The silver fleet the com.., p.167
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 167
Confederation officers were regularly told that Yakutian technology was inferior, several decades behind what the Confederation had to offer but, as he took in his surroundings, he was having difficulty aligning the old rumor to the reality. By their very definition, entrance ways were often tired and care worn but this place looked brand new with strips of embedded lighting gently leading them into the ship. It felt almost as if they were the first people to have come this way. The place was so spacious, it would put a lot of Confederation ships to shame.
When they reached the top of the ramp Faulkner signalled for the others to stop. Up ahead, a comprehensive reception party had been laid out for them. He turned to the seven Marines who were bringing up the rear. “I think this is far enough.”
Their CO, a bull necked young major started to protest but Faulkner quieted him.
“We have an extremely sensitive situation here,” he said. “And I don’t want to risk jeopardising it.”
Faulkner’s own release from Dhaza had been postponed countless times and each time it’d felt like a betrayal.
“I understand that, sir,” the man’s ID tags identified him as Major Ellman. “But we have to consider everyone’s security and, with respect, if we’re not with you, we won’t be able to support you.”
“I appreciate that, son,” Faulkner said. “But there are times when you have to be prepared to take a risk.” He looked up to the main concourse. “And I think that this is one of those times. But trust me, we won’t take any needless risks. If things look to be ‘Going South,’ I’ll give the signal and we’ll be out of there.”
Elland looked from Faulkner to the group of Yakutian officials. He was still trying to come to terms with the realities of the situation but his regard for Faulkner over-rode all of that.
“Very good, sir,” he said, coming to attention. “We’ll wait on your signal.”
So, it was only the three of them who set off down the final stretch: Faulkner, McNeill and Smith the translator. Because of McNeill’s mobility issues, they had to slow the pace but that suited Faulkner.
He couldn’t help feeling anxious about what they were doing and, from the look on McNeill’s face, he wasn’t the only one. The Yakutians had developed a reputation over the years for setting up these handovers only to renege on them at the very last minute. In fact, the only successful hand-over he could recall had been his own. And that had been down to the tireless application of one woman.
Elsbeth Morton.
He’d come prepared in his full-dress blues and was trying to exude a relaxed attitude. The last thing he wanted to do at this stage was to spook the Yakutians. Because he fully expected this to go off without a hitch and not simply because he believed in the generosity of Captain Sunderam.
No. It was because Faulkner held the key to one of the most valuable assets the Yakutians could ever hope to possess – advanced alien technology. And he knew that they’d do almost anything to get their hands on it.
Still, if he did manage to pull off the repatriation of so many of his former crew members it would be nothing short of a minor miracle. With Schwartz still in the infirmary, it had been left to him to try to put together a medical team equal to the task of receiving such a mixed bag of prisoners. It had meant pulling some of his crew members away from their regular posts but he’d had little alternative. It would have been impossible to throw together a last-minute triage centre without ruffling at least a few feathers. They’d set it up in the cargo bay so that the prisoners needs could be dealt with as soon as they came onboard.
Everyone in the Yakutian delegation was looking in their direction and what struck him first was how young they all looked. Plus, their augmentations, though still visible, were much less noticeable than he’d been expecting. Clearly, there’d been a lot of changes in the Yakutian military in the last twenty years.
And, at the centre of all this, was Captain Sunderam, looking as tough and capable as Faulkner remembered him. Faulkner had pondered the likelihood that, after the inexplicable disappearance of his predecessor, Sunderam might have struggled to ensure loyalty within the ranks – the Yakutian House system seemingly designed to inspire rivalry and dissent – but there seemed to be no sign of that here. If anything, they seemed to be treating him with the utmost respect and, for his part, Sunderam appeared to be completely at ease with the situation, as if handovers like this happened every day.
The three Confederation officers lined up to salute their Yakutian counterparts who returned the courtesy with their customary stiffness. Then they were all served with a glass of sparkling wine before being encouraged to help themselves to the lavish buffet. Smith demurred while McNeill happily went around filling his plate.
Then it was time for the two captains to make their introductions with Sunderam speaking throughout in his perfect English. It was only when the bureaucrats spoke that Smith had to translate. If Faulkner had been expecting any tension he was to be disappointed with the bureaucrats going out of their way not to contradict their commander.
To one side of the main reception was a small area which had been set up for the formal signing over of the prisoners. This dragged on for far longer than was necessary with the bureaucrats insisting on reading out each document which then in turn had to be translated. And all for a series of documents which the two captains had drafted between them online. Still, what they were trying to achieve was quite monumental in one sense so, if all it took for things to run smoothly was for them to be a little overzealous with the paperwork, then so be it.
In fact, the only moment of friction came as the last of the Yakutian officers finished signing off on their documents. Faulkner, having finished adding his signature, stood up and beckoned McNeill and Smith forward to sign as witnesses.
As Smith came forward, one of the bureaucrats started snatching documents off the table while shouting at the others to do the same. Suddenly, the Yakutians turned on one another, each one attempting to drown out the other. It got to the point where even Sunderam didn’t seem to be able to placate them.
With everyone talking at once, Faulkner’s basic grasp of Coptic failed him, and he had to turn to Smith for clarification.
“What’s the problem?”
“I think it’s to do with me,” Ensign Smith said, her cheeks beginning to color. “They’re saying that if I sign, I’ll invalidate the documents.”
“But they were the ones who insisted on two witnesses,” Faulkner said through gritted teeth.
“That’s right, sir. Only they’re taking issue over my gender. The older gentlemen is insisting that, because I’m a woman, my signature won’t be legally binding under Yakutian law. It could be used as a pretence to render the whole process invalid.”
Faulkner took Sunderam off to one side.
“What do you want to do?” Faulkner said.
Sunderam rubbed his jaw. “It’s not ideal but I think that she has to sign it. We have to have witnesses on both sides.”
“But what if it comes back and bites us in the ass?”
“Your people will be long gone by then, captain,” Sunderam said, drily.
Faulkner considered the implications of this before leading Sunderam back to the table.
“Okay, I think that’s sorted,” he said.
Sunderam went over and took the papers from the bureaucrat who’d removed them. Then he laid them out, each in turn, for Smith to sign. She was so flustered that she rushed the first one but then, after looking to Faulkner for reassurance, seemed to calm down.
Then it was McNeill’s turn. The trouble was that there was no step to help him up onto the chair. Faulkner wasn’t sure if he should intervene, but he needn’t have worried, McNeill grabbed the seat and levered himself up into it. He then had to stand on the chair in order to make his mark but other than that it all went smoothly.
While the bureaucrats went over, checking that it was all in order, Faulkner became aware of a commotion behind him. When he finally turned around he saw that the main hanger door had been opened and that people were flooding through.
It took him several seconds to process what he was witnessing.
The remaining crew members of the Mantis had just been released.
Faulkner just stood there while the Yakutians continued to argue over the documents, completely unaware of what was happening around them.
The prisoners came forward in a rush only to pull up about ten metres short of Faulkner, seemingly confused as to what was expected of them. Most were dressed in threadbare versions of their old uniforms although a good many of them appeared to be wearing cast-off items of civilian clothing. Aside from looking under-nourished, they seemed overwhelmed by their new surroundings, suggesting that during their captivity they hadn’t seen much of the rest of the ship.
He wanted to go over and speak to them, but McNeill’s expression warned him off. They’d all agreed to avoid any emotional reunions until all the prisoners were safely aboard the shuttles. They wanted to avoid doing anything which could be construed as being critical of their hosts.
They had to maintain the impression that they were being as non-judgemental as possible. They were still some way off getting everyone out of there. They just had to keep it together.
The Yakutians, though, for their part seemed to have little interest in what was going on. They ignored the prisoners in the same way a farmer might ignore the oxen they’d just sold. They’d done the deal so it was time to move on. This was no place for foolish emotions.
Except Faulkner could feel his stony resolve beginning to crumble. These people had been through so much. They deserved some level of respect considering what they’d been through.
In lieu of anyone on the Yakutian side taking charge, McNeill and Smith took it upon themselves to direct the prisoners down the main ramp towards where the Marines would be waiting for them.
“What’s going on?” one of the women said, appearing confused. “Are we meant to be here?”
“It’s alright,” Faulkner assured them. “You’re being released.”
The woman looked bewildered but allowed herself to be directed down the ramp.
Faulkner flinched as someone cried out and he turned to see a young woman still wearing her ensign’s jacket just standing there allowing the press of people to by-pass her. She straightened her shoulders and raised her hand in a salute.
“Captain Faulkner?” the woman was slightly built but her voice was loud and clear.
Faulkner returned the salute.
“Ensign Roberts. Very good to see you again.”
“Good to see you too, sir.”
She opened her mouth to say more but then the crowd surged forward and she was gone.
“How many are we meant to have, sir?” Smith asked.
“The paperwork says a hundred and forty-seven.”
“But our last report said only eighty-four.”
Faulkner narrowed his eyes. “You’re not disputing the accuracy of Yakutian paperwork are you, ensign?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” she said before going to the aid of a man who had started moving off in the wrong direction.
McNeill came and stood next to Faulkner.
“Everything alright, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, somewhat distractedly. “Only, I thought she might be here by now.”
“Doctor Morton?”
“That’s right. Or, rather, Surgeon Captain Morton. I was led to believe that she was the officer in charge.”
Sunderam turned at that. “Something I can help you with, captain?”
Faulkner repeated Morton’s name and rank first to Sunderam and then to one of the officials who checked through the manifest. The man checked it twice before turning back to Sunderam and shaking his head.
“I’m afraid not, captain,” Sunderam said. “Have you got anything else for us to go on. A Christian name, perhaps.”
Was this some sort of game?
She had to be here. He’d spoken to her.
Faulkner looked about him as the sea of bodies surged past. One or two of them raised a hand in acknowledgment but he hardly noticed.
He turned his attention to the official.
“Elsbeth. Elsbeth Morton,” he even spelled it out for him.
The man made a few adjustments to his data pad before handing it to Sunderam.
“We have an Elsbeth Bayas,” he said. “But, according to this, she isn’t a ranking officer.”
“No, I had to give that up.”
They all turned in the direction of the woman’s voice.
Faulkner could only stand and stare in disbelief. The woman in front of him bore little resemblance to the one he’d last seen on the Mantis.
She was wearing a heavy wool jacket tied at the waist and a conical hat which she now removed, revealing an unflattering haircut. And yet for all her dowdiness, there was something about her eyes which demanded attention. An intensity which few could match.
Morton turned to one side and brought forward a Yakutian young enough to be her son.
“Had to give it all up when I married this fellow.”
The young man bowed courteously to Faulkner.
“Married?” Faulkner said simply.
“Yes,” Morton said. “Didn’t you get the invitation?”
She laughed distractedly though it did nothing to dispel the sense of awkwardness.
“But why?” Faulkner said.
Morton looked to Sunderam for an explanation but, when none was forthcoming, she simply batted the question away. “Long story.”
Faulkner stared straight at her and, for her part, Morton stared straight back.
“So, this is your husband?” Faulkner said, stepping forward to belatedly offer his hand.
She introduced them as they shook hands.
“Bayas was the one who…” she looked to Sunderam.
“Helped liberate Captain Faulkner,” Sunderam said. “I’ve seen the surveillance footage myself. In a moment he’ll no doubt be asking you for political asylum.”
“In which case,” Faulkner said, though he was looking at Morton. “I’d be only too happy to comply.”
By this time, the last of the prisoners had filed past and Faulkner turned back to Sunderam.
“Captain, I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve done for my people.”
“I only wish that we could have done more,” Sunderam said.
“Oh, but I think you have,” Morton said playfully. She turned to a group that had been waiting at the far end of the cargo bay. She beckoned them over.
“What’s this?” Faulkner asked as the group approached pushing twin hospital beds. “More survivors?”
“Sort of,” Morton said before walking across to meet them. “Though I’m not even sure you’ll be able to remember these two reprobates.”
Faulkner heard someone gasp and then realised it was him.
If these two were who he thought they were they’d both lost a considerable amount of weight. The broader of the two appeared to be of Asian descent while the other, despite the obvious hardships he’d suffered, still managed to retain a certain rakish charm.
“I give you Lieutenant Yamada and Lieutenant Commander Bertran.”
Faulkner found himself standing between the pair of them, grabbing hold of Bertran’s hand while hooking his arm around Yamada’s neck. All the while, he was staring at both of them in disbelief.
“Well, I …” he said his voice straining with emotion. “Have you ever seen such a sorry looking pair?”
The big man, Yamada, laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good to see you too, sir.”
Bayas and Morton took charge of the two beds and started pushing them over in the direction of the ramp.
Sunderam turned to Faulkner as they departed. “I’m afraid that your former Surgeon Captain got caught up in a clash between two of our Houses. I would have preferred to have kept her out of it but, as it was, she acquitted herself admirably.”
A clash between two of our Houses , Faulkner thought. Anywhere else, that would be called a mutiny.
Sunderam said, “I take it you’re familiar with the way that our Yakutian Houses operate, captain?”
Faulkner gave a hesitant nod. “Your noble families aspire to build up alliances in order to strengthen themselves both politically and militarily. Is that about right?”
“In layman’s terms, yes. It’s based on generations of social and cultural conflict. Each House aspires to overall dominance but it’s a process fraught with compromises. What seems like strength from the outside is undermined by shifting loyalties and a mutual distrust.”
Sunderam gave him at significant look, as if suggesting that this was a process he’d long grown tired of.
“It sounds like a very dangerous game to play,” Faulkner said, his eyes shifting to the two young officers who were approaching.
One of them looked to be carrying something.
Sunderam said, “I’m sure that Captain Muhbarat would agree with you there.”
“What’s this?” Faulkner said as the two officers came to attention.
The first one was holding up a long sword, still in its scabbard. The second one stepped around in order to take it, lifting the sword perpendicular to the ground. He stopped when it reached eye level.
“We have a tradition in my culture,” Sunderam said. “If a commander finds himself isolated, cut-off with no hope of rescue there is no need for him to sacrifice himself and his men. He simply acknowledges his opponent’s tactical excellence and simply leaves the field.”
Faulkner felt like he was back at the Academy being lectured on the importance of knowing one’s enemy.
“And how does he manage that?”
“He surrenders his sword. It is as a sign that he has been out-maneuvered. There is no disgrace in acknowledging a superior opponent.”
“And is that what happened to Muhbarat? Did he just walk away?”
“Captain Muhbarat was, I’m afraid, a man full of foolish arrogance. He refused to concede even when it was clear that his cause was lost. Because of him, many good men needlessly lost their lives.”
