by E A Wicklund
Ando leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “I don’t know about you guys, but he looks to me like a kid in a candy store. Something strange is going on.”
McCray blew out a breath. “Thanks for that, Circus. I wondered if only I thought that.” There was no doubt, Qalawun’s captain behaved curiously, and as much as he wanted to get away from the deadly warship, he still wanted to know what happened. He gazed into the tank and checked the chrono. With any luck, it might take one hour and fourteen minutes to explain. By then, they would reach the heliopause, and they could escape into the relative safety of hyperspace. Even that was no guarantee, but Springbok’s captain enjoyed complete faith in Raj’s ability to lose pursuit in that place-between-places.
Raj looked up. “Shall I place the paddles in standby, sir?”
McCray shook his head out of his thoughts. “Absolutely not. Maintain evasions as well.” He turned back to Ando. “Circus, record for transmission.”
“Standing by.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Captain Chahine, I’ll maintain my drives as they are. Still, I’m happy to hear you out. And by the way, what happened to Senator Mallouk? Why isn’t he contacting us?”
Seconds later the reply arrived. Chahine’s grin was huge. It looked like it would split his face in two. “Very well, Captain. I understand. There has been a change of command aboard this vessel.” His hand grew large as he reached for the camera and re-aimed it.
The view shifted to Senator Marcus Mallouk. He sat at the table with his hands cuffed behind his back. A dog collar had been applied to his neck. A chain extending from the collar to a clip on the table prevented him from sitting fully erect. His earrings had been pulled out...through the flesh of his earlobes. Purplish bruises dotted his face and streams of blood flowed from his shattered nose and down his chin. “Help me,” he whimpered. “I am a Senator, for Madkhal’s sake!”
Chahine adjusted the camera once more, focusing it on himself and his XO. “As you can see, the Senator is no longer in charge here. There is no more need for us to continue this wasteful—”
Marcus’s voice interrupted from off-camera. “Make him stop. I am a Senator.”
Chahine turned to the sound. “Major. Shut him up.”
The sound of a human head hitting a tabletop—very hard—echoed through the room.
“Ow! My nose. Stop it, you dog.”
“I’m not the one wearing a dog collar,” replied the Major.
“As I was saying,” continued Chahine. “The cause of our conflict is no longer viable.” He gestured with his chin to indicate Marcus, then approached the camera, placing his hands together in a gesture of sincerity. “My offer is this. You may have this ship. I’m very certain your friends at IS-3 would be happy to acquire a fully functional, well mostly functional, example of our new Nassar class. This would be an intelligence windfall for Elysium, making you a hero. In return...” Chahine backed up and seemed to shrug apologetically. “You give me your ship. Simple. We just...swap ships.”
Chapter 29
The slider commuter bus hurtled down the highway, a little bit faster than was safe. But as Mathieu Blanchard, formerly Governor of Huralon, looked out the window at crops of spinach and kale, he wished it would go even faster. It wasn’t possible to get off this wretched planet fast enough.
He looked around at the Huralonese families that packed the bus like sardines. All were running from the towns outside the larger cities. The Huralon Militia had effectively made the big cities like Jallisco off limits for the enforced voting participation missions of the Madkhali Army units. The Madkhalis had moved to the smaller towns where the Militia was too thin to operate, and continued their work. The people beside Blanchard murmured about running away from the Madkhalis, becoming refugees on their own planet.
Blanchard scoffed inside. They were so worried about petty problems. What about him? He used to run the entire planet, but now he ran from both the police and the militia after the treacherous Parliament ordered his arrest. Had these little people endured his fall from grace, the hardships of avoiding the police? Of course not. So what if they were chased out of their own homes. Their problems amounted to nothing next to the pain he suffered.
He touched his cheek gingerly. His face was still sore while his body’s permanent nanites struggled to repair the damage, working with poor efficiency against the black market nanos that had changed his appearance. Normally, such body modifications were simple and easy. While literal, functioning wings might grow from the body in the clinic, one could painlessly watch an episode of Lifestyles of the Stars.
Such was not to be for Blanchard. He had to retreat to The Dungeon, that city beneath the city of Jallisco, where none of the government’s surveillance cameras could find him. In this bastion of the criminal underworld, he stopped at an illegal wet shop. They wouldn’t report his facial change to the government like a legitimate business would. That meant the difficult-to-come-by nanomeds weren’t specifically tuned to him. It took a specialized doctor to know which nanos to apply for an individual’s nerve structure and create a painless procedure. Thousands of different nano suites existed. The hack doctor that worked on Blanchard didn’t have the wide selection of a legitimate physician; instead, he used the closest match.
The pain had been agony. It lasted over an hour, twice as long as normal.
New face, and a new identity in hand, he bought a bus ticket to the outskirts of Palermo. There, Edgar Fowler ran a legitimate import/export business, legitimate being a liberal interpretation of his operation. In the years past, with Blanchard’s pull as governor, the business had bypassed much of the inconvenient government oversight that delayed expeditious transactions. Between the two of them, they’d gotten rich exporting LifeEx nanomeds to the DPM.
Unfortunately, with Blanchard’s accounts frozen, he had access to little of his ill-gotten gains. Still, Blanchard figured that Fowler owed him one, and could get him off planet without being seen. All he had to do was show up at Fowler’s small spaceport. Blanchard’s DNA remained the same, and the old smuggler could easily identify him with a genetic sniffer. The former governor’s intact DNA would also be crucial when he arrived at his final destination to receive his reward.
He covered his nose, wondering at the unfairness of a world that landed him on the same bus with these smelly, inconsequential people. How annoying to share a bus with these provincials. He expected the man across the aisle from him was a pig farmer, at least he smelled like it. Blanchard hated the stinking hillbillies of this accursed planet, and couldn’t wait to get away start again somewhere new. He leaned back in his seat, attempting to sleep, but the pain of his swollen face made that impossible.
The slider bus buffeted suddenly, heeling over to the right, as a large, olive drab truck raced past. People on the bus exclaimed in dismay at the unexpected movement. Blanchard wondered at what sort of madman drove like that, and he looked down the aisle to the front. His eyes bulged as the Madkhali troop transport slider turned and banked hard, placing its underside to the wind and stopping quickly, directly in the path of the commuter bus.
“Mind help me,” howled the driver as he braked hard, air brakes flipping out from the vehicle’s flanks. The passengers were thrown forward in their restraints, the slider bus far too cheap to have inertial balancers. Blanchard’s swollen features hit the seat in front of him and he moaned in agony.
What now? As men poured out of the troop transport, Blanchard wondered what they intended to do here, so far away from any recording cameras. Would they only force them into a truck to go vote? This was the best scenario by far. The former governor wouldn’t mind sticking it to these annoying Huralonese by voting yes to secession so long as no Elysians realized who he was. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only option. These men might intend to get revenge for their loss of power. The families on this bus might pay the ultimate price for the emasculation of angry men—and they might kill Blanchard too—their actual ally in
the secession.
“Attention!” called the Madkhali officer as he boarded the bus. Scars lined his cheek below his short-trimmed hair. “I am Captain Kafrid. You are all violating the law. And now it is time to pay for your crimes.”
***
Chahine and his XO, Akinjide stood looking at the airlock hatch external display screen as the body drifted in the deathly cold of space outside the ship. The man Chahine had pushed out there, a frozen corpse now, drifted back from the ship. His breath had burst from his lungs in nature’s everlasting desire to equalize pressure. Holding one’s breath in a vacuum was impossible, and that final breath erupted from his pursed lips, forming a cloud of ice around his head as his struggles came to a shuddering halt.
“We could’ve made a lot of money off him,” said Akinjide. “The ransom could’ve bought a starship.”
“And expose ourselves to capture?” scoffed Chahine. “Entire battle fleets would hunt us down. No, this way is better. Don’t worry, we’ll be living like kings before long.” He turned away with a shrug, just more garbage gone. As he opened the hatch to the main passageway, he realized garbage was an apt description. He felt no more than if he had watched a rotting tomato drift off.
Following him at his side as they walked down the passageway, Akinjide said, “I feel kinda sick, don’t you? We just executed a man.”
Chahine snarled, “That wasn’t a man. We just witnessed Marcus Mallouk’s greatest contribution to the advancement of the human race...his death.”
“I hated him too,” said the XO. “But that was a gruesome way to die. I just don’t understand how you can be so blasé about it.”
“He owed me a debt. He just paid it.”
“What debt?”
Chahine shook his head. He had already moved on to other concerns. A leech had been salted, an intestinal worm removed. One didn’t bother with the plight of a parasite once eradicated; you moved on in your life without a backward glance. He pointed at the gray bulkheads with colored lines, each color represented the course to a different ship’s department. “I’m getting sick of this bland, gray ship we live in. Do you think the Jade will be painted in a less depressing color? I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
At the hatch to the bridge, the two marines guarding it saluted, and opened it. Chahine returned their salutes and led the way across the bustling activity of the bridge to the Captain’s Meeting Room. He pushed aside a chair and leaned against the heavy, metal table. “And now we’ll learn what they’ve decided.”
Akinjide scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “I’m doubting they’ll take the offer. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just surrender to them? Demand asylum in trade?”
Chahine felt a little surprised at the question. His XO had been all for the mutiny from the start, long before they left Madkhali space. And when at last they’d seen the opportunity they’d hoped for, Akinjide had been eager to capture the Jade as well. “Why? We’ve got them dead to rights. We’re four light-seconds away and constantly gaining ground. Long before they reach the heliopause we’ll close to within one light-second from her. We won’t be hoping for lucky hits from the main lasers anymore; something will hit with certainty, and the Jade cannot endure that for long.”
“But what if they say no?”
Chahine held his hands up. “What else? We keep shooting the mains at reduced power until they’re convinced to give up.”
“Missiles too?”
Chahine sighed. “No, we can’t. We can dial down the power of the main lasers easily, but doing the same with the missile warheads would take a half day of rebuilds. We don’t have that kind of time.”
Akinjide sat in a chair and stretched out his legs. “But even then laser hits aren’t precise against a maneuvering target. We might hit something that’s exposed and turn the ship into a complete wreck before they give up.”
“Ha!” said Chahine, pointing a finger up. “As long as its essential structure holds up, it’ll be fine. I’ve done my research. The manufacturing printers aboard Elysian military ships are like the very forge of god. They’re a wonder, I tell you. Did you know, with the right materials from available asteroids, they could make a complete copy of that ship?” He grinned at his XO’s slack-jawed reaction. “It’s true. Elysians don’t manufacture their ships. They grow them with nanotech assemblers. Even so, I want to damage the ship as little as possible, because I’m hoping to get underway quickly. The most important thing is not crippling their main computer. Outside of that, we can tear a lot of that ship apart and still use it.”
The XO shook his head in wonder. “And the Senator was risking war with someone who can do that? We’d have no chance of winning.”
“Now you understand the peril that idiot placed all of us into.” Chahine sat down too, and lit a cigar. Looking at the cherry on the end he said, “I suppose it’s preemptive to light a victory cigar, but our dreams are going to be realized today. I can feel it.” He pointed with the burning end. “Imagine what we can do with that ship. With those printers, we can make anything we want. We could make copies of the printers and sell them for outrageous sums of money. Imagine starting our own trading business. Since the materials we need are free for the taking from asteroids, there’s virtually no overhead. In less than a year we’ll be rich and living like kings!”
Akinjide’s toothy grin spread across his face. He slapped his hand on the desk with elation and stood. “I knew from the beginning you had great plans. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
Chahine stood and shook on it, each grasping the wrist of the other in the handshake of the Madkhali proletariat. “We’ll do all of that...afterward.”
The dark man’s face fell and his hand dropped away from his captain’s. “After what?”
The captain knew the fire in his eyes looked a little crazy. He could tell by the executive officer’s surprised expression. No matter. He would see the rationale. “We are going to use that ship to slip unseen into Madkhali space. We are going to burn down the infrastructure of the Elites. We’ll raze their palaces from orbit. The Elites, all of them, will fear our coming in the night. They are going to pay one thousand times for killing my parents, for assassinating my dear Opa.” He shook his fist. “The Revolution begins today!”
***
In the Captain’s meeting room, things were getting heated, and McCray had never see it coming.
Gui stood up from his seat and leveled a finger at Piper. “There’s no way we’re giving this ship up. Are you mad? Do you have any idea what they could do with this thing?”
“I know perfectly well what they can do,” Piper shot back. “I’m not saying to actually give Springbok to them, just let them think we’re doing that. We’ll blow Springbok apart before they can take off with it.”
“You’ll have to fire on them, with their ship. You think you can figure out their weapon systems like that?” Gui snapped his fingers. “While you’re fumbling with their crude system, they’ll sail away into hyperspace. With the lousy sensors on their tub, we’ll never find them again.”
“I agree with Gui,” said Aja. Her carefully braided hair had come loose during the raucous debate; strands stuck out in every direction. “There’s no way we let them take this ship scott free.”
“At last, the voice of reason,” muttered Gui.
McCray nodded. He expected Aja to be the level-headed person in the room.
Aja continued. “Instead, we set Springbok for self-destruct. They’ll think they have the ship and shortly afterward, it’ll blow up. Problem solved.”
“That’s the one,” called Warwick. “That’s the way we’ll do it.”
McCray put his face in his hands. Am I the only source of morality here? I take it back; Aja and I are less alike than I thought. She’s a pragmatist and I, it seems, an idealist.
“Folks, please,” said McCray. The crew carried on squabbling, temporarily oblivious to their captain. “Excuse me…” He banged his fist on the table. “People, listen!”
At last they stopped, offering sheepish looks to him as they returned to their seats. “This ship is not going to act like a pack of scheming politicians. We are better than that. We are the Elysian Navy, people with honor and dignity. We will not behave in a manner more befitting Marcus Mallouk. If I tell Captain Chahine I’m giving him this ship, then I will give it to him with no strings attached.”
Aja looked stricken. “Vann, no—”.
McCray held up a hand. “Let me finish, Ms. Coopersmith. There are also more practical considerations. Just as easily as we can rig this ship, they can rig theirs. For me, I have the feeling Chahine is an honorable man, but I cannot be certain of that. It’s even possible members of his crew could rig Qalawun without him knowing.” He turned to Aja. “You’ve pointed out how much IS-3 would like to get their hands on a Nassar class. I understand, but the intelligence gains we’ll receive—from a technologically backward nation—pale in comparison to the intelligence gains for Madkhal if he takes Springbok home.”
“I seriously doubt he’s taking it to the DPM after the treatment he gave to Mallouk,” said Aja. “There’s a summary death sentence waiting for him.”
“Is there?” said McCray. “What if there is another layer to this whole drama? Senator Mallouk is the most feared, and also the most hated man in the Senate; wouldn’t you agree?” Aja nodded. “It’s quite possible Chahine is working for a powerful cabal who might in fact reward him.”
“But we don’t know that,” said Warwick, drumming her fingers on the table.
“You’re right,” said McCray. “Fact is, there’s a lot that we don’t know. All of the unknowns are what will kick us in the ass if we let them have this ship.”
Piper flopped back in his seat. “That’s why we rig her to blow. We take no chances that way.”
McCray stood his ground. “I’m telling you we won’t do that, Piper. An ordinary warrior is fair to his friends, and deceitful to his enemies. But we are not ordinary. We are strong enough to be fair to our enemies as well.” He looked around the table at the people he’d come to think of as family. What he insisted on doing, based purely on the demands of ethics, would possibly doom them all to death. Inside, he felt a little piece of himself dying at the thought, but he insisted on dying, if he must, the same way he’d lived. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m giving this ship to Chahine.”
