Carrearranis (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 5) Page 14

  His tone conveyed that he could hardly believe that the commander was not aware of it – as a member of the Second he had nine ack alpha clearance as a matter of course and must, surely, be fully up to speed on the most important research project going on in the League right now.

  ‘I know it’s nanotechnology, of course,’ the commander was bristling now, defensive. ‘Obviously it is, with the development of the nano-technology communicators – though I must say I don’t see any particularly useful application for that, given how expensive it is and too slow to be of any practicable value. But… given to you by... by the…’

  He couldn’t actually bring himself to say the words. ‘The Samartians’ could only mean Samart, a world so remote and so little known, so far beyond Marfikian controlled space that hardly anyone in the League would even have heard of it. Even in the Fleet it had a semi-mythical status; a world reputed to have withstood every attempt by the Marfikians to invade it.

  ‘The Samartians, yes.’ Alex told him. ‘You did know we went to Samart?’

  The commander’s floundering look made it clear that he had not known that, or even heard any rumour about it.

  ‘Really?’ Alex was amazed. ‘I’d have expected you to be briefed about that.’

  Commander Mikthorn hauled himself together.

  ‘There was an exodiplomacy file,’ he admitted, eyeing Alex dubiously. ‘There were several exodiplomacy files. But they were tagged ‘need to know’ and I didn’t consider that I did need to know so I left well alone.’

  Alex gazed at the phenomenon of a Fleet officer, a spacer, given free access to exodiplomacy files, who’d not only declined to read them but considered that to be ‘leaving well alone.’

  Of course, he realised, Commander Mikthorn wasn’t a spacer. He wore the uniform and had the years of service, but the minimal shipboard experience he’d acquired in order to achieve his present rank had all been aboard homeworld defence squadrons, on ships which rarely left port. His actual deep space experience consisted of two short patrols and time spent on his way to and from planetary assignments.

  ‘Well, you do need to know this,’ he said. ‘We did go to Samart – it was a similar assignment to this, navigating through uncharted space to find a route around Marfikian territory. We made contact with them, established a preliminary diplomatic relationship and brought back a delegation of their representatives on a visit to Chartsey. As part of that there was an exchange of technologies in which they gave us a nanotech sensor of a kind they use in their defences.’

  Commander Mikthorn’s eyes widened at that, as for any world to hand over specifications for a vital part of its defences was, clearly, a matter of tremendous trust. It begged the question, too, of what the Fourth had given them in return.

  ‘We gave them,’ Alex said, ‘the Ignite missile.’

  Commander Mikthorn made a choking noise. The Ignite missile was the League’s latest and most powerful top secret weapon. He was aware that the Fourth had had some role in testing it, but it seemed beyond belief that they had given it away to a foreign power.

  ‘It was a fair exchange,’ said Alex, ‘and ratified as such by the Senate and the Admiralty. But that was what started the rush on the nanotech research. Samples and specs have been rushed to facilities all over the League, of course, but the core research team was recruited and brought out to us, as I said, on an unlimited time, unlimited funding basis, absolutely top priority. And though you do not, yourself, appear to be very impressed with the nanoweb, I can tell you that it represents very significant steps forward in both our understanding of nanotech and our engineering ability. And you should know, too, that for any research team to go from theoretical research to prototyping actual tech is a process which normally takes years, so the fact that we’ve got there in a matter of months is a tremendous achievement by Professor Parrot and his team. He is kind enough to attribute a good deal of that achievement to the environment in which he works and the support which we are able to give him. And given that his work is of the utmost priority, I am not surprised that he is unwilling to relocate to other facilities where he might not have either the environment or support we provide. People on Therik or Chartsey may not appreciate the value of that – clearly not, as they have assumed that he can work equally well at Oreol now that the prototype stage has been achieved. But without in any way denigrating the projects which have been sent out instead, I have to say that I don’t consider any of them to be of higher priority than the nanotech research – two of the teams could, indeed, conduct their research just as effectively based at Oreol themselves, and the others will just have to wait. What we are doing here is vital for developing new defence systems. It also, incidentally, has revolutionary potential for technology across the League. Manufacturing; medical, the potentials are extraordinary. And right here, right now, we’re at the heart of trying to make that work. So no, Mr Mikthorn, you will not get any help from me in trying to force Professor Parrot and his team off the ship. On the contrary, I will support their right to stay and protect them from any and all attempts to interfere with or compromise their work.’

  If Commander Mikthorn had not been Commander Mikthorn, this statement would have been decisive. Just about any other man would have felt ashamed at having come out here so badly informed and humbled by the true scope of the research he’d belittled. Just about any other man would have apologised.

  Since Commander Mikthorn was Commander Mikthorn, however, he swelled with mighty indignation.

  ‘But that is not acceptable,’ he said, ‘Sir. With respect, you are not the Field Commander, Telathor Sector, Second Fleet Irregulars; I am. I have my orders, issued by people who are well aware of the nature of Professor Parrot’s research and what progress he has made, and no doubt of the progress being made in the same field by many other teams as it is, as you say, a widespread field of study at the moment. Anyway, those orders have come down to me and I intend to see that they are complied with, to get Professor Parrot off this ship.’

  Alex looked at him steadily while he considered his options. He was tempted to simply tell this obnoxious man to get the hell off his ship immediately, but a moment’s reflection told him that he could not do that. Or rather, strictly speaking, he could, since any commanding officer had the ultimate right to compel anyone to leave their ship. The problem was that to do so without reasons which would be accepted as valid both by the Second Irregulars head office and the Admiralty would only generate more problems than it solved. The situation was complex and sensitive, given that the lab was in fact the property of the Second Irregulars, funded by them and subject to extensive, formal agreements between the Second, the Fourth and the Admiralty. For Alex to refuse access to the Second’s senior officer on scene would require a very much better reason than that Commander Mikthorn was insisting on attempting to carry out his orders and Alex didn’t want him to.

  As he often did when faced with a dilemma of this kind, Alex pictured himself in the office of the First Lord, reporting in person on the decision he had made. He knew exactly what look First Lord Dix Harangay would give him if he had to report that he had overridden the Second’s senior officer in his effort to carry out his duty, and thrown him off the ship. The words arrogant and high handed would not need to be spoken aloud. The First Lord might, however, make some cutting reference to the need for Alex to work harder on maintaining positive professional relationships with other agencies.

  ‘Very well,’ Alex said, with his stone face demeanour concealing an inner sigh. ‘I can allow you ten days – that, I feel, is reasonable. We will have to provide you with quarters on the interdeck, as the lab is fully occupied.’

  Courtesy would normally require that a fellow officer be offered the hospitality of the wardroom, but Alex was making a point, here. By relegating the commander to the interdeck, he was making it clear to everyone that he was here as a passenger, and should be treated as such.

  Commander Mikthorn found himself being i
ndignant in two directions at once and hardly knew which to go after first. Significantly, Alex felt, it was the matter of personal pride which won out over determination to do his duty.

  ‘There are two spare cabins in the research facility,’ he said, with an underlying resentment. Research slots in the Heron’s lab were in massive demand and it was usual for every place to be occupied as quickly as they became available. The Parrot project, though, had been given exclusive use of the facilities even though there were only eight of them.

  ‘Not any more,’ said Alex, mildly. ‘We removed the unused cabins – and for that matter the lounge – at their request, to make room for more equipment. They have an artificer’s workshop in there now, which is essential for their research. You will find the interdeck quite comfortable.’

  Commander Mikthorn wanted to protest. He could have pointed out justifiably that the Fourth had undertaken to maintain ten cabins in the research facility for the Second’s use and that changing this without their agreement was in breach of contract. He could, he felt, make a good case for insisting that the Fourth reinstate one of the cabins for his own use. Failing that, he felt he was entitled to the offer of a berth in the wardroom – of course it would mean several other officers having to vacate their cabins to make way for him and two juniors would end up doubling up, but that was a usual courtesy in the Fleet when entertaining a command rank officer. It was beneath his dignity to go and stay on the interdeck, along with civilians.

  As he was about to say this, though, he met the captain’s stare and even he found himself daunted. The words dried in his throat, and he had to harrumph before he could speak again. When he did so, the issue of his accommodation had been tacitly dropped. Instead, he turned to the other matter which had caused umbrage.

  ‘With respect,’ he said, which as always was a tag alerting to the fact that what was going to be said would be very far from respectful, ‘I believe that as Field Commander, Telathor Sector, Second Fleet Irregulars, I have the right to visit any research facility and to expect the unqualified cooperation of any hosting organisation; in this case of course yourselves, the Fourth Fleet Irregulars. I am not clear under which tranche of policy under our Field Operations Agreement you are proposing to restrict my visit to a specified ten days. Under my understanding of agreed policy, I believe I have the right to remain on site for however so long as I deem necessary.’

  ‘Reasonable access. Subject,’ said Alex, ‘to operational imperatives. It will not have escaped your notice, I am sure, that we are currently engaged in a very active front line exodiplomacy mission – working at full stretch, indeed, pushing at the utmost we can achieve in every minute of the working time available. With the best will in the world, your presence will inevitably cause some disruption and place additional demands upon our personnel. In the circumstances, I feel that offering you ten days is more than reasonable, particularly since you arrived without even the courtesy of a preliminary request.’

  Commander Mikthorn did not believe him. The flow of data passing through Oreol had appeared to confirm his own belief about the state of the Fourth’s mission – that they were stuck here, unable to get past the Guardian and getting nowhere fast. As far as he could tell, the Fourth spent most of their time chatting to the islanders and finding out about different kinds of plants and fish. It was not, as his expression said quite clearly, his idea of a very active front line exodiplomacy mission.

  ‘I did not need to request,’ he said, with acid in the word. ‘I have the right to conduct unannounced inspections of any facility under Second Fleet Irregulars funding.’

  Alex gave him another Look, the kind of Look the media crowed with delight at when they managed to catch it on camera. It bored right through Commander Mikthorn like a laser spiking through a balloon filled with jelly. It was a look which made it clear that he was not going to waste his time debating the finer points of agreed policy and Fleet etiquette. Commander Mikthorn knew as well as he did that he’d come storming out here in an angry panic because he was unable to comply with the orders sent out to him. He might, himself, define that as heroic devotion to duty. Alex might be more inclined to define it as not having either the intelligence to understand the situation or the guts to make the necessary command decision and stand by it. Either way, Commander Mikthorn had forced his way out to the Heron on fiddling technicalities. Arguing with him about it was pointless. And the captain had, as his Look also made abundantly clear, already wasted too much time on this idiot.

  ‘Ten days,’ he said, and there was not going to be any debate about it. Then, in an extremely crisp Fleet manner, ‘Dismissed, Mr Mikthorn.’

  The commander got up automatically, started to salute, thought better of it, gave a cold, ‘Captain,’ and retreated with what dignity was left to him. Alex, however, waited till he was almost at the door and then spoke again.

  ‘Mr Mikthorn…’ as the commander turned back with an angry, wary look, Alex spoke firmly. ‘I meant what I said,’ he told him. ‘I will not allow the work Professor Parrot and his team are undertaking to be disrupted. And I am speaking, in that, not merely as the commander of the ship hosting the lab, but as the mission commander. I am under orders, myself, to do everything in my power to facilitate and assist Professor Parrot in his research, orders which carry the highest priority as vital to the defence of the League, and orders, moreover, which come direct from the League President. So you may inspect them, by all means, satisfy yourself that what they are doing is indeed vitally important and that they are doing it with a zeal and commitment which goes way beyond any expectation. You may even, once you see the facilities and support they have here, be able to offer Professor Parrot a guarantee of equivalent facilities and support at Oreol. But you will not attempt to interfere in any way with their research, understood?’ He did not wait for an answer, but gave a curt nod of final dismissal and was already opening up files on his desk as the commander went out, seething with impotent rage.

  ‘You didn’t,’ Buzz Burroughs observed, at a working lunch later that day, ‘play your own ace card, dear boy.’

  Alex grinned, with a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face which made Buzz chuckle, too. The ace card referred to was the document confirming Alex in his role as mission commander, which had also included appointment as a Presidential Envoy.

  Alex should have been used to that by now. It was, after all, the third time he’d been given that honour, though he had never yet made direct use of it himself. The first time had been an operational fall back, an ace card to play if it was the only way to succeed in a mission so sensitive that he couldn’t even tell his superiors or civilian authorities what he was really doing. Buzz had exercised the Envoy’s authority on his behalf, that time, to get him out of a very sticky situation, but Alex had de-activated from his Envoy role within minutes.

  The second time, he had carried the honour more easily, mostly because they were far outside League borders and it was no more than a credential to confirm his right to speak for his government with the Samartians.

  This time was different. Being Presidential Envoy gave him the same status as a system president. It also put all official resources at his disposal – military, diplomatic and civilian. It was essentially a crisis response role and as such, carried tremendous powers. The Field Commander, Telathor Sector, Second Fleet Irregulars, was an insect by comparison; an insect His Excellency the Presidential Envoy could crush with a thumbnail.

  ‘I do wish he wouldn’t,’ Alex admitted frankly, more frankly than he would have spoken to anyone but Buzz. It was true, of course, that being made Envoy was justifiable in that it gave the captain all the authority and support he needed in order to achieve a mission which was genuinely of vital importance to the League. At the same time, though, Alex was well aware that he could have pretty much the same level of support carrying the lesser status of Ambassador along with his flag rank. The real reason the President insisted on making him an Envoy, as Alex and B
uzz knew very well, was that any glory Alex achieved would, thereby, reflect very directly on him. ‘And I’m certainly not about to use it unless it’s mission-vital that I do so.’

  Buzz chuckled again. Alex might be embarrassed, himself, by the extraordinary status imposed on him, but his crew considered it no less than he deserved. And for one of them, particularly, the Envoy rank was a matter of honour that brushed the realms of sacred. Jun Desmoulin was always regarded as the captain’s adjutant; he wore shipboard rig with an honorary Sub’s insignia, had taken enough shipboard training to qualify as an ordinary star and was, generally, always thought of and treated as a member of the crew. In fact, though, he was a member of the Diplomatic Corps, on secondment to Alex in his role as Ambassador. He had accepted that the captain preferred to work under his military rank and referred to him as ‘the captain’ rather than ‘His Excellency’, but there were, as he said himself, limits. And when it came to some podgy squirt of a commander treating His Excellency the Presidential Envoy with anything less than the utmost respect, those limits had been crossed. Jun Desmoulin lost no time, therefore, in enlightening Commander Mikthorn as to the true status, powers and authority that Alex von Strada actually had. Jun had been getting quite a lot of slaps on the back and ‘Good for you, kid!’ from other crew as he went about the ship, since word had got about that he’d given Moaning Mick a rocket up the bum.