“Care for a word of advice, Sarkozy?” Middleton asked.
“Of course, Captain,” she replied smartly as her face veritably shone with pride.
“Do your best to vet your subordinates; take a good, hard look with both eyes before giving them the keys to the stand,” he said seriously. “But after you’ve done that, turn one of those eyes to other issues and understand that nobody will do things precisely as you would. The people beneath you need to work to earn your trust, but once they’ve done so you need to let them have it, understood?”
Ensign Sarkozy had a faint look of confusion. “I doubt I can understand your meaning entirely just now, Captain,” she said before nodding, “but I’ll remember it and do my best to apply your advice in the future.”
“That’s all I can ask,” Middleton said with a nod of his own. “Now, let’s talk about these security measures we’ve drafted.”
“Yes, Captain,” Sarkozy replied before sitting back down in her chair. “The first droid boarders we dealt with were easy enough to spot on our internal sensors, but we’ve since encountered a pair of the twelve-sided, fighter-sized vessels which our sensors were completely unable to spot. This old ship’s proven to be tough as nails, but its sensor suite hasn’t been updated in nearly a century,” she said bitterly.
“It’s on my list, XO,” Middleton said grudgingly. “What about War Leader Atticus’ disposal teams?”
“They’ve been able to contain the threats before the ship took any serious damage, Captain,” she replied. “It seems that these stealthed vessels carry twelve individual droid units each, and they don’t appear to be primarily concerned with damaging our systems so much as gaining to access our databases. Mr. Fei Long assures me the databases are now secured against such attempted breaches, but the truth is we don’t have anyone on board who can verify his work; it’s just too far over our heads,” she said with obvious displeasure.
Middleton allowed himself a smile as he remembered a report of just a few days earlier, authored by the newly-titled ‘War Leader’ Atticus, who had been performing routine security sweeps and found the aforementioned Fei Long in a…post-coital state, along with a rather surprising companion from the Lancer contingent. They had apparently locked themselves into an airlock and fallen asleep afterward, where they had remained for nearly an hour before the sweep found them. Youth, he thought to himself with a shake of his head, good for them.
“I’m fairly certain we’ll never have anyone aboard this ship who can keep up with Mr. Fei,” he said before adding, “who, I understand, has requested an official name change.”
Sarkozy cocked an eyebrow. “That makes at least three dozen of his countrymen who have done likewise since joining the ship.”
Middleton shrugged, wanting to keep the conversation on topic. “They weren’t exactly highly-valued by their home world,” he said pointedly, “I can understand wanting a fresh start. A new name seems a fairly significant step toward that end, and they’ve acquitted themselves far better than I had hoped they would during this tour—especially for being almost entirely selected from a prison population. But back to the droids,” he prompted.
“Yes, Captain,” she said, “we’ve modified the visual identification system to perform periodic sweeps for these ships at extreme close range, but even this only gives us a roughly 50% chance to sight one of these pods before they latch onto the hull. Once they’re there, it will take physical inspection teams to locate them. War Leader Atticus has submitted a patrol schedule which Sergeant Gnuko has co-signed,” she said, gesturing to Middleton’s console. “It should be in your inbox now, Captain.”
“I’ve already reviewed and approved the War Leader’s plan,” he replied with a slow nod. “Still, we need to improve our warning system to better than a fifty-fifty chance; I’m not a gambler by nature, Ensign Sarkozy,” he half-lied. He enjoyed a game of poker as much, or more, than the next person, but he had never believed that particular game to be one of chance.
“Nor I, Captain,” she agreed, “but I’ve already gone over this with the entire senior staff, and there is simply no way we can do better than what we’ve got without new equipment. The Chief says that with a weeks’ time at a fully-equipped shipyard we could insulate the hull plating to the point we could temporarily polarize it and kick these cling-ons off our back with the flick of a switch.”
“Excuse me, ‘cling-ons’?” Middleton repeated, unfamiliar with that particular term.
“It’s just a name the junior officers have come up with for the droid pods, Captain,” she said apologetically.
“I see,” he said in understanding. He had never been particularly good with wordplay, with many subtle phonetic jokes going right over his head.
“But beyond that, we’ve already started training in a new batch of security personnel under Sergeant Gnuko,” she explained. “We’re updating the entire crew’s small arms proficiency, and making power armor training mandatory for all crew members. Obviously they won’t have time to complete the entire course,” she added hastily, “but with a modified program and a few minor modifications to the unused suits, Sergeant Gnuko thinks he can give a crash course in just four sessions of eight hours each that will at least give a crewmember a fighting chance, and provide roughly forty percent the tactical value of a fully-trained Marine—”
“Lancer,” Middleton interrupted pointedly, “we don’t have Marines in the Admiral’s Fleet.”
“Of course, Captain,” she said before shaking her head, probably at the archaic term which the Admiral had chosen for their elite deck-pounders. “On a rotating schedule, we should have the entire crew up to this new minimum standard within two weeks’ time.”
“Excellent,” Middleton agreed. “What’s next?”
An hour later, Captain Middleton had concluded the meeting with his new XO and found himself making his way to the brig at a leisurely—no, at a deliberate pace.
He had put this meeting off as long as he thought possible, but knew he needed to face the issue before returning to debrief the Admiral on the matter.
He was surprised as he rounded the corner and saw Chief Garibaldi hobbling down the corridor, apparently having just exited the brig.
“Chief?” Middleton said in surprise.
“Captain,” Garibaldi acknowledged with a nod as he turned stiffly.
Middleton looked down at the man’s new, mechanical leg and inclined his head, “How’s the temporary leg?”
Garibaldi cracked a grin. “Well, I won’t be doin’ the two-step any time soon,” he quipped, “but truth is I’m kinda getting used to the thing. I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but I’m leaning toward keeping it.”
“Really?” Middleton said incredulously. He had assumed the Chief would want a new limb grown for him once they returned to Easy Haven—or wherever the MSP called ‘home’ these days…assuming there even was an MSP by the time they got back.
“Yeah,” Garibaldi nodded, rapping his knuckles loudly on the top of the metal limb before tilting his head toward the brig, “Doc says it could take three months to even learn how to walk on a tube-grown replacement, and I don’t think this ship could do without me for that long.”
“Mikey—” Captain Middleton began to protest.
“It’s my decision, Captain,” Garibaldi said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Besides, I won’t have to worry about stubbing my toe when I kick our next batch of replacements in the exhaust port for failing inspection. I’m fine with it,” he said seriously. “Another week or two and I won’t even notice the thing’s gone…except for the itching,” he added with a wince. “It just won’t go away; Doc says I have to ‘wait to get the sensory nerves ablated until after the bionics’ pathways have been completed,’ whatever the Hades that means,” he said with a demonstrable eye roll. “In terms I can understand, she said that could take a couple months.”
“Chief…this ship does need you,” Middleton allowed, “but I can’t let you do
something rash which you would end up regretting.”
“It’s already done, Captain,” Garibaldi replied evenly. “You pulled my keester out of the fire more than once, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t repay the favor.” He plastered an overly cheerful, at least partially sarcastic, grin on his face, “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Middleton sighed. “I’d be lying if I said I was disappointed; the Pride will need you for the repairs and whatever refits we can manage while at port. The ship needs to get back out as quickly as possible, so bear that in mind when making your wish list,” he said pointedly.
Garibaldi feigned indignation, “And here I’d planned to rip the keel out of this old girl and replace it with a brand spankin’ new Locsium one.” He sighed emphatically. “Oh well; looks like field repairs again. Just promise me one thing?”
“What is it?” Middleton asked warily, causing the Chief Engineer to lean in conspiratorially.
“No more duck?” he whispered. “I don’t care if they’re ground up, dehydrated, rehydrated and mixed with ricotta cheese; those things give me nightmares, always have. Sometimes I still wake up and think there’s a man-sized one hovering over my bunk.”
Captain Middleton laughed more loudly than he had expected and nodded. “Duly noted, Chief,” he grinned.
“Alright then,” Garibaldi said before turning and making his way back down the corridor. Just before he reached the junction he turned and hesitated, clearly wanting to say something.
“What is it?” Middleton asked, taking a step toward the other man with a look of concern on his face.
“She did help us, Captain,” Garibaldi said after a long pause. “That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”
Middleton had expected to hear this from someone even earlier, but he still had no idea what he was going to do with the ship’s former Medical Officer. “It should,” the Captain agreed darkly, “but I’m not sure it can. Trust me, Mikey; no one has given this situation more thought than I have.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Garibaldi allowed. “I’m just saying, I haven’t heard anyone express a sentiment to the contrary—and you know how much I like ship gossip.”
Middleton straightened himself and nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Chief; I’ll take that into consideration.”
Garibaldi nodded and turned, disappearing down the adjoining corridor.
Middleton then took a breath and entered the brig with his stony features in place. He had no idea what to expect from Jo, but he found himself wishing desperately for a simple solution to his current conundrum…so long as that solution didn’t end in a particularly final measure of sanctions.
“Lancer,” Middleton nodded to a man named Rice, who had been one of Sergeant Joneson’s finest subordinates before being wounded by the bioweapon which Captain Meisha Raubach had unleashed on them.
“Captain,” Rice acknowledged, standing from his desk before shaking his head, “I’m no Lancer any more, sir. Nerves are shot,” he said, holding out his hands, which trembled uncontrollably.
“You’ll always be a Lancer aboard my ship, Mr. Rice,” Middleton said in a tone that brooked no argument. “So if you don’t like it, you’ll have to request a transfer somewhere they coddle minor ticks like that,” he waved his hand contemptuously at the man’s shaking hands.
Rice was clearly surprised but he broke into a smile and nodded. “Still,” Rice said, “I think it might be best if I was stationed more or less permanently somewhere I don’t need to exercise trigger discipline.”
“I suppose we can arrange something,” Middleton allowed, knowing full well that the man had already been formally transferred to the ship’s Armory department to oversee small arms and armor maintenance. “If you feel it necessary,” he added with a half-smile of his own.
“Captain,” Rice nodded graciously. “I’ll log you in, sir; I assume you’d like to interrogate the prisoner?”
“Yes,” Middleton agreed before making his way down to the blacked-out doorway to Jo’s cell. “Buzz me in if you will, Lancer.”
“Yes, sir,” Rice agreed, and a moment later the door slid open and Captain Middleton entered the tiny, cramped cell. Jo was lying down on the bed and sat up as soon as he entered the room.
“Captain,” she said evenly.
“Doctor,” he replied, fighting the urge to fidget.
“I don’t want to make this any more difficult on you than it needs to be,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know of the droids, as well as my history with them, and then I’d like to request a transfer to the nearest prison facility…I could bear living out my life on a penal moon somewhere, but my continued presence is disrupting the lives of the very people I had come to think of as…” she hesitated before adding, “as my family.”
Middleton sat down on his haunches and shook his head. “I just have one question, Doctor. Mr. Fei Long tells me that based on the available evidence, you were the author of the suspicious transmissions we detected which used our grav-plating to manipulate the strange particle field. He also says that, after reconstruction using the last piece of the puzzle which you provided on the bridge, those transmissions match, identically, the message you relayed to the droid battle cruiser seconds before it came about and moved to our defense,” he said heavily. “So, as I said, I have just one question.”
“I won’t lie to you, Captain, but I don’t know anything about grav-plating or transmissions,” she said and he actually believed her, which only served to heighten his concern.
Middleton locked eyes with his former wife, and recent Chief Medical Officer, and asked, “What did that message say?”
Jo leaned forward on the edge of the cot and shook her head while briefly breaking eye contact. “It’s…difficult to explain,” she said haltingly.
“I have time,” Middleton said through briefly clenched teeth.
Jo nodded and said, “It was a short message, which included your ship’s name and its designation as part of your fleet—the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol fleet,” she added quickly. “Beyond that it contained, essentially, just two words.”
“And those words were?” he asked guardedly, knowing that if an officer had divulged even that small amount of information it would be grounds for, at minimum, a court martial for having provided intelligence to the enemy during a time of war.
She hesitated before meeting his piercing gaze and answering, “The words were ‘potential allies’.”
“’Potential allies’?” Middleton repeated, temporarily taken aback.
She nodded. “I don’t claim to know the tactical situation even half as well as you do, Tim—I mean, Captain,” she corrected hastily. “But the entities which you think of as one, massive droid force are actually multiple different factions. One such faction—the one whose battle cruiser came to our aid,” she said pointedly, “was responsible for the…repairs you saw on the bridge.” She gestured to her head, where she had removed the finger-length device containing her message while on the bridge.
Middleton leaned back against the wall and exhaled deeply. If she was telling the truth, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had feared…but he could not, in good conscience, treat her word as anything but potential disinformation at this point.
“How?” he heard himself ask unthinkingly. At her look of confusion he sighed, “How did they make those…repairs?”
She shook her head. “I would really prefer not to talk about it,” she said tremulously.
He had heard that voice before, but he had a ship to protect and a mission to accomplish. He couldn’t be swayed by personal feelings. “What you prefer is irrelevant, Doctor,” he said hotly. “You could have come to me with this information earlier, but instead you compromised my ship’s—and potentially the entire fleet’s—security! I need answers and I needed them before we entered that firefight, but I’ll take them now since they might still be of some use.”
“I…” she began as tears welled in he
r eyes, “was living on a colony in Sector 23…the Firaxis Colony. We,” she said hesitantly before lowering her head and sobbing, “we never even knew we were in danger before they destroyed the colony center from high orbit. Most of us were killed in the first two minutes…including my daughter, Jill.” She clearly tried to fight her tears back, but like they are prone to do, they seemed to consciously react by doubling their flow.
Middleton’s eyes widened at this revelation. He knew she had gone forward with her life, since she had only been mid-way through her medical training when he had enlisted. That enlistment had been the cause of their divorce, and it had been the single most impactful event of Tim Middleton’s life—even including those events of the past year.
But he had never heard of her becoming a mother…which was doubly surprising since it was her reluctance to have a child with him so many years earlier that had begun their eventual dissolution.
“I had no idea,” he said softly, knowing he should fight the urge to sympathize with her but finding himself unable to do so.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head. “It was over a year ago,” she said almost dismissively, as though that made one iota of difference.
Middleton knew from personal experience that, contrary to popular wisdom, time heals absolutely nothing; all a person can do is learn to live with a wound like that. The worst kinds of pain never really go away.
“The last thing I remember was holding her hand when our hab module was struck, and then there was a loud, grinding sound from above us.” Her voice had regained a measure of composure as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Then I woke up in some kind of medical suite. They had chased the attackers off and…repaired my injuries. They tried to do so for the others, including Jill…but she was already gone.” She stopped and took a few deep breaths before explaining, “In return for their assistance, they asked only that I do one thing for them.”
“What was that?” he asked after a moment’s consideration while fighting the rising wave of sympathy. He wasn’t sure how any of this changed his current dilemma regarding what to do with her, but he owed it to her to hear out the entirety of her story.
No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 43
