No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 5

  “Jo?” he asked eventually, still unable to believe his eyes.

  “Not now, Tim,” she replied with a no-nonsense shake of her head. “You need to let me speak with your ship’s doctor immediately; I can help save some of your infected crew but only if we hurry!”

  It took him a moment to process her presence—not to mention her apparent knowledge of the situation aboard his ship. But Middleton did as she suggested and patched her through to the sickbay, causing her image to disappear from the main viewer, after which he slumped back in his seat.

  Apparently it wasn’t enough that he had to deal with the burden of command, marauding pirates, bioweapons, and—perhaps worst of all—the convoluted legal structure of the Spineward Sectors following the Imperial withdrawal. In addition to all that—and a pending court martial for firing on a hove-to vessel in the process of surrender—Captain Tim Middleton had to deal with one of the few people who could shake the confidence of any man right down to the core:

  An ex-wife.

  “Joneson here,” came Lancer Sergeant Walter Joneson’s smooth, deep voice through the main viewer’s speakers. They had been fortunate that half of the Lancer contingent had been armored and waiting in the boarding shuttles when the bioweapon had gone off, so Sergeant Joneson had led his team of men over to the facility as soon as they were in range to do so.

  “What’s your status, Sergeant?” Middleton asked, glancing up at the clock to note that his Lancer contingent had already been aboard the station for over an hour.

  “The facility is secure, Captain,” Sergeant Joneson replied. “All twenty six civilians are present, accounted for, and have valid identification. The three merchantmen have been seized, their computers locked, power plants deactivated and hulls hard-locked to the station. The pirate crew has already been taken into custody—eighty three pirates total, Captain.”

  “Any resistance, Sergeant?” Middleton asked, feeling more than a little relieved at the man’s report.

  “None, sir,” Joneson replied with more than a hint of disappointment in his voice before he audibly perked up as he added, “but Mrs. Middleton already showed us to the laboratory. With her help we’ve secured and destroyed the contaminants per your orders. In addition to the lab gear you wanted confiscated as evidence, we’ve found some other unusual materials and are preparing to bring them back to the ship on your order.”

  “What sort of unusual materials?” Middleton asked, ignoring the barb about his ex-wife.

  “Some kind of mineral fragments which were already numbered and catalogued when we arrived,” Joneson replied, his voice once again serious. “Looks like some type of crystal—it looks like a type of Locsium, Captain, but I honestly couldn’t say more in its current state.”

  “Good work, Sergeant,” Middleton said, knowing that the only group which knew how to produce and work with Locsium was the Empire of Man. Why the pirates were in possession of an as-yet unidentified type of that material was a mystery, but that mystery would have to wait for the time being. “Update me in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Sergeant Joneson replied before severing the connection.

  Middleton activated the com-link to the sickbay via his chair’s arm console, and Doctor Milton’s face appeared after a slight delay. “What’s your status, Doctor?”

  Doctor Milton’s face was bright red and he appeared to be sweating profusely. But his voice was even and matter-of-fact, although it had a distinct wheeze and rasp to it. “With Doctor Middleton’s help, the vaccine has been produced in sufficient quantity to inoculate everyone aboard the ship still located in the high-security zones of Engineering, the gun deck and the bridge, as well as a handful of people here in sickbay who were as yet asymptomatic. But our supply of the necessary chemicals and synthetic proteins is already exhausted, so even if we wanted to inoculate the others we simply don’t have enough vaccine to go around.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, blinking his eyes and wiping sweat from his brow before shrugging, “I doubt it would have done the rest of us any good, at any rate.”

  Middleton nodded slowly as he took in this information. Engineering, the bridge, the gun deck and sickbay, during active battle conditions, held just over two thirds of the ship’s crew. But with sickbay already exposed, that brought the total number of exposed crewmembers to nearly half of the Pride’s remaining four hundred eighty six person complement.

  “What’s the prognosis, Doctor?” Middleton asked evenly.

  “If Doctor Middleton’s information is correct,” the Doctor replied, causing the Captain to flush under the collar at the reminder that she had kept his name, “this particular virus cocktail has a ninety two percent mortality rate within twenty four hours. After that, with proper fluid and electrolyte maintenance, the other eight percent should recover with only minor to moderate neurological and respiratory deficits. You should be receiving the bridge’s portion of the vaccine now.”

  A chime, signaling the arrival of a parcel via the high-security pneumatic tube system, rang near the back of the bridge and Middleton gestured for a nearby crewmember to go collect it. The crewmember brought the parcel and Middleton inspected it briefly before nodding. “Distribute this to the crew at once,” he instructed.

  “Inoculate the Captain first, if you would be so kind, crewman,” the Doctor wheezed in a raised voice which made the command chair’s speaker crackle as he was seized with a fit of coughing. When he was finished, he continued, “Protocols being what they are, I’d like to ensure these particular ones are followed to the letter considering I only have an eight percent chance that this will not be my final assignment.”

  Middleton wanted to argue, but in light of the Doctor’s predicament decided against it as he rolled up his sleeve and gestured for the crewman to inoculate him. After the needle had pricked his arm, Middleton rolled his sleeve back down and turned back to face the Doctor’s image, “Is there anything else we can do, Doctor Milton?”

  The Doctor shook his head and swayed slightly to the side as his breaths came harder and more ragged. “The vaccine syringes will each transmit a signal to me whenever a crewmember has been inoculated. After the crew inside the high-security zones has been inoculated, wait one hour before ending the lockdown. That should give the vaccine enough time to…” he slumped slightly before shaking himself with a start. “One hour,” he repeated forcefully, choking back a hacking cough, “and the vaccine should be fully active in your systems. You can then move about…the ship…without fear of infection.”

  “Understood, Doctor,” Middleton said with a nod.

  “And to think…” Doctor Milton began sardonically, his wheezing becoming more pronounced with each passing breath, “I gave up smoking…twenty years ago…Milton out.”

  The screen went blank, and Captain Middleton turned to the Comm. officer. “Has the Lancer shuttle arrived yet?”

  “They’re just touching down now, Captain,” he replied. “Doctor Middleton should arrive in sickbay in three minutes to help with the wounded.”

  “Good,” Middleton nodded in satisfaction as he thought about possible courses of action, but he came up empty at every turn. The truth was that he had experts who knew far more than him working on the situation, and they had informed him that they already had all available resources at their disposal. For now, it seemed like all he could do was to rely on those experts and wait for the next hour while keeping a watchful eye out for the unexpected.

  Middleton was slowly realizing, when all was said and done, that this seemed to be the job description of a starship captain. And as long as he sat in the big chair, he was determined to do the best job of it he could.

  Chapter IV: Starting Over

  The chime at Captain Middleton’s ready room door rang and he promptly replied, “Enter.”

  The door slid to the side, and a veritable giant of a man ducked his head as he made his way into the room.

  “Have a seat, Sergeant,” Middleton gestured to the
chair opposite his own, and Sergeant Walter Joneson did so. “I was just going over our readiness reports and wanted to speak with the departments heads individually, before today’s senior staff meeting, to go over any department-specific concerns.”

  Walter Joneson shifted in his seat, which seemed far too small for a man of his girth and bulk. He stroked his thin, black mustache thoughtfully after finding an apparently less-uncomfortable position. “My Lancers were hit hard when we took that torpedo last week, Captain,” he said eventually. “That four man team of Tracto boys came through more or less unscathed; would that we all had their immune systems,” he said grudgingly. “The rest of us got hammered but good.”

  “I see your total readiness is now at sixteen of our original fifty Lancers?” Middleton asked, having already memorized every department’s reports an hour earlier. “You’re cautiously optimistic that three more might recover well enough for active duty, but two are off the squad for certain, is that correct?”

  Joneson nodded. “Bryant and Rice are casualties, sir. Bryant’s lung capacity is going to be forty percent his baseline even after recovery, and Rice’s fingers are too unsteady owing to viral nerve damage; he’ll never be able to exercise proper trigger discipline again.”

  “So that puts you, in all likelihood, at nineteen potential duty-ready Lancers, correct?” Middleton reiterated.

  “Yes, Captain,” Joneson nodded. “Fifteen regulars and them four Tracto boys,” he said gratingly, making no attempt to hide his disdain for the genetically engineered super soldiers. “That’s only after McQuistan, Carpenter and Gnuko have mended, though. Still, every piece of gear we’ve got is in A-One shape, so all we need are fresh recruits and I can have us up to eighty percent of our rated combat capability in six weeks.”

  “I see,” Middleton said, having expected as much from the stalwart Joneson. He had served with him for several years, and a finer leader of men Tim Middleton had never known. Middleton had specifically requested Joneson to accompany him on this tour, and he was grateful that Admiral Montagne had granted his request. “All right, is there anything specific you’ve got on your mind, Sergeant?” he asked, uncertain how to proceed in a meeting like this.

  “Sir?” Joneson said, cocking his head slightly in confusion.

  “I understand we’re in rough shape, but in order to make the best decision on how to proceed I’m going to need the input of my most trusted officers,” Middleton explained. “I’m newer at my job than you are at yours, Walt,” he added with a wry grin. Walter Joneson had served as a Commando in the Caprian Royal Army for several years before transferring to the MSP, where Middleton had met him. Prior to that, the Sergeant had enjoyed a thoroughly dominant run at the highest level of professional smashball in the Spineward Sectors, before unexpectedly retiring at the height of his playing career.

  Sergeant Joneson nodded silently for several seconds before shaking his head. “Can’t think of anything, sir,” he said eventually. “You get me some fresh meat and I’ll turn ‘em into Lancers.”

  “Lancers,” Middleton repeated sardonically, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. The term was so archaic and outdated that one only ever heard it used in holo-vids about the ‘good old days’ when, supposedly, men were men and certain barnyard animals were nervous.

  “The Little Admiral’s put his brand on my little branch of the MSP,” Joneson said with a short chuckle of his own, “I’ll give him that. Never did like being a ‘Marine’ anyway; the only water I recall seeing was the stuff running down the enemy’s leg when he saw us coming.”

  “Indeed,” Middleton mused before shaking his head in bewilderment at certain aspects of military tradition. “If that’s all, then?”

  Joneson nodded and stood to his feet, clearly glad to be rid of the confines of the tiny chair. “That’ll be it for me, Captain.”

  “Dismissed,” Middleton nodded curtly. “Send the Chief in, if you would.”

  “Larry that, sir,” Joneson said as he turned and left the ready room, the doors whooshing quietly to the side a moment before he reached them.

  Not long after he left, a short-statured, middle-aged, balding man came into the ready room and Middleton had to fight the urge to stand in the face of the red-faced—clearly less-than-happy—officer.

  “Chief Garibaldi,” Middleton said as evenly as he could, “have a seat.”

  “Have a seat?” the engineer repeated incredulously, waving a data slate before himself accusingly. “You’ve got some nerve, Captain!”

  “Chief—“ Middleton began, but the Chief continued over the top of him.

  “I told you when I took this posting that I would run my department my way,” Garibaldi continued angrily, “and that if you didn’t like it you had two choices: first, to deal with it quietly and without interference, or barring that, to understand that the first time I wasn’t allowed to run my operation the way I want that you could consider it my effective resignation.” He thrust the data slate down on Middleton’s table and pointed emphatically, “Well, this takes it from ‘effective’ to ‘official’!”

  “Chief,” Middleton began, and when it was clear that the engineer had little interest in listening to anything he said, Captain Middleton leapt to his feet and barked, “Chief!” With Garibaldi briefly silenced, the two stood in a silent test of wills for several seconds before Middleton, without breaking eye contact, gestured to the chair Joneson had just vacated. “Have a seat.”

  The Chief Engineer reluctantly did as he was told, and only after several tense seconds did Middleton do likewise. When he had resumed his own seat, the Captain took up the data slate the engineer had tossed on his table and scanned its contents.

  “Your resignation, effective immediately,” Middleton concluded after perusing its contents, which were much like the Chief himself: short, angry and bursting with vulgarities. He shook his head as he set the slate back down on the desk. “Your objections to my command are noted, Chief, but I can’t accept your resignation at this time.”

  Garibaldi, whose face had actually begun to drain away the angry, red coloration, instantly returned to its original hue. He jabbed a finger in Middleton’s direction, and his voice was low and dangerous, “We had an agreement, Captain.”

  “We did, and we do,” Middleton agreed, “but I can’t in any good conscience accept your resignation when you are quite literally the only person who can operate my engines, let alone coordinate repair or maintenance crews on anything resembling a military schedule.” It was ironic, since Garibaldi wasn’t actually a military serviceman himself, but his attention to detail and ‘by-the-book’ approach were welcome additions to Middleton’s green crew—well, they were welcome most of the time.

  “Engineering was hardly affected by that attack,” Garibaldi waved a dismissive hand angrily, “we’re still at eighty percent readiness after the virus. You can pick any one of my crew chiefs to replace me; Trufant, Jackson and Alexander are all good men and they know the design specs as well as I do.”

  “Yes, they’re all fine young engineers,” Middleton allowed, “but none of them has more than eighteen months logged of active duty deployment. You’re literally the only person in the entire department with over five years working aboard an active-duty starship; I can’t replace that kind of experience with a greenhorn, especially not when we’re operating with literally zero support structure out here.”

  Garibaldi looked like he was about to burst, and he made as if to rise from his chair but Middleton held him with a piercing stare that froze him mid-motion. “So you’re refusing to accept my resignation?” he demanded hotly.

  “For the time being, yes,” Middleton replied evenly. “You’re too valuable to ship operations, Chief,” he said, his voice softening slightly as he continued, “believe me, I know how much being deployed takes out of you and how badly you’d like to get back to your life. If I thought there was a way to replace you, I would have already done so—minus the confrontations.”

/>   Garibaldi’s eyes flared briefly before he too relaxed somewhat and sank back into his chair. He sighed in obvious frustration as he nodded, “Yeah…I believe you would have, Tim.”

  Middleton leaned forward and clasped his hands over the data slate. “We go way back, Mikey,” he said sympathetically, ignoring the lapse in protocol for an old friend. Several years earlier, Middleton had led a search-and-recovery mission which had rescued Garibaldi and a few members of his family from their wrecked mining vessel, following a pirate raid. “I, more than anyone else, understand that serving on a starship again is difficult for you…but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t honestly need your help. I hope you can believe that.”

  Letting out another sigh, Garibaldi nodded and just like that, precisely as with so many times before, the matter seemed to have been forgotten as he produced another data slate. “Repair reports,” he said, activating the slate before handing it to the Captain, “that torpedo did a number on the inner hull integrity, but we’ve patched it up for now. Even forgetting my own personal preference,” he said pointedly, referring to his fastidious and detail-oriented approach to maintenance, “we really should set in at port for a few weeks so we can replace a few of the primary load-bearing members. If the grav-plating on decks three through eight forward go outside of normal operating tolerances—like, say, because we get shot at by someone who knows where to hurt us,” he added sarcastically, “we could cause catastrophic damage to the ship’s superstructure during high-speed maneuvers—which is to say nothing of more torpedoes or whatever the Hades else is waiting for us out here.”

  “Noted,” Middleton nodded, as usual finding himself thankful for Garibaldi’s meticulously written reports. “We’re going to need to find a place to pick up recruits, anyway,” he said as he perused the Chief’s log of repairs. He stopped when he came to a particularly troublesome section and re-read it. “Chief,” he began, knowing how volatile Garibaldi’s temper could be, “I really need the forward shields back up. Thirty percent isn’t going to do it.”