The Huralon Incident

by E A Wicklund

  The Huralon Incident

  E.A. Wicklund

  Copyright 2019 by E.A. Wicklund

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are a product of the author's imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidence.

  Chapter 01

  Egalitarian Stars Ship, ESS Springbok, sailed through the Gershon star system hunting for prey. With retractable laser batteries and missile hatches concealed within her hull, this wolf in sheep’s clothing prowled by the largest of the system’s three gas giants. At the Conn of Springbok, Captain Evander Braman McCray gazed at the view of the planet offered by the tactical screens surrounding the bridge.

  Sepia and supermarine storm bands raged across the jovian body while in the upper atmosphere, cloud scoops filled up on He-3, awaiting customers needing fuel. No vessels paused at the brightly painted, unmanned refueling stations. Finding nothing of interest there, McCray ordered Springbok to sail on, looking elsewhere for quarry.

  He turned to the center of the bridge and the two-meter square holotank with its tactical presentation of the system, almost willing it to present the emergence of a pirate vessel. At the center of the Tank, colored text displayed the Springbok’s course and speed. Leader lines offered a graphic presentation of her orientation and velocity, while a long yellow line displayed the projected course. McCray remained focused on the space beyond the heliopause where ships could safely emerge from hyperspace. Sadly, no telltale blasts of radiation broadcast a return to normal space.

  At her sensor station, Lieutenant Athena Warwick said, “Contact 2-0-2 just entered hyperspace.” Her dark fingers flitted across her three screens. “No other contacts remain in the system.”

  “Very well,” replied McCray. He shifted position to the left, seeking a more comfortable position after a long watch in the soft leather of his seat. Bored with the waiting, he let his lanky frame sprawl across it, one leg draped over the arm in an uncaptainly manner.

  He grimaced at the tank. At many stars, where the Egalitarian Stars of Elysium (ESE) bordered the Democratic Peoples of Madkhal (DPM), Elysian merchant vessels had found themselves under increasing attack by pirates. Not ordinary ones, but the heavily armed, state-sponsored kind. The unusual activity demanded an answer, and Springbok was the response, but now, nothing. Was it too much to ask that McCray’s ship come under attack too?

  The Elysium government had built Springbok to look identical to an Angeletti clipper, one of the most common fast merchants in human space. But this one was a Q-ship—a disguised armed merchant—the latest in a long line of Q-ships going back to WW1 on Earth. After all the expense of building one from scratch, the least a pirate could do was threaten and discover her nasty surprises.

  Unfortunately, the waiting would have to continue.

  With the end of his watch approaching, he wanted to head outbound towards the heliopause. Springbok may have been armed, but only as well as a lowly destroyer. If a vessel arrived that was too powerful to engage while he was asleep, he wanted to be already enroute to the limits of the star’s gravitational influence. There, they could enter the safety of hyperspace if need be. Springbok may have possessed a wolf’s teeth, but she didn’t have its tough hide.

  “Helm, come about to 2-7-9 mark 0-0-3,” said McCray, speaking the bearings digit-by-digit, the Navy way, for clarity. “Make cycles for one-hundred-ninety gees, paddle tension 0.63 Bosch. I want to head for the heliopause, but not too quickly.”

  At the Helm, Ensign Rajani Kongsangchai answered up. “Course change complete. Making cycles for one-ninety gees.”

  McCray sat back and looked around at the watch stations, arranged in a horseshoe shape around the tank. The Alpha bridge crew worked at their consoles, murmuring quietly to stations at other parts of the ship and to each other, creating the logs for the ship’s day. Tactical screens filled the space around them, on the bulkheads, on the deck, even on the overhead above, presenting the optics view of the ship surroundings in three-sixty degrees. To McCray, the crew appeared to hang in space, a hazy line of stars marking the galactic plane as a backdrop.

  Shuffling to get comfortable, he leaned to the other side and his right elbow settled into the little depression he’d worn into the soft leather of the armrest. He checked the chrono at the corner of the tank. Only a few minutes left until his watch finished. Relaxing into the seat, he breathed in the artificial smells of ionized air, fresh bread, and equipment oil flowing in through humming air circulators. The scents were artificial, designed to create a sense of calm, yet with the metallic tang of military work in the crew. Under normal conditions this aroma therapy would work, but not for her Captain. Internally, he chafed at the bit, hoping to prove the efficacy of Springbok’s new design, and most importantly, himself, to the skeptical leadership back in the Admiralty.

  Without an enemy to fight, one that he had promised the Admiralty was sure to arrive, he had little to do except wait and pore over reports. Signing off on the mass of logs would’ve been worse than a sharp stick in the eye, but returning home to New Chicago to report he found no proof of his assertions would’ve been yet worse. McCray suppressed a heavy sigh. Maybe taking that jab in the eye now and getting it over with would be the preferable option.

  “Anything yet, sir?” said a voice at his elbow.

  McCray jumped a little at the sudden presence. He’d only commanded Springbok for nine months so far, and one of its advanced features, enabling crew to pop into existence in a workspace, took some getting used to. “Nothing, Prime. Just a couple freighters refueling. They’re already gone.”

  Executive Officer, Commander Andronico Zahn, just nodded and handed him a cup of mocha.

  McCray took the cup and said, “What do I need this for? I’m getting off watch.”

  “That’ll help you stay awake for reports,” said Zahn, his tenor voice at odds with his impressive height.

  McCray grunted, “I like falling asleep reading reports.”

  The big redhead chuckled as he looked at the tank. “A juicy target will show up soon enough,” he said, as always accurately reading his captain’s mood. “No one comes to Gershon except to refuel. It’s out of the way, with little traffic, and almost never a Navy patrol. It’s perfect for pirates.”

  “I hope you’re right.” McCray stood up. “The Conn is yours.”

  “I relieve you, sir,” intoned Zahn.

  “I stand relieved,” answered McCray, completing the age-old naval watchstanding tradition. With a thought, he activated the exit routine and the bridge melted away to nothingness.

  ***

  Light filled McCray’s vision as Archimedes, the ship’s AI, released him from Virtual Reality and into the true reality of his sarco. Archimedes was very nearly sentient, and quite the conversationalist whenever he talked to it, but like most crewmen, he wasn’t used to talking to a ship’s machine presence. Most were less-talkative Expert Systems, but none of them directed a hyper-realistic virtual reality, the primary cause for Archimedes’s presence.

  Despite his initial discomfort with it, he had to admit a VR bridge offered advantages over a physical space. Traveling back to his stateroom was instantaneous, for one. Even better, the virtual mocha he drank did have an effect. Archimedes directed the medical nanites in his body to create the positive effects of caffeine and chocolate, without the negative side effects. An unimpeachable plus.

  There were military benefits too. Without a physical bridge, a hit to that work space wouldn’t take out the entire command crew or cripple their ability to fight the ship. Bridge team members physical locations were scattered across the 1.2 kilometer long vessel, attending to their duties without being physically present. This made it nearly impossible to wipe out comma
nd in a single shot.

  McCray unplugged the comms cord from the jack behind his left ear. A display, mere centimeters from his nose, reported all parameters nominal. Nanites had worked his muscles, maintained his bones, and cleaned the bad cholesterol from his veins among many other things while his body rested inert in the sarcophagus-like box.

  He opened the door and stepped out into his stateroom. It was big for a military vessel, about the size of a small living room. Another advantage of virtual work spaces: they left room for larger actual living areas.

  Taking off his ship boots, he placed them beside the hatch, underneath the dark maple writing desk. The lillies growing in a pot on the desk looked nice, and smelled even better. Up until a few months ago, no living plants adorned his living area. It did seem like an improvement, but nothing McCray would’ve thought of if it wasn’t for Aja. He could hear her bustling around the corner in the stateroom, busy as always.

  He turned the corner to find a datapad thrust towards his face.

  “Look carefully and stop stressing so much,” said Aja Coopersmith.

  McCray sighed. His lover waited in his stateroom, just as he often waited for her, to offer hugs and kisses after a watch. This time a loving embrace was absent. Aja was in analyst mode and had been studying intelligence data.

  Accepting that his dreamed-of hot shower would be delayed, he noted the screen was filled with numbers. The accompanying graphs, intended to add visual clarity, only looked like someone spilled spaghetti on the screen. Knowing Aja and her body’s constant demand for food, that was entirely possible. “I’m no data analyst like you,” he said, “but I’d say this means, on average, you cooked the blueberry pie too long.”

  “No!” Aja snatched the tablet away with an amused grin. “That study is on a different page.”

  “So what does it say?” The numbers may not have helped him destress, but looking upon her face did. McCray found her graceful facial features soothing. Whenever they talked, his eyes roamed over the richly colored skin of her face, enjoying the simple, healthy beauty of his lady.

  Shifting his gaze, he watched Aja’s slender fingers flitting through the pages of her datapad, dark eyes intense. “It shows incidences of pirate activity, most notably, the frequency. She looked up at him. “You’ve got to remember, pirates won’t stay too long in any single location. That’s how they avoid getting caught. You recall my initial analysis, right?”

  “Of course.” McCray stepped past her, unzipping his one-piece shipsuit and tossing it in the cleanser. Minutes later, clouds of nanos would have it clean and smelling of fresh cut cedar. “I agreed with it,” he said, digging into a drawer, looking for fresh boxers. He recalled that her analysis formed the backbone of his op-plan for Springbok. It made sense too. The veracity of her conclusions had proved undeniable.

  At first, McCray had resisted having an IS-3 assassin aboard. What would Springbok do with an assassin? But the mission, being a joint Navy/Intelligence Services mission, meant Deputy Director Quartermain demanded an IS-3 presence on the ship. That turned out to be Aja. Against all McCray’s expectations and his very vocal complaints, she had proven to be an invaluable intelligence analyst and an asset to the crew.

  Aja followed him as he rifled through drawers that folded into the bulkhead. “Well, what you’re forgetting is the pirates often take a break for several months at a time for rest and refit. They don’t operate without stop. So you can expect a three-month gap in activity.”

  McCray triumphantly held up a clean pair of boxers, and stepped out of the old ones. “Okay. So what are you getting at?”

  Aja put a hand on her shapely hip. She wore only a tee-shirt and panties, the white of the tee contrasting nicely with her pecan-colored skin. “You’ve been worrying that you’ve got no proof of Madkhali pirates after a month. Kinda whiny, to be honest.” She pointed at the datapad. “This tells you it’s too early to sweat it. So, relax.” She turned and picked up a plate of tuna salad with chips from the fold-out table beside the sleeping rack. She began wandering through the stateroom, munching loudly on the food, as if to say the discussion was over.

  McCray leaned against the bulkhead and ran his fingers through his short, curly hair. “Maybe you’re right. I’m just tense. If this mission fails to produce, there’s a good chance I’ll just go back on the beach again.”

  The term, on the beach, only sounded nice. The Admiralty had placed him there because they disapproved of his previous actions and refused to give him a ship, and that was something that ripped at his soul. Oh, the assigned housing was nice enough, the food tasted great, but he had nearly lost his mind from boredom. To McCray, returning to the beach was a fate worse than death.

  “No you won’t,” said Aja, dark eyes flashing. “I’ll see to that.”

  “How? I’ve got some powerful enemies in the Navy. Folks who would prefer I never command a starship again.”

  Aja shrugged and talked around a mouthful of tuna. “Your enemies are mostly in the diplomatic corps.”

  McCray threw the fresh boxers on his sleeping rack. “Yep, like that damned Toussaint. He threatened the talks. That’s not my fault.”

  He remembered the Apath’Ka tasted pretty good in the Thallighari Hall of Warriors. Slightly spicy. Even if it didn’t, he would’ve eaten it anyway. A weary veteran of constant combat, he would’ve consumed anything to stop the years-long conflict. War with the dinosaur-like Thallighari had been humanity’s most brutal ever. Hundreds of millions had died battling the only known alien race.

  When peace talks began after sixteen years of bloodshed, he had been willing to do whatever it took to help it along, even if it meant joining the byzantine ranks of a diplomatic mission. Everything proceeded well, until the effete Toussaint refused to eat the Apath’Ka; a grave insult to the aliens. By contrast, McCray never hesitated to dive in and thereby won the approval of the Thallighari.

  “You saved the talks.” said Aja, shrugging. “A small price to pay for peace. And anyway, who cares if you’re enemies with a well-connected sissy? That can be managed.”

  “How? Because of him I have enemies in the Admiralty.”

  “No, that happened because you punched Toussaint and broke his nose.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Then, there was the rude personnelman you slapped at Gaitlin, and the bar fight on New Bangkok. And then...”

  McCray fidgeted, wanting to do anything else but have this conversation. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

  Aja put down the empty plate and spoke softly. “IS-3 knows your value. The political appointees in the Admiralty, the ones who never saw combat, don’t understand the impact you made on the war. You were the Thallighari’s bogeyman, the man who consistently defeated them in battle after battle. They hated you, but that means they also respected you.” She leaned against the table, eyes gentle. “We do too, along with more Navy veterans than you realize. Now that you’re working with us, know that IS-3 protects their assets. Forget about those politically motivated desk jockeys.”

  McCray sighed, a bit with relief at her assurances. He didn’t normally like looking vulnerable to anyone, but Aja had a way of making that safe around her. Though for now, he’d had enough of emotional outpouring, and couldn’t wait to change the subject. “You know you’ve got a chunk of tuna on your shirt?”

  “Really?” She removed the piece, shrugged, and ate it.

  McCray laughed. Her casual nature always set him at ease. “Thanks, Aja. I needed this.”

  She flipped away a lock of her voluminous, chocolate-colored hair with a silly, overdramatic expression. “It is nothing.”

  “Well, it’s a lot to me. You’re a great asset to the ship.”

  She stepped forward slowly, hips swaying, eyes drifting down his body. “Just the ship?”

  He chuckled. He knew she liked teasing him a lot, and secretly, he liked it too. “Mostly to me. You know that.”

  Aja let her panties slip to the floor.
“Then show me. I could use some stress relief too.”

  ***

  McCray was breathing hard when they finished. Generally, he enjoyed good fitness, a product of the military nanites in his body. Though, as a naval officer, and no foot soldier, they mostly ensured he stayed healthy; better than the free medical nanites available to all citizens of the ESE.

  Aja sat with her shapely legs stretched across his lap. She hummed to herself while braiding her hair into a complex construction; not even winded,

  McCray wondered at her endurance. He said, “Your medical nanos must be amazing.”

  She shrugged. “I like ‘em.”

  “What’s it like? I mean, are you a fast runner?”

  Aja smiled. “Very.”

  McCray ran his fingers down her muscular thigh. “You look like a gymnast to me, but not a super-strong one.” His hand stopped, as he thought further. Nanites produced physical abilities that often appeared little different from magic. “Are you? Super strong?”

  Aja looked away, apparently embarrassed by the subject. The relationship between them was new and they were still learning about each other. “My muscles and bones are dense, really dense. I’m a lot stronger than I look, and it has to be that way. If I looked like some hulking bruiser I’d draw too much attention.”

  “So have you ever been shot?”

  Aja shot him a glare. “Is this your idea of pillow talk?”

  “I’m just wondering.”

  Aja slumped, apparently giving in to his questioning. “I can’t give operational details, but if you must know, yes.”

  “Whoa! What happened?”

  “It hurt a lot,” Aja deadpanned.

  “I imagine. So did someone pull you out?”

  “Like who? I usually work alone. Anyway the bullet didn’t penetrate far, not enough to hit a vital organ. My muscles absorbed so much energy it didn’t reach anything critical. I bled for a bit before the nanos sealed it up.”