THE ALBATROSS
PART ONE
"I HAVE SEEN …"
1) Inceptions
ICE07
INDIAN OCEAN GEOSTATIONARY PLOT
On a clear night with enhanced-vision aids, an antediluvian monster could be seen either occluding the stars or as a glinting speck. To those with enough magnification it appeared black, ugly and massive; even at a remote orbital distance it seemed to possess an aura of Juggernaut size and power. Those two factors were linked, of course. Under the De La Salle Treaty, no heavier-than-air vehicle could use nuclear fission as a motive power source. Fusion power became the answer, then; when constructed many years ago even the smallest such fusion power plant had been huge and an equally huge vehicle necessary to carry it. Fifteen thousand tonnes dead-weight. When first launched a plethora of jokes came into existence about it falling out of the orbit. Vehicle ICE 07, property of the Federated Concordat, Executive Assembly, UNION branch thereof. A bane of miscellaneous protest groups ranging from hard-core ecologists to politically extreme freedom activists, through a middle ground of perturbed air-traffic controllers and nervous airline pilots. ICE01 to ICE06 had never seen the light of day for various political and fiscal reasons, so ICE07 carried their collective burden.
All such information was on record (file FCEAUo772CF725) and some of it even accessible to the public, such as the fact that aboard ICE07 there was an observation deck, from which, logically enough, staff observed.
One member of staff seemed to be observing currently; through the triple-insulated porthole he could gaze uninterruptedly to the Indian Ocean if he chose to do so. From this altitude the naked eye could only pick out major geographical features but for the moment the onlooker didn't pay any attention to the view. Matters other than the aesthetic occupied his mind. For instance: almost overnight the number of "incursions" across the Ararat demarcator had increased enormously. Clearly a major incident was in the offing, although quite what it would be remained unclear. Perhaps the Armenians were trying to gain the initiative before negotiations concluded. Or possibly the Russians were trying to trigger a FedCon intervention-cum-overreaction; did Asala sanction the Armenian action or not, perhaps a splinter faction was trying to poison relations to embarrass their elders and supplant them; or could the Turks have settled their traditional enmity between themselves and the Russians in order for both to remove a mutual problem, that being the Armenians? There were many questions with few definitive answers yet. Time would tell, as it usually did, but time was a luxury in short supply. Another matter pre-occupying the watcher was the absence of his Number Two, a drawback becoming more irksome every day. Apparently the man had stepped out of the shuttle terminal at Yaleko in Zaire forty-plus hours ago and hadn't bothered to check in since then. That meant breaking at least three important rules which staff were supposed to observe like the word of God. If the errant Number Two did condescend to call in there would be a display of verbal pyrotechnics directed from the watcher at his new arrival.
Frowning, the observer checked his personal chrono against the two-metre wall display version. There was a call due from Luxembourg Customs Control in less than twenty minutes. Because of Internal Net - a euphemism for "office spying" - he knew what the call would concern: a highly specific smuggling case. Hence, forewarned, he had armed himself with relevant information.
'Fenestre,' intoned the watcher. A scavenger microphone swivelled toward him as it picked up the keyword. 'Patch me through to September Station. Make it a secure link.'
Tinny white noise rolled around the observation deck. Gradually it resolved itself, becoming a decipherable voice: the duty officer responding to his superior's call..
'Channel open, sir. You're through.'
September Station was near Kirovakan in Armenia. A hundred assorted members of the FAA, UNION and seconded Civil Infrastructure were based there with a patently impossible brief: prevent any confrontations and maintain the peace, prior to the anticipated Ararat Convention of July. Despite tonnes of communication, surveillance, intervention and observation equipment,; despite trucks, jets, helijets and other varieties of transport; despite experience, responsibility and ability the September Station team were stretched to their absolute limit. There was a personnel shortage Downside in observer arms and it showed most typically at Kirovakan.
'Lansing? This is Weiss.'
Loud hissing from a speaker cabinet.
'Ah - yes sir, Lansing here.'
'Lansing, any more progress in resolving those incursions? I see they're up to five a day now.'
More hissing and a pregnant pause.
'No, sir.'
'No, Lansing? Why not?' Soft but very insistent. His annoyed voice.
'Perimeters are too large, sir. We need another hundred and fifty people to cope. So far we've only interdicted seventeen hostile missions, and the locals either can't or won't help us. They just don't want to have anything to do with us.' Well, that was nothing new, Weiss, the observer, reflected.
'Alright, Lansing. I will arrange for a transfer from the current reserves. I'm sure we have some lurking somewhere. Ah - that'll take several days to arrange, and I cannot say how many you'll get.'
Lansing began to answer.
'Just a moment. I can also - yes, I can get September Station preferential access on Polsat. Duty Officer will sort details out presently. How's that?'
'Oh. Ah. Thank you, sir.'
'And Lansing, I expect a reduction in the number of so-called incidents. Amen.'
Sitting in her dusty cabin, Lansing sat back to think for a second or two. A dedicated Polsat channel meant rapid access to accurate information; people, personalities, psychological profiles, radar-scanned pictures, psephological data, census reports - anything and everything that FedCon knew was available via Polsat.
Aboard the Iceberg the link with September Station was broken with a minor chord cue.
'Fenestre. Ovalis.' Two keywords that switched through the electronic innards of ICE07 and alerted the Duty Officer, Tomas Bibor, posted in the Elint Room keeping an eye on three communications assistants who could guess Weiss was active because their workload had suddenly increased.
'Duty Officer here.'
'Two priority actions for you. Got a notepad ready?'
Bibor hastily located a light-pen and greenscreen as one of his technician charges keyed in the appropriate page number while he waited.
'Number One, Crash Priority. Open a dedicated channel from September Station to Polsat, a dozen conduits with one reserved for emergency access. They have an enhanced communications unit Downside that'll accept anything from D through to H channels. Tie in the details with Commander Lansing. I think she's a commander but these civilian crossover ranks are confusing.'
Bibor needed to paraphrase, unable to keep up while Weiss raced on.
'Number Two, Urgent Priority. Get a battalion together from FAA reserves. If they can't - or won't - release, then … ah, then they won't release and we'll have to request from other sources. Provisionally, if FAA wont release, go to Major General Lafarge - that's spelt L-A-F-A-R-G-E - of the French Force de Frappe, current address in the Blue Book. His turn in the duty roster. Make sure you communicate directly with Lafarge and don't accept any brush-offs. Explain our reasons for having to contact him, that it's urgent. Regardless of who agrees to help, alert FLO for transit arrangements. Also inform Kirovakan, with an estimated arrival time. Amen.'
Bibor scribbled frantically. He was aware that Weiss might well decide to ask the DO to repeat verbatim his instructions and woe betide any inaccuracies or omissions. Thank God for the greenscreen; it remembered everything inscribed into it and recalled on demand.
The three communications assistants looked up at Bibor with some mirth, amused that their superior needed to work as diligently as them. Their levity lasted only a few seconds before incoming and internal calls once again occupied their attention.
Weiss checked times again. Custom's call was late, but there seemed no point in trying to attempt anything in the delay because if he started work they were bound to interrupt. Instead he turned his attention to the empty observation deck. Normally half-a-dozen off-duty personnel would be lounging around playing chess or go, reading, talking, viewing and generally being constructively idle. Not now. Due to some problematical reason, doubtless his presence, people had decided to stay away for the duration.
A speaker cabinet pinged into life.
'Call coming through, sir. Customs Control in Luxembourg. For your attention only, putting them through.'
This call had sound and vision, high-definition both. It ought to have since it came from FedCon's beating heart, not a dusty outpost in the Trans-Caucasus.
'Hello?' asked the caller. 'Are you there?'
By accident or intent, the call had been patched through to one of the seclusion viewing screens in a carrel rather than the main wall-mounted one. Weiss tutted to himself and found the active viewer.
'Weiss speaking. What is it, Kisangani?'
A Negroid face peered out of the screen, narrow-eyed. He couldn't see Weiss although the latter could see him. It felt uncomfortable to communicate in such a way.
'Are you going to vision, Colonel Weiss, or not?'
'Not.'
Awkward, thought Kisangani. Deliberately awkward, in fact.
'Is this a secure channel, Weiss?' he riposted.
'You're talking to UNION - of course it's secure.'
'Then I'll be brief. We have a counterfeiting problem.'
'I know. Pirate poly-plastics.'
'Yes. I thought you might know already. As I said, a counterfeiting problem exists. Someone has managed to produce copies of the original material, without a manufacturing licence. Grossly inferior in quality of course but at a fraction of the original's price. The Kuwaitis are leaning very heavily on FedCon. They want us to take effective action at once.'
Weiss nodded to himself. Of course they wanted action immediately - they wanted their extremely lucrative licence protected. Sound commercial sense.
'Well, Kisangani, why should we undertake a commercial protection?'
The two of them both knew the answer: because Kuwaiti plasto-dollars brought considerable weight to bear whenever they were deployed.
'At present, Weiss, I am just making a suggestion. Which is, although Customs Control has had the message from Kuwait, let UNION carry out the investigation. If you haven't already begun to do so.'
'Why would we do any such thing?'
'Ah! Although we - that is, Customs Control - would take the credit for the operation publicly, the Kuwaitis would be indebted to you. So would we.'
Weiss pondered, for effect.
'Agreed, provisionally. Amen.'
He'd recorded the whole interview and could play it back later through the analyser to see if Kisangani was lying or not. Doubtless there was subterfuge afoot. UNION, being forewarned about the piracy problems, already had an agent on the assignment. From background knowledge on file and their agent's research, UNION deduced that the pirate poly-plastic was being manufactured Downside and not in an orbital laboratory as normal. As Kisangani said, it was inferior in quality to the "real stuff" made under licence from Kuwait. Such was always the problem with pirate poly-plastics; unless the correct ratio of catalysts to poisons in the right concentration was used (sapphire micro-wires and californium) the self-propagating filaments sheared very quickly; nor could sufficiently pure catalysts be created anywhere but in the sterile, weightless conditions to be found only in the orbital laboratories. There were several technical wrinkles to the process, but they could be worked out simply using trial and error (simple but horrifyingly expensive). No, the real problem was always the catalytic one, so why did a partially successful counterfeiter tip their hand by selling inferior copies?
His thoughts broke rank and he re-mustered them. Damn, thought Weiss, where in seven hells had Chernovsky gotten to? This is his provenance, not mine. He'll get thoroughly lasered when he returns.
Return. The word make him think of his own eventual trip Downside, which in turn made him walk back to the observation window. Below, remote and scintillating, was a vast flat panoply of white, a flocculation of clouds drawing together in an aerial maelstrom over the Indian Ocean.
There was a storm due. A big one.
Alex got into work at South Benford at ten past nine on Saturday morning. He was anxious and grouchy, having lost his parking slot to an intrusive pair of slab-cabs. Before even entering the office he knew McDuff would crack a sardonic comment about late arrival - though flexi-timers could start as late as twelve - with a patronising air. McDuff waited until his employee finished punching a start-time into his flexi-card before bothering to look up and wink ostentatiously. Alex felt a hot flush rise unbidden to his cheeks. Yes. Everybody else had already arrived, had already clocked in and were all working. Normally Alex got in first, simultaneously with the security people, in fact; it seemed important to his personal work ethic. Now he was late.
From behind his desk unit he frowned at McDuff, then Neil, then Moira. They all scowled back. Ah, thought Alex, behave yourself and be practical, busy yourself. Tea. A drink helped to start the day and kept it rolling along. But, having only just arrived, could he really sneak off to the geyser alone or need he offer to make tea for all - ten others in total? You had to observe office etiquette, after all. Better to look diligent; first, unlock all desk drawers; second, produce a pen, a pencil, an eraser, a sharpener, a ruler, ten sheets of high-quality paper, a pad of low-quality reprocessed paper, an electronic file, a set of official pseudo-rubber stamps, a stapler, staples, paperclips, a memo book, a large flat sheet of plastic and a small paper-weight hologram of Mars; thirdly, organise everything into a neat symmetrical arrangement on the desk-top; four, begin to work.
After an hour of mild inspiration he had sketched out a few ideas that seemed to offer prospects for the future. His ideas had germinated after seeing a CIPRO One file, laid out so:
CIPRO ONE
Main Brief: what organ, structure or section of Federated Concordat do you trust the least; consider any part of the Executive Assembly as liable; answer only on a dimension of two factors ("yes" or "no")
OVERALL (1)RANKED
FAA112
DRA09
FLO28
SMEX35
UNION671 (2) (4)
CI63
MJO35
SC35
NPRC45
FCS09 (3)
Error factor /- 0.125
Sample size 187 000
Age range 13 - 67 Years (Full breakdown in Appendix A)
(1) Responses taken within 10 seconds
(2) UNION is the smallest branch of the Executive Assembly
(3) Fiscal Co-rdination Sector 3 of respondents knew of this agency
(4) In the last triennial questionnaire, UNION also scored 67
His attention was snared by those figures about UNION. Responses such as those were nothing novel when referring to the Federated Concordat, even less so when specific reference was made to UNION. The former was mistrusted, the latter intensely so - possibly more than any other organisation in the world. As a result Public Relations were lumbered with a permanent headache: make UNION acceptable. Not a new problem, it had been a problem since the inception of FedCon back in Oslo in 2017.
Still, there were possibilities. The appendices revealed that pre-literate, pre-pubescent children (predominantly males) were least distrustful of UNION. Now, reckoned Alex, given that, it ought to be possible to build from their ingenuous attitude. Not in the short-term, though. Nor even medium term. No, what this would deliver was a frame of mind, perhaps fifteen years hence, in its target audience. Hardly a concrete result within the current quarter, which might mean a lack of interest from the higher-ups.
Alex would have begun a second draft if he hadn't suddenly realised how thirsty he was. And -
'Back with us?' asked McDuff as the Serb looked up.
'Pardon?' People were smiling. At him, probably.
'Where were you? On Mars? Colleen and Mary tried talking to you. So did I. I mean, working is one thing, but really …'
'Oh. Ah. Sorry.' He twitched the end of his moustache in embarrassment.
McDuff shook his head wryly. Petrovic could take his work to extremes and did so at times like this; a good worker when it came down to hard graft, but, well, perhaps a little over-committed. The A127 on Petrovic stated " … attempts to succeed whenever possible; appears driven by an unusual but commendable level of motivation, for a Federated Concordat déclassé employee. Classed as Positive Plus."
'You didn't even tell us why you were late.'
Alex pushed back his seat on it's castors and stood up to stretch. Looking about, he made an exaggerated gesture of surprise. Neil treated him with amused scorn.
'What are you doing, you div?'
'Aha. I notice very interesting thing,' he said, using a thick, cod-Yugoslav accent. 'Very interesting.'
Rising to the bait, people chorused "What?" at him.
'No tea! Tea, you know, stuff to drink. Essential liquids and all that. I volunteer to make tea for all.'
A noble thing to do. In order to make what Alex delighted in calling a "cuppachar" great care was needed, because there was only instant tea (brand name "Blast!"), the milk came from soya not a cow and had to be treated carefully or it temperamentally curdled, nor was their sugar completely blemish-free. Neil volunteered to help - not out of magnanimity but simply as an excuse to avoid work - and helped by opening doors from Room Nine to the geyser at the lifts of Floor Twenty Seven, whilst Alex followed carrying a heavily-laden tray.
'Why were you late, you idle skiving git?' asked Neil, characteristically rude to his friend, lolling about whilst the geyser boiled and Alex brewed.
'Why I was late. Well, because there is a demonstration at Wembley this afternoon. I got held up by thousands of screaming lunatics rampaging across Werneth Street, on their way to meet. They must have some special event planned, I think.'
'Oh yeah, right. Civil Rights demo, I think. Police should have been marshalling them. Maybe that's why they came early.'
The tea geyser gave a high-pitched whine, telling everyone that hot water was now available. The two now needed to act fast before half the staff on this floor came to see how much water they could poach.
'Nice tea, Alex, you definitely have a way with it.'
He received a chorus of thanks which mellowed his attitude slightly and allowed him to recount his delay of that morning.
'Can we have the radio on?' asked Peter, foolishly thinking that a mere cup of tea had mellowed Senior Supervisor McDuff.
'No.'
Sibilant mutterings from behind the computer consoles. The official reason for banning "active usage of electronic communications equipment capable of audio output in a public area" was that they interfered with the computers operating in the office, though unofficially it was held that FedCon just enjoyed being petty.
Alex went back to his drafting. In essence, he proposed to positively impress a target audience, primarily males, of age ten and under, because they were most receptive, via the projection of UNION as a high-tech espionage and security agency combining the more attractive aspects of military life with idealised and even romanticised intelligence organisations. By avoiding dull complications such as technicalities, legal aspects and administration; by using only entertaining, interesting and straightforward affairs taken from past cases or simply inventing adventures - all those would combine to capture an audience. If Research and Development's findings had any potential at all then perhaps further investment would follow; Alex could see possibilities for a range of toys - replica vehicles, maybe - and maybe facsimile faxsheets to propagate a cult status.
It was no simple matter to describe this in the official jargon and exposition so beloved of FedCon, requiring three hours to set down. This meant Alex missed his lunch at the appointed hour but because he felt he was doing so well he carried on until -
'Hey, Alex, you can stop for tea, you know. We don't slave-drive in England. Not any more.'
'Pete, you make the tea, okay?'
'Is it my turn?'
'Yes!' said McDuff. 'And we need more milk. Use this.' He took out a note from their tea fund safe-box.
'Have I been volunteered to get milk as well?' moaned Peter, clearly regretting raising the subject at all. 'I've got to go to the Precinct to get milk.'
'Well do it now while there's still daylight around.'
The Precinct, five minutes walk from the Civil Infrastructure block, had an evil reputation after dark. Whilst Peter disappeared for milk and tea, his fellow staff conducted a little character assassination. There was also a parallel discussion about how to correctly process a CIPRO Two file through an M13 office terminal, if the requisition was also a CIPRO Two file. Peter was the one who ought to know exactly how to process the file in question - although everyone insisted he actually knew nothing about it.
'He's a stupid tosser.' Neil's succinct and matter-of-fact judgement. 'He still thinks Red Rock and Krasny Kameniev are two different places.'
'He thinks Red Rock comes from Blackpool,' added Moira.
McDuff snorted derisorily.
'Peter would,' he said, though as a Senior Supervisor he should have theoretically chastised Neil for such slander, not condoned it. In theory, anyway.
'I bet he thinks it's run by Communists, too?'
'Boring!' interrupted Colleen. 'I've heard enough on the news.' She turned to Mary. 'That's all they ever talk about. Mars! Little boys at heart.'
'And mind, too,' added Mary.
Listening without speaking, Alex smiled to himself. She was exaggerating. He didn't dwell on the subject of the Red Planet - there wasn't any romance or glamour there.
Brian and Katrina re-entered the room. Both had left for lunch together, after whispering furtively. Alex and others exchanged glances, knowing they were philandering; Brian was married, but not to Katrina. There was a slightly embarrassed silence; nobody felt like facing the couple because that might be taken as a confrontation of sorts. McDuff broke the uneasy atmosphere by loudly pushing his chair back on its braked castors, then asking to see people's flexi-cards. The weekly check. Occasionally a discrepancy arose; then the unfortunate involved got taken aside for a few words with McDuff - or, even worse, Words with Assistant Manager Beck. Peter offended persistently, the common consensus in Room Nine being that he managed to avoid dismissal by hiding his flexi-card and doctoring its software. Sadly for Peter, in his milk-purchasing absence McDuff made a thorough search in each of his desk drawers until he found the card. When he held it aloft and waved it triumphantly there was a small chorus of cheers. Neil clapped.
Their Senior Supervisor was still absent with their flexi-cards when Peter returned clasping four cartons of "LactOpal" soya milk. A few snide grins appeared when Peter asked where the "old Scots dipstick" had gone to; when told, he visibly paled.
To ensure that his tea was of drinkable quality, Alex volunteered to help make it, so as a token of appreciation Peter surrendered a box of sandwiches to him. Alex ate them all at his desk while refining further details of his masterwork. Oddly enough, he only noticed how ravenously hungry he'd been when, putting his hand into the sandwich box, he found it empty.
'Four o'clock. Those who have homes can go to them,' announced Neil, unplugging a greenscreen and pulling on a luminous yellow bomber jacket.
'God, Neil, what is that? A see-me-in-the-dark-jacket?'
'Get stuffed, you fashionless fart. And give me a lift as well.'
Demonstrating a complete lack of responsibility Neil raced Alex to Floor Twenty Seven's lift - and won. This he instantly regretted because Assistant Manager Beck, waiting at the lift doors, turned to scowl at him. All three rode the express lift in silence, until Beck departed at ground level while the other two continued down to the basement car park.
'I think your hundred-metre hurdle was a little ill-advised.'
'Yes. Miserable old git, isn't he. Just my luck. That one's yours, isn't it?' Spoken with a touch of envy. How could Alex afford to buy, let alone run, a car like that?
Alex pointed to a pair of slab-cabs that had poached his space. He disliked the things to begin with, considering them to be little more than over-designed, enclosed motorbikes. He keyed his door code, got in and allowed Neil in. The mother-unit squawked at them until it was satisfied enough to allow Alex to start up and drive off.
'They won't park there again,' said Neil, smugly.
Alex negotiated a set of traffic bollards (manned by armed police) set in a chicane pattern, a tricky manoeuvre that needed to be carried out with care.
'What? Those slab-cabs? You can't possibly know that.'
A policeman waved them on with a light-wand.
'Oh but I can. While you were getting in, I kicked their rear lights in.'
An impressively elegant solution. Simple, too. Alex often had cause to wonder about the English, supposedly a reserved and repressed people; since being assigned here to London he'd found they were just as capable of being raucous, violent and manic as his own Serb countrymen.
Neil asked to be dropped off near the Artery roundabout; easy to do because traffic out of London had conglomerated into a vast, slow-moving caravan; Neil's parting quip - he loved to have the last word - was "see you Monday if you ever get through this."
The driver sighed in mock-pity. Three hours later his sighs were sincere. Only the thought that his annual holiday was less than a month away helped him to cope with the traffic. Just think, twelve days in sunny Thrace …
By the time Alex sat down to a hot meal it had turned half past seven. No coffee, he decided. A nice pot of gunpowder green to calm the nerves, since making a miniature ceremony of brewing-up helped to relax him. After eating he took a cup out on to the balcony and sat by the telescope, surveying London with a magisterial air. Remembering that mail was due today, he unloaded the pneumatique. Nothing much; a statement from the banking society, a water bill, a circular. What he really wanted most of all was a letter from Marya. Some hope. She definitely led in this particular dance. Oh well. Maybe he could, by way of distraction, thrash El Quatro at chess later on. Meteorology Tonight was scheduled for broadcast in ten minutes; if he listened then he ought to know whether it would be cloudy or not. He couldn't exchange gossip or chess moves if strato-cirrus intervened.
Just in case, he went to the freezer and took out a six-hundred millilitre bottle, the last of his brother's home-made Christmas present. If placed in the freezer then it merely glided over one's taste buds; if not, damage ensued. In the few minutes before "Meteorology Tonight" Alex accidentally caught the news headlines. Not the erratically parochial British news but the heavy-duty international news. According to the bland-voiced, bland-faced presenter, Stanley Station Chief Laszlo Wilson has declared total failure in their efforts to locate the Fast Fire Torch team and hopes, on this the third day, were fading fast.
Alex changed channels temporarily, until the news presenter on that channel announced the collision of two civilian airliners on the transpolar route over the Barents Sea. He turned back in petty exasperation, killing the picture and going to Text:
NEWSFLASH:
Multi-lateral treaty negotiations have been confirmed between Russia, Armenia, Turkey, Iraq, Kurdistan and Iran, leading to the proposal of an "Ararat Accord"
Italy (N) has declared the formation of a new "Elint" police force prefecture to deal with the problem of endemic television piracy.
Canada: Mid-air collision of two civilian passenger airliners reported on the transpolar route over the Barents Sea. No more details available yet.
Birmingham: city reported quiet after the military were used to restore order.
Stanley Station, McMurdo Sound, Antarctica: Station Chief Laszlo Wilson has declared total failure in their efforts to locate the Fast Fire Torch team and hopes, on this the third day, were fading fast.
Kuwait City: Prince Al-Arman confirmed that he was leading a bloc bid in an attempt to subsume AmConCam; CI officials of the MJO warned that an audit would result due to attainment of a holdings trigger.
Traffic on the MC125 ring-road, out of London, was only just thinning when Neil (Ellie and Moira accompanying him), swung off onto the feeder road leading south. A soft summer evening rolled by outside; it felt comfortably warm. they had the windows all rolled down; illegal substances were being passed around and smoked. All three were en route for Alex's party. Their host-to-be was leaving for foreign parts in a matter of days and by way of a celebration had decided to throw a small party, office-friends and their friends. Such an event was new to Moira and Ellie but Neil had attended some of Alex's festivities before; he had also been to the flat on solo social occasions. There were rules.
'What's he like, Alex?' asked Ellie. 'Here, pass that around.'
Neil had the car on semi-active so he was able to smoke, talk and look around (through dilated pupils) at the same time, which he did.
'Bit of a deep one, Alex. Works like mad in the office, first-in-last-out, nothing left lying unfinished on his desk, that sort of thing.'
'Sounds like a stiffy.'
'Oh, that's just in work. Different out of it.'
The map unit bleeped, telling their car was turning left onto a feeder road. Distant lights glittered, stacked one atop the other. Expensive residential apartment blocks.
'Er, he doesn't live here does he? Does he!'
Neil abruptly needed to take over; they were travelling on a private road and the matrix wasn't in the map unit's street lexicon.
'Oh yes. He's got loads of money. Don't know where he gets it from. Not his wages.' Certainly not from his wages if they were on a parity with Neil's.
Alex had told his guests to park in Zone Four in the subterranean car park slots, but they had to settle for Zone Five.
'Oh, a few tips. Don't debate Yugoslav politics with Alex, he doesn't like it. And watch what you drink; he serves up one fifty proof vodka. Okay!'
Remote cameras eyed them as they crossed the tarmac, narrow electronic lenses focussing and re-focussing sixty times per second (all part of the Badfort Towers protection package deal).
'Jesus, he must be loaded f he lives here. This is where our director lives!' intoned Moira, sounding simultaneously affronted and impressed. Neil nodded. He knew Alex to be well off, but not why or how, and since his Serbian compatriot never vouchsafed any details the mystery remained just that - a mystery. Using the passwords meant all three could take a secure lift up to Flat 332, rather than the motile stair, which was achingly slow.
'Remember - no politics. Nor paralytics either, for that matter.'
From the secure lift to Alex's apartment meant walking down the whole length of a corridor. Music trickled out, presumably from the party; Alex had left a door open. Strictly speaking, this was forbidden under the terms of his residence contract and in fact the occupier of an adjoining flat had complained in person. Complained rashly, because Alex answered their peremptory bell-ringing, shouting coarse insults in Serbian, whilst waving a bread knife around with wild abandon. There were no more complaints.
By the time Neil and friends arrived celebrations were well under way; much drink had been drunk, consumables eaten and music played. Moira and Ellie looked politely around the apartment, noticing how expensive it must be to live in such a residence. With a balcony, too. And on the balcony …
'What's under that blanket? A budgie? asked Ellie, not really to anyone specific but more in the way of a conversation opener.
'Telescope,' called Alex, walking past, carrying a tray of canapés from the kitchen. He had a glass bottle balanced deftly on another tray, a rime of ice covering the clear glass; vodka, long chilled, taken from the freezer unit. Returning to the kitchen he stopped to explain to Ellie.
'It needs to be protected from weather. Also from humidity. No budgies.' He had picked it up in Vienna on the return leg to London, when he'd been driving back from a visit home, a sad reminder of Austrian lens-grinding excellence a century obsolete, going cheap in a junk shop.
McDuff had his off-duty head in place. Those who were present could tell by noticing his drunken and rather amiable disposition instead of his usual sober and glum demeanour. When Alex produced his bottle of potent, illegally strong alcohol, the Scotsman's eyes lit up like beacons. Of the fourteen people present only Neil, Alex and McDuff were foolish enough to actually drink the vodka. Ellie decided to ask the Serb why he elected to travel where he did. Shorn of alcoholic verbiage, Alex responded that his extended family crossed over national boundaries through paternal and maternal connections. Thus he had family ties that crossed over into Greece (distantly) and Shqiperi. Not only did he wish to visit relatives but he also had a long-standing interest in Hellenic history, being the possessor of a State Certificate in Graeco-Roman Studies. Then there was the matter of archaeological integrity.
Despite specialist care and protection, the relics of antiquity had suffered gravely from centuries of pollution, corrosion, neglect and abuse; a generation from now there would be few left; there were less now than a generation ago. So Alex had another reason for his Greek sojourn. Ellie ah'd and nodded in all the right places, eyes wide and (apparently) interested; she was curious about Alex, never having met a Serbian before.
By midnight there were only half-a-dozen people left: Alex, Neil, Moira, Ellie, McDuff and Colleen. All six were in varying stages of "lubrication". As a result they talked about various subjects with uncharacteristic candour: alcohol, drunken behaviour, drugs, invasive legislation, authoritarianism, governmental differentiation … as discussions tended to, they eventually dwelt on the political system of their host's homeland. Despite his earlier warning Neil was in the fore of the talking. Since Alex felt reflective he failed to react with any of his usual reflexive caution or brusqueness, so the discussion continued beyond the usual superficialities.
'Are you a Communist?' asked Colleen with a degree of daring.
'Hm? Why would I be a Communist?'
'Well, the Republic is supposed to be Communist, isn't it?'
Alex knocked back another thimble glass of vodka and shrugged.
'So what. There are more Christians than Communists. Always have been.'
Another person asked if he was a Christian or a Communist. He ignored them. From that gambit rose the subject of Greece. Why should a member of the FedCon wish to travel to one of those few (nominally half-a-dozen) nations outside the Concordat auspices, by choice, and do so repeatedly. That meant Alex had to explain himself again, which he found irritating. Then people wondered rhetorically why a country would deliberately opt out from FedCon and stay "ultra-Pale" despite the disadvantages such isolation entailed. McDuff and Alex both explained how difficult it was to get permission for travel beyond FedCon territory to those lands outside - such as Greece, Thailand, Mongolia or the USA; it needed a great deal of persistence allied with luck and references from favourable referees. That was from the Federated side. From those "Beyond" there was an enormous amount of suspicion, and hostility, bureaucratic stonewalling, physical abuse, clandestine spying and simple public curiosity. Nevertheless, Alex Petrovic was determined to take his leave where he wanted and because he had been persistent and applied for (and obtained) permission his wish came true.
Next morning rolled around with dreadful inevitability. The walking wounded slowly came back to life from their various sleeping places. Slumping place, in two cases. Alex had made sure that he retained his own bed. Because of this his appearance before breakfast was scruffy but not drastically so - messy hair and stubble. He donned comfortable clothes and went through the lounge to spread a little light amongst those assembled (Colleen, Ellie, McDuff and Neil) by opening the blinds and untinting the windows. A chorus of groans greeted the new day. Clearly, Friday night's little social engagement had left a few sore heads, but not for Alex, who had inherited his father's robust constitution when it came to drink.
'Time to wake yourselves up. I have a busy day planned. There are things to do, you know.'
Because they were guests and British and polite, all five helped to tidy up the evenings remnants: crushed plastic cans, wrappers, cigarette ends, peanuts, bits of paper, empty cups, glasses and bottles, ashtrays, dirty plates, dirty cutlery, a piece of cake trampled into the carpet (hurriedly removed while Alex was washing up). By the time all this had been dealt with everyone felt hungry again and prevailed upon Alex to provide tea and toast. Although he grumbled about the request their host was actually glad that they were staying a little longer; his apartment was so secure, set in a secure apartment tower in a secure area, that hardly anyone bothered to drop in and see him. He had asked Marya is she would consider getting a transfer to Britain so they would at least be in the same country as each other, but her reply had been a resounding "no!".
'This is damn good tea, Alex,' said McDuff enthusiastically. 'Tastes almost like the real thing.' The others nodded appreciatively. They might well do so: it was the real thing but Alex chose not to tell them - it might embarrass those who had topped up with milk and sugar. There was real butter on the toast, too, making someone complain that their margarine tasted funny.
By lunchtime all guests were gone. Alex, feeling reflective, made himself a cup of strong, dark tea, staring into it as he carefully stirred clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise … After deliberating, he decided to have a shower, which invigorated him anew. It is time, he thought, to start packing for The Holiday.
The Holiday! As if for the first time he remembered the vacation and felt his heart give a great leap as he considered the prospect of meeting relatives, home and pastures new. Now, where were those suitcases?