The Huralon Incident

by E A Wicklund

  “It’s alright, Plaxico,” said Chahine, raising his voice genially, so all could hear. “The Master at Arms has some questions for you. Tamanagi will hold your position for the time being.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Marcus walking up to the captain. “We are in a battle. Why are men being taken away?”

  “Security risks,” Chahine replied. “The Master at Arms has questions about their loyalty to you. It’s important that—”.

  “Hit!” called Tamanagi. “Significant hit on the Jade.” The officer looked up at Chahine when he arrived there. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered. “I sent the signal, but it was too late.”

  “What signal?” said Marcus, hovering once more at Chahine’s shoulder.

  Chahine screamed inside his mind. I only needed a few more seconds to keep you intact. You fought so well, and now you fail? Ignoring Marcus and rushing over to Sensors, he said, “What’s their damage?”

  The tech tapped at his screens. “Six paddles down. Many defensive screens down too. Her port quarter is exposed, sir.”

  Chahine nodded. “But still under power, I see.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh...wait. She’s balancing, shutting down starboard paddles. Her acceleration is dropping off. We’ll catch her soon now.”

  Chahine stood up, carefully hiding his relief. Many ships would’ve been cut in half by such a hit. That incredible ship might still work for him, and he tried to disguise his satisfaction as pleasure at a solid hit, but the Senator, a sharp student of body language, read his feelings like a book.

  “What’s going on, ChaCha?” said Marcus, pulling at the captain’s sleeve. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Missiles inbound!” called the sensor tech. “All around us again.”

  Chahine looked towards Tamangi, taking advantage of the distraction. “Fire defensive lasers!”

  “Lasers firing…two down…eight down.”

  “Look at that. You see what my leadership can do?” Marcus preened, as if he’d personally fired the lasers.

  The big ship shook hard, knocking everyone off their feet. Several crewmen flew out of their seats, blood streaming after hitting equipment. Jade’s missiles had found the “sweet spot” along Qalawun’s spine and bypassed the disruptive effects of the ship’s paddles. Hundreds of tons of armor and shattered bodies spewed out into space. Chahine crawled to his feet beside the tank to witness the damage display. Splinters of shredded armor, propelled at high velocity, rained across the forward hyperengine. Great gouges tore open, shearing away the delicate machinery operating the drive.

  “Severe damage in the starboard bow,” called the Damage Controlman. “Hyperengine One, non-functional. Missile bays one and two inoperative. We’ve lost nine shield emitters and all forward-firing lasers are out of action.”

  “Great Madkhal, what a ship!” Chahine gasped, as he listened to the litany of his own ship’s damage. He looked to Precious Jade’s contact in the tank. “She’s a mere armed merchant, yet she fights like a battleship. Even heavily wounded, she fights on.”

  A crewman sprawled on the deck, screaming in agony.

  “Med teams to the bridge,” Chahine called and paused to help a crewman with a compound fracture in his arm.

  “What about me?” said Marcus, rushing towards the Captain. He held out his arm, revealing a coin-sized bruise on his wrist. “How dare you assist this commoner first? Attend me!”

  Chahine looked past the Senator, and saw the moment he’d been waiting for. Marcus’s guards were out of position, knocked off their feet by the tremendous strike from Jade. As they stood up, looking wobbly, Chahine caught Sensabaugh’s eye and pointed.

  Eight marine weapons barked, launching three-round bursts at their targets. The marines were expertly trained and not a single round missed the guardsmen. Subsonic for shipboard work, the rounds were no less deadly to human flesh. The annular-blast fragmentation warheads unwound like coiled springs as they struck, ripping apart flesh and slicing through bones. The Senator’s guards collapsed in heaps of splattering blood and dismembered body parts.

  “What is this?” screeched Marcus. “ChaCha! Have you gone—”.

  Chahine’s powerful back-handed slap hurled the Senator three meters into a console. Marcus wailed and collapsed in a shuddering heap. The captain leaped upon him in an instant, pinning the man’s face down with his foot. “Now we shall see who the real god is aboard this ship!”

  Chapter 28

  At Vickers base on Huralon, Colonel Leonid Bertram’s office was a spartan affair. Its small size attested to his belief in getting things done firsthand, not from an office chair. He did have the requisite desk, flag of Elysium, and a rug. Truth be told, he didn’t live completely without vanity. Like many other high-ranking officers, he still enjoyed an ‘I love me’ wall, covered in certificates, awards, and holos of himself with assorted dignitaries. His bust of General Norman Schwarzkopf, a personal hero, rested on a plinth behind him. Most of his paperwork, the curse of all officers, got done on the large screen dominating a featureless desktop.

  Putting his boots on the desk, he enjoyed his biggest smile in days as he and his guest watched the floor-to-ceiling holoscreen on the far wall. Usually he hated the shock reporting of Schubert News, but today they defended the same side as himself: the Huralonese people.

  In the holo, Kendra Jones stood to one side of the camera. Bertram noted that her hair had been medically replaced with fluffy, golden feathers fluttering down to her shoulders. As she occasionally turned to the camera to offer explanations, her large eyes revealed golden irises. Often criticized for her common, and relatively boring, body modifications, Bertram didn’t mind her look. He liked that she was more serious than other reporters, insisting on being known for hard-hitting investigative reporting, not exotic looks.

  She gestured at the voting area with long, pale fingers. “You can see that the trees were decorated with lights and colorful ribbons. The quickly-assembled polling building has living flowers, in a multitude of colors, decorating the large doorways and stained-glass windows. Among the rows of blooming lilies leading to the entrance, beautiful young men and women in revealing clothes offered flowers to anyone entering. It looks like a pleasing and inviting place of worship. But as you can see, Chandra, it’s not that at all. The brilliantly painted sign in front reads: ‘Secession—Yes!’ Unlike Elysian-style voting, the Madkhali-organized polling method offers one building for yes and another for no. Let’s go over to the ‘No’ building, now.”

  The camera wobbled a bit as the cameraman followed Jones to the back of the polling building. Jones pushed aside the thorny tendrils of a thicket blocking the entrance between hedges. A rocky and treacherous path led past two piles of discarded, putrefying food to a tiny building scarcely larger than a garden shed. The unpainted building looked crude and unclean.

  “Okay, this is how you vote ‘No’ to the secession, if you can even find it,” continued Jones. “You can see the simple wooden sign. Upon it, someone hastily scrawled ‘No’ in fine-tipped pen. It’s hard to see unless you examine it closely. The most striking thing, of course, are the four heavily-armed men blocking the entrance to the building’s narrow door. While at the ‘Yes’ polling location, voters needed only to provide their name; here the difference is ominous. Voters are required to offer their name, address, all messaging IDs, and the names and addresses of all family members.”

  “That’s just incredible, Kendra,” Chandra Fleurette’s voice said from the studio. “How could anyone call this democratic?”

  “Well, I learned from some recent Madkhali immigrants coming to vote that this is a fairly standard intimidation tactic in the DPM. The difference being that in Madkhal, sometimes voters attempting to vote the ‘wrong way’ would be beaten, sometimes to death.”

  The view returned to the Schubert News studio where Chandra Fleurette sat at a simple, clear tabletop. By contrast to Jones, her body modifications matched current fashion trends.
Her artificially darkened, ebony skin gave way to artistic growths at the crown of her head. Known for her fashion-forward body modifications, Fleurette exemplified the ‘simple elegance’ demanded of a news anchor.

  “And now we go to Glenn Turnbull,” said Fleurette. “He’s investigating a very interesting development in this perversion of democracy. Glenn, what have you got?”

  Bertram turned to his guest at the other side of the desk. “This is the part I wanted you to see.”

  On the other side of Bertram’s desk, Givenchy Powell, Huralon Parliament Chairman, had crossed his legs casually and leaned back in his comfortable chair. He looked pleased as well. Since the disappointing orders from Governor Blanchard—preventing the local military from intervening during the landing of Madkhali military forces—the two had formed a coalition of sorts, working more closely together than ever before.

  The view in the holo changed to display Turnbull and his characteristic dreadlocks. He stood at the streetside among the redwood trees of Jallisco City. Behind him, men and women in obvious Elysian Army uniforms, stood in a group. Their recently-donned light-blue armbands stood out in contrast to their darker Elysian-issue camis.

  “I’m here with the newly-formed, Huralon Militia,” said Turnbull in a rich baritone—generally expected of many male correspondents. “Of course, Elysian military forces are not allowed to deploy during a secession vote, but nothing prevents local militia from assembling. With me is Lieutenant Soares, commanding this particular unit.” He turned to the tall, and non-bodily modified officer. “Lieutenant, weren’t all these men Elysian citizens and military members just days ago, and wouldn’t that prevent them from deploying like this?”

  “Yes, they were,” said Soares. His very deep and crisp voice made him an excellent Army spokesman. “But now they are Huralonese citizens. I’d like to point out we are not trying to stop the vote. We’re simply making sure citizens rights are respected. Thanks to Parliament Chairman Powell, this is possible. All of these men have accepted Huralon citizenship and have since joined the Huralon Militia. As local citizenry, their presence here ensures the safety of Huralon citizens and is entirely legal. ”

  “A fact that has left Governor Blanchard furious after demanding that Elysian forces not interfere, isn’t that right?” said Turnbull.

  Soares shrugged. “Assessing Mr. Blanchard’s feelings is above my paygrade, sir. All we’re concerned with is making sure citizen’s rights are upheld.”

  “What can you tell us about the rumors of citizens, forcibly taken to voting sites. Is there any truth to that?”

  Soares’s face looked like stone. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  “But is that an issue the Huralon Militia will address?”

  “If we found such an instance, that would be a violation of voting laws.” The eyes of the lieutenant lit with a smoldering fire. “We would address the situation with extreme prejudice.”

  Turnbull raised an eyebrow and turned back to the camera. “And that’s it, Chandra. So far we’ve been unable to confirm complaints of forced voting. What I can tell you is ever since the Militia dispersed through the city we’re seeing fewer Madkhali trucks with voters. Most of the vehicles are now returning...empty.”

  Fleurette appeared on a split screen with Turnbull. “Well, we can only hope people are safe. We’re asking everyone to stay in their homes as much as possible. Don’t answer the door if you’re not expecting anyone. Meanwhile, it seems that empty trucks doesn’t bode well for the secession, does it? With four days left, our numbers only show forty-one percent voting.”

  “That’s right.” Turnbull paused to flip a dread, dyed in an abstract pattern, away from his face. “We’re used to Elysian democracy, where voting occurs within the safety and security of private homes. This Madkhali-style of ‘martial democracy’ doesn’t sit well with Huralonese. And what you said about the voting percent raises an interesting point. Viewers should remember McGowan constitutional law states that any vote which receives less than eighty percent voter turnout becomes null and void. There’s still time for more to vote, of course, but from our vantage point the secession appears teetering on the edge.”

  Bertram’s grin spread wider. McGowan Star Cluster Governor Thanh had acceded to demands for a secession vote against her better judgement, if press releases were any judge of her feelings, but she had assigned the measure Tier III status. This was quite the clever move, in his opinion. In Elysium, Parliament wasn’t precisely representative government. That body existed primarily to write laws, not vote on them. That required the ballots of individual citizens; a process of ‘pure democracy’. Tier I laws came with a legal requirement for everyone to vote. Tier II laws did not require them, but came with a Non-Participation Penalty in luxury points. The penalty was never crushing, but threat enough to encourage participation. Tier III laws were issued with no requirements to vote at all. Without enough offers of yea or nay, a law failed completely. Bertram rubbed his hands together. He knew this vote was a farce, and Thanh obviously did too, astutely providing the perfect opportunity for it to fail.

  Fleurette nodded. “Certainly after the revealing broadcast from Precious Jade, this unconventional secession vote has been dealt a body blow. Even though pro-secessionists are claiming the vessel’s holos are faked, our independent experts have verified their legitimacy. Further, Schubert News’s broadcasts regarding Qalawun’s ongoing attack upon the Jade, a harmless civilian vessel, clearly discouraged many. The size of the protests supporting secession has dropped off precipitously. One wonders what, if anything, will cause the vote’s total collapse.”

  Bertram clicked off the holo, rapping a quick drumbeat on his desk. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the press is really coming through for us in the clutch. I do hope McCray and his ship managed to escape.”

  Givenchy shrugged. “Me too. That hero ship gave us precisely what you were forbidden to give. About the newsies, I suspect they always were on our side, they just needed a real threat to our way of life to join us in defending it.”

  Bertram shrugged, unwilling to give the press that much credit. “I’m finding allies where I never expected them. The whole militia idea has really turned things around, Given. Thanks for swearing my people in. At last, we’re able to do our jobs.”

  “Speaking of that,” said Givenchy, swirling around the brandy in his glass. “Have your teams found Governor Blanchard, yet? Parliament is still pissed after the report and the infamous communication intercept from IS-3. Some members were spitting nails after they heard that transmission between him and Senator Mallouk. They want that traitor tarred and feathered.”

  “Not yet, but we’ll find him. He’ll never make it past a spaceport.”

  “And…?’ Givenchy raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Bertram held up his hands. “I passed the word. We’ll just arrest him, and we won’t hurt him...much.”

  ***

  “Laser fire from Qalawun has ceased,” said Warwick. She looked exhausted, but no thought of quitting dulled her dark eyes. Then, as she consulted her screens, her brow furrowed. “Missile fire has ceased too. They had been firing at a steady rate, and now, nothing.”

  McCray stepped over to the tank and studied it. No missiles showed in the display. The tactical analysis of previous laser shots—helpful for showing how to evade later shots—showed empty data. He glanced up at Piper. “Guns. I think you may have hit them harder than you think.”

  Piper’s Anglo-saxon ‘stiff upper lip’ mentality prevented him from looking too pleased, but McCray knew better.

  “Incoming signal,” called Ando, sitting up straight suddenly. He looked shocked. “Captain. It’s the Qalawun.”

  McCray gave Piper another glance before returning to the Conn. “Let’s see what the Senator has to say, Circus. In the tank if you please.”

  The face of Captain Chahine appeared instead. Behind him, McCray could see the smaller compartment of a captain’s meeting room,
a different setting than previous transmissions from the bridge. He nodded in greeting and said, “Captain. As you can see, Qalawun has ceased fire. Both of us have taken significant hits from the other, and I propose we put an end to it. Cease fire at your end. I wish to talk.”

  McCray’s mind raced. What could have happened aboard the Madkhali ship? Did they hit something critical? And why was Captain Chahine speaking instead of the Senator? The answers would only come from dialog, he expected. Considering the terrible situation Springbok found herself in, a large vulnerability in her port quarter, he felt ready and willing to grasp at any chance—no matter how strange—that offered his ship and crew a bid for survival.

  “Piper. Cease fire. Let’s hear what he has to say.” He turned to Ando. “Record for transmission...Captain Chahine, I will accept your offer of a cease fire. We are halting all weapons releases. And now we’ll be on our way.” He signaled ‘send’ to Ando and turned to Zahn with a shrug. “Maybe he’s just going to quit?”

  Zahn shook his head. “In my wildest dreams.”

  It took long seconds for the signal to travel back five light-seconds and the reply to return. To McCray, he looked too self-assured, and he wondered why the sudden change.

  Chahine rather informally sat on the edge of the meeting room table. The dark man beside him, well over two meters tall, also leaned too casually against the furniture. “I see you haven’t shut down your drives even though I’ve offered to parley, Captain Berry. I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Please hear me out. I give you a gentleman’s oath I will shut down my drives as well.” He gestured to the fellow to his right. “Let me introduce my XO, Commander Akinjide. There have been significant changes aboard this ship and I can guarantee you, I will not fire on your ship any further. The cause of our conflict is at an end.”

  When the transmission ceased, Zahn said, “Can he be any more cryptic? What the hell is going on over there?”