The Middle Road (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 7)

by Caleb Wachter

  At that moment, the metal-on-metal clang of Hansheng’s footfalls filled the cargo compartment. Qaz held the Crafter’s gaze for several seconds before turning to look at the formidable assault droid.

  “My tactical processors predict a forty nine percent probability of violence if this conversation continues,” Hansheng’s growling, animalistic, but truly un-living voice declared. “Verbal communication will therefore be terminated. Is this directive understood?”

  Qaz nodded, seeing the Crafter do likewise from the corner of his eye.

  “Probability of mutual compliance with issued directive,” Hansheng muttered irritably as he clomped toward the rear of the cargo compartment, “sixty two percent…”

  Qaz spent the remainder of the shuttle trip in silence, contemplating the fact that the Crafter had added a single number to the list of four thousand three hundred and ninety two children who had died at his barbaric hand.

  He knew a threat when he heard it, but frankly he was unconcerned. He had a new job to do and he was going to do it to the best of his ability. No longer would his life exist solely to provide its creator with some perverse, vicarious thrill.

  Qaz, 37th Scion of Asterion, was now a Legionnaire in the Alliance Gorgonus Fleet—whatever that truly meant, he intended to learn in whatever time remained to him.

  Kongming waited while Hansheng clomped his way down the shuttle’s loading ramp. After the venerable assault droid had done so it was the improbable minotaur Qaz’s turn.

  “You are…large,” Kratos grunted when Qaz stepped off the Deathbacker’s ramp. It was one of the only times Kongming could remember seeing the aged Tracto-an actually looking up at another sentient being.

  “Master Kratos,” Qaz inclined his head while presenting his chain axe deferentially.

  In the blink of an eye Kratos lashed out with his hand and knocked the axe from the bull-man’s hands. Qaz’s body tensed as he instinctively lowered into a crouch, and Kongming decided now was likely not the best time to egress the Deathbacker’s hold. Instead, he waited and watched as the scene unfolded.

  “If you ever call me ‘master’ again,” Kratos growled, looking up into Qaz’s eyes fearlessly, “I’ll cut your liver out, spit-roast you and drink from your horns before you’re allowed to quit the only life you’ll ever get. Call me ‘Kratos’ and nothing else, or you’ll be left on this rock to graze like your forebears on the sea of grass beneath your hooves.”

  Qaz, who had been ready for a fight, surprisingly seemed to relax—but even from a distance of ten feet Kongming thought he could feel the warm blasts of air issuing from his bovine nostrils as he growled, “You are quicker than you look.”

  “And you might not be as dumb as you look,” Kratos grunted approvingly before pointedly bending down to collect the chain axe, which he then handed to the bull-man. “A fine weapon,” the Tracto-an said approvingly, “it’s got heft—I like that.”

  “I would be happy to demonstrate its many advantages to you,” Qaz said, and with a subtle manipulation of the haft he sent its teeth whirring around the axe head.

  “A generous offer,” Kratos grunted wryly, gesturing to a crate full of supplies. “Take that up to the ridge and help Hansheng get ready to dig.”

  “Yes…Kratos,” Qaz said after a brief, but pointed pause.

  The minotaur slung his axe over his shoulder and carried the crate up the hill as instructed, leaving Kongming finally clear to exit the Deathbacker.

  “Between you and me,” Kratos said in a low, conspiratorial tone as Kongming approached, “I’m not sure I could take ring-nose over there without fighting dirty.”

  “I can assure you, Kratos,” the Crafter’s melodious voice issued from the shuttle’s hold, “that if Qaz wished to destroy you, you could not stop him.”

  Kongming watched as the fascinatingly androgynous Crafter stepped out onto the boarding ramp with both hands clamped together via a standard restraining cuff.

  “You don’t know Kratos,” Kongming retorted knowingly.

  The Crafter took a deep breath of the pollen-filled air and smiled, “And you do not know Asterion’s Heir. Come,” the Crafter gestured to the hilltop where Hansheng and Qaz had begun setting up the earth-moving equipment, “let us collect what we came for and quit this place. There is much work yet to do.”

  As the Crafter walked up the hill toward the soon-to-be dig site, Kongming felt an unmistakable sense of foreboding—a sense which Kratos apparently shared as the larger man muttered, “I hate being led around by the nose.”

  Kongming concurred, “Captain Middleton believes that the Crafter is important. I think he is right.”

  “What convinces you of that?” Kratos asked, showing a rare degree of genuine curiosity instead of his usual self-assured confidence.

  “I…” Kongming hesitated, not wanting to mention the apparition of the Seer but also feeling a powerful, nearly overwhelming desire to tell someone—anyone—about what genuinely might be just another hallucination borne of a shattered mind. But he decided against it, “It is simply a feeling.”

  “I have come to understand many men in my time, Kongming,” Kratos said severely, prompting Kongming to meet the towering Tracto-an’s imperious gaze, “and some do, in fact, feel their way through life. You, however, are not among them.”

  Before Kongming could reply, the Tracto-an turned and gestured for the pair of Lancers stationed at the shuttle to take up sentry positions at nearby rocky outcrops. He then trudged his way up the hill, and Kongming followed along behind as they engaged in the arduous task of digging through ten meters of dirt to retrieve the item for which they had come.

  Chapter X: An Untapped Mind

  “This ship is a wreck,” Middleton said after the battered hull had been painstakingly squeezed into the Prejudice’s shuttle bay.

  It appeared to be a small craft of totally foreign design with an eight meter long, gently tapered fuselage in which a trio of seats were crammed front-to-back at the mid-point.

  It resembled a primitive jet-powered aircraft without wings, but even its shape was far from the most curious thing about it.

  That was due to its hull’s appearance—it seemed to be made out of an undocumented mixture of gold, platinum, titanium and other trace minerals. The combination produced an incredibly resilient, relatively thin hull whose characteristics were more akin to ceramics than to any known alloy.

  “It is indeed,” the Crafter agreed, “but I believe there is much information to be gleaned from it—not the least of which involves its onboard flight recorder.”

  “You’ve looked at it?” Middleton asked.

  “Of course,” the Crafter laughed. “Why would I not?”

  “What does it show?”

  The Crafter shrugged, “I do not remember.”

  Middleton narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “You just said you’d looked at it.”

  “Oh, I have,” the Crafter assured him, “but I do not remember what I saw. I believe I utilized a retrovirus which wiped out my short-term memory immediately after I logged the various points of interest which I already shared with you following my arrest, but I obviously cannot be certain that was what transpired.”

  “Why would you do that?” Middleton pressed, suspecting he was being manipulated but less certain as to by whom.

  “I do not remember that either,” the Crafter sighed. “Though I did leave myself a recording which said, verbatim, ‘Continue your work for as long as you are able, but you must also seek out those who would lend their aid to defending the inhabitants of this region of space. When they find you, bring them here and transfer the flight recorder’s contents to a proper receptacle. The hour grows late—you must not fail.’ I memorized the message before destroying it.”

  “A ‘proper receptacle’?” Kongming repeated before Middleton could do likewise.

  “Yes,” the Crafter agreed, casting a pointed glance in the direction of the hulking minotaur, Qaz. Middleton briefly ground his tee
th as the Crafter continued, “Asterion’s Line was primarily designed to serve as the receptacle, and while I would have preferred to make several additional improvements to its parameters I am confident that Qaz will fill his role as needed.”

  “I’m not even going to ask,” Middleton held up a halting hand when Kongming looked ready to explode with question, “how that’s supposed to work, or why you would choose to craft his line as you did. But this…download,” he bit out the word, “will it cause him harm?”

  “Absolutely no physical harm will befall him,” the Crafter said confidently. “Will it cause pain? Yes, it will. But harm? No. I have spent decades perfecting Asterion’s Line for this day, Supreme Commander; we will not fail.”

  “What if we try to download the information another way?” Middleton turned to Kongming, hoping the young genius might provide an alternative that didn’t play into the Crafter’s mysterious hands.

  Kongming seemed reluctant to reply, but after a moment he shook his head, “It is possible that I could devise a system by which the data could be retrieved, but this technology is so different from anything I have yet interfaced with and I…” he trailed off as a crestfallen look overcame his features, “I am not what I once was in that capacity, Captain Middleton.”

  Middleton knew that it had been a long shot, but he’d had to ask. “All right,” Middleton allowed, “we’ll review your proposed process for this ‘download’ and then—and only then—we’ll present the option to Qaz.”

  “Of course,” the Crafter nodded. “We should begin immediately.”

  “Why should I?” Qaz demanded after being presented with the ludicrous idea that he, the Heir of Asterion, had been designed to be nothing more than a walking star chart.

  Captain Middleton looked darkly at the Crafter and said, “Frankly I’m not sure you should, Qaz. But as the Supreme Commander of this Fleet, it’s my obligation to do everything in my power to protect its constituents. I want to be clear: my power does not—and never will—extend to coercing you into participating in this procedure.”

  Qaz searched the Supreme Commander’s features and saw no deceit in him. Of course, Qaz knew that the best liars are the ones who cannot be spotted, but there was something in the enmity which Supreme Commander Middleton showed to the Crafter that endeared him to Qaz—who still felt a powerful urge to tear the Crafter’s head off.

  Qaz met his creator’s eyes and challenged, “Why should I do this?”

  The Crafter’s lips twisted into a smirk, “Because if you do not, you will never know if it was a challenge you might have conquered. You will die—perhaps this year or, at most, the next—never knowing how you truly measured against your predecessors.”

  That last bit was far from what Qaz had expected. He wanted to deny the Crafter completely, but it took only a few seconds for him to realize that his creator was right: Qaz had never failed to overcome a challenge, and had always prided himself on being the last competitor standing. It was as much the satisfaction of conquest as the continuation of his own life which had fueled his exploits in the Crafter’s pits, and he suspected this facet of his being was what the Crafter was currently playing on.

  “You made me this way,” Qaz seethed. “You think you can control me because you know me?”

  “Quite the opposite,” the Crafter retorted, “I am as intrigued as anyone in this room to discover whether or not you will fulfill your destiny.”

  Supreme Commander Middleton turned to face Qaz, “We don’t need your answer immediately. You should take some time to think about it.”

  “Whether I take a day or a year, the answer will be the same,” Qaz growled. “My creator has challenged me—and I must accept that challenge.”

  “The connections seem ready,” Kongming reported after reviewing the neural interface equipment built into the Crafter’s dilapidated, golden-hulled, alien-looking ship.

  “They are,” the Crafter agreed. “Are you prepared, Qaz?”

  The minotaur sat in the second seat of the sleek vessel, barely able to squeeze his massive frame into the tiny cockpit. On his head was a horseshoe-shaped band of metal which was connected to the ship’s onboard computer via a dozen bundles of material which was all-too-familiar to Kongming at this point in his life.

  Those bundles were almost identical to the Ancient neural tissue which allowed the Prejudice to utilize its impressive stealth suite in combat conditions—and, apparently, to modify the ship’s grav-plates in real time while the Total Conversion Drive system played havoc with the local laws of physics.

  The connection here was plain to see: this ship had almost certainly been built by the as-yet hidden faction of humans who, for whatever purpose, had gifted the Prichtac with technology that would give them a fighting chance to survive the Imperial incursion.

  How the Crafter came to possess the tiny ship was still something of a mystery, but Kongming and Captain Middleton had come to an agreement on the most likely reason why the enigmatic Crafter possessed it.

  “I am prepared,” Qaz replied, his knotted musculature bulging and relaxing anxiously.

  Without aplomb or warning, the Crafter activated the download sequence and Qaz’s body went instantly rigid. His cloven feet soon began hammering against the floor of the tiny craft, and his head began snapping violently left and right.

  “Stop it,” Kongming snapped.

  “It cannot be stopped,” the Crafter said without ever looking away from the tortured image of the mighty minotaur. “To sever the connection is to end his life; he must endure, just as we must endure.”

  Kongming actually thought he saw water begin to collect around the Crafter’s eyes, but he felt no sympathy for the insane gene-crafter. He had seen recordings of the battles waged in the Crafter’s pits, and he could not fathom a scenario where he could ever endorse such brutality.

  Just as that thought came to his mind, however, he was reminded of the fact that he shot Vali Funar in cold blood because it had seemed certain—not just likely, but certain—that doing so was the only way to save Lu Bu and, to a lesser extent, to end the Raubach threat to the Spineward Sectors.

  He knew that other men would have sought refuge behind the latter factor while denying the importance of the former, but he knew himself too well—and respected himself too much—to hide behind such an obvious lie.

  He had slaughtered Vali Funar because he had chosen Lu Bu’s life over that of the valiant Lancer. The aspect of that choice which most perturbed him, however, was that he could not envision a scenario where he would have done differently.

  With those thoughts tumbling through his head, he watched as Qaz’s body slowly, but surely, began to relax and the seizure receded until he lay motionless in the tiny shuttle’s cockpit.

  “There,” the Crafter said with what sounded like a note of genuine relief, “he has succeeded. Now we must wait while the engrams are imprinted on his marvelous brain.”

  “How long will it take?” Kongming inquired as he checked Qaz’s vital signs and found them within tolerances.

  “Two hours,” the Crafter shrugged. “After it is completed, we must eject this shuttle since a self-destruct sequence is already counting down. Approximately ten minutes after the download concludes, enough energy will be released to destroy your intriguing little warship several times over.”

  Kongming had anticipated such an outcome—as had Captain Middleton—though he was still dismayed by the loss of the opportunity to study the foreign ship and its technology.

  “I will inform the Captain—but he will not be pleased,” Kongming assured the Crafter.

  “I do not expect he will be.”

  Two hours later, the Prejudice ejected the Crafter’s shuttle from the hangar and put several light seconds between the two vessels. Just as the Crafter had warned, the shuttle then exploded with an impressive release of energy that should not have been possible for a vessel of its size.

  “How long until Qaz wakes up?” Middleton asked
the Crafter.

  “Two days,” the Crafter shrugged, “perhaps three.”

  Middleton made brief eye contact with Kongming, who nodded his assent, and asked, “How complete will his new ‘memories’ be?”

  “Certain memories are more complex and will require several days, weeks, or even months to fully ratify,” the Crafter explained. “But upon his awakening he should be able to provide us with another handful of high-value points of interest.”

  “What will we find at these points of—“ Middleton began, only to be cut off when an alarm sounded at Hephaestion’s terminal.

  The handsome Tracto-an quickly reported, “Point transfers detected at the hyper limit, Captain. Thirty…forty…fifty distinct signatures.”

  Middleton made eye contact with Kratos, “Return the Crafter to the brig. The rest of you: battle stations.”

  Chapter XI: The Secularists

  “The Fleet has begun to form up on the Prejudice, sir,” Hephaestion reported as the Tactical plotter was flooded with information about the newcomers.

  Grateful for small miracles, Middleton noted that both the Void Hunters and the Stalwart had decided to respond to the situation precisely as the book said they should. Their ships left their usual formations which sat clustered around their respective ‘flagships’ and assumed Gorgon Prime formation, which saw the many varied warships spread out in such a way as to maximize the fleet’s overall tactical value.

  The Void Hunter-controlled Imperial Destroyers, possessing greater range and speed than any ships in the fleet—save for the Prejudice—flanked out wide with one each to the planar north and south of the star system. The 2nd Gen Prichtac Corvettes formed up just inside of the Destroyers since they possessed the second best speed and maneuverability, while the remainder of the Corvettes assumed a position just within those.