Captain Amir Choudray grimaced as his left leg broke out in pins and needles, wincing, he uncrossed his legs and attempted to shake some feeling back into the left one as discreetly as he could. He was confused and uncomfortable - after almost a decade in space any extended time planet-side made everything ache - and he was still trying to work out why a lowly Captain of Marines was required to report to the Admiralty Board - he must have done something really wrong. Behind the doors of the Great Hall of the Guildhall sat a collection of Alderman and the Navy’s top brass who were all people Amir had worked very hard to avoid ever since he had been conscripted into the marine officer training programme at seventeen; it could have been worse he could have been drafted into waste management instead.
The Corporation’s medieval headquarters still struck him as weird and anachronous as it had when he was last here for his officer’s examination; that had been thirty five odd years ago - and after a long but largely uneventful career consisting largely of training new marines and, too often for his liking, the dealing with a spot of piracy - and he was now looking forward to the end of his term of conscription, the confirmation of his status as a Freeman of the City, and a sleepy security job at some far flung without at the edge of the Corporation’s little patch of the cosmos.
Not before time, he thought; the last time his life had turned eventful a pirate’s grenade had shredded his tingling left leg; it had taken three injections of military grade, UCL designed, nano-repair bots coursing through his blood to salvage it. The Corporation’s trade dispute with the Americans had been escalating for years and there was now widespread rumours of an American military intervention whilst the Corporation’s borders now put her right next to The Freer Republic - a hegemonist spaced based Christian republic that had a well known hostility to the City’s general take it or leave it approach to race and religion. Still five years was a short time in cosmic diplomacy and he doubted things would get hot until he was well out of it.
After what seemed like hours sat on the uncomfortable surface of an actual wooden chair - give him a remorphable plastic seat at least if they were going to keep him sat this long - pretending to admire the paintings of long dead mayors, a liveryman finally stepped out of the Great Hall and beckoned him in. Stiffly, Amir got up, straightened the creases on his yellow and red ceremonial uniform one last time, picked up his helmet and, tucking it under his left arm, did his best attempt to walk with an air of confidence into the Great Hall. Beneath the vaulted ceiling sat rows and rows of empty chairs and a large square table seating four figures in Naval Uniforms, the Steward of the Port of London Authority and Alderman Clarke, who he recognised from the news feeds as the man likely to be the next Lord Mayor. On the two adjacent sides of the table, spilling out to a second row, sat a mass of adjutants, corporation staff and political advisors passing briefings, taking notes and generally projecting an air of silent frenzy as they hammered on their tablets. On the final side of the table there was a single chair. Heading towards it with an air of increasing trepidation Amir made his way over. At least there’s not a Company Lawyer in a chair next to mine, he thought; thinking at least it didn’t look like a disciplinary hearing.
“Captain Choudary of the Honourable Company of Marines, your worship,” shouted a Herald from somewhere behind him. Amir gave the table his smartest salute and sat down in the chair. He internally squirmed as the figures in front of him turned their eyes up from their tablets and towards him.
“Captain of Marines Choudary,” Alderman Clarke began surprising Amir - he thought it would be one of the Admirals who led the meeting as was typical for Admiralty Board meetings, “I expect you are wondering why you’ve been called here.” Amir certainly was - middle ranking officers like him, ones not earmarked for greater things, were almost never called to Admiralty Boards.
“It was certainly unexpected your worship but I stand ready,” he replied, attaching on the Navy’s own affirmation of loyalty.
“Well, I’ll get right to the point and put you out of your suspense,” this was clearly the Alderman making a hamfisted attempt to put Amir at his ease. “The reason you’re here is you have the strongest competency record of any Captain of Marines currently in the Corporation’s Near Earth Operating Space.”
That was not the compliment it sounded like, thought Amir, as he was pretty sure there would only be eleven or so marine captains dotted about the solar system all running fairly mundane security jobs on the Corporation’s near defence withouts and whatever few ships were rotating out for some shore leave. Boarding was never authorised in the Solar System anyway - the marines on solar duty were just there to be back up to the City of London Police Force and repel enemy boarders; not the sharpest bunch in the Company in short.
“We have a special mission for you Captain, with a political dimension,” Amir’s heart sank; this would be trouble. The Alderman continued, “The Lord Mayor’s daughter has decided to study Nano Engineering at Imperial College. Unfortunately as nanoengineering can only be developed in low gravity environments she’s elected to study at their campus on Walbrook Without.” Amir’s heart sank, a privileged teenager and a long journey towards the centrewards limits of Corporation territory were not anything he really wanted anything to do with but he could have said what the Alderman’s last words were before they left his mouth, “you are to be in charge of her security detail.”
Great, just great, a babysitting job, at least it would be an uneventful trip, he thought. He picked up the tablet before him which contained his formal orders and opened them as protocol dictated at this point. The room fell back into the not quite silence of the amassed ranks of clerks tapping away whilst he read. The Honourable Harriet Elizabeth Ellis, that was rare these days, he thought, a pureblooded Angle - but the Ellis’ had produced a string of Aldermen since the late twenty first century and their grip on the levers of power had never diminished. No doubt this was a pampered Honourable he’d be taking to university for a few years of freedom then a frustrating few years working in her chosen field before she was inevitably called back to serve her political clan. After some time, more time than he had really needed, but a useful few moments to compose himself, he looked up.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“I’ve reviewed my orders your worship and I stand ready to execute them,” he gave the only reply he was allowed to give.
“Excellent Captain, we knew from your record we could count on you,” replied the Alderman.
“You are aware of course Captain that it goes without saying that no harm must befall the Lord Mayor’s daughter whilst she is under the protection of the PLA’s Naval Branch,” said the Steward of the Port of London, a dodecagerian, who had been running the Port of London Authority for decades. Her formidable powers must be slowly departing her, thought Amir, if she thought she had to spell that out for him.
“Of course, Sir,” he replied.
“Very good,” Rear Admiral O'Donnell replied looking up from his tablet, “we’ve assigned the PLANS Whittington for this role under Captain Olivia Hernandez. You are to report to her for further orders at 18:45 hours GMT, she’ll receive you in the ward room; there is some sort of celebration planned I believe.”
“Understood Sir,” he rose as protocol dictated, grimacing at the thought of a naval social occasion barely hours after he’d have boarded, “permission to take my leave.”
“Permission granted Captain of Marines,” he replied. Amir pulled off another salute and strode out of the room - he guessed he had wanted an uneventful naval career and this fitted perfectly with his plans even if he had no idea what do with some teenage Honourable for the six week journey through the slip it would take to get to Walbrook Without. In the meantime he guessed he would go to his assigned flat for some dinner and sleep. He tapped his smartwatch to bring up directions and saw he’d been assigned a flat in the upmarket Borough Without of Wandsworth - getting him settled in the Honourable lifestyle he guessed as he followed directions to St Paul’s Tube station.
A change later on the ancient metro system he emerged into the early evening glow of Balham High Road and followed his watch towards his final destination - an ancient complex of flats and studios called Du Cane Court that must have been giant in its day five hundred years ago but was dwarfed by the super structures of apartments that had sprung up all around it. He briefly admired the original Art Deco design of the building knowing this would be the best feature of the building; inside it had probably been unsuccessfully adapted to the needs of the modern world. Just the kind of ailing establishment that was in the Navy’s budget. At least as an officer he had his status as a probationary freeman and didn’t have to bunk down in a Naval dorm as a rating would have to have done.
He climbed the stairs to his studio cursing gravity and the lack of lifts in the building before entering a chilly but at least clean and tidy studio - there was a bed, a small desk and a kitchenette in one room and a door to what must have been the bathroom just to the left of the kitchenette. Amir knew he’d not be using the kitchenette and tapped his smartwatch to order a large portion of saag aloo and rotis - a rare planet-side treat and a change from the endless variations of vitamin enriched soya protein you got on ship. He settled down on the little desk and pulled up the news feed whilst he waited. The news feed was configured for planet-side news and Amir had little interest or knowledge of the political machinations of the Common Council or the domestic concerns of grounders.
All this was insufficient distraction from the temptation to call him again; Amir knew he was here in the City, working at the Royal London; he wouldn’t want to speak, not after how things had gone last time he’d been planet-side. Mo was a grounder through and through whilst Amir had been born in space on Greenham Without and could never settle back in the City, and Mo equally could never settle in space. It had been an endless argument between them and one there could never be a solution to. After a series of unsatisfying entanglements with a string of other officers Amir had resigned himself to a life of bachelorhood.
When it arrived he enjoyed the saag aloo savouring the textures of real vegetables; you only usually got planet-side or on one of the bigger withouts. Now this was the distraction he had needed, he thought. He ate eagerly, too eagerly, and he had to resort to watching the entertainment feeds which he always found unfulfilling. Still he settled into watching a historical drama about the Borough of Hackney Without Rebellion which had started the socialist revolution that had swept the City to independence and provided the moment for the Corporation to take over to restore peace in the City.
Since then the Corporation has pursued an uneasy but persisting compromise of a hyper-capitalist political class - enriching themselves and their dynasties - the Honourable (the only people who could become Aldermen or Lord Mayor) - and controlling foreign policy. On the other hand a distinctly socialist Common Council dictated domestic affairs for the majority of freemen, citizens and denizens of the Corporation. As a freeman Amir would be allowed to earn money rather than rely on welfare, would have a choice of three residencies when his term of conscription was over, to have a child if he so chose (unlikely), and a slightly more generous carbon allowance - not that the latter mattered to a space-sider like him. Most citizens and, denizens who met the residency requirements, eventually earned the Freedom of the City when their conscription terms were finished but the civilian terms were much longer than the military ones and most citizens wouldn’t achieve the status until well into their seventh decade; and didn’t get the probationary status given to military officers. Amir would have the remainder of his youthful years to enjoy his Freedom instead of having to wait until late middle age. With that comforting thought Amir decided it was time to retire for the evening and set his watch to wake him up at six, in time for the long journey on the Tube to Heathrow.