by E A Wicklund
He could hear Bertram’s teeth grinding.
“As you say,” growled Bertram, “but under protest.”
“Noted. That will be all for today, gentlemen,” said Blanchard, and cut the feed. He placed his shoes upon the desk. It wouldn’t be long before that mansion by the lake in Madkhal would be his. And best of all, there wouldn’t be any filthy colonists within light-years to spoil it for him.
***
The engineering and hull tech departments of Springbok had more compartments dedicated to them than any other. Though custom components could be designed in VR, engineers were a different breed. They still liked doing things with their hands.
Worktables, loaded with exotic-looking tools and half-disassembled components, lined the walls. Shelves with clear drawers containing smaller bits stood between them. A burn mark beside one table, something like a Rorschach blot, suggested a small explosion went off. McCray frowned at the burn, electing to withhold comment on it until later.
He looked down at the cone of dirty, corroded metal on the table beside him. “This is really lousy timing, Gui,” McCray said.
The Chief Engineer nibbled on a pickle with fingers stained by the same goop that lubricated the metal cone. The diminutive engineer’s eyes were clearly two different sizes. McCray knew he shouldn’t let that bother him but it still did. Was one artificial? Parsamayan focused the larger of the two on McCray. “I’m sorry about that, sir. We’ve been replacing these Flow Modulators as fast as they fail. I just installed the last one this morning.”
“Can’t we just make more in the nano factories?”
“Ran out of several critical elements this morning, too.”
McCray ran his fingers through his wiry hair. “I don’t understand. Black Ships operate in space black for months on deep reconnaissance patrols. They’ve done that for decades. Why are we having a problem?”
Gui produced another pickle from the legion of pockets in his dirty coveralls. He crunched into it and talked around the vinegary bits.
“That’s because they have separate emitters for space black and particle shields. They only run one or the other at one time. Downside is, that means their particle defense is less dense. The black ships just rely on never being discovered as their best defense. For us, we don’t have that problem, but these dual-purpose emitters are new tech. A hastily assembled kluge of mismatching technologies, if you ask me. I could do better, of course,” he said proudly.
“Can you?”
“With a fully staffed and stocked space dock, sure.”
Of course. So much for that solution.
“Does this mean the particle fields are getting ready to fail as well?”
“No. The emitters will be perfectly fine as long as we don’t engage space black.”
McCray nodded. It was just as well. They were headed for safety. They could replace the emitters when they returned home. “Understood, Gui. We won’t be needing Space Black while sailing to New Chicago.” He felt like grimacing, as though someone had just punched him in the gut for saying the words. “Keep me updated.”
***
McCray had begun avoiding everyone, even Aja, isolating himself in VR for unusually long stretches of his free time. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to see anyone, he didn’t want anyone seeing him. He felt wrong, disconnected, broken.
He sat on a lawn chair in the middle of rolling, emerald green hills. Just a few miles away, the ocean surged against rocky cliffs. The simulation represented Ireland, it said in the description, from before the Catastrophe. He had hoped this beautiful place would pull him out of his melancholy, but all he could think was, he was a malfunctioning part, useless to the machine it was made for.
He shook his head and slumped in the chair. It made no sense, this damnable malaise. He had made the right decision. He had been ordered back to New Chicago and he was following orders, precisely what a good naval officer should do. It was senseless to return to Huralon. Springbok’s emitters were failing and couldn’t operate in space black, and that huge battlecruiser prowling around Huralon was orders of magnitude out of Springbok’s league. If Qalawun attacked, Springbok would almost certainly be destroyed. Re-entering Huralon as IS-3 asked was a fool’s errand. Only an idiot pulled the tail of the tiger. Yes, he was doing everything right. He should feel good that he made such a wise decision to go home.
But he felt like shit.
Why?
This whole secession adventure of Senator Mallouk was ridiculous. Elysians wouldn’t actually invite the disaster of a secession. It couldn’t possibly succeed, could it? At his behest, a two-meter holoseum appeared on the grass before him and began playing the latest news from Huralon.
A reporter, wearing a holocam, walked along one of Huralon’s immaculately maintained highways. He strode past a long line of stopped vehicles. People had climbed out of their sliders and cars and talked angrily among themselves, some shouting. At the end of the vehicles, a Madkhali soldier stood before several military trucks blocking the road. He held his hand up as the reporter approached him.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the reporter. “Why are you blocking the highway?”
“Maintenance,” said the shoulder. “This road is unsafe. We’re securing it until repairs are complete. Turn around, please. Go back home.”
“We’ve driven for many miles and saw no indication of damage.”
“It’s further up the road. Turn around, please.”
“Can you explain why Madkhali troops are deploying on an Elysian planet?”
“To ensure a fair and honest referendum, citizen. That is all.”
“But Elysian military forces have never deployed for an election before. Why now?”
The soldier sighed. “Look, I just follow orders, okay? Now be on your way.”
“Isn’t this roadblock just a ruse to keep potential voters closer to your voting facilities? May I remind you, these people are not required to vote for secession?”
Alright, that’s enough,” barked the soldier. He cocked his weapon and swung it down, but away from the reporter. The threat was still clear. “Be on your way. You’re interfering with public safety.”
“Okay, Okay,” said the reporter holding his hands up. He turned around and headed back along the stopped civilian vehicles. “That’s the scene here, Chandra. Every major road out of Callas has been blocked, preventing civilians from leaving the city and the Madkhali voting centers. Incredibly, we’re seeing armed Madkhali soldiers on the streets of Huralon where even Elysian military units carefully avoid interfering.”
The scene shifted back to the Schubert News studio with it’s shifting backgrounds and clear plexiglass tables. “Hardly seems like the essence of democracy that Senator Mallouk promised, does it Jack?”
“No ma’am. Also, Madkhali military officials have rebuked most every effort to discuss their actions with the free press.”
Chandra continued in the studio, “While allegations that the Braunfels videos have been tampered with, have filled the airwaves, the warnings have gone largely unheeded as partisan politics have gripped McGowan. We turn now to events just occurring in Jallisco. A protest in favor of secession turned violent when confronted by protestors opposing the secession.”
The normally pristine streets of Jallisco, lined by its famous redwood trees, showed a scene civilians attacking each other with protest signs and other makeshift cudgels. Some grappled with one another while fists and kicks were thrown by others as the two groups surged back and forth. One man collapsed on the ground, bleeding from his head as others fought over the top of him. Soon, he was pulled away by compatriots, a long line of blood trailing behind him.
The reporter had to shout over the sound of the battle. “Jallisco, one of the most picturesque of Huralon’s cities is now the scene of bloody violence, Chandra.” The view shifted a moment as the reporter dodged something thrown at him. “The violence is surging for the second day in a row and shows no sign of abating.
This uncharacteristic savagery is creeping into cities across the planet. All we can do is watch in horror as our once peaceful society tears itself apart.”
McCray shut down the broadcast with a wave of his hand, the holoseum disappearing shortly after.
So it wasn’t going so well after all, in fact, things were getting worse. But was that really his responsibility? His job was to follow orders. If Admiral Gaatz wanted him back that’s what he had to do. Then again, he’d never really made his career by strictly following orders, rather he’d bent them liberally to do what he knew was right.
Perhaps he was naive, back in the days of the Thallighari War, thinking he knew better than someone else. Now, who was he to decide what was best for the Huralonese? They were adults with their own minds, and responsible for themselves. Except...except, they didn’t know what he knew. They hadn’t seen the same footage that he had, weren’t provided the same context that he saw. Was it fair to expect them to make the right call without having the right information? Was it fair to tell someone, “fix it yourself,” when that someone was denied the right tools?
McCray spat on the ground as he held his head in his hands. This was too much. He was done doing the ‘right thing’ and getting beaten up by the Admiralty for having the audacity to try. The times had changed and he’d grown older, more experienced. He now understood those men who’d towed the Admiralty’s party line. Those men and women, who now commanded small sloops of war and frigates, made sense now. None of them had ever wasted away on the beach.
And none of them had been offered command of ESS Springbok.
***
“It’s not your fault, Sullivan,” said Colonel Bertram. His aid looked distraught as he stood before the desk. To Bertram the man looked like a puppy about to get whipped. “Settle down. Stand at ease. We are at war, son, even if no one has declared it. Things like this happen in war.”
“I understand, sir,” said Sullivan. “I still should’ve made copies of the data that McCray’s ship sent. I just never thought...I mean—”.
“How could you? The last place on the planet that should’ve been hacked is us. No one should be more secure. We’re up against a deadly serious opponent.” He leaned back in his chair and held up a datajack. “Luckily, I’m a paranoid son of a bitch, and I did make a copy.”
A grin followed the relief on Sullivan’s face. “That’s great, sir.”
Bertram handed it to him. “Take this down to the techie division. Make six copies and distribute five to each of the squadron leaders. Tell them to disburse ASAP to the sites we’ve discussed. They should lay low until they hear from me. If they hear nothing within seventy-two hours, they are ordered to activate Operation Switchblade.”
Sullivan gulped. Bertram understood the reaction. If Senator Mallouk’s actions hadn’t already started a war, Switchblade probably would, and also end the careers of everyone involved. Every member of the operation was a volunteer. No one was forced. All believed the actions were necessary to defend Huralon’s citizens. “Yes, sir. And the sixth?”
Bertram tapped on his datapad. “I’m sending you the address of a Schubert News reporter. I trust her. Remove your name tag, go to her house, and drop the datajack on the floor at her feet. Don’t say anything to her. Just leave.”
“Sir?”
“It’d be a shame if classified material, wrongly withheld from the public, were misplaced, wouldn’t it?”
Sullivan nodded. “I understand, sir.”
“Take my personal car. Arm yourself, and don’t speak with anyone you don’t already know. We potentially have enemies on the base. Be on your guard at all times. Off you go, then.”
Sullivan saluted and left. Bertram returned to his deskcomp and continued dictating his letter. He couldn’t help but use it as an opportunity to rant. Why not? What could anyone do about it?
“In conclusion,” he said. “I find myself no longer able to serve adequately, given the environment which is eroding the relationship between myself and the civilian government. This will be my final transmission. Stop. Add signature. Stop.”
“Save and send, save only, discard?” said the deskcomp.
As he looked out the window at the tarmac three stories below, he could see his personal vehicle leaving the garage. As he watched, a fireball engulfed the car. Burning chunks of the shattered vehicle scattered across the pale altoferramic.
Bertram didn’t remember punching the window. He looked down at his bloody knuckles in mute surprise. He looked back out to soldiers running to the burning car. The information in that fireball was Huralon’s best chance at returning to normality, and he had failed to deliver it.
“Save and send, save only, discard?” said the deskcomp.
“Discard, damn you!” he shouted. “I still have more work to do.”
***
Aja found McCray in his stateroom, staring at a holo of a chicken. Even though she stood next to him, he didn’t turn, didn’t react at all to her presence.
He’s taking us to New Chicago, Aja thought, and it’s killing him. Leaving Huralon is supposed to be good news, so why do both of us look like someone just died? This is stupid. Leaving will just destroy him, and frankly, I don’t want to doom everyone on Huralon to rule by the Elites either. I’ve got to talk him into returning to Huralon.
“You asked to see me?”
McCray took a long time to answer. He pointed at the holo. “I just wanted to know what a chicken looks like.”
Aja smiled. “It’s an Algonquin Red. There’s a lot more kinds than that. You’ll see them soon.”
“Maybe.”
“What?”
“If we live long enough.” He spun suddenly in his chair. “We’re going back to Huralon.”
Aja felt her face go slack. That was the very last thing she thought he’d say. “We are?”
McCray looked anguished. “I know we made plans. I still want to see the family farm, but there’s no way I’m turning my back on Huralon. They’re about to make a mistake that will kill millions. Millions, Aja. People die in droves in the labor camps of the Madkhali Elites. I can’t just walk away and let that happen.”
“Okay, but—”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it. I told you from the beginning, I’m a sheepdog.” McCray began pacing around the small stateroom. “I’m a sheepdog, guarding the flock; it’s what I do. I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m wired. I can’t help being who I am.”
“I know that—”
“Don’t be mad, Aja. I’m not ducking out. We just need to finish the mission, and then we’re on our way to New Chicago. Don’t hate me, please. I can’t wait to catch chickens and cluck them.”
“Pluck.”
“Yeah, that. Listen to me—”
Aja crossed her arms, annoyed. “Can I say something now?”
McCray froze in place and winced as though expecting her to punch him. “Okay.”
“I want to go back too.”
“I know,” sighed McCray. “I want to go to Curassus too. From what you describe it sounds beautiful and I—”
“Vann!” barked Aja.
“What?”
“I want to go to Huralon too.”
“You do?”
“I’m just worried about the Qalawun. We can’t fight that thing.”
McCray stared at her with a stunned expression on his face. It seemed he had prepared himself for a terrible argument, and now struggled to shift gears. After a moment he seemed to succeed. “Well, we won’t.”
“Why can’t we just broadcast from the edge of the system? We send a signal and run for it.”
“Qalawun can jam the transmission, and they’re already shooting down mail drones. We have to go all the way to Hikonojo Port to be sure it gets through.”
Aja knew a moment of pride.. This was the man she fell for. “What about the McGowan constitution? We’re taking an Elysian military vessel inside the heliopause during a secession vote. That violates the agreement. Wha
t do you say to that, Mr. Rule of Law?”
McCray stood his ground. “Is that my reputation? Please tell the Navy, I’ve never been much for the letter of the law. The spirit of the law is more my speed, and that’s one reason I have enemies in the Admiralty. I back the law so long as it serves the people. When the law works against them, to hell with it.”
Aja put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I knew you’d make the right call.”
“You’re not mad?”
She held his face in her hands. “We didn’t sign up for dangerous jobs to do safe things. We’re willing to pay the price for the safety of others. It’s what we do.”
“True, but our plans—”
“Will wait.”
She held him tightly. Aja knew she often confused him, and it didn’t matter if he never understood her. She felt a kinship with him, as though he grew up in the house next door. The man who stood tall when trouble brewed, the one who never ran from the people who counted on him—he was a man worth keeping.
She nuzzled his neck and squeezed like she would never let go.
***
The officers of all three bridge teams met in the virtual meeting room, expanded by Archimedes to seat the larger than normal group. When all had arrived, McCray stood up. He wasn’t sure how to tell everyone they would reenter the lion’s den in full view. He would be asking a lot of any crew to take on such a dangerous mission, but such were the fortunes of war.
“Thank you everyone,” he began, gathering his thoughts. “We are faced with two conflicting sets of orders. The Admiralty is calling us back to New Chicago, and IS-3 is calling us back to Huralon. This mission and Springbok itself are jointly directed by both the Admiralty and IS-3, so the question is, whose orders do we follow?”
He looked down the table, wondering how the crew would take his news. They had worked hard and overcame outrageous odds. They deserved a break. The Mind knew they had earned it. These people had become like family to him. Would they feel betrayed by him when he threw them back into the fire? “Following this meeting,” he began. “We are reversing course and returning to Huralon.”
