Joneson snapped the ball just before she entered the pocket, and Lu Bu received the ball into the crook of her arm as she bolted forward. The burst of speed felt so familiar, and so practiced, that she almost seemed to be floating a centimeter above the ground as her legs churned beneath her.
She cut through a hole created by Thomas on the left side and hurdled the right-backer, Brasidas, as he attempted to intercept her near the line of scrimmage. At two seconds into the play, the ball began to gain weight as the gravity generator at its center slowly cycled up, but she was well-practiced at handling a smashball.
Peleus, playing center-backer, sprinted toward her and made a play at her mid-section by trying to dive at her. She saw from the corner of her eye that Atticus had yet to break toward her, which actually saw a smile flash on her lips as she gripped the ball in both hands and smashed Peleus’ forearm with it.
The impact was obviously more than Peleus had expected, and he staggered forward as his arm was forced to the ground by the immediate expulsion of the smashball’s accumulated gravitic energy—which, she knew from experience, had been roughly similar to a sledgehammer’s impact for this particular blow.
Easily sidestepping the falling Tracto-an, she saw Atticus snarl and break toward her. The benefit of shedding the smashball’s energy against Peleus was that it returned the ball to its original weight, thereby increasing her maneuverability and speed—the bad news was that it would require several seconds before it could be used as a proper weapon again. Until then, it was nothing but a liability which she was forced to protect en route to the score.
Atticus bore down on her as she drove straight at him, expecting the other man to lunge greedily and create an opening to one side or the other. But, surprisingly, he held up at the last instant and forced her to lower her shoulder in an attempt to knock him off-balance and slip by after contact.
Her shoulder met his chest, and his arms clamped down on her torso like an iron spring-trap. She fought the best she could, but was unable to extricate herself from his long, powerful arms before he dragged her to the ground. She was completely flabbergasted at his uncharacteristically selfless move, and narrowed her eyes as she stood and made her way back to the huddle.
After the team had reached the huddle she took another incredulous look over her shoulder at Atticus, whose demeanor was clearly no less furious than her own. “Looks like we’re in for a game, after all,” Joneson said with a tight smile.
The game concluded at a score of 32 Joneson, 21 Gnuko. The teams were evenly matched when Joneson had the ball, but when Gnuko had the ball Team Joneson managed to force three turnovers—two of which Lu Bu returned for the score. After doffing their armored ‘pads,’ the Lancer contingent shook hands at the base of the shuttle’s ramp.
“Good game,” Lu Bu congratulated the second-to-last Lancer from Team Gnuko. For the first time in months feeling the oddly reassuring aches and pains with which she had become so familiar during her brief smashball career.
Then Atticus stepped in front of her and literally blocked the sunlight from reaching her face, and she looked up at him with a hard expression and thrust her hand out.
“Good game,” she said evenly.
Atticus looked down at her hand pointedly and nodded. “Good game,” he said gruffly as he accepted her hand briefly before boarding the shuttle.
“All right, back to the barn,” Joneson barked, gesturing for his Lancers to board the shuttle. When everyone was seated, the pilot initiated takeoff procedures, and a few minutes later they were airborne and en route to the Pride of Prometheus.
The Lancers stretched and groaned between retelling each other their individual experiences of the game for several minutes, but the Tracto-ans remained silent.
“Ok,” Sergeant Joneson said, standing from his seat and sweeping the cabin with his eyes, “time for the after-action. First, a question for the Tracto-ans.”
At this, Atticus and the others looked up with neutral expressions.
“What is the object of the game?” Joneson asked, and Lu Bu had actually heard this particular question from a coach before, and suspected she knew the direction of the lesson.
“To drive the ball to the scoring zone,” Atticus replied shortly.
“Correct,” Joneson replied with a nod. “So what is the primary target to be attacked?”
“The scoring zone,” the Tracto-an replied through gritted teeth, as though he were answering questions which were beneath him.
“Wrong,” Joneson said sharply before calling over his shoulder, “Lu Bu, what is the target to be attacked?”
“The ball, Sergeant Joneson,” she replied with absolute certainty.
“Correct,” he said while keeping his gaze fixed on the largest of the Tracto-ans. “When a team holds the ball, their goal is already known by the other side. Therefore, the ‘offense’ is at an inherent intelligence disadvantage, since their objective is known by everyone observing the contest.”
A look a realization came over the Tracto-an’s faces, but they quickly cleared their expressions.
Joneson nodded in satisfaction before continuing, “One long-held military theory states that conflict variables can be placed into three groups: force strength, terrain, and intelligence. These can then further be broken down into two sub-groups each: total available assets, and the preparation of those assets; conditions which hinder a given force’s resources, or those which augment that force’s resources; and lastly, deception and knowledge.”
“The Six Pillars of warfare,” Atticus said almost absently.
“Correct,” Joneson nodded, “on your world that is what these factors are called. Assuming the variables at the outset of engagement are equal on both sides, how many of these variables must the typical force gain superiority in before victory can be expected?”
Silence filled the shuttle, and Lu Bu knew that most of the Sergeant’s men had already received this particular lecture. She, herself, had read a very similar dissertation which was widely-disseminated on her home world, having been penned back on Ancient Earth by one of the Ancestors.
When he received no reply, Joneson called over his shoulder, “Lu, you’re not much newer to the group than the Tracto-ans; how many variables must the typical force gain superiority in, in order to expect victory?”
“One, Sergeant Joneson,” she replied promptly.
“Which one?” he pressed.
“A significant advantage in either of the last two will assure victory in any circumstance,” Lu Bu said confidently. “A single arrow can defeat an army if it slays the general, and one false report can lead an otherwise superior force into a decisive ambush.”
“Well said,” Joneson replied with an approving nod. “This is why, despite having superior physical talent and dead even terrain, Team Gnuko lost today: the object of the game was unclear, so Team Joneson possessed an intelligence advantage,” he said, casting a look to the Corporal.
Gnuko was nursing a sprained ankle as he stood with a tight grip on a nearby cargo strap, but it quickly became apparent to Lu Bu that the Tracto-ans had not been the only students which Sergeant Joneson had been lecturing out on the field.
“The rest of this week will be spent on light duty,” Joneson added, “but I expect each member of this unit to review Captain Middleton’s after-action reports on the naval battles which took place this past week. He knows combat strategy and tactics better than anyone here, and we’re lucky to serve under a man like him.”
While Corporal Gnuko appeared to have learned the lesson and was nodding silently to himself, the Tracto-ans looked skeptical but they, too, remained silent.
“Probably goes without saying, but the game ball goes to Lu Bu,” Joneson said, flipping the ball to her before taking his own seat and strapping in. She took the ball and cradled it in her lap, noting approving looks on the faces of her fellow Lancers—including grudging nods from the four, still-silent, Tracto-ans.
Chapter XXXIII:
An Unexpected Guest
“We can’t thank you enough, Captain Manning,” Middleton said after eight days at dock, taking advantage of a first-class repair facility and top-shelf components. “Please relay our appreciation to your father when next you see him.”
The younger Captain Manning’s visage on the bridge’s main viewer was covered in grease and sweat, but he was all smiles as he made a quick, two-finger salute. “It’s me that should be thanking you, Captain Middleton; without you my ship would have been taken and what was left of me would probably have burned up on re-entry by now after being spaced by those blighters. You ever find yourself in our neck of the woods again, look me up and we could have an Elysium SDF vs. MSP game of smashball; I hear you’ve got quite the roster over there.”
“We’ll keep it in mind,” Middleton replied graciously.
“My government has ensured me that you should be fully re-supplied before leaving,” Manning added. “It’s not quite like them to be so generous, but we should probably count ourselves lucky.”
“And we do, Captain Manning,” Middleton said heavily. “The Pride is as close to 100% as I’ve ever seen her, and we have your people to thank.”
“That being said,” Manning added hesitantly, “I’ve been told you’re to receive a guest before disembarking.”
Middleton furrowed his brow in confusion. “A ‘guest’?” he repeated.
The younger Manning nodded. “I just received the orders a few minutes ago; he should be arriving with his retinue any time now. It’s all very hush-hush, but the orders have my father’s signature—which I’ve personally verified—so I must officially request you at least meet with him prior to departure.”
“It seems a bit irregular,” Middleton mused before making up his mind, “but in light of your people’s support, I’m inclined to meet with him.”
“Excellent,” Manning said before adding, “good hunting, Captain.”
“Likewise, Captain,” Middleton replied before severing the connection.
“Reading a civilian shuttle on approach, Captain,” the Sensors operator reported. “They’re squawking Sector-Gov. idents.”
Middleton set his jaw but did his best to keep his features even. “Verify the idents and clear them for landing. Have Sergeant Joneson meet me in the hangar,” he said as he stood from his chair. “Commander Jersey, you have the con.”
“Aye, Captain,” the Lieutenant Commander acknowledged.
Not long after Middleton had arrived in the Pride’s hangar, Sergeant Joneson did likewise. A few minutes later the civilian shuttle—bearing external markings which appeared similar to those used on Shèhuì Héxié—touched down.
The ramp descended and a man stepped out onto it, with red skin and a long, black beard. He took a look around the hangar before his eyes settled on Middleton, and he descended the ramp as soon as he had done so.
“Captain Middleton, I presume?” the man asked graciously, speaking in an accent that was reminiscent of his new crewmembers’ from Shèhuì Héxié.
“I am Captain Middleton,” he acknowledged, “and you are…?”
The man clasped his hands briefly before himself, clearly more out of protocol than true deference like the members of his crew displayed. “My name is Kong Pao; is there a place we may speak privately? I imagine you wish to get underway, and now that I am aboard you may do so.”
“Kong Pao?” Middleton repeated, remembering the name of his contact at Shèhuì Héxié had been named Kong Rong. And when he looked hard enough, he could see a physical resemblance between the two men, who were clearly separated by several decades in age. “Your shuttle’s idents checked out well enough that I agreed to receive you, but I’m going to need a little more than a name before we go anywhere.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” the man said as his eyes flashed with something akin to anger, “I am Kong Pao, the Primus Judge of Sector 23, and I believe we can help each other—or, at least, I believe I can help your organization. We should speak further after you get underway,” he suggested, his eyes flicking to Joneson and then back to Middleton.
Middleton did a double-take before swallowing the knot in his throat. “Excuse me…you’re a Sector Judge?”
“Indeed,” the other man replied, “and as I said, I believe we may be able to provide some, hopefully significant, mutual assistance to one another.”
Captain Middleton knew he had just met with one of the most powerful officials in the entire Spineward Sectors. Even planetary monarchs or elected presidents wielded less raw power than a Sector Judge. “Your honor,” he began awkwardly, uncertain how he should address the man.
“I am not here in an official capacity related to my posting as a Sector Judge,” Kong Pao waved a hand dismissively. “You may simply use the honorific ‘Representative,’ since that is the role which I have accepted on behalf of the people in this region of the Spineward Sectors.”
“Fine, Representative,” Middleton said hesitantly, “this ship’s about to embark on what is almost certainly the most dangerous mission it’s engaged in to date…and if you knew our recent history, that would probably be enough to make you run screaming back to your shuttle.”
Kong Pao clucked his tongue and sighed. “Captain Tim Middleton,” he began officiously, “a former Lieutenant in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet who was granted command of one of said fleet’s constituent vessels after Vice Admiral Jason Montagne had re-taken it from a band of…pirates,” he said with a knowing look. “The field rank of Captain was bestowed upon him by said Admiral Montagne, whereupon he embarked on a patrol of Sector 24, since that Sector is a contributor to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s interests. Lost roughly half of his crew during a bioweapon attack at gas mining facility in low orbit of Pegasus VI, during which he…” He paused briefly before continuing heavily, “During which he destroyed a pirate vessel in clear observation, and accordance with, several admittedly outdated laws which this court finds to have resumed primacy during these difficult times—pending official review of all pertinent details, of course—thereby ensuring the Pride of Prometheus may continue its patrol as directed by Admiral Montagne.”
Middleton knew exactly what the man meant, and he had to work extra hard to keep his teeth from grinding at the thinly-veiled threat.
“Now,” Kong Pao said, taking a calm step toward him, “shall I continue with my recitation of your recent…activities, or would you like to have Sergeant Joneson here escort me to my quarters where I will patiently await the opportunity for a private audience with this ship’s Captain?”
“I thought you said you weren’t here in the capacity of a Sector Judge,” Middleton said coldly.
“I am truly desperate, Captain Middleton, as are the people in my Sectors,” the Representative said with a nod that was anything but gracious. “Please forgive me for pleading our case in the most effective method available to me. I am certain you would do the same, were our roles reversed.”
“What I’m certain of,” Middleton said evenly, “is that I have a mission to carry out. If you’re content with being a passenger aboard my ship until that mission is concluded, then I will, in fact, have Sergeant Joneson escort you to your quarters.”
“I am perfectly willing to travel as a passenger while we return with all haste to your fleet’s commanding officer, Admiral Montagne,” Kong Pao said, his words seeming to twist and writhe in Middleton’s skull as he fought down his rising irritation.
“Oh we’re going to return to the Admiral, Representative, but not just yet. We’ve got a classified operation to conduct first, after which,” he said pointedly as the Representative made to interrupt, “we will return to Sector 25 and report on the goings on of Sectors 23 and 24.”
Kong Pao considered Middleton for several moments. “How long will this ‘classified operation’ require to complete?”
“I honestly have no idea,” he said seriously before stiffening his spine. “But in any event, Sector 23—the Sector over which you pr
eside in your official capacity as a Sector Judge—is not a contributory member of the MSP. As such, this ship does not fall under your immediate jurisdiction, so let’s stow the threats for the time being.”
The Representative’s eyes flashed with a hint of amusement—and something darker—before he nodded. “Very well, Captain,” he said, and this time when he bowed his head Middleton actually thought there was a tiny sliver of respect being displayed, “I will accompany Sergeant Joneson to my quarters and await your summons.”
“Welcome aboard, Representative,” Middleton said, pointedly not offering his hand. Middleton hated politicians with the fury of a supernova, but he knew that whatever this one wanted was way above his pay grade—and he suspected that Admiral Montagne wouldn’t exactly appreciate one of his Captains making enemies of Sector Judges…especially not after such a protracted mission.
Chapter XXXIV: An Update…and the Gift of Red Hare
“Mr. Fei,” Middleton greeted as the young man entered his ready room. “I’d like an update on the status of your project.”
“Of course, Captain,” he replied as he sat down and slid a data slate across the desk. “This is my official report, but the truncated version says that my comrades on the world of my birth were able to access the vestiges of my network and reconstruct the majority of my program, which was then returned here via one of Captain Manning’s courier vessels. However, there are certain gaps in the software which I must reconstruct from memory; a process I believe will require no more than six days’ uninterrupted work in a harmonious environment.”
“A ‘harmonious environment’?” Middleton repeated skeptically.
“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied. “I do my best work in a controlled environment without distractions and with certain materials at my disposal—none of which are difficult or expensive to acquire,” he added hastily. “I have listed them on the slate for your approval.”
No Middle Ground Page 32
