Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) (51 page)

‘I see.’ Jonas gave a sober nod, and they all went back to the repair work. There was a sombre and uneasy mood aboard the ship, though – a sense of uncertainty, murmured conversations and dubious glances at the skipper on the command deck feed. It was as if the crew couldn’t quite understand his decision. It was apparent to Alex that many of them thought that he was so torn up with grief and guilt at losing one of his crew that he was prepared to let Simon do anything, even to conduct desperate, unethical experiments to bring Ali Jezno back from the dead. The word
zombification
was buzzing through the ship like an almost inaudible vibration.

Alex made no attempt to persuade them that he had been right to give Simon permission to operate. Time would tell whether that had been the right call, or not. And in the meantime, their unease was infinitely preferable to the alternative. They could, after all, be dealing with the shock and grief of Ali’s death.

They could not, in any case, spare much time to talk or think about it. They were still working flat out on second phase repairs and every available pair of hands was needed. They had not yet been able to get out of their survival suits. It was possible to use the built-in diaper facility or sip drinks through a clip-on unit, but everyone, by then, was craving either a lavatory or a hot drink, or both. The only place they were allowed to get out of their suits was sickbay – normally Alex would allow everyone comfort breaks on a rolling rota, but nobody wanted to disturb the medics right now, so all they could do was drive on with repairs. Alex would not stand them down until every life support system had a green light, and even then, not until he was sure that the Samartians weren’t about to fling another Marfikian attack at them.

He got that assurance after five hours, when the Samartians sent their longest signal yet. Jermane Taerling was able to help with the translation, by then, though he remained in the Second’s lab. Jermane had vomited in the aftermath of combat, though he had refused to be taken to sickbay to be treated for shock. His suit systems had cleaned him up as much as they could but his suit helmet was smeared and there was a revolting crust of dried sick on his face and neck that he couldn’t wipe away. He would not come back to the command deck till he could get out of his suit and have a shower. But he was determined to do what he could, pitching in with his own interpretation of the Samartian signal. As always, his translation was more word-for-word and less idiomatic than Davie North’s.

Your ship is big alternative slow. You have (untranslatable) guns. We see (untranslatable) mutually beneficial relationship. Where do you want to go? Be transparent. We must have the kicking deal.

‘Your ship is big but slow,’ Davie said. ‘Your gunnery is impressive. We see the potential for a mutually beneficial relationship. How do you want to proceed? Be specific. We need to know exactly what you want.’

Alex nodded. After the terrifying consequences of the previous misunderstanding, there was a temptation to play it very safe, here, and not say anything at all that might be misinterpreted. That, however, would ultimately end up with them saying nothing at all. The Samartians were being very clear, asking them to put their best offer on the table. If they hedged at this point, the deal might well be off. A straight, firm answer was essential.

So, Alex sent them a list. It was quite a long list, beginning with a request that the Samartians confirm that the person or people they were speaking to had the authority to negotiate on behalf of their world, and ending with a request for an agreement permitting future meetings between the League and Samartian representatives, either at their border or at some neutral location to be agreed between them. They asked, too, for any information that the Samartians felt able to give them which might aid in their own fight against Marfikian invasion. In return they offered a diplomatic gift from the peoples of the League to the people of Samart, an extensive database about them and their technology.

‘Tarros,’ came the answer, surprising no-one. It was to be expected, after all, that such major decisions would have to be referred to central authority.

Shortly after that, Alex was able to stand them down from action stations, enabling everyone to climb out of their survival suits. Alex gave Buzz ten minutes to have a shower, then went to his own quarters leaving the Exec in command.

His first action on emerging from his cabin just a couple of minutes later was to head straight to sickbay. There, however, he met with an obstruction. The door was locked, and when he tapped the comms panel beside it Simon did not open the door, just answered through comms, brusquely.

‘No visitors yet.’

Alex’s eyebrows rose, but he reminded himself that he was dealing with a civilian.

‘I’m not a visitor,’ he said, in the calm and reasonable tone he used when civilians were being particularly idiotic. ‘I’m the skipper. I have to visit casualties, it’s a command requirement.’

That was true, though he would have made it his first priority anyway, as soon as the ship and the rest of the crew were safe and stood down. Simon, however, did not seem impressed.

‘You are not coming in,’ he said, in a tone which made it very clear that no amount of discussion or attempting to give orders was going to get that door unlocked. Alex could use his command override to force it open, of course, but that would mean logging this as an incident of mutiny which would then trigger an Internal Affairs enquiry when they got back to port.

‘Simon…’ Alex said, in what even he knew was a token attempt at persuasion.

‘No.’ Simon did not even let him speak. ‘We are carrying out medical procedures in here which I will not allow you or anyone else to barge in on. Go away and leave us to work. I will tell
you
when you can come in.’ In a slightly different but still imperative tone, Alex heard him say, ‘Tell him!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Rangi sounded a little uncertain, himself, about taking sides with the civilian in disobeying the captain. It was evident, though, that Simon had the deciding word on this as far as Rangi was concerned. ‘But I do believe he’s right, it would be better if you didn’t come in yet.’

An Old School officer might have stood on his dignity at that point, insisting on obedience as a matter of principle. Alex, though, swallowed his own indignation, recognising that Rangi would not have said that unless he really believed it to be true. And, the welfare of the patients being paramount to all of them, he could only capitulate.

‘Very well,’ he said, rather coldly. ‘Just let me know as
soon
as I can visit.’

‘Wilco,’ said Simon, and shut off the comm.

Alex went to Mess Deck Two.

It was not yet habitable. The broken, half-melted furniture had been removed, including all the tables and chairs, four stacks of bunks and three banks of lockers. Temporary quarters had already been set up in the gym, using the folding bunks and inflatable lockers they carried for emergencies. Several of the crew had lost all their clothes and most of their other belongings when the blast and fire had ripped through their lockers. Supplies could replace their uniforms, but nothing could replace the personal mementoes.

‘Fourteen years I’ve had that shoe,’ one of the crewmen lamented. ‘I’ve took it with me every ship I’ve been on. My daughter’s shoe, t’is. My wife had her first baby shoes silvered, like, one for her and one for I, and her little handprint put on b’neath, an’ I’ve took it with me every ship as a lucky charm, like, and…’ he became aware, suddenly, that not only was one of his shipmates digging him in the ribs from behind with a discreet but urgent finger, but that he was getting warning looks from everyone around. Then he remembered. ‘Oh,
sorry
, skipper!’ his face flamed as he recognised that losing a baby shoe was nothing to a man who had lost his own daughter. Alex, though, gave him a brief but reassuring smile.

‘It isn’t a contest,’ he observed, obliquely. He felt sometimes as if other people couldn’t express their own complaints around him, so conscious of how trivial they were in relation to his own loss. ‘And obviously, it matters.’

The crewman mumbled an abashed acknowledgement.

‘T’isn’t your fault, skipper,’ he added.

Alex knew that it was. He was the one who had sent that signal telling the Samartians that they wanted to fight Marfikians with them. He could make any amount of excuses about the translation matrix and not knowing that Marfikians were in the area. He could even say that the signal had been compiled by Jermane Taerling and Davie North, only
approved
by him, so the responsibility should lay at least partly with them.

It would never even have occurred to him, though, not for one moment, to dodge any degree of responsibility for this.

And it was not, he knew, a disaster. Far from it. As time had passed and they’d recovered from the first shock, all of them had been taking stock of what they had achieved, against what they had suffered. Davie’s analysis had been shared, and widely discussed even as people were working. There was a feeling, more hinted at than stated aloud, that even if Ali had died, the information they’d gained and the progress they’d made in the relationship would make that sacrifice worthwhile. Alex himself would not have wanted to be put on the spot over whether he considered the casualties to be an acceptable price to pay for what they had gained. Time would tell that, both in terms of how the casualties recovered and in what they gained from the Samartians, long term.

For now, all he could say, in all honesty, was that given the same information he’d had at the time, he would have made the same decisions. It was the only comfort a commanding officer had at such a time, to know that they’d made the best call they could, given the information that they’d had.

Alex got no blame from any member of his crew, at any rate – no insincere greetings, no sidelong looks. Quite a few of them had their doubts about what he was allowing Simon to do, either because they shared Rangi’s ethical position or simply because the very word ‘zombification’ sent shivers of instinctive horror through them. None of them, though, would challenge his right to make that decision. Nor would they blame him for leading them into a Marfikian ambush. None of them had seen that coming, after all. And they were starting to realise just what they
had
achieved, as the first Fleet ship in living memory to defeat a Marfikian ship in combat. Some Thorns had been destroyed by Cherque’s automated defences as they’d strafed the system, but no Fleet ship had destroyed even one Marfikian Thorn for decades, and they would have to look in the history books to find the last time an entire trio had been taken out. Some of the crew were starting to celebrate their victory.

Shion wasn’t, though. She had been obliged to dock Firefly at an airlock until such time as the fighter’s docking bay had been repaired. Shion herself had been out there for some time, clearing away debris and doing what repairs she and her team could achieve. They were going to have to wait for the artificer’s department to machine them some duralloy fittings, though, which were quite low on the list of priorities.

Alex had seen that she was very quiet, after the combat. He had not insulted her by asking her if she was okay. None of them were okay at that point, and he wasn’t asking any of the other officers, after all. If she needed to talk to him, he knew, she would. But Alex found her at a console in the computer control section, running diagnostics faster than any human could have managed.

She looked around at his arrival, and to his surprise gave him a look which was not distressed, at all, but concerned for
him
.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, then caught herself up. ‘Oh – I’m not supposed to ask that, am I?’ She gave him a look of quick apology. ‘Command protocols, right?’

‘Right,’ Alex confirmed, and managed an answering smile. ‘I’m fine, though, thanks. And you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She spoke matter of factly, as if having destroyed a Marfikian Thorn was all in a day’s work. ‘It is easier than I thought it would be,’ she mused. ‘No guilt. It was a straight choice; fire or let them kill me and my friends. It is not a decision I can regret. I hope that it’s true they are unmanned, though.’

‘Me, too,’ Alex said, though he was conscious as he said it that there was some tiny part of him, some primitive, savage hindbrain part, that actually hoped they
had
inflicted casualties on the enemy that had done so much damage to his ship. ‘You did very well,’ he told her. ‘Thank you for all that you did, and all that you’re doing.’

Shion gave him a look which reminded him of the time when she’d told the League President exactly what she thought of his diplomatic efforts.

‘Are you saying that to all the officers?’

‘Actually, yes.’ A little to his own surprise, Alex felt himself break into a grin, amused by her severity. She might
say
that she was only an ordinary Sub-lt, but all the years of her upbringing and thousands of years of heritage behind that could suddenly come to the fore when she stood upon her dignity. In that moment she was every millimetre Chamlorn Lady Ariel, Grace of a Noble House. ‘It’s expected, you know. Fleet command policy; acknowledge extraordinary effort and give motivational encouragement in the wake of traumatic operations.’

Shion cracked into an answering chuckle, relaxing.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and admitted, ‘I’m a bit over-sensitive, I suppose, thinking people are singling me out for care and concern when I just want to be treated like everybody else.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ Alex assured her, deadpan. ‘Completely callous, me. Couldn’t care less how you’re feeling or coping with your first experience of combat, any more than I care about any of the other members of my ship’s company. Just, you know, going through the motions, as required by policy.’

Shion dissolved into a hoot of laughter, knowing that nothing could be further from the truth.

‘Okay, okay!’ she conceded. ‘You got me. But I
am
okay, skipper, honestly. A bit off balance, I suppose, but then, so is everybody else, yes?’