No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 9

  Her accent was far more pronounced than that of Representative Kong, but it was clear she was trying very hard to speak Confederation Standard properly—and equally clear that she had very little experience doing so.

  “I’ve got to admit that your smashball play is impressive,” Middleton said with an appreciative nod, “but it says here you’re requesting to become part of our Lancer contingent. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, proudly jutting her broad, powerful chin forward.

  “That’s going to be…problematic,” he said with a sigh. “It also says here that you’re only fourteen of your world’s years old—which would make you about sixteen standard cycles.”

  “Captain,” she said, for the first time appearing less than one hundred percent confident, “age of adulthood in home world is fourteen, so enlistment is legal.” Looking at a loss for what to do, she suddenly fell to her knees and clasped her hands before herself much as the representative had done, catching Middleton completely by surprise. “All this one’s life she is treated as outcast; even teammates treat her as unwanted. All Lu Bu want is to…belong,” she said as she turned her face to the floor. “Please let this one serve!”

  Middleton was truly at a loss. He hadn’t expected to have such emotion boil to the surface so quickly. “Lu—I mean, Bu,” he corrected sheepishly, remembering her culture’s name order, “of course you can serve.” When her eyes turned upward and he saw that they were nearly brimming with tears, he sighed, “But you might not understand the risks involved—not to mention the kind of people you would be working with if you became a Lancer. Your reactions and reflex scores—along with most of your other physical aptitudes, to be fair—are completely off the charts,” he said suggestively, “and this ship needs good gunners.”

  She thrust herself forward onto her hands, forming a triangle with them on the floor in front of her forehead as she did so. “Lu Bu is not gunner, Captain,” she pleaded, “Lu Bu is warrior! It is all…” she hesitated, likely searching for the right word, “I wish.”

  Middleton sighed again and leaned down, awkwardly placing his hands beneath her arms. “Stand up, Lu Bu,” he said gruffly, and when she did not do so, he removed his hands. “I said ‘stand up’!” he repeated with a crack of authority he wasn’t quite sure he could produce on such short notice.

  It appeared to have the desired effect, as she immediately ceased her groveling and returned to her former, rigid pose which more or less approximated ‘attention.’

  Middleton leveled the data slate at her. “As a member of the MSP, you are expected to follow orders—and to perform whichever tasks are assigned to you, however distasteful they may seem,” he said in a hard voice. While it was clear she wanted to protest, she kept her mouth shut and Middleton let the silence hang for several moments before making an entry on the data slate. “Aboard the Pride of Prometheus, I am the Captain, but the Lancer Sergeant has final say on who qualifies for his team.” He handed the slate back to her. “If you pass his inspection then you might become a Lancer; if you don’t,” he added pointedly, “you will still be required to serve the MSP, most likely as a gunner. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you return to your planet immediately seeing as we will not be in orbit for more than another day.”

  A look of pure, unmitigated joy filled her wide, almost masculine features before she did her best to dismiss it as she presented what might have been the worst salute Middleton had ever seen. “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice trembling with obvious excitement. “This one will not disappoint Walter Joneson!”

  “We’ll see,” Middleton said, knowing far better than his newest crewmember just how large that particular hill was. On the plus side, either way he gained a valuable crewmember—so long as she could learn to follow the rules in a timely fashion. “Dismissed, Recruit,” he said, giving her a proper military salute in return.

  She relaxed her own salute somewhat sheepishly after glancing at his far better version and turned toward the door. She exited the room with just a trio of short, powerful strides from her equally powerful legs, which looked like something out of a body-building e-zine.

  Middleton shook his head and chuckled after the door had closed. “Misfits and outcasts, all,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way out onto the bridge to check the disembarkation protocols. He had a mission to carry out, and he’d already spent far too much time licking his wounds.

  There were pirates out there wreaking havoc on innocent people’s lives, and he aimed to stop them. He briefly wondered if Admiral Montagne would approve of his continued foray into Sector 24, but decided then and there that the MSP under the Little Admiral’s leadership had shown itself more than willing to track down and deal with threats wherever they might be.

  If only the Imperials hadn’t scuttled the ComStat network before leaving the Spineward Sectors to its fate, he could easily send a message to Admiral Montagne relaying their status. The ComStat network was the only means of faster-than-light communication that didn’t involve courier ships to physically transport the information via point transfer from system to system.

  Without it, they were deaf, dumb, and blind. A few more weeks of intelligence gathering on the local scene would be encouraged, if we had the ability to communicate, Middleton thought, not quite convincing even himself of the statement’s truth as he stepped back onto the bridge.

  Chapter VIII: Mixed Signals

  Two weeks after leaving orbit of what Captain Middleton had come to think of as ‘the planet of false harmony,’ they had already performed several hyper jumps and inspected a half dozen colonial systems which, aside from what seemed to be high—if borderline acceptable—levels of local criminal activity, had been fairly unremarkable.

  Still, each of the colonies had fairly begged for the Pride to remain in-system to bolster their defenses. Middleton understood their plights only too well; half of those colony’s defense squadrons had deserted, presumably to become pirates much like Captain Raubach had professed she and her own crew had done. And the half that remained was generally undermanned, with the majority of the skilled officers having gone with the Imperials during the withdrawal—making the acquisition of able officers to fill out his own command crew impossible.

  Middleton was still surprised that so many of the people he had considered to be compatriots and friends would up and leave their places of birth defenseless like they did. But he knew that what was done was done. There was little point in dwelling on it; all he could do was the best possible job going forward.

  He was reviewing the status of the new recruits—most of whom were performing better than he expected, given the circumstances—when the chime at his door rang.

  “Enter,” he called out, setting down Chief Garibaldi’s report on the engineering recruits, which had been the only report to declare his recruits substandard.

  The door slid open and the Comm. Officer, Ensign Jardine, entered. “Captain,” he said, holding a data slate in his hands, “I’ve got something I think you should see.”

  Middleton gestured for the man to sit, and took the proffered data slate as Jardine settled into the chair opposite his Captain. Middleton reviewed the contents and was more than a little disturbed by what he saw which, at first glance, seemed to be nothing but a record of the ship’s energy emissions just before three of their most recent hyper jumps. “Are you certain this isn’t just a series of random fluctuations?” he asked. The truth was, while he could see what seemed to be a pattern of some kind in the data, he was far from convinced.

  “I’m fairly certain, Captain,” Jardine said, his tone betraying his lack of confidence. “I’ve run the signals through all the regular filters, as well as the decryption software in the main computer, but nothing seems to break it down into readable chunks. Still,” he continued, this time more assuredly, “every simulation I’ve run suggests the odds of our engines randomly creating these specific emissions three times in six are a
stronomical.”

  Middleton nodded slowly as the reality of the situation sank in. “So, in your estimation, Ensign Jardine,” he began evenly, “we have unauthorized, heavily encrypted communiques being transmitted from someone aboard the Pride?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Jardine replied after a brief hesitation. “The only reason we picked these signals up at all is because I’m still fine-tuning the new comm. transmitter we installed before breaking orbit at Shèhuì Héxié. It was by complete chance that I picked up on the first one. In the interest of security I thought that if the engines were acting up, the Chief would want to know about it. So I’ve been closely monitoring these frequencies continuously; these signals only appear during pre-jump protocols.”

  “And the computer can’t identify the encryption?” Middleton asked, more to confirm what the Ensign had already said than to suggest anything.

  Jardine shook his head. “No sir. It’s strange…the data is clearly digital, but there’s something about it that…” he trailed off doubtfully.

  “What is it?” Middleton pressed.

  Jardine sighed. “The best way I can describe it is,” he took a deep breath, “the signal seems like it doesn’t want to be decrypted. I know that sounds crazy, Captain, especially since it’s just a recorded data stream…but that’s the best way I can put it. I’m sorry I can’t explain it any better,” he added sheepishly.

  “Who else knows about this?” Middleton asked calmly.

  Jardine shook his head firmly. “I know the regs, Captain,” he said quickly, “all unauthorized, encoded communications are to be reported directly to the acting commander and no one else.”

  “Good work, Ensign,” the Captain said, grateful for the man’s adherence to doctrine. “What’s your recommendation.”

  Jardine shifted in his seat. “If we have a saboteur aboard,” he began hesitantly, “we need to keep him from knowing that we’re onto him while we work to apprehend him.”

  Middleton nodded. “Is there any way we can triangulate this signal?”

  Jardine shook his head. “That’s the thing, Captain. I’m fairly certain this signal is at least partly generated by the Pride’s hyper dish. I’ve already checked the integrity of the dish’s systems and I can’t find any security breaches, at least not from my console.”

  “What do you mean by ‘partly generated’?” Middleton asked.

  Jardine shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he apologized, “I’m getting ahead of myself. Part of the problem with this signal seems to be that this,” he pointed at the data slate, “is only part of whatever message is being sent out.”

  “Then where is the rest of it?” Middleton demanded.

  Jardine slouched in the chair. “I…I don’t know, sir. I can’t tell if my equipment is physically incapable of detecting it, or if I just don’t know where to look.”

  Middleton sat back in his chair and considered the matter. Unknown variables were perhaps the only thing that could keep him up at night, and this was one of the more disturbing ones he had come across during his tenure as the Pride’s captain.

  “You’ve done well, Ensign,” Middleton said encouragingly, causing the younger man to brighten ever so slightly. “None of the other Comm. Officers picked up on this; you shouldn’t be ashamed of anything.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jardine replied less than enthusiastically, which Middleton could fully understand.

  “I need you to dedicate your efforts toward building a net,” Middleton continued, “so we can snare this threat to ship-wide security. Can you do that?”

  Ensign Jardine nodded. “I’ll do my best, Captain. I’ve got a few ideas, but I’ll need Chief Garibaldi’s help with some of the hardware.”

  Middleton had expected as much. “Do it,” he ordered, “but keep it quiet. No one but you, the Chief, and myself are to know about this, do I make myself clear?”

  “Tri-Locsium, sir,” the Ensign agreed with a curt nod.

  “Dismissed, Ensign,” the Captain said, standing from his chair before adding, “and good hunting.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Jardine replied before turning and making his way out of the ready room.

  Captain Middleton thought about the possibility of a saboteur and quickly concluded that, much as he wanted to keep him out of the loop this early on, it would become necessary to involve Sergeant Joneson for at least part of the operation.

  He activated the console in his desk and initiated a com-link with the Lancer Sergeant, hoping to address this latest issue as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  “Harder, you miserable lumps of meat!” Walter Joneson boomed, his voice completely filling the emptied recreation hall as the recruits engaged in the latest series of surprise drills—having been rudely awoken from their bunks just two hours after the completion of the previous day’s drills.

  Every day she had been aboard the Pride of Prometheus had been exactly as Lu Bu had expected it to be: hectic, extremely demanding both physically and psychologically, and utterly unpredictable.

  In other words, it had been a dream-come-true for the aspiring Lancer. Her hips, forearms and thighs burned from the smashball passing drills the Sergeant put them through. The ball’s weight had been maxed out for this particular drill, and it was quickly becoming more than most of the recruits could manage just to complete a throw to their assigned partners.

  “All right,” Joneson shouted as a pair of recruits on the far end of the room collapsed and began to dry heave from complete physical exhaustion. “Break into groups of five for grappling—we’re running sharks to start,” he instructed imperiously, and even Lu Bu was slightly sluggish in moving to the assigned circles marked out on the floor, prompting the Sergeant to bellow, “I said: move!”

  The nearby recruits all worked themselves into groups of five, conspicuously avoided the circle which Lu Bu had staked out as her own. The few who failed to find an alternative group quickly enough groaned collectively when they saw that they would be teamed with her, and she felt a pang of bitter disappointment as she did her best to gesture for them to join her as quickly as possible.

  “No,” Joneson snapped as those recruits neared Lu Bu’s circle, “you four go hydrate for the first round.” The looks of elation on their faces evoked mixed feelings of pride and anger in Lu Bu, but she pushed those feelings aside as Walter Joneson himself approached the circle. She felt a thrill at the prospect of wrestling with the greatest smashball player she had ever seen, but did her best to keep her excitement hidden. The other recruits were woefully inadequate when it came to physical contests, and she relished the opportunity to test herself against Walter Joneson.

  “I think it’s time you picked on someone in your own weight class, don’t you?” Joneson said, towering over her as he came to stand just outside her circle.

  Lu Bu clasped her hands before herself respectfully, nearly trembling with excitement. “This one will do as you command, Sergeant,” she said, sweat dripping down her face as she fought to keep her expression neutral.

  “Good,” Joneson said with a smirk before placing his fingers in his mouth and whistling as loudly as Lu Bu had ever heard a person whistle.

  She kept her eyes lowered until hearing a quartet of footsteps approaching, and when she looked up in surprise she saw four huge, hulking men with square jaws and long, fair-colored hair enter the rec room and approach her circle purposefully.

  “You lot are with Lu,” Joneson said with a smirk before turning his back on her and making his way to the center of the room. “Begin!” he instructed, and the other circles each saw their paired combatants square off and begin grappling for all they were worth.

  The four approaching men—who Lu Bu had learned were from a planet called ‘Tracto’—towered well over a foot above her. They each outweighed her by nearly as much as the average crewmember of the Pride of Prometheus’ total body weight, but she squared off with the first one and beckoned for him to enter the circle. Her excitemen
t at the prospect of grappling with the great Walter Joneson had been replaced with a burning sense of outrage—and she fully intended to vent her frustrations out on these four who had, until that moment, been absent from the exercises.

  The first man, named Atticus, entered the circle with a look of disdain that only made Lu Bu’s choler rise as they circled each other briefly while assuming mirrored wrestling stances. She immediately shot toward the man’s leg and grappled with him, but he sprawled back and thrust his weight down on her shoulders as quickly as she engaged.

  She adjusted her attack by taking a quarter step back and reaching up for his now-lowered head with both hands. She managed to grasp the back of his neck with both of her hands, but he intercepted her wrists and with a display of strength she had never encountered, he slowly pulled her hands apart as a look of smug superiority filled his features.

  Lu Bu, realizing that for perhaps the first time in her life she had encountered someone whose strength actually surpassed her own, thrust her arms outward in the directions the other man had been prying them.

  Clearly caught unaware, the larger man flinched for a fraction of a second—and Lu Bu allowed his falling bulk to pass over her shoulders as she maintained balance on her lead, left foot. She spun deftly, as the man’s momentum took him over and past her, and grasped his waist with her arms after she broke his grip with a violent, downward, snapping motion of each arm.

  When she had a grip of his hips, she was surprised to see that he had already regained his composure and was reaching down to once again break her grip. Not only was he strong, but he had remarkable balance and reflexes—but she already knew that hers were better.

  Knowing there was little chance for a throw or hip-toss in what little time remained to her, she drove through the other man’s hips as hard as she could and forced his near knee to touch the ground to prevent being thrown from the circle.

  The match was over, and Atticus gave her an angry look as he stood and made his way outside of the circle. She met his gaze with a hard one of her own as one of his fellow Tracto-ans entered the circle and squared off against her.