No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 18

  Lu Bu took an interdictory step between Fei Long and the small office’s door. “Sit down,” she commanded.

  “I assure you,” he said with an overly cocky grin, and once again Lu Bu was struck by his oddly handsome features, “I am merely attempting to complete the task which Captain Middleton has given to me.”

  “I said ‘sit’,” she repeated, taking a half-step toward him. No flashed smile would distract her from her orders.

  He raised his hands in mock surrender, “Very well.” He sat down in the chair and drummed his fingers on the desk for several seconds before prodding, “Time is of the essence; I believe you should contact the Captain now.”

  Torn between the urge to rearrange Fei Long’s facial features for his impropriety, and the demand that she fulfill her own appointed task, Lu Bu eventually scowled as she knew it was no choice at all. She activated her personal com-link and connected with the ship’s Communication’s Officer.

  “This is Comm.,” the woman’s voice came promptly.

  “This Lancer Recruit Lu Bu in brig,” she replied, feeling her stomach begin to flutter as she realized she was potentially breaking protocol, “I must speak with Captain Middleton.”

  “Hold, please,” the woman said before a lengthy pause. “I’m patching you through,” she said, and Lu Bu felt her throat tighten and she silently cursed herself for being such a weak-kneed disgrace; getting worked up over a simple call to her commanding officer was pitiful, but she could not control how she felt—only how she behaved.

  “This is the Captain,” she heard Captain Middleton’s voice, “where’s the Master at Arms?”

  “Sergeant Walter Joneson require his assistance for strike teams,” Lu Bu said, feeling her face flush with embarrassment at her poor Confederation Standard linguistic skills. “The priso—“ she caught herself and took a quick breath before speaking more deliberately, “Fei Long is completed his task and requests to go to hyper dish relay at deck seven.”

  There was a brief pause before the captain replied, “Granted. Do not allow him access to any of the ship’s systems without Ensign Jardine’s direct supervision, Recruit.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Lu Bu replied, making as if to clasp her hands and bow before catching herself mid-motion. She saw the hint of a smile play out over Fei Long’s face, which only served to heighten her frustration as she finished, “Recruit Lu, out.” With the com-link severed, she gestured toward the door. “We go,” she snapped irritably.

  “As you wish,” he replied in their native tongue as he stood and made his way toward the door.

  It did not take them long to reach their destination on deck seven, and when they arrived they saw Ensign Jardine was there, along with a short, bald man with whom Fei Long was unfamiliar and a handful of technicians. They appeared to be installing the components which Captain Middleton had listed on his data slate, but they seemed well behind schedule.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he approached, with Recruit Lu Bu close behind, “perhaps I can be of some assistance?”

  The short, bald man shot him a look of confused irritation before waving him off, “This is a secure area. Get him out of here, boys.”

  “Yes, Chief,” two of the technicians replied as they moved to do precisely that.

  Lu Bu stepped between them and held out a hand haltingly. “Captain Middleton orders Fei Long to assist you,” she explained in a tone that brooked no dispute.

  “And who are you?” the bald man asked shortly.

  “This one is Lancer Recruit Lu Bu, Chief Garibaldi,” she replied.

  “It’s ok, Chief,” Jardine said, beckoning for Fei Long to approach, “I’m afraid we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Fine with me,” Garibaldi said, throwing his hands up before returning to his task of connecting the salvaged transmitter from the satellite.

  “May I?” Fei Long said, suppressing a wince as he saw the Chief Engineer very nearly disconnect a delicate series of wires within the transmitter’s housing. The Chief’s hands were thick and strong, while Fei Long’s were better suited to this type of work, being slender and nimble.

  The Chief shot him an incredulous look. “You, uh, know a little bit about orbital transmitters, do ya?” he asked sarcastically.

  Fei Long clasped his hands in deference and inclined his head. “I am familiar with all seventeen variations of the Cornwallis-Raubach, high-orbit communications satellites, including variation 6-A,” he said with a pointed look at the connected portion of the satellite’s housing which designated it as just that. “I believe I can dismantle these components and arrange them on a makeshift chassis, so you can install the entire unit within the Jeffries tube located there,” he pointed to a nearby hatch.

  “Why would we use the Jeffries tube?” Garibaldi demanded with a quick, nervous glance toward the tube’s entrance. “The primary power relays are right here, and so are the dish’s transmitter hard lines.”

  “Power is not the issue,” Fei Long said as he approached the satellite components with a gesture indicating he would like to begin. When the Chief Engineer acquiesced, Fei Long continued, “The hyper dish requires a significant power draw, and that draw will interfere with the transmitter’s operation should the two systems require simultaneous activity.”

  “This is just a temporary job,” Garibaldi countered with a nervous glance toward the Jeffries tube as he watched Fei Long carefully, yet quickly, remove the desired components with the tools the Chief had laid out for himself.

  “We have sufficient time to make it permanent,” Fei Long said smoothly. “It would seem a waste of resources not to do so, especially if it increases our chances of success during this first deployment which, in my estimation, it will.” He looked around for what he knew was referred to as a ‘Fisher-style clamp-and-strip’ tool, but finding no such device he asked, “Did you bring a Fisher clamp?”

  Garibaldi scoffed, proffering a multi-tool from the kit but Fei Long sighed. “What?” the Chief said defensively. “It does the job; not like we’ve got a lot of call for Fishers here on a starship—none of the components are that fine.”

  Shaking his head, Fei Long withdrew a pair of delicate-looking pliers and said, “These will suffice.” He knew it would take longer to complete the task using such crude tools, but they still had an estimated twenty minutes before entering the range of this particular device, so time was not an obstacle…yet.

  Chapter XX: Smoke & Mirrors

  “Ensign Jardine here, Captain,” came the Comm. officer’s report an hour after the Captain had returned to the bridge, “the unit is connected and seems to be ready for deployment.”

  “’Seems to be’?” Middleton repeated in a warning tone.

  “It’s ready, sir,” Jardine said quickly. “Fei Long says the program has been saved to the secondary mainframe under a directory with his name, with the password…”

  After a moment’s pause, Middleton pressed, “What’s the password?”

  “He said the password is the same word he shared with you during your second visit,” Jardine replied.

  Middleton’s eyes narrowed as he called up the indicated directory and entered the six letters which comprised the word Jardine had referenced. The folder opened, and a short list of step-by-step directions for deploying the program appeared above the complex files below. “Thank you, Ensign,” he said, severing the connection and forwarding the file to Tactical. “Sarkozi, you’re receiving a packet now; follow the instructions contained within precisely.”

  “Yes, Captain,” she replied as she opened the file at a nearby Tactical console. A few minutes later, she turned and reported, “The program’s diagnostics say it’s ready for deployment, Captain.”

  Middleton leaned back in his chair and saw that they still had twenty three minutes before entering firing range on the merchant conversions, which had taken up positions behind the settler ship’s wreckage—precisely where he wanted them.

  “Flip the swit
ch, Ensign Sarkozi,” he ordered.

  A moment later, a handful of new—wholly illusory—tactical icons appeared on the main viewer, as though they had just come out of the planet’s far side sensor shadow. Their transponders indicated they were MSP vessels: a destroyer and two corvettes, with a trio of smaller, short-range shuttlecraft in tight formation.

  After two minutes’ time, during which those transponder signals made a max-speed bee-line for the merchant conversions on the side of the planet closest to the Pride of Prometheus, Middleton activated a comm. channel to the hostile vessels. “To all vessels in orbit of the fourth planet, this is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus. Our patrol fleet has surrounded your position and will open fire as soon as they enter weapons range in three minutes’ time unless you offer your immediate and unconditional surrender. You have one minute to eject your fusion cores, heave to, and prepare to be boarded by MSP inspection teams aboard those shuttles—failure to comply within that timeframe will result in your immediate and absolute destruction.” He cut the transmission and turned to the Comm. stander, “Be sure to scan all frequencies for their reply.”

  “Yes, sir,” she acknowledged.

  “Commander Jersey,” Middleton continued, “are my engines prepped for a sustained overdrive?”

  Jersey nodded. “The Chief was kind enough to give us the keys while he was tucked inside the Jeffries tube in the hyper dish junction,” he said with a knowing look. “Engines are primed for a one hundred forty percent burn of up to eight minutes, Captain; push them any harder and it’s in the Saint’s hands.”

  Middleton winced at hearing that Chief Garibaldi had been inside a Jeffries’ tube. The man had a deep-seated fear of confined spaces, which would seem odd given his origins as a Belter, but Tim Middleton knew only too well why Garibaldi had developed mid-life claustrophobia.

  “Be ready to hit it if they call our bluff, Commander,” Middleton ordered. He knew that the sensor ghosts wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny—let alone a visual inspection, if anyone aboard the merchant conversions decided to look out a porthole on final approach—which is why he had demanded their surrender before visual contact would be possible.

  If he could get them to flinch for just a few minutes it would be enough time to bring them both within his newfound, overdriven-engine-created zone of control, even if they decided to make a run for it. Regardless of how many weapons they might have installed on those ships, no merchantman could stand up to the Pride’s heavy weaponry for more than a salvo at most.

  “Receiving a transmission now, Captain,” the Comm. stander reported. “The conversions are signaling their surrender; no transmission detected from the Elysium’s Wings.”

  “Confirmed, Captain,” Sarkozi said, “the conversions have both ejected their power cores; no activity detected from the corvette.”

  Middleton breathed a sigh of relief as he opened a channel to Sergeant Joneson. “Sergeant, the merchant conversions are no longer a primary target. Focus your efforts on the corvette first then secure the wreckage of that settlement ship; we’ll keep an eye on the conversions from the Pride.”

  “Larry that, Captain,” Joneson acknowledged. “I’ll dispatch teams of five Lancers to each conversion once we’ve boarded the corvette. Keep an eye out for a counterattack while we’re away.”

  “Good hunting, Sergeant,” Middleton said as he deactivated the link.

  Captain Middleton leaned back in his chair slightly as he considered the possibility of an ambush, or some as-yet-unseen tactical resources which could be brought to bear against them but he quickly dismissed the notion. The corvette, Elysium’s Wings, had clearly been the target of this attack. From what data he had—assuming it was accurate—it seemed the pirates attacked the settlement ship and then stowed an infiltration unit aboard it so they could seize control of the vessels involved in the rescue operation.

  The merchant conversions would be a prize unto themselves, but the opportunity to seize a CR-70 corvette eclipsed the rewards offered by even a pair of conversions and the wreckage of the settlement ship.

  Commander Jersey made his way to Middleton’s side as he thought through the various possibilities. “Quite the trap for a ship-less band of pirates,” the older man said under his breath as the bridge crew went about their duties.

  “Agreed,” Middleton grudged, impressed at his former helmsman’s conclusion, “someone’s pulled a few strings to set this up, and whoever that is can’t be far. Once we’ve secured that settler’s data logs we’ll be able to review the initial attack from their perspective and get a better idea what we’re up against.”

  “The most troublesome part,” Jersey said evenly as he gave the captain a pointed look, “is Captain Manning’s report that his own marines turned on him at the outset.”

  Captain Middleton nodded, all too aware of the implications of Manning’s report. “One thing at a time, Commander,” he said, “first we secure those ships. When that’s finished, we find out who’s tearing this stretch of the Spine apart—and put a stop to them.”

  “Do you think this is connected to the secret military outpost we just visited?” Jersey asked.

  “I do,” Middleton replied, “but in truth I don’t see how…at least, not yet.”

  The minutes ticked down until the sensor ghosts of Middleton’s ‘fleet’ disappeared. He had known they would vanish in time, since their creation had depended on reflecting Fei Long’s generated signal off both the atmosphere and the oceans below. Without triangulation, it is almost impossible to generate a false image of any kind, but the temporary nature of the illusion had served its purpose. It was only a matter of time for Sergeant Joneson and his Lancers to secure those two ships, and without their fusion cores there was no way they could escape the Pride.

  So when they both began to burn from orbit using their painfully slow auxiliary thrusters, it brought a smile to Middleton’s lips. Their panic told him two things: first, that whoever was in command of this particular operation was no longer aboard either vessel, since such a person would have made the decision to flee long before. Second, it told him that the pirate forces were still spread across the three vessels, which made Sergeant Joneson’s job aboard the corvette that much easier.

  As they entered effective range of the Lancer shuttle, Middleton issued a set of orders to Sergeant Joneson and his Lancers: they were to capture, if reasonably achievable, the leader of this pirate operation who was almost certainly aboard the Elysium’s Wings.

  After he sent the orders, he knew it was up to Sergeant Joneson and his Lancers to do their jobs. All he could do now was to keep whoever might be lurking beyond their sensor range from interrupting them as they did so.

  Chapter XXI: After Action

  “Captain, Sergeant Joneson reporting,” the other man’s voice came across the bridge’s speakers some three hours after disembarkation. “The three intact vessels have been seized, seventeen prisoners have been secured, and we’re returning to the Pride to regroup before heading over to the settlement ship.”

  “What’s your status, Sergeant?” Middleton asked, knowing they had paid a price for this victory.

  “I can put thirty two pairs of boots on the settlement ship, Captain,” he replied promptly. “Of my eighteen casualties, we’ve got four confirmed fatalities and as many more that will require Doctor Middleton’s care to make the next twenty four hours. The rest should be back in action within a week or two; those Marines were dug in but good, sir.”

  “Good work, Sergeant,” Middleton said, keeping the wince from his voice. “I’ll have medical personnel waiting in the shuttle bay.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” he replied before the captain severed the connection and issuing the order to sickbay.

  Joneson’s men would need the best possible care, and Middleton knew that meant his ex-wife rather than Doctor Cho. Doctor Cho was a recruit from Shèhuì Héxié and, as far as Middleton could tell from Jo’s appraisals and the
man’s ‘resume,’ the man was barely passable in the field of trauma surgery. It seemed his reason for imprisonment on his home world had been due to ‘administering therapies and/or conducting research without government sanction or patient consent.’

  Middleton had actually balked at including the man in their recruitment drive, but there were so few qualified medical personnel that he knew he needed to get someone to fill the role, at least in the short-term.

  With Jo’s impending departure, Captain Middleton was decidedly less than pleased at her replacement’s credentials and history. But such was the duty of command, and in truth Middleton had almost become accustomed to working with what was available rather than what was needed.

  Sergeant Joneson’s shuttle returned to the shuttle bay and offloaded their prisoners and wounded. Less than ten minutes after their arrival, the shuttle turned back around and made its way over to the settlement ship, where it landed without incident as the Lancer Sergeant signaled they had made contact with the survivors.

  It was a tricky situation, to be certain, since there were almost certainly still pirates mixed in with the remaining settlers. The entire remaining complement of the settlement ship had been confined to a sternward section of the ship, where life support was apparently still operating on emergency power.

  But Middleton could not allow those people to die of suffocation or freeze to death aboard their ship as it spiraled to its inevitable death in the atmosphere of the planet below. Thankfully, the atmosphere of that planet was breathable, if thin and dangerously rich in carbon dioxide, and Middleton knew it was his job to get as many landing craft as possible back into rotation so the people could be transported below. It would be close getting them all off in time using their two shuttles and the still-operational shuttle on the corvette, but with the merchant conversions having ejected their power cores there was no choice but to get on with it as soon as possible.