Fortunately, Rangi was sensitive to the skipper’s dignity, and with a word to Sub-lt Field the two of them supported him through the hatch and the short distance to sickbay with their hands under his elbows. They were practically carrying him but by moving his feet Alex managed to make it at least look as if he was able to walk aboard. There was an anxious silence on the ship as he boarded – Very Vergan was at the airlock to meet him, as the second ranking officer aboard the ship just now. The most senior, Martine Fishe, was on the command deck and would be taking reports from groundside. Very said nothing, just stared in dismay as the skipper was helped past him.
Truth to tell, Alex was quite glad to reach the sanctuary of sickbay. Rangi sent the others away and helped him out of his uniform jacket, explaining as he did so what his injuries were and what treatment he needed.
‘You’ve taken one heck of a smack to the face,’ he told the captain. ‘Your nose is broken and it’s shaken your brain with the same kind of impact as if someone had whacked you on the head. I dare say your ears are still buzzing. They already gave you meds for concussion.’ Alex was surprised, not having even noticed the hands working at the mediband he wore around his ankle or the cold touch as drugs were injected. ‘Your face is starting to swell and will bruise badly if it isn’t treated. You also have bruising to your midriff – a knee to the solar plexus, by the look of it. The pain should be easing by now but I’ll give you something for the bruising. You’ll feel better very quickly but I will need to keep you here for about twenty minutes, skipper, okay?’
Alex knew very well that such injuries would normally see the patient kept in sickbay for at least an hour, but even so, being told he had to stay in sickbay even as long as twenty minutes roused him to object.
‘Just…’ he started to tell the medic to just get him on his feet so he could get out to the command deck as quickly as possible, but then he realised that Rangi was already doing just that. He would not keep Alex here one moment more than medically necessary, and for Alex to stagger out to the command deck before he was in a fit condition to do so would not help the situation at all. ‘I need to know,’ he mumbled through stiff lips, ‘what’s happening.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Rangi clicked his tongue in impatience at himself for not having recognised that that was as urgent a matter for Alex as the medical attention he needed. He turned, accessing his wristcom, and switched off the holographic wall.
The woodland scene, complete with waterfall and the sound effects of water, breeze and birdsong, vanished. The banks of medical technology behind it were visible just for a moment, till Rangi engaged an alternative programme and the command deck feed appeared.
It wasn’t merely camera footage of the command deck, but a set of screens which gave a trained eye all the information needed to see what was happening both on and off the ship. It took Alex just a few seconds to see that Martine had everything under control. That was obvious just from her manner – cool, collected, even giving a little chuckle as she spoke to someone on comms, ‘It would need more than that to take the skipper down, ma’am.’
She was, Alex could see from the comms screen, talking to President Arthas. She was the only caller who’d actually got through to talk to someone on the ship. All other callers, even the Port Admiral, were getting an automated response telling them that the Fourth was unable to respond to signals at this time due to operational imperatives. The only people they were maintaining active comms with themselves were Fleet Intelligence. The LIA, Diplomatic Corps and local services had, Alex saw, been referred to liaise with them.
It was the emergency response system he had seen in plan form, in a security briefing before they arrived at Telathor. They were following through with another aspect of that plan, too, by evacuating every member of the Fourth currently on the planet. That had to be done in case the incident was part of a wider coordinated terrorist attack. So all around Telathor, officers and crew who’d been attending events would be quickly and quietly taken aside by their security escorts and hustled into the vehicles on standby for just such an emergency. They would, Alex knew, be brought to safe assembly points and ferried back to the ships over the next quarter of an hour. Silvie and Shion were, as he’d already been told, safe in the underwater embassy, which had now gone to security lockdown. So, reassured that all his people were being kept safe, he looked to see what was happening at the scene of the shooting.
To his amazement, he saw that local police had already arrested the sniper. Emergency services were still on scene, with ambulances treating the minor injuries and an evacuation centre looking after the shocked and distressed. It was still pretty chaotic down there, though, as might be expected scarcely five minutes after such a major panic involving thousands of people. But still, the local police had caught and arrested the sniper, beating all the major security services on scene to that achievement.
He had already been identified, too. Telathor was a world in which people were routinely microchipped. That was voluntary, of course, since it was against League law for any world to compel their citizens to be ID chipped. On some worlds, views about civil liberties were so strong that even the suggestion of people being chipped would arouse passionate protests. Here, though, it was a normal thing to do, convenient and much less hassle than having to use other forms of ID. The microchips were implanted in the tip of the right forefinger, and since the sniper had such a chip it had been the work of moments to identify him and to pull up all the information on record.
His name, Alex learned, was Othoro Kelvan. He was a Telethoran, twenty three years old and a resident of Jenale. A hastily compiled intelligence file on another screen told Alex that the list of his former addresses was extensive, as he’d moved about the planet and hadn’t stayed anywhere for more than a few months. He hadn’t stayed in any employment for long, either.
But he wasn’t on anybody’s radar. He was not a member of any activist group, had not flagged onto anybody’s watch lists as having displayed extremist views or violent tendencies, wasn’t even on the nutter list. This was the list supplied by local authorities of people they were aware had mental health issues which might result in aggression being directed at the Fourth. He was not, it seemed, being treated for any psychological disorder. Nor had he ever been arrested or come to the attention of the police. He had been invisible. And then, right out of nowhere, he had walked through a security cordon carrying a rifle and shot Alex von Strada in the head. There was no indication yet as to his motive, whether he’d acted on his own, been groomed or paid by others, or what. In the course of arresting him the police had deployed stun guns, and it would be some time before the prisoner was in a fit state to be interviewed.
One question, however, had already been answered. Security had a list of everyone on the planet who owned or had access to guns. It was a remarkably short list; gun culture just wasn’t part of the laid-back lifestyle on Telathor, at all. Othoro Kelvan was not on that list, and it was unlikely that he would have managed to buy a high powered rifle without security picking up on it. So the immediate question was where had he got the gun?
The answer was underscored in a report from the Jenale police, transmitted on to the Fourth. It said simply, Weapon retrieved. Percussive rifle – appears to be home made.
So this loner, this drifter, had either made the rifle himself or acquired it from someone else who had.
Well, they’d have to wait to find that out, along with his motive. That was not as important, right now, as dealing with the aftermath.
Alex was looking at a set of indicators which was horribly familiar. Fleet Intel was flagging them up and had already issued a global crisis warning to all Telathoran authorities.
The two key indicators they were highlighting in particular were traffic and power usage. Monitoring systems were showing that power usage was surging around Jemale and that effect was spreading rapidly, though it didn’t move in clean, measurable waves from the epicentre of the event but sparked
in all directions like firecrackers flung into the air.
Alex understood the mechanism. He had studied it in command school. There had been live coverage of his attendance at the amphitheatre. There would be a dual audience for that – primarily local viewers excited to see the celebrity visiting their city, but worldwide, the uberfans who were following the coverage pretty much all the time they were awake. They had dubbed themselves ‘Stradites’ and had created several Stradite chatrooms where they could spend hours talking about Alex and the Fourth with fellow enthusiasts. They had even started holding conventions where they wore fancy dress versions of Fourth’s uniform.
Bizarre as that was on so many levels, the important thing here was that such uberfans would have seen Alex being shot, live on holovision. Their reaction would inevitably be highly emotional and they would immediately start to tell everyone they knew that Alex von Strada had been shot. As news spread, people would turn on their holovisions and be caught up in the shocking drama of the scene. Then they too would call people they knew and tell them to turn their holovisions on. The power surge of so many extra calls and screens being turned on at once was significant enough to be seen on global power consumption monitors.
The impact on traffic followed very nearly as quickly. People landed their cars when someone called them or they heard on the news that Captain von Strada had been shot and they wanted to see what was happening. Within minutes, as much as half the traffic in the skies might have come to a halt.
Soon after that, Alex knew, would be the gathering and guarding. Some people would come out onto the streets, heading for traditional public gathering places to share their feelings. Others would feel an instinct to head home, to gather their families and shut the door against the alarming sense of turmoil.
Within half an hour, even the areas currently in the small hours of the night would be surging into wakefulness. That, too, was a process well understood. People might have friends and relatives all over the planet. Seeing something as dramatic as this happening live, many would call them even if they knew that they would be asleep. They, in turn, would call other friends and family. Only a minority would enjoy an uninterrupted night’s rest and be surprised at the news when they turned on the holly in the morning.
This, Alex recognised, was a global stop event. He’d studied a similar situation in which a system president had been assassinated. Millions of people had taken to the streets, sobbing and shouting. Schools had closed, barely a workplace had been functioning, some cities had seen riots and looting. The global economy had taken a big hit, both through lost productivity and stock prices plummeting. It was the kind of major impact event in which even years later people would talk about where they had been and what they had been doing at the time. It was a Big Thing.
As ludicrous as it seemed to Alex that billions of people could work themselves up into such an emotional state because of something that had happened to him, he did understand it. The Telethorans had made such a big thing of his visit already and were so excited about it that the news that he’d been shot, on their world, by one of their own people, would be devastating.
It was vital, absolutely vital, for that reaction to be calmed down before it went critical. And it was at that point that Joy Arthas demonstrated that her people had made absolutely the right choice when electing her to be their president.
She was on air within a minute of coming off the call with Martine. What she said could have come directly from the crisis-handling plan all system governments had ready for such situations – nothing to worry about, no threat to public safety, authorities have everything in hand, just stay calm and carry on about your normal business.
Joy Arthas, though, talked to her people as if she was having a conversation with an anxious friend.
‘I know you’re upset,’ she said. ‘It frightened me too – a terrible shock for all of us, and obviously upsetting. But I can assure you that Captain von Strada is not seriously injured.’ A rueful smile. ‘It looked a great deal worse than it is. He’s a bit battered and bruised but fully conscious, and will be able to return to work within an hour or so. No, I haven’t spoken with him personally – he’s currently being treated for his bruises and I didn’t want to intrude. But I have received a medical report and I’ve spoken with Commander Martine Fishe, currently in command on the Heron, who saw him when he went back aboard. She tells me that he was on his feet by then and giving orders. As she said, it takes more than someone trying to kill him to put Captain von Strada down.’
She went on to praise the police for the speed with which they’d apprehended the sniper, the emergency services for the speed with which they’d responded and brought the situation under control, and the courage of everyone involved. Alex wasn’t listening to that, though. He felt that he really ought to make some kind of public statement himself, to show that he was all right and do his bit to calm things down.
‘I want to do a statement for the media,’ he mumbled at Rangi.
‘Er,’ the medic looked at him in consternation. Alex’s face was now so swollen that his eyes were starting to close, though he seemed unaware of it, and his skin was livid. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, skipper,’ Rangi ventured. ‘You’re … a bit puffy, and red.’
Alex interpreted that correctly to mean that if he went on camera looking like this it was more likely to create upset than calm it. It wasn’t hurting him, thanks to the pain meds he’d been given on the fighter, but his face did feel rigid and uncomfortable.
‘Uh,’ he said, meaning ‘fair enough.’
Rangi got to work. He was still working on the captain’s nose when the sickbay door opened and a familiar figure came in – tall, lanky, with unkempt hair and a bouncing stride. He was currently wearing a colourful Telethoran robe but still managed to make it look like scruffy student gear. Rangi, who’d looked up with the clear intention of telling whoever it was to go away, broke into a beam of welcome.
‘Hey, Simon.’
‘All right, Rangi?’ Simon Penarth walked around the treatment table on which Alex was sitting, studying him with a professional eye. ‘Hi Alex – no, don’t talk.’ He held out his hand for the pulsor Rangi had been using, and told him as he did so, ‘Report.’
Rangi complied, handing over the pulsor and giving a medical report of which Alex understood very little, even holding up a screen to show Simon data so he could see it while working on the captain.
‘Damn,’ said Simon, with a sigh, and flicked a grin at Alex then, ‘I was so hoping to come dashing in and save your life with some extraordinary surgical feat. Maybe next time, huh? As it is, I’ll have to settle for putting your face back in shape. Though I could, if you like, improve things a bit while I’m here.’
Alex would have grinned if his lips hadn’t felt like a couple of bananas glued to his face. As it was, he made a little chuckling sound.
‘Ssssh!’ said Simon, imperatively, and Alex did as he was told.
He certainly felt a great deal better within a few minutes. Rangi, no doubt, would have provided just the same physical treatment but Simon had the ability to make him laugh even in the stress of this situation.
‘Lie down,’ he told Alex, ‘then Rangi can work on your stomach while I sort out your face.
Alex did as he was told, remaining still and quiet while the medics worked on him. Then, when Simon stood back and gestured to show he was finished, he sat up. His face felt mobile again and his breathing was normal. He felt shaken, understandably, but was fairly sure that he could stand up now if he tried.
‘Okay – best I can do,’ Simon said, surveying him. ‘You’ll be pink for a couple of days – not much I can do about that since I know I’d be wasting my time suggesting dermal transplant.’ He looked critically at his patient, then brightened. ‘We could try make up.’
‘No,’ Alex told him, his voice back to normal now, ‘we could not. Thank you, Simon.’ He accepted the inevitable cup of herbal tea which Rangi had
brought him and thanked him, too.
‘So, what blend is that, then?’ Simon asked the other medic, in tones of lordly amusement. ‘Do you have a special blend for when someone’s tried to blow your head off?’
Rangi grinned, taking no offence.
‘Chamoline and tendar mint,’ he said. ‘Beneficial for shock.
Simon gave a ‘tuh’ of cheerful contempt. ‘I’m sure he’d rather have a coffee,’ he observed.
He was right, but Alex took a drink of the tea anyway, out of loyalty to his own ship’s medic. And it was, he found, quite comforting.
‘So,’ he said, looking at Rangi because this was his decision, for all that Simon treated him like a medical student. ‘Can I go?’
‘Give me a few minutes, skipper,’ Rangi requested, and glanced at Simon.
‘Thing is, Alex,’ Simon told him, ‘before you can get out there and deal with this you have to see what happened.’
Alex didn’t want to. He knew he had been shot, he knew it would be ugly to see and he didn’t feel that he could spare either the time or emotional energy to confront that right now.
‘Later,’ he said shortly.
‘No, now.’ Simon wasn’t joking now. ‘Listen, Alex, you can’t possibly deal with this until you understand why they are reacting as they are, and you can’t understand that unless you see it as they have, as they are seeing it right now as it goes out on the news. I know you don’t want to, and normally I’d be happy to give you time to recover to the point where you’re ready to see it. But that, you know, might well mean you staying here overnight, and I do recognise that there are other factors in play here. So if you really want to get back to work, take a deep breath, sip your horrible mucky tea and watch the footage, okay?’
Alex knew he was right. If he’d been dealing with this as something that had happened to a member of his crew, there was no way he would allow them back on duty until the medic certified that they had passed an assessment for trauma. Being able to talk about what had happened was a key indicator in that. Being able to watch footage of it was more challenging again, but important as part of the process of coping with it.
New Title 2 Page 35