by Peter Grant
“Yeah.”
They finished their meal in companionable small talk, Brooks telling of his recent experiences, Steve describing their families on Lancaster and the trip to Athi. Over coffee he commented, “My biggest headache right now is that darn journalist. She’s very professional – I’ve got nothing against her personally – but I was under orders to leave her here. Trouble is, when the envoy signaled Athi Orbital Control and the UP mission, asking them to let her disembark here and wait for onward transportation, both refused point-blank. They said if she’s not accredited by the Fleet, they won’t take her. The planetary government took its cue from them, and said that unless OrbCon or the UP mission issue her with credentials, she can’t land. Looks like I’m stuck with her.”
Brooks’ face showed concern. “You say the envoy signaled about her, rather than you? You might want to check how she worded that. If she chose her words carefully, she might have sent an unspoken message that this was someone they really didn’t want to have here.”
Steve slapped his forehead in exasperation. “Damn! Why didn’t I think of that? She said something like, ‘This journalist has been refused accreditation and onward passage by the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet’. That might have made OrbCon think we wouldn’t accept her because she’d caused trouble. There’s no way they’d want someone like that hanging around! Come to think of it, the envoy and the newsie are buddies from a long way back. They might have cooked that up together, for all I know.”
“I think they snookered you, buddy. I hope you kept copies of those signals to show your boss, otherwise he’s not going to be happy with you.”
“You bet I did! I’ll stop off at OrbCon on the way back to the ship, and ask them. If that’s the impression they got, I’ll make sure I record their comments about it.”
“Will you take her to Devakai with you?”
“I don’t think I have any choice in the matter. It’s that, or leave her adrift in orbit wearing only a spacesuit. I don’t think the news media on Lancaster would take that too kindly.”
His friend spluttered in amusement. “No, I reckon they’d have a whole lot to say – none of it polite! Speaking of taking things on, can I give you a package to deliver to Carol when you get back to Lancaster?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“A few souvenirs we picked up from some of our Kotai prisoners, plus interrogation notes going into detail about their beliefs and mindset. It’s all above board; I’ve got written permission from Lieutenant-Colonel Neilson to send them. Seems each item has a religious or cultural significance. Carol works with a group of cultural anthropologists at the University. I reckon they might be able to help us get a better handle on why the Kotai behave the way they do, and how best to communicate with them.”
“OK. Just leave it unsealed, so Customs can inspect it at Lancaster, and give me a copy of the orders allowing you to send it. They should pass it right through.”
“Yeah. You can always use your Tong friends to smuggle it past ’em if they ask too many questions.”
Steve rolled his eyes. Very few people knew of his arms-length relationship with the Dragon Tong, the most feared and respected interplanetary criminal organization in the settled galaxy. “I won’t bring them into this. The less direct contact I have with them, the better!”
“They can’t help you on Devakai?”
“I asked them, but they said they don’t operate there. Apparently, it’s too backward for them to turn a profit.”
“That says it all, doesn’t it?”
Chuckling, they turned in their plates and utensils and headed for Brooks’ trailer.
—————
The diplomats returned aboard by early morning, after completing their briefings with the UP mission staff. LCS Pickle headed for the system boundary on her way to Devakai.
Steve accepted the envoy’s invitation to breakfast with the delegation. He resolved not to mention Solveig Soldahl’s continued presence. The staff at OrbCon had confirmed that the impression of her they’d gained from the envoy’s messages had, indeed, been negative, which is why they’d refused to allow the journalist to disembark. Steve had carefully recorded their remarks, and would submit them to Commodore Wu on their return to Lancaster. He suspected his boss would ask pointed questions about why he hadn’t composed and sent the messages himself, to avoid such complications. Oh, well, he told himself, it won’t be the first time I’ve been rapped over the knuckles, and it likely won’t be the last.
He was reluctantly impressed by the journalist’s refusal to flaunt her presence during the meal. He’d expected her to make some sort of snide remark about his not being able to put her off the ship, but she ignored the subject completely. She’s got class, I have to admit. If she can continue to be professional, and not dig for information I’m not allowed to give her, we might just get along for the rest of the trip.
“Why does the Commonwealth have such a big presence on the Athi mission?” Solveig asked curiously over coffee after the meal. “I mean, we have an entire Marine battalion and a squadron of eight heavy patrol craft here, not to mention a hospital ship. Together, they must make up at least a third of the entire mission.”
“It’s financial as much as anything,” Marisela told her. “The United Planets pays for missions like this by offering premium credits against membership dues. For a simple, easy mission it might offer a premium of, say, one-point-five. In other words, for every unit of currency a planet spends on taking part in the mission, as audited by the UP, it gets one and a half times as much credited against its membership dues. That way the UP doesn’t have to pay out any cash, and its member planets save money overall. Everyone’s happy. In this case, because the mission’s difficult and dangerous and in a galactic backwater, the UP was forced to offer triple credit – three for one. That’s a real bargain for anyone with large membership dues, like the Commonwealth. The State Department looks for that sort of opportunity. So does everyone else, of course, but we were lucky to get in early on this one.”
“That may be what drives State Department interest, but as far as the Fleet’s concerned there’s another reason entirely,” Steve pointed out. “We rely on expeditionary service and combat experience to season our future leaders. A mission like this provides both. The leadership cadre of the Marine battalion were hand-picked from among the Corps’ most promising NCO’s and officers, to prepare them for more senior rank in future. Its rank and file are all volunteers, because they want to gain experience that might help them become NCO’s and officers themselves in due course. The squadron of patrol craft we sent has crews made up half of Fleet personnel, and half of volunteers from the System Patrol Services of Commonwealth planets. They’re all here for the same reason – to gain experience and face challenges they’d never encounter in routine assignments. This sort of mission is a crucible for us to test and refine our people. It’s worth more than gold to us.”
“But is it worth the cost in lives and injuries?” Solveig asked dubiously.
Steve shrugged. “No-one’s forced to take an assignment like this, but even so, we usually have many more volunteers for expeditionary billets than we have slots available. Everyone knows the risks and the rewards. They’ve all voted with their feet by being here.”
“Have you ever been on expeditionary service?”
“Yes, twice so far: as an enlisted spacer at Radetski – I volunteered for that mission – and then as Navigating Officer aboard LCS Cybele two years ago at Eskishi, where I was detailed to serve planetside alongside the Marines for a few weeks.”
“And you think they helped your subsequent career? You’d do it again?”
“Yes, they certainly did, and I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.” Steve felt a warm glow as he remembered the combat promotion and medals he’d earned at Radetski. They’d been instrumental in his selection for Officer Candidate School the following year. At Eskishi he’d earned more plaudits and another combat promotion, which h
ad led directly to his present command.
“Changing the subject,” he continued, looking at the envoy, “a close friend of mine is the Executive Officer of the Marine battalion on Athi. He’s given me some captured artifacts to take back to Lancaster, for analysis by cultural anthropologists. They’re related to the Kotai on Devakai too, so I thought you might find them interesting.”
“I certainly will! Where are they?”
“If you’ll come to my office, I’ll show you.”
“May I see them too, please?” Solveig asked urgently, her eyes alight with interest.
“I don’t see why not. Just don’t talk about them to anyone until we’ve left Devakai, so that we don’t give offense without realizing it.”
“All right. It’s not as if I’m going to be filing any reports while we’re there, anyway. That’ll wait until we get back.”
The two women sat down in the visitors’ chairs while Steve rummaged in a box behind his desk. He took out a handful of small tridents and spread them on the desk.
“These are called trishula,” he began. “Notice that the two outer tines of the trident are wavy, like the blade of a kris, with their points outwards, while the center tine is straight. That’s the insignia of the Kotai. It’s worn in several grades, from iron, through bronze and silver, to gold. The more precious the metal, the higher the rank of the person wearing it.”
“Where do they wear it?” Solveig asked, picking up a silver trident and examining it closely.
“Big ones are carried by standard-bearers, with unit insignia below the trident head. These miniature ones are worn on the front of a turban, which is knotted on either side of the head. That’s also a sign of membership of the Kotai – no-one else ties their turbans that way, apparently. The color of the turban is also important. Ordinary members wear unbleached cloth, a sort of sandy brown color. Saffron is for warriors, red for commanders, green for elders – wise men or counselors – and white for holy men and women, vowed to the personal service of their God.”
Marisela mused, “So someone wearing a saffron turban with a gold – what did you call it? A trishula? – would be a senior warrior, something like an officer?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t think to ask that sort of question while I was planetside. He might be an NCO, whereas an officer might wear a red turban to signify command.”
“This could get confusing. I’ll have to ask our hosts about it when we reach Devakai.”
Steve gathered up the tridents and returned them to the box. “There’s more,” he said as he withdrew three short, stubby daggers and put them on the desk. “These are called katars. They’re a type of push- or punch-dagger. The handle is formed by this cross-bar, fitting between two arms coming straight back from either side of the base of the blade. You put the bars on either side of your forearm and hold the handle in your fist, like this, so the blade sticks out ahead of your knuckles in line with the bones of your arm. When you punch someone, the blade goes in with all the force of your blow behind it. Apparently, these things can penetrate light armor if you hit hard enough. You can also cut and slash with them by moving your arm from side to side.”
The envoy shivered. “Nasty!”
“Yes, I imagine they could be. These also come in different forms. The more ornate the decoration, the higher the rank or status of the person carrying it. Important people have katars with wavy blades, like the outer tines of the trishula I just showed you, while regular Kotai have straight blades. The longer the blade, the higher the status of its owner. It’s carried in a sheath on the belt by all those who are willing to fight, or have already fought, for their God.”
The journalist picked up one of the katars, drew it from its sheath and hefted it curiously. “So someone wearing a red turban with a gold trishula, and carrying a katar with a long wavy blade and lots of gilding and ornamental engraving, would be a very senior commander – perhaps a general of some sort?”
“I see you’re getting the idea. The possible combinations seem almost endless.”
“May I take pictures of these later, please? They’ll add color to my report.”
“Sure, that’ll be fine.”
“Thanks very much for showing them to us,” Marisela said seriously, looking at him. “They’re the sort of cultural clues that outsiders often miss. I can see I’m going to have to ask a great many questions as soon as we arrive, so that we don’t misjudge the status of those we meet. We should have liaison officers assigned to us. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell us more.”
“I’m glad I was able to help.”
—————
Later that day, after the first hyper-jump had been completed, Steve returned to his office to deal with the last administrative aspects of their visit to Athi. When he’d finished, he called up the ship’s security system and checked that it had recorded his meal and subsequent conversation with the envoy and journalist. He nodded in satisfaction to find it all there. Recordings of every interaction between crew members and passengers were retained for future reference, a standard security precaution in all courier vessels of the Black Squadron.
He fast-forwarded through the recording, idly scanning the women’s inspection of the objects he’d brought from Athi and their return to the passenger quarters. He was about to end the playback, but noticed Marisela turn to the journalist as he walked away. She asked something very quietly, too softly to hear clearly. Curious, he raised the volume and replayed it at normal speed.
“Have you learned anything useful yet about Lieutenant-Commander Maxwell?”
“Let’s go to your cabin, where we won’t be overheard.”
The recording showed the two women walking down the corridor of the passenger quarters and disappearing into the envoy’s cabin. Steve stopped the playback, thinking to himself, What’s she trying to learn about me that would be ‘useful’? And why would the envoy want to know about it? I don’t like the sound of this.
He flagged that part of the recording for future reference. Was the journalist’s presence aboard entirely coincidental, or was she here with ulterior motives? If so, what might they be? If she made trouble in future, or her report of the trip caused controversy, that brief exchange might be an important clue for investigators to follow up.
He rapidly tapped commands into his console, alerting the ship’s artificial intelligence system to monitor all recorded conversations between the envoy and journalist. It was to listen for key words, particularly his name or title, and alert him if it came across them.
That should do it, he thought as he rose from his desk. Now let’s see what happens.
November 25 2851 GSC
“Plot to Command. Range to Devakai now two million kilometers, sir.”
“Command to Plot, very good,” Steve acknowledged. He pressed a button on the intercom panel. “Command to Intel. Proceed.”
From the carefully concealed compartment, deep in the bowels of the ship, housing the Intelligence Center, Warrant Officer Macneill, the ship’s Intelligence Officer, responded. “Intel to Command, understood, sir.”
Through the hull, they all felt the slight jar as a hatch opened, and three small reconnaissance drones were silently ejected. The hatch closed as the drones moved slowly away from the ship under minimum power from their gravitic drives.
The Kalla Orbital Shipyard was on the far side of Devakai from their assigned powered parking orbit, meaning the ship could not observe it directly. However, one of the small, stealthy drones, almost impossible to detect, would take up a matching orbit as close as possible to the target. A second drone would stand off from the planet, acting as a communications relay, accepting a tight beam from the first drone and re-transmitting it to the ship. In that way, they could monitor whatever was going on at Kalla without giving away their interest in its activities. Both drones would also maintain detailed records of everything they observed, which could be recovered later if anything happened to their mother ship. The third drone wo
uld stand by next to the second, to replace either of the first two in case of malfunction, or to be steered towards anything else the ship wished to investigate.
Steve turned his attention back to their approach to Devakai. He knew that the Intel Center would be staffed around the clock from now on, monitoring the drones, scanning every available frequency around the ship, listening to every communication. Its own equipment would decipher simple encryption, and anything more complex would be forwarded to the portable artificial intelligence system set up in his private quarters. It had been interfaced with the ship’s computer systems, so that information could be seamlessly exchanged. He’d spent time every day during their outward passage setting up and learning to use its automated programs. There would be no sign of their surveillance activities in the OpCen or any other public area of the ship.
The ship slowed as it neared the planet, maneuvering to enter the powered orbit it had been assigned. As soon as he was satisfied, Steve ordered, “Secure from maneuvering stations. Set the anchor watch. Side party and cargo handlers to the docking bay.”
He changed into his Number One uniform with medals, as protocol required to greet the senior planetary officials who’d shortly be boarding to meet the delegation and take them planetside. The delegates would travel with their reception party in a diplomatic shuttle. The ship’s cutter would carry their baggage, as Devakai did not have a Planetary Elevator. He headed for the docking bay, where he found that Senior Chief Petty Officer Aznar had arranged everything with his usual efficiency.
“Thanks, Senior Chief,” he acknowledged as he returned the NCO’s salute. “Any problems?”
“No, sir, but there’s one thing the First Lieutenant asked me to mention. It seems the Devakai authorities don’t want any of our small craft to leave the ship without one of their security people aboard. They’re going to station a cutter next to us. Any time one of our small craft leaves the ship we’ll have to collect an escort from it, and return them there before we come aboard again. They’ll also keep other small craft away from us, unless they’re properly authorized and escorted.”