Alex did not know what he’d have done without Jun and the other members of the Diplomatic Corps team. It had been an excellent idea to slip them aboard the ship at Kavenko. By the time they reached Telathor they had embedded themselves so thoroughly that they were treated – and trusted – as if they were members of the crew. Jun had succeeded in getting on easy terms with Alex, too, and when the need arose, had slipped into the role of adjutant as naturally as if he’d been doing it for years. He’d taken over fielding calls and negotiating Alex’s schedule, with the invaluable help of Marsh Eglantine and Petra working in the background.
This, a brief but vital meeting, was for Jun to bring Alex up to speed on things he needed to know and get his signature on documents which neither he nor Buzz could sign on his behalf. Alex was reading and signing things as he listened, with no attention to spare for what was happening outside the limo. He didn’t even look up as they came into land, just felt the change in engine sound and signed the last couple of documents as quickly as he could.
Then he looked at Yula. He wasn’t allowed to get out of the car until she gave the all clear, as she was liaising with the security teams on scene.
She gave him a patient look and tapped a finger at her own neck. Alex gave her a patient look in return and slipped a finger inside his collar, bringing the head-guard up to maximum setting. This was a ritual they went through several times a day, part of their routine for stepping out in public.
That accomplished, and Yula being given the all clear by the groundside teams, they got out of the car together, leaving Jun inside.
Yula was accompanying him for this because it was a social event to which it was appropriate for him to bring a civilian partner. She was looking chic in a black and green evening outfit which complemented his dress uniform. She was elegantly groomed and her social skills were flawless. If they had been attending the reception as a couple, Alex would have very much enjoyed going out with her.
As it was, he knew that the earrings she was wearing contained a comm by which her team was keeping her informed, and he knew, too, that the graceful folds of her evening wear concealed a handgun in a rapid release holster. And she, too, was wearing full body shielding. She might look as if she had nothing more on her mind than smiling pleasantly for the crowds and cameras, but she was in fact keenly alert.
The car had brought them to the city of Jemale, capital of the national region Ronus. The reception was being held at one of the city’s historic sites – a great sunken amphitheatre which was said to be the oldest parliament on the planet and still in use for Senate meetings today. They had come down to a landing pad close to a path which made its way down in shallow steps combined with a water feature. A stream bubbled merrily in a snaking route down the path. The path was tree shaded, with the usual riot of flowers and shrubs either side. There were other more elevated paths nearby, though, from which people could see those walking from the landing pad to the venue – the Telathoran equivalent of a red carpet entrance, this, with a crowd of onlookers and a blitz of media. There was the usual reception, too, with busy, excited hosts introducing him to a lot of people in rapid succession. He was given the inevitable red flower and invited to walk down to the venue. The rest of the welcoming party formed a kind of impromptu parade in their wake, beaming at the cheering crowd.
Alex had taken five steps down the path and was looking to step over the stream when several things happened simultaneously.
Something exploded right in front of his face. He felt the blast of air and an odd sucking sensation as if his head had been momentarily exposed to vacuum. There was a deafening buzz, too, and he felt as if a giant hand had just given him a shove backwards. In the same moment he was aware of Yula kicking his legs out from under him and shoving him down at the ground. Before he could begin to wonder why she would be doing that he found that she was on top of him, pinning him down with a knee rammed into his gut. In the same heartbeat he felt her flinch and heard her give a quick, involuntary grunt of pain. Then there was screaming – a great deal of screaming, with people around running or diving for cover, the crowd’s cheers turning to screams of horror. Yula, though, was talking through her headset, giving urgent commands, and while Alex was still trying to gasp for the breath that had been knocked out of him by Yula’s knee and his impact with the pavement, an even more overwhelming noise drowned out the frantic screaming.
Alex just had time to recognise it as the sound of a swarm fighter carrying out a slam-deceleration. The air itself seemed to be ripped asunder, with a thunderclap and blast of hot air which had people throwing themselves on the ground with their arms protecting their heads. Then he felt himself being hauled up. He tried to get his feet under him to stand up but they were already off the ground. He was falling again – no, being thrown, he realised. There was an open hatchway right in front of him and hands already reaching out to grab him as he was hurled towards it. He was still fighting to breathe. He couldn’t breathe through his nose at all; it felt as if it was running and he could taste blood. There was a white hot pain in his midriff, too. Whooping for air was as agonising as it was essential. He was quite incapable of independent movement or speech.
He heard the hatch slam behind him as he was caught and dragged through it, and there was a whoosh of accelerating engines. A brief dispute held above him as to whether he’d be better in a chair or on the deck was won by someone with a firm voice ordering that he be put in the recovery position.
Alex wanted to protest, to tell them that he was in no need whatsoever of being put into any position and only wanted to be helped up so he could sit in a chair, but words were impossible and his feeble effort to stand up was overcome by skilled hands rolling him onto his side and moving his arms and legs. Some kind of spray was squirted up his nose and his
face was gently wiped as he continued to gasp. At the same time, orders were given about oxygen and pain relief and a mask was held to his face as soon as the wipe was removed.
Alex dragged another breath into his pounding lungs. He did not need, at least, to ask where he was. This was a Fourth’s fighter – Bluebottle, he knew, had been on standby in geostationary orbit above the north pole. This was something which Yula had arranged with the Telathorans that one of their own fighters would always be on standby there in case an emergency extraction was needed. So, he realised, he was aboard Bluebottle, gasping on the deck with the boarding team crouching around him and Sub-lt Field speaking to him with slow emphasis.
‘Don’t try to get up, skipper. Just get your breath. I don’t think you’re hurt – just winded.’
Alex would have liked to tell her that there was no ‘just’ about it. He was still fighting against an instinct to fold himself up into a tight ball, forcing himself to keep breathing as steadily as he could. Had he been shot in the stomach? No. He could remember, now, the feeling of Yula’s knee driving into his belly as she threw him to the ground and hurled herself on top of him. He could remember the way her body had jerked, too, and the grunt and gasp of pain.
Then he remembered and realised what the thing had been which had seemed to go off like a firework right in his face. His head still felt weird, as if the flesh had somehow been shaken loose from the bone. There was a buzzing in his ears, too, the sounds around him a little muffled and oddly remote.
He had been shot. The impact had been that of a shot which had hit the head-guard generated by his dress uniform collar. He didn’t know whether it was a percussive bullet or a laser charge, but he did know that it had hit just centimetres from his face and that without that guard forcefield he would probably be dead.
Gulping down against an impulse to vomit, he whooped to get more air into him and found that the agony in his midriff was becoming bearable.
‘Yula,’ he gasped, the moment he was capable of any speech at all. All he could think about was that moment when her body had jerked as if something had hit her. She’d been shot too, he knew it. And she wasn’t here.
Sub-lt Field didn’t understand. ‘Don’t worry, skipper,’ she soothed. ‘Everything’s under control.’
‘Yula.’ Alex managed again, and tried to convey all that he wanted to say with a look at the Sub-lt. ‘Shot.’ He choked out, and after another whoop of air, ‘Go back.’
‘It’s all right, skipper,’ The Sub assured him, still not understanding what the captain was trying to say. ‘We’re taking you back to the Heron,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be there in two minutes, all right?’
‘No!’ With an effort of will overcoming the weakness and pain of his body, Alex shifted the arm beneath him so that he could lever up onto his elbow. ‘Chair!’ he insisted, feeling that Sub-lt Field was not going to listen to him while he was still flat on the deck, gasping and incoherent.
At least they didn’t try to force him to stay down – a word from behind him told the Sub that it was better not to argue, so they helped him up and supported him into a chair.
Yes, definitely Bluebottle, he saw, spotting their emblem on the wall opposite the airlock. There were rows of seats here, almost like a shuttle bus other than for the fact that the seats were big enough to accommodate people in combat suits and each had a clip to hold their rifles. He had been seated in the front row of chairs, the boarding party clustered around him in concern while Sub-lt Field took the seat next to him. Up ahead, he could see the pilot, busy at controls and talking through his headset.
‘Yula… was shot,’ he told the Sub, and gestured as emphatically as he could, pointing downwards. ‘Go … back for … her.’
‘I’m sorry, skipper, but my orders are to get you back to the ship.’ Sub-lt Field said, and there was no apology in her voice.
Alex understood that. He’d been security trained too, and knew that it was vital to get the target out of an attack like that as quickly as possible, not just for their own safety but because taking them out of the equation reduced the chance of further shots and freed up the security services to concentrate on locating and stopping the sniper. All his own instincts were to dash back there and take control himself, to safeguard the civilians who’d been caught up in the attack. But even if he’d been in a physical condition to do so he knew that the best thing he could do for everyone right now was to stay out of it and let security do their job. As it was, he knew, realistically, that he could not even stand up unsupported, let alone take control of the chaos groundside. He also knew, though, that Yula was also a casualty – on that basis she should have scrambled into the fighter with him. And knowing Yula as he did, he suspected that she wasn’t even letting on to her people that she had been hurt.
So, though Sub-lt Field was quite right to be following procedure, even to the extent of being prepared to override the captain as a casualty under medical authority, Alex knew she did not understand the full situation. And he had neither the time, nor the breath, to explain it to her.
So he looked at the pilot instead. Good, he thought. If anyone would obey his orders without argument, it would be Jace Higgs.
‘Mr Higgs,’ he said, and forced his voice to pitch at the pilot, though it was a poor rasping shadow of his normal authoritative tone. ‘Go back – now.’
Jace glanced over his shoulder. He was pale and tense, but he gave the captain the same indomitable grin with which he’d faced pirates flinging cargo containers at him, alien encounters and mobs howling abuse.
‘Sorry, skipper,’ he said. Alex gave him a look which tried to command, though scarlet faced and still breathless, and Jace gave him a quick look of rather embarrassed sympathy, muttering something incomprehensible about it being more than Jonny was worth. Then he gave all his attention back to piloting, with a certain air of stiff-necked determination. Later, Alex would discover that Yula herself had told all the pilots undertaking this duty that if they were evacuating the captain and he tried to order them back, they should make that decision taking into account the fact that she would personally remove their reproductive organs with her bare hands if they brought him back into danger.
‘Yula is fine, sir.’ Sub-lt Field had finally caught on to what the skipper was so agitated about, and touched her headset to indicate that she was receiving reports from groundside. ‘Bruised, but all right.’
‘Sure?’ Alex asked, and seeing the confirmation on the young officer’s face, caught another breath, ‘Others?’
‘No other casualties, sir,’ the Sub assured him. It would turn out later that there had been some minor injuries amongst the crowd, mostly bumps and grazes, a sprained ankle and someone who’d taken an elbow to the nose. But what Alex wanted to know was if anyone else had been shot, and all he needed to be told was that they hadn’t. ‘There were only two shots – the area is being evacuated.’ Anticipating the captain’s next question, she told him, ‘Silvie and Shion are safe, they’re at the embassy.’
It had been less than two minutes since the shots had been fired, so it was too soon, Alex knew, to be asking more questions. Still, they surged in his mind. Someone had shot at him. Someone had got through the enormous security operations being carried out by Fleet Intel, the LIA, the Diplomatic Corps and the local police and security services, had slipped through the watch-net and managed to get themselves into a position from which they could fire a gun at him. There was going to be hell to pay over that, he just knew it.
Who it was who’d tried to shoot him was largely a matter of academic interest. He could name ten organisations which might be responsible, right off the top of his head. The fact that there’d only been two shots indicated that it was probably a professional – amateurs tended to spray their fire about more liberally and fanatics would just keep shooting till someone shot them. The first shot had been a head-shot, too, which would almost certainly have killed him if it wasn’t for the head-guard. The second shot, fired w
hile he’d been going down, had hit Yula instead. After that, apparently recognising that his target was wearing bullet-proof gear and was now being shielded by a bodyguard anyway, the sniper had abandoned the attack. That definitely looked like a professional job to Alex. Part of his mind was able to work that out, quite calm and detached. Another part was still reeling, struggling to process what had happened. And underneath it was a voice – his own – which just kept repeating ‘They shot me’ in numb disbelief.
He didn’t realise that he had actually said that aloud until Sub-lt Field put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘Not to worry, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ll soon have you home.’
She hardly seemed to have finished speaking before there was a thunk of fighter meeting airlock, the hatch opened and Rangi Tekawa came aboard.
‘Straight to sickbay,’ he said, seeing that Alex was sitting in a crouch with his arm across his stomach, still out of breath and a little dazed.
‘Later,’ Alex told him. He tried to stand up and announce that he was going to the command deck, but his legs gave way under him. Even though he was starting to get his breath back, his face felt oddly stiff and it was difficult to speak.
‘Now.’ Rangi commanded. ‘And no argument.’ He pointed a stern finger at the captain. ‘Don’t make me have to send for Simon.’
Simon had come aboard the frigate several times during the trip here and was on call if Silvie wanted his company at any time during the visit. Simon, though, had gone off on his own affairs while they were here, terrorising hospital consultants and getting married again.
Alex ignored the threat. He had to accept, given that he couldn’t yet stand on his own two feet, that he was going to have to do what the medic said. But all the same he looked at Rangi in a way which tried to convey that if Rangi tried to take him back aboard the frigate on a stretcher, he was going to have a fight on his hands.
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