Carrearranis (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 5) Read online

  ‘None of us could have known,’ Alex repeated, steadily. ‘It was nobody’s fault.’ A slight pause, then he gave the mantra that all of them had been repeating for the last couple of hours. ‘We will get through this…’ and from somewhere, he found the strength to smile, ‘together.’

  Eleven

  The first decision which had to be made was whether the Heron would be allowed to enter the limits of the system. Alex was in no hurry to do so and in fact advised against it.

  ‘We’re fine here, and there’s no benefit to us bringing the ship into the system,’ he said. They could not drop the Heron sublight without the use of a deceleration tunnel, so would still be whipping around at superlight speeds. There were several safe options for superlight orbit within the system if that was necessary, but no advantage to that at least until such time as they were ready to go to Carrearranis itself. And that, Alex had already decided, would not be in the immediate future. There would have to be serious discussions – serious, formal diplomatic discussions and detailed agreements – before they could set foot on the planet.

  In the meantime, soundings from all the communities confirmed that the Carrearranians had no issue with the Heron remaining where it was, in close orbit around their system. Those soundings also confirmed a heartfelt and urgent request.

  ‘Please don’t let those others come back.’

  It was possible that at some level the Carrearranians felt that the Solarans had been responsible for the destruction of the Guardian, despite all Alex’s assurances to the contrary. Beyond that, though, it was evident that the Carrearranians had found the Solarans themselves to be frightening. All the offworlders they had seen so far had looked like them, even Silvie and Shion so human in appearance that the Carrearranians hadn’t distinguished between them and the others. They had been fascinated by differences in genome amongst the Fourth, with a wider range of body shape and characteristics than they had imagined possible. The Fourth embodied a wide range of genomes, people of all shapes and sizes with skin colours of every shade but blue and green and so many variations in hair type and facial features that they could have posed for a cross-sample representing humanity. An engineering hand with rosy pink skin and bright green eyes had struck the Carrearranians as particularly exotic, but they had accepted everyone, with enthusiasm, as people just like them.

  The Solarans, however, were not like them at all. They were basically humanoid but skeletally thin, jointed differently and moving in a way that was more reminiscent of insects than people. They were unnerving, too, with the gauzy veils concealing their heads, their odd manner of speaking and their painfully slow communication skills. One disgruntled officer, after failing the training for exodiplomacy duties, had remarked that talking to them was like trying to hold a séance with a trio of the undead. That was unfair, but it had to be acknowledged that they were not the easiest of species to meet and greet. In the circumstances, it was not surprising that the Carrearranians were not keen to repeat the experience.

  ‘They are…’ Arak hesitated. There was no word for ‘weird’ in the Carrearranian language because up to that point, there had never been a need for it. Everything in their world was natural and explainable, with no religion or any kind of mythology. They had no concepts of luck, fate or of any supernatural forces. Now their language, like their knowledge of the cosmos, had to adapt and expand. ‘Worrying,’ he ventured, ‘and outside understanding.’

  ‘Strange,’ Alex supplied, using the League Standard word. ‘We call that strange. But you do not need to be worried. The Solarans are a strange people, yes, but they are very gentle and do not mean you or any of us any harm. I do not think that they will return, anyway. If they do, you need only ask them to go away and they will do so at once. I can send a message to them via our authorities on Chartsey, too, asking them not to return if that is your wish.’

  Arak confirmed emphatically that it was very much their wish, but was still anxious.

  ‘That takes a long time, though,’ he pointed out, ‘and what if they come back before, or anyway, even though we’ve said not to?’

  ‘They won’t,’ Alex promised. ‘But if it is a concern, I will put a standing order in the log that if any Solaran ship appears we will ask them to stay outside your system, all right?’

  Arak conceded that that would be helpful, but it was clear that he was still deeply concerned, and representing the concern of his people in that, too. The Carrearranians had always seen the arrival of the Clean Ship as the moment when their world would come of age, an era of joy and celebration. Instead it had brought terror and left them bereft. It was not surprising that they were afraid of what else the Solarans might do if they came back. Nor was it surprising that they were clinging to the people who’d become their friends.

  Having to be strong for them helped the Fourth, too, in coming to terms with the catastrophe. Alex still had a knot of something in his chest, a physical ache as if something was being constricted. Even he wasn’t sure whether it was grief or helpless rage; a fury he could only direct against mindless misfortune.

  Others were not quite so rational.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Leading Star ‘Trevvo’ Trevaga, ‘the Solarans have always refused to allow us any access to advanced technology, saying it’s too dangerous for us. So is it any coincidence now that just as we’re on the verge of accessing that tech for ourselves, they turn up out of the blue and it’s destroyed?’

  Normally, the voicing of any such conspiracy theory would be laughed down and mocked from all directions. This time his views were met with a troubled silence, many people feeling that he was only saying what they hardly dared suspect, themselves.

  ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said CPO Martins, but it was clear that he was speaking more out of duty than personal conviction. The skipper had already stated that the destruction of the Guardian had been unpreventable and nobody’s fault, so it felt disloyal even to question that verdict.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Trevvo challenged, and flourished a hand to prevent the other answering as he went on, ‘It’s all very well to say that Solarans don’t lie, but how do we even know that? We barely understand half of what they say anyway, huh? And going on their actions, all we can say is that they won’t let us anywhere near their tech. If they’ve decided for whatever reason that we’re not allowed to learn about hyperlight drives or weapons … okay, okay,’ he submitted to the barrage of protests which fired at him over that and amended, ‘… defensive systems, then, but if they’ve decided we’re not ready to have that tech yet or don’t trust us with it or whatever reason they may have, it’s totally obvious why they came racing out here as soon as they found out that we were on the verge of getting access to that tech for ourselves. And come on, when have you ever known Solarans do anything in a hurry? If this visit was legit, they would have come to see the skipper first and talked it through with him, probably for months, before making a move towards Carrearranis.’

  ‘There are two – three – very dodgy assumptions in that.’ The argument came not from a rather worried looking CPO Martins, but a quiet young woman whose voice cut unexpectedly through the babble. The speaker was Jen Jennet, the inarticulate geek so spectacularly transformed by Silvie. She had gained in confidence since then, finding that people accepted not only her new look but her empathic abilities. There had been an overwhelming response of friendly interest, support and pleasure, too, at having a human empath joining the crew. It was doubtful how useful Silvie’s coaching had been, so far, since it had consisted of turning up at random intervals to follow her around and occasionally poke her in the back, but Jen had certainly found herself, and her voice.

  ‘First,’ she said, as they all looked at her, ‘you’re assuming that we were close to gaining access to the Olaret technology, whereas in fact we were no closer to that than the first day we arrived and none of us have the slightest idea how we might ever have achieved it. Secondly, you’re assuming that the Solarans are
acting in some authoritative role, supervising or controlling us like a galactic police force, and everything we know about them makes that absurd. And thirdly, you’re attributing a level of duplicity and deception to them which is simply too anthropomorphic. Solarans do not think, or act, like humans, because they’re not. You can’t just assume that they would behave in certain ways because that’s what humans might do.’

  Trevvo looked at her in mild perplexity.

  ‘So,’ he hazarded, ‘you don’t think they did it on purpose?’

  ‘I think,’ Jen responded, ‘that if they had destroyed it on purpose they would have said so, and told us why, even if we couldn’t understand their reasons. I think their panic was genuine, and I don’t believe that they ever, in any circumstances, mean to do us any harm.’

  The group around the table considered this, a little dubious.

  ‘It is weird, though, what they did,’ Trevvo persisted, and at that, Jen smiled slightly, giving a little shrug.

  ‘They’re Solarans,’ she pointed out. ‘In many ways, still, beyond our understanding. I think sometimes we just have to accept that we’re not going to understand what they do, or why.’

  CPO Martins awarded her a broad grin – and on his high-gravity compressed features, that was a very broad grin indeed. He was impressed not only by the calm reason of her argument, but by the fact that she had taken charge of the situation, and at that, in company with some of the most opinionated people on the ship. And on the Heron, that was saying something.

  ‘Well said, Jen,’ he commended. ‘And you’re right, of course – exodiplomacy is always out there, by the very nature of it, and assuming human motivations and behaviours in other species is, as you say, a very dodgy assumption.’ He transferred his grin to Trevvo, who was looking a little disconcerted. ‘Though a very human thing to do, in itself,’ he said, a mild joke which got a chuckle and defused the situation.

  All the same, the suspicion that there was more to the Solarans’ actions than they had stated would not go away.

  ‘And if that’s how some of us feel, dear boy,’ said Buzz, bringing this to Alex’s attention, ‘there will be major repercussions out there…’ he gestured vaguely to indicate the rest of the human race. ‘Particularly,’ he observed, ‘amongst politicians.’

  Alex winced. He didn’t even want to think about how the Senate would react to the news that the Solarans, however inadvertently, had triggered the destruction of the ship on which they’d all been building such hopes. A lot would depend, of course, on the circumstances which had brought the Solaran ship out here. If it turned out that their intervention had been at the direct request of the Senate themselves, there ought to be less animosity over it. Even at that, though, many people would believe either that the Solarans had mishandled the situation or that they’d triggered the self-destruct deliberately to keep such tech out of human hands.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about that,’ Alex responded, with a fatalistic air.

  ‘No, of course there isn’t,’ Buzz agreed. ‘But I think we should be prepared for the inevitable – we must expect a great deal of very angry mail demanding answers as this news moves out over the League.’

  Alex allowed himself a quiet sigh. Correspondence had been quite easy to manage during the phase when they were out at Border Station and their only contact with Oreol was via their own ships rotating every fortnight. Even when they brought large quantities of mail, Alex had had a couple of weeks to answer it.

  Now, though, as news travelled across the League, there were ever-increasing waves of letters from every world as they learned about the discovery of Carrearranis. Most of that was screened out before it got anywhere near the captain, but even so he was expected to reply to mail carrying VIP credentials personally. He was expected to reply to it promptly, too, and with daily deliveries was already under pressure in dealing with it all.

  ‘I think,’ Buzz said, ‘that Mr Desmoulin could do with some help – an assistant, perhaps, to deal with correspondence?’

  Alex looked at him with slightly surprised curiosity. This was not the sort of thing that Buzz would normally raise with him. The watch and quarter bill, scheduling crew for duty, was very much the Exec’s responsibility.

  ‘What have you got in mind?’ he queried, since it was obvious that there was more going on with this than a mere addition to his admin staff.

  ‘Well,’ said Buzz, with an air of comfortable innocence, ‘I think it would be helpful to increase our supernumeraries by one, and both the current and impending workload certainly justifies appointing an additional adjutant.’

  Curiosity began to turn to suspicion. His flag rank entitled Alex to a full time adjutant either at CPO or junior Sub grade. As with his other flag entitlements, though, he had deployed the extra crew on general duties.

  ‘A flag adjutant, Buzz?’ His tone conveyed all the distaste he had for that suggestion. True enough, he was entitled to one, but as with the personal steward and chauffeur, only the most pompous captains actually made use of them. Doing so, indeed, was considered rather arrogant in the Fleet for anyone under full admiral rank.

  ‘Oh, what’s in a name?’ Buzz laughed that away. ‘We can call them an admin or liaison officer if you like – the point is we need someone, and I don’t just mean you, or me, or Mr Desmoulin. Mail is flooding in at us from all directions and as it stands, more than half the crew is involved in dealing with it.’

  That was no exaggeration, as Alex was aware. The lower level mail was farmed out to all the officers and quite a number of crew who’d each taken on responsibility for answering a particular kind of letter. There were several people, for instance, who answered letters from children, while others responded to such mail as letters from city mayors on their homeworlds.

  ‘There were one thousand, three hundred and twenty seven category A and B mail items transmitted from today’s courier,’ Buzz informed him. ‘There will be more, for sure, tomorrow. And within a few weeks, we may well be dealing with tens of thousands.’

  That was no exaggeration, either, as Alex had already seen the spurts in mail every time the news reached another world, delayed of course by however long it had taken that first outpouring of mail to get from that world to the Heron. Even now, without doubt, there were hundreds of thousands of letters hurtling towards them. It was the price – part of the price – they had to pay for President Arthas’ decision to go public with the news of Carrearranis’ discovery. Even screening out all the hate-mail from campaign groups and individual nutters – Category D mail – and low level stuff that could be dealt with by auto-reply systems – Category E – that still left a lot of letters that somebody needed to read and answer. Even Category C, personal mail, was becoming extreme. Anyone who had the slightest acquaintance with anyone aboard the Heron seemed to have been moved to send them a message of congratulation on the discovery and ask them questions about it. It was, as one of the crew had observed, just astonishing to discover how many friends he’d never known he had.

  Alex could only nod agreement, conscious of the forty six items of personal mail that had arrived for him that day, as well as the thirty seven VIP letters he was expected to respond to in time for tomorrow’s courier.

  ‘We have to get proactive, dear boy,’ Buzz told him. ‘Particularly in the light of the Solaran incident – I know only a very small proportion of the mail will be concerned with that, since the Guardian was never made public in the first place, obviously, but the people who are in the know about it will be clamouring for answers, and that isn’t going to be something that goes away any time soon, either. I would be surprised if we weren’t dealing with the repercussions from this, for years.’ He gave the captain a sympathetic smile as Alex looked pained. ‘We have to get someone in post to deal with it.’ He said. ‘And I have just the person in mind; young Ross, I think, would be perfect.’

  Alex looked at him.

  ‘Ross,’ he repeated, carefully noncommittal
, at which Buzz chortled again. Sub-lt ‘Rossy’ Ross was not the kind of officer Alex would pick, given a free choice. He had been recruited for the Minnow by Harry Alington and was very much the kind of officer he liked. Rossy Ross had been to the elite Class of 64 in the Academy and liked everyone to know it. He was an inveterate name dropper, too, and you wouldn’t have to know him long before he mentioned his uncle the admiral, his cousin the system senator and his mother in law, who was big in something to do with intersystem finance. He was not a man Alex would ever want to share a long shuttle journey with. Professionally, though, he did his work well and the Minnow’s crew, though they considered him something of a gasbag, respected the fact that he was a very capable technician.

  ‘Come on,’ Buzz coaxed. ‘He’s efficient, hard-working and his social networking skills are superb. Honestly, put him in a room full of VIPs for an hour and he’ll be on first name terms with most of them, and have the private contact numbers of anyone who might be of use to him, too. He’s ideal for this role, and I really think we need him.’

  Alex conceded the point by taking a drink of his sourmint tea, a very poor substitute for coffee but something he’d acquired a taste for.

  ‘It’s a lot to ask, though,’ he commented, having thought about it as he drank. There was a significant difference, professionally, between being the Sub on a corvette and a supernumerary admin officer aboard a frigate. It might technically be a step sideways, but in terms of status it would be a distinct step down.

  ‘Possibly,’ Buzz conceded, and then, as if struck by an idea, ‘but we could make up for that, dear boy, if we did make it a flag adjutant’s post.’

  Alex laughed, as it suddenly became clear to him that he had been gently waltzed around to the point of accepting the flag adjutant he’d been flatly refusing ever since his promotion to captain. And really, right here, right now, with all the problems Carrearranis was facing, it hardly seemed very important.