Gideon's Second Letter
17th Day of Fifth, 342nd Year of Founding
(Arrived 20/5/342)
Dear Mags,
I don't see how you can claim to be unarmed if you have managed to bring Umberto with you. From memory, he should be more than a match for any society matron - provided, of course, than you can distract him from any unattended buffet tables or sweet trolleys.
In any case, it sounds like your talent for finding trouble in the oddest places is undiminished. Fancy you remembering that stuff about PTC Tech armour! Of course, it was five years ago when I told you that, and modern Tech armour has to receive a substantial dunking (or given a good whack) before anyone without a scanner notices sparking. No doubt you'll know far more about the mysterious figures on the platform before this message gets to you, but allow your brother the privilege of a little speculation. I agree with you that Pelaides Trading Cooperative military personnel would be distinctly out of place on a North Barbour cargo terminal. We can therefore conclude that it was probably someone else; and who has close ties with the PTC, and want us to become a client state for the trading opportunities that would arise? The New-Agers and the City families, that's who. And giving those toadying boot-lickers outdated junk would be typical of PTC penny-pinching. You'll have to tell me in your next letter whether Uncle managed to turn up any skullduggery on the Severn Valley line.
I think Cromwell will suit you quite nicely, if you ever manage to slip out from under Aunt Harriet's thumb. Unfortunately, the thumb of the ever-vigilant Captain Stills has been fairly slip-resistant so far -- I've not set foot outside the Embassy yet, and the two weeks of enforced idleness in space have made the eight-hour training sessions a bit of a shock to the system. Tiny managed to beg off for the first "day" on account of his cold, the rotter, but despite his best efforts Dr Morley pronounced him cured the next morning, and he has been panting with the rest of us since. (Of course, this training is only for us cadets -- the Guard have their own training regimes, and the Captain has other duties.) Most of my last three days have been spent within the four walls of the gymnasium -- hardly the exotic experience I was expecting! The unending sunlight is a bit unnerving, but given the heat that we're currently enduring, I'm grateful the Astrani allowed us to build in the polar regions. One of the disadvantages to this arrangement is that all the embassies seem to run on different times; there is a big set of timepieces in the entrance hall of the Ambassador's residence, one for each of the major delegations. Scheduling events involving other representatives must be an administrative nightmare!
Nevertheless, there have been one or two incidents of note since I last wrote to you. For example, because of Tiny's yen for gambling and inability to mind his own business, I've already fought my commanding officer. It happened like this:
We were at dinner in the mess-hall on our first day. Charles and I were dog-tired, but Tiny was fresh as a daisy thanks to his so-called "ill-health". Since Charles was unfamiliar with Tiny's duplicitous nature, I was doing my best to educate him with some illustrative anecdotes -- the time he modified the portraits of former Masters of the Academy to display his favorite cricketers, for example, or when he reprogrammed the Deportment Master's cruiser to think that "home" was in the middle of the local sewage treatment plant. It was in the middle of this gruesome tale (the Master had nodded off en-route, and was still half-asleep when he got out of the cruiser -- though he woke up fairly smartly soon after) that the Guardsmen that had just come off duty arrived for their evening meal.
They showed no particular interest in us, and chatted at another table as I continued to educate Charles as to Tiny's modus operandi; but the next thing I know, Tiny has gotten up, sauntered over to their table, and broken into their conversation -- which had onto the subject of fencing, and the alleged skill of the Captain.
"So... Captain Stills is quite handy with an epee, then?" he says, in that nonchalant tone of voice that I've learned means that I should have folded about three raises ago.
The others more or less ignored him, but the squad leader (a squat, burly man with thick black curls and a short-cropped beard) turned and asked, "Why, who wants to know?"
"Tobias Ferguson, but everyone calls me Tiny. And you are?"
"Dekker. Sergeant Marcel Dekker. Fancy yourself with a blade, then?"
"Me? No, no... my friend Gideon, on the other hand, knows a thing or two..."
And five minutes later, I find myself agreeing to a match with my commanding officer, which put me in something of an awkward position. I mean, it's not exactly politic to beat your superior in front of their men, but I wasn't sure I was a good enough actor to hide it if I outclassed her too badly -- after all, she couldn't be expected to take on someone who was twice Academy champion. As it turned out, this was the last thing I had to worry about.
I was crushed. I was thrashed worse than the time when Muggle caught me trying to take the cruiser to visit Grandmere when I was seven. Nine touches out of five bouts! I could point to the eight-hour workout I was recovering from, or the adjustment to the Astran climate, but the fact of the matter is that she is one of the most gifted fencers I've ever faced -- which made my complete and utter defeat somewhat easier to bear. I took off my mask, shook the Captains hand; and nearly fell over from the slap on the back Sergeant Dekker gave me.
As we made our way back to the mess-hall, the Guardsmen went over the match blow by blow, and Guardsman Cooper ("call me Pete") recounted the time the Captain had faced down five Capellan stevedores, which led to the sergeant talking about other senior officers he'd served under, and by the end of the evening, we seemed to be a firm part of the community. It probably didn't hurt that Tiny had wagered a tidy sum on my success, and is fairly good-natured about paying up on those rare occasions when he does lose. I'm not particularly sympathetic, since he'll no doubt win it back off any of them foolish to sit down with him and a deck of cards.
But I suppose the most exciting that's happened so far was when we thought an interplanetary shooting war had started without anyone bothering to mention it to us.
It was early evening, and we'd just finished up at the gym. Tiny had just been sent back into the fray, and he was busy pouring complaints about his aches into our not-entirely-sypathetic ears when we heard the load rumble of a straining lift unit, and the shredding crunch as a huge gray carrier slid to a stop at the bottom of the road to the Embassy gates. We drew our sidearms and ducked behind the nearest available cover, while the Guardsmen on duty flung themselves into firing position.
Before the carrier had stopped moving, the rear hatch snapped back and two hulking Horadiim soldiers launched themselves out of the vehicle and swarmed toward the Embassy. I'd seen vids of their soldier caste attacking at the Academy, but they don't prepare you for the acrid, vinegar smell of them, or their sheer bulk -- they were a head taller than me, and their blue-black shells make them wider than they are tall. And they were fast, faster than you would think that weight could possibly move; I thought they were going to just crash straight through the gate, reinforced or not. And then, when it looked like we were going to earn our Courage Under Fire medals rather earlier than expected, they came to a juddering halt just outside the Embassy grounds. They crouched there, swaying and clattering wildly in the carapaces, as the rest of the Guard finished pouring out of the barracks and took up their positions to secure the perimeter. Soon after, a half dozen floaters with the Astrani equivalent of Internal Security turned up, and the two Horadiim bully-boys were herded back to their carrier.
Well, I suppose that technically they're bully-girls; but I doubt even Tiny would make much of an issue of that. I later heard that we received an apology, but I'm yet to hear any sort of explanation of why it happened in the first place. I suppose we should simply be grateful that the New-Agers have enough sense not to try and become a client state to the Horadiim.
On a more mundane note, Charles has managed to get right up the nose of Secretary Horten. I'm not sure what poor Charles can have done to offend the man, unless he is peculiarly sympathetic to goldfish, and feels that Charles' impromptu visit to their lily-pond has traumatised them for life. (I must admit, if a giant flailing version of Charles fell backward into my living room, I might well be in need of a stiff brandy and sympathetic ear afterwards.) Not that he's confronted Charles -- I've gathered the impression that regards speaking to us cadets as beneath his dignity -- but in the post-bout camaraderie on the first day, Guardsman Bradfield (Charity) mentioned that Horton had bowled past her and into the Captain's office, and demanded that she watch Charles closely, and to report any suspicious behaviour to him immediately. The Captain, who seems to have a history of clashing with Horten, told him that security was her concern, not his, and he should close the door -- and she didn't much mind which side he was on when he did it. Charity said that he left with a slam so loud they probably heard it at the equator, and spent the rest of the day sulking in the residence.
* * *
Eunice has just mentioned that the Embassy is to send a number of packages back by special courier, so if I hurry this message will arrive two days earlier. Do be careful, listen to Uncle, and try to limit the majority of your scandalous behaviour to times when Aunt Harriet isn't watching. And give my love to Mother.
Your faithful brother,
-- Gideon
(Arrived 20/5/342)
Dear Mags,
I don't see how you can claim to be unarmed if you have managed to bring Umberto with you. From memory, he should be more than a match for any society matron - provided, of course, than you can distract him from any unattended buffet tables or sweet trolleys.
In any case, it sounds like your talent for finding trouble in the oddest places is undiminished. Fancy you remembering that stuff about PTC Tech armour! Of course, it was five years ago when I told you that, and modern Tech armour has to receive a substantial dunking (or given a good whack) before anyone without a scanner notices sparking. No doubt you'll know far more about the mysterious figures on the platform before this message gets to you, but allow your brother the privilege of a little speculation. I agree with you that Pelaides Trading Cooperative military personnel would be distinctly out of place on a North Barbour cargo terminal. We can therefore conclude that it was probably someone else; and who has close ties with the PTC, and want us to become a client state for the trading opportunities that would arise? The New-Agers and the City families, that's who. And giving those toadying boot-lickers outdated junk would be typical of PTC penny-pinching. You'll have to tell me in your next letter whether Uncle managed to turn up any skullduggery on the Severn Valley line.
I think Cromwell will suit you quite nicely, if you ever manage to slip out from under Aunt Harriet's thumb. Unfortunately, the thumb of the ever-vigilant Captain Stills has been fairly slip-resistant so far -- I've not set foot outside the Embassy yet, and the two weeks of enforced idleness in space have made the eight-hour training sessions a bit of a shock to the system. Tiny managed to beg off for the first "day" on account of his cold, the rotter, but despite his best efforts Dr Morley pronounced him cured the next morning, and he has been panting with the rest of us since. (Of course, this training is only for us cadets -- the Guard have their own training regimes, and the Captain has other duties.) Most of my last three days have been spent within the four walls of the gymnasium -- hardly the exotic experience I was expecting! The unending sunlight is a bit unnerving, but given the heat that we're currently enduring, I'm grateful the Astrani allowed us to build in the polar regions. One of the disadvantages to this arrangement is that all the embassies seem to run on different times; there is a big set of timepieces in the entrance hall of the Ambassador's residence, one for each of the major delegations. Scheduling events involving other representatives must be an administrative nightmare!
Nevertheless, there have been one or two incidents of note since I last wrote to you. For example, because of Tiny's yen for gambling and inability to mind his own business, I've already fought my commanding officer. It happened like this:
We were at dinner in the mess-hall on our first day. Charles and I were dog-tired, but Tiny was fresh as a daisy thanks to his so-called "ill-health". Since Charles was unfamiliar with Tiny's duplicitous nature, I was doing my best to educate him with some illustrative anecdotes -- the time he modified the portraits of former Masters of the Academy to display his favorite cricketers, for example, or when he reprogrammed the Deportment Master's cruiser to think that "home" was in the middle of the local sewage treatment plant. It was in the middle of this gruesome tale (the Master had nodded off en-route, and was still half-asleep when he got out of the cruiser -- though he woke up fairly smartly soon after) that the Guardsmen that had just come off duty arrived for their evening meal.
They showed no particular interest in us, and chatted at another table as I continued to educate Charles as to Tiny's modus operandi; but the next thing I know, Tiny has gotten up, sauntered over to their table, and broken into their conversation -- which had onto the subject of fencing, and the alleged skill of the Captain.
"So... Captain Stills is quite handy with an epee, then?" he says, in that nonchalant tone of voice that I've learned means that I should have folded about three raises ago.
The others more or less ignored him, but the squad leader (a squat, burly man with thick black curls and a short-cropped beard) turned and asked, "Why, who wants to know?"
"Tobias Ferguson, but everyone calls me Tiny. And you are?"
"Dekker. Sergeant Marcel Dekker. Fancy yourself with a blade, then?"
"Me? No, no... my friend Gideon, on the other hand, knows a thing or two..."
And five minutes later, I find myself agreeing to a match with my commanding officer, which put me in something of an awkward position. I mean, it's not exactly politic to beat your superior in front of their men, but I wasn't sure I was a good enough actor to hide it if I outclassed her too badly -- after all, she couldn't be expected to take on someone who was twice Academy champion. As it turned out, this was the last thing I had to worry about.
I was crushed. I was thrashed worse than the time when Muggle caught me trying to take the cruiser to visit Grandmere when I was seven. Nine touches out of five bouts! I could point to the eight-hour workout I was recovering from, or the adjustment to the Astran climate, but the fact of the matter is that she is one of the most gifted fencers I've ever faced -- which made my complete and utter defeat somewhat easier to bear. I took off my mask, shook the Captains hand; and nearly fell over from the slap on the back Sergeant Dekker gave me.
As we made our way back to the mess-hall, the Guardsmen went over the match blow by blow, and Guardsman Cooper ("call me Pete") recounted the time the Captain had faced down five Capellan stevedores, which led to the sergeant talking about other senior officers he'd served under, and by the end of the evening, we seemed to be a firm part of the community. It probably didn't hurt that Tiny had wagered a tidy sum on my success, and is fairly good-natured about paying up on those rare occasions when he does lose. I'm not particularly sympathetic, since he'll no doubt win it back off any of them foolish to sit down with him and a deck of cards.
But I suppose the most exciting that's happened so far was when we thought an interplanetary shooting war had started without anyone bothering to mention it to us.
It was early evening, and we'd just finished up at the gym. Tiny had just been sent back into the fray, and he was busy pouring complaints about his aches into our not-entirely-sypathetic ears when we heard the load rumble of a straining lift unit, and the shredding crunch as a huge gray carrier slid to a stop at the bottom of the road to the Embassy gates. We drew our sidearms and ducked behind the nearest available cover, while the Guardsmen on duty flung themselves into firing position.
Before the carrier had stopped moving, the rear hatch snapped back and two hulking Horadiim soldiers launched themselves out of the vehicle and swarmed toward the Embassy. I'd seen vids of their soldier caste attacking at the Academy, but they don't prepare you for the acrid, vinegar smell of them, or their sheer bulk -- they were a head taller than me, and their blue-black shells make them wider than they are tall. And they were fast, faster than you would think that weight could possibly move; I thought they were going to just crash straight through the gate, reinforced or not. And then, when it looked like we were going to earn our Courage Under Fire medals rather earlier than expected, they came to a juddering halt just outside the Embassy grounds. They crouched there, swaying and clattering wildly in the carapaces, as the rest of the Guard finished pouring out of the barracks and took up their positions to secure the perimeter. Soon after, a half dozen floaters with the Astrani equivalent of Internal Security turned up, and the two Horadiim bully-boys were herded back to their carrier.
Well, I suppose that technically they're bully-girls; but I doubt even Tiny would make much of an issue of that. I later heard that we received an apology, but I'm yet to hear any sort of explanation of why it happened in the first place. I suppose we should simply be grateful that the New-Agers have enough sense not to try and become a client state to the Horadiim.
On a more mundane note, Charles has managed to get right up the nose of Secretary Horten. I'm not sure what poor Charles can have done to offend the man, unless he is peculiarly sympathetic to goldfish, and feels that Charles' impromptu visit to their lily-pond has traumatised them for life. (I must admit, if a giant flailing version of Charles fell backward into my living room, I might well be in need of a stiff brandy and sympathetic ear afterwards.) Not that he's confronted Charles -- I've gathered the impression that regards speaking to us cadets as beneath his dignity -- but in the post-bout camaraderie on the first day, Guardsman Bradfield (Charity) mentioned that Horton had bowled past her and into the Captain's office, and demanded that she watch Charles closely, and to report any suspicious behaviour to him immediately. The Captain, who seems to have a history of clashing with Horten, told him that security was her concern, not his, and he should close the door -- and she didn't much mind which side he was on when he did it. Charity said that he left with a slam so loud they probably heard it at the equator, and spent the rest of the day sulking in the residence.
* * *
Eunice has just mentioned that the Embassy is to send a number of packages back by special courier, so if I hurry this message will arrive two days earlier. Do be careful, listen to Uncle, and try to limit the majority of your scandalous behaviour to times when Aunt Harriet isn't watching. And give my love to Mother.
Your faithful brother,
-- Gideon
posted by Svend Andersen | 10:23 AM
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