The Huralon Incident

by E A Wicklund

  “Stop it, you dogs,” screamed Stewart. When they ignored him, he roared, “Animals.” He spat at them, a grave insult in Madkhali culture. “Sons of whores!”

  Cursing, he activated his implanted phone and placed an emergency call. The signal alone would draw police to his location. With no time to chat, he hung up and stalked back to rifle through the slider for a special tool that often helped getting the aging vehicle to start. Hefting it, he raced back towards the men.

  The man at the girl’s legs loomed over her, leering, clearly enjoying the girl’s sobs. He never expected her well-placed kick, knocking his head back, and hurling some of his bloody teeth across the pavement.

  Howling, with blood streaming from his mouth, he raised his knife as if to strike. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.”

  Caught up in the horror, Stewart forgot his mission, forgot the crucial datajack bound for the clipper ship in orbit.

  The courier’s screaming attack caught the bloodied man by surprise. Stewart swung with all his fury, and the simple hammer smashed through the killer’s skull. Bits of bone and brain joined the scattered teeth.

  The other attacker and the girl stared in shock as Stewart raised his bloody hammer once more. His assault on the second attacker was not so accurate, but the hammerblow shattered the man’s sternum and surely perforated his heart. He collapsed, gaping at the courier in horror. Stewart stood over him, screaming in rage for a moment before the bloodlust suddenly escaped him.

  The two men holding the father stared at Stewart, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. They recovered from their shock and bludgeoned the father to the ground, turning their attention and their weapons to Stewart.

  Berserker rage failing him, the courier realized he was woefully outgunned. He dashed back to his car, hoping his distraction would at least help the girl escape. He reached his slider and attempted to dive over the hood. Failing that and sprawling across instead, he looked back in time to see the faux-soldier raise a strange-looking weapon.

  “What the hell is that?” he muttered.

  The grinning soldier pulled his trigger, and a stream of flaming napalm gel engulfed Stewart’s legs. Stunned, he flopped off the hood while the slider began to burn. He staggered away, quickly succumbing to shock as the skin of his legs blackened. Nearing a ditch as flames licked up from the sticky, flaming goo and searing his eyes, he screamed.

  ***

  The Planetary Force pilots made the ride down to the planet smooth enough, though the marines aboard joked that no PF pilot of any nation could handle the terrifying aggression of a true Marine re-entry. McCray agreed.

  He wanted to know exactly what their flight plan was. His Command Iris system could easily tap into the shuttle’s systems. Both he and Zahn operated a version with abilities most Iris systems did not have. For instance, he could communicate without verbally speaking. It was a junior version of Aja’s far more capable Zephyr system, and it granted all the access to access the comms. Unfortunately, since he posed as the civilian captain of a civilian transport, breaking into the shuttle’s systems might reveal his true access unnecessarily.

  There were alternatives that might still work. He collected a comms cable from the bulkhead and jacked it into his access port. This provided him communications with the pilot.

  “Lieutenant?” said McCray. “You mind if I listen in? I used to fly one of these babies back before I retired. I’d sure appreciate a taste of the old days.”

  “I could grant you limited access, sir,” said the pilot. “Nothing classified, of course.”

  “Of course. I appreciate it.”

  Immediately, McCray could see a menu of items across his vision, most of them greyed out to indicate they were disabled. He opened up the flight profile item and grinned. Castellano’s marines proved correct. The PF took the easy, cushy ride down. He carefully muted his mic and leaned forwards, so the Cretins could see him.

  “You were right, boys. Our PF weenies couldn’t scare a kitten. Probably worried he’d jam his thumb even farther up his ass.”

  The marines howled with laughter. “Momma’s Boys are found everywhere,” said Matuczak.

  “Hey Cap’n,” said Blazer. “You should take over for the pilot. Show ‘im how it’s done.”

  “I could, Blaze, but then his weenie butt would be too scared to fly anymore. I’d be up on charges.”

  “Charges for what?”

  McCray snorted. “Destruction of government property.”

  The marines howled once more.

  “I’m just kiddin’ around. When it comes down to it, our PF boys are top-notch. True professionals.”

  “I know,” said Palomino. “Got a buddy in the Madkhal System Forces. Said they trained to fight your PF all the time. Says they’re in for a world of hurt if it comes to a fight.”

  “That’s true. They know their stuff.” And then McCray snorted. “But they still can’t drink for shit.”

  When the jokes died down, McCray switched menu items and listened in on the transmissions to and from Arcoplex Detention Facility.

  “Copy that, flight Bravo-Three-Golf,” said Arcoplex Control. “Be advised, we have guests gathering at the gates again. Approach from the south. We don’t want to ruffle anyone’s skirts.”

  “What’s the complaint this time, Control?”

  “Ah, it’s the Madkhalis again. The MLF got the locals stirred up. There’s about five-hundred protesting out front. Recon drones say there’s more coming in from Braunfels.”

  “Well, hell. There goes the neighborhood. I was hoping to get a beer at Norton’s in Braunfels.”

  “You and a lot of other guys. The place is suddenly bursting at the seams with freaks, and now there’s a full-blown riot with burning cars and everything. Braunfels is now off limits to all Arcoplex personnel until further notice.”

  “Copy that. Bravo-Three-Golf is on final approach.”

  “We’ll keep the light on for you. Arcoplex Control, out.”

  McCray opened a direct channel to the pilot. “Lieutenant? This is Captain McCray. Are these VIPs going to be safe with the protests going on there?”

  “Absolutely, sir. It’s built like a fortress. No chance they can get in. Begging your pardon sir, but I need to focus on flying. We land in three minutes.”

  “Copy that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  McCray recalled what Warwick had seen on her sensors. What kind of situation was he flying into? He wanted to talk with Warwick about it, but any contact to Springbok would require routing his Iris signal through the shuttle’s comm system. That meant the pilot could listen in, and a transcript would be logged. Again, that would reveal too much about Springbok and her captain. He felt that nagging itch again. Something wasn’t right here, and he worried his plans were about to go pear-shaped.

  They flew in low over a mix of native and terrestrial trees. Luckily for Huralon, most native Earth plants needed minimal genetic jiggering to adapt to the planet’s 0.992 gees of gravity. The planet had entered the evolutionary equivalent of a Permian age when humans surveyed it. Like most of humanity’s settled planets, Huralon required a certain amount of terraforming. With a little technological magic, they managed to make the air breathable for terrestrial people and animals, without killing off the local lifeforms.

  The shuttle landed without incident upon the landing pad jutting from the single cylindrical structure of Arcoplex. Warden Grey greeted them at the entrance while guards encircled their small group. With a note of satisfaction, McCray noticed the guards carried only non-lethal weapons.

  “How was your trip down, Captain?” said Grey, shaking McCray’s hand.

  “Smooth and easy. I hope the Scirocco crew transfers all went like that.”

  “No trouble. They were all in cryo pods. I suppose that’s the only reason a civilian vessel got the contract to ship them here.”

  McCray smiled. “Of course.”

  As they headed toward the large doors, he looked out past the edge o
f the landing pad four stories above the ground. The protesters at the front gate had swelled into an angry mob. They carried signs reading, “Invaders go home!”, “Free the hostages!”, and “Huralon iz our Homeland!” While spelling clearly proved a challenge, the protesters suffered no lack of enthusiasm. Ground cars were parked alongside the road for a half-mile to the facility gates.

  McCray and company entered the building and walked down a long hallway painted in a sickly institutional green. McCray said to Grey, “Seems you’ve got a situation outside.”

  Grey was a thick-bodied man and clearly a slave to fashionable nanotech body modifications. His face looked too narrow to belong to his frame.

  “We’ve seen them before. They stay until their oxygen tanks get low, then go away. Most of the time they protest in the city, where it’s more comfortable, and oxygen is easier to find.”

  “So you’re not worried?”

  Grey gave a confident smile. “Not in the slightest. We know how to handle them.”

  Chapter 12

  Aja placed one foot on the park bench and leaned forward, stretching out her calf.

  “Welcome, Jaguar,” said the voice, answering her ping and using her default callsign. Her IS-3 contact spoke through her Zephyr system but offered no identifying information to say who signaled. It could’ve been anyone within ten meters. “You may call me Ganesha. It’s my pleasure to host one of the service’s legends.” The voice sounded gentle and warm, like someone leading a meditation session.

  Aja resisted a smile. “Thank you, Ganesha. The stories are exaggerated, I’m sure.”

  Her mouth never moved, the conversation occurring entirely inside her head. Her Zephyr system, a far more advanced version of Iris, was handy aboard Springbok where Archimedes could relay calls across the ship. It was ideal for covert work where conversations could be had without anyone knowing either party spoke.

  “Hardly. I read the reports. I trust you’ve received the courier we sent to Springbok?”

  “That’s why I’m here. No one arrived.”

  “That is unfortunate. You should have received the courier hours ago. I fear something happened.”

  “Maybe he’s injured. Did you receive an emergency broadcast?”

  “He doesn’t have emergency gear. He’s a local asset. A salesman who often travels into orbit to visit passing ships. It’s the perfect cover for passing orders. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the specialized kit of the Jaguar.”

  “Then he could be anywhere.”

  “Not quite. He followed a standard evasion route, visiting several cities on his way. I just checked. The last two positional pings came from Braunfels. That’s outside the safe zone for Elysians. He should not have remained there for long, even though he’s a Madkhali emigre. I’ll dispatch assets to search for him.”

  She resisted asking Ganesha for a copy of the orders. He wouldn’t have one. Copies just opened the opportunity for unexpected dissemination. “I’ll look for him, Ganesha.” Perhaps it was hubris, but she believed no one could find the man faster than her.

  “It’s not necessary. It’s our mess. We’ll clean it up.”

  “We’re not sure it’s anyone’s mess just yet. I hate to step on your toes, but I’d like to handle this. Our primary asset is experiencing resolutional degradation because of the delay.”

  Ganesha chuckled at the standard service euphemism for a loss of confidence. “I expect Admiral Gaatz’s unfortunate broadcast didn’t help. He’s operating in the role of diplomat these days. Nothing he says can be taken at face value.”

  A data stream opened and began downloading information to Aja.

  Ganesha said, “I’m sending photos of our courier and the vehicle he drove. I’m including access codes for my slider. It’s a grey Martinsyde. You can use it for as long as you need it.”

  “Thanks. What’s the situation in Braunfels? Our sensors detected a large number of tour boats landing there.”

  “Braunfels is a bastion for the MLF. Rural areas and poor, small towns are where they find the most traction for their propaganda. They’ve been recruiting martyrs from the uneducated and the less-fortunate, many from Braunfels. High-minded Elysians haven’t helped anything.” Ganesha sounded like a Political Science instructor. “Often they who live in luxury and safety believe they’re being socially aware by, verbally at least, defending the behavior of the MLF as freedom of speech. What they’re really doing is just making things worse.”

  “Are the MLF’s martyrs having an effect?”

  “Aside from unnecessarily horrifying people? No. Our Counter-PsyWar efforts through social media are keeping the general public calm. It isn’t too difficult, considering the MLF’s martyrs are artificially manufactured.”

  “What? I thought martyrs were an effective PsyWar technique.”

  “They can be, if they’re true martyrs. After all, a true martyr is someone who has everything to live for, someone with power, position, or an otherwise comfortable life. When someone like that dies for a cause, that’s something people can get behind. The problem for the MLF is none of the influential people in their ranks is a believer enough to sacrifice himself. Mostly, all they can scrape up are ennui-stricken teens.”

  “Why am I not surprised? A sincere revolutionary takes on personal risks. The one seeking power for himself hides in safety while others do his dirty work.”

  “Exactly. A slim majority of Huralonese aren’t drawn to the cause by the MLF’s adolescent suicide bombers. They’re appalled instead. That doesn’t stop fresh Madkhali immigrants who expect to be oppressed, or the impressionable youth, or counter-culture movements from taking the MLF’s side. That’s why we still need to stay on top of things. These terrorists are feeding us false gods with their makeshift martyrs. It’s like building a man out of straw and then telling everyone to come worship. If no one is around to remind people it’s not real, the message might take hold.”

  Aja leaned against a nearby tree to perform a different stretch. “So, they’re talking kids into suicide for nothing? That’s fecking sick.”

  “Not entirely nothing. With any lie, you won’t fool everyone, but you will fool some. The number of that some in any democracy is what really matters. Throw in a much more effective, true martyr into the mix, and we might have real trouble. If those believing the MLF’s message become a vocal majority, then even the smartest can be swayed by the mob, and things could steamroll in the MLF’s favor. Logic and reason doesn’t work the same way in a crowd.”

  “Sounds bad,” said Aja. “Are you gaining any ground?”

  “Definitely. Our Counter PsyWar efforts are killing their recruitment numbers. We’re not stopping everything of course, some people cannot be steered away from extremism, but the lean towards violent activism is declining.”

  “Thank The Mind you folks are handling this,” said Aja. “Otherwise, the MLF might’ve convinced McGowan to secede by now.”

  “We do our best.”

  “I’d better be going. Thanks for the download. Jaguar out.”

  The entire conversation took 3.348 seconds, a benefit of communicating almost mind to mind. She continued stretching. Few would stop to stretch for only three seconds. None of the people nearby left the area. Likewise, her IS-3 contact among them wouldn’t either. It would give his identity away. She wondered who it might be. Was it the girls practicing dance moves, the birdwatchers, or the boys playing ball? The businessman in grey was so obviously a spy, he went full circle to being unworthy of consideration.

  She smiled to herself. It was supposed to be hard to pick out her contact. All was well.

  She walked away towards the grey Martinsyde.

  ***

  McCray sat at the long lunch table of the expansive barracks, which would serve as home for Castellano and his marines for the next few months. Though it was a holding cell for a group of prisoners, it looked hardly different from any other marine billet. Triple bunk beds lined the walls. The deck was clean but
well worn from frequent washings. Marines of any nation would be comfortable in the arrangement. McCray approved; he knew they’d be taken care of after he left.

  A few details still needed sorting, though. The black and yellow jumpsuits they wore had to go. Considering the weird and frenetic pace of fashion in Elysium, one could never be sure if the manically contrasting outfits would become popular and fail to stand out at all. For the present, Grey promised that Arcoplex would dispense simple blue jumpsuits to the men.

  Around the table, the marines joked as they ate their food. The spaghetti and meatballs wasn’t nearly as good as on Springbok, but then the ship’s Senior Chief Sabong was a master chef. Few high-end restaurants served anything equal. Still, this was healthy and hearty and plentiful. Likewise, Scirocco’s crew were not being treated like pirates, since they were compelled to follow orders. and received similar meals. Though, once Captain Mallouk was prosecuted with Springbok’s damning evidence, McCray hoped the misogynist’s meal choice would decline precipitously.

  Looking around at the walls and the solid doors, the entire facility did seem like a fort, and Grey’s assurances that all were safe inside made a lot of sense. Then again, just when things seemed good, that’s usually when all hell broke loose.

  “For one, I’m glad they took his gag off,” said Blazer. “It was too funny.” He puffed his chest out comically and lifted his nose up. “Do you know who I am? I’m the son of a senator, you dog! My father rules the Senate. Blah, blah, blah.”

  The marines pounded the table, roaring with laughter.

  “This isn’t exactly a hotel, you know,” pointed out Aziz.

  “I’ve been in worse hotels,” said Matuczak. “At least the bugs in this one won’t chew your finger off while you sleep.”

  “That wasn’t the bugs,” Palomino said. “That was the hooker you were sleeping with.”