Mike suddenly grinned. “Gants is over there, and he always followed the smash ball ratings as closely as anyone else. I know just what to send,” he said confidently, as he quickly typed up a message.
Lisa glanced at it and scowled. “It’s complete gibberish; no one is going to understand a message like that,” she declared.
“No, it’ll work,” disagreed Mike, “plus, it’s in code, so no one from outside our crew will understand what it means, or who it’s from!”
“I don’t know…it looks like garbage,” she said doubtfully.
“Trust me, he’ll know exactly what it means,” Mike said with a knowing nod.
Chapter 17: An Engineer Enraged
“Chief,” exclaimed one of the Engineering ratings running around outside the maintenance crawlspace into which Spalding had jammed himself, duralloy legs and all.
“We just got a message, and the Com-Tech wants you to come take a look at it. Says it’s complete gibberish disguised as a private smash ball update, can’t make heads or tails of it, but it looks like the Royal Hussars and Parliamentary Cruisers are going at it head to head again,” he said.
“It’s been the better part of a year since our last smash ball update,” Spalding scowled, tightening down on the bolt clutched in his multi-tool hand with crushing force. Something had to give, and he was trying to be as patient with this fool of a rating as long as possible. The men still were unused to seeing what looked like a cyborg in the flesh running around giving them orders. Can’t much blame them, Spalding harrumphed, ‘tis downright unnatural.
Why, if it had been anyone else, he would have insisted they get rid of the hardware pronto, or find themselves in the brig on suspicion of droid sympathies! But since it was him they were talking about, and with his lower torso—including most of his intestines—just flat out gone, they all decided it was better to live with the awkwardness.
“It’s criminal, the way that unnatural quack runs around, hooking a man up with an evacuation port instead of rebuilding his own natural plumbing,” he grumbled.
“I didn’t catch that, Sir,” said the rating.
“I said, belay the smash ball speculation, lad,” he barked, “can’t you hear a word I’ve been saying? Smash ball speculation is right out, and getting this overbuilt, defect-ridden imperial Strike Monster back into fighting trim, is back in!”
“But, Sir, the update came in through the Long Ranged Array. Maybe the Clover’s finally found a way to get us the latest updates on the Planetary Smash Bowl results!” protested the rating.
Spalding’s blood ran cold and he smashed his head into the ceiling of the little crawlspace trying to get free. “It’s that blasted hydraulic system the quack installed,” he cried, flailing around furiously, his legs actuators whining with each kick he drove into the confounded small space all around, “sends a chill down me spine every time something important happens, and I have to start moving quick!” He would have installed a heating system, but the Quack swore the hydraulic system was completely isolated from his biological half, which was nearly enough to convince Spalding of the opposite.
There were lies, blasted lies, and anything those quacks down in Medical tried to tell you! Besides, what if he needed his equipment to work above factory specifications? It is downright impossible to get that extra little edge out of systems like these if an old Engineer—more concerned with his comfort than his ability to get things done—installed a heater to keep the fluid at a nice, comfy temperature.
“Sir, about the message from the Clover,” pleaded the Rating.
“The FTL Network is destroyed, and besides, the Clover wouldn’t be sending us any messages, you idjit,” he snapped, and then something grabbed him by the feet and pulled.
Clutching the edge of the crawlspace as it slowly came into view, he finished pulling himself out.
“Let go,” he exclaimed, “what am I, some kind of invalid that I need help getting out of a maintenance area?”
“Of course not, Chief,” said Gants.
Spalding’s face turned thunderous. “I thought I told you to stay as far away from me as possible,” he glared.
“Yes, Sir, that was right before you instructed me to ‘make yourself useful, if I was going to have you around anyway,’” Gants recalled, “and then you said to get to work on the starboard bucking cables.”
The old engineer admitted to himself that he actually did remember an exchange along those lines. “Bah,” he sneered, “out of my way. There’s things happening on the Bridge of this ship, more important than dealing with a failure of what used to be a fine Engineering rating, before he proved his complete and utter incompetence by helping that-that-that quack install substandard equipment like this,” Spalding waved the hand with the multi-tool in the other man’s face. He carefully did not mention that he had been using that very same multi-tool in the crawlspace a moment earlier, instead of coming back out and getting the proper tools.
That is exactly why we cannot let on about the multi-tool, he decided hotly. In his experience, it encouraged laziness and slacking. Why go to get the right tool, when there was this nice and easy one already in your hand? Why, that infernal attitude had even infected him! No, a Chief Engineer had to draw a line in the sand somewhere, or the crew would slide right down into the Demon’s infernal pit—and the ship would go with them!
“Yes, Chief,” said Gants, falling in behind him as he hurried as fast of his oversized droid legs would function.
“It’s cold down there in the pit. Very cold indeed, my lad,” Spalding said angrily.
Gants eyed him strangely and Spalding purpled as he realized he had continued his thinking out loud, and worse, he had started speaking to Gants as if the other man was privy to his innermost thoughts. Which was something the enviro-tech-turned-engineering-rating-turned-Armory-crewman-turned-engineering-failure, most definitely, was not!
“We have to hurry,” Spalding said instead, rushing inside the lift, “there’s no reason for the Clover to send us a message.” Then, he turned an accusing eye on the former Engineering rating, “You said the Admiral swore he wasn’t going to contact us until he was ready to send someone directly. That way nothing could track it back to us.”
“Maybe something bad happened, and that’s why the Admiral broke protocol,” Gants said hesitantly.
“Poppycock!” declared the old Engineer, but he decided against pointing out exactly what part he thought failed to pass the sniff test. “No time for that space rot,” he declared.
“Right, Chief,” Gants agreed, sounding clueless.
As well he might! Why, that fumbling buffoon had been instrumental, he thought, rubbing his off-hand. Instrumental, he scowled, in installing sub-standard equipment into a wizened old space hand like myself. As if I wouldn’t have noticed, the moment my eyes opened!
Spalding successfully managed to ward off the hydraulic fluid-inspired chill up his spine, by focusing on the many flaws manifested by his former right-hand, the Armorer Gants. In his head, even the title Armorer was said derisively.
Arriving on the Bridge, he looked around to see that they were still in the process of taking out the old, Imperial Hardware, and installing the new systems fabricated by the Constructor using its advanced, Imperial-compatible technological base.
“What the blue blazes is going on up here,” he barked, striding onto Command Bridge.
“A message from the Lucky Clover sent through the Long Range Array, Chief Engineer Spalding,” said the technician at the partially disassembled communications station.
“A message purporting to be from the Clover,” scowled Spalding.
“Do you think we’ll finally start getting the smash ball ratings?” the communications rating asked.
Spalding sighed and shook his head. Following smash ball is a fine enough activity, when all your duly assigned Engineering tasks have been accomplished, and you’re off shift, he thought severely. However, this incessant harping after the lat
est results was nothing but a bunch of dangerous malarkey, and trod perilously close to the edge of that most important line between all that was good in this fallen world, and outright slacking.
Snatching up the data slate offered by the Technician, Spalding eagerly checked to see if the Hussars had finally managed to trounce the Cruisers in the World Cup, like those parliamentary types so richly deserved.
The message read:
The Quarterback has been put in the penalty box, and the tight end is out of position. The Refs displayed their usual sympathies, encouraging Mr. C. to be subbed out, and Larry the Lineman put back in. Meanwhile, the Cruisers have the ball, and are making a line-drive straight for the finish line.
S. you’re our only hope!
Hussars: 28
Cruisers: -4
For a moment, Spalding was confused. What kind of planetary-originating space malarkey was this? It was impossible to get a -4 score during a game, flat out…
Then comprehension dawned and it felt as if a great big hand had reached out of Murphy’s Fusion Pit with the intent of dragging him back down to Hades.
“No, it can’t be,” he breathed.
“What is it, Chief,” asked Gants, trying to peer over his shoulder, no doubt attempting to get a look at the smash ball results.
“No,” he raged, picking up the data slate and slamming it against the communications console.
“Take it easy, Sir; it’s just a game,” said Gants soothingly.
“Just a game,” Spalding said, his good eye flaring wildly, as he slammed the slate repeatedly against the console. “Just a game, Gants!” he roared, as the slate finally sparked and exploded in his hand.
Dropping the flaming wreckage, he rounded on the Com-Tech.
“Show me the communication logs for the long range array, Operator,” he bellowed, jumping up and down on top of the data slate, determined to stomp it clear through the deck plates.
The Operator glanced at Gants and Spalding finally lost his cool.
“Now, Operator,” he roared, shoving his face into the Technician’s.
The Technician jumped, as if bit, and quickly pulled up the log. Transferring it to another slate, he timidly proffered the second slate.
“What’s going on here,” demanded a severe, feminine voice.
“I’ve not time for your wiles, Glenda,” Spalding snapped, his eyes devouring the file on his screen.
“Well make time; you’re scaring the Bridge repair team half out of its wits,” she grated.
“Ah,” he cried, tossing the data-slate onto the communication console in front of him, and then running a hand over his face.
“Is everything okay now, Chief Engineer,” asked the Technician.
Spalding looked up with burning eyes. “How long have you been working Communications for this ship,” he demanded.
“Off and on for the better part of tw-two months, Sir,” the Tech stuttered.
“Two bloomin’ months,” he raged, activating the mini-plasma torches built into his fingers and shoving them toward the technician.
The Com-Tech cowered against the wall, leaning as far away from the torches as he could get.
“That’s quite enough,” barked a feminine voice, and there was a sudden weight on his arm, dragging the torches out line with the tech. “Control yourself Mr. Spalding, before someone is forced to do it for you,” she snapped.
“The Hussars have the ball and Ref’s are right there backing them up to the hilt—as usual! Do you know what this means, man,” he roared, ignoring the pair of hands hanging on his arm.
“I won’t tell you again,” Mrs. Baldwin warned, pulling out the auto-wrench.
“I’m not going to kill him,” Spalding assured her, taking a step back out of respect for the wrench-wielding wench.
As soon as he backed away, she smoothly moved between him and the tech, the auto-wrench pointed in his direction.
“Although he bloody well deserves it,” he added, leaning his head to the side to glare at the Tech. “She’s a Larry again, and all he could do for the better part of two months was sit there, more worried about smash ball results than doing his blasted job!” he snarled.
“You’ve finally lost it. I knew if I stuck around long enough I’d finally see the day. Well, here it is, and if you think I’m going to stand by and let you kill someone on your way to the loony bin, you’ve got another think coming,” Glenda Baldwin snapped, getting in his face and filling it with the smell of garlic.
“What did you have for dinner lass,” he asked, waving a hand in his face, his senses overwhelmed by the pungent aroma.
“I’ve been a Work Supervisor—forget out and out Manager—long enough to know you stand up for your men, not go around trying to kill them!” she glared at him, eyeballs to eyeball.
“Are you secretly working for the Hussar’s,” demanded Spalding, trying to look around her, but she was having none of it.
“Back off, before I put a dent in that shiny metal head of yours,” she barked, and for a moment, the disaster he had just walked in on and threatened to turn into a catastrophe faded away, and all that was left was her eyes.
“Ah, lass,” he sighed, and then something struck him so hard upside the head he was seeing stars. “Rebellion,” he cried.
“Hold him down, before he kills us all,” cried a female voice, “Whatever they put in his head has finally gone bad!”
“Mutiny in cold space,” he roared, grabbing hold of his attacker (and what a shapely attacker, at that, he thought for a moment) and almost got clobbered again by that blasted auto-wrench.
Pulling the wrench out of her hand was like taking candy from a baby, no matter how she twisted and kicked.
Pinning her arms to her side until she was nothing more than an angry, yowling bundle of impotent fury, he turned to glare around the bridge until the crewmen who had started to take a few hesitant steps toward him finally slowed.
“That’s right, you bunch of satin-sleek office monkeys, keep yer distance,” he warned, pointing his reactivated finger torches at them for effect.
“Put me down,” she finally calmed down enough to demand and, regretfully, he let go of the shapely bundle pinned to his side.
The Civilian Engineer from the Constructor dropped to the floor with a gasp and a curse.
“You didn’t have to be so Murphy-benighted rough,” she blazed at him from the floor, even as she got to her feet and started rubbing one of her arms.
“He—” Spalding started, pointing at the Com-Tech who promptly cowered underneath his desk.
“Enough with the Smash Ball! I don’t understand what you Caprian’s see in it in the first place, but there’s nothing about it worth killing someone for,” she said, taking a cautious step away.
“You think this is all about a game?” Spalding asked, befuddled by the density of the brain cells filling the heads of all those around him.
“That’s all you keep raving about: those blasted results,” she flared back, jutting her chin defiantly, and grey hair flared wildly around her head.
Spalding refused to be drawn in by her feminine tricks and wiles, and stood his ground. “It was a code, woman! The message was in code, as any moron with a working knowledge of smash ball and two brain cells left to rub together—after inhaling his illegal smoke weed—would be able to determine,” he said hotly, determined to utilize anger to thwart her seductive ways.
Around the bridge, a number of crew looked guilty as sin, before promptly wiping their faces clean. They thought he had missed it, but he most certainly had not. After this was all over, questions were going to be asked. Oh boy, were they. No one tried to throw him in the waste recycler and then got away with a slap on the wrist, only to start back up in a new location.
Glenda Baldwin snapped her fingers in his face. “Earth to Spalding, wake up and rejoin the real world, you crazy old coot,” she said flatly. She was clearly curious what he was going on about.
Spalding sho
ok his head and scowled. “Keep stroking my ego like that, and I might take it the wrong way,” he mumbled, unable to stay mad for long at the grease-smeared little minx.
Glenda sighed loudly and gave him a look that formerly married men the galaxy over could understand, even in their sleep.
Spalding grunted. She’s interested, all right, he thought. But clearly, he had taken a wrong step somewhere. Maybe after this was all over, he would have to ask her out…maybe she would like to work on the Fusion Generators together? Or, perhaps the hyper drive?
“What does it say, in this supposed encoded message of yours?” she demanded.
The rage that filled him was sudden and extreme. “That the Admiral’s been imprisoned, probably in the Brig, and Parliament’s back in control of the ship!” he exclaimed, at the end of his wits with the dull-headed nature of those around him, who drew back in unified, shocked, negation.
“Really? You can tell all of that from that smash ball update?” she asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know why they rechristened her into the Larry, but they did,” he defended.
“Even if this fantasy concoction contained some merit, which I am not ready to concede, that’s still no reason to kill the messenger,” she said fiercely.
“I don’t’ blame him for the message, lass,” he said sadly.
“I’m not anyone’s lass, and certainly not yours,” she glared. The woman had just as much as admitted there was no other man in her life to get in his way, which was all he needed to know, in order to take their relationship to the next step. He was brave enough to date another Engineer, and after all, the lass had all but challenged him to do precisely that!
“Then explain yourself,” she said into the growing silence, and he renewed his scowl at the Com-Tech.
“Base incompetence, if not outright treachery,” he said, pointing a dramatic finger at the Com-Tech.
“Less hyperbole, more facts, or has all that remains of the engineer inside you been hollowed out into a sickly cybernetic core, leaving only big words and childish tantrums in their place,” she sniffed.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 14
