A lesser man, he decided after taking a pair of blows to the back that sent him sprawling against the wall, would be ready to give up.
But not him! A real engineer knew how to defeat any problem, all it took was the proper application of sound engineering principles. That’s why, when the next blow came, he grabbed the droid and grappled.
Grabbing the five-and-a-half-foot tall droid was worse than going up against a werebear back on Capria, and after a second he overbalanced, falling to the floor with a thud that hurt his back worse than lifting up a sub-node without help. But now the Droid had him exactly where he wanted it and the next time it bounced off and came back at him arms raised like a pair of pile driving he drew back his legs.
When the thing came down at him, he used his droid legs to slam it up against the wall. Knowing this was his chance, and that he’d never get another, he drew back his legs again and repeatedly slammed the thing between his droid-legs and the wall.
Finally the force of his kicks drove him away from the wall and, while he tried to get back into position to finish the thing off, he just didn’t have the go juice in him anymore. He knew that a younger Spalding—one with more fire in his belly—could have kept going, but this old worn down version he’d turned into while he wasn’t paying attention just couldn’t scrap like he used to.
Oh, he tried kicking the thing again a few times but all it did was turn him twenty five degrees off target until he could barely bring his legs to bear, let along slam Repairs Through Adversity into the wall a few more times like the little, multi-tool using thing deserved after trying to stove in his skull.
There was the sound of rapidly firing servos, and the useless clattering and scraping of metal hands and feet on the floor followed by cursing.
“Are you still alive over there, Organic?” swore the Droid.
“I’m going to get you yet, Synthetic,” cursed Spalding, “just you wait!”
“Then what the blast are you waiting for?” yelled the Droid, once again trying to get up and falling back against the wall. “Come on!”
“Just see if I don’t,” grunted Spalding, trying to get up again but something was broken inside and he coughed wetly before falling back to the floor weakly. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and it came back with a red streak on it, which irritated him more than anything else, “Just you wait; I’ll get you yet. See if I don’t!” he kicked weakly, just to show he could, before collapsing back onto the floor.
“I’ll be glad to get rid of these human blocks of ice, since they’ve been nothing but a power drain,” the Droid yelled at him.
“Yeah, well you try taking care of a hundred odd angsty droid cores for a few decades all on your lonesome and then we’ll talk further,” he told the thing irritably, muttering, “slacker” under his breath.
“What was that!?” demanded the Droid.
“I said at least you had support when you needed it, you bastard!” Spalding scowled.
“Like you would know the meaning of real work if it hit you over the top of the head, Bag of Water,” cursed the droid. “You try 24 hour shifts with only 6 fifteen minute recharge breaks and one weekly 4 hour maintenance cycle, and then we’ll talk again, Bag!”
“That’s nothing—and besides, I bet you had a whole repair team,” Spalding sneered. “Why, I once worked a whole week without support of any kind! I had to manage a fusion reactor and repair the normal space drives all at the same time. Why, I bet if you tried that, your core would over heat and shut down. Which doesn’t even mention the time I was the only ‘real’ trained engineer in the department—with twelve thousand regular crew onboard—and I had to keep the whole ship operating for months on end with nothing but trainees and a few green petty officers.”
“Bah!” sneered the Droid. “I once had to download basic tech-repair files into a bunch of miner bots with no system support. I’d like to see you working with a bunch of Droids that came with attachments meant to cut through metal, and no replacements, try to repair delicate mechanical systems.”
“Why, that’s nothing,” Spalding scoffed, “at least you could download what they needed right into their brain cores! Why, when I was back on the Clover we had an emergency alert with the enviro-systems, and all I had were the tools on me, a few scanners the crew didn’t know how to use, and bunch of head bags—”
The Droid and the Engineer kept exchanging insults until they were pulled apart, and Tiberius and the old Engineer were put onboard the lander and sent back to the Furious Phoenix for Medical support. The details of the trip were a big smudge of indignant protestations which seemed to morph into one massive blob of bitter resentment at his old body having failed him, yet again, when he needed it most.
Chapter 10: The Exchange
“Can you believe the reports?” Eastwood said shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
I quirked a brow at him. “Both an away team comprised of engineers and a temporary command team all say the same thing as our two chief engineers, I find it increasingly hard to chalk it all up to a shared delusion myself,” I replied after a moment.
Irritation flashed over the ship’s First Officer’s face before smoothing back into respectful professionalism. “I meant it as an expression,” First Officer Eastwood said a touch stiffly, “it just sounds like something out of a bad holo-vid more than a genuine report. Thousands of Fleet and local SDF personnel, captured over the course of hundreds of years and then frozen in cryogenic stasis, after undergoing Space Gods know what under the hands of the Droids.”
I looked at the First Officer appraisingly and then reluctantly nodded. “So far there are no signs of any physical damage consistent with torture,” I said.
“Small mercies that, by the Demon!” Eastwood said a little too loudly. “But who knows what kind of psychological—or pharmacological—pressure was brought to bear or what was done and then later healed up.”
“We can’t rule anything out,” I said neutrally. On the surface I was agreeing with him, and yet despite these being Machine Creatures right out of humanities worst nightmares, I couldn’t quite see the play. I mean, why approach us in seemingly good faith—marred only by a single fight on the prison ship between Spalding and a Repair Droid, of all things—in order to launch such a one-sided exchange.
I just had a hard time equating a 188 droid cores with the better part of ten thousand skilled human spacers, as some kind of equal trade. No matter how many different ways I looked at it, the numbers just didn’t add up. Something was off—and it wasn’t just my Chief Engineer’s fight with a droid. Troubling as it was, this was the Commander Spalding, after all. He wasn’t exactly the most stable representative—not that I wasn’t prepared to launch an attack against the oversized Droid Mothership on his assessment, but….
In retrospect, maybe he hadn’t been the best representative for the job. Still…what were those droids up to?
“Have medical prepare for a full scan: physical, mental, psychological conditioning, implants, you name it,” I said, shaking off my worries. It wasn’t time to get lost in a haze of indecision, but rather to move decisively.
“We can still make a preemptive strike, sir,” Eastwood reminded me, “it’s not too late.”
I hesitated.
“He does have a point, Admiral,” Captain Laurent said stepping up to my side and saying in a firm low voice, “we might not get a better chance to hit the droids all concentrated like this.”
“Violate the ceasefire now that we have the prisoners in our possession?” I asked, feeling strangely reluctant.
“We’ve been scanning that thing nonstop since it came into the system,” Eastwood said intently. “As far as we can see, its weaponry is secondary; that thing isn’t a fighter, it’s a mobile construction base. An oversized constructor, if you will. Destroying or crippling it could help the war effort immeasurably.”
“It is a critical target, Admiral. We may not get this thing in our sights again,” Laurent ag
reed with his first officer.
I frowned.
“We may not get an opportunity like this again,” the First Office urged, “just give the word and we’ll open fire.”
“And break our word just like that?” I asked, trying to feel out just exactly why I was reluctant.
“To a droid—a machine—sir?” Eastwood asked looking at me like I was some kind of strange, repulsive, foreign entity.
“Yes, our word, First Officer,” I said exasperatedly. “We agreed to a non-violent prisoner exchange and, so far, the other side has done nothing to break its word.”
“So far,” Eastwood repeated glaring at the Droid Mothership on the main screen before turning back to me with his hot and angry gaze, “but a word to a machine isn’t worth spit.”
“I like to think my word and reputation are worth more than a little spit,” I said stiffly.
Eastwood looked at me in disbelief. “Your word is reason enough to let a Fleet of Droids sail off scot free to oppress another human world?” the First Officer said in a rising voice.
“Control yourself, XO,” Laurent cut in before I could—we were starting to attract attention.
I gave the First Officer a deathly stare, and the Captain turned back to face me.
“The Admiral’s word and reputation on the Rim isn’t something to be lightly compromised,” he said seemingly talking to Eastwood but looking right at me. “However, Admiral, we have to ask ourselves: is it worth the potential loss of human life?”
“What about the Prisoners, Captain?” I asked more calmly than I felt, adrenaline rushing through my veins in a way it hadn’t since the last genuine challenge to my authority. I sensed I was at some kind of tipping point, “By the time they’re clear of the droids they’ll be well away from here with that mobile builder, all we’d bag are a few destroyers and some ill will.”
For once Eastwood looked troubled.
“A point, Admiral,” the First Officer sounded pained, “however, I think what we have to ask ourselves is what would they want us to do?”
“They?” I asked not quite following.
“The Prisoners, sir,” Laurent cut in.
I felt a chill. “I am not prepared to throw away everything we just risked our lives for, in order to strike an ultimately empty blow at these droids, Captain,” I glowered at him.
Eastwood opened his mouth but Laurent shot him a sharp look.
“That’ll be all, First Officer,” he said shortly.
Eastwood looked mutinous. “The Admiral and I have a few things to discuss,” Laurent said sharply, “we’ll call you if we need your opinion again.”
“Yes sir,” Eastwood bit out, before pivoting on his heel and stalking off back to the Tactical section.
Laurent turned back to me.
“He’s well trained,” I said, indicating the First Officer who, despite his anger, had followed orders.
“His sentiment is rampant throughout the ship, Admiral,” the Captain said with a hint of disapproval.
“You think I ought to cater to his paranoia and bigotry against the droids, over the dictates of common sense?” I said giving the Captain a cool look.
Laurent paused. “These aren’t pirates, sir. Or a rogue world or Sector government,” he continued shaking his head, “these are the scourge of mankind brought back to life.”
I opened my mouth.
“Hear me out, sir,” he asked and I settled back, “these Droids have actively invaded human space, where they’re taking prisoners and conquering worlds.”
“They have prisoners, but I’m not sure if these droids have invaded any worlds,” I pointed out.
“Semantics,” Laurent brushed off the point, “droids are invading human occupied worlds; we fought them off ourselves. The members of this fleet expect us to take the battle to the enemy, and I’m not sure what they’ll do if we seem to be making deals with droids and turning our back on the suffering of millions.”
“You’re not sure what they’ll do,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he nodded.
“You’re not sure what they’ll do,” I repeated rising out of my chair anger growing in my belly.
“Admiral…?” Laurent trailed off looking at me with alarm.
“YOU’RE NOT SURE WHAT THEY’LL DO?” I shouted, molten fury igniting my belly.
“Sir, there’s no need—” he started but I cut him off.
“Any man who thinks I’ve signed on for the destruction of mankind can kindly take himself off my ship before I have him shot!” I raged, sweeping the bridge with fury. “If members of my own crew—who’ve been with me through fires of perdition and back again—don’t trust me by now to have the best interests of this Fleet and Mankind as whole in mind, then they can go straight to hell and I’ll save these blasted Sectors all by myself!”
“Sir, control yourself—” Laurent urged.
“You’re on thin ice captain; I’d tread carefully if I were you,” I shot back furiously before turning back to the bridge crew. “Anyone who doesn’t like this outfit can feel free to get off at the next port of call, do you understand me?!” I demanded of the bridge.
There was echoing silence.
“Do you understand me!?” I shouted.
There was a ragged calling of, “Yes sir,” from around the bridge.
“Good!” I snarled, “now hear this. I just cut a deal with these Droids here, in order to rescue human prisoners to the order of just under three thousand confederation Fleet Personnel and seven thousand local SDF officers and crew. I intend to save those people, and then join the local effort to smash these machines—wherever they are—until we drive them back out of these Sectors, so that they’re never again a threat to human space. And anyone who feels too squeamish at the thought of cutting deals with machines in order to win this thing can get the blazes off my ships! I will lie, cheat, scheme—or even keep my blasted word to these droids—or do whatever I think is necessary to save these people from destruction. If that means I have to cut deals with these blasted machines, or any others, in order to divide and conqueror then I’m going to bloody well do that. So don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you; good day!”
I turned and stormed off the bridge and into the ready room that I’d appropriated. Sitting down at the chair, I activated my communications console.
“Jason?” Akantha asked, appearing on my holo-screen.
“My love,” I nodded.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Flattery?” she asked looking amused.
“I need a little favor,” I said flatly.
“Of course,” she replied, amusement fading.
“Have the men armor up and run a few anti-boarding drills—full weapons loadout,” I said.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, cutting right to the heart of the problem.
“Probably not, but it’s never wrong to be prepared,” I said coldly, mind flitting back to my Captain and First Officer.
“Jason—” she said strictly.
“Tempers are running a little hot right now,” I said evenly, “why not have the Lancer teams start in Gunnery and work their way through the rest of the ship first.”
“Of course,” she said with a nod and then paused, “we’ll talk more of this later.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said smoothly and then cut the channel. Precautions in place, I turned to face the door, my free hand unconsciously creeping up my sleeve before I stopped myself.
Odds were there was no problem, just a few particularly strong anti-machine tempers flaring at the thought of letting any droids go, but I’d already been through one mutiny. Call it paranoia, or post-traumatic stress, but I was going to have all my ducks in a row just in case. In fact, the best thing to do was call it a drill, because for now that’s all it was.
Realizing my hand was now unconsciously kneading the side of my neck I hastily put it back down and forced myself to sit still.
I sat there until it was time
to jump the ship out of the system, confident in the knowledge that if anyone tried to fire on the droids against orders, my Lancers would stop them.
Chapter 11: Ambush
“Contact!” cried a Sensor Operator.
“I’m reading multiple point emergence signatures off our starboard bow,” reported Navigator Shepherd as, on the main screen, multiple ships lit off their normal space drive engines.
“They’re coming right for us!” shouted the Sensor Operator, as the number of contacts continued to multiply.
“I read multiple sensor contacts breaking out of the shadow of what the computers are calling enemy destroyers,” the Tactical Officer said in rising voice, “best guess is the smaller contacts are enemy fighters!” “New orders to the Fleet,” I said, cutting through the confusion, “destroyers and above are to focus on those enemy heavies, everything else is to help the gunboats sweep those fighters out of my skies. Flagship engines to maximum, and the rest of the fleet is to maintain position on us.”
“Relaying now, Admiral,” Lisa Steiner said crisply from her station at the Comm..
“You heard the Flag, Tactical,” Laurent instructed, “I want those plasma cannons focused on the immediate area to deal with short ranged threats; bring everything else to bear on those Destroyers.”
“Destroyers are painting MSP Corvettes and Cutters with targeting sensors,” Eastwood reported calmly, “will order Gunnery to switch priority targeting to compensate.”
“The Light Cruiser, Admiral’s Pride, reports an intermittent fault with their secondary engine,” Steiner reported from Communications, “max speed is reduced an estimated 20%.”
“Couldn’t they have picked a different name for that ship?” I complained, not thinking there was actually much to be prideful about concerning that aging bucket of bolts, but Steiner just looked at me steadily. “Oh, acknowledged…acknowledged,” I said, feeling pricked by her disapproving regard.
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