Formalities

Evening rolled around too quickly as far as Hawke was concerned. He fretted over his reflection in the mirror. He hated wearing dress whites; they made him feel like the Captain of a tourist HoverCruiser. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d worn them, and with the exception of his graduation from the Academy, every other time had been under threat of demotion, or worse.

Hawke considered not going, though truth be told, he was looking forward to finally meeting the people whose personal and professional backgrounds he’d been immersing himself in so diligently the past few weeks.

At least he’d have Jim to hang around with. Ben was bringing his wife, as he always did at these affairs. Frank, on the other hand. Hawke wasn’t sure which, if any, of his ex-wives he would bring, although knowing Frank, he might show up with a girl he picked up in the hotel bar. Frank had a knack for doing just that, as improbable as it seemed.

He left his apartment and took the lift down to the street and nearest MetroPortal. A small transmitter chamber capable of holding one or two people, it was connected to an identical receiver portal for people coming the other way. Even at this time of night there was a line, but it wasn’t too bad. People gave him inquisitive stares as he got to the back of the queue. He walked up when it was his turn and pressed the button. The door slid open. Mounted on the wall inside was a map of available destinations. Unlike most TelePortals, this one was only connected on a metro-intranet, meaning it only serviced the D.C. area and surrounding suburbs. Most major urban cities around the globe operated similar systems.

Hawke pressed his hand to the infrared scanner and selected the location that would take him nearest to the Hilton-Premier hotel. There was a brief hum as his molecular composition and quantum wave functions were analyzed. The safety locks disengaged and a green light over the door indicated it was safe to exit. When he opened the door, he took a few seconds to get his bearings.

As he rounded the corner, he felt as though he’d just walked into a circus. A gaggle of reporters and television crews crowded the entrance to the hotel lobby, while a cadre of security officers worked to keep them out. With their microphones and cameras, the relentless reporters jostled each other as they bombarded arriving guests with frantic inquiries. A sizable group of passersby had stopped and were observing the unruly scene. Hawke groaned. He was going to have to run the gauntlet in order to get inside.

He tried to slip past unnoticed, but it was futile. His white uniform gave him away as readily as if he were Moby Dick being pursued by the unyielding Captain Ahab. Hawke would have preferred a harpoon gun to the stream of questions being fired at him.

"Commander Hawke, what are your thoughts about Eden M51?"

"Commander, did you have any say in the selection process of the scientists?"

"Are you sure you can trust them?

"What’s your take on the Chinese donation of the Echelon?"

"Commander, is your ship going to be carrying any weapons on the voyage?"

"Commander, do you think there’s intelligent life on the M51 planet?"

At this last question, Hawke pivoted at the top of the steps. "That depends on your point of view," he replied coolly, "It couldn’t be any less intelligent than here." Then, before they could capitalize on his rash comment, which he knew would eventually find its way to Langolier’s desk, he ducked into the relative peace of the hotel lobby.

A diplomat was seated at a small table just inside the ornate, gilded doors, flanked by two burly security guards. After showing his credentials Hawke was allowed to proceed freely through the hotel. He briefly detained a porter to ask about the location of the Dynasty ballroom. It was 8:10 when he entered the room. Considering his past record for punctuality, he impressed himself by only being ten minutes late.

The ballroom was opulently decorated, as most ballrooms were, with large crystal chandeliers descending from a high ceiling. Heavy curtains were drawn aside from pseudo-windows. Behind the glass, high-definition holographic screens portrayed a beautiful mountain vista in high sun, even though it was night outside. Waiters and waitresses dressed in tuxedos and black skirts slipped between knots of people, serving complimentary cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

Hawke saw a few reporters discreetly conducting interviews in the corners. Unlike the media hounds outside, these were the select ones, the ones who received personal invites to cover the event. He scanned the crowds, recognizing some distinguished faces here and there, but still unable to find any of his friends, when his gaze stopped on a blonde woman in an elegant green evening gown. She was standing with her back to him, but even though she was partially obscured, it was plain to see she was attractive. And even more important, she seemed to be alone.

Hawke casually sauntered up behind her. "Excuse me, ma’am. I was wondering if I might be able to interest you in a drink, my treat," he said, touching her lightly on the back of her arm. The woman turned and Hawke’s smile melted into dismay.

"I wouldn’t accept a drink from you if I were stranded in a remote desert on the moon," Betty replied acidly.

Before he could come up with a suitable retort or apology for the Admiral’s receptionist (he wasn’t sure which would come out of his mouth first), he was spared further embarrassment by a familiar voice.

"Commander!"

A rare expression of fear darted across Betty’s normally stoic features and she dissipated into the throng so quickly it left Hawke bewildered. Admiral Langolier approached wearing a triumphant grin. Right on his heels was his dour-faced, heavyset wife. Hawke surmised it wasn’t the Admiral Betty was fleeing, but rather his wife. Gertrude Langolier was not a woman to be trifled with, not even by the Admiral’s overbearing secretary. Gertrude instantly disliked any woman who worked in remote proximity with her husband. Knowing the Admiral’s proclivity for alcohol and women, Hawke wasn’t sure who deserved more sympathy.

The Admiral clapped him on the back. "Glad to see you took my warning seriously." He cleared his throat and gestured behind him. "I believe you’ve met my wife, Gertrude?"

Hawke bowed low. "As always, your presence is a welcome sight at these dismal affairs."

She smiled thinly. "Tell that to Martin here. He incessantly tries to pawn me off on every tight-bunned young gun in a pressed uniform. Doubtless so he can cavort with one of these buxom hussies passing for cocktail waitresses."

The Admiral adopted a pained expression. "Gert, my love, now you know that just isn’t true. I only have eyes for you."

She snorted in very un-feminine fashion. "Your eyes have been everywhere but on me the second we stepped into this room. Excuse us, Commander. Let’s go, Martin. I think I saw Senator Wilkins."

The Admiral’s eyes sent out a silent plea for help as he was half-led, half-dragged deeper into the crowded ballroom. Hawke couldn’t help but take malicious pleasure from his commanding officer’s plight. Then a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

"I see the Admiral’s got his hands full, but yours are empty. No date for tonight?" Ben asked. On his right arm hung his lovely wife, Marissa. She was dressed in a plunging black dress that provided sharp contrast to Ben’s white uniform. A pearl necklace and matching earrings completed the look. Even at forty years of age, Marissa Johnson was a stunning figure of a woman.

"You know my luck. I’m sure she’s just running late."

Ben laughed. "That’s not what I heard. I already talked to Jim."

Hawke spread his hands. "You got me." He turned to Ben’s wife. "It’s good to see you again, Marissa. You look lovely tonight. If you lose the ball and chain, I’ll treat you to a dance."

"Thank you for the compliments, Nathan. It’s good to see you, too. But as for the ball and chain, I’m afraid we’re permanently attached." She gazed up at her husband who kissed her lightly on the neck.

"Better luck next time, Hawke," Ben consoled. "By the way, if you’re looking for Jim, when I last saw him, he was sitting at the table talking to Frank."

"Where is our table?"

Ben pointed across the ballroom floor. "It’s in the back to the left of the center table. You can’t miss it."

"Thanks."

Hawke spotted one of the scientists, the New Zealand anthropologist, Dr. Claudia Miller, talking to someone he was certain was Barry Scheffield, the U.S. Secretary of State. She wore a dark gray pant suit. Hawke had known she would come dressed in such attire. From her dossier, he’d guessed she was the type of woman who wasn’t comfortable wearing a formal dress. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, making her naturally broad, friendly face even broader. She was laughing at something the Secretary said. It reinforced Hawke’s impression of her – that here was a decent, honest human being who couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. He made a mental note to find out if she played poker.

"Commander Hawke, I presume?" a soft, lilting voice intoned from behind him.

Hawke turned and immediately felt himself drowning in the depths of Dr. Yu Jie Chiang’s dark, almond-shaped eyes.

She wore a scarlet colored evening gown which exposed her supple shoulders. Around her neck was a diamond choker. Her long, black hair was pulled up to elegantly accentuate the teardrop shape of her face.

Hawke cleared his throat. "Hěn gāoxìng rènshì nĭ, Dr. Yu Jie Chiang," he replied, woodenly reciting the phrase he’d memorized.

Yu Jie graciously hid her smile behind her hand. "I commend you on a gallant attempt, Commander. It’s nice to meet you as well. Call me Lucy," she said in perfect English. She held out her hand.

Hawke was more than a little relieved. He didn’t know any other Chinese. Other than the bits of Spanish he’d picked up on his vacations, he had no gift for languages. Off the proverbial hook, he lightly took her fingers and kissed the back of her hand. "Whatever you prefer, but please, call me Nathan."

Her fingers squirmed in his hand and she turned his clasp into a traditional handshake. "If that’s what you want, but let’s at least begin our relationship on a professional level," she said with raised eyebrow.

Hawke winced inwardly, taking the mild reproach in good stride. "My apologies. I was under orders to be especially courteous tonight, but I’m afraid my training in that area is somewhat rusty. I hope I didn’t offend you."

"Not at all." She flashed him a quick smile that made his heart drop. Before he could reply, she turned away, deftly catching the elbow of the Senate Majority Leader, Eileen DeChristie, who happened by at that moment.

Hawke exhaled loudly when she was gone. Well, I blew that one. He didn’t have time to dwell on it as another face he had been expecting loomed up in front of him.

Dr. Vishvajit Bhattacharya was as he’d pictured him from his photos, and about an inch taller than him. The professor was dressed in a neatly tailored, light gray, three-piece suit that hung like a sheet against his thin frame. When he spoke, his deep voice was thickly accented. "Commander Hawke. How pleased I am to finally meet you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Vishvajit Bhattacharya. It is my honor to be accompanying you."

Hawke took the man’s proffered hand in his own. Dr. Bhattacharya’s grip was firm, the long slender fingers seeming to wrap completely around his hand. "Likewise, Dr. Bhattacharya, the pleasure is all mine." His tongue stumbled over the foreign name.

Dr. Bhattacharya smiled, his teeth like ivory against his black beard and dark skin. "Please, call me Victor. It’ll make it easier for all of us," he said, eyes twinkling.

"Certainly, Doctor." Ouch! He was really butchering his introductions tonight. "I’d also like to say how very impressed I am with the technical artistry you displayed in the Himalayan Towers complex. In my opinion, it’s one of the most well-engineered architectural structures ever made."

At the mention of his work, Dr. Bhattacharya’s face beamed. "Thank you. That is a very gracious compliment." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There should be ample opportunity to discuss a colonization plan for the new world on our journey together. I am eager to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"Shouldn’t we first make sure the planet is habitable?"

The Professor waved his hand at the thought. "True, but you’ve seen the data, I’m sure. I have created dwellings in places with much worse spectral and climatologic readings."

"Favorable or not, it all hinges on whether the planet contains an atmosphere that will sustain life."

"Ahh! Yes, that is the crux of the matter. You have hit the nail right on the head, as they say. Well, that is why we are going, is it not? Now if you will excuse me, I see some others I must speak with."

Left alone in the middle of the room, Hawke felt like a white albatross amid all the black-suited stuffed shirts. He managed to snag a drink from a passing waiter and headed toward his assigned table.

He didn’t get far. Hawke knew who the balding man was as soon as he saw him. Maxwell Snelling wore a spotless pressed suit and paisley tie which might have earned him high marks from a fashion perspective, but he still managed to look out of place among the distinguished and polished statesmen. He had a small, pinched nose and close-set eyes that darted furtively when he walked. Those eyes locked onto his and the man bustled toward him with quick, shuffling steps.

"Commander Hawke." His voice was nasal, as Hawke had expected it would be. "As you are undoubtedly aware, my name is Max Snelling, from the Congressional Protocol Attaché." He didn’t offer his hand by way of greeting.

"I’ve heard something to that effect."

"I read your personality profile, Commander. Quite a few reprimands for conduct unbecoming an officer. I’ll be frank with you. You would not have been my first choice, regardless of what skills you possess as a pilot. I presume you will retain some semblance of professionalism during this mission."

"I’ll try to control myself."

"This is not a joking matter. In the event a delicate cultural situation arises, I expect you to follow my orders to the letter."

"I’ll tell you what, Max. I’ll be frank with you, too. You wouldn’t have been my first choice either. In the event a delicate situation arises, I’ll do what I think is ethically right. How’s that?"

Max’s thin nostrils flared. "Watch it, Commander. I can still have you removed from this assignment."

"Go ahead. I don’t give a shit."

"Hmphh!" Max stalked away. He moved with surprising agility as he slithered through the crowd, slipping between the cracks in the seemingly impenetrable press of people and disappeared from view.

In the void created by the Protocol Officer’s chilly departure, Hawke found himself confronted by a young man with spiky blonde hair. He looked barely old enough to have graduated from college. He held one hand out stiffly for a shake while the other adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. He looked ready to pop. Hawke barely noticed him; he was wondering instead what kind of mess the Admiral had gotten him into.

"...honor to meet you. I’ve read all about you, your time in the Quasar VX-7A Comet-Busters squadron. Some of your missions during the Dark Face moon conflict. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have this opportunity to serve with you."

"What..? I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?"

The young man flushed. "No apology needed, Commander. My name’s Roger, Roger Bixby. Admiral Langolier assigned me as your Software Networking Engineer, seeing as how you hadn’t specified one. I must say I was shocked when I got the call." At Hawke’s furrowed brow, he added hastily, "But don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got plenty of experience with all types of space and ground craft. I once networked a whole fleet of amphibious attack hoverboats myself so all the communications, targeting, and electronic surveillance were synched up and coordinated from a single base operator, while the Joint Chiefs viewed the operation in real-time. Of course, this is a brand new VX-90 Echelon Class we’re talking about, so the interfaces will be even simpler than the military dinosaurs I’ve worked with."

The words came out in such a rush Hawke was momentarily nonplussed. "Wonderful," was the only response he could muster. Fortunately, he was saved by the proverbial dinner bell.

"Ladies and gentlemen! If you will please take your seats," the voice boomed through the banquet hall. The speaker was none other than Dan Strathman, the Secretary of Defense, using his UCD as a microphone to amplify his voice.

Hawke used the distraction to politely extricate himself from the engineer, mumbling he needed to get to his table. As he sat down next to Starling, he saw the boyishly grinning Mr. Bixby taking a seat at the same table.

Also seated with him was Admiral Langolier and his wife, Frank Giordano with a woman Hawke had never seen before, Ben and Marissa, and to Hawke’s dismay, Betty Graves, who had triangulated a seat as far from both him and Gertrude Langolier as possible.

"Hey, Nate, it’s about time you got here," said Jim, a glass of wine in hand.

"You haven’t been doing a very good job keeping an eye on me. I think I’ve already offended three people," Hawke said, with a quick glance across the table at Betty, who pointedly ignored him. "Make that four."

"Is that all? Well, it doesn’t really surprise me. You can take the man out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the man." Hawke gave him a withering look, adding to Jim’s glee.

Waiters and waitresses bustled about serving the first course, a butternut squash soup seasoned with pepper and cilantro and a light fish stock for added flavor. Hawke didn’t realize how hungry he was until the food had been set in front of him. He was acutely aware his bowl was empty long before anyone else’s. After the mixed greens salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing came the main course, a choice between roasted eggplant and tofu topped with feta cheese in a light tomato sauce over linguini or aged soy-mignon stuffed with imitation crab in a béarnaise sauce. Without hesitation, Hawke chose the steak. This type of fancy meal was way over his meager budget, so he was determined to savor it.

Hawke leaned toward his copilot and nodded toward the dark-haired woman cozying up with Frank and whispered, "So where did Frank pick her up? Or is she one of his innumerable cousins?" She wasn’t a knockout by anyone’s standards, but then, neither was Frank.

Jim guffawed and replied behind the back of his hand, "I’m not sure, but from what I’ve been able to gather, I think he met her at a bar last night."

Hawke shook his head in amazement. His prediction hadn’t been far off the mark. Typical Frank.

The main course wound down and the wait staff glided between the tables removing empty plates. Dan Strathman rose from his seat and addressed the gathering. First, he thanked all those who could come and gave his sincerest apology that the President and Vice-President were unable to attend. He talked about the immense promise and optimism sweeping the globe in anticipation of the momentous launch.

Hawke barely listened to the speech. He focused his attention on the scientists seated at the center table, along with what appeared to be most of the President’s Cabinet and their spouses. Dr. Claudia Miller looked uncomfortable surrounded by all the Italian suits and designer evening gowns. Likewise with Dr. Lehman, who, although he was wearing a tuxedo, looked as out of place in it as a tourist on Jupiter. Hawke had the impression he’d rather be in a wetsuit about thirty meters underwater than where he was right now. He and Dr. Miller were having an animated discussion, laughing softly among themselves. Hawke wondered if the topic of their conversation centered around their mutual discomfort.

Meanwhile, Dr. Chiang and Dr. Bhattacharya were in the middle of an intense dialogue. Surprisingly, Hawke saw Max Snelling seated at the main table. His eyes constantly surveyed the room as though he was watching a tennis match. All the while, the cautious, contemptuous expression on his face did not change. Hawke caught his gaze and raised his glass to him in a mock toast. Snelling scowled and looked away.

After the speech, the Secretary of Defense introduced the team of scientists one-by-one to the assembled politicians, top ranking military, foreign dignitaries, and those members of the media fortunate enough to be invited. The reporters were then allowed to ask the scientists specific questions. The interrogations ranged from things they hoped or expected to find when they arrived at Eden M51 to what personal possessions or keepsakes they were going to pack with them for the trip.

When it was finally over and coffee had been served, a forty-piece orchestra entertained the guests with classical music. A few daring couples even ventured onto the dance floor. Everyone at Hawke’s table was enjoying the atmosphere except Betty, who sat uncomfortably in her seat sipping a glass of wine she never seemed to actually finish. She stared at the empty space in front of her. Hawke wondered why she came in the first place, though he surmised Langolier had served her the same ultimatum he’d been given. Mischievously, Hawke stood and loudly announced that Betty had promised a dance with him.

The color rose to her cheeks. Caught completely off-guard, she could only manage a sputtered denial.

"Go ahead, Bette. Don’t be a stick in the mud. Let’s see what you’ve got," Admiral Langolier encouraged her. Gertrude Langolier stiffened in her seat, her face stoic, regarding Betty through half-lidded eyes. Hawke could see Betty was both flustered and furious. A dangerous combination in a woman, but he knew there was no way she could make a scene in front of such a distinguished crowd. She was trapped and knew it. Without meeting his gaze, she allowed Hawke to escort her to the dance floor.

Hawke knew this could make his final days at the office a living hell, but he figured, "What the fuck?" He’d be millions of miles away for at least a year. That should give her plenty of time to cool down.

When they came to a clear spot, Hawke made a slight bow and said, "Would you like to lead or shall I?"

"Let’s just get this over with." She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. The entire table was watching them.

"Very well. In that case, allow me to do the honors."

He took her hand and gracefully twirled her around and between the other couples while the orchestra played "Emperor Waltz, Op. 437" by the Austrian composer, Johann Strauss II.

"I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, Commander, but I swear, I won’t forget this insult," she hissed in his ear.

"Can’t you just shut up and enjoy yourself for once? At least I got you away from Langolier’s wife for a few minutes. I’m amazed you haven’t turned to stone. She must have left the snakes at home tonight."

Betty was silent for a moment. Then she regarded him suspiciously. "Don’t act like you did this for my sake."

Hawke shrugged. "I won’t. I promised myself I would dance with at least one beautiful woman tonight."

"Your boyish charms don’t flatter me."

Yet, despite her tough talk, Hawke felt her body relax as they pranced and whirled about the dance floor. He smiled to himself. Maybe there’s a real woman underneath after all.

But if Hawke thought his daring act of chivalry would warm her, he was sadly mistaken. Betty took the first opportunity to get up and leave the gala, citing all the work she had to do in preparation for the Presidential Address to be given at the launch ceremony.

Hawke talked with his friends for a while, downing a few more drinks along the way. He caught the eye of a cute, brunette waitress. He winked and waved his glass toward her. She blushed and looked away, but Hawke caught her stealing several glances at him. Well, he smiled crookedly, perhaps the night won’t be a total waste.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7: Preparations