Which just left personal factors. I don’t want to go into the front line again.
“It’s an important decision,” he muttered.
André gave him a puzzled look. Naturally he was pleased some of the (diabolically expensive) medical nanonic packages were off, but obviously the poor boy’s brain still hadn’t completely recovered from decompression. And Madeleine was asking him to decide. Merde. “We know that, Erick. But I don’t want you to worry. All I need to know is which of my crew is loyal enough to come with me. I have already decided to take my ship to New California.”
“What do you mean, loyal enough?” Madeleine asked hotly.
André held his hand up in a pleading gesture. “What does Erick have to say, eh?”
“Will we be docking with anything in the New California system? Do you expect us to take on any extra crew, for example?”
“Of course not,” Girardi said. “Fuel loading doesn’t require anyone coming into the life-support capsules. And if the unlikely event does arise, then obviously you’ll have a full veto authority over anyone in the airlock tube. Whatever precautions you want, you can have.”
“Okay,” Erick said. “I’ll come with you, Captain.”
“Yeah?”
. . .
“Fuck, I might have guessed, who else is going to call this time of night. Don’t you people ever sleep?”
. . .
“Everybody wants favours. I don’t do them anymore. I’m not so cheap these days.”
. . .
“Yeah? So you go run and tell my comrades; what use will I be to you then?”
. . .
“Mother Mary! You’ve got to be . . . Alkad Mzu? Shit, that’s a name I didn’t expect to hear ever again.”
. . .
“Here? In the Dorados? She wouldn’t dare.”
. . .
“You’re sure?”
. . .
“No, of course nobody’s said anything. It’s been months since the partizans even bothered having a meeting. We’re all too busy doing charity work these days.”
. . .
“Mother Mary. You believe it, don’t you? Ha! I bet you lot are all pissing yourselves. How do you like it for a change, arsehole? After all these years waiting, us poor old wanderers have gone and got us some real sharp teeth at last.”
. . .
“You think so? Maybe I just resigned from your agency. Don’t forget what the issue is here. I was born on Garissa.”
. . .
“Fuck you, don’t you fucking dare say that to me, you bastard. You even so much as look at my family, you little shit, and I’ll fire that fucking Alchemist at your home planet myself.”
. . .
“Yeah, yeah. Right, it’s a sorry universe.”
. . .
“I’ll think about it. I’m not promising you anything. Like I said, there are issues here. I have to talk to some people.”
The party was being thrown on the eve of the fleet’s departure. It had taken over the entire ballroom of the Monterey Hilton, and then spread out to occupy a few suites on the level below. The food was real food; Al had been insistent about that, drunk possessed could never keep the illusion of delicacies going. So the Organization had run search programs through their memory cores and hauled in anyone who listed their occupation as chef, possessed or non-possessed. Skill was all that counted, not its century of origin. The effort was rewarded in a formal eight-course banquet, whose raw materials had been ferried up to the asteroid in seven spaceplane flights, and resulted in Leroy Octavius handing out eleven hundred hours worth of energistic credits to farmers and wholesalers.
After the meal Al stood on the top table and said: “We’re gonna have a bigger and better ball when you guys come back safe, and you got Al Capone’s word on that.”
There was a burst of tumultuous applause, which only ended when the band struck up. Leroy and Busch had auditioned over a hundred musicians, whittling the numbers down to an eight-strong jazz band. Some of them were even genuine twenties musicians, or so they claimed. They certainly sounded and looked the part when they got up onstage to play. Nearly three hundred people were out on the dance floor jiving away to the old honky-tonk tunes which Al loved best.
Al himself led the way, hurling a laughing Jezzibella about with all the energy and panache he’d picked up at the Broadway Casino back in the old days. The rest of the guests soon picked up the rhythm and the moves. Men, Al insisted, wore their tuxes or, if they were serving in the fleet, a military uniform; while the women were free to wear their own choice of ball gowns, providing the styles and fabrics weren’t anything too modern. With the decorations of gossamer drapes and giant swans created out of fresh-cut flowers the overall effect was of a grand Viennese ball, but a damn sight more fun.
Possessed and non-possessed rubbed shoulders harmoniously. Wine flowed, laughter shook the windows, some couples snuck off to be by themselves, a few fights broke out. By any standard it was a roaring success.
Which was why at half past two in the morning Jezzibella was puzzled to find Al all by himself in one of the lower level suites, leaning against its huge window, tie undone, brandy glass in one hand. Outside, star-points of light moved busily through space as the last elements of the fleet manoeuvred into their jump formation.
“What’s the matter, baby?” Jezzibella asked quietly. Soft arms circled around him. Her head came to rest on his shoulder.
“We’ll lose the ships.”
“Bound to lose some, Al honey. Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
“No, I mean, they’re gonna be in action light-years away. What’s to make them do as I say?”
“Command structure, Al. The fleet is a mini-version of the Organization. The soldiers at the bottom do what the lieutenants at the top tell them. It’s worked in warships for centuries. When you’re in battle you automatically follow orders.”
“So what if that piece of shit Luigi takes it into his head to dump me and set up all on his own in Arnstadt?”
“He won’t. Luigi is loyal.”
“Right.” He chewed at a knuckle, thankful he was facing away from her.
“This bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s a goddamn problem, okay? That fleet is one fuck of a lot of power to hand over to one guy.”
“Send two others.”
“What?”
“Put a triumvirate in charge.”
“What?”
“Easy, lover; if there’s three of them in charge of the fleet, then each of them is going to be busting his balls to prove how loyal he is in front of the others. And let’s face it, the fleet’s only going to be away for a week at the most. It takes a hell of a lot longer than that to get a conspiracy up and running successfully. Besides, ninety per cent of those soldiers are loyal to you. You’ve given them everything, Al; a life, a purpose. Don’t sell yourself short, what you’ve done with these people is a miracle, and they know it. They cheer your name. Not Luigi’s, not Mickey, not Emmet. You, Al.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, drawing his confidence back together. What she said made a lot of sense. It always did.
Al looked at her in the drizzle of starlight. The personas were combined tonight: a feminine athlete. Her dress of sparkling pearl-coloured silk hinted at rather than revealed her figure. The allure she exerted was terrifying. Al had been hard put to control his temper that evening as he picked up the swell of hunger and lust from the other men on the dance floor every time she glided past.
“Goddamn,” he whispered. “I ain’t never done anything to deserve a reward as big as you.”
“I think you have,” she murmured back. Their noses touched again, arms moving gently into an embrace. “I’ve got a present for you, Al. We’ve been saving it up as a treat, and I think the time’s right.”
His hold around her tightened. “I got the only treat I need.”