The Huralon Incident

by E A Wicklund

  Beside him, Khalid stood with a heavy tea set made of gold on a tray. The weathered and wrinkled skin of his sixty years, he knew, made him appear older than his chronological age. Despite his years, arthritis, and inadequate healthcare, he managed to hold out the nine pound tray in a steady hand while Marcus studiously ignored it.

  After making him wait for several minutes, Marcus took a single sip of tea and gestured to remove it. Khalid suppressed a relieved sigh as he set the tray down. The bastard seemed to love these little demonstrations of power. No matter. Khalid was used to it, and many other insults. Like most servants, he had a real name and a stupid pet name the masters used instead. In his case, Khalid must answer to Bloop.

  Still, there were advantages to serving the Senator. Khalid could speak rather more bluntly to his master than his colleagues. Most of Khalid’s peers would’ve been executed by now.

  “I’ve dismissed Alana from your harem as you ordered, sir,” said Khalid.

  “Very good. How much did you give her?”

  “Five thousand dimas.”

  “That was rather lavish of you, wasn’t it, Bloop?”

  “It will cover the medical cost of birthing her child. No more.”

  “I suppose it’s not too much then.”

  “I thought perhaps you might offer her 10,000 more—if the Master wishes.”

  Marcus grimaced. “Whatever for?”

  “To feed the child after birth. Without the pay of the harem, she’ll have nothing.”

  “And how is that any concern of mine?”

  Khalid shrugged. “The child is yours.”

  Marcus stared at Khalid as if he were an especially annoying insect. “The child is entirely her fault, Bloop. If she didn’t want to be dismissed, she shouldn’t have allowed herself to become pregnant. She knew the rules.”

  “Of course, sir. I expect the cost of birth control was quite beyond her salary.”

  Marcus squinted. “That will be quite enough on the subject, Bloop.”

  “Yes, sir.” Khalid trod upon thin ice, speaking so frankly to an Elite, even with the senator’s customary tolerance. Khalid had no idea why Marcus allowed him to live, though he suspected the senator enjoyed lecturing him in a patronizing, insulting manner. A less educated servant might not comprehend the subtle jabs, robbing the Elite of his fun.

  “The problem with you lower classes is you fail to think practically,” said Marcus. “You people will never be better than servants because you have no foresight. It’s just as well that kindly souls like myself bother to employ you and keep you safe. Without me, I dare say you’d starve to death.”

  “Of course, you’re right, Master.”

  “Of course, I am.” Marcus finished decorating himself. “I shall return within the hour, Bloop. The people of Huralon need my guidance to tell them what they need. Have Boo-Boo washed and ready when I return.”

  “Of course, sir. I must say, I don’t understand your fascination with him. Even for a fourteen-year-old, his education is lacking.”

  “You miss the obvious, once again, Bloop. Boo-Boo cannot get pregnant.”

  ***

  DPS Qalawun’s captain, Leonard Nguyen Chahine, stood on the bridge. The ship’s master was a rarity in the Democratic People’s Navy, a commoner in command of a capital warship.

  He grew up tall and slender in an asteroid belt under very low gravity, adding to his height. Like many of his peers, he joined the military to escape crushing poverty and experience substantive food for the first time. His fortunes had changed even more when he met the kindly Elite, Clarence Namam, another rarity in Madkhal. Because of him, Chahine enjoyed a rapid rise through the ranks with the patronage of the powerful man.

  When Chahine first took command of Qalawun it had been a great honor, shortly after, Namam, his patron, fell from grace with the Senate and was executed. The secret police, the Immortals, were still seeking new victims related to Namam to punish for the spurious claims made against the Elite’s household.

  Chahine gazed into the tank, watching the movements of the shipping, but his heart was only halfway in the task. While his parents died in the destruction of Namam’s palace, only months ago, Chahine remained safely out of reach of the Immortals. The question remained, how long would that last?

  A brief alarm sounded as a particular hatch, reserved for VIPs, opened. Senator Mallouk walked through it, flanked by his four bodyguards. The sharp-eyed former assassins adorned themselves in blood red berets and ornate, filigreed garb. They wore wholly impractical, jagged swords at their sides. Such poorly balanced weapons existed to intimidate and did little else. The military-grade 6.1mm assault weapons they carried at port arms were the real tools of their trade. Carrying such powerful hypersonic weapons aboard ship was stupid. They could easily hole the ship’s skin, but woe came to anyone who pointed that out.”

  “Senator on the bridge,” barked Chahine.

  Chahine and the eighteen people in the space immediately dropped to their knees and touched their foreheads to the floor. Marcus crossed the bridge in silence, weaving around the prostrate bodies as if they were furniture, until he arrived at Qalawun’s own holographic tank. He watched it for a full minute before acknowledging the crew, still groveling on the floor.

  “Resume your duties,” he grunted. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, making it clear that he despised the unperfumed odors of commoners.

  Chahine stepped up beside him, “How may I serve you, Esteemed Senator?”

  “Yes, Captain…ChaCha is it?”

  “Leonard Chahine, sir.”

  “I think ChaCha is better, don’t you?”

  Chahine hid his expression, turning to the tank. “As you wish, sir.”

  Marcus gazed into the display. “It seems there are no Elysium warships prowling in the area, correct?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Not even a…what do you menials call them, Corvette?”

  “There are none. Huralon’s corvettes pulled away to the system periphery per Huralon’s constitutional rules during a secession vote.”

  Marcus tapped at the display’s frame as he thought. “Pity. We need an Elysium warship.” He thought a minute longer, then said, “Have the crews returned from inspecting the wreckage of my son’s shuttle?”

  “Yes, sir. I sent you a report six hours ago.”

  “So? I’m asking you now. Was my son dead?”

  “The searchers found no one in the craft. Our special unit learned he had been taken to the facility at Arcoplex. They were unable to recover him, I’m sorry to say. The heathens made off with him. But that’s still good news. He is alive.”

  “Damn!” Marcus pounded the tank in fury. “That is not good news, Captain.”

  Chahine backed up a little, shocked at the unexpected reaction. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  Marcus glared as if Chahine was a little dog that peed on the carpet. “If he’s alive, then he might reappear and challenge the veracity of his execution holo we gave the news. The low-born would know it was faked.”

  Chahine said nothing. It was no real surprise. These Elites usually barely knew their offspring and had no real care for them if they did. Though, he could speak to Elites more openly than most commoners, one must always be careful around Elites. They were prone to unpredictable bouts of spite that frequently ended with a commoner’s execution.

  Marcus crossed his arms. “I had hoped that you, being a military man, possessed more strategic savvy than that. Of course, I want him dead. I didn’t send the Xerxes Regiment down there with surface-to-air weapons for sightseeing.”

  Chahine turned away to hide his reaction as bile spewed into his mouth. He choked it down. What sort of a man would want his own son dead? This man was more foul than even his fellow Elites. How could someone like him even be considered human? “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, come now, ChaCha. Have you no more fortitude than that? Stewart exists to benefit me, not the other way around.”

&
nbsp; “Isn’t his name, Stephen, sir?”

  “Whatever. I have thirty-seven sons and some number of daughters. Who could keep up with that? So is that all the information you have? Has he completely disappeared?”

  “Not quite. We have an unconfirmed report from an agent in Vicker’s base. He claims he saw your son being treated most disgracefully.”

  “How exactly?”

  Chahine dropped his voice to a whisper. “They shackled him in chains. They attached poles to his bonds and herded him into a marine assault shuttle like an animal.” It was always wise to stroke the Elite ego by displaying outrage on their behalf.

  Marcus’s face turned dark. “Did anyone take pictures of this?”

  Chahine was taken aback by the non-sequitur. “Ah. I don’t believe so.”

  Marcus breathed out, obviously relieved. “Good. It could be embarrassing to me if such pictures got out.”

  For a moment, Chahine had been surprised and thought he’d seen fatherly concern for Stephen, perhaps hoping that even if he must die to serve a cause, his boy had not suffered. Now, that hope was dashed and it was clear the senator only cared for his own image. He kept his face neutral. “An important consideration, sir.”

  “I’m always thinking, my boy. Follow me, and I’ll teach you how to succeed.”

  Chahine felt his gorge rising. What could he learn from this snake? To call this man a dog, the favorite insult of the Elites, would be an affront to dogs. He appeared to possess none of the emotions of higher animals like empathy and familial bonds. He felt no more kinship to this man than he would with a species of bacteria.

  “This is important information,” continued Marcus. “That shuttle likely took him into orbit to one of the two corvettes.”

  “Begging your pardon, Esteemed Senator, but both vessels were far away from orbit. Neither could support such a large shuttle anyway.”

  “Well then, what happened to the shuttle?”

  “Unknown, sir. The shuttle just...vanished while in space.”

  Marcus’s face turned dark with fury. “Damn those Elysians and their Agrawal fields. It’s there, somewhere in orbit. Send out more drones. If one gets close enough, it can still detect that shuttle.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “We shall have to prepare for Stephen’s sudden reappearance if it happens. Have your news staff prepare something to give to Majinn News. We need to prepare the groundwork to claim my son’s reappearance is a grisly ruse perpetrated by the Elysians.”

  Chahine wondered at the man’s quick thinking. But then again, it made sense. Unburdened by normal human emotions like remorse or familial connections, the senator had a certain reptilian advantage.

  Marcus watched the movements of contacts in the tank. “Meanwhile, we still need an Elysian warship.”

  “There are none, sir.”

  “I know that, ChaCha!” growled Marcus. “If one isn’t present, we need to manufacture one. I need a ship, one large enough to have sensor readings similar to a warship.”

  Chahine consulted the tactical display, fearing he knew where this was going. “Yes, sir. There is one, just coming out of hyper. It’s the Precious Jade enroute to Inouye.” He pointed into the tank at the radar contact.

  “The Angeletti Clipper?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Yes, that one will do. That is an Elysium heavy cruiser, ChaCha.”

  “But, Esteemed Senator. It’s an unarmed merchant.”

  Marcus scowled at Chahine. “For our purposes, it is a heavy cruiser, violating the McGowan edict of non-interference during a secession vote. Any Elysian warships entering the system now, would prove Elysian aggression against the people of Hurlon and solidify our position as their helpful, compassionate defenders. You understand? It’s just another step in securing secession from Elysium. Strategic thinking, my boy. They taught you about that in the Academy, didn’t they?”

  Chahine carefully schooled his expression. He’d been taught naval tactics—not how to murder innocents for monetary gain. The strategy the senator described must have been written by a madman. “But, sir, sensor logs would report a civilian vessel. Even Huralon Space Control will show that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the sensors say, you dog,” growled Marcus, clearly becoming frustrated. “Sensor logs can be edited later. What matters now is what the voters think, and we will tell them what to think.”

  “I suppose so, sir,” murmured Chahine. “I’m just wondering at how many innocents are aboard Precious Jade.” At times like this, he doubted what he was fighting for. He felt no kinship with this thing in fine clothes. Why be here at all? With his parents gone, nothing bound him to Madkhal any longer, so why follow the orders of this devil?

  Chacha,” said Marcus. Menace prowled in his eyes. “I am unaccustomed to servants questioning my orders. It matters not who is innocent. No one is innocent. Some must be martyred to realize the will of the Teacher. Now, do as I say.”

  Chahine’s thought came unbidden, the will of the True Prophet, or the will of a murderous, greedy snake? His shoulders slumped. He hated the idea of attacking a defenseless vessel. Any true military man felt the same way. Unfortunately, the Senator’s reputation preceded him. If he balked, ship’s captain or not, his life was forfeit.

  Qalawun’s captain turned towards the tank. “Very well, sir. We will wait until the Precious Jade approaches close enough that she cannot escape, and then we will destroy her.” May the Teacher forgive the sin of my weakness.

  Chapter 25

  Springbok’s bridge hummed with quiet intensity. McCray watched Alpha team work their boards. He couldn’t blame them for stealing frequent glances into the tank. The tactical display, with its colorful symbology, showed Qalawun still orbited Huralon, prowling around the planet like a lion at a watering hole.

  “We’ve reached brakepoint, sir,” said Raj at the helm.

  While routine, a brakepoint maneuver needed careful handling. A mistake here could kill the entire crew. “Very well, Helm,” said McCray. “Set paddles to standby.”

  “Paddles to standby, aye.

  “Shutdown paddles.”

  Paddles off. Emitters show no errors.”

  “Reverse emitters, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir. Paddles reversed. Still no errors.”

  McCray nodded. This was the important part. If there were errors, engaging the drive might result in misalignment between inertial balancers and propulsion, and the crew would be subjected to hundreds of gees of force. “Very well. Engage paddles. Make cycles for 190 gees, extension 6,000 yards. Set paddle tension to 0.67 Bosch.

  “Aye, sir. Making cycles for 190 gees. We are now braking for Huralon orbit.”

  “Thank you, Dodger. Well done.”

  Ando and Warwick looked up with surprised smiles. McCray smiled at their reaction. Yes, he had finally found a nickname for Raj. He enjoyed watching the two share an amused look before returning their boards.

  “Eyes, any change in the status of Qalawun and company?”

  “No, sir,” answered Warwick. “She’s making cycles for eighteen gees, very slow, just enough to hold position in orbit. The four personnel transports have completed dropping landers. They’re holding formation abaft of Qalawun.”

  “Very well. Circus, anything juicy in the news broadcasts?”

  “Nothing much new,” said Ando. “Initial panic when the Madkhali soldiers arrived. It seems not everyone thinks secession is a good idea. Polling numbers dropped to fifty-three percent in favor after troops started landing, still enough to pass. The streets were jammed with people evacuating the cities. The Madkhalis are behaving themselves, relatively. Just setting up polling booths and at least not shooting anyone so far. In several incidents, the locals threw rocks at them, but no gunfire reported so far.”

  “Any protests?”

  “Many,” nodded Ando. “I’m seeing some Elysians marching right alongside Madkhalis, demanding secession from Elysium. Most are
college age and a few counter-culture groups I recognize. Majinn News is already claiming the secession is successful.”

  “Jumping the gun, aren’t they? The vote doesn’t happen for four days.”

  “True. It looks like Schubert News is finally weighing in, though. Can I show you?”

  McCray gestured at the tank.

  The tactical display vanished and a street view of the city of Callas appeared, a waiting reporter before it. McCray recognized Frank Dellard right away. The news reporter’s features were mathematically perfect, except for his eyes which were large and yellow. Neatly arranged feathers flared out from his cheeks. The overall effect made him look like an owl. A classic attempt to project an aura of knowledge and wisdom. For a newsie, his body mods were a predictable, conservative look.

  Behind him, groups of Elysians chanted and waved signs. “In our last report,” he began, “we interviewed the Elysian protesters that Madkhali Military Press Liaisons directed us to. But we noticed the largest group of protesters in the back were predominantly Madkhali and quite a bit quieter. We wondered why and investigated. Here’s what happened.”

  The view switched and all that could be seen of Dellard was his microphone. Madkhalis shambled by, resting signs on their shoulders rather than waving them.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Dellard, pushing his microphone towards a middle-aged man.

  “No, no, I cannot,” said the fellow, waving Dellard away.

  He tried speaking to a younger man who said, “Go away. Don’t get me into trouble.”

  At last, an older Madkhali woman said, “You leave now. It’s not safe for you here.” She was shoved aside by a huge, bearded man holding a club. He pushed his hand into Dellard’s face, blocking the view of the reporter’s clip-on camera, but audio still worked. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”