by E A Wicklund
“If you insist, Commander.” McCray had no intention of letting a convenient escape hatch like that go unused. Any excuse to avoid paperwork was a good one. “I trust in your wise recommendations. I’ll meet him in Stage Meeting Room Three.”
“That’s the one where you stashed…”
The prospect of a real whiskey instead of a virtual one moistened his palette. “Pure coincidence, I assure you.”
Zahn offered a knowing wink and blinked out of existence.
McCray exited the meeting room simulation, unplugged his comms cable, and stepped out of the sarco in his stateroom. The walk down the passageway felt good after sitting, even virtually, for so long.
Taking his time, he ran his hand along conduits of various sizes carrying air, water, and power lined the bulkheads. He spent so much time in VR, he felt a need to touch his ship, connecting with it physically. It wasn’t pretty to look at, but Springbok was a warship, sparing little effort for aesthetics. The conduits were punctuated with fixtures of fire-fighting stations, power outlets, and various access ports for the many small robots crawling through the ship. The squarish patterns formed by all the ship’s equipment made McCray wonder if Pablo Picasso were still alive and designing starships.
Motion caught his attention, and he saw a form crawling across a conduit. It was a cleaner bot, one of hundreds constantly swarming the ship. Some of the cleaners resembled spiders. This one looked like a half-meter long centipede with fur. It sucked up dust and dirt into its many vacuuming maws. The fur was electrically charged, attracting tiny particles of dust to it with static electricity.
The ever-present robotic bugs took some getting used to. Most people were repelled by insects or anything that looked like them, but these machines ensured no real bugs existed aboard Springbok. Anywhere Humans went, so did pests from mites to rats, even in space. The small robots ensured McCray’s ship was a clean, healthy place to work.
He entered Stage Meeting Room Three. It was an actual meeting room, which bore a close resemblance to the virtual captain’s meeting room. The long table was made from an excellent imitation of birdseye maple. Ten plush chairs in navy blue surrounded it. A cabinet kiosk, also in birdseye maple, graced one corner. Urns for coffee, creamer, and assorted coffee fixings rested upon the granite top.
McCray pressed a hidden button, recessed into the bottom of the tabletop. The entire kiosk rotated, sending the coffee gear into the bulkhead to reveal the other side of the turnstile and McCray’s private collection of alcohol. Various whiskeys, rums, and vodkas dotted the surface. He’d had the whole mechanism built for such occasions when guests could use “self medication” to relax.
Unlike the VR room, this was real. To McCray, physically handling the drinks just made alcohol taste better. He hummed a happy tune as he poured two glasses of O’Shea’s single-malt. He hadn’t offered this brand to Castellano yet, and he looked forward to the marine’s appraisal.
It was good to be the captain.
He sat down and nursed his drink while he waited. The room was comfortable. It even had an actual door instead of an airtight hatch. Apparently, the Navy didn’t think meeting rooms were important enough to keep safe from vacuum. Probably because the Navy didn’t believe blamestorming sessions were as important as civilian businesses did.
At last the door opened and Jesus Castellano walked in behind one of the two marines escorting him.
“Jesus, good to see you,” said McCray. He nodded to the marines. The marine escorts were familiar with the routine by now, and they left the room without verifying the captain was comfortable alone with the Madkhali.
“Thanks for seeing me, Captain,” said Castellano. He took a seat.
“Belay the formalities, Jesus,” said McCray. He maneuvered the whiskey before Castellano. “You know me better than that.”
“Sorry, Vann. I’m facing a bit of a crisis.”
“I thought you folks were comfortable enough. You said as much.”
“We were...are, but this degree of comfort is alien to them. My men are wild stallions, you see? They’re used to training hard every day.” He paused to sip at his whiskey. “God in Heaven! What is this?”
McCray grinned. He’d had a similar reaction when he first tried it. “It’s O’Shea’s. What do you think?”
Castellano sipped again and closed his eyes. He sighed and smiled. “Over and over again, you Elysians grasp Heaven from the very stars and place it in a bottle. How do you do it?”
“Like always, it’s the peat. There’s something unusual about it. They make it on Carstairs III. The locals there claim it’s nearly identical to Scotland on Earth, though how they would know, I couldn’t say.” He pushed a cigar box forward. “Cigar?”
Castellano shook his head, clearly out of disbelief, because he soon lit one up. “The things you Elysians enjoy. I suppose only a ship’s captain could purchase all this?”
McCray puffed his own cigar to life. “Well, we don’t exactly purchase things in Elysium. We don’t use money.”
Castellano shuddered. “I’ve heard that. I thought it was a joke.”
“It’s true. We get free housing, medical care, food, all the essentials. No charge. In return, everyone must work; that’s the cardinal rule.”
“So you’re socialists.”
McCray shook his head. “Not pure socialists. That doesn’t work. In the long run, capitalism has issues, too. We take the best from both. The smartest thing we did was eliminate money. Our barter system prevents the enormous class gaps and the money hoarding we saw in capitalism. But, like capitalists, we acknowledge that some work harder than others or do more dangerous work. Such people have access to more luxury goods than someone who works less. So the incentive to do more is always there.”
Castellano shook his head. “I don’t understand how that’s sustainable.”
“We’re not sustainable without it. We live in a nanotech society where nearly everything is made by nano printers. People aren’t needed to produce most goods. So how do people earn a living? There isn’t enough manufacturing employment to go around. We needed a better way. Most people in Elysium are nano designers. Artists really, programming nanobots to build consumer goods.”
Castellano looked wide-eyed with wonder. “I do hope our request for asylum is accepted.”
“I’m pushing for it. You and your men helped us a lot. My recommendation for approval was on the message drone we sent to Huralon. ”
“I appreciate that. I really do. But I must request something else.”
“Ask away.” He tapped ash into an ashtray. The mechanical spider inside gobbled it up.
Castellano stared into his drink. “My men are going stir crazy. They’re used to constant training and hardship. Subtle signals tell me all this idleness is turning them into ticking time bombs. Just the other day, Aziz starting reading about gardening.”
McCray poured more whiskey and said in a bland voice, “When will the madness stop?”
Castellano chuckled. “That’s only half a joke. My people need something to do. I would ask for your parole for me and my men.”
“Parole to go where? We’re in hyperspace heading to Huralon, you know. I can’t let your men go EVA.”
“Not that. Just somewhere where they can run, jog, whatever. They need it, Vann. Anything you could offer would be appreciated.”
McCray watched Castellano’s earnest expression. Things like this request were what he appreciated about his erstwhile enemy. A good officer cared about his people and would do anything, even beg, to look after them. They may have come from radically different worlds, but commanding fighting men effectively was the same everywhere. It was good to meet a professional who knew his business.
“Your men are highly trained combat experts. They could be a danger to my crew if they wanted to be.”
“I understand you’d be taking a risk. On my honor, my men won’t cause any trouble.”
McCray tapped at his chin, thinking. “We have some gyms aboar
d. VR games and environments don’t satisfy everyone. If we allowed your men access to a gym, they would go with heavily-armed escorts. I trust you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t take precautions.”
“I’d do the same in your place. Your gyms would be perfect, Captain.”
“Done then. I’ll inform Major Candless.” He held up the whiskey. “Drink on it?”
He smacked his lips. “I wouldn’t dare be a rude guest.”
They shared a laugh and Castellano said, “I greatly enjoy these drinking sessions with you, Vann. Sometimes, I almost feel like I’m home again among friends.”
“I like them, too.” The clinked glasses and drank.
“You and your crew are nothing like I imagined. I find I have more in common with you than my fellow officers in Madkhal.”
“I was wondering why you agreed to work with us. It must take a lot to…” McCray hesitated.
“Betray my own nation?”
McCray shrugged. He couldn’t imagine betraying the Egalitarian Stars of Elysium. He’d sooner blow his own head off than let his fellow citizens down. Still, he wasn’t prepared to judge Castellano too quickly. Life wasn’t the same everywhere.
“Do not misunderstand me, Vann. The people of Madkhal are good people. We love passionately and we are giving. Unfortunately, a sickness has overtaken us since the Revolution. Once, anyone could rise to importance if he worked hard enough. Now, one only has influence if he belongs to the Church of Madkhal faith. And he must show some familial relationship to Madkhal, their founder. Who can prove such a thing when so much history was lost during the Cataclysm? A man only owns such proof if powerful friends produce it.”
“Hardly sounds democratic,” noted McCray, pouring himself another drink.
“The Democratic Peoples is democratic in name only. Only a tiny few decide what is best for all of us. In truth, they decide what is best for themselves. The rest of us starve. No, Vann, I have not betrayed my nation. I have thrown off the shackles laid across my shoulders by religious zealots, by wealthy men who care nothing for the suffering of the people.”
Castellano sighed. “My only regret is I won’t see my family again. I miss my brothers and my baby sister already.”
McCray shrugged. “I’ve been homesick before, too.”
“Yes. And?”
“I’ve found that whiskey helps.”
Castellano held up his glass. “Then please, pour away.”
Chapter 08
Before Springbok entered hyperspace, a mail drone had arrived broadcasting the latest news. Almost entirely composed of hyperengine, the small craft dove deep into the Juliett and Kilo-bands of hyperspace where no human-controlled system could enter could enter safely. This allowed them to cross space at astonishing relative speeds. The news it had sent proved concerning to Aja, and that’s why she asked to hold a briefing in the spacious VR Presentation Room.
Commanders Parsamayan, Bijou, Major Candless and most of the bridge teams arrayed themselves in a horseshoe around an auditorium-style stage. Aja waited as they popped into existence, feeling more nervous than she did on some missions. Conducting briefings still felt uncomfortable to her, a creature who normally lived in the shadows, but the crew evidently appreciated the talks. That and McCray’s constant encouragement meant she relaxed into the role of Intelligence Officer a little more with each briefing.
Standing on the dais beside a huge holotank the size of a small storefront, she cleared her throat, self-consciously straightened her shipsuit, and started up the holotank. News broadcasts from Huralon began playing. “Welcome everyone. You may have wondered why the border skirmish between Elysium and Madkhal didn’t become all-out war after the destruction of corvette ESS Hardy.” Only a debris field had ever been found. Forensic evidence indicated a Madkhali warship had destroyed it, but this evidence was largely circumstantial, thus triggering the deployment of Springbok. “As it happens, commerce between our nations enjoys a record high and both sides want to maintain that economic boom. As always, it isn’t love conquering war—it’s business.”
Aja enjoyed the polite chuckles from several officers.
“So why would the DPM risk spoiling that? We believe Madkhal wants to establish themselves in the region. Ten years ago, survey vessels discovered the element, Galamonium, in the asteroid belt around Nijer in the McGowan Star Group. This is one of the few materials that cannot be replicated with nanotech. Essential for the construction of ACEs or Artificial ConsciousnEsses, the DPM lags far behind in the development of ACEs. This is one reason they’re humanity’s poorest nation. Control over McGowan and its Galamonium would catapult them onto the technological map. Little surprise then that Madkhal claimed McGowan as ancestral territory shortly after the discovery. Summarily rejected by international courts, the claim slipped into obscurity, but the DPM continued working from another angle.
“Immigrants and the children of immigrants from Madkhal make up sixty-two percent of the population of the planets in McGowan. Until recently, they’ve never complained about living in Elysium society, largely because in the ESE it’s illegal to physically brutalize workers. The working conditions here won’t likely kill you either.” She gave a wan smile.
A few of the collected officers nodded. Unsafe workplaces in the DPM had become the brunt of dark humor in Elysium, with punchlines where the worker always died. The sad thing was the jokes weren’t far from the truth.
Aja switched the display to show protests and a sharp-eyed man’s face. “Enter Malik Tobruk. He started the Madkhali Liberation Force or MLF. Encompassing all six stars of McGowan, their platform is secession from the ESE and a vote to join the DPM. They’ve funded militant ministries who teach a revisionist history. They claim that Makhalis have to work harder than Elysians, and it’s the evil overlord Elysians who prevent them from amassing wealth. Worse yet, they say Elysians are foreign invaders who stole their ‘ancestral homeland’ from them.”
“How can anyone buy into that shite?” said Piper. “The planets were terraformed by Elysians and settled by Elysian colonists. The Madkhalis are only there because Elysian companies paid immigration fees to get the Madkhalis there in the first place.”
“Correct, Mr. Piper. But now we’re looking at many generations of Madkhalis who were born in the star group. They don’t remember immigrating. To them, McGowan is their home. To those buying into revisionist history, it’s their ancestral home.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Piper. “Have the Madkhalis been treated unfairly in Huralon?”
Aja shook her head. “As far as I know, no.”
“Then why are they complaining?”
“We don’t know for certain,” said Aja, pacing slowly across the dais. “We believe that the DPM used Malik Tobruk to lay the groundwork for another grab at the McGowan Group, most likely to gain access to the Galamonium. How they will do that, we don’t know.”
Piper crossed his arms angrily. “So all this, ‘we’re oppressed’ crap isn’t real.”
Aja nodded. “Made from whole cloth for a specific political purpose.”
"Very clever, evoking classic tribalism," Bijou said, a note of admiration in her voice. "Give people the idea their group is going to be targeted and they will want to do something to defend themselves, even if the 'attack' is pure conjecture."
“Precisely,” said Aja, “and for each individual the strength of that response varies from apathy to outright violence. Moving on.” Aja climbed back up the dais. “We’ve quietly monitored the MLF and didn’t bother with them while they weren’t serious trouble. But in the past year, coincidentally paralleling the border skirmish, the MLF has proven organized and very violent. Buses have exploded, suicide bombers set off bombs in crowded markets, and buildings have toppled. Predictably, local police forces have begun profiling Madkhalis and that only fed into Tobruk’s message of oppression.
“The Majinn News Network in the DPM has begun broadcasting lists of martyrs to fan the flames. These otherwi
se uninspiring people are getting flamboyant and largely fictional histories to encourage hatred toward all things Elysium.
“Unfortunately for the terrorists, they haven’t found that one martyr that would truly inspire their audience. Instead, they talked desperate and impressionable adolescents into martyring themselves. Nearly one hundred Madkhali teenagers have died, duped into blowing themselves up needlessly. Instead of drawing the people into the cause, most are appalled by an obvious ploy.”
“Then why do it if it doesn’t work?” said Commander Bijou.
Aja shrugged, “Sometimes, if you do it long enough, it does work. I’m not saying this approach works on everyone. It doesn’t. An angry Madkhali population, even a fraction of it, works in their favor. This lays the groundwork for something. I don’t know what it is, but if the right event occurs, whatever that may be, the situation can snowball very quickly.
“Now, we’re seeing a lot of this in Huralon. We’ll be arriving there in a few days.” She stopped to look at every officer. “Anyone going ashore must be on guard at all times. The MLF has the Madkhali locals seriously stirred up.”
McCray raised his hand. “What does that mean for Scirocco’s crew? Is Arcoplex going to be safe for them?”
“I was concerned about that as well.” She took a long breath. The next bit was not happy news. “The Navy has been unusually forthcoming about the action at Gershon. They’ve publicly announced that our Madkhali guests would wait for repatriation at Arcoplex Detention Facility.”
McCray groaned.
“Clearly, the Navy is trying to be open as possible about the incident,” continued Aja. “They say this will help the diplomats smooth things over.”
“So much for sneaking in during the night. They know we’re coming.”
“Yes, and there have been protests at Arcoplex.”
She updated the holodeck, and it replayed a protest crowd of about two-hundred just outside the detention facility’s gates. People carried signs reading, “Release The Hostages!” Another sign read, “You kidnapped our planet!”
