No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride)

by Caleb Wachter

  The Lucky Clover had similar tactical disadvantages to the Pride of Prometheus, in that neither ship was terribly fast or maneuverable. Smaller, quicker ships could escape with adequate warning if they coordinated their withdrawal without coming under fire from the long guns of the larger, slower warships.

  He forwarded the file to Jardine, who nodded slowly as he examined its contents and summary before shaking his head. “I could do this, Captain,” Jardine said confidently. “But not in an hour and forty two minutes; this is as much a challenge of designing the software as it is of deploying hardware,” he added with a significant glance to the countdown clock with Commander Jersey had apparently put up on the main viewer.

  “Can you handle the hardware setup in an hour?” Middleton demanded.

  Jardine nodded. “Absolutely, Captain...but who will handle the programming?”

  “You worry about the hardware,” Middleton snapped. “Pull whoever you need; I’ll deal with the software.”

  The Ensign looked confused before realization dawned and he nodded as he made his way to the lift. “I’ll need Chief Garibaldi and a few of his electronic technicians in the cargo bay, sir.”

  The Captain flipped his chair’s com-link to Garibaldi’s channel. “Chief Garibaldi, Ensign Jardine needs you and your best electronics men in the cargo bay on the double.”

  “On our way, Captain,” Garibaldi replied.

  Middleton stood to join Jardine in the lift. “Commander, you have the conn,” he said, waiting for the other man’s acknowledgment before making his way to the brig.

  Chapter XIX : Sleeping Dragon, the Third Visit

  “Captain,” Fei Long said, clasping his hands and bowing in his people’s usual fashion, “I am grateful you have come. Aside from my latest visit for yet another series of scans in sickbay, I have been deprived of human interaction.”

  “This isn’t a social call, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said shortly as he handed him the data slate. “Can you write the code for this, assuming the hardware is in place—and can you do it in less than an hour?”

  Fei Long’s eyes snapped hungrily over the data slate, and for the first time since meeting the young boy, Captain Tim Middleton saw his true character. The boy’s eyes flicked up and down almost too fast to believe as he went from page, to page, to page of the Captain’s detailed report, attached mission logs and technical schematics, his eyes taking on an inner light as he did so. It seemed an overly dramatic thought, but Middleton couldn’t help but compare Fei Long’s demeanor to that of a dehydrated man’s first gulp of life-giving water in days.

  In what would have taken Middleton no less than ten minutes to review, Fei Long accomplished in just under a minute. “Of course, Captain,” Fei Long replied, handing the data slate back to him with a gracious nod of his head, “but one hour is too much for such a task, given the materials you have just provided.”

  “I don’t need arrogance, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said impatiently, making certain not to let his expression betray his surprise at the boy’s confidence. “Two thousand people’s lives hang in the balance, and I need to know if you’re capable of this.”

  “I am,” Fei Long said fiercely, his veneer of overt respect and deference momentarily cast off as he locked eyes with the captain unflinchingly. Just when Middleton was ready to consider abandoning the plan to avoid such an obviously uncontrollable variable as this young man appeared to be, Fei Long added, “I will require no more than fifteen minutes to encode these protocols using your primary computer; to do so via the secondary system will require twice as much time; to do so with three completely blank, linked data slates like the one in your hand will require roughly fifty minutes. However it is accomplished, the end result will be identical.”

  His mind was made up in an instant, and Captain Middleton called over his shoulder, “Release this prisoner.”

  The Master at Arms approached and activated the console beside the cell. “Will he require a guard?” the burly man asked.

  Middleton nodded. “He will, but have whoever it is keep back and out of his way; he’s no longer a prisoner of the brig, but he hasn’t earned free roam of the ship just yet.”

  “Yes, Captain,” the man acknowledged, “I’ll escort him myself.”

  “Good,” Middleton said, handing the slate back to Fei Long. “You’d better get started.”

  “A wise precaution,” Fei Long said with a look of mild disappointment before waving away the slate, “but I no longer require the slate. I believe I can access the secondary mainframe from the Master at Arms’ office?”

  Middleton looked to the Master at Arms, who nodded his assent. The Captain nodded also and said, “Do it; grant him full access to the secondary computer, but none to the primaries.” His orders given, he exited the brig and headed back toward the bridge.

  He had some hard decisions to make regarding how to proceed, and just how much jeopardy to place his people in. He activated his com-link and connected with Lancer Sergeant Joneson, who picked up immediately.

  “I need every single unit of power armor on this ship ready to deploy in one hour, Sergeant,” Middleton said as he walked briskly toward the lift.

  “I’ve got thirty nine Lancers that are rated for active duty in power armor, Captain,” Joneson replied promptly. “That leaves eleven empties that I’ll need to fill from other departments.”

  “Take whoever you have to,” Middleton said as he entered the lift, mildly impressed at the readiness status of Joneson’s people, “you’ll be deploying on three separate targets, so you’ll need every pair of mag-boots you can line up.”

  “We’ll be ready, Captain,” Joneson said in his deep, smooth voice.

  “Good,” Middleton said as the doors to the lift closed behind him.

  Fei Long cracked his knuckles in anticipation as he followed the Master at Arms into his office. It had been far too long since he had interfaced with a proper computer, and there was simply no way to describe the feeling of angst and longing which that activity’s prolonged absence had created.

  The ‘computers’ in the Environmental department of this ship, where he had originally been stationed as the pitifully named Wang Xiu, were little better than glorified data slates which had been welded onto that department’s desks. And while the Pride of Prometheus’ secondary computer system was a far cry from his old—meticulously constructed and painstakingly fine-tuned—Shu-Han network on the world of his birth, it was still far more than a glorified notepad, unlike every other electronic device he had used in the past two years.

  “There,” the Master at Arms gestured to the workstation after entering his credentials, “you’ve got access.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Fei Long said graciously, using the man’s preferred honorific as he sat down in the terribly uncomfortable chair. But not even the chair’s rigid and unaccommodating geometry could erase the thrill of anticipation coursing through him. As he leaned forward to begin, his fingers paused a scant few millimeters over the console’s surface.

  He closed his eyes and let the all-consuming sensation of imminent release wash over himself for a few seconds, savoring it like he imagined one savored a fine wine’s aroma before imbibition. Interfacing with and manipulating information had always been more than just a gift for him; it had become as vital and essential as any other daily activity. The forced deprivation of that outlet had built a growing hunger deep within him over the past two years, and he knew that he could finally do what he had been born to do.

  Then, without further delay, his fingers began to fly over the crude, likely less-than-hygienic interface—if the Master at Arms’ skin care was any indicator of his general cleanliness—and Fei Long’s work had begun.

  The seconds morphed into minutes, which in turn swirled into a vast ocean of information with eddies and currents that seemed to take on a life of their own, as the program within the Pride’s secondary computer stretched and swelled into what would be its final shape. Like a painter with
brush and silk, a composer with ink and scroll, or a poet with rhyme and verse, Fei Long created a virtual work of art within the mainframe of the Pride of Prometheus’ computer system composed of tiny dashes and dots.

  It was far from his most inspired work, owing at least in part to Captain Middleton’s somewhat rigid—if surprisingly efficient—thinking in the way he wanted this particular program to function. But there was a time and place for everything, and now was not the time to argue with his new Lord and his less-than-perfect stratagem—especially since that stratagem was nearly guaranteed to work, regardless of its many flaws.

  But ‘nearly guaranteed’ was not good enough for Fei Long. So while he had reservations about the software, he knew he could solve some of their as-yet-unseen hardware difficulties if he finished his appointed task with ample time to spare.

  He let all other concerns fall away from his mind so he could focus on the task at hand, and give it all the attention it deserved. For as long as he could remember he had fought to save people from the oppression of others, but never before had the situation been so immediate, or so real, as it was now.

  He would not allow himself to fail Captain Middleton, or the settlers aboard that wrecked vessel. His life had purpose now and, with the Eternal Ancestors as his witness, he would play his part to deliver these people from the precipice of disaster.

  “But I am ready for action, Sergeant!” Lu Bu protested as she watched a handful of her countrymen donning their casements of power armor.

  “The doctor has you on medical restriction,” Joneson replied as he finished clamping one of the men into his suit of armor, “and I’m inclined to follow her advice.”

  “My arm is fine!” she protested, tearing the pitiful sling from her shoulder demonstrably and flinging it to the ground. “I wish to serve,” she said forcefully, but she lowered her eyes deferentially as she did so, mindful that her prior tone might not have been as respectful as it should have been.

  “You want to serve?” Joneson reiterated as he turned to face her, veritably towering over her. He was nearly a full foot taller than she, but their shoulders were nearly identical in width. “The power armor will need to be modified to fit you, anyway, Recruit,” he shook his head. “If you want to serve, report to the brig and relieve the Master at Arms; he’s rated for power armor and I’ll need his command experience to lead one of the strike teams.”

  “But—“ she began to protest, but the towering Joneson’s glare cut her off instantly. She felt her face begin to flush, but remembering her own words spoken to Doctor Middleton not so long ago regarding respect, she clasped her hands before herself and inclined her head sharply. “This one will do as Sergeant Joneson commands.”

  “Good,” the Sergeant said shortly before turning his back on her and continuing the task of suiting up another Lancer recruit—the same one who had uttered the vile words that had caused the incident for which she was now being punished and denied the opportunity to serve in battle. The Sergeant claimed it was due to her medical condition, but he received reports on her from sickbay and he knew as well as she did that her injury was now fully healed.

  Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the armory and made her way to the brig. She imagined steam to be pouring from her ears as her heavy footfalls clanged against the metal decking, and crewmembers who had been busily rushing about their duties cleared a path for her as she stormed down the corridor.

  Arriving at the brig, she used her private identification codes and entered while saying, “Sergeant Joneson requires the Master at Arms’ assistance—“

  She cut herself off when she saw the same scrawny, delicate-handed boy sitting before the Master at Arms’ console. His eyes were closed and he swayed back and forth slightly, much as a pianist might do during concerto, with his fingers flying this way and that across the workstation.

  The Master at Arms was standing a short distance from the boy, but his look was one of grave concern as the boy went about his work. Lu Bu approached carefully, having not expected this particular scene. She had expected to endure more of the young man’s verbal banter, but not to see him outside his cell and working on something which was clearly quite important—and at the Master at Arms’ console no less!

  “Master at Arms?” Lu Bu beckoned quietly as she reached his side, and only then did he tear his eyes away from the display being put on by Fei Long.

  “Yes, recruit Lu Bu?” he said with a quick glance to her before returning his gaze to the console and lowering his brow seriously.

  “Sergeant Joneson prepares strike teams,” she said evenly as she, too, looked at the screen in front of Fei Long’s still-closed eyes, “and requires your assistance. He orders me to relieve you.”

  “I just got his update,” the Master at Arms replied absently before turning and fixing her with a hard, penetrating look, “but I’m not sure I can leave him unattended.”

  “Not unattended,” Lu Bu corrected him, feeling a flare of resentment, “I remain to carry your duties.”

  The Master at Arms looked unconvinced and shook his head. “I’m afraid this might be more important…” he said doubtfully.

  “What must this one do?” Lu Bu asked forcefully, keeping her tone just short of a demand. Walter Joneson had ordered her to relieve the Master at Arms, and she was not about to fail in carrying out her first, real, assignment.

  The Master at Arms folded his arms and stared at the screen of his workstation for a few seconds before nodding and removing his sidearm. He handed it to her and asked, “Are you rated for this?”

  Lu Bu recognized the sonic pistol immediately and took it in her hands, turned it over once, and saw that it was currently set for a left-handed user. She depressed the safety mechanism and cracked the breach of the weapon open, revealing a fully-charged power core. With a pair of twists and a subtle adjustment of the grip, she once again closed the breach with the weapon now returned to its default, right-handed setup and handed it back to him. It was irrelevant to her which hand she fired it with, being ambidextrous, but she hoped her displayed proficiency would prompt the Master at Arms to action.

  She was correct. He nodded approvingly and replaced the weapon in its holster before unfastening the holster and handing it to her. A few seconds later, she had secured it against her hip and prepared to receive her orders by bracing to attention.

  “My orders are to stay out of his way,” the Master at Arms explained, “and that he is no longer to be treated as a prisoner of the brig, but neither is he to be allowed free roam of the ship unattended. If you’re not sure what to do, restrain him and seek the Captain’s—and only the Captain’s—instructions. Clear?”

  “Clear…sir,” she replied, briefly uncertain if she was to call him ‘sir.’ The chain of command aboard the Pride of Prometheus was still largely unclear to her, but she decided to err on the side of caution in this instance.

  “Good; keep an eye on him, Recruit,” the man said before leaving the brig at a brisk pace.

  After he had left, she took up his position and began to watch as Fei Long worked on whatever it was he had been assigned. While she had spent an inordinate amount of time on virtual social networks of questionable legality, Lu Bu had never been good with computers, likely owing to her ‘creator’s’ vision of creating a group of super soldiers. As such, brainpower was not high on the list of desired traits, but she had long since learned to accept her own limitations.

  Still, watching the boy work was almost hypnotic, and several times she had to blink and shake her head as the stream of numbers and letters poured onto the screen with each stroke of the young man’s hands.

  “I wholeheartedly approve of your name choice,” the boy said suddenly and in their native tongue without breaking the tempo of his movements—or opening his eyes. “Had I been free to do so during your last season, I would have used every last social exchange unit I was allotted to acquire a replica uniform of yours.”

  “Less talk, more action,
” she quipped in Confederation Standard. It wasn’t that she disliked her native tongue especially, but in the event that the brig was being monitored she wanted whatever interaction she was forced to endure with the insufferable boy to be as clear as possible.

  “My tongue is not connected to my fingers,” he replied easily in fluid, perfect Confederation Standard as the corner of his mouth twitched briefly into a smile. “Besides, I am without my classical music collection; I must then somehow occupy the many parts of my mind not currently engaged in this important, if simplistic, task.”

  Lu Bu was amazed that the boy’s fingers never stopped, and that the scrawling text and images continued to fill the screen before being replaced with a seemingly endless supply of fresh screens, which were in turn populated by Fei Long’s efforts. But she was determined not to let the boy see that she was impressed, so she ignored him to the best of her ability.

  Abruptly, the boy’s eyes opened and he struck the console emphatically with his index finger, which caused a progress indicator to appear on the screen. When it had reached ten percent completed, he turned to her and opened his eyes. “Once the program has successfully compiled, we must make our way to the primary hyper dish relay located on deck seven,” he said as he stood and stretched his neck, causing a series of pops and crunches as he did so. “You may wish to advise the

  Captain of our location?”