by E A Wicklund
“Well I would expect a father to protect his son—”
“Naïve, naïve,” Mallouk sighed, as though struggling with an especially dense student. “He cannot endure the humiliation of having a son in Elysium custody. An embarrassment like that could affect his standing in the Senate. He’ll not tolerate it. Once the news is out, important people in my government will talk with people in your government. Neither of us want war, and that’s why orders will be issued within hours. Shortly afterward, I’ll be free.” Mallouk shot him a knowing grin. “People like me aren’t imprisoned. That only happens to the low-born. When you’re stripped of your rank to appease my father, you’ll understand.” Mallouk sported a haughty smirk.
Disgust tightened McCray’s stomach. “I think it would be unwise for your diplomats to throw out threats of war too easily. You see, after the armistice with the aliens was signed, the Thallighari began talking with us in depth, and between the two of us, we worked out how the sixteen-year war began. Truth be told, we know precisely who started it. We also know why the Democratic Peoples of Madkhal claimed neutrality and refused to help defend humanity.”
McCray watched Mallouk turn pale in stages, like watching fruit juice draining from a pitcher.
McCray enjoyed watching Mallouk’s reaction. He knew a similar message had been passed at high diplomatic levels, courtesy of his work with the diplomatic mission; a warning to Madkhal that they were on Elysium’s last good nerve. “Fortunately, only the ESE knows about this,” continued McCray. “But if threats of war dropped onto the table, certain information might leak. Five human nations lost 243 million in that holocaust. What do you suppose they might do if they knew the truth? Just shrug it all off?”
Mallouk glanced away, suddenly fascinated with a spot upon the wall. “The food here is atrocious. This oatmeal your jailers feed me has no flavor at all.”
McCray grinned, pleased he scored a direct hit amidships. “That oatmeal is loaded with nutrients,” said McCray, allowing the segue. “It’s probably the healthiest thing you’ve ever eaten.”
“It’s foul. I’m a senator’s son. I deserve better.”
McCray stood up. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve already made arrangements for you to get what you deserve.”
“Good. Now, you’re learning.”
McCray positively beamed as he walked away.
As he approached the marine jailer, he noted that nine of the comfort women were interested in participating. They clustered around the marine as he explained “the rules.” Most of the women had shed their chaste dresses for more comfortable clothing. Some still wore a traditional headscarf, dictated by the Church of Madkhal religion. Others traded completely for more flattering, Elysium-style clothes. No matter what, each received a heavy rubber tube of insulation from the corporal.
McCray paused beside the corporal and whispered, “Keep a close eye on things. His brain, that little peanut he keeps in his skull, needs to remain intact. We don’t want to lose a valuable intelligence asset.”
***
A news drone arrived in the Gershon system and downloaded its data onto the robotic satellites orbiting the gas giants. They in turn transmitted the news to Springbok as she prepared to leave the system.
The news services were abuzz about the “Action at Gershon.” Of course, McCray could not be named in the press, and Springbok’s true purpose stayed secret, too. All credit for the naval success fell upon a fictional captain, Captain Callaway, McCray’s alter ego for public consumption. Callaway enjoyed accolades as the brilliant heavy cruiser captain who caught Captain Mallouk committing an act of piracy against a helpless merchant. Most felt elated at the success, but some of the Schubert News talking heads felt the facts remained incomplete and demanded more information. It wasn’t only the newsies demanding more.
That’s what brought McCray to Springbok’s medical bay. Commander Althea Bijou greeted him warmly enough. “Welcome Captain,” she said. “Thanks for making time for me.”
Bijou loved Living Tattoos, nanites embedded in her skin that could project moving pictures across it. Leaves and flowers grew across the right side of her face and right arm, changing shapes and patterns as McCray watched. She sucked upon her ever-present vapor stick and exhaled clouds of vapor as she eyed him critically. Her gaze was unsettling at times. She and the XO were the only officers who could lawfully challenge his right to command.
“Always have time for you, Commander.”
Without looking away, she plucked a datapad from the table beside her and flipped through it a few times. “I wanted to ask you about our guests.”
“The Madkhalis? Okay.”
“What will happen to them?”
“We’re not interested in most of the crew. We didn’t want them, anyway. They’ll likely be sent home, although a surprising number of them are requesting asylum. Castellano, his marines, and Qaas will get it for certain. Their testimonies practically guarantee Mallouk will get convicted for piracy.”
“Excellent. You’ll recall that I was concerned about Mallouk’s comfort women?”
He remembered the first time he met them. McCray was furious that such young girls—children really—had been raped by that monster. They showed signs of PTSD usually only found in ground troops experiencing months of continuous combat. What Mallouk had done to them deserved a death penalty, but that wasn’t likely to happen. “Are they all right?”
“Well, they’ve recovered from their injuries. Their physical injuries healed within a day after the nanotech treatments. Unfortunately, nanotech cannot address psychological wounds. Healing from that will take a lot of time. Luckily I have some specialists available to work with the ladies.
McCray nodded. Elysians enjoyed a level of economic prosperity never before known by humanity, but as already known, material wealth does not equal happiness. Mental health issues still existed and that required specialists to deal with it.
“Additionally,” continued Bijou, “I’ve examined Mr. Mallouk for bruising. At first, I believed the wounds were self-inflicted, but then I discovered bruises upon his back. Hard to do unless you’re a skilled yogi, and Mallouk is certainly not one of them. Care to share any thoughts on that?”
McCray managed to look surprised. “I understand he fell down the stairs.”
Bijou’s expression was unreadable. “How many times?”
“Ah…he’s very clumsy, I understand.”
“No doubt.” She exhaled a cloud of vapor that swirled around her head like a gathering storm. “Captain, as a medical professional, I cannot condone any mistreatment of prisoners, no matter how vile I find them. I am required by the Navy to report it.”
McCray bristled. “I can assure you no member of Springbok’s crew has ever mistreated a prisoner.”
“Certainly no one from Springbok.”
“Of course not.”
“As I presumed. Now Captain, though I understand you mean well, this sort of thing needs to stop. To some this would appear to be fitting retribution for that monster’s actions. On a gut level I would agree, but on the other hand the literature on this is clear. This sort of thing will not help the ladies, and it may even hinder their rapid recovery.”
McCray felt himself literally taking a step back in surprise. “I wasn’t aware of that.” Of course, he knew the Navy would not approve, but still he believed he offered something beneficial to people who richly deserved a chance at justice.
“Most people aren’t, but now that I’ve brought this to your attention, I must insist that Mr. Mallouk no longer fall down the stairs. You understand me, Captain?”
“Completely.”
“Excellent.” Bijou smiled.
She had a lovely smile when she wasn’t being terrifying.
“I was concerned about the mental health of Mallouk’s comfort women,” she continued. “In this case, I’m happy to report the women are making great progress. The positive environment of this ship is efficacious medicine for them.”
“Springbok is a fine ship.” McCray shared her grin. “She has a healing effect on people.”
Chapter 07
Aja paced around her quarters. Though the colorful canvas streamers with scenes of agrarian life hanging down the walls appealed to her aesthetic sense, at the moment they helped little to calm her. Dictating this status report was very uncomfortable.
She sat and stared at the thimble-sized recording device and thought about what to say. The operative needed to phrase her words carefully, and in time, finally found a way to begin. Stephen Mallouk, a.k.a. subject Mordred, seemed a safer place to start with.
“As of this recording, this operator can happily report that subject Mordred has been apprehended. He is alive and well. Soft interrogation methods revealed little intelligence, as expected. The subject believes he’ll be released shortly, and thinking he holds all the cards, he has no true incentive to reveal any state secrets.
“This operator was quite surprised when subject Mordred arrived in a light cruiser. When did this happen? He was supposed to command a frigate. This unexpected development placed the entire mission in jeopardy.
“Subject Galahad has demonstrated none of the erratic behavior the Navy claims exists. Perhaps this operator’s presence creates the intended, emotionally stabilizing effect, but I suspect the concerns over emotional control lie mostly in the minds of Galahad’s political enemies.”
Aja paused there. It felt creepy how well IS-3 matched her up with McCray, a.k.a. subject Arthur, almost as if setting them up for a blind date. Her personality was a good match for his, they had insisted. Her uncomplicated approach to life suited McCray perfectly and would work on him like a soothing balm.
Anticipating the worst of physical intimacy violations, she had balked at the implications of being matched like this. She didn’t know McCray and had no interest in bedding a man she’d never met, mission parameters be damned. Aja had insisted she would not accept the job if required to sleep with the subject, and Quartermain had acquiesced to that requirement, perhaps too easily, thinking back on it. “Just be his friend, a close confidant,” he had said. “It’s a close feminine presence that brings out his better side, even if that relationship is not intimate.”
Even though sexual relations would’ve helped her mission, seduction wasn’t her forte. She was a liquidator, specializing in the sometimes gory removal of undesirable elements. Whenever her previous missions drifted anywhere near a bed, they usually finished with bloody splatters. This latest mission proved far different.
Entering McCray’s bed came almost too easily, as if IS-3 already knew it would. She hated the thought her bosses knew her so well; it suggested that her psyche was an open book to them. And after demanding no intimate relations, she could hardly admit to intimacy with McCray. To acknowledge it to them felt like capitulating her body to the callous whim of IS-3, rather than what it truly was; giving herself to someone she respected and cared for. No, they didn’t need to believe they controlled so much.
“At no point did Arthur enter any sign of the expected reactionary aggression. While Jutland is active and available, I witnessed no need to deploy it. Should the need arise, Jutland may not work anyway. The presence of the AI, Archimedes, may negate the attempt to rootkit Arthur’s Iris system. How the Navy got an ACE installed without anyone knowing is a mystery, but Naval Intelligence’s capabilities must be reviewed. They’re clearly becoming more sophisticated.
“A final note. Subject Arthur demonstrated exceptional tactical skill in devising a plan to engage a far superior naval unit. For this reason, I saw no reason to dissuade him. When Arthur has a foe to fight, he is as steady as any officer and possesses a preternatural calm in the face of overwhelming odds. The Admiralty claims subject Arthur is a loose cannon because of his aggressive nature. But isn’t a wartime veteran, a highly decorated one, supposed to be aggressive to some degree? Passive commanders on the field of battle don’t usually last long.
“Query: isn’t all this hyperbole about aggression more about peacetime admirals unable to come to terms with a bonafide warrior?
“Authentication: TF9533347: Jaguar at Mount Suribachi.
“Report Ends.”
Aja leaned back and sighed. She directed her Zephyr system to encrypt the report and include it in the last mail drone to Huralon. She had to get it out fast. Springbok would enter hyperspace soon where they could not communicate.
She picked up her knitting. The scarf she’d made for Warwick hadn’t been received as well as she’d hoped. How could anyone be unfamiliar with a scarf? Apparently, on her home planet it never got cold enough to need one. She hoped the colorful beret for Ando would be more universally understood.
As always, she enjoyed doing things with her hands. It helped to sort her thoughts. Quartermain should be happy, she mused. Operation Roundtable was advancing as expected. She knew Morgana would come into play soon, but precisely how that would happen remained to be seen. If the reports could be believed, life might get very interesting for the region. As she worked, she considered ways to get McCray and company away from the impending storm.
***
ESS Springbok plowed through hyperspace, at last heading to Huralon.
McCray sat in the captain’s VR meeting room, one leg draped over an armrest as he gazed at the hovering screen before him. He flipped through reports, acknowledging some, requesting corrections or more information from others. His hand swiped across the see-through window of his work queue hovering before him. After a long sigh, he swiped again. The excellent single-malt whiskey on the table beside him only slightly improved his state of mind. It wasn’t real, after all. At least it improved his mood whilst performing that most vile of acts: paperwork. Managing red tape was what captains suffered through more than anything. Avoiding that mind-numbing drudgery probably topped the list of reasons why captains occasionally toured their ships.
Zahn materialized across the table from him. “You asked to see me, sir?”
McCray lit a virtual cigar, Patchouli scented. “Yes, Prime. How are things going with our unwanted guests?”
“As good as can be. We have more guests than crew at the moment. We placed five-hundred of Scirocco’s crew in cryo-stasis tubes since there’s no way we could feed them all, as we discussed. They’ll be having pleasant dreams where they are. I saw to that. Unfortunately, we ran out of tubes, so Engineering got the nano printers going in high gear. They made 127 more tubes, and I got the last enlisted man into his just now. Luckily, we’ve got a good-sized hold to fit them into.
“Weird isn’t it? Springbok is four-hundred meters longer than Scirocco, but we’ve got only one-third the crew.”
McCray shrugged. “All this automation is unsettling sometimes but there’s benefits. Anyway, great work getting Scirocco’s crew stowed. I’m sorry about all you had to go through, Andy. I know it was a big job sorting all that out. We just couldn’t leave them on that ship, even with a homing beacon. Scirocco was just too damaged to keep them all safe.”
“Not a problem, sir. I couldn’t in good conscience leave them like that, either,” he said with flips of his hands.
McCray never ceased being amazed at the contrasts of Zahn. He had the impressive height and bulk of a heavyweight boxer. His massive hands appeared carved from marble. He should’ve been the strong, silent type. Yet anytime the XO launched into an explanation, his hands flitted around like a beefy geisha’s fans.
“How many officers took my offer?”
“Sixteen in holding cells, the rest in cryo. At first, most went for cryo, preferring to sleep their way through this whole experience. Others, who had a chance to talk with Captain Castellano, decided to go with the holding cells.”
“That’s workable, right?”
“We’ve got plenty of food. Our algae tanks can handle the increased demand no problem. Oxygen scrubbers won’t even notice the additional load. My only concern is where we’re taking them.”
“What�
��s wrong with Huralon? It’s close to the border, and that’ll make it easy for Madkhali ships to collect them.”
“I’m concerned about the social unrest and the MLF terrorist attacks.”
“I hear you, but I don’t think we’ve got a choice. Placing them further from the border could cause a diplomatic nightmare.”
“Makes sense, sir.”
“Anyway, what changed the officer’s minds about the cells?”
“I think it was Captain Castellano’s descriptions of the food. He still can’t believe we were feeding him a prisoner’s diet,” Zahn said.
“We weren’t giving him anything special, right? They eat what the crew eats.”
“Yes, sir. The same food.”
McCray raised one eyebrow, then dropped it self-consciously. His eyebrows were so thick, some people cringed when they moved, as though they believed space-caterpillars were attacking his face. McCray had considered trimming them permanently. It would’ve been easy, but then he’d lose that unusual and menacing edge while chewing out an errant crewman.
“I think I’ll have another chat with Castellano. I want to know what the big deal is.”
“I was getting to that, sir.”
“Eh?”
“He’s been asking to speak with you again. He seems concerned.”
McCray had enjoyed several conversations with the Madkhali marine. Though raised in very different cultures, he found he liked the man. In the ways that truly mattered, he found a certain kinship with him. The fact they both enjoyed whiskey certainly didn’t hurt.
McCray turned to his neverending work queue for a moment, thinking he really ought to continue. He gazed at it with dread, something like Sisyphus staring miserably at his stone. Turning back to Zahn, he said, “Well. The concerns of our passengers are important, aren’t they?”
Zahn’s eyes flitted between his captain and the queue of reports. He offered a sly grin. “It would be unseemly to make him wait.”