Several of the other Department heads started nodding—in particular those who Spalding had specifically requested attend.
“We can dismount a couple lasers…if Engineering will run the cable from the power generators and cut a hole into the Lancer department,” Lesner finally growled.
“You’re actually thinking about attacking another department—the Lancer Contingent, specifically? They’re the group that’s trained to defend a ship from an internal attack! I thought this sort of madness was the very thing you’re trying to put a stop to, Spalding,” shouted the Supply Officer.
“Bah! The supply officer is right,” sneered Merk, and Supply started nodding, “why, you’ll only get maybe 20-40% of them that way, Gunnery!”
Supply looked betrayed by Merk’s turnabout.
“We can just put something in their food, and no on in the first meal we serve will know a thing. The Galley can tell our people which foods to stay away from, and it won’t be until the second or even third meal before they start to figure it out,” Merk nodded with satisfaction. “There’s no need and no call to shoot up the ship when we can disable 60-80% of them before they even know what hit them.” The head of the galley—being the person in charge feeding of the entire ship—sat back with satisfaction on his face.
Supply choked audibly, but his protests were headed off before he could even make them.
“Only a 20-80% success rate between the pair of you,” scoffed Bourgon, leaning forward in his chair. “As Brigga is my witness, we can just send them a mix of bad air and they’ll die on the vine. Environmental can get maybe 85-95% of those tall, walking, suit-thugs in one fell swoop.”
“Hey, now, we’re here to teach the Lancers a lesson, not kill the whole lot of them,” Supply objected, changing his tune but still singing the same song as before. “I mean…how can we possibly cover up the deaths of thousands of ship defenders?”
“Look down on my department, will they?” Bourgon said coldly. “They’ll be dead within the first few minutes—with the rest to follow shortly so long as engineering welds their doors shut for us. It’s hard to blast your way out of a compartment if you can’t breathe.”
Spalding looked with irritation at Bourgon. |If I wanted to kill the lot of them, I’d just have my engineers close a few bulkheads and then drill holes in all the walls and bulkheads between their compartment and the outer hull and see how much they like sucking vacuum,” he snapped. “The Admiral said they’re not mutineers and, Sweet Murphy, I’m not the man to tell him he’s wrong.”
“Could have fooled me,” Supply scoffed.
Spalding gave the Supply officer a cold eye. “So we don’t kill them…at least, not too many of them—so long as most of them see reason. But letting this stand diminishes all of our authority. Each and every one of us,” he said flatly, “if a man, even if he’s a marine, can challenge an Admiral then each and every head of a department in this fleet will have to worry about a knife in the back. We have to nip this in the bud, double-quick. I say we go in as a group and make an object lesson in the very reasons why you gotta respect the other ship departments in this fleet—a united front is what’s called for, and that’s what we’ll give ‘em.”
“I can see it…” Lesner agreed slowly.
“Count me in,” Bourgon nodded.
Merk nodded his assent, but Supply placed his head in his hands.
“Then it’s decided,” Spalding said with satisfaction, “preparations are made in the galley and on the gun deck, while my engineers are sent to ‘tune up’ their battle-suits before Zero Hour. The rest of your departments…” his gaze swept the table from one end to the other, including in his view all the other Department heads who hadn’t spoken yet, “all right, we have our proposal. Let’s put it to a vote.”
Reaching into his tool belt, Spalding pulled out an rumpled hat and an old piece of paper. Counting the men, he then tore up the paper into the appropriate number of pieces.
“Secret ballots,” he said sourly, bitterly accepting the necessary evil of a democratic approach at this particular juncture as he tossed a number of old-style ink pens on the table. “Vote ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ and cast your paper into the hat. Then we’ll tally the votes; majority rules. All those in favor of teaching those Lancers a painful lesson in respect…let yerselves be heard.”
When the vote was tallied, the committee had voted and Spalding smiled grimly. The easy part was over.
Chapter Fifty: Critical Skills
Spalding walked into the cramped cubicle and, seeing his target, placed a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“Commander?” Mike looked up at the old Engineer in surprise.
“I’ve heard good things about you, lad,” he said jovially, and gave a light tug that nearly pulled Mike out of his seat.
“Sir?” Mike asked, looking with concern over Spalding’s shoulder at the
Tracto-an standing behind him. “Hierophant?” he asked with surprise and then yelped as the old engineer continued pulling him the rest of the way out of his chair.
“I hear you’re a man who can keep his mouth shut when it’s called for,” Spalding said keeping a hand on Mike’s shoulder as he lead him out the door while the rest of the techs in the compartment looked on in surprise, “I have need of such a man.”
“I’m just a system’s analyst, Commander,” Mike protested and then leaned over to Hierophant to hiss, “what are you getting me into?”
Hierophant just smiled.
“Now, don’t blame your friends for turnin’ pickle on you; it’s not their fault I need a man with your skill. Besides, you’re starting to get a reputation all on your own,” the old Engineer consoled, “keep this up and you’ll be known as the go-to man for ticklish computer problems all over the Fleet!”
Mike attempted to slow the pace and was almost pulled off his feet. “I need the extra workload like I need a hole in the head,” Mike muttered discontentedly, as the realization of a heavily-increased workload began to float through his mind.
“You aren’t thinking about slacking off on me, now are you, Mike?” Spalding suddenly stopped, a wild look in his eye as he rounded on the confused analyst.
“N-no, Sir!” Mike said quickly. He held his breath until the Commander grunted and they continued at the previously hurried pace over to the lift.
“Good, because there won’t be time for much rest the next two days,” Spalding confided.
Mike heaved a sigh.
“What’s the job, Commander Spalding?” he asked.
“Don’t worry; it’ll be right in your bailiwick,” Spalding assured him, “something of an ‘inter-departmental prank,’ you might say. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for it. You’ll be acting under my direct orders and all that.
Despite the other man’s words, Mike felt anything but reassured.
“I need permission from my supervisor before I can do this, Commander,” Mike made one last attempt to escape or at least delay the inevitable.
“Oh, don’t worry; it’s already cleared,” Spalding declared.
Mike winced. There was nothing for it now. He was stuck.
****************************************************
“Brence, I’ve got just the man to help you with those suit upgrades,” Commander Spalding said, breezing into the conference room off Main Engineering where the majority of the strategizing and critical parts assembly was being completed.
The other officer glanced up quickly and, seeing who was beside the Chief Engineer, looked puzzled.
Spalding’s hand landed on Mike’s shoulder, and he pushed the newcomer forward.
“This here is Mike. He’s going to help you with those ‘upgrades’ we were talking about, Brence me lad,” Spalding said with a slightly crazy glint in his eye. “Now remember: I want those suits to sing by the time you two are done with them.”
“Good to meet you, Mike; I’m Brence,” the Engineering Officer said, thrusting out his hand. “I see you go
t roped into this, too,” he said in a lowered voice as Spalding turned away to speak with Parkiney, though the elderly Chief could hear it all.
“You can say that again,” Mike agreed, looking worried, “the Chief Engineer said something about a prank and now suits? Which department are we…” He trailed off looking at Brence hopefully.
“The Lancer contingent,” the young Engineering Officer said promptly.
“Oh, bother,” Mike sighed.
Brence clouted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry—it’ll be fun!” he laughed.
“Remember, Brence: if you do a good job with this one then I’ll have another top assignment for you later,” Spalding called out from the other side of the room as he laid a finger alongside his nose.
Brence and Mike sat down and Brence started to tell the young analyst exactly what was needed from him.
Seeing how the pair was getting on, Spalding nodded with deep satisfaction and turned back to Parkiney. “Now then, Parkiney,” the Commander said, turning serious, “I can’t stress enough that we’re going to need the bulkheads down in these sections, and the work crews set up with the vacuum suits and tools they’ll need for the job—but we can’t tip our hand either. If we do, things could get messy,” his look turned dire for a long second, “very messy.”
“No worries, Chief,” Parkiney said with quiet confidence, “I’ve already got men stashing the equipment in nearby maintenance lockers. The men know they’re needed for an important assignment, but even the work crews assigned to each bulkhead won’t know exactly what they’re going to be doing until one hour before it goes down. When the time comes, they’ll get their work orders and go pick up their equipment but not a minute before. It’s all scheduled for time-release in the computer.”
“You almost make a man feel redundant, you know that?” Spalding chortled. “If you keep this up, there won’t be much need for me much longer!”
“I think it’d be a very big man indeed that could fill your shoes, Commander,” Parkiney said seriously, “and I’ve yet to meet the man that would want to try. I pray to Murphy you stay around for a long time, sir—if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Bah,” Spalding snorted, “no man is irreplaceable. But so long as I know that my ship will be in good hands when I go, why, that’s all a man can ask for.”
****************************************************
Over the next day, while engineers headed into Lancer territory on every ship and station in the Star System under the auspices of a routine Lancer suit ‘upgrade,’ work parties moved into position isolating section bulkheads and rerouting traffic through adjacent corridors on the flagship and every other major warship.
Meanwhile, galley personnel began adding something ‘extra’ to the Lancers’ food—and only their food—while a few boys down in Environmental pulled up the Brigga net and got to work on making a few specific, less-than-legal modifications where they were needed.
Like headstrong bovines, you have to get their heads stuck in the stanchion before they know what’s going on. It’s only after you have their attention, and they know who’s doing what to them, that you can pull out your sledge-hammer and hit those rebellious Tracto-an bulls between the eyes, Spalding thought with resolution.
After this display of Fleet solidarity, any of the idiots too stupid to realize their own best interests lay in shaping up would be put down—hard.
****************************************************
“Commander, a moment of your time?” came a gruff, growly voice from behind him.
“No time,” Spalding grumped, continuing on to his next task unimpeded. If he wanted to keep everything on the down low, it was becoming increasingly necessary to show up at each checkpoint personally.
Since when did a proper Engineering Officer turn into a handholding, jitters-soothing, accursed replacement for a Morale Officer, he wondered angrily. Why, if it weren’t for the requirement of operational security, I’d have walloped a few petty officers upside the head by now.
The sound of metal footsteps thumping on the deck behind him grew faster and louder, until the irritating pustule determined to slow him down caught up with the old engineer.
“Commander Spalding, a handful of minutes, if you will,” the man, Spalding glanced back and saw Caprian Marine armor. The other man placed a hand on the elderly engineer’s shoulder—an irksome gesture if ever there was one.
“No time, Marine,” Spalding said, shrugging off the hand with a glare.
“I’ve been hearing a few things,” the Marine Officer said flatly, “make time, Commander.”
Spalding gave the other man the hairy eyeball, but the Marine was resolute, so the old engineer grunted.
“Follow me,” the old Engineer gestured.
They walked a pair of corridors over before arriving outside a maintenance closet.
“In here,” suggested the Marine.
“So long as a little honest grease doesn’t offend you,” Spalding said, rolling his eyes.
“No, this’ll do fine,” said the Marine.
“Well…” Spalding demanded, “I haven’t got all day.”
“Commander Spalding, I’m just here to help,” the Marine Officer—who bore a Colonel’s insignia—said seriously.
“All you’re doing right now is holdin’ me up and wasting my time,” Spalding growled, “so if there’s a point in there somewhere I’d appreciate getting to it!” As he spoke, his hand crept down to the plasma torch on his tool belt. The finger torches were fine for precision work, but when it came to bigger jobs there just wasn’t anything that could quite compare to a full-sized torch.
“Look, since we share departmental space on the ships we’re posted on, they’re starting to make even my marines look bad,” said the Marine Officer.
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about,” Spalding said gesturing towards the battle-suit’s face plate.
“Colonel Wainwright, Caprian Marines, on temporary assignment to the Confederation Fleet,” the other man said, flipping up his visor to reveal salt-and-pepper hair above a well-aged face—a face which bore a respectable number of scars.
Spalding’s thumb flicked the switch to prime the torch. Now that the face-plate was open, he had options.
“Oh? Doesn’t appear to be a temporary assignment to me,” the Commander pointed out, “how many years have you been ‘temporarily assigned’ out here?”
Wainwright frowned. “Look, I’ll say it for the record: their actions cannot stand. I know what happened and I know what’s going on, at least the rough outline of it,” the grizzled Marine Colonel said meeting and holding the Engineer’s eyes. “I’m here to help.”
Spalding gave the other man a long look. “Well…alright then,” Spalding said suspiciously and then handed out an assignment, “if you insist then I’ve got a job for you.”
“I do,” cut in the Marine nodding evenly.
“Might be we could use a backstop,” Spalding ruminated and then pulled out a slate. “Have a pair of squads at each of these coordinates,” he said after a few minutes.
Wainwright looked at that slate and, flipping through several screens, looked again. “I think we can do this,” he said after a third review.
“Glad to hear it,” Spalding said impatiently, “now if you wouldn’t mind…” he gestured toward the door.
“Of course. I’ll let you be about your business,” Wainwright said.
The old engineer waited until the other man had left the closet and was away down the hall before releasing his grip on the torch.
He shook his head. All this creeping around in maintenance closets was for the birds. An honest engineer—like himself—simply wasn’t cut out for all this cloak and dagger business.
Still when there was no one alternative, even a square peg could be pounded into a round hole.
Then he smiled. He didn’t know if that marine was on the up-and-up or not, but fortunately he d
idn’t have to know. That was why he’d only send the man the right coordinates after the party was already well under way. In the meantime, those marines could head to the decoy locations and cool their heels.
Chapter Fifty-one: Putting Out the Fires
“Captain, we have a mission for you,” Admiral Skvikent, the head of the Promethean SDF said officiously. “There have been reports of a number of attacks on shipping just outside the hyper-limit. As long as freighters continue to head out into the black, to avoid our sensor net picking up their jump route, nothing really can be done but, to help assuage their civilian fears, you’ve been assigned to the grav-border. Patrol, monitor the hyper-limit for bogies, and do your dead level best to put an end to these depredations on the sovereignty of Promethean space,” ordered the Admiral who, in his spare time, was a regional War Prince with administrative powers over roughly 5% of the planetary surface.
“But, Sire,” Costel Iorghu protested, “my ship, the Prometheus Fire, is a Hammerhead class Medium Cruiser. She’s the slowest of the slow, not only in normal space drive but, compared to other ships of its class, its hyper drive as well. Are you sure we’re the right ship for this mission?”
“You have your orders, Captain. Unless you feel defending the homeland against the scum of the space-ways is beyond your capabilities,” added Skvikent coldly.
“No, Sire; you can count on the Prometheus Fire,” Costel Iorghu said, stiffening before being dismissed.
Three frustrating days had passed since that meeting.
Since then, as predicted, his ship had been the object of scorn—and the butt of every joker in the system—as it continued to arrive an hour late and a hundred credits short of every distress call. Meanwhile, the reinforced, traditional border defense units made of smaller ships continued to improve their response times and show up his ship in every way.
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