Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) (55 page)

The second image, though, was a revelation. It showed a parade ground surrounded by buildings. The architecture was stark, blocky, basic cuboids with rows of small windows. The sky was cloudy, with just two streams of air-traffic crossing some way behind where the parade was happening. And the parade ground was enormous. Picture analysis was estimating that there were fifty thousand people in the shot, and they still weren’t anything like filling up the space.

There were about twenty thousand standing in precise blocks in the centre. It was instantly recognisable as a military parade – they were all in uniforms, strikingly similar to the Fleet’s shipboard rig other than in the fact that it was bright, gleaming white. Zooming in on the people revealed that they were men and women, none of them looking any older than about twenty five, and all of the same genome. As Davie had also predicted from the Gide Disclosure information on their DNA, the Samartians were a light-boned people with pale skin, grey hair and blue eyes. Some of them had ashy blond hair and there was an occasional flick of ginger, but almost all of them, young as they were, had pepper-grey hair. All those in uniform had their hair cut short, with longer spikes like angular sideburns just in front of their ears. They were facing a big concrete structure on which a row of people was standing, facing them. Around the edge of the square, and almost as regimented, were rows of observers. They appeared to be civilians, some of them in the same kind of overall-style clothing but in other, muted fabrics while the majority were wearing variations on the theme of basic straight-legged pants and tube-armed tunics. The most noticeable difference was in their hairstyles – many of those watching, men and women both, had short hair other than for ringlets which curled down in front of their ears, often falling past shoulder length. Neither gender, military or civilian, appeared to be wearing make-up. The mood of the image was one of solemn celebration, faces in the parade showing pride, faces in the watchers showing admiration.

That was only, of course, a first, fleeting impression. There was enough information in that image alone to keep a team of analysts busy for weeks. They had hardly had time to take it in, though, when the next image was decoded.

Their request for a first-contact package had specified that they would value an image of a typical family at home. That was always very information-rich imagery, not least in analysing what that culture considered to
be
a ‘typical family’.

Here, the Samartians had provided an image of a family – eight of them – gathered around a boy who looked about ten years old.

That, too, was recognised by just about every member of the crew. There were few of them who didn’t have just such a picture in their family albums – parents, siblings, grandparents, gathered around them for a family snapshot of them in their new Fleet uniform. The boy was wearing the same kind of white rig they’d seen in the parade picture, and almost bursting with his pride in it, while the family around him were beaming delightedly. Two of them were clearly very old. It looked like four generations, there, celebrating.

The words
just like us
resonated through the ship. As thrilling as it had been to meet the highly exotic Gider, it was almost more exciting to find that the Samartians
were
just like them, at least in some respects. Part of that was that they were a very long way from home, feeling very exposed and vulnerable, and it was just a huge relief to feel that sense of kinship.

There was more to see, though, a
lot
more, and Alex had to set the images aside and focus on the information of most diplomatic importance.

Key to that was information about the Samartian government. It was very quickly apparent that this was not democratic; there was no mention of elections, or political parties.

‘Their society is organised in sectors, or units,’ Buzz told Alex, having been focussed on that information, himself. ‘Each sector seems to be responsible for producing a specified contribution to defence, though it isn’t clear what that is. It
is
apparent that local government is through bureaucratic oligarchy – certain jobs within the sector appear to carry an automatic place on some kind of local ruling body, perhaps our equivalent of a city council. It seems to be the managers of certain factories and people like senior doctors who are on this ruling body. Each sector pays this ‘defence contribution’ to the central government which is, as expected, military. It doesn’t appear to be a dictatorship, though – there’s no ‘Father of his People’ personality cult, it appears that you can only serve on the ruling junta, which they call the Dakaelin, for eight years. Service in the military clearly carries the highest status in society – its apparent that they select young, and those selected for training go to military academies. The most striking difference I can see is that there doesn’t appear to be any distinction between basic training for crew and training for officers. It looks to me as if officers are chosen from the ranks, with no separate entry as we have.’

Alex looked approving. He had been saying for years that the Fleet’s system was deeply flawed, denying many talented people the opportunity of a commission while Academies all too often recruited candidates on the basis of their family background rather than their actual abilities.

‘A meritocracy, then,’ he commented.

‘Well, in so far as we can judge, from the information they’ve given us,’ Buzz agreed, cautiously. ‘It looks as if promotion is competitive – hard to be sure with the matrix still a bit dodgy, but it talks about a thousand to the one, which I’m
guessing
means that for every thousand recruits at entry level, one rises to command seniority. Ultimately, the eight most senior ranking officers form the Dakaelin, which coordinates the defence contributions of the civilian sectors. It is two of their members we have been talking to – Lord Admirals, in our terms, Jurore and Tell. Of course we can’t verify any of this, but I think it’s reasonable, in the circumstances, to accept this as validation that we are, indeed, dealing with authorised representatives of the legitimate government.’

Alex smiled. ‘Good enough for me,’ he said.

There were other things he had to be satisfied about, though, before the Fourth could proceed beyond that exchange of basic information. Key amongst that was an evaluation of the civil rights situation on Samart.

‘There’s a lot about the responsibilities of the military,’ Buzz said, reporting back to Alex once he had assessed the data on that. ‘High honour, duty – it talks about sacrifice to guard the children, clearly a reference to protecting their world. Human rights are listed as the right to food, to shelter, to protection and to medical care. They also have something which translates as ‘The rights of Nature,’ which may be about the right to marry or have children. It seems at first sight to be civilised – I see nothing which would be a block to further progress.’

Alex nodded thanks, and looked at Mako Ireson. He had asked Mako, in his role as a League Prisons Inspector, to evaluate whatever information they were given about the judicial system on Samart. They had been passing information to him and he nodded, indicating that he was now ready to give a report.

‘It appears that their judicial system is administered by the military,’ Mako said. ‘From what I can see, laws appear to be pretty much equivalent to our own – protection of person and property – but there are major differences. They don’t appear to have any prisons, at
all.’
There was awe in his tone, at that, obviously a discovery of enormous importance to the prisons inspector. ‘They appear to use a form of house arrest for relatively minor offences and I
think
there seems to be some kind of restriction of access to food – Jer thinks that the word involved is ‘ration’ so offenders may be kept under house arrest on a restricted diet. But…’ he took a breath, and told Alex, ‘they do this thing – they evidently make a distinction between murder in the heat of emotion and what they call ‘the evil’, or we think it means evil – best guess is that it refers to cold blooded murder for gain, and possibly for treason which costs people’s lives – it’s complicated but Murg thinks that’s what it looks like. And for
that
, they have their ultimate sanction, removing a citizen’s rights. It looks like that’s
total
, skipper – it talks about it as if they become officially
dead
, unable to get food or housing or medical care or
anything
. And it
looks
like they might even be sent away from inhabited areas, entirely – the last thing they’re given is something called a humane box. There’s a reference to that elsewhere and Hali found a list of its contents – there’s something called a wild suit, basic tools, kind of like the kit that the army gives people for wilderness survival training. It also has a small medical kit,’ he swallowed, his gaze fixed on Alex’s, ‘which contains a suicide pill.’

Alex considered that, and glanced at Buzz, who gave a nod and look of assent.

‘I have no issue with that,’ Alex said, matter of factly.

Mako gaped at him.

‘
Huh
?’

‘Professionally, I mean,’ Alex said, and explained, ‘I have to determine whether this society is so tyrannical that we are ethically compelled to withdraw from developing contact with them. They are not torturing people to death for traffic offences, and that’s the level it would take, believe me, for that ethical condition to come into force. Whatever we may feel about their judicial system, there’s nothing there, so far, which would preclude us continuing with contact. And that, for right now, is all that matters.’

Mako had to accept that, though he was rather pale as Alex moved on to hear the next report. Alex, though, had no time to discuss his feelings – even as he was listening to Jonas Sartin telling him that the economy appeared to be one of state-controlled industry, Shion was yipping gleefully again and throwing another file onto the screens in front of him. It was, Alex saw, a timeline history of Samart and their war with Marfik.

‘Excellent!’ he said, and dived straight into reading it.

It was almost, just for a fraction of a second, annoying to be pulled from the deluge of files by a call from sickbay. If Simon was going to start trying to nag him about workload, Alex thought, they were going to have words.

Simon, however, was calling to tell him that Banno Triesse was awake.

‘Can’t make you lot rest even with sedatives,’ he complained. The truth was that Banno had begun showing signs of distress, struggling against the sedation. Simon, therefore, had got him out of the tank and allowed him to come around earlier than planned. ‘He’s asking for you, if you could spare a minute,’ Simon said, then added, with obvious amusement, ‘I think he wants you to thump me.’

That was
not
the reaction Alex would have expected from a patient who had every reason to be grateful to his doctor. It was apparent that Simon had not been joking, though. When Alex arrived in sickbay a minute later, he heard Banno Triesse calling the medic a very angry name.

‘Mr Triesse!’ Alex had intended to go in there with the quiet, sympathetic manner the situation required, but finding that he’d walked into a fight brought an immediate edge of authority. It was, he could see, a very one sided conflict. Simon was sitting on a mess deck table in the middle of sickbay, frankly laughing, while Banno was sitting up on his bunk, both legs dangling over the side. He looked furious. Rangi was nearby, hovering and making placatory noises.

‘What?’ Banno, in that moment, was the spacer who’d spent all his adult life working on freighters, the veneer of Fleet training forgotten. Then he saw Alex’s expression and remembered that he was not the first mate of a freighter any more, but an ordinary star rating on a frigate. ‘Oh – sorry, sir,’ he said, instantly embarrassed. ‘But sir,
tell
him!’ He stabbed a finger towards Simon. ‘He’s got to tell me! I’ve got
rights
!’

‘All right – quiet, now,’ Alex said, his tone firm but kind – rather like a kindergarten teacher, which was how he felt right then. ‘Dr Penarth?’

‘I am not going to tell him till he guesses,’ Simon declared, and pointed, in his turn, at Alex. ‘And
you’re
not going to tell him, either. Medical orders, captain!’

‘Tell him what?’ Alex enquired.

Simon indicated Banno, who burst out, red faced and near to tears, ‘He won’t tell me which leg he’s replaced!’

Alex managed not to laugh. It took him a moment, but his Novaterran heritage and Fleet training combined to give him the ultimate poker face, and he held it together then, turning back to the medic with a look of calm enquiry.

‘Dare I ask
why
?’

‘It is important,’ Simon stated, grandly. ‘I mean it, Alex. Seriously. You are
not
to tell him. He has to guess, first.’

Alex demonstrated the intelligence that had got him into this command, giving Simon a measuring look and then turning back to Banno.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I believe I do see his point. All you have to do is tell him which leg you think has been replaced, yes?’

‘But how am I supposed to
know
?’ Banno wailed in frustration and rage. ‘They both feel exactly the same! Just normal! How am I supposed to
tell
?’

Alex and Simon, quite unconsciously, tipped their heads to identical angles and gave him looks of cool, challenging amusement.

Banno looked from one of them to the other and then back again, his expression changing as the penny began to drop.

‘Ta daaa!’ said Simon, with a magician’s flourish.

There was a moment pregnant with possibilities, then Banno Triesse began to laugh.

It was laughter which collapsed very quickly into sobs, but Rangi was ready for that, moving in quickly with hugs and tissues. Simon just stayed where he was, grinning with happy satisfaction – this, even Alex could see, was a very healthy, normal reaction to waking up and being told that you’d been fitted with a cloned replacement leg. Anyone who didn’t freak out a bit and shed a few tears would be cause for concern, really.