Against The Middle Page 2

  Middleton clasped his hands together and placed his elbows on the desk. “I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Inson—“

  “Please,” the burly man interrupted, “call me ‘Hutch’.”

  “Ok…Hutch,” Middleton allowed, “but I don’t think I can make it work.”

  “Captain Middleton,” Hutch leaned forward, his eyes burning with a kind of deep, smoldering intensity which Middleton had only seen in one other man’s visage during his entire life—the late Sergeant Walter Joneson’s, “I know I can contribute here. Give me a chance; if I fail to meet your standards, you can drop me off on the nearest rock with breathable air and a regular freighter schedule, and I’ll find my own way home. I may be past my smashball prime,” he added confidently as he flexed his shoulders and chest, “but I think you’ll find me more than a match for the average pirate, droid, bug, or whatever else it is you’re steaming toward.”

  “Your confidence does you credit,” Middleton allowed, “but you might not have noticed that you won’t exactly stand out among this ship’s armed forces.”

  Inson snorted, “You mean the big, Nordic-looking types I saw dragging their knuckles around the hallways of your ship? Frankly, I can’t imagine a better place for me than among a bunch of fellow Vikings—especially when a few of them clearly need to be taken down a notch.”

  Middleton found his lips quirking into a grin. “First, there are no ‘hallways’ on this ship; they’re called ‘corridors.’ And second,” he added as the other man returned his grin, “you’ll find the so-called ‘knuckle-draggers’ are decidedly more Greek than Norse.”

  Inson shook his head in apparent good nature. “You chisel away at a man for long enough and all those words and labels fall away like unwanted bits of stone until you’re left with just the good stuff. I know a thing or two about training headstrong recruits, Captain,” he said, his tone almost pleading, “and I doubt there’s much difference between shaping smashball players and shaping Marines. Walter Joneson seems to have done a good enough job of it here,” he said, causing Middleton’s thought to screech to a halt, “so if he was able to contribute, and if this life was good enough for him, then all I’m asking is a chance to walk a few of those miles while I still have the option…sir,” he added with obvious awkwardness.

  A lengthy silence ensued, during which time the Pride’s commanding officer considered the man’s request. “Third,” Middleton said, realizing to even his own surprise that he had arrived at an unlikely decision, “there are no Marines on this ship; there are only Lancers.”

  “Marine or Lancer,” Hutch said dismissively, “they’re just words, but you’ll find I don’t have trouble following orders, Captain. If you say we’re the ‘Fighting Creampuffs,’ you won’t hear a peep from me.”

  “Don’t you have any family?” Middleton pressed. He was intrigued by the idea of yet another skilled trainer for the Lancer contingent, but he could ill afford Mr. Inson having second thoughts when the Pride was deep in enemy territory.

  Inson’s features took on a grim cast. “My ex-wife cleaned me out but good in the divorce,” he explained. “Six months after she learned of my diagnosis she took the kids back to the Empire, where I can’t travel—even with my League-issued diplomatic visa—since I never got Imperial citizenship. And the League,” he snorted derisively, “would like for me to spew platitudes in front of the pickups and sit in a booth to put autographs on memorabilia—probably with an IV sticking out of my arm for the next three years—so they can maximize the return on what they consider to be their investment into me.” He shook his head firmly, “I’m well and truly alone here, Captain, and for the first time in my adult life I’d like to do something that actually mattered…and something that, on a selfish note, was entirely of my own choosing.”

  Middleton empathized with the man’s circumstances. It had been less than a year since his second wife had left him, and the profound effects of that event were still sending shockwaves through his life. He had been so listless following the breakup that he had actually opted for early retirement from military service so he could leverage his pension and purchase necessities for his second ex-wife, and their son, when they finally landed on a colony somewhere on the rim of Confederation space.

  It seemed that despite Mr. Inson’s fame and fortune, the primary difference in his circumstances and Tim Middleton’s was merely the number of zeroes on the financial judgments which had been levied against them in divorce court.

  “All right, Hutch,” Middleton said, standing and extending his hand, “we’ll be in orbit for another twenty hours. If you change your mind during that time, we’ll see you back to the surface. If not, then welcome aboard.”

  The massive athlete stood and accepted Middleton’s hand, giving a brief but powerful squeeze as his demeanor lightened considerably. “I don’t want any special treatment,” he said. “I’ll take whatever privileges the knuckle-draggers are getting—and if I don’t warrant that much to start with, I guarantee that I’ll earn my way into it.”

  “You’ll have to speak with Sergeant Gnuko about that,” Middleton said pointedly, suspecting the two men were already acquainted to some degree—if Middleton’s timelines were even close then they would have played for the same team during at least a couple seasons.

  “Gnuko?” Hutch blurted in surprise. “Russell Gnuko?”

  “He’ll be your direct superior, as he’s in command of the Lancer contingent aboard this ship,” Middleton explained.

  Hutch threw his head back and laughed. “Gnuko…he never could get out from under Walt’s shadow. I heard he hared off to go find Joneson after quitting the League,” he said as he regained his composure under Middleton’s heavy gaze, “but I never thought for a second that he would actually catch up to him.”

  “That makes two of you, I suppose,” Middleton said archly.

  “Point taken, Captain,” Hutch agreed, raising his hands in mock surrender before moving to a reasonable approximation of attention posture and executing one of the worst salutes Middleton had ever seen—a salute Middleton did not return for a variety of reasons, none of which had to do with a lack of respect on his part. “I’ll go find Sergeant Gnuko then, sir.”

  “Dismissed,” Middleton replied, and the man exited the ready room.

  Middleton knew there was an outside possibility that Steve ‘Hutch’ Inson could present a security threat down the road, but he also knew that he could use every able-bodied person he could pack onto his ship for the coming mission.

  Because if this mission was anything like its predecessors, he would find the extra depth on the ship’s roster to be an invaluable asset…and given the Pride’s track record, that particular asset was likely to be tapped sooner rather than later.

  Chapter I: New Days, Same Ways

  Chief Engineer Garibaldi set a section of heavy, duralloy beam down on Middleton’s desk before sitting down wordlessly in the chair opposite the Captain. Garibaldi wiped his greasy hands on his work suit while the Captain appraised the piece of metal. It was an I-beam, measuring eight inches deep by four inches wide. This particular piece, just over a foot long, had apparently been cut from somewhere inside the Pride of Prometheus—and recently if Middleton’s nostrils served him properly.

  “I assume there’s a reason you brought this to my ready room, Chief,” Middleton said evenly as he fought to keep from sneezing as the acrid fumes of recent plasma burning filled his nose.

  Garibaldi nodded silently as he produced a small hammer from his belt. Without warning, he struck the duralloy beam with the hammer and the chunk of formerly load-bearing metal fell over on the desk. With narrowed eyes Middleton looked first at his Chief, then to the section of duralloy, and even he was surprised at what he saw.

  Where the hammer had struck the section of beam, a spider-web of cracks had appeared which radiated outward from the impact point. This was more than slightly alarming, given the assumption that the beam had, indeed, been recently cut fro
m the Pride.

  It took him several seconds to fully understand the Chief’s unspoken message, and when he did he straightened in his chair and asked, “How extensive is it?”

  “I’ve been conducting the tests myself,” Garibaldi said grimly, “so while I can confidently say that nobody else knows about this, I also haven’t had time to check the entire ship. But you probably want my best guess, which is that the entire forward hull—nearly a third of the ship from the bow on back—is riddled with this kind of damage in the supporting superstructure. The drive section looks more or less combat-ready,” he added heavily, and Middleton found himself exhaling in relief at the Chief’s last statement, “but the bow’s taken too much abuse to be ignored any longer.”

  “This is from taking laser fire,” Middleton concluded, rather than asked.

  “These old Hammerheads have plenty of armor,” Garibaldi said with grudging respect. “But the problem is that too many sustained impacts against that armor can cause local temperature variations which strain the duralloy. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem,” he explained, “but the Pride’s class was built on the cheap, so she doesn’t have sufficient thermal compensation mechanisms to protect the superstructure. Plus the old girl hasn’t had a proper refit in thirty years, and according to the maintenance logs she wasn’t exactly a light duty lady even before you got your hands on her.” Garibaldi gestured pointedly at the section of ruined duralloy beam. “We’re looking at three decades of accumulated damage to the ship’s superstructure, topped off by our recurring drama with the Raubachs, droids, and whatever else we’re about to kick over.”

  Middleton steepled his fingers and considered the information. “Give it to me straight, Mikey,” he finally said.

  Garibaldi leaned forward, rubbing his eyes wearily, “I can tweak the grav-plating in the forward section to compensate for some of the strain during combat maneuvers, but that will require those sections to be evacuated…immediately.”

  Middleton closed his eyes and groaned. “Over a third of the crew bunks down in the forward sections, Chief. Morale on this ship is shaky enough as it is,” he added, knowing that asking his crew to abandon their quarters and cram together—or share bunks, in many cases—like canned fish wasn’t likely to help the ship’s morale situation.

  “I wouldn’t say it unless it was important, Tim,” Garibaldi said with a knowing nod, “but there’s no way we can claim to be combat-ready in the ship’s current state. We have to evacuate the forward sections immediately so I can modify the grav-plates and do some fine-tuning. After I’ve done that, it’s up to you if you want us to make reinforcements by welding new beams into the affected areas, or maybe you’d prefer not to tell the crew—”

  “No,” Middleton said with certainty, “they need to know. I can’t keep any secrets from this crew if I expect them to perform to the best of their ability. But I would appreciate your discretion on the subject until I’ve done that.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “Will do, Cap,” he said as he stood and gathered up the chunk of ruined duralloy. “And…by the way, Tim,” he added before turning to leave, “I’m not the only one who’s happy you and the Doc buried the hatchet.”

  Just a week earlier, Middleton would have been furious with his Chief Engineer for broaching that particular subject. But that period of time had seen Middleton finally come to grips with the facts regarding his unusual relationship with Doctor Jo Middleton, his first ex-wife. He knew he could never forgive her for what she had done to him, but he also knew that life was too short to hold onto such grudges—especially when doing so clouded his judgment and endangered the lives of his crew as a result.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Chief,” he said, fighting to keep the tightness from his voice, “but I’d also appreciate it if we left that particular subject alone.”

  Garibaldi nodded with uncharacteristic sheepishness, “You got it, Cap.” He turned and left the ready room, and Middleton spent the next half hour considering how to break the news to the crew.

  Even if he really was nothing but a cold, calculating commander, Middleton genuinely did believe that the crewmembers which had followed him—which was very nearly every single one which had set out from Gambit Station just a few weeks earlier—deserved to know the state of their ship.

  But even if he hadn’t believed that, he also knew that he could not afford another morale crisis like the one Kratos had averted by defeating—and killing, rather gruesomely—War Leader Atticus, the Pride’s former Assault Team commander.

  “This is the Captain,” Middleton said after setting his command chair’s com-link to the ship-wide intercom, “I have an announcement to make.”

  The bridge crew turned as one to face him, and he actually found the mild wave of anxiety he felt somehow comforting as he felt their eyes on him. A year earlier he might have allowed the sensation to disrupt his address, but after enduring so many difficult trials with the crew of his ship, he knew that they shared a bond unlike anything he had previously known.

  It was that bond which bolstered him as he continued, “This ship and her crew have triumphed over every adversary we have faced, and we must continue in that tradition as we deal with an unexpected enemy. It has been brought to my attention that the ship has sustained significant battle damage to her forward superstructure.” His lips twisted into a smirk as he saw several faces take on worried looks, “Apparently this crew is more resilient than the ship that bears it.”

  Several grins appeared on the faces of his bridge crew, and he let his previous words sink in for several seconds before straightening himself.

  “As such, we’re going to have to make some concessions to the Pride, since I have no intention of turning around and putting her in drydock so we can wait until some paper pusher declares her fit for duty,” he said, his voice turning hard as he continued his pre-rehearsed speech. “Chief Garibaldi will be performing a thorough inspection of the affected areas of the forward hull, but the preliminary indications are that those crewmembers who are quartered in the affected areas will need to relocate to the other living areas as soon as possible so that our engineers can work to address the damage.”

  He didn’t even need to look at his crew’s visages to know that they were disappointed, but he was pleasantly surprised to see only a pair of downcast eyes among them after he had delivered the sour news.

  “Once Engineering has submitted its final report on the damage,” he continued, “we’ll work up the new berthing arrangements. But for now, it’s important that all of us—even those crewmembers and officers who are not quartered in the affected areas—prepare to get a little cozier with our shipmates. That is all.”

  Chapter II: Data Mining

  Fei Long sat at his workstation while Yide, the young Sundered uplift, micro-soldered a series of temporary connections within one of their ATTACK DOGs. The two of them had formed a comfortable working relationship which was based primarily upon a mutual desire for silence while they worked on their various tasks.

  Fei Long was continually impressed by the ape-like Yide’s technical prowess and problem-solving abilities. His knowledge of micro-electronics was, in many ways, superior even to Fei Long’s considerable abilities. As such, the young hacker-turned-Comm. Officer was thrilled to have his assistance on the more menial tasks since Fei Long was then free to pursue more complicated matters.

  One such matter had given him significant difficulty in recent days. While orbiting Capital, he had requested permission from Captain Middleton to expand his covert—some would say ‘illegal’—virtual network which he had spread across Capital’s digital infrastructure using a technique he had devised as a twelve year old. The technique had originally been intended to grant him massive data storage space spread across thousands of different machines, and he had used that storage space to accumulate one of the largest collections of entertainment media in the Sector.

  But he was no longer interested in downloading the latest holo-novel
s; this latest application of his relatively old program would permit him to conduct widespread data mining in absentia. It would allow him to peruse the vast majority of Capital’s databases—whether they were public or private—with a series of virtual robots that required only a few strings of code to put into action. Hours, or even days later, he could use his woefully tiny ComStat bandwidth allotment to retrieve any relevant information which his virtual robots had found and processed into transmittable chunks of data.

  The possible applications of this program were understandably broad in scope, so Captain Middleton had predictably greenlit Fei Long’s plan. But for the past several days, Fei Long had been unable to solve various security issues which were central to the successful implementation of his program.

  Now, however, after nearly thirty hours of continuous work, he believed he had solved the problem and was prepared to put his hypothesis to the test. With just a few keystrokes he sent a packet of commands to his virtual robots located on Capital and awaited their reply.

  “What?” Yide asked gruffly as he looked up over the heavily-modified—so they would fit his large, hairy, head—welding goggles he was using to protect his eyes.

  Only then did Fei Long realize he had been muttering to himself. “I have sent test instructions to the network,” he explained in a slightly raised voice. “If the latest modifications were successful, I should receive a reply in two minutes’ time.”

  “Good,” the uplift grumped before returning to his work.

  Fei Long counted the seconds and considered the possible failure points of his latest attempted solution to the unexpected security issues he had dealt with. He knew it was entirely possible that he would be unable to complete the work while in the system, which would make future attempts to correct the failure significantly more tedious since he would have to send his corrections via the tiny data window his ComStat access granted him.