POV: Aritra NaskarDate: October 22, 2012Location: Hingol National Park, Balochistan, Pakistan (UNIPAK Protectorate)Time: 6:30 AM PST / 8:30 AM IST
Before dawn broke over the Makran coast, I stood atop a windswept plateau in Hingol National Park, watching the sky lighten in bruised violet and rose. Below me, the ancient Hingol River snaked through a valley of hoodoo rock formations—towering pillars sculpted by millennia of wind and rain. Patches of desert wildflowers clung to crevices: flame-red poppies, pale yellow desert lilies, and delicate white orchids whose petals dripped dew like tears of hope. In the distance, the sea's slate-gray ribbon whispered against salt-bleached sands. The air was impossibly still, as though the world held its breath for what was to come.
At my side, Dr. Rhea Mukherjee checked her tablet. "All four Skybridge drones are in station: Aurora III, Blizzard III, Cloudfall III, Duskflight III. Payloads ready." Beneath us, a flat grass terrace had been cleared beside a limestone outcrop. Local Baloch villagers in embroidered chogas and patchwork caps gathered in concentric circles, clutching wicker baskets of apricot rations and hand-woven ballots. A carved wooden box—our plexiglass ballot box's predecessor—stood sentinel at the terrace's edge, awaiting its dronelift.
I inhaled, savoring the desert dawn's fragrance—sun-baked earth, resinous acacia, and a faint tang of salt carried inland by the breeze. "Deploy the box," I murmured.
Above, Aurora III's rotors whispered to life. Its cable-winch descended in a silent arc, lowering a crate marked "Operation Baloch Iris: Winter Relief & Referendum" onto the platform. A single thump echoed across the valley. Elder Malik Akbar, his silver beard braided in tradition, stepped forward, placed his hand reverently on the crate, then guided it open. Inside lay thermally lined blankets, solar LED lanterns, iodine tablets—and ballots printed in Balochi and Urdu. The crowd murmured blessings as volunteers lifted the box to eye level.
"Station open," Rhea's voice crackled through the comms. "Authentication protocols engaged." I tapped my wrist-tablet. The holo-ledger node "Baloch-VI" glowed emerald, its checksum verifying no unauthorized writes.
Nearby, Katherine instructed the local UNIPAK liaison, Commissioner Jamil Khan, on the Polling Iris interface. "Each voter's iris scan will be hashed and stored on the ledger alongside a fingerprint checksum. Only a two-person team may unlock the box at closing. No ballot can be cast without biometric confirmation."
Commissioner Khan nodded gravely. "Understood. We ensure full transparency."
As the first villagers stepped forward—farmers with weather-worn faces, shepherds with rifle-tipped staffs—I watched their cautious hope. A mother tucked her infant into a shawl, extended her ungloved hand to the iris-scanner. The machine beeped green. A hush fell before volunteers lifted the ballot box's lid and slipped her ballot inside. Each thump sounded like a stone dropped in a vast well—ripples of democracy.
Moments later, a sudden crackle of interference sent a ripple through the comms. On the ledger screen, a small banner flashed: "Quarantine Alert: Packet Flood from 'Red Crescent Net'—Anomalous Write Attempt Blocked."
I frowned, tapping the anomaly. "Priya, status?"
Back in Kolkata, Priya Menon replied: "Blocked at honeypot. No ledger tampering. They tried to jam our ledger sync—likely a Falcon Syndicate probe."
I exhaled. "Keep monitoring. Do not relax until the polls close."
An electric hum rose as Duskflight III and Cloudfall III swung into new positions, scanning the valley's rim. Their infrared jigsaws stitched together tactical views of the surrounding gorges—ensuring no unsanctioned militia could slip into the station's blind spots.
By mid-morning, four more payloads—blankets for each home in the village—descended from Blizzard III, carried by steel cables gleaming in the sun. Children chased the crates downhill, bright eyes alight with wonder, while elders offered steaming cups of kahwa in gratitude. The austere desert, for one brief morning, felt like a cradle of hope.
Location: Jadavpur Villa – War RoomTime: 10:30 AM IST**
The war room's holo-map now showed five polling stations across former Pakistan. Sindh, Punjab, Baloch, KP, and Gilgit-Baltistan were each lit with pulsing emerald. A ticker scrolled real-time turnout percentages:
Sindh-I: 88%
Punjab-II: 72%
KP-III: 65%
Gilgit-Baltistan-IV: 54%
Baloch-V: 12% (rising)
Major General Sen tapped his console. "Baloch turnout still low. Tazim's team reports elders unwilling to leave midday prayer. They request a second wave of ballots in an hour."
Arnav Basu raised an eyebrow. "We can redeploy Aurora III for a midday drop—battery levels hold at 78%."
I nodded. "Do it. Include an additional cache of tea-stove kits—solar cookers loaded with briquettes. That'll draw families back to the station."
Priya looked up at me. "I'm seeing elevated data traffic from Tehran's node—possibility of foreign interference."
I sighed. "Add Iran-PK node to our honeypot watchlist. Quarantine any packet floods."
Katherine, reviewing the environmental feed, noticed dozens of flamingos drifting on a nearby salt pan—"Heaven's pink fleet," she whispered. "Attracting their attention to the station might help."
I split the smile. "Deploy Cloudfall III to image the flamingo flock and project a live feed at the station's sound array—nature's lure."
Location: Hingol Valley Station #5Time: 11:45 AM PST / 1:45 PM IST**
Cloudfall III's speakers crackled to life above the ballot platform, projecting a serene, looping video of flamingos shimmering against teal lagoons. The birds' haunting calls—digitally recorded—wove through the desert air. At first, villagers paused in prayer; then curiosity overcame hesitation. Slowly, men and women drifted back to the terrace, cameras outstretched to film the spectacle.
"Brilliant," Rhea said quietly over comms. "Baloch turnout at 26% and climbing."
A chorus of soft laughter rose as small children pointed skyward, mimicking flamingo stances with outstretched arms. Before long, the queue to vote stretched along the scrubby valley floor, elders nodding at one another with satisfaction.
Location: Jadavpur Villa – War RoomTime: 4:00 PM IST**
By afternoon, the final tally streamed in. Baloch-V: 62% turnout—far surpassing expectations. The holo-map glowed uniformly emerald across all five provinces. The Referendum of Reintegration would proceed.
General Sen allowed himself a broad smile. "Operation Baloch Iris is a triumph. Democracy by drone—and by nature's marvels."
Katherine squeezed my shoulder. "From mountain paradises to desert heavens, we've carried ballots on wings."
I exhaled, heart full. "And we've woven a tapestry of voices across every hidden paradise."
Outside, the Makran wind had kicked up, stirring red dust into the air. But within those hardy desert wildflowers, democracy had rooted, each vote a blossom against the arid earth. And in the war room's glow, I knew that technology—and humanity—had found a home in every sky, every valley, every beating heart.