Chapter I: With These Rings

The following begins three weeks after the Pride of Prometheus was sent on patrol by Admiral Jason Montagne. The patrol was only supposed to last for a month…

“Comm., report,” Captain Middleton turned to address the Comm. station calmly, “has the southern corvette signaled the pirate base of our location?”

“No signals detected, Captain,” reported the man at Comm.

“Neither corvette appears to have reacted to our presence, Captain,” reported the officer at Tactical, a capable if somewhat timid young Ensign named Sarkozi. “They’re continuing on their respective orbits around the gas giant.”

Middleton glanced down at his chair’s built-in screen, which mirrored the tactical readout currently on the main viewer. He had never quite gotten used to processing information from the main screen, being a Tactical officer himself until three weeks earlier when Admiral Montagne had field-commissioned him as a Captain of the Pride of Prometheus. ‘Captain’ or not, Lieutenant Commander Tyrone ‘Tim’ Middleton was much more comfortable hunched over a console than sitting in the Captain’s chair but he managed to ameliorate that discomfort via the chair’s built-in displays.

The gas giant’s most remarkable feature, aside from an enormously powerful EM field, was a nearly continuous ring of rock and ice which was easily of the most spectacular ring systems on record. The rings’ median thickness measured two kilometers, and they extended nearly five hundred thousand kilometers from the edge of the planet’s atmosphere nearly uninterrupted. Only two moons made their orbital paths through the rings, each clearing out narrow bands of material during their countless orbits.

The moon which the Pride had hidden behind was on the outer edge of the rings, and that moon’s abnormally large mass had likely been the reason the gas giant’s rings were so spectacular, with the planetoid’s gravity providing gravitational stability.

After flicking through a few screens of data, he was satisfied that they had not yet been detected. The twin, old-style CR-70 Corvettes appeared to be in good shape, but they were nowhere near the Pride’s match in a firefight. Even working together, it would take some fancy maneuvering to give Middleton’s people any serious trouble.

It would take another twelve minutes to close to the Pride’s extreme firing range, and if they could remain undetected that long then this engagement would be a walk in the park. They had locked the Pride of Prometheus into a stationary orbit behind the gas giant’s largest moon two days earlier, and since then they had operated under silent running protocols while the orbit of the moon had brought them around for an advantageous position on the pirate base—a gas collection facility which had gone silent some two weeks earlier.

A real military commander would have run sorties on a regular schedule to cover the dark side of the moon, which was to say nothing of the massive rings around the planet, but these pirates were clearly lacking proper military discipline. Middleton almost felt sorry for the pirates…almost.

“Contact!” called out Sarkozi in a raised voice. “I’m reading two…make that, three vessels on approach from the system’s edge.”

“Range?” Middleton demanded, his previously confident mood taken down a notch as he flipped through his chair’s tactical readouts. His crew was extremely green, but they had spent the past two days in preparation for this, and he was pleased with their displayed focus and professionalism to this point.

“They’re entering medium weapon’s range now, Captain,” Sarkozi replied, her voice taut with disappointment.

The Comm. officer piped in, “I’m receiving civilian freighter ID’s on the newcomers, sir.”

Middleton nodded, feeling a wave of relief at the newcomers being civilian ships rather than warships. Even if they were converted with whatever weaponry they could fit, they would be little to no factor in the coming engagement.

“How did they get so close?” grumbled the Helmsman, an older man named Jersey whose demeanor was always on the surly side.

“The gas giant’s EM field overpowered our passive sensors,” Middleton grudged. It had been a risk going to silent running for the approach, since doing so had restricted the use of their primary sensor array as its transmissions were too easily detectable and would have given away their position. With the passive sensors and Comm. array as their only eyes and ears, they had been nearly as blind as the pirate corvettes. “Engineering,” he raised his voice, turning fractionally to face the Engineering officer posted to the bridge during first shift, “silent running protocols are suspended; I need my engines back and I need them now.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineer reported before relaying the orders to Main Engineering via his workstation. A few seconds later the lights on the bridge brightened to their usual luminosity, causing Middleton to squint as his eyes adjusted. “Main power restored, Captain,” the engineer said crisply. “Engines coming online now; you should have full power in ten minutes.”

“You have five minutes,” Middleton snapped irritably. The Pride of Prometheus was an old design, being a Hammerhead-class medium cruiser nearly two hundred years old. Its myriad flaws were punctuated by antique, underpowered engines and limited armor, but the lone saving grace of having these particular old, underpowered engines was that they could be fired up far quicker than their newer, more efficient counterparts. Middleton had read the specs, inspected the engines personally, and knew that any engineer worth his salt could get the job done in four and a half minutes in combat conditions with already active power plants.

The Engineering officer went back and forth the Main Engineering for a moment before turning to Middleton and clearing his throat, “The Chief says the protocols call for a five minute pre-fire checklist, followed by—“

“To Hades with the protocols!” Middleton snapped. Chief Engineer Alfred ‘Mikey’ Garibaldi — the ‘Mikey’ moniker was one reserved for close friends — had been a proverbial thorn in Middleton’s side since he had assumed command three weeks earlier, but there was no one else aboard the ship who was qualified to fill his post. He was capable enough, and had been an acquaintance of Middleton’s for several years, but the man had an insufferable predilection with running things ‘by the book.’ “Tell him we need those engines up in five minutes; I’ll take responsibility if the blasted things blow up!”

The Engineering officer relayed Middleton’s order before nodding curtly. “The Chief says he’ll bypass the regs…and that he’s making a note in his log,” he said timidly.

“See that he does,” Middleton growled before turning to Ensign Sarkozi, the Tactical officer. “Overcharge the forward array for the opening salvo on the southern corvette; if this lasts longer than two exchanges, their friends might be able to get into the fight. I want these pirates down and out before we enter their range so we only have to reinforce one shield facing.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replied professionally before going about her task.

“Comm.,” Middleton continued as his fingers flew over the tactical display on his chair, “begin squawking our ID on the hailing channels and order those corvettes to stand down, heave to and deactivate their power plants. They have two minutes to comply.”

“Yes, Captain,” the man acknowledged.

“Helm, get us moving however fast we can manage on the following course,” Middleton ordered after he had performed a few quick calculations and forwarded the results to Jersey’s console. The numbers confirmed that his initial belief had been correct: if the southern corvette was able to withstand more than two barrages from the Pride’s forward array then its ally would have time to maneuver and outflank the Pride, and then they’d have a real fight on their hands.

We needed those extra twelve minutes! Middleton swore silently. There was little doubt the Pride would prevail in a slugfest, but good people would get hurt in the process and their ship would take an unnecessary beating—neither of which was an acceptable concession before a shot had been fired.

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied in his usual, gruff, semi-irritated manner. A few moments later, Middleton felt the barely-perceptible shift in gravity as the grav-plates adjusted to compensate for their forward motion. Some of his crew still got space-sick during tactical maneuvers on such an outdated vessel, but the ship’s doctor had dispensed the proper pharmaceuticals to counteract the vertigo and other deleterious effects the outdated artificial gravity system was infamous for.

“Shall we raise shields, Captain?” Sarkozi asked stoically.

Middleton nearly cocked a lopsided grin, since judging from her tone his Tactical officer assumed he had forgotten about the shields. “Not yet, Tactical,” he replied calmly. “Right now we need all available power to the engines and weapons array. Besides, we’re still well outside their firing range; another few minutes and the power plants should be able to handle a full combat load.”

Sarkozi bit her cheek and nodded crisply. “Very good, sir,” she managed before turning back to her console with the slightest blush of red on her face.

“The corvettes are refusing to heave to and disarm, Captain,” the Comm. stander reported. “They’re claiming to be an MSP security detachment assigned to the gas collection facility.”

“Hah!” Middleton barked a short laugh, which he instantly regretted but did his best to ignore. “Then tell them we’re here to conduct an inspection on the orders of the highest ranking officer in the MSP, Admiral Jason Montagne. Request they squawk the current MSP chain of command, along with their vessels’ respective ID’s and names of their CO’s or, failing their ability to do so, that they stand down, heave to and deactivate their power plants.”

“We’ve cleared the sensor shadow of the moon, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, “the southern corvette is on an intercept course with us while the northern is coming about. The southern corvette will be in our weapons range in four minutes; the northern in nine.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Middleton replied as he flicked through schematics for last-minute review on the enemy vessel capabilities. He had memorized the specs for the CR-70 during the academy, but it had become part of his process some years earlier to call up schematics to refresh himself—and hopefully glean a nugget of tactical advantage as he did so.

“The corvettes’ weapons are charged and they’re trying to lock missiles on us,” Sarkozi reported professionally. “Estimate the southern corvette will achieve firing solution thirty seconds after we do.”

“No response to our ID challenge, Captain,” the Comm. stander added tensely. “Their security handshakes are also three weeks out of date.”

Before Middleton could acknowledge the Comm. officer’s report, Sarkozi piped in, “Regulations clearly dictate we treat the vessels as hostile under these circumstances, Captain.”

“Thank you, Tactical, Comm.,” Middleton replied as he saw the forward array’s power levels continue to climb. By modern standards, the Hammerhead-class medium cruiser, Pride of Prometheus, was a slow, poorly-armored ship—everywhere but the bow—whose primary strength was in its forward array of heavy lasers and robust forward shields. The Pride, in its current configuration, possessed just two point defense batteries and a pair of stern-mounted heavy lasers. Its design focused primarily on economy, and was intended to be deployed in large formations to limit the design’s weaknesses while permitting several ships to be fielded for the cost of only one, more advanced, model.

The CR-70 corvette, on the other hand, was faster than the Hammerhead and possessed a more well-rounded weapons package as well, built primarily around omnidirectional, short-range lasers which were employed in strafing runs that maximized the ship’s agility and speed. It appeared that these particular versions of the vessel were also equipped with longer range missiles, and the effective range of those missiles, once deployed, was roughly that of the Pride’s primary weapons array.

The Pride of Prometheus’ engines continued to increase their output as the tactical display on the main screen showed the ship’s consistent, yet frustratingly sluggish, acceleration toward the southern corvette. True to Middleton’s calculations, just under five minutes after issuing the order they had achieved their maximum acceleration and were driving straight on at their target.

“Maximum weapons range achieved, Captain,” Sarkozi reported briskly. “Forward batteries charged to 130% of specifications and solutions have been locked.”

Middleton smirked as he leaned forward in his chair. “You are cleared to engage, Tactical; blow ‘em to Hades.”

“Larry that, sir,” Sarkozi replied with relish before turning to her display and issuing the orders to the gun deck. Less than a second after she had finished punching in the directives, the forward batteries unleashed their full might and fury, lashing out with the combined power of ten heavy laser cannons which converged onto their target.

The shields of the enemy vessel flared into, and then out of, existence as the combined weight of the Pride’s forward weaponry crushed the corvette’s bow-facing shields.

“Eight direct hits, Captain; the corvette’s bow shields are buckling and she’s turning to present her broadside,” Sarkozi reported, but Middleton had already read as much from his chair’s readout. As soon as he saw that the enemy corvette had turned to flee toward the planet rather than away, he felt a surge of triumph.

He had them!

“Helm, change course and speed to the following,” he instructed as he forwarded the information to Jersey’s console. “Shields, divert all power to the dorsal and bow facings; Engineering, we need to overcharge the engines and close on the southern corvette.”

“Chief Garibaldi reports that the reactors are already at 102% of rated capacity,” replied the engineer, “he’s not comfortable pushing them any harder, sir.”

Biting back a scathing retort, Middleton forcibly relaxed himself enough that he bit out, “Tell him to overcharge the engines like we did when acting as the Lucky Clover’s wingman—now!”

“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer. A few moments later, he nodded in acknowledgment of his Chief’s unheard reply and said, “The Chief says it’ll take about twenty seconds, and that he’s making—“

“Another note in his log,” Middleton cut in and finished irritably, “noted, crewman. Tactical: how long until the forward batteries are ready to fire again?”

“Seventy seconds, Captain,” Sarkozi replied promptly. “The standard recharge is thirty seconds under our current power output, but overcharging the weapons requires additional time for cool-off.”

“Understood,” Middleton replied, already performing calculations on the heat dissipating and refractory qualities of water ice at seventy to ninety degrees Kelvin. Overcharging the weapons had allowed the Pride to overcome the corvette’s shields, whereas firing at normal power would have allowed the corvette to continue maneuvering while re-balancing their shields. He allowed himself to grin before Ensign Sarkozi turned abruptly.

“Incoming missiles!” she reported more than a little anxiously.

“How many?” Middleton demanded, more irritated with her emotional outburst than the fact that they were to receive fire. She had a fine tactical mind, but Sarkozi had a long ways to go before she would be a fully-fledged, battle-ready officer in the Confederation MSP.

“Twelve…no, make that, sixteen long-range Starfire class missiles on intercept course,” she reported, her voice slightly less frantic than before. “Missiles will enter effective firing range in…four minutes,” she reported more than a little sheepishly.

“Carry on, Tactical,” Middleton ordered, leaning back in his chair. Starfire missiles were an older class of weapon, easily found on any local black market. They were essentially a mobile, one-shot laser cannon powered by a controlled, thermonuclear reaction which generated a relatively powerful laser beam. The earliest versions of these weapons had utilized streams of superheated plasma, but with improved refraction technology their value as focused laser platforms became apparent.

Each one packed roughly the equivalent punch of one of the Pride’s heavy laser cannons, but their individual power wasn’t the part that concerned Middleton; it was how they could be deployed with unerring precision and timing that made him set his jaw.

“Comm., scan these frequencies for anything unusual,” he instructed, manually punching up the bands which he recalled the Starfire fire-linking systems were usually set to. He didn’t expect the Comm. stander to recognize the signal when he heard it, but he should at least be able to detect the activity.

“Scanning, Captain,” the Comm. stander acknowledged. He cocked his head as his eyes flicked back and forth over the information streaming across his screen until he stopped and expanded a particular band, and Middleton breathed a sigh of relief even before the Comm. stander reported, “I’ve got something here, sir. It’s strange…some kind of trinary data stream like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Forward that frequency to Tactical,” Middleton ordered as he turned his chair to face the Engineering crewman. “I need my engines, crewman!” he snapped. This could be close, especially if our onboard comm. gear isn’t powerful enough to approximate standard countermeasures, he thought silently.

“Yes, Captain,” the crewman replied, and Middleton turned to Sarkozi.

“Do you have that signal, Tactical?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as he could manage.

“Yes, Captain,” she replied without looking up, “re-routing primary comm. array control now.”

“Good,” Middleton said, fighting to keep the surprise from his voice at her arriving at the correct course of action. A keen tactical mind, indeed, he thought to himself, just as the forward batteries fired on the fleeing corvette.

“Seven direct hits, Captain,” Sarkozi reported with barely a sideways glance at the gunnery reports streaming onto her screen as she continued working on preparing the Comm. array to deal with those incoming missiles. “They’re streaming trace amounts of atmo and it looks like their power grid is fluctuating.”

“Carry on, Tactical,” Middleton said, having read that information as quickly as she had and not wanting her to be distracted from the task at hand. He looked at the tactical readout on the main screen and saw the sixteen Starfire missiles spreading out into a fan-like formation as they approached the Pride of Prometheus.

If they re-routed all available power to the shields there was a chance they could get lucky and absorb the combined weight of the missiles’ laser fire, but if more than half of those shots converged on a single shield generator’s facing they would face the very real danger of a ship-wide power grid failure.

The true threat posed by the missiles wasn’t in their individual, or even combined power—their deadliness was based purely on their unerring accuracy and coordination. If all sixteen combined their fire to a single point at the same moment, there were very few ships in the space-ways that could simply absorb the blow—the Lucky Clover being one of them, while the Pride of Prometheus—even with its robust forward shield facing—was not.

“Comm. array prepped, Captain,” Sarkozi reported before adding, “two minutes until the Starfires are in range. Time to the effective edge of the planet’s ring system: eight minutes.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. Sarkozi had apparently seen the same tactical value in the gas giant’s epic ring formations as he had, and he made a mental note to congratulate her later. “Keep us on the equatorial plane as long as you can, Helm, while keeping a clear line of fire for gunnery,” Middleton ordered. “We don’t want to commit one second earlier than we need to.”

“Aye, sir,” Jersey replied gruffly, as though this was all some great, personal inconvenience to him.

“Comm.,” Middleton turned to face the Comm. stander as he forwarded a file to the stander’s station, “on my order you are to send this file at maximum wattage, on the frequency of that signal you detected the trinary signal on; send these pulses on a random schedule with a period between three and twelve nanoseconds—but you are to wait for my order.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Comm. stander acknowledged as he prepped his console.

“Missile firing range in thirty seconds, Captain,” Sarkozi reported just as the lights dimmed slightly.

“Engineering!” Middleton snapped as he rounded on the crewman, who was already on the horn with Garibaldi down in Main Engineering. “Report, crewman!”

“Reactor two is overheating, Captain,” the crewman reported frantically. “The Chief requests we reduce consumption to avoid a containment failure.”

“Denied,” Middleton barked, looking back at the tactical display on the main screen. They were too close to the edge; if they slowed now and delayed reaching the ring system by even thirty seconds, the second corvette would have a chance to deploy her own missiles—and that was simply an unacceptable risk, to Middleton’s mind. “Tell him to hold it together for another,” his eyes flicked down to his chair’s readout, “five minutes; then we can reduce the power consumption—and not a second earlier!”

“Missiles in firing range…now, Captain,” Sarkozi reported tensely.

Not waiting another instant, Middleton ordered, “Now; transmit the signal, Comm. And keep transmitting until I give the order to cease.”

“Transmitting now…but Captain,” the Comm. stander objected, “the array can only handle that kind of load for ten, maybe twelve seconds before it fails.”

“Understood, Comm.,” Middleton growled as he ground his teeth. It was a risk he had to take; in a one-on-one fight, the Comm. systems were of far less utility than the shields, so it was an easy choice to make.

The seconds ticked away…five…eight…ten…twelve, and just as he was about to order they discontinue the signal in an effort to save the equipment for a potential second salvo, the tactical display blossomed with the sixteen missile icons flashing red, indicating they had fired.

The ship shuddered with repeated impacts, and the lights on the bridge flickered before going dim and gradually returning to their normal luminosity.

“Discontinue the signal, Comm.,” Middleton ordered quickly.

The Comm. stander shook his head. “The array’s been knocked offline, Captain,” he reported with obvious disappointment. “I’m reading multiple relay failures; recommend we dispatch an Engineering team to effect repairs.”

“Do it,” Middleton ordered, mentally breathing a sigh of relief at having avoided the worst possible outcome.

“Reading twelve distinct impacts, Captain,” Sarkozi reported with obvious relief. “Forward shields are at thirty percent, port dorsal shields at sixty five and starboard dorsals at eighty.”

The Pride’s forward cannons fired again, and the icon of the southern pirate corvette turned grey indicating catastrophic power failure had been detected.

“The southern corvette’s shields have collapsed…and I’m reading a fusion core ejection,” Sarkozi reported hungrily. “She’s broadcasting her unconditional surrender and I’m registering ejecting life pod signals—she’s dead in the water, Captain.”

“Thank you, Tactical,” Middleton replied. But just to be certain, he called up the CR-70 specs once again and nodded in satisfaction at what he saw. The missile complement of that ship’s class, with the sixteen missile configuration, was limited to precisely that number of shots per engagement without an exceptional—and borderline insane—engineering crew to reload them.

The weapons were modular by design, and therefore were not reloadable during combat conditions, requiring at least twenty minutes even with a crack engineering team to replace even one missile. So with the corvette’s power plant ejected, she was no longer a factor of any kind in this engagement—which meant this would now be a one-on-one fight between the Pride and the northern corvette.

“Helm, take us to the southern side of the rings; put them between us and the northern corvette,” Middleton instructed, relaxing fractionally now that the most critical part of the battle was behind them.

“Aye, sir,” Jersey replied, only slightly less irritably than before.

Damage reports could be heard streaming through the engineering and Comm. stations but they sounded light, all things considered. A few crewmembers had been taken to sickbay to treat minor head wounds and there had been a few cases of electrical burns, but no one had died thus far in the engagement, which made Middleton breathe easy as they came under the outer edge of the ring system.

Round one to us, he thought to himself.

Chapter II: A Dance of Ice & Fire

“The remaining corvette has still not fired her missiles, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, far more calmly and professionally than when they had been under fire but with a quizzical note to her voice.

“Her captain must have a cooler head than his companion did,” Middleton replied grudgingly, “he doesn’t want to play his ace this early in the game.” Having placed the incredible rings—composed primarily of water ice but with an unusual amount of nickel and iron particulates—between themselves and the corvette, the Pride had temporarily nullified the corvette’s biggest offensive weapon in her Starfire missiles. That would give the Pride precious time to recharge their shields, as well as work their way back toward the station in an effort to force an engagement on Middleton’s terms rather than the enemy’s.

“Helm, lay in a course toward the collection facility at best possible speed,” he instructed before turning to the Engineering crewman. “Tell Chief Garibaldi that he can cool off Two Plant now; he should have about thirty minutes to set it to rights before we need to restore full combat power.”

“Yes, Captain,” the crewman replied, relaying the order. Surprisingly, there was no reply this time—and thankfully no promise to make yet another note in his Demon-blasted log.

“Captain,” Sarkozi said, taking a few steps away from her station and gesturing to the main screen, “the three merchantmen are still on course for the collection facility; shouldn’t we interdict them?”

Middleton shook his head. “By themselves they wouldn’t pose much of a threat, but that Corvette’s missiles make for a force multiplier. The corvette could deploy them and then—assuming this second captain is halfway capable—coordinate the maneuvers of his ship and the three merchies for an advantageous formation while we try to counteract the missiles. The merchantmen entering the fray would complicate things unnecessarily; letting them dock is a concession we have to make, given the available data.”

“But sir,” she continued respectfully, “if they’re willing to risk an engagement with us, wouldn’t that indicate there’s something of great value to them aboard the station—something we should deny them access to? I doubt they’re going there to re-stock on H3 before beating feet, sir.”

“Your logic is sound, Ensign,” Middleton agreed with a nod of his head, “but pirates without warships are far less dangerous than pirates with warships. Without knowing for certain what’s aboard that station, I have to deal with the threats in order of apparent priority—that means the corvettes first, the merchantmen second, and then the station and its contents.”

“What’s to stop the second corvette from hightailing it out of here, sir?” Sarkozi asked, glancing at her Tactical team briefly before returning her attention to the Captain.

“Greed, Ensign,” Middleton replied confidently as he ran silent calculations to confirm their next likely engagement time with the enemy—assuming the pirate captain was as capable as he, or she, appeared. “If they were going to leave they would have done so already. You’re right; there’s something on that station which is valuable enough to tilt their fight or flight response toward the former, even in the face of a superior foe. Still, we’re now officially on the clock; if we play games for too long out here those merchies will escape with whatever cargo they seem so desperate to reclaim. Then there’ll be no way to stop that corvette from doing likewise, what with her speed advantage.”

“So we have to force the engagement here and now,” Sarkozi said with a knowing nod before turning back to her Tactical team and performing some calculations. “By my numbers, the merchantmen will reach the station in just under an hour—seventeen minutes before we reach extreme range of our forward array,” she reported, confirming Middleton’s own calculations. “If the remaining corvette follows this course toward the nearest gap in the rings,” she continued, throwing a hypothetical trajectory up onto the main screen which seemed to match the corvette’s current course, “they’ll reach an interdictory position in forty two minutes—eight minutes prior to our reaching firing range on the merchantmen, sir.”

The Captain punched up the technical specs on their forward heavy laser array, and after finding the frequency bands the weapons operated in, made a note which he forwarded to Sarkozi’s console. “We don’t want to give the merchies that much time if we can help it, Ensign,” he said confidently. “Make the modifications I’ve outlined to the forward array and report when you’ve finished.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replied, turning to her console and going over his note as a smile crept across her face. “I can have those modifications ready in eight minutes,” she reported hungrily.

“Do it,” he ordered, turning to the Sensors officer. “I need the primary sensors modified to deal with the unusual amount of iron in that ice ring,” he explained. “We’re going to need to use the primary sensor array for targeting, so we’ll need tactical-level accuracy; the weapons’ own targeting systems can’t cut through the rings’ interference. Can you do it?”

The Sensors officer looked at her console for a few moments as she got readings on the ice ring’s composition. “I think so, Captain,” she replied hesitantly, “but based on the interference, as well as our current velocity, we’ll have to slave the weapons to the sensors so they can fire as soon as a target lock is acquired. The firing windows are only going to open for a fraction of a second—too short for human reaction times.”

Slave-rigging the computers to command fire control, even temporarily, was a breach of standard operating protocol—one that required the Captain’s authorization to make. Ever since the AI wars, humanity had been distrustful of allowing machines to have too much control over dangerous equipment like weapons, and it was possibly a punishable offense for a Captain to do so—even temporarily. Normally the solutions were populated by the computer and then the gunners would verify the readings with their own targeting computers which were completely independent from the ship’s computer networks.

“Sarkozi,” Middleton nodded decisively, “slave fire control to the Sensors and set the solution parameters yourself. Each battery should offset their fire interval by ten microseconds from each other, firing in a clockwise sequence; the first laser will clear a hole through the ice ring debris to provide a clear shot for the second. We’re only going to get a couple shots before that corvette’s out of range, so we need to make each one count.”

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged curtly.

“Helm,” the Captain continued as he forwarded another set of instructions to the helmsman, “re-orient the ship; I want our bow facing that corvette while they make for the ring break, but I don’t want to change our current trajectory. I also want axial rotation precisely as indicated—can you be that exact?”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied tersely, but even the man’s sour disposition did little to deflate Middleton’s buoyant mood. Seconds later the view screen tilted upward, showing the gas giant’s incredible ring system as the bow of the ship rose gently to face it. He knew the rate of rotation he had ordered would be too slow to observe with the naked eye, but Middleton still disliked being in less than total control of the situation so he checked his instruments to verify the Pride’s axial rotation.

The density of the rings around the gas giant was unlike anything Middleton had ever encountered, or even read about, and it was that density which created a shield that would protect them from any beam weapon except the most powerful versions—like the Pride’s own heavy lasers, or the Starfire missiles on the corvette.

The sensor distortions caused by the mineral content of the rings were also tactically problematic. The Pride’s sensors were likely no better than those of the pirate, but the advantage they had while the rings were interposed between the two vessels was that the Pride’s heavy laser array could recharge and fire again, even if they missed. The pirate’s Starfire missiles, on the other hand, were only good for a single attack so the corvette’s captain couldn’t afford to waste them on a low-percentage shot through the rings—especially at their present angle, which multiplied the amount of debris between ships many, many times the median thickness of the rings.

“Comm.,” Middleton spun his chair after a minute’s silence to face the Comm. stander, “status on the primary transmitter?”

“It’s still down, Captain,” the stander reported promptly. “Engineering reports the repairs will require at least thirty minutes to complete.”

Before Middleton could respond to the Chief Engineer’s obviously sandbagged estimate, the forward array of the Pride of Prometheus erupted unexpectedly as all ten of her heavy lasers bored into the ice rings. “Beams away,” Sarkozi reported belatedly as she bent down to read the incoming telemetry and nodded satisfactorily, “reading three direct hits, Captain. Enemy shields are holding; adjusting battery timing to eight point seven microseconds for the next pass.”

“Good work, Tactical; Helm,” Middleton replied as he flipped through the ship-wide status reports. This was all much simpler as a Tactical Officer, he thought half-grudgingly as he checked the departmental status reports. “Inform Chief Garibaldi that we need that transmitter online in no more than twenty two minutes,” he said after reviewing the ship’s status. Not a single casualty to this point, he thought with silent relief. Murphy willing, we might make it through this unscathed.

A few minutes later the forward array fired another volley when the sensors read a clear enough gap in the ring system, causing Sarkozi to report, “Five direct hits, Captain. Their stern shields seem to have buckled and I’m reading trace atmo venting from their hull, but their engines appear undamaged.”

Rather than ask, Middleton brought up the Shields status display and saw that their forward generators were at 62% of maximum. There had been multiple power grid failures that had necessitated re-routing of the lateral generators’ supply, but fortunately that was of little concern.

If the two corvettes had worked together, they could have outflanked his slower, heavier vessel and made achieving firing position difficult for the Pride’s crew. But with one of the nimble corvettes already down for the count and the other well on her way to the same, by Middleton’s way of thinking, it would be little challenge to keep their bow facing the pirate vessel long enough to disable her.

Still, Middleton reminded himself somberly, if we can’t disable those Starfires’ fire-linking system like we did with the first wave, I doubt that even our reinforced bow shields will hold.

“Captain,” the Comm. stander began hesitantly, “I’m picking up some unusual chatter from the station.”

“What do you make of it?” asked Captain Middleton.

“It’s coded, sir,” the man replied as his fingers flew over his console, “but I’m getting…” he paused as he listened intently for a moment before continuing, “it’s an awfully powerful signal, Captain, and it’s being broadcast throughout the system. I don’t recognize the protocols…it must be some sort of automated SOS.”

“Log it for later review,” Middleton ordered. He wanted to know where these pirates’ allies were located, and that signal might point them in the right direction.

“Already done, sir,” the Comm. stander replied promptly, “I missed the first two seconds, but the rest—” he cut off mid-sentence, cocking his head briefly before shaking it in negation. “It’s gone now, sir.”

“Contact,” reported the Sensors operator, who Middleton turned toward as she continued, “I’m reading a heat bloom at the edge of the ring system, Captain. Looks like…Captain, it’s accelerating. These energy emissions readings are off the charts.”

“Put it on the main viewer,” the captain instructed, feeling a knot form in his stomach at the introduction of an unforeseen variable.

The view screen shimmered, and the image of the ring system was replaced with a three-dimensional tactical overlay of the gas giant. Clearly depicted were the positions of the disabled corvette, the corvette still burning at maximum speed for the ring gap, the Pride of Prometheus, and even the gas collection facility with the trio of approaching merchantmen.

But a new, flashing yellow icon had appeared on the far side of the planet. Its energy emission spike was incredible, and after a moment’s calculations Middleton knew that that much power could only be generated by a Dreadnaught class battleship’s multiple fusion generators—or potentially something even bigger.

Then the flashing yellow icon disappeared without warning, causing the Sensors operator to report, “We’ve lost contact, Captain. The emissions have vanished as well…I don’t know what to make of it, sir.”

“Give me a visual scan,” Middleton demanded, leaning forward in his chair. If there was another hostile out here—especially one so large—then a tactical withdrawal had to be considered, regardless of how it irked the Pride’s captain. “I want to lay eyes on it.”

“Scanning now, sir,” the operator reported as the Pride’s forward weapons array fired yet again. Sarkozi had the good sense to hold her own report on the volley as the Sensors operation continued, “I’ve got visual on their last known location, sir.”

The main viewer shimmered again, this time being replaced with a view of what appeared to be empty space beneath the immense ring system of the gas giant. “Scan along their projected course,” Middleton ordered promptly.

“Scanning,” the operator replied, and the viewer slowly panned from top to bottom, revealing nothing but an empty star scape. “Negative contacts, Captain. Whatever it was, it’s gone…but it left behind a huge amount of radiation where we first detected it; it’s so strong we can read it through the EM field of the planet, sir. That amount of radiation is well beyond the lethal human limit.”

The Captain gripped the arm of his chair and ground his teeth in silent frustration. Disabling the remaining corvette was essentially a foregone conclusion…if she was the last man of war the pirates had in-system.

As the captain considered the matter, Sarkozi reported, “Two hits on the last volley, Captain; minor damage to their engines detected. The corvette has brought itself too close to the face of the rings; it’s out of our effective firing range,” she finished smartly.

Arriving at a conclusion, Middleton nodded to no one in particular as he leaned on the right arm of his chair. “Either that energy spike was a decoy of some kind, or there’s a cloaked phantom ship out there. Seeing as I’ve never even heard of a vessel the size of a battleship being effectively cloaked at this close range—and only a criminally insane person would design a warship capable of producing that much radiation during normal operations—I’m guessing it was a ploy to keep us away from that station a few minutes longer. Continue on course to the station at best possible speed,” he instructed the helmsman.

“It could have been an automated vessel of some kind?” Sarkozi offered after a moment.

“Possible,” Middleton allowed tersely, “but irrelevant for now. We’ve got one job in front of us: disable that corvette. When that’s finished and we’ve re-taken the mining facility, we can investigate the matter more thoroughly.”

“Yes sir,” Sarkozi acknowledged.

The minutes ticked by until the pirate corvette had reached the gap between the rings. Unfortunately, the primary comm. array was still offline despite Captain Middleton’s insistence that Chief Garibaldi finish in something resembling a timely manner.

“How long until the array is back up?!” Middleton demanded, leaping from his chair and turning to loom over the engineering officer assigned to the bridge.

“The Chief is testing the system now, sir,” the young man replied timidly. “He says it should be up after he’s finished running through the checklists—about three minutes.”

“We don’t have three minutes!” Middleton roared, his composure shattered by his Chief Engineer’s feet-dragging. He snatched the headset from the man and holding the mic to his own lips. “Garibaldi, I need my transmitter and I need it now; flip the blasted switch already and to Hades with your checklists!” He heard a reply from the man on the other end, whose voice most certainly belonged to the Chief of Engineering and sounded more than a little indignant, but Middleton ignored his protestations. “Give me my transmitter now!” he yelled as the screen lit up with a new swarm of Starfire missile launches.

“Incoming,” Sarkozi relayed, “sensors read thirteen…no, make that fifteen Starfire missiles inbound.”

The Comm. stander quickly reported, “Transmitter is back online, Captain.”

Dropping the headset in the Engineering officer’s lap, Captain Middleton returned to his chair and accessed the tactical readouts. Fifteen? he wondered as he calculated the time to the Starfire’s range. We might have disabled one of their launchers, he reminded himself as he turned to the Comm. officer. “Repeat the previous transmission on my order; I doubt they’ve changed the operating frequencies, since doing so requires a manual adjustment of each missile.”

“Captain,” the Sensors officer reported tensely, “I’m reading another incoming object.”

“The sixteenth missile?” Middleton asked, actually feeling relieved at confirming the presence of the final weapon, since it removed a variable from the equation.

“I believe so, sir,” the officer replied hesitantly, “but it’s moving slower than the others.”

“Sarkozi?” Middleton asked. Starfire missiles did not have adjustable speeds; they burned at maximum until their fuel supply was exhausted, at which point they used their attitude adjustment jets for achieving a coordinated firing position. There was no reason he could think of for a missile to be traveling slower than the others…

“Scanning,” Ensign Sarkozi replied as she leaned over her console. “It’s transmitting the same as the others, sir,” she replied after a brief review. “It must have been damaged, or have some kind of failure in its drive system.”

Middleton felt his hackles rise. This was most certainly an unexpected wrinkle, but he still had no idea what it meant. “Time to Starfire range?” he asked, even though the information was plain to see on the main view screen. He often had to forcibly remind himself that he was the Captain; coordinating the efforts of his crew was his primary focus, and relying on them doing their jobs, was the most important part of his own role. Easier said than done, he chided himself coldly.

“Eighty seconds,” Sarkozi replied. “The corvette is coming in directly behind the missiles, sir.…” she trailed off doubtfully as her fingers flew over her console.

“They must be banking on the missiles to eliminate our shields, Ensign,” the captain mused. “If they do, a full-frontal assault is their best chance to win, slim as that chance is.” He turned to the Shields operator, “What’s the status of our forward shields?”

“68%, Captain,” came the reply.

At those numbers there was a very real possibility that the corvette’s Starfire missiles could breach their shields, leaving them vulnerable to the corvette’s strafing run. Even still, a strafing run with every single weapon on the pirate ship overcharged likely wouldn’t do more than moderate damage to the Pride of Prometheus, during and after which the Pride would be able to unload on them—if those Starfires didn’t disable the forward heavy laser array.

But in any event, the smart play would be to burn their engines at full power to minimize potential engagement time in the event the Pride suffered less than catastrophic damage.

Still…this doesn’t seem right, Middleton cursed silently until he saw the speed of the sixteenth missile and something clicked in his mind. His fingers flew over his chair’s readout as he called up schematics from the ship’s archives, flipping through directories until coming to the exact listing he needed and his blood ran cold.

“Starfires in range in twenty seconds, Captain,” Sarkozi reported as she continued to work furiously at her own console.

“Tactical,” Middleton began calmly, his jaw set in grim determination, “prepare to receive a Liberator class torpedo. Comm.,” he continued evenly as heads turned in outright shock at the mention of what may well have been the most terrifying pieces of ordnance ever developed in the Confederated Spine, “you can hold off on scrambling the Starfires a little longer.”

“Missiles in range in five, four, three, two, one…” Sarkozi reported in a professional, if subdued voice. “Starfires in range now, Captain,” she reported just as the missiles entered their projected zone of fire on the main screen’s tactical display.

All around the bridge was silence, or at least as close to it as can be achieved with reports being relayed to the various department heads, as the bridge crew watched the swarm of fifteen Starfire missiles come ever closer to the Pride of Prometheus. The lone icon of the sixteenth ‘missile’ updated to display its proper status as a Liberator torpedo, and it continued to accelerate toward the Pride. It actually passed the line of Starfires, since they had already exhausted their fuel supply and were now relying solely on maneuvering jets for orientation. Middleton knew it was too late for anything but to rely on desperate, close-range heavy laser fire in addition to their underwhelming point defense countermeasures…not to mention prayers to the Saint himself.

“At least we know when the Starfires will touch off,” Middleton said wryly, eliciting a pair of snickers from Jersey and, surprisingly, the Comm. officer, an Ensign named Jardine. The pirate captain would want the Starfires to fire as close to the torpedo’s impact as possible, just so long as they hit before the torpedo did by a few microseconds. “But just to be safe, begin broadcasting the jamming signal beginning nine seconds prior to the Liberator’s impact, Comm.”

“Aye, sir,” the Comm. officer acknowledged.

“Tactical,” Middleton continued, “I’ve got a case of Gorgon Ice Ale for any gunner who can evict that torp from my sight.” The corvette was still out of the Pride’s heavy laser range, which had clearly been the pirate captain’s intention all along, so a one in a hundred shot of hitting the Liberator was better than sitting on their hands with silent guns.

“Larry that, sir,” she replied before relaying his offer to the gun deck.

The tension on the bridge was almost suffocating, and Middleton had no choice but to watch as the timer sluggishly wound down. At least I can count on the pirate waiting until the last possible second to unleash his Starfires, he thought bitterly. Thank Murphy for small miracles.

When the timer reached nine seconds to impact, the Comm. officer audibly slapped his console to activate the jamming signal. Shortly thereafter, the heavy lasers of the Pride’s forward array opened fire one by one, lancing off into the field of stars and disappearing.

“Seven…eight…nine shots away, Captain; zero strikes on target,” Sarkozi reported testily just as the tenth and final heavy laser cleared its metaphorical barrel, resulting in a wave of excitement in the Tactical pit. “A hit, Captain!” Sarkozi exclaimed an instant before the Starfires erupted with all their might and fury.

The lights on the bridge dimmed and briefly went out altogether, followed by a loud, crashing sound which saw the ship lurch off its axis. Myriad alarms to go off in unison as damage reports streamed into the bridge just as the lighting returned.

That they were still alive and able to receive reports at all was a miracle in and of itself, and one Middleton did not intend to take for granted. Liberator torpedoes were ship-busters, meaning they impacted on the hull and then bored a hole through the target ship’s armor using high-powered plasma streams. Through the newly-made hole, the torpedo would insert a high-yield explosive device which could destroy all but the largest capital ships in a single go, due to the explosion going off within the armor rather than without.

“Tactical, focus your fire on that corvette,” Middleton ordered as he turned to the Shields operator. “What’s the status of the forward shields?”

“The forward array has buckled, Captain,” he reported as blood flowed down his nose and onto his shirt. “Six of eight relays are offline; I doubt I can get a screen up before the corvette closes to firing range, sir.”

“Do your best,” Middleton ordered as he saw that the corvette had already come into the Pride’s heavy laser range. He growled in frustration, knowing it would take precious seconds to recharge the forward batteries after their last-ditch attempts to destroy the Liberator. That meant they would get no more than two shots at the enemy before they closed range, which may or may not be enough to disable the enemy ship before it shot past them and escaped to the hyper limit. Middleton silently laid the odds right around fifty-fifty for the pirate to escape. “Inform the gun deck that they may fire at will on approach,” he added almost absently.

Sarkozi acknowledged the order and relayed it to the gun deck, after which the seconds ticked by as the enemy vessel came ever closer to the Pride of Prometheus. The forward batteries fired in near unison and Middleton allowed himself a pleased smirk at their coordination as the corvette’s forward shields visibly failed. The pirate held its own return fire until it was well within its own weapons’ optimal firing range before unleashing a hail of beam weapons, which impacted on the Pride’s forward hull with reports that were audible even from the bridge.

“Forward armor holding, Captain,” Sarkozi reported crisply. “No breaches detected. Heavy laser battery number three is offline…and damage control protocols have been initiated,” she continued, eliciting a sideways glare from the nearby Damage Control officer at having usurped his privilege.

“Very good; continue firing as she passes by,” Middleton instructed. “Helm: keep our bow facing them throughout. Another two volleys and she’s done for.”

“Aye, sir,” Jersey replied, this time with considerably less disgruntlement.

“Captain, the enemy vessel is hailing,” the Comm. operator reported anxiously, pausing briefly before adding, “she’s offering her surrender.”

“She’s powering down her engines, Captain,” Sarkozi concurred, a note of triumph in her voice.

Despite the severity of the situation, Middleton arched an eyebrow incredulously. “Put her on screen,” he ordered, straightening himself in his chair just before the rugged, yet oddly handsome, face of a bent-nosed woman appeared on the viewer. “This is Captain Tyrone Middleton of the MSP cruiser Pride of Prometheus,” he said sharply using his ‘true’ first name, as protocol demanded. His father’s name had been Tyrone, and the two of them had experienced a rather severe falling out just before Middleton had gone to college, prompting him to adopt his middle name of Timothy for informal use. “You are ordered to stand down, heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

“We will comply,” the pirate captain replied agreeably, causing Middleton’s eyes to narrow suspiciously. “We have already deactivated our engines and are powering down our fusion core while we prepare to receive your boarding party; I have no desire to see my crew suffer for my failure as their captain.”

“Take your weapons offline and power down your shields, Captain,” Middleton instructed in a hard voice. “Do so quickly, or I’ll have my gunners tear your ship to pieces.”

The woman tilted her head toward someone on her own bridge, and a moment later Sarkozi nodded her affirmation that the pirate corvette had done as instructed.

“Your name, Captain?” Middleton pressed, leaning forward in his command chair as he considered how this could all be a deception. We survived the Liberator torpedo—one of the few universally banned weapons in the Confederated Spine—so perhaps she simply has no more fight left in her? he wondered briefly. Maybe her ship is in worse shape than it appears…but even so, with reasonable maneuvering they still have a good chance to escape our weapons range.

“Captain Meisha Raubach,” the large-nosed woman replied stiffly, breaking his silent musings. “We will surrender to your inspection and seizure teams as soon as they arrive,” she said, briefly snapping her eyes below the viewer’s pickup. “Raubach, out.”

“Confirm their engines, shields and weapons are offline,” Middleton snapped irritably. He was certain he was missing something, but what that was he could not yet say…

“Confirmed, Captain,” Sarkozi replied promptly. “Their entire power grid outside of environmental now reads as offline.”

“They must be itching for a trench fight,” Middleton mused aloud, grasping at straws for why they would give up at this juncture.

“Maybe they hope to sucker our Lancers aboard and then counterattack with a boarding party of their own?” Sarkozi asked, sounding respectfully skeptical.

“Could be…” Middleton mused, feeling a growing knot of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Something isn’t right here, he thought, angry with himself for not seeing all the angles. “No,” he shook his head in negation, “there’s no way that’s it; our Lancers outnumber that ship’s listed armed forces personnel three to one at full complement, and I’d wager we’re in better shape than she is.”

Ensign Sarkozi nodded slowly. “True…and nobody wants a firefight on their own ship,” she continued before throwing a three dimensional representation of the Pride onto the main viewer. “The Liberator’s still lodged onto the starboard bow,” she reported as the image centered on that part of the represented ship, showing the path of the beam in bright red. “Its coring beam fired and penetrated decks three through nine at an angle of approximately twelve degrees, extending nearly sixty percent the length of the ship.”

Captain Middleton called up the latest damage reports and had to keep himself from wincing. The latest reports showed four confirmed deaths and three more crewmembers missing whose last reported positions were along the path of the coring beam.

Just then a pale, blue bar of lights began flashing along top of each workstation, as well as around the joint between the bulkheads and the ceiling. Middleton did not immediately recognize the emergency code.

But when he did, he understood the pirates’ intentions all too clearly.

Chapter III: Earning Hazard Pay

“Biohazard detected on decks four, five and six,” the Comm. officer reported. “Emergency lockdown protocols are now in effect.”

Middleton punched up the ship’s doctor on his chair’s comm. unit and was quickly rewarded with the image of the aging doctor’s face. “What is it, Doctor?” he asked, feeling an odd mixture of anxiety and serenity now that the final piece had fallen into place. It was terrifying to have a biological contagion aboard the ship, but he now fully understood the tactical situation and would no longer need to analyze and re-analyze each and every piece of new information. To Middleton, this was actually a significant relief.

“Computer’s reading some kind of multi-part, auto-recombinant airborne virus,” Doctor Milton replied grimly. “It beat the standard filters because it only recombines inside the host’s body. Frankly, we’re lucky it got detected by the outdated filters in here,” he said with a hard look.

Middleton kept his features firm despite the roiling sensation in his abdomen. “Can you treat it?”

The Doctor shook his head as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Realistically the best thing we can do is lock the ship down, shut off the primary air circulation systems and hope to Murphy it’s been contained.”

“Can we re-route the air circulation through the systems in Engineering and the Bridge?” Middleton pressed, knowing it was a long shot. The Pride’s critical areas—the bridge, Engineering, the gun deck and sickbay—had independent air re-circulation systems which, when activated, could keep those portions of the ship separate in the event of a contaminant like the one just discovered. They could also filter out and destroy any potential bio-contaminants for several days with no more than emergency power. Tapping into those filtration systems was a long shot, but Middleton had to do everything possible for his crew.

“If we do that, we risk exposing the crew that are already protected within the high-security sections,” the Doctor shook his head firmly. “Protocols are clear on this situation, Captain; I’ve already initiated the lockdown, and now only you or I can override it. As Chief Medical Officer, it is my opinion that you should leave the lockdown in place until this contagion has been identified and treated, or run its course in containment.”

Captain Middleton felt the urge to sit back in his chair but fought it, remaining precisely where he was so he could maintain eye contact with Milton. “How long, Doctor?” he asked after a lengthy pause which saw all activity on the bridge come to a grinding halt.

“If this is a high-grade bioweapon, and I’ve got no reason to believe it isn’t, no more than twelve hours—barring extreme luck with the available treatments,” Doctor Milton replied matter-of-factly. “That still gives me a few hours here to determine what it is we’re dealing with…in the event we don’t have ‘extreme luck’.”

Middleton could feel the eyes of the entire bridge crew on him as the reality of the situation sank in for them. But to him, Doctor Milton’s report was just another piece of the puzzle which explained the second corvette captain’s behavior perfectly. To Middleton’s mind, the fact that the Liberator had carried a bioweapon rather than a ship-busting bomb was good news since at least some of the crew would survive. They were already in full lockdown, containment mode, so there was little point in worrying about the inevitable aftermath of the virus just yet.

“I’ll leave you to it then, Doctor,” Middleton said with a short nod which Milton returned before cutting the com-link. Straightening himself in his chair, Captain Middleton turned deliberately toward Ensign Sarkozi. “Has Captain Raubach’s vessel come to a full stop?”

Sarkozi stared blankly at him for a moment before snapping to and checking her console with a glance. “No, Captain,” she said with a note of surprise, “she’s cut her engines and stopped her acceleration, but the corvette’s inertia is still carrying it forward with only the gravity of the gas giant slowing her down fractionally, and they’ve already gone well past orbit-breaking speed.”

Middleton had expected such, so he continued calmly, “Are their shields still raised?”

Sarkozi glanced down and shook her head. “Negative, Captain; her shields are down and her primary generator is offline. Aside from her forward momentum, she’s dead in space.”

Replaying the sequence of events in his mind, Captain Middleton shook his head at his own lack of experience. Foreseeing the presence of not one, but two banned weapons in the Liberator torpedo and the bioweapon it carried, required an unreasonable amount of foresight. But he now knew that he should not have accepted Captain Raubach’s unconditional surrender as readily as he had.

“Tactical,” he began evenly, feeling his face go red with anger, “have the gun deck transfer fire control of the forward batteries to my console.”

“But Captain—“ Sarkozi began, but the rest of her words caught in her throat at Middleton’s hard, unyielding look. “Transferring now, sir,” she said professionally before bracing to attention several seconds later and adding, “transfer complete, Captain.”

“Comm.,” the Captain said, his eyes fixed on the main viewer, “hail the corvette.”

“Hailing now, Captain,” Ensign Jardine replied after a brief pause.

A moment later, the screen was filled with Captain Meisha T. Raubach’s smug features. “We are prepared to receive your boarding party, Captain Middleton,” she said officiously, but Middleton could plainly see the outright arrogance in her visage. She clearly knew that the Pride of Prometheus would catch her eventually, but she also just as clearly knew that the Pride would be in lockdown and that sending a boarding party would be next to impossible until that lockdown was over, which could either take hours or days.

Still, Middleton thought to himself bitterly as he leaned forward in his chair, at least we won’t have to worry about them sending a boarding party of their own. “Captain Raubach,” he began in an officious tone of his own, “you have deployed outlawed ordnance, including weapons of mass destruction in the form of an engineered bioweapon, delivered by an universally banned ship-to-ship delivery platform. Your crimes have been noted in my ship’s log and are witnessed by the members of this crew; under the Confederation War Crimes statute you are hereby sentenced to summary execution.”

Captain Raubach stiffened visibly as she shook her head in negation, her curly hair bouncing around her oddly handsome features. “The Confederation War Crimes statutes are outdated, Captain,” she said smugly. “As Imperial citizens, both I and my crew are afforded safe passage to an Imperial outpost—as stipulated under both the Union Treaty and the United Space Sectors and Provinces Act—where our legal status can be impartially determined. We have complied with your demands by powering down our fusion reactor and disabling our weaponry—as well as our engines,” she added with a triumphant smirk, “and are even now awaiting your boarding party. I assure you we will cooperate fully with your inspection and seizure teams whenever they arrive.”

“The Union Treaty has been dissolved, Captain Raubach,” Middleton said evenly, “and with it your so-called ‘protection’.”

“Even if that’s true,” she countered easily, “as an officer in the Imperial Navy, the United Space Sectors and Provinces Act stipulates that I be remanded into Imperial custody before any provincial legal action can proceed.”

“Captain Raubach,” Middleton began, feeling his collar begin to heat at the incessant back-and-forth wordplay but knowing he needed to keep calm, “are you saying that your actions here are condoned by the Imperial Navy?”

Raubach laughed in open derision. “Of course not,” she spat with a piteous shake of her head, “I, and my crew, seized this ship and station in an act of piracy, in order to take financial advantage of the political instability in the region. But, as a mutinous Imperial officer, my superiors will naturally want me remanded to their custody immediately following my arrest.”

Middleton felt the urge to scream at the top of his lungs, but he kept his best poker face throughout. His mind raced as he tried to devise a way to outmaneuver this woman, but it was clear that she had the legal framework on her side—which meant this had been a well-coordinated effort, likely with significant backing. “Raubach,” Middleton mused as he tried to buy time, “I’ve heard that name before. Your family’s one of the most powerful in the Imperium, isn’t it?”

“My husband, James’, family,” she corrected with a disdainful shake of her head, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. “My maiden name is Tate,” she added in her insufferably smug tone.

Ensign Sarkozi approached Middleton’s chair and leaned close to say under her breath, “In three minutes they will have left our heavy lasers’ extreme range, Captain.”

At Middleton’s momentary hesitation, Captain Raubach snickered triumphantly. “Face it, Captain,” she said, taking a step toward the viewer’s pickup, “there’s nothing you can do now; I’ve got complete legal immunity.”

Middleton closed his eyes and his hand hung suspended over the arm console of his chair. He knew full well that what he was contemplating bordered on a capital offense in and of itself, but even assuming the Pride caught up to the corvette and secured both it and its crew, all that would do is buy more time for the merchantmen to conclude their business at the mining facility—and Captain Middleton was now certain that said business was far from legitimate.

Conversely, if he turned his back on the corvette to secure the gas facility and merchantmen, there was nothing to stop it from coasting further and further away until it was outside the Pride’s effective zone of control. And if there was even a half-reasonable possibility that the gas facility had been turned into a bioweapons manufacturing site—

His eyes snapped open after he had worked his way through the situation, and he knew what he had to do…no matter how much it might cost him personally.

“Your ‘immunity,’ Captain Raubach,” he began coldly, his fingers tapping the Captain’s fire control code into the console on his chair, “has just been revoked.”

His finger rammed down on the firing icon, and the look on the pirate Captain’s face was one of shocked incredulity as the Pride’s forward batteries fired in unison. Captain Raubach made to protest, but the connection was severed before any sound passed her lips.

The viewer shimmered to replace her smug visage with a real-time image of the corvette as its superstructure buckled from the combined salvo of eight heavy lasers landing in concert on the drifting vessel.

Seconds later there was a series of explosions which cascaded through the corvette’s hull, sending sections of hull plating flying in every direction as the vessel began to topple end over end from the force of the internal ruptures. Debris went spinning off with every rotation, and after less than a minute all power signatures aboard the corvette went dark.

There was shocked silence on the bridge, into which Middleton smartly ordered, “Helm, best possible speed to the gas collection facility; I don’t want a single ship escaping this system under any circumstances. Comm.,” he continued, bracing himself against the arm of his chair, “transmit on all channels the order for vessels in system to heave to—or, if docked, to remain where they are—and await MSP inspection. Failure to comply will result in,” he cocked a cold grin in spite of the situation’s severity, “further revocations.”

“Aye, sir,” both men replied in near unison as they went about their tasks.

“However,” Middleton added as he considered the matter tactically, “while they will be arrested on sight, the lives of any suspected criminals will be spared unconditionally regardless of what we find during our inspections—given that no harm has come to the surviving inhabitants of the station upon our arrival.”

“Yes sir,” Ensign Jardine, the Comm. Officer, acknowledged. A few minutes later, he turned to the Captain and said, “The pirates agree to offer their unconditional surrender, Captain, and report that there are twenty six unharmed civilians aboard the facility.”

Sitting back in the command chair, Captain Middleton breathed a short sigh of relief. It seemed that the heavy lifting was done with. He flipped through a few pages of directories until he came to the gas facility’s specifications and found the crew complement during normal operations was a hundred and two.

“I want immediate contact with a representative of those ‘civilians’,” he ordered. “Once I’m satisfied as to their state, I’ll officially recognize the pirates’ surrender.”

“Yes sir,” Jardine acknowledged.

Middleton began perusing ship status reports, specifically those regarding how many personnel were within the areas of Engineering, the gun deck, and the Bridge. It was possible that some of the sternward areas of the Pride had been protected by the lockdown, but that was only of short-term benefit if they couldn’t re-activate the air circulation systems.

“Patching the representative through now, Captain,” the Comm. officer reported.

Captain Tim Middleton looked up at the main viewer just as the image there morphed into a Caprian woman’s face—the sight of which made his heart skip a beat as his mind went totally blank as he blinked in some vain attempt to dismiss what he was seeing.

“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.”

Garibaldi shook his head adamantly. “There is simply no way, Captain; I’ve already stolen an emitter from each broadside, as well as one from the stern. Any more robbing Richard to pay Percy and we might as well abandon the entire notion of raising a defensive field around those sections. Thirty percent is the absolute best we can do without all-new emitters—not to mention the fact that most of those relays are already on bypass as it is. Those old Starfires hammered us, sir, but the real problem was the woefully under-designed power grid on these old Hydras. If I had my druthers,” he said with a sigh, “we’d replace the entire forward section with all-new relays and junctions.”

“This is a Promethean flagged ship, Chief, so it’s designated a ‘Hammerhead’ class cruiser,” Middleton said with a lopsided grin, “not a Hydra.” Garibaldi, a Belter by birth, seemed to love nothing more than poking fun at Middleton’s home world, Capria, and its system of government—when he didn’t seem to want to kill the Captain, of course.

“You say ‘tuh-may-toe’, I say ‘tuh-mah-toe’,” Garibaldi retorted dryly. “I can’t help it if you Caprians let the ‘save the planet’ freaks run amok and re-designate warships based on whether or not some MP’s daughter is hot and heavy into marine conservation. And what’s the big deal anyway? It’s not like these old things look even remotely like those majestic, criminally misunderstood, ocean-going engines of death and dismemberment.”

Shaking his head in mock bewilderment, Garibaldi stood from the chair and collected his resignation letter before snapping something resembling a military salute. Middleton returned the salute and the Chief Engineer nodded curtly as he turned on his heel, causing Middleton to breathe a silent sigh of relief at having averted yet another crisis with his temperamental department head.

“And Chief,” Middleton called out before the Chief had reached the door, causing Garibaldi to stop and turn expectantly. “I understand your proclivity for keeping complete records,” the Captain began, “but it’s bad for morale if you keep shouting about making entries in your Murphy-blasted log every time we’re hip-deep in it.”

The Chief set his jaw and fire seemed to smolder in his eyes as he looked ready to launch into yet another tirade, but Middleton held up a hand calmingly which, praise the Saint, gave Garibaldi pause.

“I’m not saying you should stop making entries,” the Captain assured him, “I’m just saying that, for the time being, it might be best if you kept it to yourself. Every piece of information we compile on this mission is going to be valuable to the MSP—including records of objectionable behavior on the part of this ship’s commanding officer—and you’re easily the most detail-minded person aboard this ship. So I hope you’ll keep your records just as you’ve done…but it would be better if we weren’t seen by the rest of the crew to be constantly at each other’s throats.”

The fire seemed to leave Garibaldi’s eyes by the time Middleton had finished, and he nodded stiffly before pointing the data slate at the Captain. “Because of what you did for me and my family,” he said pointedly, “I’ll…try to keep my big mouth shut. But I can’t promise—“

Middleton held up his hands haltingly, glad for the victory—however small it might be. “I’m just asking you, as your Captain, to keep it in mind, Chief.”

Garibaldi nodded curtly as he rolled his head around, working out some tension in his neck as he cast a wayward glance at the nearby bulkheads. It was a well-known ‘secret’ aboard the Pride of Prometheus that the Chief, despite being a Belter—and therefore having lived his entire life aboard spacecraft—was a claustrophobe. With his burning rage at Middleton no longer present to distract him, his old ticks started to show up. “Captain,” he said awkwardly as he gave a nervous glance toward the ceiling.

“Chief,” Middleton replied evenly, “go ahead and send Sarkozi in next, please.”

“You got it, Captain,” Garibaldi acknowledged before turning to leave the ready room. A few moments later, Ensign Sarkozi entered the room.

Before the door had slid closed behind her, she braced to attention and snapped a salute.

“At ease, Ensign,” Middleton said, causing the young woman to proffer a data slate. The Captain perused it and found that it contained the ship’s updated readiness reports, as well as an after-action account of the engagement with the pirates. He nodded appreciatively at the fine work she had done in compiling the data, but when he had nearly reached the end he paused and re-read the section regarding Captain Raubach’s surrender.

Ensign Sarkozi clasped her hands behind her back and looked anxiously between Middleton and the data slate before he handed it back to her, clearly taking her by surprise. “Is there something unsatisfactory regarding my report?” she asked, sounding more than slightly anxious.

“Ensign,” Middleton said, gesturing to the chair where Garibaldi had sat as he moved behind the desk to his own chair. After they were both seated, he clasped his hands and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not going to beat around the bush here; prior to my firing on the second corvette, I made no mention whatsoever of suspecting a bioweapons facility being aboard the gas collection plant.”

“Sir,” she said stiffly, standing to her feet abruptly and bracing to attention as though she had been struck. “That is not my recollection, Captain,” she said with a conviction that was betrayed by the nervousness in her eyes.

“Ensign,” Middleton said coldly, standing slowly and placing his knuckles down on the top of the desk, “as a tactical officer, your primary concern is obtaining and relaying accurate information, is it not?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” she replied, jutting her chin out and staring straight at the bulkhead behind the Captain before flitting a glance over at him. “I just thought—“

“You thought?!” Middleton roared, slamming his fist into the desk hard enough to split the skin over his middle knuckle. “During operations, I value the input of my officers—including you,” he continued angrily, striking the desk with his palm, to spare his other knuckles, “and that requires the expression of your ‘thoughts,’ whatever they may be. But this ship’s after-action reports—no, all reports,” he corrected himself, jabbing the index finger of one hand down on the data slate while making an ‘O’ with his other hand, “will include zero thoughts, feelings, impressions or conjecture of any kind. Is that understood, Ensign Sarkozi?!”

He picked up the data slate and thrust it toward her. After a moment’s pause, she accepted it before returning to attention. Middleton slowly walked around the desk and came to stand at her side, fairly looming over the smallish woman as he tried to project his disappointment—which, in truth, was not wholly unexpected. Sarkozi was an ambitious young officer with a strong sense of loyalty, and he had feared something like this would happen.

“This report is factually inaccurate, Ensign; correct and return it immediately. Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his voice tight with anger—only half of which was embellished.

“Yes, Captain,” she said before turning on her heel and stepping toward the door.

“You have not yet been dismissed!” Middleton snapped, causing her to stop mid-step and re-brace to attention immediately. After a long moment of silence, the Captain continued in a calmer, yet still deadly serious tone, “I can’t tell if this was some brazen attempt by an ambitious officer to curry favor with her superior officer as a means of advancement, or a sorely misguided display of loyalty from one officer to another. Either way, I am deeply disappointed by this ‘report,’ Ensign Sarkozi.” He breathed a pair of deliberately loud blasts from him nostrils before icily adding, “Dismissed.”

She stood mouth agape for several seconds before collecting her wits. “Sir,” she snapped a salute and held the pose before turning smartly and exiting the ready room.

When she had left and the door closed behind her, Middleton released a pent-up sigh. “Blast,” he muttered under his breath, leaning against the desk briefly as he rubbed the back of his neck. He had fully intended to field promote her to Lieutenant and make her his Executive Officer during that meeting, owing to her obvious abilities and excellent service record these past weeks. But the falsified report—however well-intentioned—was a serious setback to the young woman’s career, to say nothing of Middleton’s attempt to craft a fully-functional command structure aboard the Pride of Prometheus.

Vice Admiral Jason Montagne had given Captain Middleton fairly broad authority to go along with his equally broad mandate—if one could even call his ‘orders’ a mandate. He had told Middleton to patrol Sector 24 to the best of the Pride’s ability for a month in a ‘wave the flag’ operation, and he had encouraged Middleton to craft his command team according to his own preferences. That included the responsibility of handing out field promotions to those officers that had proven worthy, and those promotions would be respected and upheld by the MSP’s sole remaining Flag Officer, Admiral Montagne himself.

But Tim Middleton knew that in order for a crew to function properly, it needed strong leadership and part of that leadership was setting a proper example. He simply could not excuse Sarkozi’s attempt to cover for him, forgetting about the fact that she was incriminating herself by falsifying a report of that nature.

“Blast,” he repeated, his plans for establishing a coherent command structure aboard the ship having been dealt a major setback. But, firmly believing in the philosophy of ‘what’s done is done,’ he cleared his head and went back to his chair.

Once seated, he activated the console built into the desk and punched up the comm. channel for sickbay. An irritably long interval later, the screen was filled with a familiar woman’s features.

“Doctor,” Captain Middleton said evenly, “how are your patients?”

The woman shook her head. “We’ve still got six in serious condition who should survive but one more in critical who likely won’t survive the night,” she replied coolly. “I’m doing what I can for him but I’m afraid there’s just too much lung damage. I’d need a Crimson grade trauma facility to save him, and even then we’re talking total neurological stasis along with a complete cardiopulmonary bypass and replacement, which given his age is far from a certain path to recovery.”

“What about the healing tanks?” Middleton pressed, knowing very little of how they actually worked but knowing they were capable of working what were to his mind out-and-out miracles.

The woman shook her head. “The tanks would only address the pulmonary failure while ignoring the neurological decay, while cryo-stasis would halt both but the process is incompatible with resuscitation due to this virus’s peculiar qualities. If we freeze him, there’s no way to unfreeze him.”

Middleton slumped slightly in his chair. He had desperately hoped that Jo, a civilian but currently the only licensed Medical Doctor aboard the Pride of Prometheus, would have been able to save Doctor Milton’s life. But it seemed that was not to be.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” she said with more empathy in her voice than he could ever remember hearing from the woman who broke his heart weeks before their college graduation.

Middleton bristled and unconsciously straightened himself at hearing her utter his first name. “Is he awake?”

Jo shook her head. “No, he’s been out for nearly four hours. I seriously doubt he regains consciousness at this point.”

“Then, as the Captain of this ship, I must formally request that you continue to care for the wounded, seeing as we no longer have a medical officer fit for active duty,” Middleton said officiously.

She shook her head fractionally before saying, “You know how I feel about the military, Tim.”

“I do indeed, Doctor,” he replied stiffly. It had, ostensibly, been her dislike of the military—and his choice to join it—which had led to their divorce mere weeks prior to his shipping out. “But I, and my crew, would be greatly appreciative if you would stay on and assist us until we can find a suitable replacement for Doctor Milton.”

Jo bit her lip hesitantly, and her eyes flashed back and forth for several seconds before nodding abruptly. “All right, Tim. I’ll stay on until you’ve had a chance to find a qualified replacement,” she said grudgingly before leaning toward the pickup and lowering her voice, “but I’m a civilian, not a military officer, and I hope you remember it. I expect my civil rights to be upheld while I’m aboard this ship.”

“I think I can do that, Doctor,” Middleton nodded before leaning in toward the pickup as well, “but as long as you’re aboard this ship you will address me as ‘Captain,’ seeing as I am a military officer and it’s hard enough establishing discipline on this ship without a former acquaintance taking familiar liberties in public.”

Her eyes flashed with anger and Middleton was afraid she would argue the point, but the look was fleeting and she nodded affirmatively. “Very well, Captain,” she said icily. “Doctor Middleton, out.”

Middleton sat back in his chair and breathed yet another sigh of relief. The truth was that dealing with tactical situations, however hazardous or gruesome they might be, was nothing compared to the constant bureaucracy and administrative duties of being in command.

Still, he had managed to keep things pointed in more or less the right direction for his first month of command, and now it seemed he had but one task before himself: finding a planet where they could affect repairs and find some new recruits to replenish their losses.

After nearly three hours of considering the options, he finally decided on a relatively nearby star system with a single habitable world called ‘Shèhuì Héxié’ by its inhabitants, which when translated to Confederation Standard, meant something along the lines of ‘Social Harmony.’

With a name like that, how could we go wrong? he thought to himself sardonically.

Chapter V: Lacking Political Capital

“As I said, Captain, we will happily provide you with whatever material assistance you require—a process which, I understand, has already begun. But regarding the recruitment of our citizens for your ship’s crew, I am afraid that my hands are tied,” the representative said.

The representative wore an ancient style robe which was simple in its design, but clearly made of pure silk. His pale skin and sharp, angular features were quite unlike those possessed by a native Caprian like Middleton, and the man wore his hair in a high, perfectly bound topknot with a slender stick of some kind pinning it in place.

Middleton ground his teeth as he sat back in his ready room’s chair. “Representative Rong—“ he began, but the representative stopped him with a gesture.

“My family name is ‘Kong’,” he corrected patiently, “Rong is my given name, Captain Middleton.”

“Fine,” Middleton bit out, having gone round and round with the representative for several hours already, “Representative Kong, the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is a recognized arm of the Confederation government—a body to which your planet has belonged for over a century—and seeing as your world is a contributory member of the MSP, you are required to provide assistance where necessary—including manpower, not just physical assets.”

Representative Kong Rong nodded fractionally, “It is true that our planet was a member of the Confederation here in the Spineward Sectors. However, my world has determined that the signing of the Union Treaty and subsequent formation of the Confederated Empire rendered all former obligations null and void. Still,” he continued calmly in a tone that only a lifelong politician could use so expertly, “we are willing to provide material assistance in light of your ship’s recent accomplishment in liberating a gas mining facility and returning to us one of our SDF warships, both of which may prove vital in these increasingly troublesome times. But I am afraid that must be the extent of our involvement at this juncture.”

“We did return that corvette to you,” Middleton said hotly, feeling his temper beginning to flare uncontrollably. As luck would have it, the vessel which had survived the battle at the gas mine had originally belonged to this planet—which had played no small part in Middleton’s plan to come to this world rather than another. “Not only that, but we also arrested nearly two hundred confessed pirates and destroyed a bioweapons facility in the process of liberating that gas collection plant.”

Representative Kong Rong held a hand up politely. “Forgive me, Captain,” he said with a gracious tilt of his head, “but my government has yet to make a final determination as to the arrested individuals’ involvement in any activities such as those you outline—we were quite clear on this point when we agreed to take custody of them. However,” he added smoothly, “the return of an illegally seized warship is an act for which we are most grateful.”

“Then, as a gesture of gratitude,” Middleton pressed, returning to the same subject which had plagued the last two hours of unexpected negotiations, “I am asking you to provide me with skilled personnel, who are both willing and capable, of serving aboard this ship in the positions I have outlined.”

The representative sighed patronizingly. “You do not understand, Captain,” he said far too calmly for Middleton’s liking, “our planet has strict laws governing emigration of any kind. There are long-practiced protocols involved which help maintain our world’s namesake, as we have ever striven for absolute harmony in our society. I am afraid that none of our citizens would qualify for legal emigration and subsequent enlistment to your ‘MSP’ within the restrictive timeframe you outlined.”

Middleton forced himself to take deep, measured breaths to calm himself as he tried to think of a way around the representative’s unexpected obstinacy. “Ok,” he said, breathing out a long breath evenly, “explain to me how these ‘social harmony’ laws of yours work again?”

The representative bowed slightly, clasping his hands before himself and perfectly joining the hems of his sleeves as he did so. “Of course, Captain. In our long-practiced philosophy, passed down by our ancestors who brought with them the learned wisdom of our Ancient Earth forebears, each person has a place of equal importance in any society. However, there are certain individuals who can be considered ‘central’ to any harmonious social structure but whose individual aptitudes or abilities, while often exceeding those of others in certain respects, should not afford them special dispensation or regard. It is in this fashion that our society differs most from your own; we do not believe one person should be treated with more or less respect or deference than another, since the contributions of every individual are essential to the continued harmony of the group.”

Middleton nodded as he interrupted, “And this group of ‘central’ individuals makes up roughly five percent of any group’s population, yes?”

The representative nodded fractionally, “Between three and seven percent of a given population, whose number exceeds two thousand, can be considered ‘central’ to that group’s harmonious existence. So yes, five percent is an adequate approximation for the purposes of this discussion.”

“And am I to understand then that, in general terms,” Middleton continued, feeling his choler rise as he did so, “the majority of those whose aptitudes would qualify them for service aboard this ship would fall into this ‘three to seven percent’?”

“This is almost certainly the case,” the representative replied with another infuriating tilt of his head. “Perhaps you can now understand how we cannot allow our citizenry to upset the delicate balance which we have worked so hard to achieve and maintain.”

“All right,” Middleton said as he activated the console built into his desk, “I’ll need some time to digest this. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to remain aboard this ship for a few hours while I consider the matter further?”

Representative Kong Rong again clasped his hands before himself and bowed his head officiously. “It is my humble duty to act as my world’s liaison to your vessel, Captain. I would be honored to remain as long as my presence is of benefit.”

“Thank you, Representative,” Middleton said, standing and gesturing to the door. The representative bowed again and took several steps back while still facing the Captain before turning and leaving the room. Not long after he left, Chief Engineer Alfred Garibaldi came into the room unannounced, holding a data slate.

“Chief,” Middleton began exasperatedly after the door had swished closed behind the man, “I understand that these people aren’t being all that cooperative, but I really need to clear my head for a minute. If you’ve got a formal complaint to lodge, leave it here and I’ll take a look at it when I’ve got a minute.”

“What?” Garibaldi asked with a look of clear puzzlement, turning briefly as if to see where Representative Kong had gone. “No, Captain, it’s nothing about that,” he said excitedly. “Matter of fact, the stuff these guys are sending up is top-notch; I’m seriously impressed by the subtle improvements I’m seeing in the gear they’ve brought aboard. I’m certain everything we pick up from this planet will outperform the rated specs by at least twenty percent.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well, at least that’s good news,” he said, rubbing his neck to work out some of the tension the last few hours had built up. “If you’re not here to complain…then why exactly are you here, Chief?”

“Captain, you wound me,” the Chief said in mock outrage before waving the data slate as a mischievous look came over his face. “I’ve got something here you’re gonna want to see.”

Middleton sighed and held his hand out for the slate, desperate to deal with whatever it was so he could return to the business at hand. “Let me have a look,” he said in as even a tone as he could manage.

“Check this out,” Garibaldi said as he activated the slate and moved beside the Captain. The screen was filled with a smashball pitch as the offensive and defensive players took their positions.

“Chief, I really don’t have time—“ Middleton began.

“No, no,” Garibaldi interrupted. “You’re gonna love this, Captain. Just keep an eye on double-aughts lined up wide right for the offense.”

The commentary was in an unfamiliar language and after glancing at the characters streaming across the screen, Middleton realized this must have been a broadcast from the planet below. His eyes locked on the player wearing twin zeroes just as both teams came set, and number zero-zero went in motion from right to left.

The ball was snapped just as zero-zero came across the rightward line marking the backfield pocket, and took a hand-off from the prime back before exploding toward the far sideline with a burst of speed like nothing Middleton had ever seen—even in thirty years of religiously watching the Omega Bowl.

The commentators began chattering in what sounded like mixtures of irritation and outright condemnation as the ball carrier shoulder charged a defensive lineman easily half again his size, flattening the defender and laying him out in an unmoving, spread eagle position.

Another defender—the rightbacker, who had clearly been spying zero-zero—came flying at the player at what seemed to Middleton to be fairly impressive speed, but player zero-zero was simply on another level. Lowering his shoulder, the ball-carrier cut low and just as the defender matched levels in an attempt to attack zero-zero’s hips, the ball-carrier sprung upward and easily leapt over the defender like a track star clearing a thirty inch hurdle—only this particular hurdle had to be closer to fifty inches high than thirty.

There were still four defenders—the entire secondary—downfield, and it looked like around seventy meters between the ball-carrier and the score. It seemed that just one score would win the game, since the clock had already wound down to zero, making this the final play of the game barring a penalty.

Two players—a wingbacker and the deathbacker—converged toward a single point in the carrier’s path while the other two defenders—the lastbacker and far-side wingbacker—backpedaled and spread out wide to cover the field sideline-to-sideline. Each was already at least fifteen yards downfield from the runner as they backpedaled, which seemed more than a little odd to Middleton. In smashball, if the ball-carrier held onto the ball for long enough then that ball became a weapon, and its use as such was what had given rise to the sport’s name.

As the two front defenders converged, the carrier juked hard right, then left, then right again, doing so without losing much, if any, forward momentum—an impressive feat, even for a lifelong athlete.

The rightward defender bit on the first fake, sprawling out on the pitch in a heap as he failed to maintain his footing. The second, leftward defender, stayed with the runner’s first two fakes before clearly injuring his lower leg while trying to match the ball-carrier’s final, incredible cutback. Middleton checked the play clock and saw that five seconds had already elapsed, which meant that the ball now weighed in excess of thirty kilos, having steadily increased in apparent mass over the course of the play. Impossibly, the ball-carrier seemed barely affected by the increased load as his legs continued to churn away and send his body downfield toward the score zone.

The commentators’ voices had collectively risen, and now all of them seemed genuinely outraged—with a few even sounding like they had broken into tears.

It was apparently a small thing for the ball-carrier, having already cleared the largest and most powerful defenders on the opposing team, to stiff-arm the first remaining defender into the ground. The runner then grabbed the ball with both hands and, just before the lastbacker launched himself through the air in an attempt to tackle the ball-carrier, zero-zero swung the ball upward in a vicious arc which saw the smashball slam into the last defender’s chest. The lastbacker was sent flying several meters through the air by the impressive smash, and landed near the sidelines.

With the way clear, zero-zero tucked the ball and ran the final twenty or so meters into the scoring zone. Without fanfare or celebration, the player sprinted in for the score, after which time he set the ball down calmly on the pitch and turned to jog back toward the defenders. The commentators kept repeating a single word over, and over, and over in their apparent outrage which sounded something like ‘Kay Chee’ to Middleton. Player zero-zero went to check on the injured defender just before the recording ended and the screen went dark.

“So, who is this ‘Kay Chee’” Middleton asked, handing the slate back to Garibaldi, “and why is it so important I watch his admittedly impressive smashball skills?”

“Wrong on both counts, Captain,” the Chief said with a crooked grin. “’Kay Chee’ is actually ‘Kěchǐ,’ which in their planet’s ancient tongue means ‘shameful,’ or ‘disgraceful’. And it’s, uh…” he cleared his throat emphatically, “not a ‘he’.”

Middleton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, that makes her accomplishments doubly impressive,” he allowed, “but again, why was it so important I see her play?”

“Word has it,” Garibaldi leaned in conspiratorially, “she wants to join up and this is her application. Seems she gave the vid to one of our requisition officers, who handed it to me during transfer of those shield emitters and said she’s waiting planet-side for your reply. Something about,” he tapped the data slate a few times and scanned its contents before continuing, “here it is: ‘Confederation Article 2.10.73-b, governing the lawful military enlistment of Confederation worlds’ citizens during a time of crisis’.”

“Let me see that,” Middleton took the pad from the engineer and silently perused the text, finding a slew of references and legal excerpts, but it seemed that most of them did not apply to this particular world’s citizens. “Bah, ’Social Harmony,’ my left—“ Middleton began before catching himself and continuing more professionally, “this whole ‘every person is equally important’ mantra looks like it makes these statutes objectionable, at least in a legal sense, since Article 2.10.73-b clearly states ‘individuals deemed by their respective planetary governments to be indispensable are exempt’.”

Garibaldi shrugged. “Well, whatever, I just thought you’d want to see it.” With that, the Chief Engineer turned and left Middleton’s ready room. When he had gone, Middleton sat down at his desk and decided to watch the smashball play one more time.

He noticed that the woman’s body was exceptionally broad and powerful…unnaturally so. She had twin ponytails running down her back beneath her helmet, and it was clear that her arms were far more muscular than all but Sergeant Joneson’s or the four Tracto-an Lancers’, even if she was a bit short—at least, compared to the other players on the field with her.

Flipping through the data slate, Middleton took a deep breath before delving into the Confederation statutes the woman had provided him. At that particular moment, it seemed to be his best hope of finding a way through this web of legal entanglement so he could get the crew replacements he desperately needed.

Chapter VI: Tit for Tat and Letter vs. Spirit

“Representative Kong,” Middleton greeted as the man swept gracefully into his ready room, “please have a seat.”

Clasping his hands before himself briefly, the representative did as he was instructed, looking more than a little uncomfortable as he did so. Middleton put it off to the man’s strange attire, which probably made it difficult to sit properly.

“I think I may have found a solution to our mutual problems,” the Captain began, eliciting a faint look of surprise on the other man’s face.

“You have already apprised me of your own particular challenges…but to what ‘problems’ of ours might you be referring?” the representative asked with the barest hint of challenge in his voice. Middleton slid a data slate across the desk to the representative, which the other man accepted and read quickly before chuckling slightly. “I assure you, Captain Middleton, that my world will have little difficulty providing for the pirate prisoners you have brought. We consider it a debt of gratitude which we will gladly repay, in the hope of fostering friendship and goodwill with your organization.”

Allowing himself a chuckle, Captain Middleton said pointedly, “The organization to which you refer would be the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, Representative.” Sitting back in his chair, Middleton continued in a more level tone, “On the next page of that slate you will find a series of articles and statutes which quite clearly govern this particular situation. I suggest you read them before we continue.”

Representative Kong Rong eyed Middleton briefly before doing as he was told, and his eyes narrowed only slightly as he neared the end of the listed statutes. “An interesting—if archaic and therefore irrelevant—set of legalities,” the representative said, placing the slate on the desk and sliding it toward Middleton. “However, I fail to see how this applies since, as I already mentioned, my planet considers the Confederation to have been dissolved with the signing of the Union Treaty?”

“I thought you might say that,” Middleton said before pushing the data slate across the desk yet again. “Read the last page, please.”

Representative Kong took the data slate deliberately and did so. This time when he was no more than halfway through the contents he deactivated the slate and set his jaw before placing the device on the desk yet again—but this time he did not push it back toward the Captain. “You make an…unexpected argument, Captain. But even if our continued acceptance of interstellar trade with the various members of the former Confederation,” he said with a pointed pause before continuing, “did, in some way, legally bind us to these clearly outdated laws, I doubt my government would accede to allowing our social harmony to be disrupted by the removal of so many, so quickly.”

Nodding knowingly, Middleton leaned forward and splayed his hands in deference. “I couldn’t in good conscience ask you to do that, Representative Kong,” he said seriously. When the other man’s look became guarded, the Captain continued, “So in the interests of…furthering our relations, I’m suggesting a compromise of sorts.” At this Middleton slid a second data slate over to the representative, evoking an audible grinding of teeth by the other man as he took the slate in hand and began to read.

The other man read the entire document, then re-read it and began to nod slowly as he finished it. “I should be able to convince my people to consent to this first stipulation,” he said eventually, “but I can make no guarantees regarding the second.”

“I have every confidence in your skills of persuasion, Representative, but it must be all or nothing,” Middleton said, rising from his chair as the other man did likewise.

“You will have your reply in no more than one day, but I must return to speak directly with my people before a decision can be made,” Kong said.

“We’ll be in orbit for another week at least,” Middleton said agreeably, “but the sooner we can get started with the transfers, the better. After all, the more I learn about this ‘social harmony’ concept of yours, the more I think your people might be on to something,” he lied. “We’d just like to do our part for such a good friend.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Representative Kong said, clasping his hands in his people’s traditional sign of respect yet again, “I believe your proposal will prove beneficial to all involved, and will in fact promote lasting harmony. I will do my best to convey this sentiment to the others.”

With that, the man swept out of the ready room and Middleton was left alone with a splitting headache that always seemed to accompany prolonged contact with politicians. But at least this latest contest seemed to be concluded—for now.

Murphy only knows what’s waiting around the corner, he thought as he left his ready room with every intention of getting some much-needed sleep.

The com-link chimed and, while Middleton was tempted to deactivate it to get just a few more minutes of sleep, he grudgingly flailed his hand until it found the link and activated it. “Middleton,” he acknowledged, placing the link on his chest as he closed his eyes for what might be the last time in several hours.

“Captain,” came the voice of the Comm. officer on the bridge, “I have Representative Kong requesting to speak with you.”

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes briefly, Middleton stood and made his way to the nearby console built into the wall. “Thank you; put him through to my quarters,” he instructed after taking a deep breath.

“Yes, sir,” the Comm. officer acknowledged and the face of Kong Rong appeared on Middleton’s display.

“Representative,” Middleton greeted, “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

Representative Kong made his customary gesture of respect and Middleton could see a clearly pleased expression on the other man’s face, causing him to feel hopeful for the first time since arriving in orbit. “Captain Middleton, I would like to relay my people’s willingness to accede to your most gracious proposal. If you would like, I can send a manifest detailing the particular segment of our population you requested. I assumed you would wish to begin as quickly as possible?”

Middleton nodded agreeably. “If it’s all the same to you, I think that would be best.”

“Very good, Captain,” Representative Kong said with an inclination of his head. “I am forwarding the packet to you now.”

The console chimed, indicating that he had indeed received a data packet from the other man. A quick perusal indicated that it at least appeared to be what Middleton had asked for, with nearly two million individual entries, so he nodded. “I have it now. Thank you, Representative. As to the individual case I asked you to present…?”

Representative Kong shook his head shortly. “It was not easy, but I managed to convince them to acquiesce on that particular matter as well. On behalf of my people I wish you serendipity in your efforts, Captain Middleton,” he said, again bowing his head behind clasped hands. “May your travels again bring you to our harmonious world.”

Middleton smiled to himself triumphantly before realizing the job wasn’t quite done.

Now he had to convince his officers of this particular idea’s merits. He prayed that was going to be easier than convincing Representative Kong.

“Let me get this straight, Captain,” Garibaldi said, only fractionally less rebelliously than Middleton had expected, “you want us to use this planet’s prisoners to replace our lost crew?”

“Normally I don’t agree with the Chief on much, if anything,” Sergeant Joneson interjected in his deep, smooth voice, “but I’m lining up on his side of the ball this time, sir.”

Murmurs of assent came from all around the conference table and, fearing that the situation might spin quickly out of control, Middleton loudly cleared his throat. When he had the table’s full attention, he activated the main view screen inside the conference room. “This is a graphical breakdown of the planet’s entire prison population—a total group of just over two million,” he said, pausing at that number for several seconds before continuing, “with that population divided by age; offenses, by class and severity; as well as remaining sentence duration. I’m sure there are other ways we can parse these numbers, but those should help us narrow it down to about one percent without too much work.”

“Yeah, but we’re still talking about twenty thousand people, Captain,” Garibaldi objected. “With over two hundred empty bunks aboard, that leaves another cut down to the next one percent; how do we even do that?”

“We could start with conscientious objectors,” suggested Jo, otherwise known to the rest of the crew by now as ‘Dr. Middleton.’ “I’ve been reading about these ‘social harmony’ laws, and it sounds an awful lot like a classic, dystopian ‘tyranny of the masses’ situation. There have to be hordes of people who we would classify as political prisoners, or asylum-seekers who tried to get off-world but failed?”

The other department heads nodded their agreement, and the mood took a decided turn for the better.

“That’s a great idea, Doctor,” the Captain agreed, “but unfortunately we don’t get access to the objectors or the asylum-seekers, which cuts about two hundred thousand right off the top. The white collar crowd is open to us, however, so I agree that they should be given first look. The problem is that this society doesn’t exactly present a lot of opportunities for graft or corruption—and most of the truly successful criminals in this particular arena wind up dying mysteriously not too long after they’ve been apprehended—so we’re only talking about roughly fifty thousand people there.”

“Which leaves…what?” asked Ensign Sarkozi into the growing silence.

Middleton stood and clicked through to the next page, which outlined the most populace group available to them for recruitment and the entire room seemed to groan in unison.

“Comprising over seventy percent of this planet’s prison population are violent offenders, and those convicted of ‘crimes against the body of the state’ which means, essentially, vandalism or theft,” he said, ignoring the collective downturn in the group’s mood. “I’ve taken the liberty of removing all prisoners whose remaining sentences are less than five years,” he continued, “as well as those whose most recent physicals would preclude military service based on age, physical and/or mental deficits, and lack of basic aptitudes including their state-mandated intelligence, personality, and social skills examinations—”

“Wait,” Jo interrupted incredulously, “hold on a minute. You’re telling me that each of these prisoners has been forced to undergo a series of examinations to determine their intellectual capacity, personality makeup and social quotient?” Looking around and likely seeing that she was alone in her outrage among present company, she sat back in her chair. “That’s…horrible.”

“It is what it is,” Middleton said with a shrug. “While it may seem dehumanizing to us, it presents the benefit of making our job of selection considerably easier. And in any case, we don’t have the luxury to stand on principle by refusing to utilize the available data. Your assignments over the next three days are to devote every waking hour of your departments’ assigned personnel not dedicated to critical shipboard functions to reviewing these twenty six thousand cases. Obviously if you think we can add some more slices of the pie, I’m open to expanding the search,” he said pointedly.

When no one made clear they thought that was a particularly grand idea, Captain Middleton nodded while keeping his best poker face. “Then you have your assignments; I suggest focusing on those cases which were made with less-than-sterling evidence, to increase the chances of recruiting the wrongfully imprisoned,” he said, standing from the table while everyone else followed suit. “Dismissed.”

The officers shuffled out of the room one by one, with even Garibaldi mostly keeping his disgruntlement to himself as they exited the room. The only person who remained in the room with Middleton was Jo, his ex-wife and current Doctor.

“You enjoyed that more than you should have, Tim,” she said with a shake of her head.

Sitting back down in his seat, Captain Middleton sighed and allowed a pent-up smile to spread across his face. “Call it the privilege of rank,” he quipped before turning serious. “In any case, we can’t very well make repairs and get back out on active duty without a full complement of crew. Given the circumstances, this is the best I can do to address that need.”

“Still,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m not sure about filling half your ship with convicts—especially violent offenders.”

Middleton shrugged, since there was quite literally no other option available to him without abandoning his mission and running back to the Admiral in defeat. “I’m guessing that out of twenty six thousand we can find a couple hundred that fit the bill. Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “when all’s said and done, we’re in the hurt business. All we need to do is instill a little discipline and redirect their natural tendencies to a more productive outlet.”

“Productive?” Jo scoffed. “By whose measure?”

Middleton sighed. “Doctor, you of all people should understand the risk associated with reopening old wounds. Let’s just keep the past where it belongs.”

She looked like she wanted to argue the point, but to Middleton’s surprise she shook her head and stood from her chair. “I don’t want to argue with you, Tim,” she said with an unexpected hint of apology in her voice. “I’ll take a look at the qualified medical practitioners to see if there’s one who can serve as your new ship’s doctor.”

Middleton nodded, knowing it was probably for the best that she do so. His ship was far from where he wanted it when it came to discipline and he suspected that when things were run according to his design, she would find it a fairly inhospitable environment. “I would appreciate your input in that regard…and I am truly grateful for your help to this point as well, Jo. Without you I would have lost even more of my crew to that blasted virus.”

Jo gave him a cold, hard look. “Those pirates held me prisoner for three weeks after I refused to help them with that Demon-blasted virus; I couldn’t stand by and do nothing to help its victims, no matter how much I might have disagreed with the situation to begin with,” she said coolly, and her words pierced him to the core.

Momentarily at a loss for words, Middleton nodded reluctantly. “You always did follow your heart…” he said in a hollow tone. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

She nodded and they shared a silent moment of reflection before she moved toward the door. Just before she left the room, she turned and said, “I never did thank you for rescuing me from those pirates.”

“You don’t need to,” he replied evenly. “I was just doing my job…but I’m glad you’re alright. If you ever need to talk about what happened…well, I’m not sure it’s a great idea, but I’m here if you think it would help.”

Jo snickered softly. “I’m not the naïve girl you married in college, Tim,” she said as her eyes seemed to drift for a moment before she returned her attention to him, “but thanks for the offer. Who knows, maybe I’ll take you up on it someday?”

With that she left the room, and Captain Tim Middleton was left with a slew of memories both pleasant and painful. He allowed himself to dwell on them for a few minutes before clearing his mind and returning to his quarters for some much-needed rest.

Chapter VII: New Game, Same Rules

“We’ll dock with the Pride of Prometheus in twenty minutes,” came the static-laden voice of the shuttle’s pilot through the cabin’s intercom speakers. “Remain in your seats until we’ve touched down,” he added with what could only have been smugness.

But this was a dream come true, and nothing would tarnish the moment for her. Until she had set foot aboard the shuttle she had never really stepped off her home world, but now she was actually going into space! Even though she knew that she would forge her destiny among the stars, and that it would be no easy task, she also knew that nothing in her life had been easy…and she doubted that was going to change now.

Seated to either side of her was a pair of men, one old and the other roughly her own age. The older man was balding with only a scant wisp of near-white hair on the back of his head, while the younger man had longer, black hair—but both had barcode tattoos over their right eyes, clearly signifying their status as lifetime prisoners.

The large, brown-skinned man who had stood at the doorway to the shuttle when she had entered was seated opposite herself. He wore a military uniform with Confederation Standard markings on them that designated him a Lancer Sergeant named Joneson, and from the look of him he was all business.

He held her gaze as her eyes made their way up his uniform, and for a moment she was taken aback by the apparent antipathy she read on his features. But that moment passed when she realized she actually recognized him.

Without thinking, she blurted in her best Confederation Standard, “You are Walter Joneson!”

The man held her with his eyes for several moments before nodding curtly.

She leaned back in awe; this was one of the finest smashball players to ever participate in the Omega Bowl! As a child she had watched replays of his utter dominance in the trenches and had never imagined she would have the privilege to share a shuttle ride with him—let alone serve on the same starship!

She leaned forward but the harness held her firmly in place as she continued deliberately, careful not to make a grammatical error, “This one has watched thousand of games from dozen of different leagues; this one has never seen player your size with such footwork and balance. You are inspiration, sir, and it is honor to be in your presence,” she said with as deep of a nod as she could manage in her current confinement.

The man snorted derisively, which caught her by surprise. She looked up at him and saw his eyes had taken an even harder cast to them than before. “I had to work for everything I ever achieved,” he said evenly. “The price was hard work and sacrifice; nothing worthwhile is ever given.”

Her own eyes narrowed as she took his meaning plainly enough, having dealt with discrimination of this kind for her entire life. Straightening in her chair, she jutted her chin out defiantly. “This one cannot change her birth,” she said stiffly, “and this one would not wish to. One’s talents not determine one’s worth; what one does with opportunity is measure of life.”

Sergeant Joneson held her gaze as she refused to back down an inch—even to such a giant of a man and legend of smashball, which was her lifelong passion. After a few moments of silence, the large man nodded curtly while his expression remained granite-hard. “Well said, Recruit. We’ll soon find out if those are just words to you, or if you really know what they mean.”

The massive Sergeant—who still appeared to be in playing shape after retiring over a decade earlier—unfastened his harness and made his way to the cockpit of the shuttle.

She sat and fumed for several seconds, her moment of blissful hero worship shattered by yet another encounter with bigotry regarding something over which she had absolutely no control. She felt the harness straps bite into her shoulders as she had apparently leaned forward to hard in her anger and barely noticed the young man sitting beside her as he spoke.

“For what it’s worth,” he said under his breath in the language of her home world, “I find the discrimination you’ve faced to be absolutely appalling.”

“Do not speak to this one, prisoner,” she spat in her native tongue. To have risen so high, and yet been cast down so low in such a brief period was nearly enough to make her scream, but she managed to keep a tenuous hold on her volatile emotions. They were as much a part of her as any other aspect of who she was, but she had often found them to be of great detriment as she adjusted to life in normal society.

“Fair enough,” he said with an apologetic splaying of his hands. “But I still think it’s criminal that they never even let you have a name.”

She glared at him. “You would speak of things ‘criminal’ as though your opinion carries weight?” After looking at him for just a moment she saw that he was oddly attractive—in a thin, wiry, wholly un-athletic fashion, of course. She forcibly glanced up at his barcode and recognized the number code, which indicated his crimes were those against public property—the most pathetic type of criminal, in her view.

“A poor choice of words,” he allowed with a snicker. “Still, from what I understand, these MSP people are going to need you to choose a name. I would imagine it’s something you’ve thought about for a while…I can’t wait to see what you pick.”

“Do not speak to this one for the duration of this shuttle ride,” she growled and, much to her surprise, he stowed his honeyed words and did as she said. The truth was she had considered the matter of a name at great length, and had already decided on a suitable name for herself.

Walking through the corridors of the Pride of Prometheus was like walking through a temple to the Ancestors. She stood in reverent awe at all of the people, who appeared to be from an incredibly diverse array of backgrounds, going about their duties in what seemed to be perfect harmony.

Walter Joneson led her, as well as the other ‘recruits,’ a short ways through the ship’s corridors before they had arrived at sickbay where a middle-aged woman wearing glasses stood ready to receive them. The woman’s uniform designated her as a Doctor, and her eyes lingered when they came to the form-fitting smashball uniform bearing the twin zeroes. But the Doctor quickly cleared her throat as she prepared to address the two dozen recruits en masse.

“My name is Doctor Middleton,” she began, “and I will be conducting a thorough physical examination of each of you prior to signing off on your readiness to serve aboard this…ship.” She paused after that particular word before continuing, “If any of you have allergies or other medical conditions you are aware of, please mark them down on the slate. Otherwise, we will proceed with the examinations alphabetically, which should take ten minutes each.”

The hours ticked by as each recruit was processed in turn by the doctor. After they were finished, the recruits were escorted out of the sickbay until only one person remained.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Middleton said with an apologetic look at her data slate, “I don’t seem to have a name on file for you here; it must be a clerical error of some kind.”

“It is no error,” she replied stiffly with a deliberate shake of her head. “The circumstance of this one’s birth…you would say ‘controversial’?”

“I don’t understand,” the doctor said before sighing, “but then, I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t understand about your culture—”

“It is not my cul—,” she snapped angrily before stopping herself short and taking a deep, cleansing breath. “Proceed?” she asked in as even a tone as she could manage.

The doctor nodded, and oddly enough she did not appear to be fearful in the slightest. “Still,” the doctor said as she made her way to a scanning apparatus of some kind, “you’re going to need a name aboard this ship. We can’t just refer to you as,” she gestured to the smashball uniform, complete with pads, “’that smashball player’. Before we’re finished, we’ll need to log your name into the system. If you have one picked out, we could do so now…?”

Nodding in understanding, she felt a thrill of anticipation as she realized she would finally be able to take up a name for herself and no longer be treated like a faceless shadow. She typed in her chosen name, using both her home world’s native characters as well as the Confederation Standard alphabet.

“I see…” the doctor said as a smile played over her lips. “You know,” she confided as she tucked the data slate away in her lab coat’s pocket and gestured to the nearby exam table, “we have uncensored—albeit digital—copies of each of the four great literary classics in the ship’s library.”

Uncertain as to precisely what the Doctor mean, but feeling a wave of elation come over her regardless, she lay back on the table and allowed the doctor to conduct her examination.

“Recruit,” Captain Middleton began, looking down at his data slate in mild confusion, “Lu Bu?”

“Yes, sir,” the young, immensely powerful-looking woman replied promptly in an unusually deep voice. She stood a few inches shorter than Middleton himself, but easily outweighed him by at least twenty—and maybe closer to thirty—kilos of solid muscle and bone.

Middleton nodded appreciatively. “I take it I have you to thank for apprising us of the Confederation statutes regarding legal emigration from your world?” he continued, knowing full well that it had been her. He seriously doubted that even on a planet of two billion there was even one other individual who resembled the young woman standing before him.

“Yes, sir,” she repeated, standing so rigidly at what she clearly believed to be ‘attention’ that Middleton couldn’t help but smile. “This one not good with studies, but Lu Bu hopes she is of assistance, sir.”

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 astronomical.”

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 excitement 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.

Her lip curled as she mirrored his posture. Finally, she thought to herself, a challenge!

Twenty rotations later Lu Bu was still in the center of her circle, having just been pinned for the fifth time by one of the men who had been set against her by Sergeant Walter Joneson.

She snarled in outrage and clambered to her feet, her knees shaking and every muscle in her torso seemingly on fire. In a way it was disconcerting to feel so vulnerable, but in another way this was perhaps the most exhilarating experience of her young life. The thrill of a proper challenge was something she had savored for as long as she could remember, and this was easily the most difficult exercise she could have dreamt of.

“Come!” she gasped as her legs threatened to give out. The first few bouts had been over relatively quickly as the Tracto-ans had, rather obviously in retrospect, allowed her to win while gauging her abilities. But the last few had lasted for nearly a minute each—and most had ended in her total defeat at the hands of the surprisingly powerful men.

But not once had she allowed them to hurl her from the circle, while it was clear to her they held her in open disdain as they had attempted to do precisely that for several bouts. Eventually they abandoned that particular approach when it became clear she would not be so easily defeated.

Kilo for kilo, she was certain that her own physical abilities far surpassed these ‘Tracto-an’s’ abilities, but the sheer size difference between them had become an essentially insurmountable obstacle to victory for Lu Bu—not that she was dissuaded by the hopelessness of the situation, however. She viewed this as a rare—or even unique—opportunity to examine her own flaws by testing herself against these surprisingly worthy foes.

“Time!” Joneson called out. The other groups had already rotated three times, but Lu Bu had refused to step out and enter the ‘shark’ rotations, instead demanding to remain in the center to face the men who were already Lancers under Walter Joneson’s command.

“Lu, rotate out,” Joneson ordered.

“No!” she snapped over her shoulder, gesturing for the next Tracto-an to enter the circle. Much as she knew this was a chance to test herself, she found herself genuinely outraged at being defeated so handily by the Tracto-ans, and her primal desire to compete had already assumed control over her mental faculties.

The next thing she knew, someone behind her had shoved her forward onto the mat and placed his knee into the small of her back, while immobilizing her right arm with some kind of two-on-one joint lock. “If you can’t learn to follow orders,” she heard Sergeant Joneson’s voice growl as he twisted her arm hard enough that she literally felt muscle fibers tear in her bicep, “then you can go to Gunnery like the rest of the washouts, Recruit! Maybe you’re looking for a way out?” he shouted, torqueing her arm even further to the point she was fairly certain ligament damage had occurred.

“No!” she shouted, her voice muffled from having her face shoved into the mat, her vision narrowing as she was overcome with rage. “This one will not quit!”

“Then maybe you’re trying to give me a reason to wash you out,” Joneson continued, cranking on her arm even harder until she heard something pop. “Looking for the back door; is that it, Recruit?” he hissed.

Her arm flared with pain. She was certain that something had torn in her shoulder, but the knowledge of that damage was more concerning to her than the pain, which was something she had always been able to deal with.

Just then there was a chime of some kind from nearby, and before she could scream in angry defiance, she heard the Sergeant say, “Joneson here, Captain.” A few moments later, he relaxed his grip on her arm fractionally and said, “On my way now, sir.”

With that he released her arm and stood slowly, keeping his knee in her back for an extra second as he got to his feet.

Rolling over with open outrage on her face, Lu Bu looked up to see the Sergeant towering over her as she fought to keep from cradling her damaged arm while fixing him with the raging infernos that her eyes had become. It was all she could do to keep from launching herself at him for damaging her arm—after attacking her back, no less!

Walter Joneson stood there for several moments before leaning down slightly and saying in a low, deadly serious tone, “Report to sickbay and get that arm looked at, Recruit Lu. That’s an order.” He turned and made his way toward the door. “Break for chow,” he barked. “You’ve got twenty minutes to eat, and forty minutes to digest before we hit the grav-cycles. Move!” he shouted as he exited the room.

After Walter Joneson had left, Lu Bu got to her feet and found that she actually had tears streaming down her face, which was completely unexpected. She had felt anger and nothing more. The pain in her shoulder was certainly not severe enough to provoke tears from her, and yet she could do nothing to stop them from flowing down her cheeks.

“Blasted genies,” she heard one of the nearby recruits mutter in the tongue of her home world, followed by murmurs of assent from the nearest recruits.

“What you call me?” she seethed in Confederation Standard, having heard this term in similarly hushed voices during the previous few days. It was a variation of a term she had heard too many times before, which she guessed was supposed to be a clever invocation of her heredity.

The man, standing in a group with six fellow prisoners from her world, squared up slightly and said challengingly in her native tongue, “You heard me, genie. Your kind,” he gestured toward her and the Tracto-ans “are a blight on humanity’s future harmony—a disease which we should have erased when we had the chance!” The others around him nodded their assent, with one even going so far as to spit on the deck in derision.

Without even realizing she had done it, Lu Bu leapt toward the man as her subconscious, animal instincts took control. Everyone in the room was caught unaware, and with just two powerful strides she planted the fist of her good arm into the man’s abdomen directly over his liver. Before he even hit the deck, she turned and kicked the leg of a nearby recruit so hard she felt his shin snap against her own, far more durable one. Before that man had hit the deck—howling in genuine agony—she knife-handed a third to the side of his head with her injured, right arm.

All three collapsed to the deck, and she was just getting ready to deliver a front kick to the face of a fourth when she felt a pair of hands grasp her upper arms from behind. Acting purely on instinct, she twisted her body and slunk away from the man’s hands and squared herself.

Before realizing she had done so, Lu Bu launched herself upward and brought her knee into the incredibly broad, powerful jaw of the last Tracto-an she had wrestled. His momentum carried him directly into the blow, as his body fell forward following the attempt to corral her with his outstretched arms.

The Tracto-an’s head snapped sideways from the force of her blow, and she saw his eyes roll back as his momentum carried him face-first into the metal deck plates between the mats.

But before she could recover, the other three Tracto-ans leapt on her and drug her to the ground. She fought furiously against them, but there was simply no way she could win a struggle against the three of them.

Screaming wordlessly for several seconds, her conscious mind finally took back control and she stopped her thrashing for as she took sharp, controlled breaths. The Tracto-ans relaxed their grips on her arms and legs slightly and Atticus gave her a dire look of warning, which promised that further outbursts would be met far less gently.

Standing to her feet, she gestured toward the three fallen men. “Walter Joneson orders this one to sickbay,” she said stiffly as she knelt to sling the man with the broken leg over her shoulder. To her surprise, no one—including the Tracto-ans—made an attempt to stop her. “Bring them,” she gestured toward the other injured recruits before making her way out of the rec room and heading toward sickbay.

She strode past her slack-jawed countrymen with her head held high, carrying the still-screaming recruit with her.

Chapter IX: Playing to Strengths

The chime sounded at Middleton’s door an hour after he had concluded his discussion with Sergeant Joneson. The Sergeant had gone to make preparations for the trap which Middleton hoped to spring on whoever it was that was sending unauthorized, encrypted transmissions off-ship. With their next jump scheduled in roughly two hours, he wanted to set their trap as quickly—and quietly—as possible.

“Enter,” the Captain called out as he reviewed an incident report involving their new Lancer recruits which had landed five of them in sickbay.

The door opened and Jo, his ex-wife, entered the room. He refused to think of her as ‘Doctor Middleton,’ since she had kept his last name these past twenty two years without apprising him of that fact.

The doctor had a look of pure, undiluted rage—at least, for her—on her face as she stormed into the office and shouted, “You made her a Lancer!?” The door slid closed behind her just after she finished her opening outburst, and he set his jaw at her flaunting of military protocols—protocols which she clearly held in the lowest regard.

“Have a seat, Doctor,” Middleton said as calmly as he could manage.

She leveled an accusing finger at him. “She is a child, Tim—a child! And you put her in there with men like Walter Joneson?!”

Captain Middleton stood slowly and leaned forward, his knuckles pressing down on the desk so hard he briefly feared they might split open. “Sit down, Doctor,” he said, his voice turning to more of a growl than he would have liked.

Jo looked as though she wanted to argue, rather than do as he advised. But she collected herself enough to walk stiffly over to the chair and lower herself deliberately into it, all the while holding him with her angry eyes.

After she had sat, Captain Middleton remained standing for several seconds before lowering himself down into his own chair and taking a deep, quiet breath. “Doctor,” he began tensely, “you are afforded certain privileges which others in my crew are not—including being allowed to speak bluntly to this ship’s commanding officer—due solely to your invaluable contributions toward the well-being of that crew in the absence of someone who can adequately assume your duties. But there are limits to the amount of lenience I can publicly grant you…do you understand me?” he asked with a deliberate look at the door.

Her expression softened momentarily before hardening once again. “I’m…sorry, Tim,” she bit out, and he believed that she was—even though she still clearly had plenty of fight left in her.

“Now,” Middleton forced himself to lean back in his chair, “I assume you’ve come here to discuss Recruit Lu Bu’s recent mishap?”

“You know blasted well that’s why I’m here,” she spat icily. “And you’ve got some nerve calling it a ‘mishap!’ She’s barely sixteen cycles old and you’ve got her in there getting abused by those-those…” she stuttered angrily before blurting out, “those thugs?! She has no business in there!”

Middleton looked down pointedly at the data slate in his hand before sliding it across the desk toward her. “There are three recruits lying in sickbay—and, more than a little surprisingly, one Tracto-an Lancer—who would likely argue with your assertion, Doctor.”

Jo made as if to argue, but her mouth snapped shut briefly and Tim Middleton was reminded of many similar engagements they’d had during their younger years. He wanted to grin at seeing her so worked up, but he forced his features to remain expressionless as she continued, “Did you know that your Lancer Sergeant nearly tore her arm off to prove some sort of Demon-spawned, testosterone-fueled point?”

Middleton, having already read the report, furrowed his brow as he quoted, “Patient Lu Bu was observed to have significant insult to each of the supraspinatus, infraspinatus, subscapularis and teres minor muscles of the right arm. These were repaired using micro-sutur—“

“Don’t quote my own words back at me, Tim,” she snapped, “you know how I hate that!”

Middleton held up a hand by way of apology, knowing it had been bad form to jab her like that. He then shrugged slightly and said, “I’m not sure a partially torn rotator cuff quite qualifies as ‘nearly having one’s arm torn off,’ Doctor. Besides,” he continued in a calm voice when she opened her mouth to protest, “the Sergeant has final say over how his Lancer team operates. That authority extends to recruits under his care.”

“Care?” she snorted derisively. “Is that what you call this?” she demanded, jabbing a finger down on the data slate.

“Sergeant Joneson only has the well-being of his people—and this ship—at heart, Doctor,” the Captain said evenly. “We may not understand, or even agree with, his methods but he is one of the finest men I’ve ever had the privilege of serving with. I have to defer to his judgment regarding matters like this. Besides, your report says none of the injuries sustained during this incident should have lasting effects on anyone involved.”

“Just like that?” she said in disbelief, leaning across the desk. “You can just wash your hands of it and act like nothing happened because I was able to patch it all up?”

Middleton sighed. “I will speak with the Lancer Sergeant, as is protocol following such incidents,” he allowed. In truth, he had been more than slightly disturbed by this particular incident but for reasons quite different than the ones Jo had espoused. “But you need to understand that this ‘little girl’ is far more capable than you seem to believe. When she came aboard this ship I did my utmost to convince her that the Gunnery department would have been a safer choice than the Lancer detail. Not only did she refuse,” he said with a scoff, “she literally threw herself onto the floor and begged me to let her become a Lancer in one of the most impassioned pleas I’ve ever heard.”

Jo leaned back and folded her arms defiantly. “You know that she’s the product of genetic engineering, Tim,” she said coldly. “And not just any genetic engineering, but a kind that makes those Tracto-ans of yours look like a lucky stroke of Darwinism?”

“Of course I do,” he replied measuredly, through briefly gritted teeth. “I’ve read your report. Engineering like hers has been banned for centuries in the hope of preventing future eugenics-based conflicts.”

“And you gave her to him?” she spat incredulously before leaning back in her chair and shaking her head in open scorn.

He knew all too well to what she was referring, as Walter Joneson’s smashball career had ended in a spat of controversy regarding public statements he had made concerning genetic engineering and its place in society, with most having taken his words to be bigoted. Middleton had purposefully never delved into the matter, since he had only met Walter Joneson during his tour in the MSP.

But regardless of the reason for her outburst, Middleton was through coddling Jo’s overly delicate sensibilities. She claimed she was no longer the naïve young girl he’d married, and he was ready to put that to the test.

“Doctor,” Captain Middleton began in an icy voice of his own, “that was a long time ago. Surely you, of all people, can understand that a person’s past does not dictate his…or her future.”

Her eyes went wide for a moment, and while he knew that what he had said would bring an avalanche of bitter memories for them both, he was sick of ignoring it. If they were going to work together then they would need to move beyond their mutual history, and he could think of no better way of doing just that than putting it out there.

“I deserved that, Tim,” she said with a nod of resignation as she stood from her chair stiffly. “I just hope you’re not trying to get back at me by punishing that poor girl.”

She turned and left his office without another word, and for a moment Captain Middleton was tempted to call after her. But that moment passed, and Ensign Jardine came through the door with an anxious look on his face while holding a data slate in his hands.

“What is it, Ensign?” Middleton asked, briefly grateful for a distraction from the most recent visit with the ship’s doctor.

“I think we might have him, sir,” Jardine said excitedly, handing the data slate to the Captain.

A brief look at the timestamp on the report told Middleton that another unauthorized communication had just been transmitted less than three minutes earlier. And they had a precise location of its origin!

Activating his com-link, he opened a line with Sergeant Joneson, who responded promptly, “Joneson here, Captain.”

“It looks like we’re ready to spring that trap right now, Sergeant,” he said, “I’m forwarding the location to you now.”

A moment later, Sergeant Joneson responded, “I’m on it, sir.”

“We need this person alive, Sergeant,” Middleton said emphatically, “non-lethal measures only. Is that clear?”

“Tri-Locsium, sir,” Joneson replied curtly. “Joneson out.”

Now, as always, it was Middleton’s job to wait while his people did the work. Is there a more trying thing in the entire universe than waiting? he wondered silently as he made his way out onto the bridge, with Ensign Jardine close behind.

Chapter X: The Sleeping Dragon, the First Visit

“Here he is, sir,” Sergeant Joneson said gruffly as Captain Middleton entered the brig. “We caught him dismantling some kind of homemade patch job into the main dish’s transmitter. Little blighter almost seemed glad to see us when we apprehended him.”

As Captain Middleton approached, he was more than a little confused. The man—or rather, boy—before him could be no more than a mid-teen, with barely enough hair growing in his thin mustache and meticulously manicured chin patch to call organized growth. He was clearly one of the new recruits from Lu Bu’s world, and bore the same type of barcode tattoo over his right eye as the rest of the prisoners.

“What’s your name?” Middleton asked, looking down at the kneeling boy inside the cell.

The boy looked up at him, and Captain Middleton saw his eyes quickly snap up and down his Captain’s uniform. “Captain Middleton,” the boy said with obvious relief. “I have been trying to gain an audience with you since we left my home world, but my ‘superiors’,” he spat the word disdainfully, “aboard this ship informed me that it would not be allowed.”

“Your name, recruit,” Middleton repeated, in no mood for further wordplay with anyone in that particular moment.

“That is a somewhat complicated question,” the boy said hesitantly, and Middleton realized that unlike his countrymen, he had almost no accent. “I can say with absolute conviction that the name on my embarkation paperwork is that of ‘Wang Xiu,’ which is itself a dull and uninteresting name, and not the one with which I was born.”

Sergeant Joneson handed the Captain a data slate, which he accepted and perused for a moment. It confirmed that the boy’s name did in fact appear to be Wang Xiu, a troubled youth who was arrested for multiple accounts of what would be considered petty larceny on Capria, as well as a few counts of public indecency.

Further confused at why such an individual had been brought on board, with little or nothing in the way of the desired qualifications his department heads had outlined, Middleton gave an exasperated shake of his head. “I’m not in the mood for games,” he said with an unyielding glare, “so you had best explain to me who you are, why’re you’re on my ship, who you’re working for, and why you’ve been sending these encrypted transmissions.”

The boy made to stand, but his hands were bound behind himself and were in turn connected to his also-bound ankles. “This is…awkward, Captain,” he began after a moment’s pause. “But to answer your questions succinctly and in order: first, my birth name is Fei Long. Second, I believe you were deceived by my government into taking me aboard under a false identity—although I must admit I am overjoyed to be here. Third, I am—and would very much like to continue to be—working for you, though in my humble opinion my talents are sorely wasted in your Environmental department cleaning air scrubbers. And lastly, I have not sent any ‘transmissions’ in the plural sense. I did, in fact, access your hyper dish’s emitter today—for the first time, I might add—and sent an admittedly unauthorized transmission with the intention of gaining this audience with you so we might discuss your recent breaches in security, as well as further a particular…project which I have long held most dear.”

Narrowing his eyes, Middleton considered the young man’s words and replayed them in his mind as one of the Lancers entered the brig carrying a small crate with an assortment of what looked to be personal items.

“We secured his bunk, Sergeant,” the Lancer said with a respectful nod to the Captain as he set the crate down on a nearby table. “Pretty typical stuff, except it looks like he’s been tampering with this data slate, judging by the tool marks on the back.”

“That…umm,” the boy named Fei Long said quickly with a look of unmistakable, sheepish guilt on his face, “I was just making some modifications for…efficiency purposes.”

Joneson took the slate from his subordinate and tried to activate it but was met with a password lock which he showed to the Captain. “What’s the password?” the Sergeant growled.

“Is this really necess—“ the boy began.

“The password!” Joneson snapped, and even Captain Middleton felt the urge to jump at the man’s deep, booming voice.

“It is…uh,” the boy said hesitantly before slouching in resignation, “rotk11.”

Glowering at the boy for several seconds, the Lancer Sergeant tapped away on the slate. The slate chimed, indicating the password had been correct, and Sergeant Joneson’s eyebrows shot up briefly in surprise before lowering thunderously as he hastily deactivated the pad. Captain Middleton noticed the large man’s face go red as he growled, in what seemed to be a rare display of genuine outrage, “I should have you flogged, boy!”

In the face of discovery—of what, exactly, Middleton did not yet know—the boy’s eyes darted left to right in a mixture of embarrassment and open fear of the towering man standing just outside his cell. “Ok…this is not precisely how I had envisioned this meeting proceeding,” he said meekly. “But Captain,” he continued, turning toward Middleton as much as his bonds would allow, “you have a serious breach of security on this ship and I believe I am the only person who can close it.”

“The only breach I see,” Joneson snapped, “is the one on this slate!”

The young man winced. “I have indeed transgressed, and you should punish me accordingly. But before that happens at least let me show you what I have learned?” he pleaded.

Middleton had no idea what Sergeant Joneson had discovered on the slate, but from the look on the other man’s face he could wait to find out. “All right, Fei Long,” he said coolly, “you’ve got my complete and undivided attention. I hope for your sake you’ve got something worth bringing me all the way down here,” he said, uncertain of what the young man’s true intentions were but determined to discover them as quickly as possible.

Fei Long took a deep breath. “During my time aboard the Pride of Prometheus, I have indirectly detected six distinct signals which appear to have been generated by someone aboard this vessel,” he explained. When Middleton arched an eyebrow, the boy added, “I will explain how I was able to detect these signals later, I assure you. I believe you are aware of three such signals, but are unaware of the others, correct?” he said, with a pointed look at Ensign Jardine, who to this point had been silent.

Even if this was all a ploy, the boy now actually did have Middleton’s attention. “Go on,” he said evenly.

Fei Long nodded in satisfaction. “As I suspected; the signals you have already detected are easily traceable, given one knows when and where to look for them. The others are less obvious, for a few reasons, all but one of which are irrelevant at this particular moment.” He took another deep breath and exhaled quickly before continuing, “The main reason you did not detect these signals is because they are not ‘signals’ in the traditional sense; they are deliberately formed patterns in your ship’s strange particle field which, when viewed through the proper lens and recorded in their own ‘language,’ can combine with the other message fragment to complete the entire transmission.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he turned to Ensign Jardine. “Is this possible?”

The Ensign looked doubtful for several seconds as his eyes snapped back and forth. “I suppose it could be,” he admitted, “but that would mean someone had to gain access to the strange particle generators.”

“That is inaccurate,” Fei Long said with a chuckle before hastily adding, “I mean no disrespect, of course. These field fluctuations are not created by the generators, but rather are made with subtle adjustments of key gravity plates located throughout the ship at the correct time. These adjustments are so minor that the people inhabiting those areas might not even notice these adjustments as they take place.”

Ensign Jardine nodded slowly. “I suppose it’s possible,” he allowed, “but that’s too far out of my field, Captain.”

Fei Long made as if to throw his head back, but his bindings prevented him from doing so. Still, he uttered an incredulous, strangely arrogant laugh before saying, “Information in any form is well within my field, Captain. But, for obvious reasons, you are likely reluctant to either take my word in this matter or to allow me to physically assist you at this time. So I have a proposition: in Environmental maintenance locker number six there is a crate marked ‘one-one-six-two-three-four-nine.’ Inside that crate is what could be considered a ‘strange particle lens;’ using that lens, your Communications officer should be able to record this second, concealed portion of the whole message just prior to your ship’s hyper jump.”

Middleton nodded slowly. “And what if all of this is a trick of some kind?” he asked calmly. “Or, assuming you’re telling the truth, what if the person sending these messages realizes we’re onto them?”

Fei Long shook his head adamantly. “I have no reason to deceive you, Captain. Indeed, if I had wished to remain unnoticed I could have easily done so and continued cleaning your air filtration units as the tragically named Wang Xiu. To the second matter, even if the individual—or individuals—who authored the message wished to do so, they would be unable to destroy the message fragment at this time. We are already too deep into the Pride’s jump cycle to affect the field in any way via the ship’s gravity plates. However,” the boy said as his eyes rose to meet Captain Middleton’s with a hardened look that took Middleton by surprise, “if you find that I have deceived you in any way, shape, or form, I ask only that you kill me in whatever fashion you deem appropriate, as that is the only proper punishment among my people for mutineers.”

There was a brief silence, during which Fei Long never once took his eyes off Middleton’s. “We should increase security at the sensitive parts of the ship pre-jump, Captain,” Sergeant Joneson suggested gruffly.

Middleton knew that Joneson’s suggestion was likely in the best interests of the ship, but to follow the Sergeant’s advice would increase the likelihood that whoever was sending these messages would realize they had been discovered. He briefly weighed the alternatives as he saw them before nodding his head.

“Do it,” he ordered after deciding that, in this particular instance, the Pride’s immediate security trumped all other concerns of which he was aware. “I want a full-time Lancer posted on this prisoner, as well,” he said as he turned and left the brig, gesturing for Jardine to follow. He paused just as he reached the door to the adjoining corridor and added, “If he so much as sneezes in a way you find suspicious, treat him as a clear and present danger to the ship and dispose of him accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Joneson acknowledged with gusto before activating his com-link and issuing orders to his Lancers.

An hour later, a security team had successfully retrieved the contents of the environmental locker which Fei Long had identified and brought it to the officer’s conference room.

After a few tests, Ensign Jardine appeared more than a little surprised to confirm that it did in fact appear to be a crude, yet surprisingly effective, strange particle detector. Moreover, it seemed to have been built using materials present on board the ship…all except for the actual ‘lens’ of the apparatus, which was some kind of strange, crystalline fragment of unknown origin.

“Can you use it to record the supposed message fragments we’ve been leaving in our wake?” Middleton asked after Jardine had completed his inspection of the half-meter long piece of patchwork components.

“I believe so, Captain,” he agreed, shaking his head in obvious admiration, “this kind of thing would have earned me my master’s degree in pretty much any Communications field—if I had the vision to build it, of course. Even if I had the wherewithal to design and assemble it…I can’t imagine getting it done in less than three months’ off-duty time.”

“Is it possible he brought it with him from the planet?” Middleton asked, more than a little disturbed at what his Comm. officer was suggesting: that Fei Long was some kind of prodigy. More disturbing still was that his government had essentially snuck him aboard the Pride in what appeared to be a surreptitious attempt to get rid of him.

“I’m afraid not, Captain,” Jardine said with a shake of his head. “Every single piece used to make this thing—except that piece of crystal—has at least a partial serial number that matches up with a piece of equipment that’s been logged as missing in the last two weeks. The last piece was reported missing just twenty hours ago, so he clearly just finished putting this thing together.”

Nodding in satisfaction at Jardine’s disquieting assessment, Middleton waved his hand at the odd-looking, patchwork device. “Where do you need to be in order to use it?”

“I think I can collect the readings anywhere except Main Engineering or sickbay’s imaging chambers,” he replied confidently. “If you don’t mind, maybe we should keep it here?”

“Do it,” Middleton instructed. “Do you need anything else to get your readings?”

Jardine shook his head. “I don’t think so; I can patch into the ship’s power grid behind that panel there,” he pointed near the doorway. “It should take just a few minutes to hook it up, sir.”

“I don’t want this thing anywhere near our computer hard-lines,” Middleton said flatly.

“Of course not, sir,” Jardine agreed. “I’ve already taken the liberty of disconnecting the hard-lines running into this room to ensure we don’t have any unwanted computer virus uploaded into our system.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Middleton asked, uncertain whether he was willing to trust both the prisoner’s integrity and Ensign Jardine’s abilities in such a delicate matter.

“There’s really nobody on the ship who would understand this thing as well as me, Captain,” Jardine assured him, “Science Officer Mankins was the only other person who could have helped, and he…” he trailed off, since they both knew that Mankins had died during the bioweapon attack. He nodded to himself confidently before adding, “I’ve got this, sir.”

“All right,” Middleton nodded eventually. He knew that Jardine was the most expert person on the crew in this regard, and he had to learn to trust his subordinates if the Pride was ever going to function at peak efficiency. “When can you take the images?”

“I’ll need to wait until the last few seconds before we jump,” the Ensign replied confidently. “The strange particles won’t reach minimal excitability before then, and until they slow down this thing doesn’t have the fidelity to get a readable image. I’ve already set a countdown timer,” he added, gesturing to a backward running chronometer on a nearby console. “Everything’s ready as far as I can tell.”

“Good,” Middleton said with a measure of confidence he didn’t truly feel. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you, sir,” the Ensign said, and Captain Middleton turned and left the conference room.

When he was in the corridor, he opened a channel to Sergeant Joneson on his com-link.

“Joneson here, Captain,” the other man greeted.

“Have you increased security throughout the ship’s vulnerable areas?” Middleton asked.

“Tight as an airlock, Captain,” Joneson replied. “And our prisoner’s behaved himself so far; barely even moved since you left.”

“Let’s hope for his sake he stays that way,” Middleton said, still wholly unconvinced that this wasn’t all some kind of ploy on this ‘Fei Long’s’ part, assuming that was even his real name. “I was meaning to ask you,” he added belatedly, “what was on his data slate that got you so worked up?”

The link was silent for several moments before the Sergeant replied hesitantly, “I’d rather not say over the link, Captain.”

Middleton stopped in his tracks. “If it’s something pertaining to ship’s security, Sergeant—“

“I assure you that I’ve personally dealt with the situation, Captain, and will make a full report after we jump,” Joneson promised. “But that particular threat to shipboard security has already been contained.”

“I don’t like this cryptic nonsense, Sergeant,” Middleton growled, thoroughly fed up with all the word games his crew seemed to enjoy playing recently.

“Trust me, sir,” Joneson replied awkwardly, “you’ll understand when I explain.”

“I hope so,” Middleton said shortly as he resumed his trek to the bridge, “Middleton out.”

Chapter XI: A New Player

Captain Middleton sat rigidly in his command chair, watching as the countdown to point transfer neared zero.

“Field generators at maximum; strange particle activity has reached the hyper jump threshold,” reported Ensign Sarkozi who, in lieu of a proper Science Officer, had been assigned the duty of overseeing hyper jump protocols.

“Jump in three…two…one,” Helmsman Jersey reported, “jump.”

There was the familiar sense of vertigo which always seemed to accompany hyper jumps aboard the Pride of Prometheus, after which Ensign Sarkozi reported, “Jump successful, Captain. We have arrived in the target system.”

“Inertial sump drain is six percent higher than anticipated,” Helmsman Jersey grumbled, “compensating with secondary engines now.”

A few moments later there was a wholly unexpected, yet barely audible, ‘thwump’ as the ship broke free of the strange particle field which protected their vessel from the otherwise inescapable pull of gravity during point transfers.

“Status report,” Middleton barked, bracing himself for sabotage of some kind to the ship.

“We’ve broken the sump, Captain,” Helmsman Jersey reported only slightly irritably. “But there was more resistance than usual.”

Middleton activated the com-link in his chair and raised Jardine. “Jardine, report.”

“All systems green here, Captain,” the Comm. Officer reported promptly. “My equipment has already been secured.”

“Good work, Ensign,” Middleton said, grateful to remove one possible variable from the equation. He turned to Ensign Sarkozi, “What do you have, Sarkozi?”

“Reading a trio of vessels, Captain,” she replied after a brief check of her people’s instruments. “Two civilian transports and one unidentified vessel; all three ships are already within medium firing range, Captain.”

“Battle stations,” Middleton barked. “Helm, come about to present our bow to these ships; Shields, divert all available power to the forward emitters. Engineering, have Chief Garibaldi go to combat output on the engines. Comm., squawk our ident codes and MSP authority,” Middleton finished, with each department head going to work even before he had finished issuing the orders.

Middleton hated to give information away to potential enemies needlessly, but protocol demanded that when vessels jumped within such close proximity to one another they broadcast their ident codes immediately to avoid unnecessary fraying of nerves—or, more accurately, to avoid unnecessary exchange of fire between potentially friendly vessels.

“Squawking now, Captain,” the Comm. stander acknowledged. Several seconds passed before the Comm. stander shook her head. “I’m receiving no reply, sir.”

“Do you have an ID on the third ship yet, Tactical?” Middleton snapped as he flipped through the sensor readings piped through his chair’s console.

“Negative, Captain,” Sarkozi replied quickly, “but the civilian ID’s have been verified as a pair of ore haulers licensed out of Sector 23.”

“Sector 23?” Middleton repeated as he considered the distance between their current position, which in astronomical terms was relatively near the border of Sectors 24 and 23. “What’s their logged itinerary?” he demanded as he spun to face the Comm. stander.

“Checking, sir,” she replied, flushing with frustration after a few moments’ effort to call up the requested information. After an unacceptably long interval, she finally said, “Their flight plan is over a month out of date, Captain; their last logged location was near the border of Sectors 23 and 24 just on the 23 side…a system called ‘Pavonis’.”

“Captain,” the man at Sensors interrupted, “the vessels are preparing to jump; strange particle readings on all three vessels are consistent with imminent point transfer.”

“That would account for the unexpected increase in the inertial sump, Captain,” Jersey suggested gruffly.

“I’ve got a visual on the third ship, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, “putting it on the main viewer now.”

The viewer shifted from a tactical overlay to one showing a strange ship, the image of which was magnified several times until Middleton – who had memorized the profile of every known ship class to ever operate in the Spineward Sectors – was at a loss for words.

“What do you make of it, Tactical?” he asked as he leaned forward, his mind racing to make certain he had never come across anything even remotely similar in his studies.

“It…appears to be a nearly perfect dodecahedron, Captain,” she replied after sitting down at a console and going over the sensor readings. “Measurements are approximately one hundred meters between each of its six pairs of opposing faces. Power profile is roughly that of a destroyer-class vessel.” She tapped away at her console for several moments before shaking her head in disbelief, “I’m reading an extremely odd radiation signature, Captain. There’s nothing in the ship’s database that matches it.”

Middleton sat forward in his chair eagerly. “Check the radiation profile against the one we recorded in the engagement at the gas mine,” he ordered.

“Already in process, Captain,” Sarkozi reported curtly before shaking her head. “It’s vaguely similar but definitely different, Captain; not only are these emissions orders of magnitude less powerful than the burst we recorded near the gas giant, they don’t match wavelengths with the other readings we recorded. This is definitely a different bird.”

“Point transfers detected,” the Sensors officer reported. “One…now two; both of the civilian transports have transferred out of the system, Captain.”

“Hail the remaining ship,” Middleton ordered, feeling his hackles rise.

“Hailing now, Captain,” the Comm. stander acknowledged. A few moments later, she shook her head. “No response; I’m not even getting static…Captain, they’re jamming all comm. channels!”

“Confirmed, sir,” Sarkozi reported immediately. “They’ve just blanketed the area with some sort of ultra-powerful signal like nothing I’ve ever seen.” A second later, her console lit up and a series of alarms went off around the bridge denoting incoming fire. “Massive power surge detected—“

Before she could finish her report, the bridge was rocked so hard that even a few crewmembers properly seated at their stations were thrown from their chairs and into the ceiling. Those unfortunate crewmembers quickly came crashing back down to the deck with a sickening series of crunches, after which they lay motionless with blood streaming from their faces.

“Damage report!” Middleton bellowed as half the consoles on the bridge flickered rapidly off and on before stabilizing.

“Forward shields are down to 26%, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, having miraculously kept to her temporary seat by holding on for all she was worth an instant before the Pride had been struck.

“Emitters two, four and five of the forward array are offline, Captain; we’ve got critical spotting all along the forward, dorsal and lateral arrays,” reported the Shields operator.

“Return fire!” Middleton roared.

“Returning fire, Captain,” Sarkozi acknowledged hungrily, and a moment later the forward array of the Pride of Prometheus lanced out with its full might and fury, landing home on the enemy vessel with a grouping so tight it brought a smirk to Middleton’s lips when the image of the enemy vessel briefly disappeared behind its shield flares. “Ten for ten,” Sarkozi reported triumphantly, “damage to enemy vessel…negligible,” she finished incredulously. “That’s impossible; no ship that size should be able—“

The Pride was rocked again, but this time no one lost their seat and the impact seemed to be far less punishing than the first assault. “Damage report!” Captain Middleton snapped angrily.

“Forward shields have collapsed,” the Shields operator reported, “all forward emitters now offline.”

“Forward armor has sustained minor damage; no system failures detected,” the Damage Control operator added with a hint of bewilderment.

“That second volley should have finished us,” Middleton growled under his breath, knowing that a pair of shots equal in power to the first would have easily torn through the Pride’s forward defenses and caused massive damage to the aged cruiser.

But before he could get any further in his thought process, the Sensors operator reported with obvious relief, “Point transfer detected, Captain; the enemy vessel has left the system!”

Almost ashamed to admit it, Captain Middleton felt every bit as grateful as the Sensors operator sounded for the enemy’s timely egress. Even with the Pride’s robust forward armor, there was no way they could survive a sustained firefight of even a handful more salvos with that strange vessel.

“Sensors,” Middleton said in a hard, level voice, “I want you to compile every scrap of data we have on that vessel and bring it to me the second you’ve done so.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Sensors operator replied.

“Comm.,” he continued as a pair of crewmen knelt beside the motionless crewmembers that had been thrown from their stations during the attack, “have sickbay send a team up here as soon as they can spare one.”

“Yes, sir,” the Comm. stander acknowledged.

“Maintain battle stations,” Captain Middleton said in a loud, carrying voice, “we can’t assume we’re all alone out here just yet. Helm,” he said, turning to Jersey, “I need you to make for the nearest planetoid at best possible speed; assuming that hostile comes back looking for us, we don’t want to be out in the open with a giant bulls-eye on our back.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey acknowledged, this time without his usual, annoyed tone.

“We’re not jumping out of the system, Captain?” Sarkozi asked in a surprisingly calm, professional voice.

“No, Ensign,” Middleton replied coldly, doing his best to suppress the sudden upwelling of anger and disappointment he felt—the vast majority of which was directed at himself, “not yet. We may not be able to find out who they are…but I for blasted sure want to know what they were doing here before we tuck tail and run.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarkozi said snappily, turning back to her subordinates and issuing orders.

Captain Middleton saw the stream of damage reports coming in over his chair’s console, but all he could think about was how much power the enemy ship had generated on such short notice. It was, from everything he knew of starship combat—and physics in general—practically impossible.

Then a thought occurred to him and he sat back in his chair with a wave of what most would call euphoria washing over him, but to him it felt more like relief. That’s it, he thought to himself as he ran some calculations on his console. While the numbers weren’t quite identical to what they had observed, they were close enough to support his supposition.

He would need to verify the readings, but if they were evidence of what he suspected, then this protracted patrol just got a Hades of a lot more complicated.

After burning to make close orbit of a nearby, rocky planetoid on the outermost edge of the system, the next six hours passed relatively uneventfully while engineering teams worked to bring the Pride’s shields back online. When the window for the enemy ship’s potential return had come and gone without incident, Captain Middleton stood from his chair and ordered the ship to stand down from battle stations but remain on alert status as he took the data the Sensors operator had compiled into his ready room.

It wasn’t much, especially in light of what appeared to be overwhelming firepower, but at least now he had an idea of what they were dealing with. Developing a strategy of dealing with this new threat was now just a matter of focusing his resources on the problem to find way around it…or through it.

Chapter XII: Walk a mile in another’s feet…

Lu Bu had been told by the doctor that she needed to remain in the sickbay for twenty four hours. The Lancer recruit had argued with the other woman, but in the end she had decided that Walter Joneson’s orders likely included her showing obeisance to the ship’s medical officer.

As she lay there—even through what was clearly some sort of ship-to-ship battle which had taken place not long after their latest point transfer—Lu Bu had realized that the older man who had sat beside her on the shuttle ride to the Pride of Prometheus so many weeks earlier appeared to be working as a doctor in sickbay.

It should not have surprised her, since it seemed that she was the only recruit from her world who had not been a prisoner prior to joining the ship’s crew. The barcode tattoos over the former prisoners’ right eyes clearly marked them for what they were, and Lu Bu was uncertain she could ever learn to fully accept what that brand represented.

The woman doctor approached Lu Bu’s bedside with a scanning instrument of some kind in her long, delicate fingers. “How are you feeling?” Doctor Middleton asked in her calm, professional tone. But to Lu Bu that tone bordered on patronizing, especially considering the fact that her wounds were essentially already repaired.

“This one is fine,” Lu Bu replied shortly. “When may this one return to training?”

Doctor Middleton’s expression softened and Lu Bu felt a flare of anger at the other woman’s demeanor. “For most patients I would advise at least two weeks of zero exertion,” she replied, “so that’s what I prescribe for you as well.”

Lu Bu stiffened and looked up at the ceiling. “Lu Bu not ‘most patients’,” she said shortly. “There is no more pain; this one should return to training now.” She sat abruptly and made to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, but the doctor placed a halting hand on her shoulder. Glancing over at the older woman with open irritation, it was all Lu Bu could do to refrain from forcibly removing the doctor’s interdicting hand.

“I understand you’re eager to return to your…training,” the doctor said, veritably chewing on the last word as she said it. “But right now you are my patient, and I require a minimum of twenty four hours observation before releasing you. I simply don’t know enough about your physiology to properly predict your reaction to the medications and surgical procedure.”

“This one not require surgery,” Lu Bu scoffed, looking pointedly at her own shoulder which no longer even bore its tiny bit of sticky gauze to cover the needle-sized entry the doctor had made through her skin to effect repairs. Had she not known that a few hours earlier there had been a delicate surgical instrument inserted there, she would have never been able to find the pinprick of a mark that device had made in her skin. “The doctor is skill at her craft after much practice,” she added, clasping her hands before herself respectfully. “This one asks for return to training for similar practice!”

“Not yet,” the doctor said more forcefully, this time pressing down on Lu Bu’s uninjured shoulder gently.

Again, Lu Bu felt a flare of anger at this woman’s continued insistence at interrupted her training. Walter Joneson demanded much of his recruits, and there was no possibility that she would fail her Sergeant again; she required a complete rededication to her training if she was to defeat the large, surprisingly powerful men from the world of Tracto.

But the thought of Walter Joneson’s last orders to her were enough to pin her in place. Shaking her head in frustration, Lu Bu looked up at the sickbay’s chronometer, which showed she had already been within for seven hours. “Twenty four hours,” she said, pointing to the clock after lying down on the bed, “then Lu Bu return to training.”

“No,” the doctor said unyieldingly, “but if your tests come back to my satisfaction, I will allow you to leave sickbay—with the understanding that you refrain from strenuous physical activity, including training” she said pointedly, “until I have given you medical clearance to resume—”

Lu Bu bolted upright, ready to argue—using less than cordial language.

But the doctor continued in a level tone which brooked no argument, “Or, I can keep you here for an additional seventy two hours on a psychiatric hold,” she said, causing Lu Bu to shoot her a look of incredulity, “since, in my professional opinion, you are openly planning to cause yourself potentially permanent harm by disregarding my medical advice and aggravating your wounds.”

Lu Bu veritably trembled with anger at the doctor’s suggestion that she was somehow a danger to herself, but after a moment she understood why the doctor had said what she had said, and she breathed a series of short, blasting breaths through her nostrils as she resumed her supine position on the bed.

The doctor, apparently satisfied with Lu Bu’s obeisance, nodded and turned to leave the bedside. Before she had taken a step, Lu Bu said grudgingly, “You as skilled with words as with medicine, Doctor.”

Doctor Middleton stopped and gave Lu Bu a faintly warm look. “I’m only trying to do what’s best for my patient,” she said pointedly.

“You believe it is mistake,” Lu Bu continued, “you believe this one not fit to become Lancer like Walter Joneson.”

“Bu—” Doctor Middleton began with a sigh, but Lu Bu continued over her.

“This one knows how people think,” she said, fighting to suppress the cold, bitter feelings washing over her, “there is no need to deny.”

“Bu,” the doctor said, turning to face Lu Bu squarely, “I think you could be anything you wanted to be. Why do you want to become like those men when your life could be so much more?”

Lu Bu sat up slowly and locked eyes with the woman doctor, expecting to see the woman recoil slightly. Much to her surprise, Doctor Middleton held her ground with an odd measure of composure—especially for a doctor, and not a Lancer or fellow smashball player.

“Doctor, when,” she paused, searching for the right words to convey her feelings, “you were young, did Doctor Middleton always wish to become doctor?”

Doctor Middleton’s expression softened slightly. “Yes,” she nodded as she sat on the edge of the bed, “ever since I was young I’ve wanted to help people.”

Lu Bu nodded and her eyes snapped back and forth as she tried to compose her next thoughts. “This was because of some event, yes?” she pressed eventually.

The woman doctor nodded again as her eyes narrowed slightly.

“It is same with this one,” Lu Bu said, hearing a plea in her voice she had not intended, “my…family is no more. This one last of her line, and when this one ceases to be…” she trailed off, feeling her eyes well with tears as she fought to keep her voice level. “This one cannot replace family; only wish is to find…team,” she continued as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please do not deny this one her wish.”

The doctor placed a consoling hand on Lu Bu’s shoulder. “Bu,” she said gently, “I understand the need for belonging better than you might know…but you can find camaraderie in many places—“

Lu Bu shook her head as she angrily wiped away her tears. “It is not same,” she said adamantly. “Only in battle can true bonds be forged,” she said, paraphrasing a line she had read once and immediately decided was the truest piece of wisdom ever expressed by a human mind. “Doctor battles death with her mind,” she continued as she shook her head, remembering her mother’s disappointment in her daughter. Those memories caused another wave of emotions to flood her, “This one’s mind not strong enough for that. This one’s talents can help…but only as a Lancer; it is all this one wishes.”

Doctor Middleton’s expression changed in a way Lu Bu did not understand, but the older woman nodded. “All right,” she said, “I won’t stand in your way. But I would ask you for two things, neither of which you should feel obligated to oblige.”

Lu Bu clasped her hands before herself respectfully. “Of course; if this one can, she will do as Doctor Middleton wishes.”

“First,” the doctor said, “that you cease referring to yourself as ‘this one.’ You’ve already chosen a name for yourself, and it’s been several weeks since you adopted it. You are an individual, and you should always be respected as one,” she said as her gaze drifted briefly.

“Of course,” Lu Bu said anxiously, “thi—“ she caught the word before it had finished. Lowering her eyes deferentially, she continued, “I will do…my best to comply. What is second?”

“Second,” the doctor said as she stood from the edge of the bed and straightened her lab coat, “is I would ask that, your schedule permitting, you share a daily meal of your choosing with me in the crew’s galley, or mess hall, or whatever it’s called on this blasted ship.”

Lu Bu was momentarily confused. “Doctor Middleton is officer,” she said slowly, “she should eat in officer’s mess.”

Doctor Middleton snorted derisively. “I’m no officer,” she said with a note of defiance which further confused Lu Bu. “But even if I was, I would still eat with the regular crew.”

Lu Bu did not understand, but she nodded anyway. “Thi—I,” she corrected again, feeling her face flush as she did so, “will be honored to share meals with Doctor Middleton.”

“Good,” the doctor said with a curt nod as she glanced at the chronometer, “then we’ll run those tests in sixteen hours, forty two minutes. If you’re fit for light duty, I’ll release you with the understanding that even with your…robust metabolic processes, you’ll still need to abstain for at least a week before resuming full training,” she spat the word bitterly

It was a more restrictive plan than Lu Bu had hoped for, but in light of the doctor’s unexpected generous offer to share her table with a lowly recruit like herself, she knew it would be in very poor form to argue further. “I will abide by the doctor’s instructions,” she said in resignation.

Apparently satisfied, the doctor turned and made her way to a nearby bed, leaving Lu Bu to stare silently at the chronometer as the seconds ticked by one after another.

Chapter XIII: Prejudice, Pride, and the Past

“Sergeant Joneson,” Middleton greeted as the huge, surprisingly agile man made his way into the ready room, “have a seat.”

“Captain,” Joneson acknowledged as he gave the chair a reproachful look before doing as ordered. When he had gently settled into the chair, he presented a data slate. “This contains my reports regarding the arrest of Fei Long, the subsequent search and seizure of his personal effects, and my official report for the incident involving my recruits earlier.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Middleton accepted the slate, skipping the first two reports and flipping to the last item, the contents of which he perused in silence for several minutes. When he had finished, he set the pad down on the desk and nodded absently. “I’m told Recruit Bu will make a full recovery, given a week or so of light duty,” he said.

“It’s ‘Recruit Lu,’ Captain,” Sergeant Joneson said pointedly. “And I’ve read the medical report as well. Doctor Middleton’s a fine physician; I have every confidence Recruit Lu will make a full recovery well within the allotted timeframe.”

“Be that as it may,” Middleton allowed, “while I have no intention of stepping in over your head on this thing—”

“That’s good to hear, Captain,” Joneson said, his face an unreadable mask of professionalism but his voice betraying his displeasure clearly enough for Middleton.

The Captain nodded, more to himself than the Sergeant’s predictable reply. “Still, recruit Lu is a special case. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Joneson shifted slightly in his seat and held the Captain in his gaze for several seconds before replying, “As far as recruits go…yes, sir, I believe she is. Her physical abilities are greater than any person I’ve had the privilege of working with. All things considered, her heart seems to be in the right place as well.”

“All I’m suggesting, Sergeant,” Middleton said in as diplomatic of a tone as possible, “is that recruit Lu be treated as any other member of your latest batch of hopefuls. I don’t see any of them listed as sustaining ‘training injuries’ at the hands of the ship’s Lancer Sergeant,” he said pointedly. Middleton knew he was treading on thin ice, but he had no choice. A military command ran on authority, and if the person at the top of the pyramid was perceived to be incapable of directing his subordinates, the entire system was in real danger of losing efficiency…or worse.

Joneson locked eyes with the Captain, who gave not one inch in the test of wills. For a moment Middleton was genuinely convinced it would come to blows between them – an affair guaranteed to be a one-sided pounding with the Sergeant swinging the hammer.

“Permission to speak candidly, Captain?” Joneson said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t need to ask in private, Sergeant,” the Captain replied immediately. He was actually angered by the fact that Walter Joneson felt the need to court protocol, as he had always considered the man to be a friend.

“I am giving recruit Lu the same treatment as every other member of my team,” Sergeant Joneson growled. “The fact that it’s down to me and those…Tracto-ans,” he spat derisively, “to give her that treatment makes not one lick of difference, sir. My personal preferences come second—or further back than that!—to the dictates of the mission; without able Lancers, this ship is in grave danger and its mission is in peril. It’s my job to train those Lancers, regardless,” he held the last word for several seconds before finishing, “of my personal prejudices.”

The silence lingered as Middleton tried to find the right words – a task he had always found frustratingly difficult. Eventually he sighed. “Walt, I’m not going to beat around the bush. You had one of the most promising athletic careers I’ve ever heard about, but you threw it all away over a matter which is more than vaguely similar to this one. As the Captain of this ship, it’s my duty to look to the safety and readiness of the crew. Seeing as I’ve always thought of you as a friend, I wouldn’t want to see you throw it all away again over such an insignificant matter.”

Joneson stiffened. “If you think I flushed my playing career because I got bitter about going up against a few genies,” he said coldly, “then you misunderstand me absolutely, Captain. And if you think I dislike those Tracto boys because someone tinkered with their DNA somewhere between Old Earth and here, then you need to spend a little time with them yourself.”

“Cut to it, Sergeant,” Middleton snapped. “I’ve got plenty of other things to deal with today; I don’t have time to mince words.”

Joneson stood from his chair—a pointed, if relatively minor, breach of protocol—and flexed his hands rhythmically. “Those Tracto-ans have never lost a meaningful battle,” Sergeant Joneson said less angrily than Middleton had expected, “and until a soldier faces certain defeat you can’t know what he—or she—is really made of. More importantly,” he added with a hard look, “you can’t teach a man who’s never been proven fallible. To my understanding, Recruit Lu has also never lost a meaningful battle.”

Middleton actually found himself understanding the Sergeant’s behavior toward recruit Lu—and was more than a little disappointed in himself for not having seen it earlier.

Apparently seeing realization dawn on his Captain’s face, Joneson shook his head bitterly as he continued, “Those Tracto boys are too big, too fast, and flat-out too tough for me to school; maybe in my prime I could have taught them a thing or two, but I’m well past that now. Lu, however,” he said, his voice having returned to its stony, professional timbre, “her I can teach. She’s the only recruit we picked up who’s got the spark, Captain, and I’d be doing her and the ship a disservice if I didn’t kindle it the best way I know how. Again,” he said in a pointed voice, “my own preferences—or prejudices—whatever they may be, come a distant second to the success of the mission.”

Middleton nodded as he rose to his feet, actually feeling relieved in all aspects at the outcome of the meeting. “Sergeant, you are a professional through and through,” he said curtly. He fought against the grin that wanted to play out over his features as he added, “I knew there was a reason I chose you for the job.”

Sergeant Joneson’s shoulders slumped briefly as he exhaled before returning to attention and snapping a salute. “Permission to return to my duties, Captain?”

Middleton nodded, returning the other man’s salute. “Permission granted, Sergeant.”

Joneson turned and made to leave the room before stopping and, without making eye contact, saying, “If my read on her is good, you’re probably going to hear about one more visit to sickbay for Recruit Lu before the week is out. One way or the other, that’ll be the end of it, Captain.”

“I’ll be expecting your report, along with the doctor’s,” Middleton said pointedly.

Joneson nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said as he turned to leave the ready room.

“Oh, and Sergeant,” Middleton called just before Joneson had made the door, “that security breach regarding our prisoner in the brig?”

Joneson stopped in his tracks and nodded, reaching his hand into his pocket as he made his way to the captain’s desk. He withdrew a tiny, round object smaller than most old-style coins Middleton had seen in antique collections. “This was the source of it, Captain,” the large man said, handing the object over.

Middleton turned it over in his fingers and recognized it as a low-profile security camera from the ship’s armory locker. “A button cam?” he asked with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

Joneson snorted before his features gradually morphed into something between a smirk and a lopsided grin. “We found it strategically located in the…women’s showers, sir,” the Sergeant said with a knowing look. “I’ve had the entire ship swept for more of them but seeing as this is the only missing unit from our supply, and our physical inspections came up blank, I believe the threat has been neutralized.”

At first, Middleton was genuinely surprised and concerned that Fei Long had managed to break into the ship’s armory undetected. Then he shook his head at the audacity of the young man’s violation of his crew’s privacy. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he could remember doing worse when he was Fei Long’s age…but at least his offenses hadn’t been committed on an actively deployed warship.

“It looks like our prisoner is just full of surprises,” Middleton mused dryly.

“Surprises, sir?” Joneson asked with a cocked eyebrow of his own. “He needs to be punished for violating his crewmates’ trust but I can’t say it’s all that ‘surprising,’ given his age and obvious technical abilities.”

“True enough,” Middleton allowed. “Thank you, Sergeant; that will be all.”

“Captain,” Joneson acknowledged before turning and exiting the room.

Middleton looked down at the button cam and allowed the grin he had been holding back to spread across his lips. “Some things never change,” he chuckled before placing the button cam on the desk and sitting back down in his chair.

Having survived their latest crisis, Captain Middleton decided it was time to take a closer look at this ‘Fei Long’ character. Possessing limited information to peruse, he pulled up the young man’s medical records along with everything else which had been compiled on him, and began to read.

Chapter XIV: Bread Crumbs

“Comm., have you received a response from the colony?” Middleton asked as they neared high orbit over the lone habitable world in the system. The enemy vessel that had overwhelmed the Pride’s shields with just two volleys had not returned, and since it had been well over a day since their initial engagement, Middleton had decided it was time to investigate the system.

“No response yet, Captain,” Jardine replied, having resumed his first shift post after securing the strange particle imaging device after downloading the image into a detached, high-security workstation. “I’m reading the standard handshake protocols from the main comm. relays, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the other end of the line.”

“Either that, or they’re avoiding contact with us,” Sarkozi offered as she populated a corner of the main viewer with a series of rotating images – most of which showed smoldering craters where buildings should have been. “The damage appears to be consistent with a highly-targeted orbital bombardment, Captain,” she continued, “if there are survivors, they might be deliberately avoiding contact.”

“Give me a breakdown of those strike points, Ensign,” Middleton ordered as he leaned back in his chair and considered the options.

“Twelve structures appear to have been destroyed in total, Captain,” Sarkozi reported promptly. “The main research facility looks to have taken the worst of it with repeated impacts,” she continued as a particularly large crater’s image expanded on the screen, “while the six adjoining structures of the campus were also leveled, but with what look to be individual strikes. After that, it seems that three supply depots were also leveled…in addition to the primary residence structure of the colony.”

Clearly needing no prompting to do so Ensign Sarkozi expanded the view of the last detailed target, showing the rubble of what the official records said had been a twelve story housing complex. The records indicated that over two thousand people had recently resided there.

“What about radiation?” Middleton asked, turning to the Sensors operator.

The woman shook her head. “Nothing above tolerances detected, Captain. There’s a slight increase at each impact point, but nothing dangerous for short-term exposures.”

“Still no response to our hails?” Middleton asked again.

“Nothing, Captain,” replied Jardine. “The orbital relays all appear to be functioning, but I can’t tell if the ground-based transmitters are functional from here. A physical inspection of the comm. station would be required for that, sir.”

“Strange they didn’t send any distress signal,” Helmsman Jersey observed dryly. “Either they were attacked too fast to hit the panic button or they didn’t realize those ships were hostile.”

“Just so, Helm,” Middleton agreed, having arrived at the same conclusion almost immediately. But he was more than a little surprised that Jersey had been the member of the bridge crew to first make that particular observation.

“But that hostile was unlike anything in our ship’s database,” Sarkozi said doubtfully. “So unless they were completely asleep at the switch, they should have known those ships weren’t friendly.”

“Pull up the specs on this colony again,” Middleton said.

Sarkozi pulled up the data on her console and mirrored it to the main viewer. “This was a splinter colony established fifty two years ago,” she read the data clinically, “with an initial population of two thousand forty four. Demographic breakdown includes technicians, farmers, and other standard personnel. The only notable quality of the population is their fairly diverse cultural background, having been pulled from a half dozen Core Worlds.”

“Two thousand forty four?” Middleton repeated as his eyes narrowed. “Call up the most recent population for census, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarkozi acknowledged as she minimized the first census, before putting the newer one beside it on the main viewer. “Latest census reads total colony population of…two thousand twenty six?” she finished with a scowl.

Middleton leaned back in his chair as the true nature of the facility was made clearer. “This was no colony,” he concluded, “this was some kind of secret facility disguised as one. No colony would be maintained without a population growth of at least fifty percent per generation during the initial stages, and fifty years of growth means a minimum of five thousand colonists just to keep from being defunded and abandoned by the sponsor worlds.”

“Answers a few questions, at any rate,” Jersey muttered darkly.

Captain Middleton considered the situation for a moment before arriving at a decision. He activated his chair’s com-link and opened a channel with Sergeant Joneson.

“Joneson here, Captain,” came the man’s deep voice.

“Sergeant, I want you to prepare a landing party,” Middleton said, “I’ll need you to lead an eight man tactical team to escort four officers into a potentially active combat zone for an estimated twelve hours.”

“Any intel on potential hostiles, Captain?” Joneson asked with calm professionalism.

“Nothing solid,” Middleton replied after a brief hesitation. “You’ll board the shuttle in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Joneson replied.

“Middleton out,” the captain said before severing the link and turning to Ensign Jardine. “Sarkozi, Jardine: you’re on the away team. Get down to the armory for your gear and then meet up with Sergeant Joneson in the shuttle bay.”

“Yes, Captain,” they replied, standing from their stations and making for the lift. After they had exited the bridge, Middleton stood from his chair and headed toward his ready room.

Without breaking stride, he said, “Jersey, in my ready room.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Helmsman said as he stood from his console, waiting for his replacement to take over before following Middleton into the ready room.

When they were both within the ready room and the door had slid shut, Middleton turn to his sour Helmsman. Jersey looked at him with hard, grey eyes beneath bushy eyebrows so apparently unkempt that they bordered on violating the uniform code.

“Jersey, I need an XO,” Middleton said, wishing to waste no time. “Frankly I can’t think of a better man for the job.”

“Sir?” Jersey said, clearly taken aback.

“This ship needs a proper command structure and I can’t sit on my hands any longer; you speak your mind and you know the rules as well as I do,” he said magnanimously.

“Better, sir,” Jersey said stiffly, clasping his hands behind his back.

Middleton fought the urge to bristle and let a cool smile play over his lips instead. “You prove my point perfectly,” he said evenly. “You’re also one of the only officers who holds a rank higher than Ensign aboard this ship, and you’re the only one to have more service time than I do.”

“Never made it past Lefty J-G, Captain,” Jersey said, for the first time showing doubt in the Captain’s decision. “I’m not sure what good I can do you.”

“You let me be the judge of that, Lieutenant Commander,” Middleton said forcefully with a bit more flare than he had intended. “I need a senior officer to command the away team; Sarkozi and Jardine are good, young officers, but I need a steady hand down there.”

“Lieutenant Commander?” Jersey said with an arched eyebrow. “Wouldn’t Sarkozi be better suited for this, Captain?”

“Sarkozi’s a fine officer,” Middleton allowed, “but I need her where she is. Your skills on the helm, fine as they are, are more easily replaced than hers are at tactical. This move won’t affect the rest of the chain, and I know I can count on you to speak your mind – especially when we disagree.”

A smirk came over the other man’s features as he nodded slowly. “I’ll go where you need me, sir, but I’m afraid I’m too old to learn new tricks,” he said as he braced to attention. “I’ll give you my best from day one but unlike these pups we’re training up, I’ve done all my growing. You find I can’t do the job to your satisfaction, just put me back on the helm; whipping me for my shortcomings ain’t liable to do much but cause mutual aggravation.”

“Fair enough, Commander,” Middleton said, thrusting his hand out. Jersey accepted it and Middleton found that the man had a surprisingly powerful grip for his stature. But Tim Middleton was no slouch himself, and the two gripped as tightly as they could without grimacing before Jersey cracked a smile.

“What are we looking for down there, Captain? I can tell you’ve already got a notion,” the newly minted Lieutenant Commander said matter-of-factly.

“Honestly,” Middleton bit his lip for a moment before shaking his head, “I think it will be best if you just run a thorough, class two scan of the ‘colony’ before making your way up to the comm. station on the nearby mountain. Maintain complete radio silence unless you find something suspicious or noteworthy, in which case you are to pipe it directly to me on a point-to-point beam using top encryption. The away team will not discuss its findings with any of the crew, do I make myself clear?”

“As a klaxon, Captain,” Jersey replied with a snappy salute that was completely at odds with his usual demeanor.

“Good hunting, Commander,” Middleton said, returning his salute.

Lieutenant Commander Jersey turned on his heel and left Middleton’s office, which left only one more specialist he needed to corral for the away team.

“Visual tracking of the away team shows they’ve just finished their inspection of the colony, Captain,” the sensors operator reported. “They’re making their way back to the shuttle now. No hostiles detected using passive scans.”

“Good work, Sensors,” Middleton said before turning to the Comm. officer, a crewman named Babin. “Keep scanning all frequencies, Comm.,” he instructed, “report any activity whatsoever.”

“Yes, sir,” the crewman replied, “continuing passive scans; no activity detected at this time.”

The minutes ticked by until the away team had re-boarded the shuttle. Seconds later, the craft lifted off and began its journey toward the nearby comm. station located on the nearest peak – which measured nearly four thousand feet above sea level.

As the craft flew toward its destination, the com-link silently flashed on Middleton’s command chair, and he saw that it was a transmission from Commander Jersey. The message read: Debris at depot sites consistent with high-yield military-grade weapons containment facilities; main housing complex located above underground facility of some kind, unable to access from surface.

Captain Middleton nodded to himself and deleted the message from his log, as Jersey had just confirmed his suspicions that this was some sort of military weapons cache leftover from around the time of the Confederation’s Union Treaty with the Imperials.

Whoever had placed those weapons there, probably fifty years earlier, had clearly dispatched the three ship detachment they had encountered on their way into the system. Apparently the recovered cache was more valuable to them than avoiding discovery, since the unidentified warship had not returned to finish the Pride off.

Protocol called for containment of any remaining sensitive equipment or intelligence, so Middleton watched as the shuttle bearing his away team neared the landing pad at the summit of the mountain.

“That’s the report, Captain,” Jersey said as he handed the data slate to Captain Middleton before taking a seat opposite him in the Captain’s ready room. “Looks like you were right; this was no ordinary colony, and they were expecting those hostiles judging by the record of their handshake protocols. And the organic residue at the impact points suggests the presence of more than a handful of people.”

“Those comm. logs were already erased when you arrived,” Middleton said, more to confirm his suspicions than to request information.

“Yes, sir,” Jersey replied. “The entire comm. station was secured as well; it looked like they planned to return to it but never did.”

Middleton wanted to test his new Executive Officer’s reasoning skills, so he leaned back in his chair and set the slate down on the desk without having activated it. “You conclusion, XO?”

Jersey snorted. “Seems obvious they treated the hostiles as anything but, going so far as to erase most of the evidence pointing to their arrival and purpose,” he said gruffly. “My bet would be that the hostiles came down, conducted whatever business they meant to, which included the retrieval of a not-inconsequential quantity of high-yield weaponry. Then, under some pretense or another, the hostiles lured every man, woman, and child – assuming there were any children at this ‘colony’ – back to the base proper before blasting the place straight to the Demon’s Pit.”

Middleton nodded approvingly. “Well done, Commander,” he said. “Did you find evidence of who those hostiles might have been?”

Jersey shook his head. “Found a few hover-vehicle impressions but nothing conclusive. Aside from the relatively sterile scene, it looks suspiciously like a pirate job.”

“Agreed,” Middleton concurred. “Someone was covering their tracks and trying to make it look like an act of piracy rather than what it really was.”

“And what do you think that might be, Captain?” Jersey asked with a hint of challenge in his voice.

The Captain chuckled. “I’ve got theories, but nothing concrete.” At his XO’s sour look, Middleton added, “I guarantee you’ll be the first to know my thoughts once they’re more than speculation, Commander.”

Jersey sighed. “Fair enough; gotta keep some things close to the vest,” he grudged. “The, uh, fourth member of the away team would like to have a word, Captain,” he added belatedly.

Middleton nodded in resignation. “Send her in.”

“Captain,” Jersey acknowledged before rising from his seat and exiting the ready room.

A few moments later, Doctor Jo Middleton entered the captain’s ready room with a scowl on her face that probably could have shattered a mirror. “I don’t appreciate you coopting me like that, Tim,” she snapped – this time after the door had slid shut.

“I had no choice, Doctor,” he replied calmly, gesturing to the chair which Jersey had just vacated. “The situation called for my top bio-sciences expert to conduct sensitive scans; I would have sent someone else if I could have.”

“Ha!” she scoffed before visibly collecting herself and taking a short breath. “I would appreciate a little warning next time – especially if I have to share a shuttle with those smelly, thuggish Marines.”

“Lancers,” Middleton corrected calmly as he held his hand out. “Your report please, Doctor?”

Jo took the data slate from her pocket and thrust it toward him, and he was surprised to see that most of her anger seemed to have already dissipated. “The planet was clean of bio-contaminants – this time,” she added pointedly. For a Doctor, she had an abnormally powerful fear of contracting a xeno-infection of some kind, and Middleton had taken no joy in exposing that particular character flaw during the away mission. “Radiation levels surrounding the craters were consistent with orbital bombardment via high-powered particle cannons, but within the habitable limits elsewhere.”

“In your opinion are there any survivors down there?” he asked.

Her scowl returned. “Nothing organic could have survived that bombardment,” she shook her head angrily. “And the scans we ran during flight revealed nothing but wildlife within twenty kilometers.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said after receiving her report. If the Chief Medical Officer of the ship believed there was no reasonable evidence to suggest the presence of survivors, then he could break orbit as soon as he wished.

“Now that you’ve satisfied your military protocols,” she said with a thinly-veiled sneer that still managed to get under Middleton’s skin, “would you mind telling me what’s going on around here? First we get attacked immediately upon entering this system, and now we find a colony that quite obviously isn’t a colony at all; what’s going on here, Tim?”

Captain Middleton actually wanted to confide in someone – anyone, including his ex-wife, of all people – but he had to keep a lid on his suspicions for now. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said evenly, “I can’t discuss the matter any further.”

Her face looked fit to burst from the sudden rush of blood which turned her face a lovely shade of red as she stood angrily from the chair. “You government types are all the same,” she spat, “with the military easily the worst of the lot!”

“If that’s all, Doctor,” he said levelly, simultaneously annoyed at her constant informalities and amused at her continued outbursts which reminded him so very much of the girl he had known two decades earlier.

She spun and made her way to the door, which she exited through without another word.

He shook his head and picked up the data slate to review her report – which was surprisingly detailed and dispassionate for Jo, considering her dislike of anything to do with his chosen profession.

Chapter XV: Sleeping Dragon, the Second Visit

“Fei Long,” Middleton began after sitting down on the bench opposite the prisoner’s cell, “I don’t have much to work with but from what I can tell you’re some sort of political radical from your home world. Is that right?”

The young man, who appeared remarkably composed after spending so much time in the brig, opened his eyes as the captain began to speak. “That would be an accurate description, Captain Middleton,” he said with a hint of surprise in his voice.

The captain nodded. “Your ‘official’ files were obviously forgeries, but as a matter of course we download as much media as possible from the worlds we visit,” he explained. “Still, it seems that whatever records of your crime may have once existed were erased from the system. Only a few scraps survived, and even those took my people the better part of a day to find and collate.”

Fei Long leaned forward and sighed. “Captain, I wish to apologize for my earlier—“

“Save it,” Middleton said with a halting gesture. “I’m not interested in recrimination; your stated reason for compromising my hyper dish checks out…so far. Based on that, and your assistance in helping identify the second portion of the coded message, I’m willing to consider the possibility that you’re telling the truth.”

Fei Long nodded. “You are a pragmatic man, Captain; I respect that—”

“Again,” the captain interrupted levelly, “save it. I’ve got little time and even less patience for flowery wordplay with someone who, from what I can tell, is the single greatest visible threat to my ship’s security. Answer one question honestly and I won’t throw you out an airlock.”

The young man gestured invitingly with his left hand. “I cannot lie to you, Captain; ask me your question.”

Middleton leaned forward and pointed the data slate in his hands at the young man. “Are you aware of any other breaches in my ship’s security?”

The corner of Fei Long’s mouth turned up in a half-smirk. “An interesting choice of words, Captain,” he mused as he stroked his barely-existent chin stubble. “The short answer to your question is ‘yes,’ while the slightly longer answer is to add that I am even responsible for one of these two breaches. I would never have been able to build the strange particle imager without the micro-Locsium crystal fragments you recovered from the gas mine, so it became necessary to retrieve one such fragment from the armory. That is the first of the two breaches in your security of which I am aware.”

Middleton had suspected that Fei Long’s mischief extended beyond peeping on his fellow crewmates, but even he was surprised that the young man had managed to penetrate the armory without being discovered. The security protocols surrounding the armory were every bit as tight as those in Engineering or the bridge.

“And the other breach?” the Captain asked unflinchingly.

Fei Long leaned forward and made an extravagant show of bringing his right arm forward across his knees, which seemed an odd gesture to Middleton. “Someone has uploaded a virus into your secondary computer system which is periodically downloading sensitive information from your primaries,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Someone?” Middleton cocked an eyebrow accusingly.

Fei Long shook his head. “I assure you it was not I, Captain. The perpetrator – or perpetrators – are…” he hesitated before sitting upright. “Do you have an ink pen?” he asked casually.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Middleton asked abruptly, ignoring the boy’s query. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t toss you in the box down there,” he jerked his thumb toward the maximum security cell, which was little more than a dark, three meter by three meter vault with atmo-cycling.

Fei Long nodded quickly as he reached his thumb up into his mouth and checked the security camera positioned across from his cell – as well as the one inside his cell – before biting his thumb and causing it to bleed. “I believe you are an intelligent man, Captain,” he said as he carefully dabbed a few drops of blood onto the wrist of his other arm, “and that you therefore already know of what I am about to write.” He traced what appeared to be letters across the inside of his forearm, careful to keep it from the view of the cameras, before finishing and gesturing for Middleton to lean down a few inches.

With the bars between them and Fei Long’s person having been thoroughly – and almost certainly, uncomfortably – searched following his arrest, Middleton knew there was no danger so he leaned forward and read the word scrawled quite clearly on the young man’s arm. He allowed his eyebrows to rise slightly in surprise, since the last thing he had expected was to have this particular topic broached during the interrogation.

Having read the word, Captain Middleton leaned back in his chair. As he did so, Fei Long scrubbed the blood from his forearm using dab of saliva before rendering the word completely illegible. “If I have incorrectly identified your attackers,” Fei Long said with a respectful bow of his head, “then I will tell you that, before I was incarcerated unjustly—by my own countrymen, of course,” he added hastily, “since my current imprisonment aboard this ship is absolutely justified—a device was implanted within my skull which renders my verbal expression of a known falsehood quite fatal. This device may also be activated remotely, using a certain signal and frequency which I am more than happy to provide.”

“There was no such device reported during your medical examination,” Middleton rejected, assuming this was some sort of diversionary tactic. Although, considering what Fei Long apparently knew of their current situation, it did seem rather less likely that he would be lying.

“Your wife likely did not know how to look for it,” the young man said graciously. “It is organic in nature, and would show as little more than a small blood clot on routine scans.”

Middleton leaned forward and shook his head. “You’re not exactly helping your case here, Mr. Fei. Even if I believed you have a kill pill implanted somewhere on your person, those are reserved for short-term use while transporting only the most dangerous criminals.” The Captain stood from his chair and looked down at the young man, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation warring for control of his thoughts. “I’m going to have Doctor Middleton – who is not my wife,” he said pointedly, “conduct a more thorough examination. If she doesn’t find a kill pill, I’m going to lock you in the max-sec box until we can take you back to your world – assuming, in the meantime, you don’t give me cause to have you executed in accordance with the military code.”

Fei Long lowered himself to his knees and clasped his hands before himself in the same fashion Lu Bu and Kong Rong had done. “I eagerly await our third visit, Captain,” he said respectfully as he bowed his head.

The Captain looked down at him in concealed puzzlement for a moment before turning and leaving the brig.

Chapter XVI: Breaking Bread

Lu Bu was still fuming about her being prevented from participating in the daily drills conducted by Sergeant Walter Joneson, but she had managed to rein in her temper enough that she could make her way down the corridor toward sickbay.

It had been three days since her injury, and already her shoulder felt as good as it had prior to the injury. Her entire life had been spent in strenuous physical activity, so she had a multitude of minor aches here and there but such was to be expected of any worthwhile warrior.

A pair of crewmembers—both women, and both nearly a head shorter than Lu Bu—passed by and she inclined her head respectfully after recognizing their insignia showed them to be petty officers assigned to Environmental. As a recruit, Lu Bu was lower in station than anyone else aboard the Pride of Prometheus, so she made her obeisance whenever she understood that protocol demanded. But she would only do so after confirming that the recipients were worthy of such a display.

The women nodded curtly, but as they rounded the corner behind her she could hear them whispering to each other—whispering about her.

Such had been commonplace on her home world, but she had thought that the people serving in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet would have behaved differently. She had truly believed that the bigotry she had encountered in her young life had been the product of her world’s culture.

But it seemed that wherever she went, people behaved the same and treated her as an outsider—or worse, like some sort of freak who should be pitied.

That thought nearly brought tears to her eyes—tears of anger, not sorrow—but she successfully fought against them as she finally arrived at the main door to sickbay.

Entering the ship’s medical station, she saw Doctor Middleton standing beside the same boy from the shuttle ride which had brought her to the Pride of Prometheus. They made eye contact and the boy smiled at her as he spoke to the doctor, and Lu Bu noticed the two Lancers stationed nearby with their eyes pinned on the young man. Only after a second glance did Lu Bu realize the boy was wearing what looked like thick, metal gauntlets which were obviously some kind of elaborate handcuffs.

It seemed the boy had just exited one of the many pieces of scanning equipment found in the ship’s sickbay, which was as well-appointed as any hospital Lu Bu had ever visited.

She ignored the boy’s expression and strode purposefully toward the doctor, who she greeted after coming to a halt at a respectful distance, “I was wondering,” she began, and though she tried to do so she was unable to completely ignore the boy sitting on the sliding cot connected to the scanning device. Jutting her chin out, she continued, “I was wondering if Doctor Middleton has time for our meal?”

The doctor looked up over her glasses and nodded. “I’ll just be a few minutes here.”

Lu Bu nodded. “I will wait,” she said, making her way to a nearby chair and sitting as gently in it as she could manage. Finesse and delicacy had never been strong points for her; she was just as likely to smash a mirror in anger as to check herself with it.

These thoughts only served to remind her how very unlike these other women she was. The doctor, with her pristine lab coat and perfectly arranged hair, conducted herself with a degree of composure which Lu Bu knew she would never exude.

“It is good to hear you using first person pronouns,” the boy said in a raised, but measured, tone in Confederation Standard. “May I assume you have selected a name for yourself?”

Lu Bu narrowed her eyes and did her best to pointedly ignore the boy while stealing occasional glances from the corner of her eye. His face was pleasant enough in appearance, and he was of medium build for her world—which was to say he stood several inches shorter than her.

But his height was the least of his physical shortcomings; he seemed to have little, or no, regard for his own physical fitness. A sixteen year old boy should have wiry muscles, but this boy’s arms lacked definition. Thankfully he was not overweight, but it was painfully obvious that he had little athletic ability—and even less desire to remedy that particular flaw.

The boy sighed. “I suppose your reluctance to speak with me is to be expected,” he continued in Confederation Standard. “I am a prisoner, after all,” he added with a pointed look at the Lancers.

Lu Bu snorted derisively. “You left our home world with clean start,” she said evenly, “but you are only criminal. One cannot fight one’s nature.”

The boy raised an eyebrow in amusement. “A strange sentiment to hear you express,” he quipped, and Lu Bu realized her faux pas as soon as he had rebuked her. Here she was, casting aspersion on another based on their past, rather than their present. “In any event, you are likely more correct than you know,” he sighed. “I am what I am and it seems nothing can change that.”

“Enough chatter,” the nearest Lancer snapped, prompting the boy to raise his hands compliantly and bow his head. The Lancer gave Lu Bu a reprimanding look, and she felt herself redden beneath his gaze.

Doctor Middleton returned bearing a data slate and gestured for the boy to take a seat on a nearby bed. He complied, and after a moment the doctor turned to the Lancers while pointing at the boy’s encased hands. “Your Captain has ordered me to perform a full physical and psychological profile on this man,” she said pointedly. “It will be nearly impossible for him to answer the standardized PSI battery with these on.”

“Sorry, Doctor,” the first Lancer shook his head, “I have my orders from the Sergeant: the prisoner is to be treated as an imminent danger to the ship. The cuffs have to stay.”

Doctor Middleton shook her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose, prompting Lu Bu to wonder why the older woman wore glasses at all. There were no vision impairments which were better treated with glasses than via state-of-the-art microsurgery—at least, none which she knew of.

“There is more than one way to contain a threat, mister,” she said irritably as she pointed to a nearby window. “The hyperbaric chamber is completely isolated from the ship’s systems, and can be flooded with anesthetic gas if he becomes combative or self-destructive. I will have one of my assistants monitor him, and we will assume full responsibility if he misbehaves.” The Lancer looked hesitant, but the doctor placed a hand on her hip and shook her head condescendingly. “Or do I need to call the Captain and see if he approves?”

The Lancer, still clearly torn, shook his head as he motioned for his partner to approach. The other Lancer pressed a sequence of buttons built into the gauntlets’ wrists and the portions covering the boy’s hands withdrew into the wrist sections, and Lu Bu found herself wincing at the sight of the boy’s fingers. They were slender and decidedly less than masculine in her view, and she heard herself snort faintly under her breath.

“You have my thanks, Doctor,” the boy said, accepting the slate and glancing at it before sighing.

“That test should take you a few hours to complete,” Doctor Middleton said, gesturing for the boy to enter the hyperbaric chamber. He did so with a gracious nod, and after he was inside she closed the hatch behind him. There was just enough room for him to sit up inside the cylindrical, pod-like device, and he leaned against the curved window as his fingers began to fly over the slate with a speed and grace which Lu Bu had never possessed.

The doctor went to one of her subordinates and exchanged a few words before turning and gesturing toward Lu Bu. “Shall we?”

Lu Bu nodded, and after leaving sickbay they headed down to the crew’s mess. A few minutes later, they each had a platter of food, which they took to one of the corner sections and sat down.

“Duck…again,” Doctor Middleton said sourly as she ran her fork through the thigh section of her portion. “I’m glad for the fresh protein, but a little variety would be nice.”

Lu Bu cocked her head slightly, knowing that on her world duck was one of the finer native protein sources. “Duck is very healthy; it is sign of much respect that you are supplied with so much from my home world.”

Doctor Middleton sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed as she took a bite.

The two women sat in silence for several minutes as they consumed their meal. When she was nearly half finished, Lu Bu asked, “What is ‘standardized PSI battery’?”

The doctor looked up in confusion for a moment before realization dawned. “PSI stands for ‘Psychological, Social and Intellectual.’ It’s a comprehensive test designed to get an idea of how his mind works.”

Lu Bu nodded knowingly. “On my world we have like this, it is man-da-to-ry,” she sounded the word out slowly, feeling herself flush with embarrassment as she did so.

The doctor shook her head adamantly. “That was perfect, Bu,” she said firmly.

“Thank you,” Lu Bu muttered graciously. “Why you no use his records from my world?” she asked after collecting herself.

The doctor made as if to answer before hesitating. “They were…lost somewhere between your government and here,” she explained, clearly hiding something.

Lu Bu was unconvinced but she also had no desire to linger on the subjects of the boy or her home world’s government, so she merely nodded as if satisfied. Silence hung between them as they continued their meal for several more minutes until they had finished their meal.

Looking down at her shoulder pointedly, Lu Bu said, “My arm is better, Doctor. You are very skilled.”

Doctor Middleton drank the last contents of her cup before shaking her head. “Your arm isn’t quite healed yet,” she chided, “but even I am surprised at how fast your body heals. It’s really quite remarkable…I just wish it hadn’t been injured in the first place.”

Lu Bu shook her head defiantly. “It was this one’s fault,” she said quickly. “Sergeant Walter Joneson ordered Lu Bu to stand down and she disobeyed; punishment was necessary.”

Doctor Middleton gave Lu Bu a look which had far too much pity in it for her liking. “Bu,” she said gently, further raising Lu Bu’s ire by treating her like some kind of frail child, “you don’t deserve to get hurt like that, no matter what they tell you.”

Lu Bu took a deep, cleansing breath before leaning forward and searching for the proper words. “In my world,” Bu began after thinking of an appropriate example, “before one is finished with medical studies, one must subject one’s self to deadly disease and experience real treatment—as unidentified patient.”

The doctor sighed. “I’ve heard of these types of practices,” she said bitterly. “I find them barbaric, to be honest.”

“Why?” Lu Bu asked with honest curiosity. “If one not understand something, how can one…” she searched for the word, “how can doctor treat suffering if doctor not know suffering?”

“Even if I concede that point,” Doctor Middleton said, “what does that have to do with you getting abused by men like Walter Joneson?”

“This one—“ Lu Bu began.

“No,” the doctor interrupted pointedly, “it’s ‘I’.”

Flushing from the collar up, Lu Bu nodded shortly. “I was disrespectful and disobedient. How can team function without respect, and how can I become team member if I not understand respect?”

Doctor Middleton looked about to argue, but just then a short, balding man who Lu Bu recognized as Chief Engineer Alfred Garibaldi strode into the mess hall and clapped his hands together in obvious anticipation. “All right, what have we got here—“ he began boisterously but stopped short as he approached the serving line. “Aww, c’mon guys,” he groaned, “duck again?!”

“Be grateful for the fresh protein while we’ve got it, Chief,” said the man behind the counter. “Supply’s not likely to last more than another week, then it’s back to the standard rations.”

“I hate duck, guys; the things give me the green creepers,” he quipped before leaning in conspiratorially and someone with average hearing would have been unable to distinguish his words from Lu Bu’s location. But her hearing, like so many other physical attributes she possessed, was far superior to what most considered ‘normal.’ “Haven’t you guys got some pasta or something back there?”

“Sorry, Chief,” the server replied firmly.

The Chief sighed, “What I wouldn’t give for some of grandpa’s bagna càuda right now.” With that, he accepted the platter and made his way to the opposite end of the mess hall, where he was thankfully quiet.

“I understand that we’re different, Bu,” Doctor Middleton said after she, too, took note of the Chief’s obnoxious entrance, “but I want you to understand that you should be treated like everyone else.”

Lu Bu cocked her head in surprise. “Lu Bu…I,” she corrected, “am not like ‘everyone else’.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” the doctor retorted with a hard edge to her voice that Lu Bu had never heard from the woman. “Everyone has different gifts and abilities, but those gifts shouldn’t define who we are if we don’t want them to.”

Lu Bu wanted to retort, but she was simply unable to find the right words—which only served to increase her frustration as she warped and bent her thin, metal platter between her thick, powerful fingers.

Clearly seeing her frustration, Doctor Middleton held up a hand. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Bu,” she said as she withdrew a data slate from her pocket and slid it across the table, “maybe you’d be interested in this?”

Lu Bu reached out and snatched it from the doctor, only realizing she had done so in anger after already taking it in her hands. She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath as she set the slate down and bowed her head in apology. “I am sorry, Doctor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the other woman said warmly. “I couldn’t find the original language version in the ship’s library,” she said apologetically with a shake of her head. “I suppose these military types don’t much care for the classics.”

Lu Bu silently reprimanded herself for her outburst before activating the slate and finding herself confused for several moments before realizing what she held in her hands and gasping involuntarily. “Doctor!” she exclaimed, her mood having reversed almost instantly. “Thank you!”

“It was nothing,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “but that book is really quite large; it will probably take you a few months to finish it, especially since it’s not in your native language.”

Lu Bu felt herself almost trembling with excitement. She could not believe that she actually had a copy of Romance of the Three Kingdoms, by Luo Guanzhong, right there in her hands! This book had caused more upheaval and controversy on her world than any other, and was one of only one hundred eight works to have been officially banned by her government for its supposedly discordant effect on those who read it.

She had actually chosen her own name from the pages of that book, since bits and pieces of the book’s content had been whispered among those of her generation, and Lu Bu sounded like someone with whom she could identify. But other than being a legendary warrior with a fiery temper, she knew very little about the man who had been named Lu Bu—a situation she was now determined, and able, to remedy!

“Thank you, Doctor!” she gushed as she stood from the table with every intention of returning to her bunk so she could begin reading.

“Not so fast,” Doctor Middleton said with obvious amusement. “I’d like to run another scan of your shoulder while I’ve got you.”

“Of course,” Lu Bu nodded her head vigorously. She had never felt this excited in her entire life, and it was all she could do to keep from shrieking like one of those ridiculous girls attending a popular music concert.

Feeling as though she was floating on a cloud, Lu Bu followed the doctor to the sickbay and flipped through the foreword of the book as she walked, stopping in her tracks at the first line and gaping in awe as she felt a chill wash over her body. “Long divided, must unite,” she muttered under her breath, “long united…must divide…”

Those four words, spoken in two different arrangements, struck a chord somewhere deep within her and she began to understand why this book had been outlawed.

She continued reading and barely noticed as she entered the sickbay, actually bumping into Doctor Middleton’s back as the other woman had inexplicably stopped in her tracks just inside the door.

“Why did you take him out of the chamber?” Doctor Middleton asked irritably. “I haven’t even been gone twenty minutes.”

The Lancer shrugged his shoulders as he handed her the data slate. “He said he was finished, so your assistant opened the chamber.”

The doctor scowled and Lu Bu looked up from her slate to see Doctor Middleton’s eyebrows rise in unison as she flipped through the slate.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Doctor?” the young man asked respectfully, and Lu Bu saw that his hands were once again encased in the strange gauntlet-like bindings.

Doctor Middleton was silent for several moments as she reviewed the slate’s contents before shaking her head. “I suppose not,” she said as she gave the boy an appraising look which put Lu Bu on her guard. “You can return him to his…cell,” she said with a wave to the Lancers as her eyes returned to the slate.

“Thank you, Doctor,” the Lancer said before turning to the boy. “Come on,” he said, gesturing to the door, and the young man did as he was bidden. As he passed Lu Bu, the prisoner gave her a completely unsolicited wink, which only served to infuriate her.

Had it not been for the precious contents of the data slate she held in her hands, she might have smashed it over his presumptuous head.

Chapter XVII: Disappointment

“We’ve completed our scans of the planet, Captain, and the engineering teams have finished dismantling the communications equipment located on the colony,” Lieutenant Commander Jersey reported in his gravelly voice. “The orbital com-satellite has also been retrieved and is now stowed in the main cargo bay, per your orders.”

“Thank you, XO,” Middleton said with a curt nod. It had been four days since their arrival in-system and subsequent attack by the enemy vessel, and Captain Middleton was ready to resume his duties. “Engineering,” he turned fractionally toward the crewman Garibaldi had assigned to the bridge, “prepare for disembarkation. We’ll make for the edge of the system before point transferring out of here.”

“Yes, Captain,” reported the young woman before relaying his orders.

“What’s our destination, Captain?” Jersey asked.

Middleton made a last-minute check of his itinerary before forwarding it to the Navigator’s console. “Our mission is to patrol the border and seek out threats to Confederated interests,” he said in a slightly raised voice. “I’d say we’ve done a barely passable job of the first, and only slightly better at the second,” he said, fighting the bitterness which sought to suffuse his voice, “so it’s time we stopped moving around aimlessly like traffic enforcers and started acting like the honest-to-Murphy MSP that we are.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk as he looked around the bridge at the expectant faces of his crew, “We’re going on a hunt.”

“Orders received, Captain,” the Navigator reported. “Plotting our jump now.”

“Good to hear, Captain,” Jersey said gruffly before turning to the rest of the bridge. “Secure from station-keeping and prepare to disembark!” he barked, a tad too loudly for Middleton’s liking but he made no mention of it when he saw the crew snap to their duties with a noticeably more confident spring in their strides.

“Comm.,” Middleton turned to Ensign Jardine, “I need you to go down to the cargo bay and take a look at this ‘colony’s’ recovered satellite.”

Jardine stood from his station with a faint look of confusion. “What am I looking for, Captain?” he asked professionally.

“Anything that can help this ship,” Middleton replied. “Our main comm. transmitter burned out when we used it to jam those Starfires; I want you to take a good, hard look at the specs of whatever’s there. That gear might be of just a little help, or it might be a lot; either way you can pull whatever personnel you need for help, including department heads.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jardine reported before making his way off the bridge as a petty officer took over at Comm. Middleton knew he needed to make a full round of field promotions to better establish the chain of command aboard the ship, and he had been procrastinating for too long on that front. But he needed to focus his efforts where they could do the most good, and right now that was precisely what he aimed to do.

“Make for the hyper limit, Commander,” Middleton said as he stood from his command chair. “You have the conn.”

“Sir,” Jersey responded with a curt nod as he surveyed the bridge crew at work with barely-concealed disappointment. The crew’s lack of operational discipline and efficiency was certainly an issue, but to the Captain’s mind it was too far down the list to gain any measure of priority. Lieutenant Commander Jersey, however, would almost certainly take a different view of the matter and begin work at once to remedy that particular shortcoming.

Middleton made his way into his ready room to review some reports which had arrived earlier in the day—one of which regarded the young Mr. Fei Long down in the brig.

After sitting down, he activated the com-link to sickbay and Jo answered in her usual, less-than-punctual manner. “Sickbay here,” she said, for the first time sounding reasonably comfortable in doing so.

“I was just about to review Fei Long’s examination results,” Middleton said, “would you care to join me?”

Jo smirked slightly but nodded. “I think that might be wise,” she agreed.

“I’ll be in my ready room,” he said before deactivating the link and perusing the first portion of the report. A few minutes later, the door chimed and he beckoned, “Enter.”

The doctor entered the room and sat down across from the captain, who had just finished the section regarding Fei Long’s ‘kill pill,’ which appeared to be undeniably real.

“Ok,” Middleton said, placing the slate on the desk before himself and clasping his hands, “first things first: tell me about the kill pill.”

“That term is offensive and inaccurate,” she snorted.

Middleton held up a hand haltingly. “It’s just military short-hand,” he said by way of apology. “Please, just tell me what you know about it.”

She leaned forward and took the slate from beneath his hands and opened a series of images before handing it back to him. “It’s mostly organic,” she explained, “and by ‘mostly,’ I mean basically everything but the trigger mechanism. There are miniscule quantities of chemicals which, when combined, will cause an explosion that will cause catastrophic damage to the vasculature of both his low-and mid-brain regions. Without surgical intervention within minutes he would die from intracranial hemorrhage, and even with the surgery the insult to his brain stem would almost certainly paralyze him in a best-case scenario, and destroy his autonomic functionality completely in a worst-case scenario.”

“So, we’re talking about complete brain death either way?” Middleton confirmed.

“Barring extreme luck, yes,” the doctor replied, and Captain Middleton flashed back to when his previous doctor had used those same words a few hours before his own death due to Captain Raubach’s bioweapon.

Shaking the image of the old doctor’s face from his mind, Middleton leaned back in his chair. “Can it be disarmed?”

Jo shook her head slightly. “It’s possible,” she allowed, “but incredibly risky, assuming you’re talking about removing the micro-nodules containing the explosive components. Honestly, even with a full, Grade One neurosurgical suite I wouldn’t give him better than a thirty percent chance of survival. Those chemicals are just too sensitive, and the cystic nodules they’re encased in are specifically designed to be tamper-proof.”

Had Tim Middleton not lived with Jo for half a decade, he would have let the matter rest at that. But he saw a familiar look in her eye that told him she was holding something back. “But?” he prompted.

“But,” she breathed a hissing sigh through gritted teeth, “I think I might be able to deactivate the triggering mechanism non-invasively. It’s still risky, but if it works then it should decrease the risk of injury, either by accidental or intentional activation.”

“What do you need?” he asked.

“I’ve got most of what I need in sickbay,” Jo replied with a firm shake of her head. “If Engineering can re-wire the imaging suite in sickbay, I can interrupt the trigger’s signal using the bio-scanner set on maximum for a few seconds while I trigger the device electrically. With the scanner’s current wiring we might cause damage to the imaging matrix, but the modifications should only take a few hours.”

“Trigger it electrically?” Middleton repeated, referring to her plan rather than the specifics of modifying the imaging scanner. He had helped her study for many of her different courses during college, but unlike the rest of the things which found themselves permanent housing in his memory warehouse, he had allowed the late-night details of neurobiology to evacuate the premises after his wife had done likewise.

“The trigger detects activity in a few portions of his high brain,” she explained. “Truth be told, I’m amazed it hasn’t gone off accidentally since what constitutes a lie is largely debatable—even within a person’s own consciousness—and measuring electrical impulses so crudely can’t hope to guarantee success.”

“They are extraordinary measures,” Middleton agreed, finding that even he was more than a little unnerved by the boy’s situation.

“Extraordinary measures?” she scoffed. “Hardly; try barbaric,” she quipped as she opened the PSI results on the data slate before handing it back to him, “but everything else about that boy is extraordinary. He pegged the exam right down the line on everything except the social measures.” She snickered softly as she shook her head in wonderment, “In that regard, he’s actually a fairly normal sixteen year old boy. But his psychological makeup and intellectual capability are literally off the charts, which places him at least five standard deviations above the norm; even you and I are only in the three deviation range in total brainpower, and we were both first in our respective classes nearly every year.”

Captain Middleton found himself almost grinning at her observation that he was fairly normal for a teenage boy, but he thought it best if he kept his reason for doing so to himself. Normal, indeed, he thought with a chuckle. “So he’s prodigal,” Middleton confirmed.

Jo nodded. “Absolutely; even if he’s only five deviations above the norm in brainpower,” she said pointedly, “he’s one in roughly four million. If he’s six deviations above, it’s closer to one in a billion. This boy should have an entire lab built around him so he can work on improving information processing, advancing medical science, or developing that elusive ‘quantum conversion theory’ everyone’s raved about for the last fifty years.”

Middleton nodded as he mulled the situation over, having seen that Fei Long’s apparent aptitudes lay in the fields of information processing and particle theory. “Still,” he said as he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “he was in a prison facility, and his government surreptitiously foisted off on us under false pretenses. If that’s not cause for concern…” he trailed off into silence.

Jo gave him an incredulous look. “That boy’s perception of reality is so different from ours that it’s no wonder he got himself into trouble—”

“Did he say what his crime was?” Middleton interrupted as he looked down and typed out a message on the data slate, which after he was finished he slid across the desk toward her.

Jo shook her head after a moment’s pause as she ignored the slate, “Why haven’t you asked him?”

The captain shrugged, “I doubted I could trust anything he said until now. But with you to vouch for his honesty—“

Jo bolted to her feet, “Is that what this was about?!”

“Doctor—“

“No, Tim,” she snapped, pointing an accusing finger at him, “you tell me right now if that was why you called me up here, or Murphy help me I’m getting off this ship at the next stop!”

“Doctor,” he repeated calmly, “I don’t have the luxury of taking the moral high ground. Nearly five hundred people serve aboard this ship, and their safety is one of my highest concerns; I can’t allow my own private reservations to interfere with my doing what’s best for this ship, its mission, or its crew. Until I’m recalled, I’m going to do everything in my power to carry out my mission—including utilizing strategic advantages which allow for increased clarity.”

She stood there gape-mouthed at him as he pointed at the data slate. “Then I’m done,” she said hollowly. “Find yourself a new doctor.”

He actually felt a twinge of guilt at having played the scene out this way, but it was important for him to know how far she would go—or not go—and he now had his answer. “You’re a guest aboard this ship, Doctor,” Captain Middleton said as he stood to his feet. “You’re free to come and go as you please, and that would remain the case even if you weren’t the ship’s acting Chief Medical Officer. But before you make that decision, I have one request to ask,” he said with a pointed look at the data slate.

She shook her head adamantly. “No,” she refused, “I’m done, Tim; you’ll need to speak with Doctor Cho from now on. The military has taken too much of what I love already—I’m not giving it another instant of my life.”

She turned to leave the room, and Tim Middleton cleared his throat. To his pleasant surprise, she actually did stop—but she pointedly kept her back to him.

Scooping up the data slate, he made his way to her side and offered it to her. “One last request,” he said, knowing that the Pride of Prometheus would be worse for not having her aboard, “and if you still want to leave, I’ll be sure we put in somewhere safe as soon as possible so you can get back to your life.”

Jo sliced a cold, piercing look over at him before glancing down at the data slate. Shaking her head, she took the slate and stuffed it into a pocket. “I’m beyond disappointed in you, Tim,” she said coldly, “you’re nothing like the man I once knew.”

With that, she made her way out of the ready room and left him alone. He knew that she had spoken truly, even if her reasons for doing so might have been…misguided. But any change in attitude or life view—often for the bitter, the resentful, or worst of all, the apathetic—was the non-negotiable price of experience.

And he paid it gladly.

Chapter XVIII: Warmer…

The Pride of Prometheus completed two more jumps over the course of the following week, encountering nothing out of the ordinary—including no sign of the enemy vessel they were pursuing. Seconds after making their third jump, the main viewer’s tactical readout lit up like petroleum under a plasma torch.

“Captain, I’m reading four vessels in orbit of the fourth planet,” the Sensors operator reported promptly.

“Are they squawking IDs?” Jersey demanded, taking a step toward the man at Sensors. Middleton had to admire the way the newly made Lieutenant Commander was filling the role of XO—at least, so far.

“Affirmative, Commander,” the man replied. “I’m reading…System Defense Force signatures on one of the four vessels but nothing on the other three.”

“System Defense?” Middleton repeated. “Where are they based out of?”

“It looks like…the Elysium system, Captain,” the operator replied.

Captain Middleton saw Jersey scowl at the operator’s delayed report, but Middleton paid it no mind. He looked down at his chair’s readout as his XO leaned down next to the operator and said, “Captain Middleton requires all available information during your report, crewman—ship types, current status, handshake protocols,” he listed off in a voice only a few nearby people could hear.

Middleton actually stopped in the middle of calling up the information which Jersey had just subtly—at least, for him—suggested the operator include in his report.

The operator gave the XO a blank look for a moment before bobbing his head up and down as he continued, “Reading one corvette squawking SDF ID’s, Captain; handshake protocols accepted and their codes appear to be valid. Damage readings…” he hesitated as he flipped through a few screens, “it appears the corvette is heavily damaged with its power core reading near-critical. The other three signals are two merchantmen, which appear undamaged…”

“And the fourth vessel?” Middleton pressed.

After a pregnant pause, Ensign Sarkozi chimed in from Tactical, “Imaging scans suggest it was a settler ship, Captain.”

“Confirmed,” Sensors agreed belatedly, “its hull has suffered catastrophic damage, its power plants are cold and even its life support appears to be offline. At its current rate of orbital decay, it will burn up in the planet’s atmosphere in forty two hours—”

“Captain,” the Comm. stander interrupted, “I’m getting an audio distress signal from the corvette on a secure channel.”

“Put it through,” Middleton ordered.

The speakers erupted into unbearably loud static for several seconds before the Comm. stander adjusted the gains. “—tain Manning of the Elysium SDF Corvette Elysium’s Wings. We’ve been overrun by pirates, our power plant is offline and there are still survivors on that settler ship. We are requesting immediate assistance—“ the signal cut out unexpectedly.

“Get it back, crewman,” Middleton snapped as he flipped through his chair’s com-links to open a channel to Ensign Jardine down in the cargo bay. When he had him on the line, he ordered, “Report to the bridge on the double, Jardine.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied before severing the link.

The signal clarified on the speakers, “—n you assist us?”

“This is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus; we have received your distress signal and are moving to assist. What is your tactical situation?”

“Only ten of my crewmen are still alive,” Captain Manning replied quickly. “We’ve barricaded ourselves into the sensitive areas of the ship, but it’s only a matter of time—“ he cut himself short as the sound of blaster fire filled the speakers. “There are still two thousand settlers aboard that vessel that need evac,” the man continued, “the merchants had been helping us ferry passengers to the planet below for several days but less than an hour ago, both of them were taken by pirates and they launched a surprise attack. Both vessels are now hostile—repeat: both merchantmen are hostile.”

“I read you, Captain,” Middleton replied, “both merchant conversions are hostile. Our arrival will take at least two hours,” he said with a quick mental calculation, “can you hold out that long?”

“I doubt it,” Manning replied, “we’re under too much pressure and my Marines mutinied not long after we were fired on. I tried to overload the reactor but—“ he was interrupted by the sounds of shouting and repeated blaster fire.

Middleton muted his transmission line temporarily to issue instructions for a maximum burn toward the planet, but he saw that Jersey had already done so.

“We’re droppin’ like flies here, Captain,” said the commanding officer of the Elysium’s Wings. “I’ve set charges around the core and am going to detonate—“

“That’s not necessary, Captain,” Middleton cut him off. “We’re better off if you surrender; those merchants can’t outrun us and your ship’s not going anywhere in its current state. If we can’t retake your vessel when we arrive, I’ll scuttle it myself,” he promised.

“I have your word on that, Captain?” Manning asked after a brief delay.

“You have my word,” Middleton replied with feeling.

There was a momentary silence, followed by the other man’s voice shouting the order to stand down and surrender to his men. When he was finished, he said, “I’m scrambling this channel and securing the comm. transmitter. Either re-take this ship or blow it to Hades, Captain Middleton, but consider my people and I expendable—am I clear?”

“As a Royal Proclamation,” Middleton agreed. With that, the line went dead and he went about reviewing the ship’s database on anything and everything to do with the Elysium’s Wings and its commanding officer.

After just a few minutes of review, he was satisfied that the vessel was, indeed, assigned to the Elysium SDF force and that Captain Manning was its commander. Of course, it was possible that the man he had spoken with was an imposter, but that was wholly irrelevant to the matter at hand.

The priority was now clearly on securing the warship, disabling and/or destroying the merchant conversions, and rescuing the remaining settlers aboard the wreckage of the settler ship—in whatever order of priority events would allow. Captain Manning had been correct in asserting that rescue of his crew was nowhere near a top priority.

“I’ve re-plotted our course, Captain,” Commander Jersey reported, “ETA is now one hour forty six minutes.”

“Good work, Commander,” Middleton acknowledged as Ensign Jardine made his way onto the bridge to assume the Comm. station. “Ensign,” he continued, turning to the First Shift Comm. Officer, “I have a plan but I need to know if you can make the necessary preparations in time or not.”

“Of course, Captain,” Jardine replied promptly.

Middleton pulled up a file he had been working on in his spare time, which detailed a particularly clever use of sensor ghosts Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski had utilized to essentially ‘pin’ a group of vessels within the Lucky Clover’s relatively limited zone of control. The ghosts had tricked the enemy into thinking that the safest route was through the Clover—which happened to be the only real ship in the sector under Janeski’s command. Middleton despised Janeski for abandoning the Spine the way he did, but he had no illusions about the man’s keen tactical mind and feel for asset deployment.

The Lucky Clover had similar tactical disadvantages to the Pride of Prometheus, in that neither ship was terribly fast or maneuverable. Smaller, quicker ships could escape with adequate warning if they coordinated their withdrawal without coming under fire from the long guns of the larger, slower warships.

He forwarded the file to Jardine, who nodded slowly as he examined its contents and summary before shaking his head. “I could do this, Captain,” Jardine said confidently. “But not in an hour and forty two minutes; this is as much a challenge of designing the software as it is of deploying hardware,” he added with a significant glance to the countdown clock with Commander Jersey had apparently put up on the main viewer.

“Can you handle the hardware setup in an hour?” Middleton demanded.

Jardine nodded. “Absolutely, Captain…but who will handle the programming?”

“You worry about the hardware,” Middleton snapped. “Pull whoever you need; I’ll deal with the software.”

The Ensign looked confused before realization dawned and he nodded as he made his way to the lift. “I’ll need Chief Garibaldi and a few of his electronic technicians in the cargo bay, sir.”

The Captain flipped his chair’s com-link to Garibaldi’s channel. “Chief Garibaldi, Ensign Jardine needs you and your best electronics men in the cargo bay on the double.”

“On our way, Captain,” Garibaldi replied.

Middleton stood to join Jardine in the lift. “Commander, you have the conn,” he said, waiting for the other man’s acknowledgment before making his way to the brig.

Chapter XIX : Sleeping Dragon, the Third Visit

“Captain,” Fei Long said, clasping his hands and bowing in his people’s usual fashion, “I am grateful you have come. Aside from my latest visit for yet another series of scans in sickbay, I have been deprived of human interaction.”

“This isn’t a social call, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said shortly as he handed him the data slate. “Can you write the code for this, assuming the hardware is in place—and can you do it in less than an hour?”

Fei Long’s eyes snapped hungrily over the data slate, and for the first time since meeting the young boy, Captain Tim Middleton saw his true character. The boy’s eyes flicked up and down almost too fast to believe as he went from page, to page, to page of the Captain’s detailed report, attached mission logs and technical schematics, his eyes taking on an inner light as he did so. It seemed an overly dramatic thought, but Middleton couldn’t help but compare Fei Long’s demeanor to that of a dehydrated man’s first gulp of life-giving water in days.

In what would have taken Middleton no less than ten minutes to review, Fei Long accomplished in just under a minute. “Of course, Captain,” Fei Long replied, handing the data slate back to him with a gracious nod of his head, “but one hour is too much for such a task, given the materials you have just provided.”

“I don’t need arrogance, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said impatiently, making certain not to let his expression betray his surprise at the boy’s confidence. “Two thousand people’s lives hang in the balance, and I need to know if you’re capable of this.”

“I am,” Fei Long said fiercely, his veneer of overt respect and deference momentarily cast off as he locked eyes with the captain unflinchingly. Just when Middleton was ready to consider abandoning the plan to avoid such an obviously uncontrollable variable as this young man appeared to be, Fei Long added, “I will require no more than fifteen minutes to encode these protocols using your primary computer; to do so via the secondary system will require twice as much time; to do so with three completely blank, linked data slates like the one in your hand will require roughly fifty minutes. However it is accomplished, the end result will be identical.”

His mind was made up in an instant, and Captain Middleton called over his shoulder, “Release this prisoner.”

The Master at Arms approached and activated the console beside the cell. “Will he require a guard?” the burly man asked.

Middleton nodded. “He will, but have whoever it is keep back and out of his way; he’s no longer a prisoner of the brig, but he hasn’t earned free roam of the ship just yet.”

“Yes, Captain,” the man acknowledged, “I’ll escort him myself.”

“Good,” Middleton said, handing the slate back to Fei Long. “You’d better get started.”

“A wise precaution,” Fei Long said with a look of mild disappointment before waving away the slate, “but I no longer require the slate. I believe I can access the secondary mainframe from the Master at Arms’ office?”

Middleton looked to the Master at Arms, who nodded his assent. The Captain nodded also and said, “Do it; grant him full access to the secondary computer, but none to the primaries.” His orders given, he exited the brig and headed back toward the bridge.

He had some hard decisions to make regarding how to proceed, and just how much jeopardy to place his people in. He activated his com-link and connected with Lancer Sergeant Joneson, who picked up immediately.

“I need every single unit of power armor on this ship ready to deploy in one hour, Sergeant,” Middleton said as he walked briskly toward the lift.

“I’ve got thirty nine Lancers that are rated for active duty in power armor, Captain,” Joneson replied promptly. “That leaves eleven empties that I’ll need to fill from other departments.”

“Take whoever you have to,” Middleton said as he entered the lift, mildly impressed at the readiness status of Joneson’s people, “you’ll be deploying on three separate targets, so you’ll need every pair of mag-boots you can line up.”

“We’ll be ready, Captain,” Joneson said in his deep, smooth voice.

“Good,” Middleton said as the doors to the lift closed behind him.

Fei Long cracked his knuckles in anticipation as he followed the Master at Arms into his office. It had been far too long since he had interfaced with a proper computer, and there was simply no way to describe the feeling of angst and longing which that activity’s prolonged absence had created.

The ‘computers’ in the Environmental department of this ship, where he had originally been stationed as the pitifully named Wang Xiu, were little better than glorified data slates which had been welded onto that department’s desks. And while the Pride of Prometheus’ secondary computer system was a far cry from his old—meticulously constructed and painstakingly fine-tuned—Shu-Han network on the world of his birth, it was still far more than a glorified notepad, unlike every other electronic device he had used in the past two years.

“There,” the Master at Arms gestured to the workstation after entering his credentials, “you’ve got access.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Fei Long said graciously, using the man’s preferred honorific as he sat down in the terribly uncomfortable chair. But not even the chair’s rigid and unaccommodating geometry could erase the thrill of anticipation coursing through him. As he leaned forward to begin, his fingers paused a scant few millimeters over the console’s surface.

He closed his eyes and let the all-consuming sensation of imminent release wash over himself for a few seconds, savoring it like he imagined one savored a fine wine’s aroma before imbibition. Interfacing with and manipulating information had always been more than just a gift for him; it had become as vital and essential as any other daily activity. The forced deprivation of that outlet had built a growing hunger deep within him over the past two years, and he knew that he could finally do what he had been born to do.

Then, without further delay, his fingers began to fly over the crude, likely less-than-hygienic interface—if the Master at Arms’ skin care was any indicator of his general cleanliness—and Fei Long’s work had begun.

The seconds morphed into minutes, which in turn swirled into a vast ocean of information with eddies and currents that seemed to take on a life of their own, as the program within the Pride’s secondary computer stretched and swelled into what would be its final shape. Like a painter with brush and silk, a composer with ink and scroll, or a poet with rhyme and verse, Fei Long created a virtual work of art within the mainframe of the Pride of Prometheus’ computer system composed of tiny dashes and dots.

It was far from his most inspired work, owing at least in part to Captain Middleton’s somewhat rigid—if surprisingly efficient—thinking in the way he wanted this particular program to function. But there was a time and place for everything, and now was not the time to argue with his new Lord and his less-than-perfect stratagem—especially since that stratagem was nearly guaranteed to work, regardless of its many flaws.

But ‘nearly guaranteed’ was not good enough for Fei Long. So while he had reservations about the software, he knew he could solve some of their as-yet-unseen hardware difficulties if he finished his appointed task with ample time to spare.

He let all other concerns fall away from his mind so he could focus on the task at hand, and give it all the attention it deserved. For as long as he could remember he had fought to save people from the oppression of others, but never before had the situation been so immediate, or so real, as it was now.

He would not allow himself to fail Captain Middleton, or the settlers aboard that wrecked vessel. His life had purpose now and, with the Eternal Ancestors as his witness, he would play his part to deliver these people from the precipice of disaster.

“But I am ready for action, Sergeant!” Lu Bu protested as she watched a handful of her countrymen donning their casements of power armor.

“The doctor has you on medical restriction,” Joneson replied as he finished clamping one of the men into his suit of armor, “and I’m inclined to follow her advice.”

“My arm is fine!” she protested, tearing the pitiful sling from her shoulder demonstrably and flinging it to the ground. “I wish to serve,” she said forcefully, but she lowered her eyes deferentially as she did so, mindful that her prior tone might not have been as respectful as it should have been.

“You want to serve?” Joneson reiterated as he turned to face her, veritably towering over her. He was nearly a full foot taller than she, but their shoulders were nearly identical in width. “The power armor will need to be modified to fit you, anyway, Recruit,” he shook his head. “If you want to serve, report to the brig and relieve the Master at Arms; he’s rated for power armor and I’ll need his command experience to lead one of the strike teams.”

“But—“ she began to protest, but the towering Joneson’s glare cut her off instantly. She felt her face begin to flush, but remembering her own words spoken to Doctor Middleton not so long ago regarding respect, she clasped her hands before herself and inclined her head sharply. “This one will do as Sergeant Joneson commands.”

“Good,” the Sergeant said shortly before turning his back on her and continuing the task of suiting up another Lancer recruit—the same one who had uttered the vile words that had caused the incident for which she was now being punished and denied the opportunity to serve in battle. The Sergeant claimed it was due to her medical condition, but he received reports on her from sickbay and he knew as well as she did that her injury was now fully healed.

Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the armory and made her way to the brig. She imagined steam to be pouring from her ears as her heavy footfalls clanged against the metal decking, and crewmembers who had been busily rushing about their duties cleared a path for her as she stormed down the corridor.

Arriving at the brig, she used her private identification codes and entered while saying, “Sergeant Joneson requires the Master at Arms’ assistance—“

She cut herself off when she saw the same scrawny, delicate-handed boy sitting before the Master at Arms’ console. His eyes were closed and he swayed back and forth slightly, much as a pianist might do during concerto, with his fingers flying this way and that across the workstation.

The Master at Arms was standing a short distance from the boy, but his look was one of grave concern as the boy went about his work. Lu Bu approached carefully, having not expected this particular scene. She had expected to endure more of the young man’s verbal banter, but not to see him outside his cell and working on something which was clearly quite important—and at the Master at Arms’ console no less!

“Master at Arms?” Lu Bu beckoned quietly as she reached his side, and only then did he tear his eyes away from the display being put on by Fei Long.

“Yes, recruit Lu Bu?” he said with a quick glance to her before returning his gaze to the console and lowering his brow seriously.

“Sergeant Joneson prepares strike teams,” she said evenly as she, too, looked at the screen in front of Fei Long’s still-closed eyes, “and requires your assistance. He orders me to relieve you.”

“I just got his update,” the Master at Arms replied absently before turning and fixing her with a hard, penetrating look, “but I’m not sure I can leave him unattended.”

“Not unattended,” Lu Bu corrected him, feeling a flare of resentment, “I remain to carry your duties.”

The Master at Arms looked unconvinced and shook his head. “I’m afraid this might be more important…” he said doubtfully.

“What must this one do?” Lu Bu asked forcefully, keeping her tone just short of a demand. Walter Joneson had ordered her to relieve the Master at Arms, and she was not about to fail in carrying out her first, real, assignment.

The Master at Arms folded his arms and stared at the screen of his workstation for a few seconds before nodding and removing his sidearm. He handed it to her and asked, “Are you rated for this?”

Lu Bu recognized the sonic pistol immediately and took it in her hands, turned it over once, and saw that it was currently set for a left-handed user. She depressed the safety mechanism and cracked the breach of the weapon open, revealing a fully-charged power core. With a pair of twists and a subtle adjustment of the grip, she once again closed the breach with the weapon now returned to its default, right-handed setup and handed it back to him. It was irrelevant to her which hand she fired it with, being ambidextrous, but she hoped her displayed proficiency would prompt the Master at Arms to action.

She was correct. He nodded approvingly and replaced the weapon in its holster before unfastening the holster and handing it to her. A few seconds later, she had secured it against her hip and prepared to receive her orders by bracing to attention.

“My orders are to stay out of his way,” the Master at Arms explained, “and that he is no longer to be treated as a prisoner of the brig, but neither is he to be allowed free roam of the ship unattended. If you’re not sure what to do, restrain him and seek the Captain’s—and only the Captain’s—instructions. Clear?”

“Clear…sir,” she replied, briefly uncertain if she was to call him ‘sir.’ The chain of command aboard the Pride of Prometheus was still largely unclear to her, but she decided to err on the side of caution in this instance.

“Good; keep an eye on him, Recruit,” the man said before leaving the brig at a brisk pace.

After he had left, she took up his position and began to watch as Fei Long worked on whatever it was he had been assigned. While she had spent an inordinate amount of time on virtual social networks of questionable legality, Lu Bu had never been good with computers, likely owing to her ‘creator’s’ vision of creating a group of super soldiers. As such, brainpower was not high on the list of desired traits, but she had long since learned to accept her own limitations.

Still, watching the boy work was almost hypnotic, and several times she had to blink and shake her head as the stream of numbers and letters poured onto the screen with each stroke of the young man’s hands.

“I wholeheartedly approve of your name choice,” the boy said suddenly and in their native tongue without breaking the tempo of his movements—or opening his eyes. “Had I been free to do so during your last season, I would have used every last social exchange unit I was allotted to acquire a replica uniform of yours.”

“Less talk, more action,” she quipped in Confederation Standard. It wasn’t that she disliked her native tongue especially, but in the event that the brig was being monitored she wanted whatever interaction she was forced to endure with the insufferable boy to be as clear as possible.

“My tongue is not connected to my fingers,” he replied easily in fluid, perfect Confederation Standard as the corner of his mouth twitched briefly into a smile. “Besides, I am without my classical music collection; I must then somehow occupy the many parts of my mind not currently engaged in this important, if simplistic, task.”

Lu Bu was amazed that the boy’s fingers never stopped, and that the scrawling text and images continued to fill the screen before being replaced with a seemingly endless supply of fresh screens, which were in turn populated by Fei Long’s efforts. But she was determined not to let the boy see that she was impressed, so she ignored him to the best of her ability.

Abruptly, the boy’s eyes opened and he struck the console emphatically with his index finger, which caused a progress indicator to appear on the screen. When it had reached ten percent completed, he turned to her and opened his eyes. “Once the program has successfully compiled, we must make our way to the primary hyper dish relay located on deck seven,” he said as he stood and stretched his neck, causing a series of pops and crunches as he did so. “You may wish to advise the

Captain of our location?”

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 switch, 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.

Surprisingly, Sergeant Joneson had flushed out another six pirates from among the settler ship’s remaining passengers in less than an hour, and signaled that he was convinced the remaining populace posed no threat to ship’s security.

The shuttles began transporting the colonists to the planet’s surface immediately, and at a hundred passengers per trip and with a roundtrip time of two hours, it would be seven hours before they were all safely disembarked from the ruined hulk.

As the last passenger-laden shuttle touched down on the planet’s surface, the Pride’s crew began the process of salvaging whatever remained of the ship’s precious cargo comprised of quick-setup habitation modules, atmospheric purifiers, moisture condensers and every other piece of machinery which made human life possible on a barren, otherwise inhospitable world.

All told, they managed to recover some thirty percent of the original materials, with the rest either having been destroyed in the initial attack some three weeks earlier, or taken by those same pirates before Captain Manning had arrived with the Elysium’s Wings.

Captain Manning, aside from receiving a few plasma burns, was fit enough for a debriefing so Middleton called him to his ready room as soon as he had been cleared by sickbay.

“Captain Manning,” Middleton greeted as the other man entered, his arm hung in a sling and half his clearly-burned face was covered in Combat Heal residue, but his strong features and stony demeanor were obvious despite his injuries, “have a seat.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Manning replied as he made his way to the chair opposite Middleton’s. He lowered himself gingerly into the seat before continuing, “I want to thank you on behalf of my world; the Elysium’s Wings is a valuable asset in these troubled times. I can’t begin to express how much it means to my people, and to me personally, that you were able to recover her.”

“It’s our job, Captain,” Middleton replied awkwardly. He had never dealt with gratitude very well, especially from fellow servicemen and women. “I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary, so I’ll cut right to the point: who headed the mutiny aboard your ship, and do you have any indication as to who they might have been working for?”

Manning cracked a toothy grin as he nodded approvingly. “I like your style, Captain Middleton. My Marine commander, Lieutenant Sproles, was involved,” he said as his jaw clenched tightly, “and after thinking back on it, my second in command had to be the instigator since only he had the access codes needed to scramble main computer control. Who were they working for? Your guess is as good as mine,” he said bitterly, “but together, and with the two dozen Marines under their command, they were able to take key points all over the ship in less than twenty seconds after the mainframe went down. We never knew what hit us, Captain. If not for my Chief Engineer’s penchant for protocol,” he scoffed, clearly more at himself than anyone else, “they’d have taken Main Engineering as well. Had that happened, the best I could have hoped for was a depressurized airlock.”

“I hate to ask…” Middleton began, but Captain Manning waved him off.

“Why did they spare me?” Manning asked, correctly guessing Middleton’s intent. When Captain Middleton nodded, Manning leaned forward, “Because my family currently commands over half of the Elysium SDF. For thirty two generations we’ve manned our world’s warships, and no one knows as much about Elysium’s tactical disposition as the Manning clan. My guess is they were planning something for my world, and we have you to thank for disrupting those plans.”

“Elysium is a rich source of Trillium, isn’t that right?” Middleton asked, having reviewed the system’s statistics before meeting with Captain Manning.

“We’ve supplied Sectors 23 and 24 with nearly twenty percent of their Trillium for two centuries,” Manning confirmed stiffly before slumping his shoulders fractionally. “But…”

“But?” Middleton pressed.

Manning sighed. “Our Trillium supply is almost exhausted,” he said eventually. “It’s a closely guarded secret and our system’s economy depends on exporting Trillium, but the truth is we’ve only got another decade before production will begin to drop off. We report a ten year stockpile to the Confederated Imperial government, but the truth is we’ve barely got enough in reserves to make a quarterly shipping quota.”

Captain Middleton smiled faintly. “Captain Manning,” he began, lacing his fingers and leaning forward on his desk, “I’m not the enemy. We’re not here for your Trillium; we’re here to help.”

Manning narrowed his eyes fractionally. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Captain.”

Middleton sighed. “The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was established to help systems when the burden gets too heavy for local resources to carry,” he explained. “Admiral Montagne sent us out here to patrol Sector 24 and do whatever we can to help, and the truth is we haven’t done nearly as much as I would have liked. If Elysium is in trouble, I’m glad to help in whatever way I can without compromising the integrity of my mission.”

“Admiral Montagne?” Manning repeated, his eyebrows climbing slightly. “I thought Jean Luc Montagne died fifty years ago during Capria’s popular uprising—and wasn’t he a Captain?”

“You know your history,” Middleton said appreciatively, “but the Admiral Montagne in command of the MSP is not Jean Luc Montagne. Vice Admiral Jason Montagne-Vekna, Jean Luc’s nephew, is the commander of the MSP. It’s on his orders that the Pride of Prometheus is patrolling this region of the Spine.” He omitted the part where his mission’s timeframe had already long-since expired, and that he was now out here essentially on his own.

“I’m sorry,” Manning said with a doubtful shake of his head, “I’m not aware of any ‘Vice Admiral Jason Montagne-Vekna’.”

“It’s a long story,” Middleton said with a splay of his hands, “to put it succinctly, his position was a superfluous one designed purely for political reasons. But when the Empire withdrew from the Spineward Sectors, superfluous title or not, his was the highest name left on the MSP’s command structure. He could have tucked tail and run back to Capria—as it seems most of the constituent members of the MSP’s contributory worlds did—but he stuck his chin out and decided to carry the flag instead.”

“Interesting,” Captain Manning said with a slow nod. “Then I suppose we’re indebted not only to you, but to this Admiral Montagne as well.”

“Captain Manning,” Middleton said, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve got this one, old, outdated ship to patrol with. We’re of absolutely no threat to Elysium, regardless of its own particular challenges, so as much as possible I would appreciate an open exchange between us. Let’s leave the political maneuvering to the politicians, eh?”

Manning’s eyes flashed briefly before he nodded. “Alright,” he said, straightening himself in his chair, “let’s be open: how did you know where my ship was located?”

“As I said,” Middleton replied evenly, “we were performing routine patrols when we came across your ship.”

“You said your orders were to patrol Sector 24,” Manning countered pointedly, “but this system is inside Sector 23’s border.”

“Just inside the border,” Middleton allowed. “Evidence we’ve recently collected suggests that Sector 23 might be worth investigating, but I can’t speak any further on the subject, to ensure operational security.”

“Can you see my dilemma, Captain?” Manning said stoically. “I’m afraid not everything you’re saying is adding up.”

“How about this,” Middleton said, glad to have the preamble over with, “we’ll affect repairs to the merchant conversions since they’re barely damaged. We send one to Elysium with yourself and a security contingent from my vessel? We’ll keep the other conversion here to oversee the temporary colony’s safety.”

Manning snorted. “You put me under armed guard and you keep my Wings? How could I agree to that?”

“We won’t keep anything,” Middleton assured him. “But seeing as your corvette is far from space-worthy in its present state, it seems to me that the best course of action would be to stabilize its orbit and await a repair crew from your world. You can leave whoever you want to oversee the Elysium’s Wings’ security, and you have my word that whatever orders you leave regarding my own crew’s activities aboard your vessel will be respected.”

The two men silently considered each other for several moments before Manning leaned forward with a thunderous expression, “You think I’m a pirate, don’t you?”

Middleton shrugged his shoulders lightly without breaking eye contact. “It seems we both have cause for concern, Captain Manning,” he said as diplomatically as possible, “but you have to admit it’s…concerning that, of your original seventy three man crew, only six of you survived and you happen to be one of them. Marauding pirates aren’t known for taking prisoners, especially when those pirates are obviously operating on the sly—and from the inside, no less.”

Captain Manning’s face went red before his expression relaxed and he threw his head back, filling the ready room with laughter. “I like you, Captain,” he said after his laughter had ceased. “I’ll leave all five of my men on the Wings while I make for Elysium, as it’s my SDF’s protocol for a defeated Captain to report personally,” he said with a hint of bitterness. “This should minimize the number of men you’ll feel obligated to have escort me home, as well as allow my people to get under way putting the ship to rights so she can limp home. I’d appreciate whatever assistance you can give us in the immediate portion of the repairs, Captain Middleton; without you and your people, I’d be dead and my ship would be in the hands of those blighters, to say nothing of the colonists on the planet below.” He stood and thrust out his good, left hand.

Middleton stood and accepted the man’s hand. “The first conversion should be ready in just over a day. Please feel free to make use of the Pride’s facilities during that time.”

Manning shook his head. “I can’t do that, Captain, but thank you for the offer. I’ve got to get back to my Wings and set my people to task.”

“I’ll have my Chief Engineer coordinate with your people,” Middleton said as the other man turned to leave the room. Before he reached the door, Middleton said, “One more thing, Captain.”

“Yes?” Manning said, turning to face him.

“Your First Officer,” Middleton began, “his name was Brooks, Commander Brooks, is that right? I’d like to take a look into his past associations so we can try to figure out where this thing leads.”

Manning shook his head. “Brooks took ill just before this deployment,” he replied. “I had to move my Tactical officer up in his stead.”

“Your Tactical Officer?” Middleton asked, reaching for a data slate so he could review the Wings’ chain of command.

“Yes,” Manning said, “a bright young Lieutenant Commander named Charles Raubach.” A dark look crossed Manning’s face as Middleton’s eyebrows rose fractionally in surprise. “I wish I hadn’t killed him with my first shot…I’d like nothing more than to have a private chat with him right about now.”

Clearing the unexpected knot which had just formed in his throat by swallowing it—hard—Middleton nodded officiously. “Thank you, Captain; I’ll look into this Lieutenant Commander Raubach as time allows.”

“Anything you need, just ask,” Manning said with a curt nod as he turned and left the ready room. “And if whoever’s backing those mutinous blighters wanders this way while I’m gone, I hope you’ll put the Wings to good use.”

Middleton had hoped to find a thread which linked the pirate activity taking place in this part of the Spineward Sectors but he had no idea that it would point to one of the oldest, most powerful families in the Empire. The evidence was mounting, however, with Captain Meisha Raubach admitting to mutiny before her execution and now another Raubach having done likewise—unsuccessfully, thank Murphy—here, on the other side of the sector, it was clear that this was an orchestrated power grab which had been in the making for quite some time.

The implications were enough to turn Middleton’s stomach, but he still had a job to do. And he was now armed with more information than ever before, which was all he could ask…for now.

Chapter XXII: Raising The Bar

Lu Bu was fit to burst with excitement, since today was the day that Doctor Middleton had said she could be cleared for physical training. She had pored over the precious book which the doctor had provided her, spending every possible minute reading it and even re-reading the sections regarding her namesake, the legendary Ancestor Lu Bu.

She found him to be an arrogant man, but the more she considered the matter, the more she could understand that particular flaw. Here was a man who had been acknowledged by the entire known world—at least, that part of it which her ancestors had inhabited—as the greatest warrior in living memory. With his Trident Halberd in hand, and his famous warhorse Red Hare beneath him, he was utterly unstoppable in combat.

Such a man would naturally be arrogant, but the utterly fantastic lack of regard for those around and beneath him was something she had not expected to learn of her namesake. She was so appalled that she had considered abandoning the name of Lu Bu entirely, but she had come to realize that in some ways, she shared this man’s flaws. So she made up her mind to keep the name to remind her of the many dangers associated with unchecked arrogance.

She entered the sickbay with these thoughts filling her head and saw Doctor Middleton conversing with the bald, elderly man who had shared her first shuttle ride to the Pride of Prometheus. She was mistrustful of the man based on nothing but intuition.

Doctor Middleton saw Lu Bu enter and gestured for her to approach as she finished her conversation with the older man, who was also a doctor, judging by his lab coat and insignia.

“I assume you’re looking for your medical clearance?” Doctor Middleton asked with a hint of a smile.

Lu Bu nodded. “I must return to duties as quickly as possible; I have fallen behind other recruits.”

The doctor took out a portable imaging wand of some kind and pointed to a nearby cot with it, which Lu Bu sat down on eagerly.

As Doctor Middleton waved the device slowly over Lu Bu’s shoulder, the younger woman could tell there was something troubling her, so Lu Bu asked, “What is wrong, Doctor?”

“It’s nothing, Bu,” she replied dismissively, but her expression said otherwise.

“You have helped me,” she said, still finding the last word difficult to utter, “I cannot repay you, but would if possible.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Bu,” the doctor said testily before sighing. “I guess it’s best if you heard it from me first.”

“What?” Lu Bu asked, her brow furrowing with confusion.

The doctor finished scanning Lu Bu’s shoulder, but she hesitated before finally saying, “I’m not going to be on this ship much longer.”

Lu Bu felt her heart sink like it had never done before. “Why?” she asked, feeling her stomach churning and her heartbeats quickening in her chest.

“It’s hard to explain, Bu,” she replied in what Lu Bu took to be a patronizing tone.

“Doctor does not like military, but you do good here,” the young woman said pleadingly. “Crew say many would die from virus without Doctor Middleton.”

“That’s just my job, Bu,” Doctor Middleton replied with a shake of her head, “but I can’t stay on this ship any longer. I’ve got to look for a fresh start to my own life, and it can’t be here.”

“If Doctor Middleton not find own life in so many years, perhaps she is looking in wrong place,” Lu Bu said, desperate to find some way to make this woman stay. Doctor Middleton had been the only person she could consider a friend in her entire life; the thought that she would leave now was completely unbearable!

The doctor laughed lightly. “Are you jabbing me about my age?”

“Do not change subject,” Lu Bu scowled. “You have home here; all crew respect you. No,” she corrected herself as she felt tears welling in her eyes, “they appreciate you. This is not insignificant, Doctor Middleton…my own life teaches me this.”

The doctor actually looked taken aback by that, so Lu Bu decided to end on a strong note, seeing as she considered herself lucky to even make one compelling point between her general lack of persuasiveness and her still-terrible Confederation Standard. “If Doctor Middleton leaves,” she said stiffly, “Lu Bu will understand. Ship crew will understand. All will move on…but Doctor Middleton will regret her choice.”

The doctor’s eyes hardened as she regarded the younger woman for several seconds before taking out a data slate and making some notes. “You are cleared for duty, Recruit Lu,” she said officially.

“Thank you,” Lu Bu said, hesitating briefly before making her respects in the traditional way of her people. Bowing her head behind clasped hands, she held the pose for several seconds before turning on her heel and leaving the sickbay without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

She felt so furious that she could have screamed, and had there not been a trio of crewmembers not far in front of her she very well may have. Her fists balled unconsciously at her sides as she made her way to the rec room which the Lancer recruits had used for training.

It seemed she was destined to be alone; no one wanted to get too attached to one of her kind, and really, she could not blame them. She was different, in more ways than just those which could be seen, and the closer people got to her the shorter her interactions with them became.

But she was good at one thing: survival. Growing up in her family’s underground compound, where they had installed special grav-plates to simulate the maximum gravity forces her genetically engineered body could withstand, day-to-day activities were turned into rigorous exercises in physical and mental toughness. She had learned about her own weaknesses in that horrible place, and had it not been for a surprise raid by her world’s government, she might still be there.

So she knew she would survive Doctor Middleton’s absence…but she also knew it would take a small piece of her she had not expected was even there. And that, more than anything, was what made her vision narrow as she entered the rec room with plenty of pent-up frustration to shed.

Lu Bu was halfway across the room before she realized there was no one else present—worse, all of the exercise equipment had been removed. She looked around in confused irritation before shrieking wordlessly at the ceiling in frustration. She needed to vent this anger that was bottled up inside her or it felt like it might actually burst something in her chest.

“Training’s over,” she heard a voice call from the doorway, and she whirled to see Sergeant Walter Joneson standing there, blocking the doorway with his broad, powerful body, “and you missed the cut.” Everything seemed to freeze for a moment as his words replayed themselves in her mind. Her eyes widened in a mixture of shock and disbelief as he continued, “I’ve put in a word with the Chief Gunner and he says he’ll take you on at least for now, so pack your things and clear out.”

“Impossible,” she fumed, breathing hot, fiery blasts of air through her nostrils. “I am twice any other recruit!”

“Not in my book,” he said shortly as he took a few steps into the empty room toward her. “You’re a loose cannon, Lu, and the last thing I need is to be uncertain you’ll follow orders when things get hairy.”

He was standing just a few feet in front of her, and the temptation to lash out at him was as powerful as she could ever remember, and she dug her fingernails into her palms in an attempt to control herself. “Sergeant Joneson ordered me to sickbay,” she protested as evenly as she could manage, “Doctor Middleton clears me only now; I am ready to train!”

“There’s your problem,” Joneson said, folding his arms across his chest, “you just don’t listen. Everything’s about you, isn’t it?” He shook his head piteously, “You think because you’re gifted, or because had it rough growing up, that you’re entitled to special treatment? Every member of my team has his or her own baggage, and each of them knows when to follow orders or when to take the initiative—a capacity you clearly lack!” he snapped.

She stood there in silent outrage as she felt blood trickle down her knuckles and drip onto the deck plates at her feet while tears began to trickle down her cheeks. But as much as she wanted to tear his head off like some kind of wild animal might do, she knew he was right: she had always had issues following rules, or controlling her temper, and it seemed like that particular failing would prevent her from pursuing the only dream she could ever remember truly caring about.

She saw something in his expression that she did not recognize just before he said, “Blasted genies.”

A strange sensation washed over her, and as he turned to leave the room she felt what was certain to be the last tear she would ever shed roll off her cheek. Walter Joneson, one of her true idols growing up, had just disrespected her using the most hurtful term in existence. “What…did you call…me?” she hissed.

He stopped just short of the door and turned to face her, and when he did she took a step toward him with her fists balled at her sides. “You heard me,” he said, matching her step and then taking another, “your kind isn’t worth the test tubes you slithered out of.”

She shook her head slowly as her body briefly went numb. “You reject me,” she said, taking a step toward him, “this I can accept. You despise me,” she said with another step, “this I must expect. But you will not,” she said emphatically, “disrespect me!”

“And what are you going to do about it, little girl?” he growled as he leaned forward fractionally.

“Team needs respect,” she said through gritted teeth, “and this, I will teach you!”

She lashed out with her left hand, her fingers extended toward his throat in an attempt to put him down with the first blow. But he parried her attack with a downward block of his forearm before sweeping at her legs with his right leg.

She turned her right knee down at the last instant, intercepting his shin and checking the kick perfectly. To his credit, he kept his balance after their legs clashed with enough force to put any ordinary human down—or in traction—but she pressed the attack with a quick, double-jab aimed squarely at his nose as she circled to his left.

His height would normally have made such an attack futile, but he had leaned into his leg kick, which brought his chin into striking range. Her fist smashed into his broad, flat nose with both strikes, but he threw a crisp, right hook which caught her on the side of the head with incredible force.

She staggered slightly before rushing toward him as she saw him prepare to kick her in the head with his left leg. She trapped the leg mid-kick and drove into him with every ounce of genetically engineered strength she had in an attempt to push him to the ground.

But while she managed to secure the leg, he deftly widened his stance and danced away from her as they drove across the room for eight, hopping steps before she finally smashed him into the bulkhead. The impact knocked enough air out of his lungs that she heard him wheeze slightly, which only spurred her on as she attempted to clasp her hands behind his back in preparation for a chest-to-chest suplex.

But he pummeled his right arm between hers and his torso, and while she knew she had raw power on him, his long limbs gave him leverage which made the contest dead even. She counter-pummeled and switched directions, attempting to attack the other side of his body while she still had him pressed up against the wall—a position she knew would be difficult to achieve a second time.

He unexpectedly turned and presented his back while snaking his arms around her right arm. She tried to clasp her hands to prevent the classic joint lock known as a ‘kimura,’ but he managed to create enough space that her arms were unable to reach each other around his massive girth. The second he grasped his own forearm and began to apply pressure, she did the only thing she could do: she pulled him backward with a quick, powerful burst that saw his feet leave the deck momentarily before he landed on top of her.

A scramble ensued and pushing off the wall with her left leg, she flailed blindly with her free, left hand in an attempt to clasp her right—which was dangerously close to being pried away and twisted with enough force that she was certain she would be visiting the doctor again if he succeeded.

But the Ancestors were watching over her, as her fingers found each other and she gripped her hands together as tightly as she could to prevent him from breaking her arm. They struggled for a few seconds before he abandoned the joint lock and broke her grip by levering his head against her neck and driving his hips forward.

After the brief bit of grappling with him, she was surprised to learn that she was actually stronger than him—but strength only counted for so much in a fight, where skilled leverage becomes far more important than raw power.

She pulled back a pair of steps as he did likewise, and all she could feel was hot, burning rage, but she kept her focus as she knew she still had a job to do. With the Ancestors as her witness, she would teach this man the price of disrespecting her!

“There you are,” he growled with what sounded to her like amusement as he lowered his stance, “good of you to finally show up.”

Screaming wordlessly, she charged him headlong and made as if to deliver a vicious leg kick of her own. He moved to check her kick precisely as she had done to his at the outset—but she had expected him to do as much. In a long-practiced move, she switched her weight over her hips and leapt into the air with her knee aimed at his throat.

He tucked his chin and moved his hands to block at the last instant, but was unable to prevent her blow from landing as her knee smashed into his chin. His head wobbled sideways and she heard something break in his mouth, but he kept his eyes on her as he grabbed her leg before she could bring her foot back to the ground.

The massive Sergeant clutched her knee with one arm, reached up to her neck with the other, and in a fluid motion which was as much a display of balance as it was of power, he pivoted and smashed her back into the nearby wall. She saw stars, and for a moment lost sensation throughout her body. As soon as she was able to do so she clawed, kicked, thrashed and fought with everything she had to escape his grip.

“That’s enough, Lancer!” she heard him say in a voice that pierced the fog of rage which had come over her. She forcibly relaxed her body, and realized she was lying on the floor once her vision returned to her—and that the Sergeant was kneeling on her neck. After she had ceased her struggles, he removed his knee from her neck, stood deliberately and looked down at her for several seconds before offering his hand.

Uncertain whether or not she should accept it, she glared at his proffered hand for a few moments in silence.

“No grudges,” he said in a dire tone as he spat a pair of teeth onto the deck, “that’s going to be rule number one for you.”

It took a moment for what he was saying to sink in, but when it did she grudgingly accepted his hand. He helped her stand, and when she was again on her feet she looked at him warily as she realized what had just happened. “This…was test?”

He snorted loudly, wincing as he did so. “Only a fool would look at it like that,” he said reproachfully. “You just learned something about yourself; that’s what you should be taking away from this, not whether I approve or disapprove.”

She felt her brow furrow as she tried to understand what he meant. When she failed to do so, she said, “I do not understand.”

“I belittled you,” he explained, and his speech sounded somehow different, like it was deliberate and almost slurred, “and you controlled yourself. I rejected you, and you controlled yourself. I even dismissed you, and you still held back—even when I insulted you, you controlled yourself…briefly, anyway.”

“But this one attack Sergeant Joneson,” she said doubtfully, suppressing the urge to fall to her knees and make her obeisance.

“Yes, you did,” he agreed as he rubbed his jaw, “but only after deciding to. You wanted to make me pay for hurting you, and you wanted me to know it,” he added, and when he put it that way she thought she understood what he meant.

“Your insult was unforgivable,” she said sourly, thinking back to the way his words had hurt her.

“That’s for you to decide,” he said grimly, “but I can promise you’ll get that and worse when we see action. If you can exert control in here then you can do the same thing out there. If not, you’re a danger to everyone around you—including yourself.”

Lu Bu thought about his words for several moments before realizing that this had not been a test at all. This had been a tailor-made lesson for her, and it had been taught in such a way that she actually thought she understood it completely. Feeling humbled at her mentor’s wisdom, she fell to her knees and bowed her head, “This one has much to learn from Walter Joneson.”

“It’s a fine line between honest respect and boot-licking, Lu,” Joneson said in a hard tone, “but given our peculiar culture gap, I’m willing to assume it’s the former—this time.” She felt his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up to see him offering her his hand again. “Welcome to the Lancer Corps.”

This time when she took his hand, she had a newfound appreciation for the man and as she stood she knew she had experienced a rebirth of sorts. A cleansing wave of positive energy seemed to course through her veins, and it felt as though she was floating just above the deck plates—she was actually a Lancer!

“Now,” Joneson said, rubbing his jaw again, “let’s head over to sickbay to get patched up. You pack a wicked flying knee; I’m pretty sure my jaw’s broken in two places. Fifteen years of professional smashball with ten more as a soldier, and I’ve never been hit quite like that.”

“This one apologizes,” she gushed.

Joneson snorted as they made their way into the corridor. “Never apologize for who or what you are, Lancer,” he reprimanded. “You’re a warrior through and through, but like any good weapon you need to be properly stowed between deployments.”

She marveled at his magnanimity, and held her head high as she walked into sickbay behind him, having finally found her very own place in the universe.

“By the way,” he said as they sat on the waiting stools inside Sickbay, “that’s a good name you picked. I changed my own right before draft day to honor the greatest player that ever wore the pads…but you might have done me one better.” He gave her an approving nod, and Lu Bu felt a wave of exhilaration sweep through her like the cleansing rains of a monsoon.

Chapter XXIII: A Plan Comes Together

“Enter,” Middleton called after the chime at his door had sounded, and Ensign Jardine entered the ready room with a pair of data slates in hand. “Ensign, good,” the Captain said as he shifted his attention from his own console toward the junior officer, “what’s your status on deciphering the transmission?”

Jardine look anything but confident as he sat down, which put Middleton ill at ease. Jardine was the top Comm. Officer aboard the Pride of Prometheus, and there wasn’t another member of the crew whose credentials exceeded his own at decryption. “I’m sorry, Captain,” Jardine said as he slid one of the data slates across the desk, “I just can’t seem to crack it. The closer I think I get, the more complex the data patterns become.”

Middleton took up the proffered data slate and examined its contents, finding it to be a comprehensive analysis of their strange particle fields these past few jumps. “This contains the raw data, as well as your analyses of these past four transmissions?” he asked, keeping the frustration from his voice.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Both the strange particle fields and the transmissions embedded in our engine wake have been isolated and cleaned up to the best of my ability.”

Middleton thumbed the activator glyph on his console’s com-link, which had been preset to the Master at Arms’ channel. “Bring him in,” the captain said.

Nearly a minute later, Fei Long entered the ready room with the Master at Arms close behind. The Master at Arms’ left eye was covered with an adhesive bandage and the skin on the top of his head was exposed and clearly very badly burned. Captain Middleton had received Sergeant Joneson’s report, which had listed the Master at Arms as having sustained ‘superficial injuries,’ which Middleton supposed only spoke to the general difficulty of the boarding missions.

“Thank you, Master at Arms,” Middleton said with a gesture to the man’s damaged head. “I was unaware of your injuries being so significant.”

“Universe builds redundancy into everything, Captain; I’ve still got one good optical sensor,” the Master at Arms replied curtly, clearly still feeling his oats from the boarding action. “Besides, Doctor Middleton thinks she can save the eye; never been too partial to the bionics, personally.”

“Either way,” Middleton said, standing from his chair, “I’ve made a note requesting commendation for your actions; sounds like we would have lost more Lancers if you hadn’t been there.”

“Just doing my part, Captain,” the other man replied.

“Dismissed, Master at Arms,” Middleton said graciously, and the other man snapped a salute which the captain returned, before the other man left the room. He paused for a fraction of a second as Fei Long sat in a chair Middleton had set beside Jardine’s prior to the meeting, but then the Master at Arms left.

“Ensign Jardine,” Middleton began, gesturing toward Fei Long, “this is Fei Long. Fei Long, Ensign Jardine. Ensign Jardine’s our senior Comm. officer and head cryptologist, and he’s got a project he needs your assistance with.”

“I am happy to be of service, Captain,” Fei Long said with a tilt of his head.

Middleton nodded and turned to Jardine deliberately. “Fei Long is privy to certain intelligence regarding what we might be facing out here,” he said evenly, “and during your collaboration he’s going to share that information with you, Ensign.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jardine said, his face a professional mask but Middleton knew the other man was surprised by Fei Long possessing any information he might not.

“But I need to make something perfectly clear,” Middleton said gravely, “for the time being, no one outside of this room is to be included in examining—or even discussing—that intelligence. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Jardine said curtly.

“Then get to work,” Middleton said, eager to discover the identity of their hidden passenger—as well as the purpose of their carefully concealed transmissions.

“Captain,” Fei Long began after Jardine had stood from his chair, “if you will permit it, I would very much like to build upon the rather rudimentary system we utilized to deceive the pirate vessels.”

Middleton shook his head. “The project with Jardine takes precedence over everything else,” he said. “When it’s finished, I’ll be happy to consider your proposal.”

“Yes,” Fei Long said patiently, “but given the nature of our assignment, it will be necessary to utilize the ship’s primary computer network, yes?”

Middleton looked at Jardine, who nodded affirmatively. “Yes, it will,” the Captain conceded.

“And since I am clearly not yet trustworthy—a status I find oddly comforting, to tell the truth,” Fei Long added quickly, “I must then work under Ensign Jardine’s direct supervision, correct?”

“That is correct, Fei Long,” Middleton said, keeping his growing irritation out of sight.

“Then, even assuming Ensign Jardine operates for sixteen out of each twenty four hours,” Fei Long said calmly, “I will have eight hours which I may devote toward other efforts.”

Jardine cocked an eyebrow, “You don’t plan on sleeping?”

Fei Long chuckled softly as he turned to the Ensign. “I have not slept in the two years since my untimely incarceration, Ensign Jardine. I find my faculties marginally diminished as a result, but I also find it quite liberating and am uncertain if I miss the act of sleep very much, if at all.”

The Ensign shot Middleton an incredulous look as the Captain considered Fei Long’s words. “Fine,” he said, “but you’ll still need direct supervision when interfacing with the ship’s systems—or even when throwing the power switch to test whatever it is you’re building.”

“Of course, Captain; I will forward my project outline immediately,” Fei Long said graciously as he stood from the chair. “I believe it will ensure future successes of the type we have recently experienced, even against military targets.”

“I look forward to your outline,” Middleton said. “Dismissed.”

The two men left and Captain Middleton turned his attention to the matter at hand: stopping these pirates once and for all.

“Before we get started, I want to recognize the efforts of our Lancers in neutralizing these pirates,” Middleton said after the last of his senior officers had arrived. He gestured toward Sergeant Joneson, “Thanks to their service, the two thousand remaining colonists aboard the settlement ship have been safely evacuated to the planet below, and the immediate threat to their safety has been contained.”

Sergeant Joneson sat stiffly in his chair and nodded curtly, “We were just doing our part, Captain.”

Middleton nodded approvingly before continuing, “Two hours ago, Captain Manning made for Elysium aboard one of the merchant conversions. He will return in six days with a repair crew so he can put the Elysium’s Wings to rights and bring it back to his home world’s SDF. In the meantime, he’s consented to allow us to use his ship against these pirates.”

Garibaldi leaned forward and raised his hand, much as one might do in a classroom during primary school. Middleton gestured for the Chief to speak, and the engineer said, “Captain, that ship ain’t going nowhere. Although her primary fusion core miraculously survived a live shutdown—don’t ask me how Captain Manning managed to do that without making the thing go ‘kablooey’—even if we get the generator back up and running, and even if we get her engines up to maneuvering capability, her power grid won’t support anything resembling a combat load.”

“That’s correct, Chief,” Middleton agreed. “Tactically speaking, the Elysium’s Wings is dead in space and likely in for more than just a few weeks at space-dock after she limps home.”

“Then, forgive me for asking the obvious,” Garibaldi said in what Middleton took to be a less-snarky-than-usual tone, “but how exactly can we use it against the pirates?”

“We turn it into bait,” Sarkozi chimed in as her eyes flashed with realization. “We rig it with modified transponders to make it look like something else—the settlement ship maybe?”

“Close, Ensign, but I’ve got a slightly different idea,” he said with an approving nod. “The settlement ship will burn up in the planet’s atmosphere in a few hours, and the prisoners have verified they were in contact with their commanders before we entered the system. So we have to assume they already knew the settler was done for. But, if we switch transponders, we might just be able to trick them into getting close enough for us to spring the trap.” He activated a view screen near his chair, and it displayed a vessel’s technical specifications as he gestured to the images, “Our interrogations of the pirates we took prisoner indicate that an Incumbent-class Light Destroyer is scheduled to rendezvous with the Elysium’s Wings in two days’ time, to make contact with the mutinous crew and transfer whatever valuables they deemed worth salvaging.”

Sarkozi shook her head as though in defeat. “Incumbents are the newest class of vessel to operate in this region,” she said evenly. “They’re fast, they’re versatile, and they’ve got the longest-range weaponry of anything outside of a Dreadnaught-class Battleship in the entire Spine.”

“And all military warships use image recognition to verify vessel ID’s, Captain,” Jardine pointed out. “Civilians generally can’t afford those systems, which is partly why our sensor decoys worked so well against the conversions.”

“Yeah,” Chief Garibaldi agreed, “and we don’t have the time or facilities to modify the hull of the conversion to make it look even remotely like the corvette.”

Middleton nodded knowingly, having already addressed each of these issues. “If we can’t make the conversion look like a corvette, then we’ll just have to keep them from making visual contact with either vessel until we’ve made our move,” he explained as he pressed the control pad for the view screen, changing it to show the fifth planet of the system. “The fifth planet of this system is a type two ice dwarf. The characteristics within the outer edges of its atmospheric envelope are within the limits for the merchant conversion, the Wings’, and the Pride’s shield and gravity tolerances. We can hide just beneath the topmost, visually opaque, layer without endangering our vessels while the Incumbent class Destroyer approaches. They should be unable to make visual confirmation of either the conversion or the corvette’s identification until it’s too late.”

“Begging the Captain’s pardon,” Jersey put in respectfully, “but if we’re just going to hide the other two ships within the planet’s atmo, why go to the trouble of re-rigging transponders and modifying energy output patterns to make them think the conversion is the Wings and vice versa?”

“Because that destroyer’s too fast, too maneuverable, and her weaponry can outdo ours at extreme range if she knows what she’s up against. In a heads-up, one-on-one fight, she beats us four times out of five,” he explained seriously. He swept the room with his hard gaze before allowing a smile to crack his otherwise stony features before adding, “And I aim to tilt the odds our way.”

Chapter XXIV: Springing the Trap

“Incoming jump detected at the hyper limit, Captain,” the Sensors operator reported precisely on schedule.

“Initiating handshake protocols,” Jardine reported. Fei Long was seated at a Comm. console beside him, with his hands clasped over his lap.

“Remember,” Middleton said, “you’ll be speaking as the conversion, Jardine.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jardine replied before placing a finger to his ear briefly. “Incoming transmission, Captain.”

“Go ahead, Ensign,” he said with a gesture. If this worked, they just might take the Incumbent-class vessel at the outset. If not, there was nothing to stop the faster, longer-ranged vessel from sighting in their guns at extreme range and picking the Pride apart until there was nothing left—or until he tucked tail and fled, leaving the two thousand colonists at the tender mercy of these marauders.

“This is Lieutenant Drummond,” Jardine said, using the name of the pirate Comm. officer. He had spent the previous hours studying the man’s file, and using a voice modifier heavily augmented by static interference, Middleton had been assured that the Ensign could passably impersonate the man. “The package is secure and awaiting extraction; we require immediate assistance.”

“This is Captain Rodriguez,” a surprisingly familiar man’s nasal voice came over the speakers, “activate your visual pickup and transmit on the assigned frequencies.” Middleton had previously met the man during a major summit some years earlier. Rodriguez had been a Lieutenant in the MSP at the time, and Middleton had actually played a game of chess against him—a game which Rodriguez had lost rather spectacularly.

“Negative, Captain,” Jardine replied, “our engines are disabled and we’re in a decaying orbit within the fifth planet’s atmosphere. Our Comm. unit is boosted to maximum to penetrate the local EM interference; it’s only a matter of time before we lose the ability to transmit entirely.”

“The fifth planet?” Rodriguez demanded. “What in the Demon’s name are you doing there? Where’s Raubach?”

“Lieutenant Commander Raubach was killed seizing the Elysium’s Wings, Captain,” Jardine replied, adjusting the gain on his transmitter so as to garble the signal. “He and the others managed to disable the ship’s weaponry before they were neutralized, and our Marines disabled her engines before they could make the hyper limit, but we lost contact with them after they entered the atmosphere. We can confirm that Captain Manning was in Marine custody before we lost contact with the Wings.”

“Why in Murphy’s name did you follow them in?” the pirate captain asked with obvious irritation.

“Sir,” Jardine replied, “our top priority was to seize the Wings. We attempted to send a shuttle over after they entered the atmosphere, but encountered unexpected pockets of unstable gas which damaged our engines and destroyed the shuttle, along with our engineers.”

“Say again, Drummond,” Rodriguez demanded, “your signal’s breaking up.”

Jardine continued to manually degrade his transmission as he replied, “Our engines are down; without replacement parts we can’t break free of the planet’s gravity on maneuvering thrusters alone. We need an engineering team to affect repairs—“ Ensign Jardine cut off mid-sentence as he tapped a glyph to cease transmission.

“Good work, Ensign,” Middleton said. “Now we wait for them to take the bait.”

Minutes began to tick by after the destroyer changed course to approach the planet Middleton had chosen for the trap, and the tension on the bridge was palpable as the crew ran through their final preparations.

Eventually, the Liberator-class Destroyer under Captain Rodriguez’s command made high orbit of the planet, while continuously transmitting hails in an attempt to contact the fake Lieutenant Drummond. The real Lieutenant Drummond was currently locked away in the brig along with nearly two dozen other prisoners, who had thus far cooperated with the Master at Arms’ interrogations and supplied the necessary intelligence for Middleton to set this particular trap.

“Give Captain Rodriguez a little encouragement, Ensign Jardine,” Middleton said after a few minutes, “but just enough to whet his appetite.”

Jardine nodded before adjusting the settings of his console and speaking, “Repeat, we require an engineering team to affect repairs on the Elysium’s Wings’ engines in order to break free of the planet’s gravity. Watch for pockets of unstable ice on descent—“

He cut the transmission and turned to face Captain Middleton, who nodded his approval.

Lieutenant Commander Jersey approached the Captain’s chair and clasped his hands behind his back as he made to survey the bridge while speaking under his breath, “How do you know he’ll go for it, Captain? Taking our shot now might be the best play.”

Middleton shook his head. “These pirates were on explicit orders to recover Captain Manning’s corvette,” he explained, “and I doubt their superiors—whoever they are—will look kindly on their failure to do so. Not only that, but I’ve met ‘Captain’ Rodriguez,” he added with a contemptuous snort, “and the man is prone to taking unnecessary risks with his primary assets if his goal appears to be in sight. He knows his destroyer’s engines won’t be affected by the planet’s atmosphere, so he’s unlikely to risk a dangerous shuttle trip when he can just descend through the atmosphere far enough to minimize the danger to his engineers in transit. My guess is he’ll come close enough for a good, close shave.”

Middleton shook his head in wonderment as he remembered the chess game they had played some years earlier. Now, much like then, he was offering his opponent a free piece on the board while in actuality making designs on the other man’s queen—a gambit which had paid off and won the game for Middleton. He had little reason to suspect this situation would play out any differently.

Jersey’s face was a mask of professionalism, but a note of his former gruff, sour attitude came through as he said, “You’re the Captain.”

“Yes, I am,” Middleton replied as smoothly as he could while keeping his eyes fixed on the tactical display.

“They are descending through the atmosphere, Captain,” the man at Sensors reported in his people’s distinct accent. He was one of the few prisoners they had recruited whose aptitudes and performance to date had earned his way onto the bridge, and Middleton found himself more comfortable than he had expected to be with his new crewmembers’ performance and ability to integrate into the Pride’s crew.

“Thank you, Sensors,” Middleton replied, knowing it was only a matter of minutes before his trap would spring. With any luck, they could disable the other vessel’s engines and force a boarding action before the pirates broke free of the planet’s gravity. “Bring them in, Jardine,” he said, turning to the men at Comm. before adding, “and prepare to summon your sensor ghosts, Mr. Fei.”

“Yes, Captain,” the men replied in unison.

“We read you on sensors,” Jardine said as he continued to adjust his instrumentation in a seemingly random fashion.

“We’ll deploy bucking cables,” Captain Rodriguez said over the comm., “hold tight and we’ll pull you out of there.”

“Enemy vessel closing, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, “range is now two thousand kilometers…one thousand eight hundred…one thousand five hundred.”

“Close enough for a shave yet, Captain?” Jersey asked from his position between Tactical and Helm.

“Indeed, Commander,” Middleton said with an encouraging gesture, “I think it’s time we said ‘hello’. Mr. Fei,” he turned to the Comm. section, “activate the ghosts.”

“Yes, Captain,” the young man replied as his fingers flew across his console for several seconds before the Tactical display on the main viewer showed a new signal which represented the Pride of Prometheus emerging from the planet’s far side.

“Enemy vessel’s descent has stopped, Captain,” Sensors reported. “Range now six hundred kilometers and holding.”

“Activate your hailing program, Ensign,” Middleton ordered.

Ensign Jardine did as ordered, and a second later a recorded transmission came through over the same channel as they had used to communicate with the pirate destroyer, “Incumbent-class destroyer, this is Captain Jardine aboard the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus. Heave to and prepare to be boarded by our inspection teams.”

“This is Captain LeBron Rodriguez of the Sector Guard Destroyer, Cardinal’s Wrath,” Rodriguez responded in obvious surprise, “we do not recognize your authority to conduct an inspection of Sector Guard assets. We are here on the orders of Commodore Raubach to investigate reports of an attack in this area, and must assume you were the perpetrators of this act of barbarism.”

Middleton suppressed a snicker, since Jardine’s recorded message had been the only one of its kind.

“Enemy destroyer is coming about, Captain,” Sarkozi reported crisply before pausing briefly and then adding, “she has presented her stern to us.”

“Instruct the gun deck they are cleared to engage,” Middleton ordered, feeling a surge of excitement as he did so. “Light her up!”

“Aye, Captain,” Sarkozi acknowledged, and less than a second later the forward batteries let loose as one and the tactical icon representing the Cardinal’s Wrath flashed yellow for several seconds before reverting to a shade of slightly-dimmer-than-before green. “Ten hits, Captain,” Sarkozi reported, although anything less would have been a complete shock. Six hundred kilometers was the equivalent of point-blank range in space combat, and the enemy vessel had obviously thought they had several minutes before the merchant conversion—disguised as the Pride of Prometheus—would come into firing range. “Enemy shields read twenty percent on the stern facing with moderate spotting.”

“Full power to the engines, Helm,” Middleton ordered, “I want to keep these blighters in our sights as long as possible.”

The enemy vessel’s acceleration was roughly twice that of the Pride of Prometheus, and it was maneuverable enough that it could roll to present fresh shield facings often enough to make this a close affair—unless the Pride managed to damage the pirate’s engines, in which case it would only be a matter of time before the larger, heavier-shielded MSP Cruiser wore the other ship down and forced a surrender.

Middleton flipped on his chair’s com-link and switched to the broad-spectrum frequencies while also activating the video pickup. “Captain Rodriguez, this is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Prometheus Fire,” he lied, suggesting there were in fact two MSP cruisers in the system rather than just one. “You are ordered to lower your shields, power down your fusion cores and heave to while awaiting our inspection teams. Failure to comply will result in the immediate application of deadly force.”

“Middleton?” Rodriguez said with a blank look on his fatter-than-Middleton-remembered-them features. He quickly regained his composure as a sneer spread over his features. “Blast you,” he growled.

Middleton couldn’t keep a smirk from his features as he leaned forward in his chair. “It was ‘rook to queen’s bishop seven,’ right?” he goaded, reminding the other man of the move which had forced Rodriguez’s resignation years earlier.

Rodriguez’s face turned bright red and his eyes widened furiously as he leveled a finger at Middleton. “You’ve had your shot, Middleton,” he spat, “now I’m going to have mine!” With that, he cut the transmission and the Pride of Prometheus was subsequently rocked by a series of impacts.

“Multiple laser strikes on the forward shields,” Sarkozi reported, “forward shields at 78% and holding.”

“Return fire at will,” Middleton ordered, turning to Jardine and Fei Long, “be prepared to immediately jam any Starfire missiles you detect.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jardine replied, while Fei Long appeared to be distracted by something on his console as he failed to respond to Middleton’s order.

The Pride was rocked again, and this time the grav-plating was briefly disrupted. Such a disruption may have been a disaster like the one which had previously sent a pair of bridge standers to sickbay, but Middleton had made sure every workstation on the bridge was now equipped with twelve-point harnesses, which only Commander Jersey and Captain Middleton had eschewed.

“Plasma cannon impacts,” Sarkozi reported with a note of surprise in her voice, “forward shields at sixty two percent and holding.”

The Incumbent-class Destroyer was generally not equipped with plasma cannons, but combat variables were as fluid as they were varied, so Middleton knew he had no need to order Sarkozi to re-run the tactical simulations in order to find the optimal course of action. Regardless of her character flaws, the woman was a top-notch—if inexperienced—Tactical Officer and the Captain knew he could trust her to do that part of her job as well as anyone else on the ship, including him.

The Pride rose above the planet’s atmospheric veil and the background of the tactical overlay on the main viewer was replaced with a visual representation of the Cardinal’s Wrath.

“Enemy range is increasing,” Sarkozi reported, “I estimate we’ll get five more salvos before they’ve gone to extreme range.”

“Make your shots count, Tactical,” Middleton said calmly as he verified the destroyer’s course had followed his predicted path. It would be a close thing for the Pride to bring the Wrath’s shields down, assuming the destroyer maneuvered properly to present its freshest shield facing to them. And while Rodriguez could be called a reckless man, he was at the very least a competent officer, so Middleton doubted he would be on the receiving end of any further blunders by his opponent.

The Pride’s forward laser batteries lanced out in unison and impacted on the Wrath’s starboard stern quarter, after which the destroyer predictably rolled to present its port stern quarter while continuing on its same course uninterrupted.

“Nine of ten hits,” Sarkozi called out bitterly, apparently taking umbrage with the lone miss, “enemy starboard stern shielding is down to 16% with critical spotting.”

“Steady on, Tactical,” Middleton chided before adding, “we wouldn’t want them to make this too easy for us, would we?”

“Of course not, Captain,” Sarkozi replied awkwardly, but Middleton could feel the focus of his crew sharpen as they pursued the enemy vessel.

“Engineering,” Middleton activated his com-link, “we need a full overdrive on my mark.”

“We’re ready, Captain,” a junior Engineering officer named Alexander replied, “just give the word and we’ll give you a six minute burst.”

“Six minutes?” Middleton repeated, remembering from a previous report that the engines could handle eight minutes’ overdrive safely.

“Sorry, Captain,” Alexander said, “the Chief had to take a few power relays over to the Wings, so the best we can do now is six minutes before we reach failure.”

“Understood,” Middleton said before catching Commander Jersey’s eye, “let’s close this acceleration gap a bit.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied hungrily before turning to the helmsman, “you heard the Captain: open her up!”

“Yes, Commander,” the helmsman replied, and there was the barely perceptible increase in acceleration before the grav-plates compensated for the unexpected surge. “Engines at one ten…one twenty…one twenty eight…one thirty four…one hundred thirty nine percent rated output, Captain,” the helmsman reported.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Cardinal’s Wrath would continue to increase its distance from the pursuing Pride of Prometheus, but the longer the destroyer remained within optimal firing range of the Pride’s big guns, the better things would go for Middleton and his crew.

Another series of impacts registered on the Pride’s forward shields, and Sarkozi reported, “Mixed plasma and laser fire; forward shields down to 52%, Captain. Light spotting detected.”

“Attempting to compensate for the spotting, sir,” the Shields operator said quickly.

“Captain,” Fei Long’s calm, serene voice called out, “I would like permission to jam all communications frequencies. The Cardinal’s Wrath is sending out a transmission, which I believe I can temporarily obstruct by occluding all channels.”

“Do it,” Middleton ordered, spinning his chair to face the Comm. section and giving an approving nod.

“I believe our newly-connected transmitter will overheat within twelve minutes of such sustained activity,” Fei Long continued, unfastening himself and standing from his chair, “but I can extend that to forty minutes if I physically attend the equipment for a few minutes. Missile jamming protocols are pre-programmed to this console; any officer can execute them with the press of a button.”

“Jardine,” Middleton said after less than a second’s consideration, “accompany Fei Long and assist him.”

“Yes, Captain,” Ensign Jardine replied, and within seconds the two had left the bridge, and a new stander assumed the Comm. station.

The Pride was shaken by another round of fire from the Cardinal’s Wrath, and Sarkozi reported, “Forward shields down to 41%, Captain; no spotting detected.” The Pride’s forward battery arced out and the Wrath’s shields flared briefly, causing Sarkozi to declare, “Enemy port stern shielding has collapsed!”

“That was unexpected,” Middleton muttered, running silent calculations as he tried to understand what might have just happened.

“Agreed, Captain,” Sarkozi said tensely before adding, “I’m now reading ship-wide power fluctuations from the Wrath. Their grid is on the verge of collapse!”

“The destroyer’s engines have cut out,” the Sensors operator reported, “I’m reading significant coolant leakage from their primary manifolds; they’ve engaged their maneuvering thrusters to present their bow.”

“If their engines remain down for two minutes and we maintain overdrive for the maximum duration, we can bring their shields down before they leave medium range,” Sarkozi said eagerly.

“It’s too easy,” Middleton said with a shake of his head. “Helm, discontinue overdrive,” he instructed before turning to face the Engineering officer. “Have Alexander return the engines to standard combat output.”

“Yes, sir,” the crewmen acknowledged.

“But Captain,” Jersey said, stepping up from the Tactical pit, “this could be our chance to put them down.”

“They want us in close,” Captain Middleton replied. “Rodriguez might fall for such an obvious trick, but I won’t.”

Several tense minutes passed as the Pride of Prometheus continued to bear down on the Cardinal’s Wrath.

“Incoming!” the Sensors operator reported suddenly. “Reading thirty two Starfire missiles inbound, Captain.”

“Confirmed,” Sarkozi said, and Captain Middleton was pleased to hear that at least her composure had improved since their last instance of taking fire. “Estimated time to firing range is twenty seconds.”

“Comm.,” Middleton whirled to face the new stander, “initiate countermeasures as soon as those missiles enter firing range.”

“Yes, sir,” the Comm. stander replied, leaning toward Fei Long’s station and holding his hand over the countermeasures activation icon. The countdown ticked by until reaching zero, at which point the Comm. stander activated the countermeasure protocols.

“Decompression detected on deck six,” the Damage Control operator reported.

“Cause?” Middleton demanded. The Pride hadn’t taken fire for several seconds, so a spontaneous decompression was more than slightly alarming.

“Atmospheric pressures in adjacent sections show to be within normal limits, Captain,” the operator said in confusion. “I’m not detecting any breaches in the hull, either.”

“It looks like we vented an airlock, Captain,” the Engineering liaison reported.

“I’m reading a small field of debris spreading to either side of the ship,” the Sensors operator reported. “Composition…it appears to be made of tiny metal fragments composed primarily of duralloy, sir.”

Just then the missile icons on the main viewer sailed into their represented zone of fire, and they flashed in unison as the Pride of Prometheus lurched forward under repeated laser impacts. Several consoles flashed and began to reboot as a system-wide power spike affected half of the bridge’s apparent systems.

“Damage report!” Middleton snapped. He was uncertain he knew the cause of the unexpected airlock venting, but if his suspicion was correct then he was going to have a little chat with Fei Long regarding adherence to the chain of command.

“We may now proceed to the main dish relay,” Fei Long said after the ship lurched and shuddered from several distinct laser strikes, indicating that his countermeasures had proven at least partially effective. If he could have just opened one of these ‘Starfire’ missiles up and broken down its software, he was certain he could do much better than simply interrupt their fire-linking protocols, but the past was the past—and he had a new job to do.

“We should have told the Captain before doing this,” Jardine said, clearly fearful of reprisals from his commanding officer for their errant trip to an airlock, where they had loaded metal fillings and other random debris in an attempt to confuse the visual targeting systems on the Starfire missiles.

“I fear my jamming signal also interferes with shipboard mobile com-links,” Fei Long explained as they made their way to the lift which would take them to the hyper dish’s main relay.

“We could have stopped at a hard-linked console,” Jardine growled.

“Which would have taken more time than we had,” Fei Long countered smoothly. They had only managed to load the metal filings and other debris into the airlock some thirty seconds prior to the missiles’ impact.

“I’m going to have to file a report on this,” the Ensign said bitterly as they entered the lift and the door closed behind them.

“You must follow our Lord’s military command, of course,” Fei Long replied as he gestured to the lift’s handheld micro-breach containment device. “We must bring this with us.”

Ensign Jardine arched an eyebrow incredulously. “That’s not a cryo-pump,” he said, as though Fei Long was unaware, “that’s an expanding foam unit; what good will it do us with overheating electronics?”

“Please,” Fei Long gestured as the door opened onto the deck of their destination, “I will explain along the way.”

Looking doubtful, Jardine did as he was advised and removed the fire-suppression unit from its bracket before exiting the lift behind Fei Long. Fei Long held his hand out expectantly without breaking stride, and when Jardine gave it to him, the younger man said, “The issue with our converted equipment is not heat generation, but rather with heat retention. The orbital satellite from which we salvaged it was designed to function behind a shield comprised of solar radiation-harvesting cells. Those cells block the satellite itself from direct sunlight, thereby providing a relatively stable environment for thermal radiation.”

“I do have multiple degrees in particle theory,” Jardine said impatiently, “so I understand how energy transmission works.”

“Of course,” Fei Long replied as he removed the safety pin from the cylindrical device just as the ship was rocked by another series of impacts that caused the lights to dim for several seconds before returning to their usual luminescence. “I have read your personnel file, Ensign Jardine; you have a competent grasp of energy theory, which is why I am bothering to explain this to you at all.” Fei Long turned the canister upside-down and tapped it on the upturned bottom several times as they made their way toward the sealed door labeled ‘Restricted Access.’ “If you please,” he gestured to the access console, which Jardine used to unlock the door as Fei Long continued, “there is a little-known quality of the pressurized propellant utilized in the manufacture of these devices which, when in the presence of an oxygenated atmosphere, allows it to ignite within a very narrow thermal band. This is why my world stopped usin—.”

“What?!” Jardine snapped, whirling on Fei Long and interdicting his path with his arms. “We’re here to cool the transmitter off, not set it on fire!”

Fei Long sighed as he shook his head. “The quantity of propellant present is barely enough to create a persistent, visible flame, Ensign,” he said, gesturing for them to continue, “and each second we waste here costs us ten seconds of continued signal jamming, should we fail to control the transmitter’s thermal state; I suggest we continue with all haste.”

Jardine narrowed his eyes and grudgingly turned while keeping Fei Long in his view as they continued down the narrow passage.

“The foam-like, breach-filling material within in this particular unit,” Fei Long continued, “will, when exposed to an ignition source, not be ‘set on fire’ but rather will begin to liquefy in a chain reaction thereby creating a thin, thermally-conductive layer of material. This material will serve as a temporary—essentially ablative—heat sink, distributing unwanted thermal energy to the nearby duralloy of the tube.” He raised the canister and placed his thumb on the trigger mechanism as they neared the Jeffries tube where Chief Garibaldi had installed their makeshift transmitter.

“Hold on,” Jardine scoffed, but this time he did not interdict Fei Long’s path, “you’re going to set a fire and melt the foam inside that thing on purpose so that it can gum up the transmitter with residue that you think will conduct the excess heat away?”

Ignoring the other man’s incredulity, Fei Long reached up and plucked a handful of long, jet-black hairs from his own head, which he then handed to Ensign Jardine. “Place those on the transmitter’s distal housing, please,” he instructed. “And then step back.” Human hair has fairly predictable properties when it came to heat and after years of working with electronics operating at maximum output, Fei Long had learned to differentiate the various smells associated with burning hair to the point he could guess temperature within five degrees based on smell alone.

Looking more than a little wary, Jardine did as Fei Long had instructed. A few seconds passed, until the all-too familiar aroma of burning hair filled the air and Fei Long pressed the trigger of the device.

Just as he had expected, there was a barely-visible flare as the propellant ignited, causing his hair to do likewise. The rapidly-expanding, foamy substance spread across the transmitter’s housing as he waved the nozzle left and right to encompass the entire surface of the Jeffries tube surrounding the transmitter housing. As he did so, the foam liquefied precisely as he had predicted and quickly hardened, forming a thin, shiny layer of glassy material through which the transmitter could be easily seen.

Having emptied the contents of the canister, he discarded it to the floor and wiped his hands emphatically feeling rather pleased with himself.

Jardine’s eyebrows were raised in surprise as he turned to Fei Long. “You’ve done this before, I take it?”

Fei Long actually did a double-take, having turned to exit the relay junction before the Ensign had spoken. “Of course not,” he scoffed incredulously, before adding with a shrug, “but it was theoretically possible; I gave myself an eighty three percent chance of success, with only a two percent chance of starting an uncontrollable electrical fire here in the main dish junction. I suggest we return to the bridge, as there is nothing more to be done for this,” he waved his hand at the foul-smelling Jeffries tube as he wrinkled his nose in disgust, “apparatus.”

He made his way toward the exit, hiding a satisfied smirk as he noted Ensign Jardine’s—quickly-concealed—slackened jaw.

Chapter XXV: Closing the Trap

“The Destroyer’s forward shields are down, Captain, and she’s re-oriented to present her stern to us,” Sarkozi reported. “She’s burning her engines at 220% their rated output and she’s making for the hyper limit. Stern shields read…32% with moderate spotting.”

Middleton thumbed his com-link as he saw that the Destroyer had assumed a course which was markedly different than the one he had predicted. “Alexander,” he said as soon at the junior Engineering officer had received his call, “I need those engines for another burn, and I need that burn right now.”

“We’ve had to re-route power, Captain,” Alexander replied. “I can give you the burn, but there’s no guarantee with the grid’s current alignment that the forward shields will withstand another attack without blowing the relays.”

“Just do it,” Middleton ordered, “without that burn we won’t be able to keep them in range long enough to finish the job.”

“Destroyer is passing out of long range and into extreme, Captain,” Sarkozi reported as the Pride’s forward array fired as one. “Five hits,” she reported urgently, “the Wrath’s stern shields are down to 12% with critical spotting—one more salvo should cripple her engines.”

“Overdrive ready, Captain,” Alexander said over the link.

“Burn it, Helm,” Jersey snapped before Middleton could do so, “and adjust course seventeen degrees to starboard.”

“Aye, Commander,” the new Helmsman replied, and the ship’s lighting dimmed as the vessel’s precariously-aligned power grid sagged under the combat draw.

Their icon pursued the Destroyer’s on the main viewer for several seconds, until Captain Rodriguez apparently realized his new course would allow Middleton another full-strength salvo while they remained within the Pride’s heavy laser firing range, so he adjusted his course precisely where Middleton had wanted him to go.

“Without communication we’re going to have to trust the Chief’s judgment,” Jersey said after approaching Middleton’s chair.

Middleton snickered softly. “The Chief’s never been one to miss an opening,” he assured his XO. “He won’t need us to give him the order to fire when they’ve entered range.”

“The Destroyer’s forward shields are still down, Captain,” Sarkozi reported hungrily, and a few seconds later there was a flash from the heretofore-grey icon representing the powered-down Elysium’s Wings.

Chief Garibaldi had gone over to the corvette after their senior staff meeting to re-rig the emergency battery system to the corvette’s plasma cannons, which while possessing extremely short range, were absolutely deadly up close—especially when their target’s hull was unshielded.

The team aboard the Wings had powered down all systems aboard the corvette, including life support, and Garibaldi’s crew had gone over in power armor so as to minimize the ship’s energy emissions. In fact, he had taken the four Tracto-ans over to manually fire the plasma cannons, since none of the gunners were confident they could make the extremely difficult shots without computer assistance.

“Four for four,” Sarkozi said savagely, confirming the Tracto-an’s impressive manual targeting skills, “explosive decompressions showing all along the Wrath’s forward hull; her power grid is fluctuating and the stern shields are nearly down!”

“Send one up her skirts, Ensign!” Middleton flared, immediately turning red-faced and reprimanding himself for such a callous metaphor.

“With pleasure, Captain,” she replied eagerly, apparently taking no offense as the forward battery of the Pride of Prometheus fired for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time during this particular engagement.

The shields of the Cardinal’s Wrath flared briefly, before a series of explosions registered along its stern and the vessel began to list out of control.

“Enemy vessel’s engines are offline,” Sarkozi reported with gusto. “Their power grid has collapsed; estimate at least twenty minutes before they can re-raise their shields, Captain.”

“Sergeant Joneson,” Middleton activated his com-link, “estimated launch in fourteen minutes.”

“Larry that, Captain,” Joneson replied, presumably from inside the boarding shuttle with the rest of his team.

“I want that ship, Sergeant,” Middleton said seriously, “but more than the ship, I want Captain Rodriguez—alive.”

“Orders received,” Joneson said in his usual, smooth voice, “we’ll teach those Marines a thing or two.”

The com-link cut off and Middleton sat back in his chair, knowing that the rest of this battle was now out of his hands.

“Listen up,” Sergeant Walter Joneson barked, as thirty four power-armored Lancers sat in their grav-harnesses aboard the armored shuttle still moored in the shuttle bay, “we launch in thirteen minutes. That means eighteen minutes from now, every pair of boots on this shuttle will be on the hull of the Cardinal’s Wrath.”

Lu Bu felt a thrill of excitement like nothing she had ever experienced. She squeezed the grip of her blaster rifle tightly and took deep, calming breaths with the visor of her helmet up, knowing that when the shuttle lifted off she would depend absolutely on her armored suit’s life-support systems.

“Look to your right,” Joneson continued, and Lu Bu did so, finding only a bare duralloy wall since she was seated near the cockpit, “now look to your left.”

She did so and saw the same man whose leg she had broken during the training altercation, and she felt a wave of anger as the words he and her other countrymen had said replayed in her head.

“You’ve all come from different places,” Joneson said, and Lu Bu actually felt his eyes on her briefly, “but none of that matters now. As of this moment, you’re Confederation Lancers and nothing else—check the rest of that rot in this hangar. Do you get me?”

“We get you, sir!” Lu Bu shouted, in unison with the rest of the warriors aboard the cramped shuttle.

“Some of you have seen action,” Walter Joneson continued as he paced up and down the deck, “and for some of you this will be your first taste of live fire. I’ve read each of your files, and aside from these six,” he gestured to the only Lancers to bear Corporal-rank insignia, “none of you has faced armored opponents. This is an at-will organization, and what we’re about to get into will be rougher than anything you’ve experienced, so anyone who wants to sit it out had better get off my shuttle.”

Lu Bu was actually offended the Sergeant would suggest any of his Lancers would balk at the opportunity for combat, but she knew she had been waiting for this moment for years. She ground her teeth quietly and looked down the shuttle for any cowards who might want to run in the face of battle.

But none of the Lancers took the Sergeant up on his offer, so he nodded curtly. “Good,” he growled as his gaze swept the entire shuttle. “The Incumbent class’s standard complement is two dozen Marines,” he said, turning to one of the Corporals. He was a large, dark-skinned man with powerful cheekbones and a nose that had been broken so often that, to Lu Bu, it seemed to be a piece of art—and Joneson pointedly added, “that’s ‘twenty four,’ Gnuko.”

The Corporal hung his head as though in shame, and the men to either side of him mockingly consoled him as a round of chuckles filled the shuttle. Even Walter Joneson smirked as the wave of nervous energy crackled among the Lancers like electricity dancing over their metal armor.

“But these pirates,” Joneson continued just before the wave had subsided, “aren’t likely to play by the rules. Expect twice that number—and expect them to be dug in and waiting with a welcoming party for us.” Corporal Gnuko raised his hand and Joneson sighed as though in exasperation. “What is it, Lancer?”

“What’s the play, Sergeant?” the man asked seriously. “Are we looking at a cut-and-run, or a take-and-hold?”

Lu Bu recognized the terms from Sergeant Joneson’s personal short-hand; a cut-and-run referred to a mission whose primary objective was to cause damage to critical systems in an attempt to disable an enemy vessel’s combat capability. A take-and-hold was much harder, requiring pacification of the enemy crew and the functional seizure of the vessel’s critical areas including Main Engineering, the bridge, Environmental and the armory.

“Neither,” Joneson replied direly, causing eyebrows to rise all across the shuttle, “this is a capture-the-flag.”

Gnuko whistled and the visages of the men around him hardened, while those of the new recruits changed more slowly as realization dawned. A capture-the-flag was a mission whose primary objective was to secure the commanding officer prisoner—and it required that he be alive. It was one of the most difficult mission types, with the highest expected casualty rate, owing to the fact that it required an assault on the enemy’s strongest point while all but abandoning any attempts at deception or subtlety.

“Like I said,” Joneson cut into the deafening silence as he pointed to the still-open hatch, “anyone wants off the shuttle, there’s the door. The book says this is a suicide trip, so I can’t fault any of you for stepping out.” When yet again, no one took him up on the offer, he nodded and continued, “Good…because I have no intention of playing this one by the book.”

He lightly kicked a trio of stacked devices which Lu Bu recognized as boarding tubes. The devices were ring-shaped and housed two distinct apparatuses: the first being a series of cutting torches and other devices which could, with enough time, crack through even the toughest duralloy plating. The second device was a thin, membranous material which would preserve the integrity of the pressurized atmosphere on the other side of the hull which the tube cut through while allowing the Lancers to enter the pressurized environment from the outer hull.

With everyone’s complete attention on him, Sergeant Joneson reached down and began to tear the pressure-membrane’s housing from the boarding tubes. He then discarded them, one by one, out the door of the shuttle. He turned to face the Lancers, who wore looks of varying confusion and added belatedly, “We won’t be needing those.”

He then pressed the button beside the door, causing it to fold up and seal against the hull of the shuttle.

“Touchdown in ten seconds,” the pilot called over the shuttle’s intercom. They had received fire from the Destroyer’s light, point-defense weaponry, but thankfully none of the ship’s larger weapons had come to bear on the incoming shuttle.

Still, the PD weaponry had rocked the little shuttle and nearly knocked it off-course several times as they had adjusted attitude and bearing to stay as far from the primary weapons as possible on approach. Lu Bu found herself strangely calm during all of this, since she knew that there was nothing she could do to help the pilot accomplish his part of the mission.

The shuttle shook and the door opened immediately thereafter, causing the grav-harnesses to deactivate and release the Lancers from their seats. Walter Joneson was the first out the door, followed quickly be those Lancers nearest the door, then by those senior members of the team—who carried the boarding tubes—and then lastly by Lu Bu and those seated nearest her.

She had been given the task of covering the shuttle during the first minutes of touching down, and as her armored boots clomped onto the hull of the vessel—apparently named the Cardinal’s Wrath—the magnetic plates built into them activated and she felt the strange sensation of being attached to the vessel’s hull.

Pushing such distractions from her mind, Lu Bu swept the nearby quadrants for motion or other activity. She noted that they had put down beside a point defense turret, and that it was sweeping side-to-side in search of a new target. Her blaster rifle was not rated to take down the target, so she continued her sweep until her quadrant of coverage was clear.

When she checked on Sergeant Joneson’s position, she saw that he and two other senior Lancers were just stepping back from the boarding tube’s cutting apparatus. The device was throwing sparks beneath itself, and after several seconds of activity Joneson called over the com-link, “Lancers: lock mag-boots.”

Lu Bu did as she was instructed, and her boots clamped down onto the hull implacably as the rest of the Lancers did likewise. A few seconds later, the boarding tube’s cutting ring exploded, and a shower of metal debris went flying out away from the hull as the tube itself was destroyed by the explosive decompression issuing from within the ship’s hull.

The gases vented for a surprisingly short period of time before Sergeant Joneson ordered, “Disengage mag-locks and prepare to engage. First squad, you’re with me,” he ordered, and a half dozen Lancers followed as Walter Joneson leapt into the newly-formed hole, which was barely large enough for a Lancer’s power-armored bulk to fit through.

Corporal Gnuko led his team in next, followed by Corporals Thomas and Sherman, which left only Corporal Unger and his squad, of which Lu Bu was a part.

“Move in, Lancers,” Unger ordered as he too dove into the breach. Lu Bu was to be the last through the hole, as she had been given the less-than-prestigious, but wholly important position of rearguard to her squad. The other members of her smaller squad, comprised of only four members including Corporal Unger, went through the breach before she followed. She had to tuck her arms in as she held onto her blaster rifle, and landed solidly onto the deck-plates of an apparently uninhabited corridor.

“Gnuko, take point,” Joneson ordered, gesturing down one direction of the hall. Corporal Gnuko and his Lancers quickly made their way down the hallway to the nearest corridor, and Joneson continued, “Unger, cover the rear. The rest of you are with me.”

The team advanced as one down the corridor, with Lu Bu flanking Corporal Unger as they provided cover. Her eyes snapped back and forth, scanning for any signs of movement as they hurried to make their way to Sergeant Joneson’s intended destination.

“Here,” Joneson ordered, “Sherman, deploy the second cracker. Gnuko, secure that junction,” he pointed to a nearby intersection.

“Larry that, sir,” Gnuko replied as he led his men down the corridor. They had just taken up positions providing omnidirectional cover before the Corporal yelled, “Contact!”

His men began firing, and Lu Bu risked a glance over her shoulder to see which direction the enemy was coming from. She saw that Gnuko and his men appeared to be firing down both the left and right corridors, but thankfully the corridor facing the rest of the Lancers was bereft of enemy troops—for now.

“Crack that thing open, Sherm,” Joneson growled before signaling toward the junction. “Thomas, support Gnuko.”

“On it, Sarge,” he replied evenly as he and his Lancers went to provide additional support.

“Eyes forward, Lu,” Unger snapped, and Lu Bu had to return her focus to the task at hand. She cursed herself silently for allowing the excitement of the moment to break her focus on the task assigned to her squad, and she took up a kneeling position in front of her Corporal as the Lancer to her left did likewise. Her blaster was set up for a left-handed operator, so it was tactically advantageous for her to line up on the rightward wall.

A flicker of motion caught her eye, and without even thinking she snapped off a short burst of shots at the tiny, incoming object. Before the third shot had left her barrel, the corridor before her was filled with a roaring cloud of plasma as her second shot found home. The force of the explosion was lessened by the lack of an atmosphere to compress into a pressure wave, but the heat was almost palpable through her visor as the blue fireball roared across her armor and down the corridor.

Unger and the other members of her squad began firing down the corridor, and Lu Bu realized she must have hit the grenade in mid-air as she saw another blip of motion at the same intersection.

She took careful aim—which, for her highly-tuned reflexes, required just a fraction of a second—and snapped a single shot off at the second grenade, causing this one to explode closer to the intersection than to her squad, and when the fireball roared past them this time it was markedly less powerful.

“Nice shot, Lu,” Joneson quipped as a volley of blaster bolts came from his position at the center of the Lancers’ position. A pair of Marines, wearing darker, sleeker-looking armor than her own bulky casement, tried to cross the intersection, but they were peppered by a dozen blaster rifles in rapid succession.

The first fell to the deck in the middle of the corridor with his gorget slagged by a few well-placed shots from her squad-mates, and his armored body fell motionless to the floor. The second managed to dive across the intersection, but his legs were ravaged by repeated blaster impacts which saw his armor blackened as he hastily dragged himself clear of the junction.

Blaster rifles poked around the junction’s corner, and the Marines began to return sporadic, poorly-aimed fire. Lu Bu took careful aim at one of the rifles and squeezed a shot, but missed. “Blast,” she cursed in Confederation Standard without thinking.

The next time a rifle’s barrel came around the corner, she narrowed her focus and sent a round right through the trigger guard, nearly knocking the weapon from its wielder’s hands before he managed to recover it. However, the Marine made the fatal mistake of letting too much of his arm into view, and Joneson’s squad riddled it with repeated impacts which staggered his body and sent him down to one knee as he fell into view in the middle of the junction.

A trio of shots from Unger and Lu Bu’s squad-mates impacted on the man’s helmet, and he fell to the ground—where Joneson’s squad finished the job and left the Marine’s puny armor a wrecked, smoking tomb.

“Ready, Sergeant,” Sherman’s voice came over the link.

“Lancers,” Joneson snapped, “lock mag-boots!”

Lu Bu did as she was ordered, and less than a second after the boots had engaged, the corridor was filled with a violet rush of gas as shrapnel ricocheted off the walls of the corridor and the Lancers within it. Gnuko’s and Thomas’ units were still firing at the enemy throughout, but as soon as the shrapnel had fallen to the deck, Joneson bellowed, “Sherman, Unger: secure the deck! Thomas, you’re next.”

The three Corporals acknowledged Joneson’s command, and Lu Bu felt a tap on her shoulder signaling she was to fall back from her position. She did so, and after Sherman’s team had gone through the newly-made hole on the deck-plates—a hole which was nearly two meters across, unlike the first entry made on the outer hull.

Lu Bu had no idea why this particular hole was so much larger, but she was glad for the extra room as she leapt down to the deck below. Her Corporal had taken up position to the left, so she fell into the same formation as before as she knelt in front of her squad commander.

This corridor was much like the previous one, except it appeared to extend slightly further. She felt the arrival of more Lancers through reverberations in the deck-plates, but she kept her eyes forward this time, mindful of a potential ambush.

Several seconds passed as more and more boots landed on the decking behind her, until she heard Sergeant Joneson’s voice over the link. “All squads give me a count.”

“Plus four, minus one,” Gnuko reported promptly.

“Plus three, minus two,” Thomas followed.

“Plus two, minus zero,” Unger reported snappily.

“Zero-zero, Sergeant,” Sherman added.

“Plus one, minus one,” Sergeant Joneson added finally, “total count: ten dead pirates, four downed Lancers. Good job, everyone,” he said gruffly, “advance to the next insertion point; Gnuko and Sherman take point. Thomas has the ball, Unger and Joneson manning the line.”

“Sir!” the squad leaders replied in unison as the formation began to wind its way down the corridor.

As they did so, Lu Bu got the distinct impression that this was not so unlike playing smashball. They had formed a team with a clear goal and distinct roles, and they followed specific actions, or plays, called by their team leader—in this case, the venerable and surprisingly sagacious Sergeant Walter Joneson.

“Contact,” she heard Gnuko call out just before the flashes of blaster rifles could be seen reflected off the corridor’s walls. But Lu Bu refused to be distracted this time, and she kept her eyes focused on her zone of coverage down the corridor.

She saw a flicker of motion from the corner of her eye, and before she knew it she was temporarily knocked off-balance as a blast of air came roaring out of a nearby door. But she kept her eyes on her assigned zone, as she knew that Corporal Unger was assigned to the wall where the blast had originated. Her diligence paid off, as she kept the barrel of her blaster rifle aimed down the corridor and she unthinkingly snapped off a pair of shots as a power-armored figure came into view attempting to cross the corridor.

The Marine returned fire with an undisciplined spray of bolts, two of which impacted on her breastplate and threatened to relieve her of her precarious balance. But her own shots proved more accurate, as she put two rounds into his left leg. The knee of that leg seized up temporarily and caused the Marine to stagger.

Lining up a shot on the Marine’s visor, Lu Bu sent a round at the Marine’s unseen face, but was disappointed as the shot went low when the barrel of her weapon unexpectedly wavered toward the floor.

“Grav-plating,” Joneson bellowed. “Point and line squads, maintain your assignments; Thomas, disable these plates!”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied, and Lu Bu found it nearly impossible to get a clear shot as the gravity of the corridor seemed to fluctuate completely at random. At times it seemed as though she was back in her mother’s compound, with gravity forces nearly twice that of normal human tolerances, and other times it seemed as though they were in a zero-gee environment.

Still, she managed to send a few well-placed shots down the corridor as the Marines took advantage of the opportunity to cover both sides of their intersection, and to Lu Bu’s count it appeared there were four Marines positioned before her.

But her shots did little more than strike the heavily-armored thighs and breastplates of the Marines, and only served to stagger them or force a brief retreat behind their respective corners.

There was a series of sharp blasts behind her, after which the fluctuations in gravity ceased entirely and they were fully in a zero-gee environment.

“Ready for insertion, Sergeant,” Thomas called out.

“Mag-locks, Lancers!” Joneson ordered, and again Lu Bu barely had enough time to engage her boots’ locking mechanisms before the roar of venting atmosphere surged down the corridor, followed by yet another wave of shrapnel which skittered haphazardly off the metallic surfaces of the corridor and its inhabitants. “Thomas, Sherman,” Joneson ordered, “you’re in first. Unger, you’re next.”

The weight of fire from the enemy Marines was significantly heavier this time as Lu Bu and her squad-mates retreated to the newly-made, two meter wide hole, and one of Unger’s Lancers fell to the deck just before reaching the hole. His helmet was clearly compromised, with the face shield having been shattered as blood trickled down its duralloy surface.

“Insert, Lancer,” she heard Unger snap as she hesitated, wondering if she should help her fallen squad-mate, “now!”

His words spurred her to action, and she leapt down the hole to the deck below. No sooner had she arrived there than two things happened: first, Corporal Thomas’ squad began firing at a nearby panel and second, a stream of blaster bolts came down the corridor from both directions.

Corporal Thomas and two of his men were hit immediately, and Lu Bu laid down a barrage of covering fire as quickly as she was able as she backed up against the wall. The Corporal staggered as a series of shots impacted on his armor, and he fell near Lu Bu’s position as his armor clearly failed from repeated, accurate blaster strikes.

Without thinking, she continued firing with her left hand and reached to his belt with her right, where he kept his plasma grenades. She knew she would have to be accurate, or she would risk harming her fellow Lancers, but it was clear they had no time to regroup and fortify the position.

Thumbing the activation button and twisting the cap of the grenade so it would explode on impact, she took aim—while still firing the blaster rifle with her left hand—and hurled the grenade down the corridor like she was gunning for the end-zone on a gadget play.

The grenade sailed perfectly straight in the now zero-gee environment, where it struck the far wall of the intersecting corridor which the Marines were stationed within. The grenade exploded in a bright, fiery flash, and this time she barely even felt the energy of the explosion as the last wisps of blue fire barely reached her position.

But the Marines’ fire from that intersection had ceased altogether, so Lu Bu turned quickly and saw one of her squad’s members fall to the ground, her body spasming as it was enveloped in a cloud of blue-white flame. The Lancer barely managed to utter a scream before going silent—and limp.

“Plasma cannon,” Corporal Unger shouted as he took up his fallen squad-member’s position while firing as quickly as his blaster rifle would allow. “Unger minus two, Sarge!” he added between shots.

“Larry that,” Lu Bu heard Joneson reply, just before the barrel of the plasma cannon swept around the corner toward her. She fired twice at the weapon, with each of her shots finding their home on the plasma cannon’s thick barrel, and Corporal Unger also landed a pair of shots on the weapon’s midsection.

But their efforts did little to deter the Marine wielding the bulky weapon, as he slung it around and, holding it at waist-level with both hands, fired the powerful weapon at their position.

Lu Bu was determined that if she was to die in the cannon’s flames, she would take its wielder with her. So she took what she truly believed would be her final shot—aiming directly at the man’s visor.

His head snapped back from the force of the impact, but not before the roaring blast of superheated plasma shot down the corridor from the cannon’s barrel and smashed into Corporal Unger, spinning him like a top and spraying molten metal fragments in all directions as his suit was melted by the powerful weapon.

Lu Bu had no time to consider her options, knowing that the Marine needed to wait at least five seconds before firing his hellish weapon again. So she stood and ran down the corridor as fast as she could, finding that her power-armored, servo-enhanced legs were far slower than she expected.

With four seconds remaining, the Marine ducked back around the corner and his cohorts wrapped their weapons around the corner and they took aim at her as she charged toward them.

With three seconds remaining before the plasma cannon could again fire, she managed to correctly predict the path of the rightward Marine’s fire and blocked all but one of his shots with the body of her blaster rifle. The leftward Marine’s blaster rifle hammered repeatedly into her shoulder and chest, but she continued her charge unabated.

With two seconds left she had nearly reached the intersection, and hurled her ruined weapon—which had thankfully not yet exploded from repeated impacts near its power cell—at the leftward Marine just before slamming her power-armored knee into the right Marine’s forearm, knocking his weapon off-target.

With one second left, she grabbed for his blaster rifle and pivoted her body as she slammed his armored bulk into the thin, metal wall of the corridor and sent his head into a power conduit. The electricity arced briefly before cutting out, but the interruption in his suit’s control systems was just enough time for her to grab the blaster rifle from his slackened fingers.

Knowing she had no more time before the plasma cannon could be turned on her, she turned and fired at the first, glassy visor she saw in the corridor opposite herself. The Marine’s head snapped back and she noted with satisfaction that it had been the plasma cannon-wielding warrior who she had struck. Uncertain if the first shot had penetrated his visor, she fired again as she clomped across the junction as quickly as her painfully slow, armored legs would take her.

The second shot also landed on the man’s visor, and this time he went to his knees and the cannon slipped from his gauntleted hands to the deck. But his fellow Marine had brought his own weapon up, and was aiming at Lu Bu’s head.

She knew she would be unable to bring her weapon up in time, so she tried to sink her weight in a last-ditch effort to avoid the incoming deathblow, but her armor prevented her from doing so.

The Marine fired, but not before the barrel of his weapon was struck by a timely shot from one of her fellow Lancers, and the Marine’s blaster shot went just wide of her helmeted head. Needing no more providence from the Ancestors, Lu Bu screamed and lifted her leg before driving it forward into the man’s arm.

Her duralloy boot slammed into the Marine’s forearm and pinned it against the wall of the corridor, but he kept his grip on the blaster rifle and grabbed her leg with his free hand before shoving it off his pinned arm.

Squeezing the trigger, Lu Bu sent a round into the man’s lightly-armored neck. The Marine’s free hand went to the fresh gash in his armor, and Lu Bu knew she had him as she brought her leg back down before slamming her armored shin into his head, knocking his helmet completely off in the process and knocking the warrior prone to the deck.

There was the sound of repeated blaster rifle impacts from behind her, and she turned just in time to see the Marine whose rifle she had taken crash against the wall of the corridor with a short vibro-blade in his hand. It took her a moment to realize he had been coming for her with the weapon, and that realization made her grind her teeth as she added her own weapon’s fire to that of her fellow Lancers until the blaster rifle’s power cell was completely empty—and the Marine’s armor was a shattered, smoking shell.

She turned back to the Marine whose helmet she had knocked off and realized she had taken more than just his helmet; she had apparently kicked his head off as well! Finding the sight of a decapitated man more odd than disturbing, she reached down to collect the plasma cannon. Its dual grips felt good in her hands, and she swung the barrel of the weapon around to sweep the nearby corridors, only to find them all empty.

“Regroup, Lancer,” she heard Sergeant Joneson call, and she turned to see him standing amid the fallen forms of her fellow warriors. The sight of so many downed Lancers—six, by her count—angered her and she felt the urge to fire her newfound weapon into the nearby wall in rage. “Regroup!” Sergeant Joneson snapped again.

This time, Lu Bu managed to force her choler down as she trudged back toward their position just in time to hear Thomas call out, “Ready, Sarge.”

“Mag-boots,” Joneson ordered, and again she had just enough time to lock her boots before the corridor was filled with the rush of escaping gas, which deformed the deck-plates around the jagged hole which the boarding tube had made.

“Give me totals,” Joneson growled.

“Gnuko: plus six, minus three,” Corporal Gnuko reported stiffly.

“Thomas…plus five…minus three,” Thomas said through panting breaths. It was a miracle he had survived the ruination of his armor.

“Sherman: plus five, minus one,” Sherman added, his voice crackling with static.

Lu Bu looked down at Corporal Unger’s clearly lifeless body, of which barely half of his power armor remained. She knew she was the only surviving member of her squad, so she cleared her throat and reported, “Unger: plus four, minus three, Sergeant Joneson.”

“Joneson plus three, minus three,” Joneson added with a nod to Lu Bu, “you’re with my squad now, Lu. There’s only one more deck between us and the bridge; let’s cap this drive off!”

Overcome with the moment, Lu Bu found herself shouting wordlessly—along with the rest of the nineteen surviving Lancers, apparently, as her ears were filled with roars of approval coming in from the battle suit’s comm. unit.

“Remember the mission,” Joneson barked as he gestured down the corridor with his blaster rifle. “Move out!”

Surprisingly, they encountered no more resistance on their way to the bridge. Sergeant Joneson ordered Lu Bu to destroy the pressure doors sealing off the parts of the ship not affected by their series of forced entries which had exposed the interior of the destroyer to the cold vacuum of space. They had only left the final pressure door along their route intact.

But unsurprisingly, the vault-like door to the bridge—which was also a large airlock—was sealed when they arrived.

“Lu,” Joneson called over the link as he knocked on the seam of the blast doors, “you brought the key?”

She looked at him in puzzlement for several seconds until realizing what he meant, and she felt her face flush with embarrassment as she replied, “Yes, Sergeant Joneson.”

“Then let’s see ourselves in, Lancer,” he gestured after taking a step to the side.

Lu Bu thumbed the two-part trigger of the plasma cannon and felt its thrum reverberate through her gauntlets as it cycled to full-charge. When it was primed, she released her index finger and the awesome recoil the weapon created nearly knocked her off her feet as the blue-white flame belched from the barrel of her weapon and leapt toward the door.

It took her a moment to regain her footing, but when she had she saw a large hole in the center of the door. The ragged edges were still glowing orange as Sergeant Joneson gestured for Sherman to enter.

“Good work, Lu,” Joneson said. “Now take up position near that last pressure door,” he ordered, pointing down the corridor some ten meters.

“But Sergeant—“ she began, only to be cut off.

“If you don’t hear me say the word ‘pickoff’ in the next sixty seconds, you blast that door and then come support our position,” Joneson said over the top of her. “Start your clock, Lancer.”

She did as she was ordered, and after the clock began counting down she said, “Clock is running, Sergeant Joneson.”

“Good,” he replied after Sherman and another trio of Lancers had entered the airlock portion of the bridge’s access point.

Lu Bu made her way down to the pressure door and checked the charge of her plasma cannon. She saw it had enough fuel for another six shots before requiring a new canister—which she did not possess. Still, six shots from such a destructive weapon would almost certainly be more than she could take before being overcome if a wave of enemy Marines suddenly appeared.

Not long after she arrived at her new position, she heard a snap of static over her suit’s com-link and the lights of the corridor go out, but she kept her focus on the door. She watched as the countdown neared zero and felt her heart begin to quicken its pace as the clock reached single digits and still she had heard no word from Sergeant Joneson.

Oddly, she had heard no comm. chatter from her fellow Lancers, but she dared not risk taking her eyes off the door. Sergeant Joneson had given her this task, and she would carry it out no matter the distractions.

The clock reached five seconds remaining and she activated the weapon’s charge cycle. She kept the triggers down with her thumb and index finger as the weapon whirred and vibrated minutely in her hands, until the clock finally reached zero and she heard nothing from her Sergeant.

So she locked her mag-boots to the deck and fired the plasma cannon at the pressure door, sending a gout of super-charged plasma streaming into the duralloy plates of the double-layered door, which caved and blew outward as her weapon tore a rough hole through it.

The breathable gases around her streamed out of the hatch in a torrential rush, and she felt something slam into her backside just before something went hurtling out the door.

She disengaged one mag-boot and turned slowly, careful to keep her footing, and saw an unarmored woman’s body come careening down the corridor toward her as though it was flying. The woman’s body slammed into Lu Bu’s power armor before the venting gases drove her body out through the ruptured pressure door.

Pushing the image of the woman’s panicked face from her mind, and taking deliberate steps, Lu Bu recycled the charge of her weapon and clomped her way up the corridor toward the bridge’s airlock. She saw her fellow Lancers moving painfully slowly, with a few even having fallen over onto their sides. As she approached she saw Corporal Gnuko standing nearest her position, and she asked, “Corporal Gnuko, what is happened?”

Receiving no verbal reply, she saw Gnuko reach up with his hand and tap his helmet three times, signaling that his suit’s comm. unit was down. He then gestured for her to enter the bridge as he sluggishly attempted to do likewise.

Quickening her pace, she did as she was ordered and when she arrived on the bridge she saw Sergeant Joneson and Corporal Sherman, along with the surviving members of their squads. But they, too, appeared to be moving sluggishly—in fact, only the Sergeant and Corporal were moving at all. It then dawned on her that the pirates must have used some kind of ion burst which had knocked the Lancers’ suits offline.

She brandished the barrel of her weapon, sweeping it side to side as she scanned for threats and finding a vibro-blade-wielding pirate crewman moving toward Corporal Sherman. The pirate was wearing a ‘head bag’ over his face, which allowed him to survive in the current, gasless environment, and Lu Bu fired her weapon at him just before he managed to plunge the vibro-knife into Corporal Sherman’s gorget.

The man’s body nearly disappeared without a trace, as only the hand which had clutched the vibro-knife remained after the plasma cannon’s flames had passed through his body. That hand fell to the deck, but oddly kept its grip on the knife as it rolled to a stop near Sherman’s feet.

She recycled the weapon and scanned to either side, but found no more apparent threats or armed crewmembers. A man wearing long, braided hair and bearing the insignia of a Captain backpedaled as Sergeant Joneson bore down on him with slow, deliberate steps before finally cornering him near the main viewscreen.

The pirate Captain’s shoulders sagged as Joneson put his hands on him and placed him in restraints, and Lu Bu almost failed to notice Corporal Sherman making hand signals in her direction.

It took her a moment to understand his instructions, but she signaled that she understood his orders before allowing the plasma cannon to power down and activating her suit’s com-link.

“Captain Middleton, this Lancer Lu Bu,” she reported over the link after switching to the proper frequency. She waited a reasonable interval and received no reply, so she repeated, “Captain Middleton, this Lancer Lu Bu.”

This time, she received a static-laden reply, “This is the Captain. What is your status?”

“Bridge secure, Captain,” she reported, feeling the thrill of victory like never before, “we have the ball. Repeat: we have the ball.”

Chapter XXVI: Answers

“Good work, Sergeant,” Middleton congratulated as soon as he entered the brig.

“Thank you, Captain,” Joneson replied with a curt nod.

Captain Middleton came to the last cell and looked at its lone occupant for several moments before turning back to the Lancer Sergeant, “You made quite the run, from what I hear.”

Joneson shook his head. “It was a team effort all the way, Captain; I was just calling the plays.”

“Still,” Middleton said with a short laugh, “I’m not sure I’ve heard of anyone employing your breach methodology before.”

The Sergeant shrugged his broad, powerful shoulders, “Read and react, sir; there’s no way we could frontal-assault two dozen armored Marines on their home turf. Even still, we’re lucky Lu was outside the ion blast they detonated on the bridge during our entry.”

“That same ion blast cut out their primary comm. system,” Middleton nodded. “Otherwise we would have kept jamming and couldn’t have received your signal. You’re certain the Cardinal’s Wrath is secure?”

“Gnuko kept a dozen Lancers over there, and after seizing Environmental they started cycling off life support throughout the ship so they could round up the crew. Last count was one hundred thirty six souls locked in the Wrath’s cargo bay under armed guard,” Joneson said confidently before giving a derisive snort. “Blighters gave up with nary a fight after we took the bridge, Captain; no spine whatsoever.”

“Thank Murphy for small blessings,” Middleton intoned half-heartedly, as he was more concerned with their quicker-than-expected submission than he was disappointed.

“At any rate,” Joneson said into the growing silence, “we managed to take the Captain, along with nearly half his bridge crew. Their engineers ejected the power cores and slagged the primary fire control systems, along with the strange particle generators before we could clamp them down.”

Middleton’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The strange particle generators?” he repeated.

Joneson nodded grimly. “Never heard of anyone pulling that one out of the last ditch,” he said before giving the pirate captain a quick glare. “They obviously don’t want us taking their ship.”

“Yes…” Middleton agreed as his mind raced through the possible reasons for such an action. “But this also tells me something important about their operation,” he mused, very much disliking what it told him, but grateful for the intel regardless.

“Sir?” Joneson asked with a cocked eyebrow.

Middleton inclined his head toward the pirate Captain. “His organization must be able to affect complex repairs on large vessels in a mobile capacity,” he explained in a low voice, “which confirms they aren’t your run-of-the-mill, smash-and-grab pirates…and that Captain Rodriguez believes his superiors will be coming before too long to reclaim their lost ship.”

Sergeant Joneson whistled appreciatively before shaking his head. “That’s why I’m a ‘pounder, Captain,” he said with half a grin, “can’t see the angles anywhere near as clearly as you.”

Middleton disliked this new information more than just a little, but he had a job to do. “How’s the Master at Arms?” he asked after looking around for the man, only to remember he had accompanied Sergeant Joneson aboard the Cardinal’s Wrath and been subsequently injured.

“Doctor Cho says it’s touch-and-go,” Joneson replied with a sigh. “Lost a leg to a plasma cannon and ruptured just about every organ in his abdomen when his own grenades cooked off in the blast; it’s a miracle he made it back to the ship before bleeding out. I’ll keep an eye on the prisoner for now, if it’s all the same to you, Captain.”

Middleton nodded, knowing he had very few people he trusted to be alone in the brig with their latest batch of prisoners. “I’d appreciate that, Sergeant,” he said before turning to give his full attention to the prisoner and activating the audio link to the cell while simultaneously shifting the armored glass from two-way mirror mode to clear. “Captain Rodriguez,” he said, causing the other man to stand at a leisurely pace.

“Captain Middleton,” Rodriguez said with barely-concealed disdain, “I’ve heard stories of your rag-tag outfit, but couldn’t bring myself to believe something so ridiculous could be true—or that any reasonable tactician would be part of it. But,” he gestured at Middleton’s uniform with a sigh, “here you are, living proof that truth is stranger than fiction.”

“You have an odd attitude for a man who just lost his ship,” Middleton said evenly, keeping his patented poker face in place.

“I’m trying not to think of it that way,” Rodriguez replied with a dismissive wave, “but rather that I’ve just gained an ally.”

Middleton allowed himself to snicker softly as he folded his arms across his chest. “You have my attention,” he said through slightly narrowed eyes.

Captain Rodriguez turned and began to pick his fingernails. “We’ve heard of your ‘Admiral Montagne’ and his little White Knight routine,” he said with a chuckle. “But you have to realize that his days are numbered; even on his home world he’s a wanted man whose neck is destined for a good stretch in the not-too-distant future. Any man—or woman—who follows such an obviously foolish child and his blind quest to do The Right Thing,” he snorted emphatically, “is bound to end up acting against the very interests of those he is pledged to protect…wouldn’t you agree?”

Middleton’s eyes narrowed even further as he carefully considered the man’s words. Eventually, he gestured with his fingers, “Continue.”

Rodriguez nodded in obvious satisfaction as he moved toward the glass-like door. “I knew you weren’t a stupid man, Middleton,” he said as though in congratulation, but Middleton kept his features as unreadable as he could. “The Imperials abandoned the Spineward Sectors when we needed them most,” Rodriguez continued as he leaned against the door, “and there’s only one man out here in the Spine who has the vision and the will to do what needs to be done to restore order.”

Captain Middleton took a step toward the cell and nodded, “Who?”

Rodriguez wagged a finger as though in reprimand. “Don’t play me for a fool, Middleton,” the pirate Captain said in a dangerous tone. “You know exactly who I’m talking about—Demon’s Pits, you’ve already disrupted his plans more than once.”

Silence hung between them for several, tense seconds. “Commodore Raubach,” Middleton said finally, “and his Rim Fleet detachment.”

“Not a detachment,” Rodriguez shook his head, “the whole thing…well, all those who recognize his lawful mission. The Commodore is the only person doing what’s necessary to restore peace and order to this sector. Within six months, Murphy willing, every system in Sectors 23 and 24 will have come under his protection—that’s seven core worlds and dozens of colonies, Middleton.”

Middleton drummed his fingers against his bicep and paced for several seconds before asking, “How many ships are we talking about?”

“Tyrone,” the other man said flatly, using Middleton’s true first name—a name he despised, “don’t play me for a fool. You have a choice to make, and I suggest you make it quickly. When the Commodore arrives, he’ll be…displeased with me for losing the Wrath—however briefly,” he added smugly. “That displeasure will pale in comparison to his feelings for the man who not only killed his daughter in law, but who stubbornly refuses to join the cause of right and good while instead serving that pompous, strutting, barely-royal princeling from Capria.”

Middleton shook his head after a moment’s consideration. “Not much of a sales pitch, LeBron,” he said dryly.

Rodriguez cracked a grin. “Bah, the old man never much cared for the woman anyway,” he said, clearly referring to Captain Meisha Raubach, “truth be told, not many people did—including her husband. Besides,” he wagged a finger in the air, “a true leader knows talent when he sees it and is willing to make reasonable concessions to bring that talent into the fold. You want to patrol the Spine?” he asked rhetorically. “That’s the Rim Fleet’s purpose! You want a real ship to command instead of some rusted out bucket like this? He’s got the ships, Middleton, and he needs capable commanders like you.”

Captain Middleton felt like making a snide remark, but stayed his tongue as the other man continued.

“You deserve better than this, Captain,” he waved his arms around the brig. “And Saint Murphy’s brought it to you on a silver platter; he’s begging you to seize it with both hands and never look back. All you need to do is ask yourself one, simple, question,” Rodriguez said as he leaned against the bulkhead and confidently folded his arms over his chest. “Are you ready to play for a winner?”

Middleton actually did think about the man’s offer. He knew that there was truth is his words, and that the ‘Little Admiral’s rag-tag outfit wasn’t likely long for this world. A man could only win a war while fighting on one front—two, if he was well-equipped—and Admiral Montagne had not one, single organization which would openly embrace him as an ally. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, such as it was, would face certain battles against local bureaucracies for supplies; its own crewmembers over certain-to-decline morale; as well as the inevitable formal challenges to its very existence’s legality. All of which said nothing of the battles which truly mattered, like fighting off pirates or bugs…or even worse threats than those.

“You make a reasonable case,” Middleton sighed in resignation. He actually thought he could feel the triumphant energy pouring off Captain Rodriguez even through the armored door, and that vile, pompous aura made him set his jaw. “But I’ve learned something about myself in my time out here.”

“Oh?” Rodriguez asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

He nodded as he met the prisoner’s gaze, and when their eyes locked he saw Rodriguez flinch, which only made Middleton’s lip curl into a snarl. “I’m not a very reasonable person,” he said darkly, knowing down to his core that it was the truth. “When push comes to shove, there’s always some spineless coward like you jumping to suggest a compromise, or offering the vaunted ‘middle ground.’ Guess what?” he barked, lowering his hands to his sides and shaking his head adamantly. “There is no middle ground; there’s right and there’s wrong, and those precious few times in life when you can tell the difference then you had better act in accordance with your principles — because you might not get another chance to do so. And I’ll tell you something else I’ve learned,” he added as he felt himself flush with anger, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, “anyone who deploys ship-busters loaded with bioweapons, or is willing to endanger a quarter million colonists for the chance to capture one blasted corvette, is and always will be on the other side of the ball from me. You want to play for the winners? That’s a perfectly reasonable choice, Captain Rodriguez. Me? I’ll take my chances with the real good guys.”

With that, he flipped the switch on the two-way mirror and deactivated the comm. system to Rodriguez’s cell before turning and leaving the brig with a head full of steam and making his way to the bridge. If Captain Rodriguez was to be believed, Middleton had yet another battle to plan for.

And this one looked to be for all the marbles.

Chapter XXVII: Shopping for a Gift

Fei Long took a deep, cleansing breath as he exited the hyper dish junction, having just finished making repairs to their makeshift—and now horrifically odious—transmitter.

“Captain says you’re free to roam the ship,” Jardine said, wiping his hands on his work suit. “I’ll show you to your quarters, if you like.”

“Thank you, but I believe I can manage,” Fei Long replied as graciously as he could manage. Being stuffed inside that junction with the ship’s Comm. officer for the past eighteen hours had been a test of his patience and resolve, but like always, he had passed the test.

“Suit yourself,” Jardine said with a shrug, “me, I’m going for a shower and some shut-eye.”

“A wise plan,” Fei Long approved before making his way down the corridor toward the far lift.

Jardine shot him a look before moving to catch up with him. “Your quarters are on deck two,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “the other lift takes you there.”

“I have already told you,” Fei Long said as calmly as he could manage, “I have little need for rest in the traditional sense; additionally, I have an errand I wish to run.”

The Ensign shook his head as they entered the lift, and Jardine input deck nine as his destination before Fei Long entered deck six as his.

The lift went first to deck six, and Fei Long exited as soon as the doors opened.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Jardine asked hesitantly, clearly less-than-comfortable with allowing Fei Long free roam of the ship as the Captain had instructed.

“Of course,” Fei Long replied with a tilt of his head. “I will see you at the start of first shift’s next rotation.”

“Ok,” Jardine said before closing the door to the lift, and Fei Long blinked his eyes rapidly as if he could somehow clear the past few hours from his memory. The Ensign was not a stupid man, nor was he overly intrusive, but Fei Long had always found interaction with others to be more stressful than rewarding, and such long hours of continuous contact had worn his patience thinner than he could ever remember.

But he took a few calming breaths before setting down the corridor toward his destination. When he arrived, he activated the chime to request entry. The door opened after several seconds, and a towering man with long, strawberry red hair and a beard which was equal parts white and red stood before him. Fei Long clasped his hands in his peoples’ universal sign of respect, “I am seeking Master Smith Haldis the Red. May I assume you are he?”

The hulking man, who Fei Long was aware hailed from a planet named ‘Tracto’—the entire population of which was the product of advanced genetic engineering—looked down at him for several seconds before grunting, “Assumptions are dangerous.”

“How very true,” Fei Long allowed, graciously bowing his head in deference. “I have heard tales of your people’s bravery and valor in combat and was told that, of all the people serving aboard this ship, only you had succeeded in slaying one of the mighty beasts called a ‘Stone Rhino.’ Is this true?”

Haldis folded his massive arms across his chest, and Fei Long saw that his right arm was bionic from the mid-point of the forearm down. The mechanical device appeared crude to Fei Long’s eye, and he briefly wondered why the man had not simply opted to have a new arm grown. Then he remembered that the Tracto-ans were relative newcomers to the ‘River of Stars’ as they referred to it, being only recently afforded access to technology. “A man lets his deeds, not his tongue, speak for him.”

“Be that as it may,” Fei Long said, fearing he would fail to broach the topic he had come to discuss if he failed to be more forward, “I have come to inquire as to the protective qualities of Stone Rhino hide. I have heard that, in the hands of a capable armorer, it can be worked so it rivals even duralloy armor?”

“Rivals?” Haldis scoffed. “Properly harvested and worked Stone Rhino hide is every bit as strong as these star metal alloys, while affording greater range of motion.”

“I defer to your knowledge,” Fei Long said, glad to have finally gotten the armorer-turned-machinist to open up on the subject. He withdrew a data slate from within his robe and handed it to the Tracto-an, “Could Stone Rhino hide be worked into this style of armor, while allowing the designated range of motion?”

The smith eyed the data slate briefly before taking it and perusing its contents. The man was surprisingly at ease with his surroundings for one who, until a few short months earlier, had never even seen electricity, let alone starships. The armorer shook his head after a moment’s examination of the slate’s contents, “Some parts of the Rhino’s hide are pliable enough for that, but those portions don’t provide any better protection than stiff leather. A proper suit of Stone Rhino armor, using the strongest parts, could never allow for quite that range of motion.”

Fei Long sighed as he accepted the data slate from the other man. “I thank you for your time, Master Smith,” he said respectfully as he turned to leave.

“Wait,” Haldis said gruffly, causing Fei Long to stop mid-motion and turn around. The armorer gestured to the slate with his rough, scarred, left hand, “I could craft that armor for you.”

Fei Long cocked his head in puzzlement. “I fear I do not understand; are you saying Stone Rhino hide could, indeed, be used?”

“That is impossible,” he shook his head adamantly, “however, I have seen a material which would afford the measure of protection you desire, as well as the range of motion you seem to need.”

Fei Long clasped his hands respectfully before himself. “I would be indebted to you, Master Smith.”

Haldis nodded slowly as he explained, “The hide of a mighty dragon, known to these Starborn as a ‘Storm Drake,’ could be fashioned into that suit. In truth,” he added, “should you manage to provide the material for this armor, I would be indebted to you merely for being granted the honor of being the first of my people to work such a material.”

“I am under the impression that Storm Drake hide is illegal,” Fei Long said evenly, working to keep the disappointment from his voice. The creatures known as Storm Drakes were, indeed, highly sought-after for their hides. So great was the demand for the material, that the species had been placed under several universal protection laws.

“It is,” Haldis grudged. “But I believe the Captain confiscated some from the ‘gas mining facility’,” he said the last three words deliberately. “If I have heard correctly, there is more than enough there to make the suit you desire.”

“I shall endeavor to secure the material for you, Master Smith,” Fei Long said, respectfully bowing his head behind his clasped hands before turning and making his way back to his quarters to retrieve some supplies.

He had hoped the Stone Rhino hide would suffice for the armor he had designed, but in truth he was more than pleased by the apparent knowledge and ability of Haldis, the armorer-turned-machinist. And if what the Tracto-an said was true, then Fei Long had only to ask the Captain for access to the material.

But that would have to wait, at least for a time. Because if he read the demeanor of the crew accurately then they were preparing for yet another battle—and he had his own contributions to make in defense of his new home, the Pride of Prometheus.

Chapter XXVIII: Last Minute Details

“Let’s work our way around the table,” Middleton said after the last of his senior officers had arrived. “Chief, why don’t you lead off?”

Chief Engineer Garibaldi nodded as he leaned forward on the conference room table. “In the three days since the fight with the Cardinal’s Wrath, my people have been working around the clock. We tried to get the Wrath’s systems back online, but there was too much damage done by the ship’s crew before we managed to round them up. So we’ve focused our efforts on the Pride; her forward shield array is at 86%, but the other facings are at max. We’ve patched the damage to the bow’s armor plating and reinforced those compromised areas, and thanks to the extra capacitors and relays we got from Shèhuì Héxié, the rest of the ship’s systems are in tip-top shape. In addition to transferring the Destroyer’s arsenal of ninety Starfire missiles over to the Pride’s cargo bay, we even managed to get a few of the Wrath’s power relays and shield emitters transferred over to the Elysium’s Wing. The corvette’s engines are still a mess, so she won’t be fast, but she can maneuver and keep her shields up and weapons hot if we get into a firefight. I’d put her at 60% of her rated combat performance, maybe 70% if we can minimize her lack of speed like we did against the Wrath.”

“62% and 76%, Chief,” Ensign Sarkozi cut in, and Garibaldi waved his hand in mock exasperation as he sat back in his chair, ceding the floor to the young Tactical Officer. “The Corvette won’t be able to hold its own unprotected but that should be minimized, since its best role would be providing support for the Pride. If we keep the Wings in formation with us to cover the Pride’s flanks, both ships will benefit from the overlapping firing arcs. These Hydras were specifically designed for group deployments,” she said pointedly, as though it needed to be said.

Middleton nodded in satisfaction as yet again Ensign Sarkozi proved her aptitude for tactical theory—and her barely-checked ambition. He turned to Ensign Jardine, “How are your new decoys coming along, Ensign?”

Jardine leaned forward and nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve got six of them rigged and ready to deploy, Captain. It takes Fei Long and I about two hours to rig each one now that he’s worked the kinks out of the software, but we only have enough transponders for three more units. So unless our guests arrive in the next ten hours, we should have nine total decoy units ready to deploy.” He flashed a vicious grin, “I can’t wait to see how they perform, sir.”

Captain Middleton allowed himself to return the other man’s sentiment as he gave a satisfied nod, “Good work, Ensign. Relay my compliments to Mr. Fei Long.” Middleton then turned to Doctor Cho, “What is sickbay’s status, Doctor Cho?”

The doctor gestured to the men and women gathered around the conference room table. “Each crewmember has been administered a cocktail of antivirals, in the event a bioweapon is deployed against us. In accordance with your wishes, the environmental systems have been reconfigured to provide maximum air screening without compromising the priority areas of the ship. Should the bioweapon be introduced to the ship’s air supply, our new protocols should reduce crew casualties by roughly sixty percent. Doctor Middleton,” Cho added hesitantly, “has agreed to provide her expertise in the event we receive casualties.”

“Very good, Doctor,” Middleton said officiously, keeping the wince he felt from playing out on his face. Doctor Cho appeared competent, but he was still uncertain of the man’s attitude and ability to perform under pressure. And the truth was that Jo, for all her flaws, was the best trauma surgeon he had ever known.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Jersey said, waiting until Middleton gave him the signal to continue before saying, “I volunteer to command the Elysium’s Wings.”

Captain Middleton shook his head. “You’ll be needed here, Commander,” he said evenly. “In her current state, the Wings is even less maneuverable than the Pride, so I’ll need my best helmsman here to make sure we don’t concede any unnecessary ground. Depending on how heavy they come, this battle might be decided by inches—and I know you can get me those inches while manning the helm.” Middleton turned to Ensign Sarkozi, “Are you ready for your first command, Ensign?”

The young woman’s mouth fell open briefly before she snapped a salute, “Ready and willing, Captain.”

“Good,” he said with a curt nod, “since your ship is the less maneuverable of the two, you’re to coordinate maneuvers directly with Commander Jersey for as long as we can maintain communication. If we lose comm., you take whatever action you deem optimal; I trust your tactical judgment implicitly.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, and Middleton imagined he actually saw her swell before he swiveled to face Ensign Jardine. “Have all comm. modifications been implemented, Ensign?”

“Yes, sir,” Jardine replied. “We’ve installed redundant point-to-point laser comm. systems on both ships in the event we experience blanket jamming. Those systems won’t take much abuse, but with eight installed on each ship and with the decoy units also equipped with one each, they should ensure uninterrupted communications until those systems have been destroyed.”

“All right,” Middleton said, leaning forward and clasping his hands emphatically as he had reached the end of his unwritten agenda. “Any comments? Questions?” he asked before dryly adding, “jokes…criticisms?”

A short round of chuckles was followed by deafening silence in the conference room which, combined with the looks of determination on the faces of his officers, filled Middleton with a measure of confidence he had not previously possessed. He stood from the table and let a vicious sneer spread across his features before saying, “Let’s go kill some pirates.”

Chapter XXIX: Twilight’s Fall

No more than twelve hours after the senior staff meeting, the tactical display on the main viewer lit up and Middleton felt a strange sense of calm come over him.

“Multiple jumps detected,” the Sensors operator called out as the screen’s flashing icons on the edge of the system began to populate with relevant data. “Reading four…make that, six, vessels inbound.”

As the icons began to populate one by one, Middleton heard his teeth begin to grind as his jaw clenched tight. “Verify those readings,” he said evenly as he forced himself to sit rigidly in his chair.

“Verifying,” the woman at Sensors acknowledged tensely. After several seconds, she said, “Readings confirmed, Captain: sensors show four CR-70 corvettes, one Essex-class Light Destroyer, and one Soyuz-class Heavy Destroyer.”

The orbital path of the planet they had set the colonists down on had brought it adjacent to the newcomers’ point of arrival, and it only took a few seconds for Middleton to deduce they would be in firing range in less than one hour’s time.

“Helm,” he said after finishing his silent calculations, “coordinate with Ensign Sarkozi over the point-to-point system: we are to make best possible speed to interdict these newcomers.”

He turned to the Comm. station, at which Fei Long currently sat beside the Second Shift Comm. stander, a petty officer named Rand. “Watch for any outgoing signals, Comm., as well as any jamming activity.”

“Yes, Captain,” Petty Officer Rand replied, while Fei Long worked at a calm, yet blistering pace at his workstation.

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton added, and when the young man gave him a short nod without taking his eyes from his console, the Captain continued, “prepare your nearest decoy units along the axis between our two formations, and be ready to maneuver the others into position on my order.”

“Four units are available for immediate use, Captain,” Fei Long replied calmly without ever taking his eyes off whatever task he was seeing to, “while three more can be maneuvered into range. The others are too far.”

“Captain,” Rand said sharply, “I’m receiving a broadcast on all channels.”

“Put it through,” he ordered, sitting back in his chair as the main viewer morphed into the image of a man with a short, neatly-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard beneath a pair of ice-cold, blue eyes.

“This is Captain James Raubach IV, of the Rim Fleet Heavy Destroyer Dämmerung,” the man said in a tone that spoke to years of hard-won command experience. “The Pride of Prometheus and her Commander, Tyrone Middleton, are hereby ordered to stand down, heave to, and prepare to receive lawfully-appointed inspection teams. Failure to comply will constitute an act of aggression against the Rim Fleet and the citizens under its protection.” The message cut out, and Middleton quietly released a pent-up breath as he came to know the identity of his opponent.

Captain James Raubach—apparently the husband of the late Captain Meisha Raubach—was a veritable legend among the Rim Fleet’s pool of officers, second only in stature to his father, Commodore James Raubach III. Middleton had actually attended a lecture conducted by the man, who had stepped in for his father at the last minute during a conference seven years earlier. James Raubach IV was all business, much as Middleton imagined his father was, and possessed as cold and analytical of a mind as Middleton had ever had the pleasure of examining up close.

But it wasn’t the fact that James Raubach had sent his favored son which worried Middleton. It wasn’t even the fact that Middleton’s people were, on the face of things, outgunned nearly three to one by the six ship flotilla. What concerned the Pride’s Captain most was that Captain Raubach knew who he was up against…which should not have been possible, given the fact that inter-system communication without physical transfer of the data, required access to the recently-defunct ComStat network…

The Imperials had taken all strategic assets of significant value, or those owned outright by the Imperium of Man, when they had dissolved the Union Treaty some months earlier. The ComStat network utilized faster-than-light communications methods which no one outside of the Empire had managed to duplicate—and it appeared that Captain Raubach and his Rim Fleet had somehow managed to not only prevent the Imperials from reclaiming all ComStat equipment from this sector, but they had somehow gained access to it!

Captain Rodriguez must have sent a data packet containing intelligence on the Pride and its Commanding Officer prior to Fei Long’s jamming of their signal, and that message had clearly been communicated via the ComStat network.

“Steady on, bridge,” Middleton said as he felt the tension on the bridge begin to mount. “Time to intercept: forty two minutes,” he said after performing the calculations on his chair’s console.

Those forty two minutes ticked by one after another, and the Captain was pleased to see that after fifteen minutes, most of his bridge crew appeared to have reigned in their nerves and were going about their tasks efficiently, if a bit tensely—which was more than understandable.

When the intercept clock wound down to six minutes remaining, Middleton squared himself in his chair. “Comm., open a channel to the Dämmerung,” he ordered calmly after allowing his mind to work through the myriad angles he saw in the situation before him. He grimly noted that the six ships of Captain Raubach’s tiny fleet had taken up a classic, textbook position with the corvettes out wide of the Destroyers in a slightly collapsed ‘X.’ From such a posture, it would be impossible for Middleton and his two ships to gain an advantageous position on any of the vessels.

“Channel open, sir,” the stander reported after a brief delay.

“This is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus,” he said as he donned his best poker face, knowing he had never needed it as much as he did just then. “This system and its inhabitants are currently under the protection of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet; all vessels approaching from the hyper limit are to come about and make station-keeping in the interests of avoiding unnecessary hostilities.”

The viewer once again morphed into the close-up visage of Captain Raubach, whose expression was just as cold and unyielding as Middleton hoped his own appeared. “I’m not going to mince words, Captain,” he said with the barest hint of derision at Middleton’s rank, “you are hereby under arrest for the act of piracy involving a Promethean vessel, and the murder of seventy two people. The latter act will be regarded as a war crime under the Confederation Military Code since the victims had lawfully surrendered prior to your cold-blooded act. Surrender peacefully and there is no need for your crew to share your fate.”

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton said calmly, as he locked eyes with Captain Raubach through the viewscreen, “is the rest of the fleet in position?”

“All six vessels await your command, Captain,” Fei Long replied in a carrying voice.

“Can we dispense with the bluff, Middleton?” Captain Raubach asked coldly. “You had your Cruiser, the damaged corvette, my Destroyer,” he said bitingly, “and two merchant conversions available to you. It seems your engineering crews weren’t equal to the task of bringing the Destroyer back online, which would have tilted the board close to even. My sensors show that neither conversion is currently in system, which leaves you just eight minutes before my ships surround and destroy your two vessels—one of which appears to in danger of critical drive system failure.”

“Captain Raubach,” Middleton said with a nod to Fei Long, whose board immediately flashed with multiple outgoing signals, “your weapons have the same range as mine, but I have eight ships in this system, to which your Sensor operator will now attest. I’ll spare you the suspense and come right out with it: we have six Hammerhead-class Medium Cruisers de-cloaking, in addition to the Pride of Prometheus, and they are prepared to destroy your flotilla at my command.”

To his credit, Captain Raubach’s features barely flinched after his Sensor operator had been given sufficient time to process the false transponder signals Fei Long and Ensign Jardine had prepared. Those signals supported Middleton’s claim, absurd as it might seem, and it would require several minutes for Captain Raubach’s ships to debunk the signals one-by-one with visual scans.

“I’m going to give you one last chance to stand down before my fleet opens fire,” Middleton said through granite features, “but when I give the order to fire, I won’t stop until you’ve struck your colors and ejected your fusion cores.”

For a moment, he actually thought Captain Raubach might not call his bluff. But something glinted in the other man’s eye and his mouth twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “How stupid do you think I am, Middleton? You’ve barely managed to drag two ships to the line, and you want me to fall for a few sensor ghosts?”

Captain Middleton felt his stomach twist as he knew he had been called. He raised his fingers as the tactical overlay showed the enemy vessels enter firing range, but Captain Raubach’s people beat the Pride’s crew to the punch as the forward shields of the Pride of Prometheus flared, and the ship lurched slightly under the weight of the Dämmerung’s long guns.

Middleton turned to Fei Long and made a slashing gesture with his raised hand, “Order the fleet to open fire, Mr. Fei.”

“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied as his fingers repeated a sequence of motion a half dozen times before striking the flashing icon on his console.

A moment later, Captain Middleton’s fleet opened fire.

The icons of the Light Destroyer and one of the Corvettes flashed rapidly, and when the barrage was concluded both ships’ status indicators went from green to red, with the Light Destroyer flashing gray.

The Pride of Prometheus added her forward array to the onslaught shortly thereafter, and the Tactical Officer reported, “The Light Destroyer and Number Two Corvette have been completely disabled by the fleet; Number One Corvette’s forward shields are showing critical spotting and their power grid is fluctuating.”

Middleton locked eyes with Captain Raubach and curled his lip in a sneer. “Eject your fusion cores, Captain, or the next volley will destroy your ship,” he said in a dire tone before severing the connection.

When the screen went blank he turned to Fei Long, “How many more of those Starfires can you bring into the fight?”

Fei Long looked doubtful as he checked his figures, “One of the decoy groups composed of ten Starfire missiles is simply too far, Captain Middleton; its fuel supply would exhaust long before it entered range and would therefore be rendered useless. The other two ‘decoys’ could be brought into play if we maneuver toward the planet, but otherwise they will be useless to us as well.”

Middleton knew that if he came about now, it would only embolden Captain Raubach, so he shook his head adamantly. “We can’t flinch until he does,” he said, turning to Jersey and adding, “maintain course, Helm.”

“Been awhile since I played a game of ‘chicken,’ Captain,” his XO replied with a short, harsh laugh as he increased the ship’s acceleration, “I don’t recall being too good at it.”

“Let’s hope we can say the same of Captain Raubach,” Middleton said under his breath.

The Sensor operator reported, “Captain, Number Two Corvette is peeling off and making for the hyper limit and the Light Destroyer is dead in space, having already ejected its two power cores. Number Three Corvette is falling back, but the other three vessels are continuing on course.”

“Their four on our two,” Middleton mused loud enough that his crew could hear him, “standard fare for the Pride of Prometheus, eh Commander?”

“More targets for our guns,” the Commander replied gruffly, and Middleton could feel the crew increase their focus as the second volley of fire came from the enemy fleet, and this one made the first look like a love bite.

“Forward shields at 48%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported. “Minimal spotting; working to compensate now.”

“Work faster, Shields,” Middleton growled as he realized that Captain Raubach was taking his chances. The longer the enemy ships came at the Pride and Wings, the more likely they were to discover the truth of Middleton’s ‘fleet’ and begin to peck his ships apart from extreme range. With Raubach’s ships clustered relatively closely together, the Pride’s forward heavy lasers could come to bear on any one of them while presenting its strongest defensive face: the bow. But when they finally encircled the aged Hydra-class Medium Cruiser, it would only be a matter of time before they picked her apart where she was weakest, like a pack of wolves bringing down a bear.

“Gunnery’s requesting target priority, Captain,” the Tactical Officer asked. “Forward array will be ready to fire in eight seconds.”

Middleton actually had to think about it for a moment, since even a lucky shot against one of the Corvettes would still leave him facing two ships. He briefly toyed with the idea of going head-to-head with the Dämmerung, but decided against it. It was a gamble, and he despised gambling—certainty was what mattered in battle, and he was certain that with a well-aimed volley he could temporarily force one of the Corvettes to fall back.

“Have Gunnery target Number One Corvette,” the Captain ordered his Tactical Officer, “and have them coordinate their fire with the Wings’ long-range weaponry; let’s drop it down to even odds and see just how serious Captain Raubach and his people really are.”

“Aye, Captain,” the man reported before relaying his orders. A few seconds later, the Pride’s forward batteries lanced out and the icon of the Corvette covering the Dämmerung’s port flank flashed rapidly. The Elysium’s Wings even contributed a pair of light laser strikes to the barrage, which had the Tactical Officer turn and report, “Number One Corvette’s forward shields are at 22%, Captain; heavy spotting detected. They’re presenting their broadside but still coming. The other two vessels have cut their acceleration as well, and are approaching in formation.”

The Dämmerung’s forward weapons unloaded, and the Pride of Prometheus was rocked again by the Heavy Destroyer’s increasingly powerful assault. “Forward shields at 28%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported before another round of strikes impacted on the forward shields. These last strikes, authored by the two Corvettes still flanking the Dämmerung, were less potent but still caused the Shields Operator to amend tightly, “Make that 16%, Captain, with critical spotting; recommend we slew the ship to give Engineering teams time to repair multiple blown relays feeding the forward emitters.”

“Helm, cut acceleration and present the starboard broadside,” Middleton said quickly. The enemy ships had shown impressive accuracy by any standard, and the Pride’s robust forward defensive front was barely at half the strength Middleton’s calculations had shown they would be at this stage.

“Presenting broadside, aye,” Jersey acknowledged as the Elysium’s Wings moved to cover the Pride’s bow facing.

At tactical distances—even extremely close ones like those which the Pride and Wings currently operated in formation—it was absurd to believe that one ship could actually ‘cover’ its ally’s shield facing by absorbing punishment for it, since it was essentially impossible to physically interdict one ship in front of another. But what Sarkozi could do with the Elysium’s Wings was increase their combined counterattack capability against the Rim Fleet’s ships, should those ships decide to maneuver for an advantageous arc against the Pride’s most vulnerable facing.

A series of impacts landed on the Pride’s starboard shields, and the Shields Operator reported, “Multiple hits to the starboard shields; current strength at 74% and holding.”

Middleton knew he needed to get his bow back on the enemy, since his broadsides had literally zero fire capability. There had originally been a sparse assortment of light lasers and particle cannons mounted there, but those weapons had apparently been of Imperial design. So, like supposedly all Imperial assets, they had been reclaimed during the Imperial Withdrawal.

The Pride’s stern had a pair of turret-mounted heavy lasers with modest firing arcs which, while less than game-changing, would at least allow for the possibility of inflicting a measurable wound on their adversaries while Garibaldi’s people worked on the forward shields.

“Enemy vessels closing to short range, Captain,” the Tactical Officer reported. Middleton knew that the enemy’s fire would only intensify the closer they got, and he was currently unable to present a credible counterattack against them.

The Elysium’s Wings unleashed one of its own broadside volleys before rolling and immediately firing the other at the oncoming Corvette. The enemy vessel’s shields dipped slightly, but Sarkozi’s textbook execution of the maneuver brought a tight smile to Middleton’s lips.

Of course, Captain Raubach’s wingmen immediately did likewise, and the Pride of Prometheus’ Shields Operator reported, “Starboard broadside at 52%, Captain. No spotting detected.”

“Damage to the Wings?” Middleton demanded of his Tactical Officer, and as he did so he realized he was no longer checking his chair’s console for updates. It was a thought he pushed from his mind as quickly as he could while waiting for the man’s reply.

“No damage, Captain,” the man reported. “The Rim Fleet vessels have only fired on us.”

“Thank Murphy for small miracles,” Middleton muttered as he decided to employ his chair’s console for some quick calculations. At their current rate of speed, they would pass the enemy group in less than three minutes. That much time under Captain Raubach’s continuous fire would almost certainly diminish the strength of the Pride’s broadside shields to critical lows. “Status of forward shields?” he demanded of the Shields operator.

“Engineering crews have replaced the damaged relays,” the operator reported, “but are having some trouble re-balancing the grid. The Chief’s estimated time to finish repairs is seven minutes.”

Middleton knew that Garibaldi’s estimate was questionable, but this time it was questionably short rather than long. “Helm, present our stern to the wounded Corvette,” he ordered, knowing it was the only logical choice left to him.

It was entirely possible that Captain Raubach had a few tricks of his own, even though thus far the battle had unfolded well within the parameters the simulations would have predicted. Captain Middleton needed to let his stern shields soak up some damage so his broadsides could receive whatever last-minute surprises his opponent had in store.

The stern of the Hydra-class Medium Cruiser came around to face the enemy squadron, and as soon as they were within firing position both stern-mounted heavy lasers blasted the shields of the Number One Corvette. Those shields sagged to the point its icon began flashing yellow on the tactical readout.

“Number One Corvette’s forward shields are down to 36% with moderate spotting,” the Tactical Officer reported. “She’s rolling to present her broadside, but maintaining approach vector and formation with the Dämmerung.”

The Dämmerung fired every bit of its arsenal it could bring to bear, and the Pride’s stern shield indicators flashed red. Needing no verbal report from the Shields Operator, Middleton barked, “Helm, present the port facing!”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey acknowledged, even though Middleton could already tell he had begun to do so before receiving the order. Another volley of fire, this from the two Corvettes, landed home on the Pride’s port shields and caused the grav-plates to temporarily fluctuate just enough that Middleton’s feet came up briefly off the deck, before audibly slapping back down again.

“We’ll pass through the enemy formation in twenty seconds,” the Tactical Officer reported just as the stern lasers hammered into the Number One Corvette’s broadside shields. “Minimal damage reported,” he added with muted satisfaction. “Number One Corvette is increasing forward velocity; looks like they’re trying to put some distance between themselves and our guns.”

“Two on two, then,” Middleton grudged, having hoped to force the third Corvette out of the fight a minute earlier, “not quite even, but we’ll take it. Helm,” he said sharply, “prepare to roll and present our starboard broadside as soon as they pass by.”

Then the icons of Middleton’s two ships briefly aligned with the Dämmerung’s on the main viewer, and he found himself holding his breath until the icons began to slowly drift apart for the first time during the engagement.

The lights on the bridge flickered briefly as the Dämmerung rolled while passing almost directly above the Pride of Prometheus, in order to unleash the full power of its weaponry in as short an interval as possible. Both of its flanking Corvettes did likewise from their positions some distance away, and Middleton watched as Jersey expertly rolled the ship to present the Heavy Destroyer, and its as-yet-undamaged Corvette wingman, with the Pride’s more stable starboard shields.

Middleton had completely ignored the Dämmerung to this point in the battle, because its shields could soak more damage than two Corvettes combined—it was better to pick off the smaller fry before going after the big fish, especially give the Pride of Prometheus’ peculiar strengths and weaknesses.

One on one, Middleton’s ship could out-throw any vessel of her class currently operating in the Spineward Sectors. In fact, the Hydra/Hammerhead class had initially been billed as a Heavy Cruiser, but had been re-designated not long after its implementation throughout the Spine. Even so, against multiple vessels with superior maneuverability and similar fighting range, its lack of robust armament to cover its flanks became a critical weakness which nearly any tandem of warships could exploit to deadly effect.

The fleeing Corvette’s stern armaments were minimal and while they pecked away at the Pride’s stern shields, but Middleton knew they would create no immediate danger. Given the enemy ship’s current formation and proximity, it had become impossible to keep all three vessels on the same facing.

“Captain,” the Tactical Officer said, “if we come about and drive directly at the planet, we can bring those other two Starfire groups to bear on the enemy ships.”

“Once our forward shields come back up, I have every intention of doing just that,” Middleton assured the young man before opening a channel to the Chief Engineer. “Garibaldi, I need a status update on those shields.”

“We’re on schedule, Captain,” Garibaldi replied before the com-link was filled with the sound of an explosion. “Give us two more minutes and we’ll have the grid re-aligned for another run. I’m guessing the shields will be just over half capacity when we’re done.”

“Good work, Chief,” Middleton replied before severing the connection.

The Pride shuddered under the weight of another volley, and the lights flickered as the grav-plates fluctuated yet again. “Starboard shields at 42% and holding, Captain.”

“Captain,” the Sensors operator nearly leapt out of her chair, “incoming point transfers detected!”

“Give me a breakdown,” he snapped impatiently.

“I’m reading three vessels,” she replied as the tactical overlay added three icons on the opposite side of the system. “Two CR-72 Corvettes…and one Defiance-class Battleship,” she added in disbelief, “the newcomers are on course to join the engagement, Captain.”

Middleton actually felt the air escape his lungs as the reality of his situation sank in. The Defiance class was one of the most well-rounded, powerful capital ships ever produced in the Spine, but only a handful had been manufactured and deployed before the firm developing them had been bought out by the Cornwallis-Raubach consortium some forty years earlier.

It seemed that Captain Raubach had, in fact, brought sufficient resources to assure victory—but Middleton wasn’t going to give up just because there was no reasonable chance of victory. After all, he thought to himself, I rather enjoy being an unreasonable person.

“Helm, come about and execute a maximum burn on my engines,” he ordered coldly. “Tell the Wings to stay on our flank; we’re going to drive Raubach into those two remaining Starfire clusters near the planet, but we’re only going to get one shot at it before those wounded Corvettes get back into the fight and circle us like vultures—to say nothing of the newcoming vessels.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey replied evenly as he adjusted the course of the Pride.

“The Chief reports final repairs are completed to the forward shield array, Captain,” the Damage Control operator reported no less than ten seconds after they had begun their maximum engine burn in pursuit of the enemy vessels.

“Tell him to evacuate his people from the forward hull,” Middleton ordered. “Initiate lockdown in the gun deck, and secure the forward sections by sealing all pressure doors. Things are about to get hairy, people, and I don’t want unnecessary casualties.”

“Relaying orders now, Captain,” the operator acknowledged.

“Incoming transmission from the Dämmerung, Captain,” reported the Comm. stander stationed beside Fei Long.

“Open the channel,” Middleton said stiffly as he resumed his rigid posture.

The face of Captain James Raubach IV filled the viewer, and his mouth was twisted contemptuously as he shook his head. “Middleton, you actually had me thinking you did have some sort of fleet backing you up after that initial volley,” he said piteously. “It’s not often I bite on a feint like that, so I’d like to offer my congratulations before I pound your oversized tin can into scrap. But you know what they say, ‘fool me once, shame on you’,” he said as he continued to shake his head emphatically. “There is no fooling me twice, Captain; you no more have a Defiance-class Battleship at your beck and call than I have an Imperial Command Carrier at mine. Drop the smoke and mirrors routine, and I’ll go easy on your crew, but one way or another that Corvette is coming with me after your ship’s been slagged by my guns.”

“Captain Raubach,” Middleton began with a confident grin, after finally deducing who it was that the newcoming ships must have belonged to, “I was just about to make the same, generous offer to you. Tell your ships to stand down, and I promise the MSP will see them transported to the nearest Core World to await a more tempered measure of justice than we—or the crew aboard these inbound ships—are likely to afford the group responsible for the atrocities committed in this system.”

Raubach snorted derisively. “I admire a man who sticks to his guns,” he said with a grudging nod, “and I suppose I should be thanking you—while I still have the chance.”

Middleton’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Thanking me?” he repeated in open confusion.

The other man nodded. “A full honors burial and posthumous commendation for my late wife, Captain Meisha Raubach, are a Hades of a lot more affordable than the fifty-fifty split she would have gotten in our inevitable divorce,” he said smugly. “Goodbye, Captain Middleton,” he added with finality before nodding to someone off-screen, after which the Pride of Prometheus was rocked by another incoming volley of fire as the connection cut out.

“Forward shields down to 44%, Captain,” the operator reported, “working to correct minor spotting.”

“Hard at them, Helm,” Middleton growled fiercely, knowing that he could still salvage a victory here. He only hoped that the newcomers had been monitoring the recent back-and-forth, and that they wouldn’t tip their hand until they were in position to tip the scales. “Tactical, tell the gun deck to commence firing on the Dämmerung; they are to ignore all other targets.”

“Firing on the Dämmerung, aye,” the Tactical Officer reported before another series of impacts struck home on the Pride’s dwindling shields.

It took several minutes for the Pride of Prometheus to reverse its momentum and begin bearing down on the enemy vessels, by which time they had already gone to medium tactical range, which actually favored the Pride—for the time being.

“Captain, the wounded Corvettes are on an intercept course,” the Sensors operator reported. “Their shields have been stabilized; estimated time to their firing range, twelve minutes.”

“Steady on, Helm,” Middleton said in a carrying voice after another volley shook his ship, bringing their forward shields down to critically low levels. Another volley, or two at the most, and those shields would collapse entirely, leaving nothing but the Pride’s formidable reinforced armor plating to absorb the damage. But no armor, outside of the strongest Imperial Locsium crystal, could repel heavy weaponry for long before succumbing to the uncompromising laws of physics.

“If the enemy ships continue on their current course,” Fei Long interjected, “we can maneuver the Starfire missiles to firing position within six minutes—on your order, Captain,” he added awkwardly, with his lack of military training and discipline painfully obvious to all on the bridge.

“As soon as the Dämmerung is in range, I want those Starfires to coordinate with the gun deck to provide maximum simultaneous fire,” Middleton instructed the young man, causing the boy to nod in acknowledgment before going back to work.

The enemy ships continued to maneuver, with the Dämmerung essentially allowing its momentum to carry it toward the planet while tumbling its body in a controlled sequence to bring maximum firepower to bear on Middleton’s increasingly abused vessel. Meanwhile, its flanking Corvette went out wide to gain a superior firing angle on the Pride’s flanks. And with two more Corvettes just minutes away from re-entering the fray, Captain Middleton knew it was now or never if they were to land a decisive blow against Raubach’s squadron.

“Forward shields have collapsed, Captain,” reported the Shields operator, “minor damage to the forward hull reported.”

“I’m getting dangerous energy fluctuations from Reactor Number Two, Captain,” reported the Engineering petty officer from his console, “Chief Garibaldi recommends we decrease engine output to 60% to avoid a core meltdown.”

“Tell the Chief to baby it as long as he can, and eject it when he is no longer able to do so,” Middleton snapped as another volley of fire smashed into the Pride’s bow. “Besides,” he added with certainty in a raised voice, “we’re not going to need all three reactors after our second batch of Starfires come into play.”

The forward batteries shot forth again, and the Dämmerung’s shields flared under their combined weight, but according to the tactical readouts they were still well over fifty percent across the board.

“Starfires are in range, Captain,” Fei Long reported calmly, “I will commence linked fire with the gun deck as soon as the forward batteries recharge.”

“Make it count, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said, trying to keep his voice level and hearing significantly more urgency than he would have liked to convey.

The charge cycle indicators for the eight remaining forward heavy lasers continued to climb, with two of the ten powerful weapons having been knocked offline by fire from the Dämmerung after the forward shields had collapsed. When they had all reached maximum charge, Middleton leapt out of his chair and made a slashing gesture, “Now, Mr. Fei!”

The forward batteries lanced out, and the image of the Dämmerung was briefly surrounded by a trio of distinct laser barrages, which caused its shields to flash and buckle on its stern and starboard facings.

“Reading minor decompressions on the stern of the Dämmerung, Captain,” reported the Sensor officer gleefully. “Her aft and starboard shields have collapsed!”

“Drive it home, Helm,” Middleton roared, overcome with the thrill of the moment in an uncharacteristic outburst.

But as he watched, the tactical icon representing the enemy Destroyer flickered and its briefly collapsed shield quadrants began to read as restored to ten…twenty…thirty…then, finally, forty percent of maximum!

Silence hung over the bridge for what seemed like an eternity, but Middleton consciously knew it could have only been two or three seconds. Still, the point had been made: they had taken their best shot, and it hadn’t been enough.

“Incoming hail from the Dämmerung,” the Comm. stander reported stoically as a series of impacts registered on the Pride’s port shields when the flanking Corvette continued its methodical, medium-range assault.

Middleton straightened his uniform and turned toward his chair, where he deliberately sat down and resumed his rigid posture. “Put him through.”

Captain Raubach’s smug features filled the viewer, and Middleton took absolutely no comfort in seeing a line of blood running down the man’s face and into his salt-and-pepper beard. “You’re just full of surprises, Middleton,” he said grudgingly. “But this is the end for you and your precious Pride; it’s time you gave up and spared your people.”

Middleton took a deliberate look around the bridge as he took in the countenances of his crew. To the last one, they had looks of hardened determination on their faces—and he could not find a single ounce of ‘quit’ in the whole group.

“Captain Raubach,” Middleton began softly before hardening his voice, “spare us your insurrectionist speeches. If we go down, we’re taking you with us. Aside from the occupants of my brig,” he said with a derisive snort of his own, “there isn’t a single person on board this ship who would willingly join terrorists who manufacture and deploy bioweapons, or pirates who jeopardized the lives of a quarter million colonists on board a settlement ship in an attempt to pirate the Elysium’s Wings from its rightful government.”

“Very well,” Raubach said angrily before cutting the channel. Captain Raubach had a reputation as an unflappable officer, so Middleton allowed himself a smirk at having gotten under the man’s skin.

“Captain, incoming hail from the approaching squadron,” reported the Comm. officer, and Middleton gestured for the transmission to be put on the main viewer.

The image of a completely bald, white-bearded man sitting in a command chair—which nearly rivaled that of Admiral Montagne’s aboard the Lucky Clover—appeared on the viewer. “This is High Captain Archibald Manning IV, commanding the Battleship Elysium’s Defiance,” the man said in a gravelly voice. “To all vessels in this system, you are instructed to disengage immediately and move to the quadrants designated in the accompanying data packet where you will await further instructions. Failure to comply will result in Captain Middleton being proven correct: there will be no justice administered by my turbolasers…” he said, pausing to allow the gravity of his words to sink in as he leaned forward with eyes that glinted as though they were made of iron. “I come bearing retribution for those behind the recent crimes in this system against my fellow citizens—and unlike the two of you and your incessant chatter, this will be the final communication you receive from me that isn’t transmitted by my guns.”

The communication cut out, and Middleton felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Elysium’s Defiance was still some thirty minutes out of even maximum turbolaser range, but if Captain Raubach decided to remain and continue to dish out punishment to the Pride for more than twelve minutes, he would be unable to escape the firepower of the High Captain’s state-of-the-art Battleship.

Middleton ran a series of simulations through the primary computer and concluded that in their current alignment and capacity, there was a 30% chance Captain Raubach’s ships could disable—and potentially destroy—the Pride of Prometheus if they remained and continued the assault. But that chance brought with it a nearly equal probability that High Captain Manning would then do the same to the Dämmerung in the ensuing battle.

The Dämmerung began to maneuver away from the incoming vessels and rain fire on the Pride for several minutes, and Middleton’s ship lurched beneath each successive impact on the unshielded forward hull. The Damage Control stander worked frantically to direct repair crews and isolate affected systems as they failed, and for the time being it appeared he was managing the job.

The Pride’s forward weapons continued their own assault on the Heavy Destroyer, but until the Elysium SDF vessels came into range, Captain Middleton knew that Raubach’s shields would hold as he continued to present his freshest facings while pouring his fire onto the Pride of Prometheus. Ensign Sarkozi had essentially neutralized the flanking Corvette by peeling off the Pride’s flank and threatening its failing broadside shields by going out wide and gaining a superior firing angle.

“Captain, the incoming Corvettes are coming about,” the Tactical Officer reported suddenly, and a few moments later the icons on the main viewer began to peel off as they each made for the hyper limit. Judging by the Dämmerung’s current trajectory, it appeared that he had decided it was time to withdraw rather than face a coin flip chance at victory against the fresher, heavier, longer-ranged Elysium’s Defiance.

“Should we pursue, Captain?” Jersey asked quickly.

“Negative, Helm,” Middleton replied. “We have a less than one in four chance of disabling the Dämmerung before she exits our firing range, and a one in three chance of sustaining critical damage and casualties in the process. We need to call this one a draw and fall back to the planet,” he said with equal measures of bitterness and relief.

He knew that with the Dämmerung’s acceleration, the Elysium’s Defiance would be unable to catch it before the Destroyer made the hyper limit. And if High Captain Manning was as experienced as he appeared, he wouldn’t risk sending his two slightly-faster CR-72 corvettes after any of Raubach’s vessels for fear of being cut off and surrounded.

Middleton sank back into his chair as the distance between the Dämmerung and the Pride grew until both ships were completely out of their effective firing range, at which point he focused his attentions on High Captain Manning’s attached instructions. Those instructions advised Middleton to make high orbit over the planet, and that was enough to make him breathe a sigh of relief since Manning wouldn’t possibly suggest that a man he didn’t trust should assume a potential firing position over his fellow Elysium nationals.

Several tense, silent hours passed until Captain Raubach’s ships point transferred out of the system one by one from well beyond the hyper limit. A few minutes after the last ship had left the system, Middleton received a hail from the Elysium’s Defiance, which he had put up on the main viewer.

“Captain Middleton,” High Captain Archibald Manning IV greeted evenly as he leaned forward in his command chair, “not to be rude, but I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

“Of course, Captain Manning,” Middleton replied with a curt nod, “my people are prepared to hand over the Elysium’s Wings as we speak; you give the word and I’ll send a shuttle to collect my people before yours re-assume command.”

Manning nodded. “Send your shuttle, Captain,” he said in his gravelly voice. “My son and his team are already en route, but will remain in a holding pattern while your people evacuate the Wings and return to where they belong. When that is concluded, I propose you join me for dinner aboard the Defiance so I can properly thank you for the meritorious service you’ve rendered my world this last week.”

Middleton hesitated, knowing that to willingly go over to the other man’s ship was effectively the same as surrendering to him. “I appreciate the offer, Captain,” Middleton said while inclining his head respectfully, “but my ship is going to need immediate repairs, and I’m afraid I need to oversee those repairs so we can get under way as soon as possible.”

Captain Manning’s eyes narrowed before he began to chuckle harshly. “Captain, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a dinner invitation refused,” he said, clasping a hand over his chest and feigning offense before once again turning serious. “But your caution is well-deserved, given recent events. If it would be more agreeable, my Marine Captain and myself will come aboard your ship—unarmed—shortly after the transfer of the Wings is concluded, and my men have taken control of those two crippled Destroyers. I believe we have a great many things to discuss—privately,” he said heavily.

Middleton decided to trust his gut and nodded slowly. “We would be honored to receive you, Captain Manning,” he said.

“After the transfer, then,” the other man said with a curt nod before severing the connection.

Chapter XXX: Taking a Stand, and Shaking a Hand

Lu Bu moved as quickly as she could manage through the press of bodies scattered throughout sickbay. The Captain had requested that all crewmembers with advanced first aid or better training report to sickbay as soon as hostilities had ceased, and Lu Bu had rushed to help her fellow crewmembers in the aftermath of their bloodiest battle since she had boarded the Pride.

“No, not that one,” Doctor Cho snapped after Lu Bu had retrieved the thoracic outlet packet, “I said ‘the cardiac relay kit’.”

Lu Bu was certain she had heard him call for the outlet packet, but she knew it was not her place to argue; her fellow crewmen and women were dying, and every second she indulged her temper brought them closer to death, so she quickly retrieved the cardiac relay kit from its place in the row of stacked materials.

“Yes, that’s the one,” he grudged after she returned to his side, and he tore the kit open as he began to make a long incision on the left side of the patient’s ribs just below the woman’s left breast. A few moments later, Doctor Cho was attempting to maneuver one end of the bypass relay unit’s tubing through the mess of blood and tissues in the crewwoman’s chest. But he failed to correctly implant the device on three separate occasions until finally succeeding, after which he fumbled with the second piece of tubing—which caused him similar difficulties.

Lu Bu saw Doctor Middleton looking up over her own patient on the other side of the room. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she worked quickly, yet efficiently, on a similar procedure involving a horrifically burned engineer who had apparently been too close to a power junction when it overloaded.

“Is he gonna be ok, Doc?” Chief Garibaldi asked Doctor Middleton. The Chief appeared to have sustained rather significant injuries himself, including a huge gash over his half-bald head and major burns to his right arm and leg which had melted his uniform and exposed beefy, red tissue beneath in several patches.

“You need to sit down and have your wounds seen to, Chief,” Doctor Middleton said calmly as she completed her own procedure. She then cast a hard look at Doctor Cho, who was still fumbling with the second bypass tube, before she moved on to the next patient triaged in front of her.

“I said ‘suction’!” Doctor Cho snapped irritably, and Lu Bu grabbed the portable suction unit from beside the bed—quite certain the Doctor had not, in fact, previously requested suction. But she dutifully inserted the device into the crewwoman’s chest cavity, and after a few seconds the tissues were exposed to where even she could discern the different structures inside the woman’s body.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice fraught with tension as he finally connected the second tube. He flipped the switch on the portable device and gestured to a nearby, vacant bed, “Transfer the patient there and connect the bypass device to the power supply.”

“No,” Doctor Middleton shouted across the room, “do not move that patient, Bu!”

“This is my patient, Doctor Middleton,” Doctor Cho snapped, wiping what few wisps of hair remained on his head away from his eyes.

“No she is not,” Doctor Middleton said adamantly as she continued to work on her latest patient. “As Chief Medical Officer of this ship, I’m relieving you of duty; you spent two minutes to perform a ten second procedure, and that woman will likely suffer neurological deficits due to prolonged anoxia thanks to your incompetence—to say nothing of the other patients you’ve ‘treated’ today.”

“I am Chief Medical Officer,” Doctor Cho retorted hotly as he made to begin working on his next patient.

“Not any more, you’re not,” Doctor Middleton said before looking up over her glasses and locking eyes with Lu Bu. “If he attempts to so much as assess another patient, restrain him; I won’t have him harm another member of this crew—they depend on me, and I’m not going to abandon them,” she said with a knowing look before lowering her eyes and returning her full attention to the task at hand.

Lu Bu felt a surge of excitement as she squared off on the elderly Doctor Cho. “Doctor Cho should return to quarters,” she said evenly while pointing at the door.

The elderly Doctor looked perplexed and genuinely offended, and appeared ready to protest until Lu Bu cracked her knuckles demonstrably while taking a step toward him.

With that, the elderly doctor opted to quit the field, and a few seconds later he had left the sickbay.

“Bu,” Doctor Middleton said in a raised voice, causing the younger woman to turn around wearing the biggest smile she could remember, “I’m could use another pair of hands over here—and we’ll need that thoracic outlet tray.”

Lu Bu did as she was instructed, brushing past a large, Tracto-an medical assistant as she did so and felt a wave of positive energy flow through her veins.

Doctor Middleton is going to stay! she thought gleefully.

“Captain Manning,” Middleton said officiously as soon as the Elysium shuttle’s door had opened and the surprisingly robust-looking man—whose file indicated he was one hundred six years old—descended the ramp with a similarly square-jawed man at his heel.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” High Captain Manning asked officiously.

“Permission granted,” Middleton said with a nod, “welcome to the Pride of Prometheus, sir.”

“Sir?” Manning repeated as he made his way across the hangar deck to where Middleton stood, with Sergeant Joneson to one side and Ensign Jardine to the other. Archibald Manning stood less than a meter from Middleton’s face and looked up and down his uniform before chuckling, “I miss the old uniforms; they look good on you, Captain. But none of this ‘sir’ business, eh?”

Middleton shook his head. “MSP protocol, sir,” he said while bracing to attention as a show of respect, with Joneson and Jardine following his lead, “the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet recognizes locally-granted ranks in all official interactions with its allies. Plus, I’m technically still a Lieutenant Commander operating under a field commission of Captain.”

Manning wagged a finger reprovingly, “I served in the MSP back when this ship of yours was still considered top-of-the-line; I know the regs as well as any man living. You only respect local ranks while on sovereign soil, and only when interacting with your fleet’s constituent members. To my knowledge, as High Captain of Elysium’s SDF, we do not currently contribute any vessels to the Confederation’s MSP—and I think I would know if we had,” he added with a stern look.

“I’m hoping we can alleviate at least one of those unfortunate circumstances today, Captain,” Middleton said as he gestured to the hangar’s main exit.

“Let’s take things one step at a time,” Manning said as he gestured to the tall, broad-shouldered man behind him. “This is my Marine Captain and youngest son, Cooper,” he said before turning with a grim expression on his face. “He was a Sergeant until just a few short days ago, when an…unfortunate incident befell his predecessor.”

“I read you, Captain,” Middleton said with a knowing nod as he turned to Joneson and Jardine respectively, “this is Lancer Sergeant Walter Joneson, and my chief Comm. officer, Ensign Kenneth Jardine.”

Manning’s eyebrows lifted fractionally as a smile crept across his face. “My son was right,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially to add, “I do like your style.”

“Let’s proceed to the conference room?” Middleton suggested.

“By all means,” Archibald Manning agreed, taking the lead as they exited the corridor. A few minutes later, the five men had ridden a lift in complete silence and arrived at the senior officers’ conference room.

When everyone had taken their seats, Captain Manning looked purposefully around the room. “I knew a few planets still serviced these old ships, but I hadn’t expected to set foot on one again.” He gave a curt nod to Middleton, “You’ve done good work with the old bird, Captain. On behalf of my world, and the thousands of people whose lives you’ve safeguarded, I would like to extend our appreciation.”

“Normally I’d politely downplay your display of appreciation,” Middleton said, “but times being what they are, I think we could both use all the friends we can get. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Manning nodded approvingly as he withdrew a data crystal from his pocket and slid it across the table to Middleton. “This contains multiple, classified reports concerning events taking place in Elysium these past few weeks which, frankly, I could get court-martialed for sharing with you. The short and sweet version,” he said bitterly as he leaned back in his chair, “is that we’ve been attacked no less than three times by outside interests in what I feel is a concerted effort against our sovereignty. But the politicians back home—Murphy bless their cold, little hearts—can’t bring themselves to use such ‘strong language’.”

“We’ve been tracking pirate activity across a few systems,” Middleton said, “and this latest battle—along with intel gained from recently-captured prisoners—supports the notion of a highly-coordinated effort to seize control over Sectors 23 and 24.”

Manning again nodded approvingly. “Commodore Raubach,” he said scathingly, “and his clan have, indeed, made attempts on every piece of mobile hardware Elysium has. What little communication we can manage with our neighboring systems suggests they’ve experienced a similar, albeit less intense, wave of takeovers resulting in fully a quarter of the military assets in the area being seized or disabled by these pirates.” Manning leaned forward and added in a low, dire tone, “But the truth is, I’m not concerned with Commodore Raubach—he’s little more than a vulture compared to the real threat facing my system.” The High Captain then leaned back and cast deliberate looks toward Sergeant Joneson and Ensign Jardine before silently fixing his steely gaze on Middleton.

Captain Middleton believed he knew the cause of Elysium’s troubles, so he turned to Ensign Jardine. “Would you have Mr. Fei Long come in, please?”

Jardine actually looked stunned for a moment before standing and nodding, “Yes, sir.” He then left the conference room, and the four remaining men sat in silence for several moments.

“I trust Sergeant Joneson implicitly,” Middleton said with a serious nod to the Lancer Sergeant, “but until now only two members of this ship’s crew have suspected what I believe you’re about to confirm: myself, and a…technician, named Fei Long.”

Captain Manning’s eyebrow arched and he pursed his lips tightly but said nothing as the door opened and Ensign Jardine entered the room, followed by Fei Long.

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton said, gesturing to a seat beside Jardine, “take a seat.”

“Yes, Captain,” he said, and Middleton saw a look of concern come over the High Captain’s face as his eyes fixated on the boy’s tattoo over his right eye.

“Mr. Fei Long was formerly a prisoner of planet Shèhuì Héxié,” he explained, “and though I had reservations of my own regarding his service aboard the Pride of Prometheus, he has proven to be an indispensable member of this crew. In truth,” he added with a nod of acknowledgment toward the young man, “we could never have rigged those ‘decoys’ without his help. Without them, we wouldn’t have survived long enough for your arrival to matter.”

High Captain Manning’s countenance softened and he nodded quickly. “If you vouch for him, I’ll accept that.”

“Good,” Middleton said, turning pointedly to Fei Long. “Mr. Fei, I want you to go to the viewscreen and type in the word you once wrote for me in the brig.”

Fei Long hesitated briefly before standing and clasping his hands in what Middleton had come to learn was a sign of deference, or obeisance, depending on the circumstances. “Of course, Captain.”

The young man moved to the console and typed in the six letters before expanding them to fill the screen, and Middleton saw Ensign Jardine’s face go white while Sergeant Joneson, as always, took it in stride—though he, too, lifted his eyebrows for several seconds before his expression returned to its usual, professional mask.

The word Fei Long had written for everyone to see:

Droids.

After all the men in the room had processed the word, Fei Long erased it and began a local memory purge of the system, but Captain Middleton held up a hand haltingly, “There’s no need for that, Mr. Fei. Thank you.”

“Of course, Captain,” Fei Long said as he returned to his seat.

Captain Manning gave his son a look, and the Marine Captain nodded approvingly before the old man shook his head in open wonderment, “Most impressive, Captain Middleton…and more than a little disconcerting.”

“How about you get us up to speed on the situation, Captain Manning?” Middleton urged.

“We should have those Destroyers’ jump drives up in three days,” Captain Archibald Manning IV said from the bottom of his shuttle’s ramp over an hour after arriving on the Pride of Prometheus. “Until then, the Elysium’s Defiance will provide cover for your ship as you prepare to accompany us to our home world. I doubt Raubach is willing to risk going up against my ship at this stage in the game, but the chance to recover two more destroyers is more important that having my three ships orbiting Elysium.”

“Three days it is, Captain,” Middleton agreed.

High Captain Manning took another look around the shuttle hangar and chuckled to himself. “Never thought I’d set foot on a Hammerhead again,” he said in open wonderment as he thrust his hand out. “You’re doing good work here, Captain Middleton.”

Middleton accepted the other man’s hand, which was vice-like and actually made him wonder if the old man had bionics of some kind installed. “Thank you for the briefing, Captain.”

Manning nodded and gestured for his son to board the shuttle, and after a few minutes the vessel’s engines lit and it was ready for takeoff. After it exited the hangar, Middleton turned to his three crewmembers. “We’re calling a senior staff meeting now; gather everyone as quickly as you can. This mission just took an unexpected turn.”

Ensign Jardine and Sergeant Joneson nodded before setting about their tasks, leaving Fei Long standing alone with a nervous expression on his face.

“What is it, Mr. Fei?” Middleton asked, unaccustomed to seeing anything but calm on the boy’s face.

“Captain,” Fei Long began hesitantly, “I do not wish to complicate matters…”

Middleton waited for several seconds before prompting, “Go on.”

Fei Long looked to either side, and when he appeared satisfied he took a step closer and said in a lowered voice, “I believe I can suggest a course of action which will prove…beneficial, not only for our current mission but for all missions which our organization conducts in the future. But I will require the use of a long-range vessel so I may return to my home world, in order to retrieve the necessary assets.”

His eyebrows rose as Middleton said, “You have my attention, Mr. Fei.”

Fei Long gestured to the corridor. “I believe it would be best to conduct this conversation in private, Captain,” he said with feeling.

Middleton nodded and they made their way to his ready room adjoining the bridge. Neither man spoke during the several minute trek until they had reached the ready room.

“So, tell me about this plan of yours,” the Captain urged as he sat down in his chair, and Fei Long did likewise opposite him.

Fei Long looked around warily before apparently resigning himself as he said, “I was indeed unjustly imprisoned, Captain, as I did not commit the crime for which I was punished…but that does not mean I did not plan to commit a crime which, if successful, would have been marked as a truly historic…even balance-of-power shifting point in this region’s history.” He sighed wistfully, “It was to be my masterpiece, but I have long feared my opportunity had disappeared…yet now, for the first time in two years, I believe it may be possible to complete!”

Captain Middleton’s eyebrows lowered thunderously. “Are you suggesting that I enable you to commit some sort of heinous, ‘historic’ crime as a member of my crew?” he demanded, feeling his choler rise at the young man’s impertinence.

Fei Long held up his hands and shook his head, “Captain, you misunderstand. I assure you that the nature of my plan will prove vital, even if it is of a questionable legality—“

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton interrupted, feeling the nerves of the past day threatening to overwhelm his self-control, “you had better have a blasted good reason for suggesting something so brazen.”

“I have spent my entire life” Fei Long explained as his eyes drifted toward the floor, “in pursuit of this, my signature act, Captain Middleton—an act that would echo throughout history long after I am gone and my name is forgotten. I cannot apologize for this private quest because it has become as much a part of who I am as my arms, my legs, or my very skin. It would be, quite literally, my finest moment—and I would consider myself eternally in your debt should you assist me in facilitating it.”

Middleton stood from his chair and leaned forward, with his knuckles pressed to the desk until they turned white. “I’ve shown a great deal of leniency with you, Mr. Fei, in light of your myriad security infractions—and I’m only speaking to those perpetrated here on my ship!” he added hotly. “Your people locked you up and foisted you off on me for a good reason—a reason you still have yet to share with me, I might add. In light of that,” he glowered as he leaned even further over the wispy young man, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t lock you in the brig for your openly nonconformist, blatantly unrepentant attitude and the threat you therefore pose to my ship?”

The boy’s eyes ceased drifting across the floor when Middleton finished, and his jaw took a hard set as he fixed the Captain with an unblinking, piercing look that likely would have made a younger Tim Middleton flinch. Fei Long then leaned forward fractionally and said in an impossibly matter-of-fact tone, “I can give you the ComStat network.”

Middleton actually had to replay in his mind what the young man had said several times before slowly lowering himself into his chair and meeting the boy’s stare unflinchingly. “Mr. Fei,” he said through gritted teeth, “you have my complete and undivided attention.”

Chapter XXXI: A New Plan

“How’s the head, Chief?” Middleton asked after Garibaldi, the last of the senior officers to arrive to the meeting, gingerly sat down in his chair.

The Chief made as if to touch the long, ragged line of reddened, Surgical Heal paste-assisted wound before wincing when his also-wounded arm rose to the level of his shoulder. Forcibly putting his hand down, he shook his head, “It’s fine, Captain.”

Middleton nodded, knowing that Garibaldi’s department had taken the worst losses during the attack. Making repairs to a combat-loaded power grid during live fire was one of the most dangerous assignments on a warship of any kind. But his old friend had surprised him with his initiative and results, and he reminded himself to reward the Engineering department in general, and Garibaldi in specific, as soon as their new mission was completed.

“We’ve been out here for several weeks now,” Middleton began as he swept the assembled officers with his gaze, “and you’ve all performed admirably. I’m proud that we’ve been able to do the things we’ve done; there are over a quarter million settlers safely awaiting evacuation due to your efforts, and though we’ve paid a price, I think we can all agree it was a price well worth paying.”

The looks of determination on the faces of his officers were something he actually had to stop and admire for a few moments, allowing his eyes to linger on Jo for a moment before turning and activating the screen behind himself.

“Until now, we’ve been running around in the dark,” Middleton began as he called up an overlay of the local systems, including Elysium. “We’ve managed to throw a wrench here and there into these pirates’ machinations, but it seems that there’s an even larger threat in these sectors than the pirates we’ve been dealing with. I must remind you all that the topic of this meeting is to be kept strictly confidential for the time being.”

“A bigger threat than these pirates, Captain?” Sarkozi asked in obvious surprise as everyone’s eyebrows rose in unison across the room—everyone’s except for Fei Long, Ensign Jardine, and Sergeant Joneson, that is.

“Yes, Ensign,” Middleton said matter-of-factly, “you heard me correctly: these pirates, however clever and well-outfitted, pale in comparison to the real threat facing Sectors 23 and 24.”

He activated an overlay for the local systems, which were clustered mostly on the Sector 23 side of the 23-24 border. The colors of the various system names shifted, with some turning green, some grey, and some red.

“Elysium is the nearest local Core World,” Middleton continued, “and with a population of one and a half billion, it’s one of the lesser-populated Core Worlds in the sector. But its strategic and economic value as a primary source of Trillium makes it worth easily twice as much as any other Core World in either sector to any force eyeing the region.”

Garibaldi leaned forward and raised his good hand awkwardly before asking, “If you’re saying the pirates aren’t the problem, and since we already know that the Empire’s bugged outta the Spine, who’s got the gonads—let alone the resources—to take on a Core World like Elysium? Her standing SDF makes every other defense force look like a Founding Parade contingent by comparison, and her wealth lets them deploy only top-of-the-line ships—unlike certain multi-national organizations to which we all may currently be party, but will for the time being remain nameless,” he added with his usual, sarcastic flair, causing a few soft snickers which were quickly quelled.

Middleton knew they would need the moment of brevity, given what he was about to show them, so he nodded and smiled tightly. “The systems in green,” he continued, “are confirmed to still be under the direct control of their lawful governments, while the systems in grey are as-yet unconfirmed.”

He allowed the deafening silence to fill the room until Garibaldi finally rolled his eyes. “All right, I’ll bite,” he said, waving his hand at the viewer, “what about the red ones?”

“The red systems,” Middleton replied evenly, zooming out the display to show a fairly damning picture of the local scene, “are now confirmed to be under the control of an as-yet undocumented droid force.”

A series of audible gasps escaped the lips of his senior officers, and Middleton knew he couldn’t blame them for their reaction. Oddly, Jo seemed unfazed by the revelation as she leaned forward and gestured to the viewer, “Do we know what they want?”

Middleton held back the first thing that came to his mind, since saying it would have been not only rude, but would have put unnecessary strain on their apparently-mending relationship. The relationship between a ship’s Captain and its Doctor, that is, he reminded himself silently as he turned to the viewer and gestured to the layout with a graphic pointer. “It would seem apparent, Doctor, that judging by the rapid, overwhelming nature of their attacks and the order in which these systems have been hit, this droid faction is intent on a complete takeover of Sector 23 and likely have similar designs on Sector 24.”

Jo looked like she wanted to say something else, but she bit her tongue and leaned back in her chair, causing Ensign Sarkozi to ask, “What kind of intel do we have on them? What kind of ships do they use, how many have been documented?”

Middleton held up a hand haltingly. “There are…mixed reports regarding their military assets, so for now we have to assume that they’re using a comprehensive assortment of ship types ranging from corvette-equivalent, to heavy cruiser.” He then switched the display over to the image of a perfect dodecahedron in front of a planet before turning to his officers pointedly, “I believe we’re already familiar with at least one of their ship types.”

As the officers digested that image, he populated the sidebar with radiation profiles. The first they had detected at the gas giant and the second was created just before they had been hammered by the one hundred meter, twelve-sided vessel escorting the cargo ships away from the hidden military supply cache. He then overlapped the second one with a reading taken by one of Elysium’s vessels a few systems deeper into Sector 23, and they were shown to be a near perfect match.

“I believe we’ve found our bogey,” he said grimly as realization swept across the room like flame in a hyperbaric chamber.

“But what about the other reading?” Jo asked, again surprising Middleton with her interest.

“The first radiation reading,” he said, flipping through a few images until coming to one of a rounded hull with several blister-shaped bulbs scattered across its surface, “is not identical, but similar enough to this ship’s that it was likely generated by a vessel of the same basic design.”

“Yeah, but Captain,” Garibaldi said while shaking his head, “I’ve been around high-energy reactions since the day I was born—I mean, my mom popped me out on top of a workbench sandwiched between a plasma injector and a hydrogen intake manifold, for Murphy’s sake. I’ve never seen these types of readings before; heck, I’ve never even heard about anything that can generate that much radiation so quickly.”

Middleton nodded knowingly, and he was glad that his people appeared to be processing this rather startling information so readily. “It’s a rare signature, Chief,” he allowed, “but I think Ensign Jardine might have the answer for you.”

Jardine nodded as he leaned forward with his hands gesticulating as he spoke, “I know this sounds far-fetched, but the Captain and I believe we’re dealing with antimatter-driven systems here. It fits too perfectly; not only does it generate the radiation profiles we’ve been seeing, but if the droids’ processors are properly shielded, that radiation would be as harmless to them as rain is to us.”

“I’m a Belter,” Garibaldi quipped darkly, “only rain we get is meteorite rain, and I can assure you there’s nothing harmless about a meteorite shower when it punches fifty three holes in your hab-module and you’ve gotta race to get your head bag on your kid sister before she suffocates.” Garibaldi shot Middleton a brief look as the two shared a painful memory from years before.

“The point is clear,” Middleton interjected, wanting to get through this meeting as smoothly as possible. “With the available data, I think we can safely assume that the weapon systems on these droid ships are powered by controlled matter-antimatter annihilation on a scale never before seen—or at least, never before recorded and subsequently disseminated to the general public,” he added.

“Can we review these records after the meeting is concluded?” Sarkozi asked, her eyes lighting up at the chance to pore over the tactical variables just like Middleton’s used to ten years earlier.

“I’m expecting each of you to do so,” Middleton replied curtly. “We’ve got three days before we accompany the Elysium’s Defiance back to their home world so we can get some repairs done. This ship’s been through a beating, and I’m fairly certain the hits will just keep on coming. As of now, I have decided,” he said emphatically as he swept the room with an iron gaze, “that our secondary mission is to take these findings back to Admiral Montagne. News of these attacks has been functionally sequestered within the borders of Sectors 23 and 24, due to the increase in pirate activity on all trade routes as well as the inability of the affected worlds to access the ComStat network—which I have reason to believe is still up and running, despite widely-disseminated reports to the contrary.” He turned pointedly to Fei Long, who had been silent to this point, and gestured for him to stand. “Which leads us to what has just become our primary mission.”

Fei Long stood from his chair and made his way to the end of the table, where he bowed respectfully. He then pinned his eyes to the top of the conference table and said, “Over the years prior to my incarceration, I developed a program which will allow me to gain discrete, direct access to the ComStat network. Although they could not prove I had done so, this is, I believe, the true reason why I was imprisoned on the world of my birth.”

Eyebrows shot up around the room, and this time even Joneson and Jardine joined in, while Garibaldi whistled appreciatively. “I heard you were sharp,” the Chief Engineer said with a chuckle, “but the ComStat network? That thing’s the most advanced piece of engineering ever devised by Man. It’s protected by encryption and defense protocols that will fry most computers just for trying to interface with it—and that’s before the guys in the black suits with the invisible com-links in their ears spike your drink and you become a victim of some ‘exotic virus’ which causes your heart to seize up like a hover-car engine ten minutes outta warranty. People have tried to crack it for decades and nobody—and I do mean nobody—has even come close.”

Fei Long bowed his head graciously before turning and making his way to the view screen built into the wall behind Captain Middleton. With a series of rapid inputs, he pulled up a screen with a series of colors and geometric patterns depicted, which morphed gradually and hypnotically from one form to another.

“What are we supposed to be lookin’ at?” Garibaldi asked.

“This is the local ComStat signal,” Fei Long said simply, “filtered through a program I have re-written from memory during my free time and rendered in a visual manner which likely conveys why it is so difficult to crack.”

Garibaldi shot Jardine a look. “Did you know about this?”

Jardine shook his head in wonderment as he got to his feet, “Nope.” He made his way over to the display and examined its contents while the rest of the room watched, and after several seconds he nodded. “I mean…these look like the right burst intervals, and the encryption stream checks out,” he turned to Fei Long, “why can’t we pick this up on the primary Comm. system?”

Fei Long made to answer, but Middleton held a hand up haltingly. “I hate to be blunt, but you two should probably discuss the technical terminology after the meeting’s over.” Fei Long nodded and deactivated the viewer before the two men returned to their respective seats and the Captain leaned forward deliberately, placing his forearms on the table’s edge, “It is my opinion, as Captain of this vessel, that even if the chances of Fei Long succeeding are one in ten—and he assures me it is a virtual guarantee—then this is a shot we have to take. Regaining access to the ComStat network would, in a very real sense, serve as a force multiplier that could augment the ability of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet to respond to threats as they appear long before a given situation becomes untenable. In short, it could shift the balance of power back toward our side and allow us to coordinate our defensive efforts like this organization was built to do.”

There was a brief chorus of murmurs as heads bobbed up and down around the table, and Middleton knew that they agreed with his assessment.

“Ok,” Garibaldi said, “so how do we do it?”

Fei Long made eye contact with Captain Middleton, who nodded his approval and the young man again stood and went to the end of the table. “Before the Imperial withdrawal, my program could have been uploaded in many individual segments across multiple different access relays—these relays are called ‘repeaters’,” he added hastily before continuing, “but since the withdrawal, it seems that the majority of these repeaters have been reprogrammed to only accept inputs from those with root-level access codes.”

“So…how do we upload the program?” Ensign Sarkozi asked in open puzzlement.

Jardine spun in his chair and faced Fei Long with wide eyes. “You have to upload it manually…?”

Fei Long bowed his head in affirmation, causing Sarkozi to ask irritably, “So…what does that mean, exactly?”

Fei Long went to the view screen again and opened an image which looked very much like a spider web spread across the Spineward Sectors, with several nexuses highlighted in gold while the rest of the intersections were silver. “This is not how the ComStat network is aligned, in actuality,” he said apologetically, “but I believe the visual representation will facilitate your collective understanding. Think of the network as being comprised of two main components: repeaters and hubs. Repeaters,” he pointed at the silver-colored points, “merely collect signals and forward them to the next, most desirable, repeater and/or hub along the route of the communication. Depending on the nature of the message being sent, and the protocols utilized to send it—whether it be a high security, confidential message like military plans, or a low security personal message—some of these messages are trapped by the hubs,” he gestured to a trio of nearby gold nexuses on the star chart, “and stored for later retrieval or for redundancy, while others are simply relayed along the route so as to minimize system resource consumption.”

“This geek-speak really drives me nuts,” Garibaldi grumbled and Middleton had to agree with him, even though Fei Long had clearly put a lot of time into this particular presentation.

“The repeaters are small,” Fei Long continued, pointedly ignoring the Chief’s complaint, “ranging in size from two meters in diameter to the size of a shuttle, depending on the local demand placed on the device. In fact,” he added as he turned to face Sergeant Joneson, “our Lancers retrieved the fragments of one such repeater from the gas mining facility following the bioweapon attack. The pirates were likely attempting to transport the repeater from one location to another and failed to observe proper safety protocols, resulting in the unit’s self-destruction.”

“Wait,” Jardine interrupted, “what do you mean, ‘self-destruction’?”

“Each of these devices, whether it is a repeater or hub, is safeguarded against tampering,” Fei Long explained. “It seems a logical conclusion to assume that, in the event the onboard computer determines the unit is being compromised, it would initiate a self-destruct to prevent capture and examination of the device’s internal components.”

Middleton leaned forward and cut in, “Fei Long has been examining these fragments and believes he understands enough of the inner workings to allow himself and a small team to board a hub, upload his program, and egress without anyone knowing.”

“Wait, ‘he believes’?” Garibaldi scoffed.

Middleton nodded gravely. “I understand your concerns, Chief,” he said before standing from his chair, causing the rest of his officers to do likewise, “but this is our course of action. Gaining access to the ComStat network would be more than we could have ever dreamed to accomplish during this mission, and I’m not about to let this chance pass us by.”

The Chief quirked a grin and shrugged. “It’s a good plan, Captain; you know I can’t help myself. You give me two weeks at a decent yard, and I’ll have the Pride set to rights.”

Middleton quirked a grin of his own. “You’ll have one week, if we’re lucky, before Elysium’s elected officials wise up and politely ask us to vacate the premises—we’ll be doubly lucky if they don’t demand we return the new systems Captain Manning has graciously offered to supply so we can replace our damaged ones. It sounds like this particular government is a real piece of work,” he said before nodding his head. “Dismissed.”

The officers filed out of the room, leaving only Fei Long standing beside the view screen with his eyes turned to the deck.

“What is it, Mr. Fei?” Middleton asked patiently, briefly recalling his outburst toward the young man earlier in his ready room and wishing he had displayed more self-control.

“Captain,” Fei Long hesitated, “I have a request to make.”

“Another one?” Middleton actually had to fight the urge to grit his teeth as he inhaled deeply before exhaling in a slow, measured fashion. “What is it?”

“Smith Haldis—I am sorry,” he gushed, “Machinist Haldis has informed me that there is a small quantity of a material called ‘Storm Drake hide’ in the cargo bay?”

Middleton furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the inventory, and when he did so he vaguely remembered something about Storm Drake hide in the contraband portion of the items they had seized from the gas-mining-facility-turned-bioweapon-plant. “I think so, why?”

“I have reason to believe that the deployment of such a material would increase our chances of success but as much as twelve percent when we attempt to upload the program to the nearest ComStat hub,” the young man replied confidently.

Captain Middleton had no idea what Fei Long meant, or how Storm Drake leather could help upload a program, but he gestured to a nearby chair and the two sat down beside each other, “Tell me more.”

Chapter XXXII: A Lesson in Game Theory

“All right, Lancers, listen up,” Walter Joneson barked as soon as the entire Pride of Prometheus’ Lancer contingent had stepped off the shuttle and set foot on a gently rolling plain of bright, green grass. It was a sixty by one hundred twenty meter patch of which had been cut to form a short, thick carpet of turf that looked so inviting that Lu Bu had to fight the urge to throw off her cleats and go running barefoot. She had never seen so much grass in her entire life!

But she fought against her primal urge and gave her Sergeant the attention he deserved, noting several of the newer Lancers nervously adjusting their smashball pads, reminding her of her very first professional game where she had done likewise throughout the entire game.

“The unit’s been through a lot lately,” Joneson continued as he tossed the ball into the air methodically while he paced up and down in front of his Lancers, “so I thought we could mix business with pleasure today and run through a few plays instead of our usual calisthenics routine.”

The four Tracto-ans stood over to the side of the group with looks of patent disinterest, which made Lu Bu’s previous visions of frolicking through the meadow vanish as she soon desired nothing more than to get them focused on the task at hand.

“For those of you who don’t know,” Joneson added, casting a wayward glance toward the Tracto-ans, “first we’ll talk history. This game was adapted from an ancient form of fully-armored gladiatorial combat known as ‘football,’ which is not to be confused with the inexplicably popular game of the same name played on Ancient Earth around the time of real football’s inception. The false version did involve a lot of actual kicking of a soft, round ball, but it was played by mama’s boys in bright-colored, meticulously-pressed shirts who apparently spent as much time rolling around feigning injury as playing the actual game.”

There was a chorus of snickers which Lu Bu even participated, having never heard this particular bit about smashball’s history before.

“The other version—the real version—featured so little actual kicking that it’s something of a mystery to modern historians why it was even called ‘football’ in the first place,” Walter Joneson continued after the laughter had died down. “But that’s the one that persisted throughout the centuries, eventually giving birth to the greatest game ever devised by man: smashball. The rules for smashball are simple,” he said, gesturing to Corporal Gnuko, “first we have to divide our twenty two remaining Lancers into two teams of eleven, which just so happens to be the actual size of a smashball side. Gnuko, you pick first; we’ll go serpentine.”

Gnuko nodded and gestured to the farthest Tracto-an—a hulking brute of a man named Atticus with the longest, most powerful arms Lu Bu had ever seen—“Team Gnuko takes Atticus first.”

Lu Bu was actually offended that she had been passed over with the first pick. It was utterly inconceivable to her that anyone—not even Walter Joneson himself, given his relatively advanced age—would be more highly valued than she would for a smashball team.

Joneson nodded and pointed the ball at Lu Bu, “Team Joneson takes Lu and Sherman.”

Lu Bu stepped over to stand behind Walter Joneson and glared at Corporal Gnuko for daring to suggest she was in any way, shape, or form less desirable of a player than Atticus.

“Gnuko takes Brasidas and Peleus,” the Corporal said without hesitation.

“Joneson takes Thomas and Gagne,” the Sergeant added.

“Gnuko takes Laertes and Hart,” Gnuko said, and Lu Bu realized this wasn’t just a game…there was some sort of lesson being taught here, and the Tracto-ans were clearly the target audience.

The rest of the selections went off, and the two teams were assembled and squared off against each other as Walter Joneson moved to the middle of the group and turned the oblong ball, which tapered to a point on each end, over in his hands.

“Now since the days of this sport’s infancy,” Walter Joneson explained as he stood between the two groups, “there have been minor adjustments to the rules—”

“Sergeant,” Atticus interrupted in his deep, rumbling voice with obvious impatience, “you brought us here to play your game; we should begin.”

Joneson slowly turned his head to face the man, and while holding the Tracto-an’s gaze, asked over his shoulder, “Lu, what’s the average length of a starting-caliber smashball player’s career?”

“Four point three two seasons, Sergeant,” she replied snappily.

“Four and a third years,” Joneson said before pressing various points on the practice ball, which Lu recognized as ‘setting’ the ball to recognize the two teams by their members’ biometrics. “That is a number which, despite massive improvements in medicine and kinesthesiology, has remained relatively constant throughout this sport’s history. The only significant thing that’s changed in all the centuries between Ancient Earth football and modern smashball,” he flipped the ball to Atticus, who caught it deftly, “is what you’re holding in your hands. All you’ve got to do is get that ball to the far end of the field to score.” He snickered before adding, “Shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

With that, he turned and led his team back to a well-demarcated set of hash-marks which marked their team’s apparent starting point, and Lu Bu felt a familiar rush of endorphins as her body primed itself for her favorite game.

“Huddle up,” he commanded as soon as they were out of immediate earshot of Team Gnuko. When the Lancers had entered the huddle, Joneson said, “You all know your positions, except you, Lu. We’re on defense,” he said, causing her to wrinkle her nose in derision. She despised defense, since it was so much less challenging than offense from a tactical standpoint. “So for this play, Lu, you’re the Leo; Gnuko will probably start out as their prime back before shifting to the line after showing those Tracto-ans the basics of the playbook. That uppity blighter thinks he can fill my shoes,” he said with a harsh chuckle. “Let’s see if he’s ready; we run a cover three shell with press-man coverage on the receivers and crash pressure at the line. You bring the prime back down, Lu—along with anyone that gets in your way,” Joneson said severely.

“Understood, Sergeant,” she said, and she actually thought she did. This was an object lesson of some kind but she didn’t quite know what lesson was to be imparted, so she focused on doing her task to the best of her ability.

Gnuko led his men to the line, and Joneson did likewise, with Lu Bu lining up behind her front four on the right side. Her job as the Leo was simple: get to the prime back and bring him down before he could execute a play. Of course, there were at least five men standing in her way—four of them Tracto-ans, who had all taken positions on the offensive line. Atticus was the left tackle, which seeing as Gnuko was right-handed, meant Atticus was the most likely to interdict her efforts to disrupt Corporal Gnuko.

“Set,” Gnuko called, fixing his eyes on Lu Bu as she assumed a three point stance just outside the left tackle’s immediate zone. She had always gotten a better first step out of a three point stance, owing to her incredibly powerful lower half. “Hike!” Gnuko barked, and the center offensive lineman snapped the ball to him. Before it hit the prime back’s hands, Lu Bu had come off the line and ran straight at Atticus while blatantly lowering her shoulder at him.

The larger man easily shucked the defensive lineman to the ground with one hand before squaring off on Lu Bu, and his quick work of the other man after just two steps was a testament to his raw, physical abilities.

At the last step Lu Bu juked to the right, which was the obvious path to the prime back, who was still waiting for a play to develop downfield. Atticus bit on her juke, and she exploded on a cutback which she knew no ordinary human could execute without destroying their right knee. Atticus, to his credit, kept his balance and threw his long, impossibly thick arm out to corral her. But she used a simple swim move to clear his arm from her path. He was brutally strong, but she had leverage and momentum, so his body went to the ground—hard—as her momentum drug him well off-balance.

A second later, she crashed into the Corporal and sent him to the ground while deftly making an attempt to punch the ball loose. But Gnuko was savvy, and he held onto the ball as he hit the grass, prompting Joneson to bark over the din of grunts and shouts, “Play’s dead!”

Lu Bu stood and offered Gnuko her hand, which he accepted and the two teams quickly re-formed into their huddles. “Good work, line,” Joneson said as the huddle formed before nodding at Lu Bu, “nice juke-and-swim, Lu. That was a wicked cutback.”

“Sergeant,” she acknowledged as the other men finally returned the huddle.

“Alright, this will be a run, but we’re still in cover three,” Joneson said as though it was obvious, which to Lu Bu it was. “Lu, you’re the deathbacker,” he said. “We wall the line off on this one; forget about getting to Gnuko,” he said as he took a quick glance before adding, “looks like he’s got Atticus as his smash back. If he gets into the secondary, the deathbacker lays him out—fast,” he added with a pointed look.

Lu Bu started to begin the lesson they were teaching, and nodded with a savage grin, “Yes, Sergeant.”

The teams re-formed at the line, and sure enough Atticus was lined up behind Gnuko as the smash back while the entire offensive unit had formed into a power-running formation. Lu Bu lined up behind the front seven, just a couple steps ahead of Corporal Thomas, the lastbacker.

“Set…hike!” Gnuko called, and the lines crashed into each other with Joneson’s team doing their best to create a contiguous wall of bodies to plug the holes. Lu Bu didn’t even need to cheat a step on the play, waiting for Atticus to actually accept the ball before she began crashing toward the scrum to provide support.

Atticus got a hole on the right side which was just large enough for his massive girth, and he took the ball through that hole before being met by Walter Joneson. The Sergeant managed to get a hand on the larger man before being stiff-armed viciously into the ground by the larger, burlier man.

Having brought Joneson down, Atticus lowered his shoulder and charged into Sherman. Being nearly twice the size of the smaller man, he easily went through him but her teammates had created the ideal angle for her to attack the ball carrier—and attack she did.

She sprinted toward the gap and turned her body into a missile, with her right shoulder directed at Atticus’s midsection as her left arm punched out as hard as she could, aiming for the ball.

When her shoulder hit him, it was like she had struck a brick wall and she actually felt something give in her upper chest. But her left hand got through just before he was able to react to her last-second strip attempt, and the ball went flying from his massive, vice-like hands.

Normally Lu Bu would have been able to recover the ball after a forced fumble, but the Tracto-an’s massive body had absorbed every bit of her body’s kinetic energy and she was unable to beat the other players to the quickly-formed dog-pile.

“Play’s dead,” Joneson called, and the men in the pile slowly began to withdraw until it became clear that Team Gnuko had recovered the ball.

“Huddle up,” she heard Gnuko snap as Team Joneson did so without being prompted. Atticus cast a dark look in Lu Bu’s direction before finally rejoining his teammates.

“All right,” Joneson said, his nose dripping blood as he shook his head at a proffered chem-stick which would have cauterized the wound. Lu Bu also despised those devices for the fiery, stinging sensation they caused to erupt inside her skull, but she had found herself requiring their use on more than one occasion during her own playing career. “It’s the Pits getting old,” Joneson said with resignation after wadding up some gauze and plugging his nostril with it, eliciting a chorus of chuckles from her teammates. “This one’s a pass play and if I’ve got my read on the Corporal, he’s going to line Atticus up in the slot as a crossing receiver. Thomas, you’re a wingbacker on this one and I want you to press Atticus—but don’t bring him down, just slow the play and harry him. I don’t care how far that brute gets downfield—I just want this play to last five seconds, clear?”

“You got it, Sarge,” Thomas replied with a grin.

“That makes you the lastbacker, Lu,” Joneson said. “Everyone else, blitz at the line to clear that oaf’s path; we know where the ball’s going, and Lu’s fast enough to contain the play if Gnuko doesn’t sling it to Atticus. When the play-clock’s at five seconds, Lu will teach that pasty caveman why this game’s called ‘smashball’.”

The other Lancers snickered, and Lu Bu felt herself swell with pride at being given such a measure of trust. The lastbacker was, arguably, the most important position on the defensive side of the ball. It required not only top-notch physical tools like speed, balance, and power, but also a sound tactical mind to not only contain every play as it developed, but to create additional pressure when pressure was needed.

Naturally, since it was so challenging, it was Lu Bu’s favored position on defense.

The teams lined up and Gnuko made a silent count snap, sending both sides in motion. Just as Walter Joneson had predicted, it was a pass play with Atticus running a crossing route. Thomas, though almost comically overmatched by the seven foot tall Tracto-an, kept on the larger man’s hip throughout the play. Even after Atticus received the ball two seconds into the play and attempted to stiff-arm the smaller Thomas into the ground, the Corporal kept upright and maintained pressure by somehow effectively body-checking the larger man even while off-balance.

Three seconds into the play, Lu Bu began to drive toward the ball-carrier. Atticus viciously backhanded Thomas in the chest and his raw power was too much for the smaller man, who went flying almost two meters before landing on his feet and backpedaling to a stop.

Four seconds into the play, Lu Bu saw Atticus adjust his grip on the ball to compensate for its increased weight and she felt a sneer spread across her face. She remembered her first time receiving a proper ‘smash’ after the ball had become unbearably heavy, and she had every intention of making his memory of the experience just as vivid as hers.

Just as the play reached five seconds, Atticus grabbed the ball with both hands and clutched it to his belly while lowering his shoulder into the onrushing Lu Bu. But she ignored his incoming torso and unleashed a vicious, right-handed uppercut at the ball with everything she had.

The impacts of his shoulder to her chin, and her hand to the ball, were simultaneous and her vision blacked out as she felt her body topple backward onto the grass. But her ears were filled with the low-pitch thrum of the ball’s grav-amplifier activating and she knew she had done her job. She heard a groan, followed by a thump as a massive body hit the grass.

Staggering to her feet as quickly as she was able—and before her vision had even returned—she shook the cobwebs from her mind in order to try and gain sight the massive Tracto-an.

When she saw him, she felt a thrill of savage satisfaction at seeing him rolling on the ground and clutching his stomach—fully four meters from their point of impact.

“Fourth down, coming up,” Joneson barked as he gestured for his team to huddle. It took two of Gnuko’s teammates to help the massive Atticus back to his feet, and when he finally regained his breath he shot Lu Bu an enraged look before bellowing wordlessly at the clouds and rejoining his own teammates.

Lu Bu walked stiffly back to her team’s huddle, stretching her neck as she did so. That Atticus felt like he was carved out of stone and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure whose body would give out first—hers, or her opponents.

“Take a knee and a breath, Lu,” Joneson said, and her teammates murmured their agreement. “That was a beautiful smash; sit this play out if you need to.”

Lu Bu shook her head adamantly. “This one is fine,” she replied stiffly as her vision finally cleared.

Joneson nodded approvingly. “All right, this play’s anyone’s guess but I’d wager Atticus’s after some payback after getting his bell rung. Gnuko and I made a gentleman’s agreement to go for it on all fourths, so we’re going to run our base, cover three, press-man defense. Lu, I want you at centerbacker for this one on a read-and-react; the rest of the front will close the gaps without shooting through.”

The teams lined up against each other, and when Lu Bu made eye contact with Atticus, she returned his look of unadulterated hatred with a smirk as she fell back a few steps from the line.

“Hike!” Gnuko quick-counted, and the move gave his offensive linemen just enough of a jump that they drove forward and outward, using brute strength to create a gap large enough for an armored Lancer to charge through.

Atticus accepted the ball from Gnuko as he tore into the hole and cradled the ball while bearing down on Lu Bu with murder in his eyes as he cocked his free, right hand in preparation for a running, overhand right aimed at her helmeted skull.

But Lu Bu had expected as much, and she backpedaled a pair of steps so as to upset the timing of his incoming blow. When he unexpectedly juked to the left, rather than continue barreling toward her, she allowed her reflexes to take over and leapt forward to slam into his body with her own as she clamped her arms to either side of his chest. She received his charge by planting her feet in the grass and bracing herself like never before.

The Tracto-an’s bulk slammed into her and actually drove her backward across the grass a half meter, but she remained upright and somehow managed to keep her feet under herself until her cleats regained purchase in the sod moist. For a brief instant, the two of them stood in a virtual stalemate as he expended the last of his body’s forward momentum, at which point Lu Bu ducked and grabbed a double-leg takedown—which she then used to slam the massive man onto his back.

“Play’s dead!” Joneson barked as Atticus threw the ball away and reached down to grab Lu Bu by the neck. Caught up in the moment, Lu Bu spun to the side and threw a pair of sharp, devastating knees at the Tracto-an’s flank as he clamped his massive arms around her neck and began to squeeze.

The scuffle was broken up almost immediately by the teams’ respective captains, and for a brief moment both teams looked as though they were about to come to blows.

“Joneson has the ball,” Gnuko snapped in genuine frustration. “Huddle up, Gnuko!”

Atticus leveled a finger at Lu Bu and then made a short, slashing gesture across his own throat. She tilted her head defiantly and bared her teeth in a vicious snarl at the taller Lancer and held his gaze until he finally turned his back and returned to his team’s huddle.

When Lu Bu returned to her own huddle, she saw a knowing grin on her Sergeant’s face. “Nicely done, Lu; you’re under his skin now. Let’s take advantage and send this first play to the house. Three wide-outs, single-back formation; play’s a jet fly-sweep right to left with Lu on the rock.”

This was Lu Bu’s signature play, and she suspected that Walter Joneson had been waiting to see it in action ever since receiving her ‘resume’ in the form of a game highlight from her latest—and, perhaps, last—season of smashball.

“This one will score,” she said confidently, and without a single ounce of bravado. She had literally never failed to score any of the six times she had run this particular play, and saw no reason for that streak to be broken now.

They lined up near mid-field and Lu was the wide-out to the right. Sergeant Joneson sent her in motion with a tap of his right foot, and she moved from right to left—noting that Atticus, lined up as Gnuko’s deathbacker, went in motion with her from the middle of the secondary.

Joneson snapped the ball just before she entered the pocket, and Lu Bu received the ball into the crook of her arm as she bolted forward. The burst of speed felt so familiar, and so practiced, that she almost seemed to be floating a centimeter above the ground as her legs churned beneath her.

She cut through a hole created by Thomas on the left side and hurdled the rightbacker, Brasidas, as he attempted to intercept her near the line of scrimmage. At two seconds into the play, the ball began to gain weight as the gravity generator at its center slowly cycled up, but she was well-practiced at handling a smashball.

Peleus, playing centerbacker, sprinted toward her and made a play at her midsection by trying to dive at her. She saw from the corner of her eye that Atticus had yet to break toward her, which actually saw a smile flash on her lips as she gripped the ball in both hands and smashed Peleus’ forearm with it.

The impact was obviously more than Peleus had expected, and he staggered forward as his arm was forced to the ground by the immediate expulsion of the smashball’s accumulated gravitic energy—which, she knew from experience, had been roughly similar to a sledgehammer’s impact for this particular blow.

Easily sidestepping the falling Tracto-an, she saw Atticus snarl and break toward her. The benefit of shedding the smashball’s energy against Peleus was that it returned the ball to its original weight, thereby increasing her maneuverability and speed—the bad news was that it would require several seconds before it could be used as a proper weapon again. Until then, it was nothing but a liability which she was forced to protect en route to the score.

Atticus bore down on her as she drove straight at him, expecting the other man to lunge greedily and create an opening to one side or the other. But, surprisingly, he held up at the last instant and forced her to lower her shoulder in an attempt to knock him off-balance and slip by after contact.

Her shoulder met his chest, and his arms clamped down on her torso like an iron spring-trap. She fought the best she could, but was unable to extricate herself from his long, powerful arms before he dragged her to the ground. She was completely flabbergasted at his uncharacteristically selfless move, and narrowed her eyes as she stood and made her way back to the huddle.

After the team had reached the huddle she took another incredulous look over her shoulder at Atticus, whose demeanor was clearly no less furious than her own. “Looks like we’re in for a game, after all,” Joneson said with a tight smile.

The game concluded at a score of 32 Joneson, 21 Gnuko. The teams were evenly matched when Joneson had the ball, but when Gnuko had the ball Team Joneson managed to force three turnovers—two of which Lu Bu returned for the score. After doffing their armored ‘pads,’ the Lancer contingent shook hands at the base of the shuttle’s ramp.

“Good game,” Lu Bu congratulated the second-to-last Lancer from Team Gnuko. For the first time in months feeling the oddly reassuring aches and pains with which she had become so familiar during her brief smashball career.

Then Atticus stepped in front of her and literally blocked the sunlight from reaching her face, and she looked up at him with a hard expression and thrust her hand out.

“Good game,” she said evenly.

Atticus looked down at her hand pointedly and nodded. “Good game,” he said gruffly as he accepted her hand briefly before boarding the shuttle.

“All right, back to the barn,” Joneson barked, gesturing for his Lancers to board the shuttle. When everyone was seated, the pilot initiated takeoff procedures, and a few minutes later they were airborne and en route to the Pride of Prometheus.

The Lancers stretched and groaned between retelling each other their individual experiences of the game for several minutes, but the Tracto-ans remained silent.

“Ok,” Sergeant Joneson said, standing from his seat and sweeping the cabin with his eyes, “time for the after-action. First, a question for the Tracto-ans.”

At this, Atticus and the others looked up with neutral expressions.

“What is the object of the game?” Joneson asked, and Lu Bu had actually heard this particular question from a coach before, and suspected she knew the direction of the lesson.

“To drive the ball to the scoring zone,” Atticus replied shortly.

“Correct,” Joneson replied with a nod. “So what is the primary target to be attacked?”

“The scoring zone,” the Tracto-an replied through gritted teeth, as though he were answering questions which were beneath him.

“Wrong,” Joneson said sharply before calling over his shoulder, “Lu Bu, what is the target to be attacked?”

“The ball, Sergeant Joneson,” she replied with absolute certainty.

“Correct,” he said while keeping his gaze fixed on the largest of the Tracto-ans. “When a team holds the ball, their goal is already known by the other side. Therefore, the ‘offense’ is at an inherent intelligence disadvantage, since their objective is known by everyone observing the contest.”

A look a realization came over the Tracto-an’s faces, but they quickly cleared their expressions.

Joneson nodded in satisfaction before continuing, “One long-held military theory states that conflict variables can be placed into three groups: force strength, terrain, and intelligence. These can then further be broken down into two sub-groups each: total available assets, and the preparation of those assets; conditions which hinder a given force’s resources, or those which augment that force’s resources; and lastly, deception and knowledge.”

“The Six Pillars of warfare,” Atticus said almost absently.

“Correct,” Joneson nodded, “on your world that is what these factors are called. Assuming the variables at the outset of engagement are equal on both sides, how many of these variables must the typical force gain superiority in before victory can be expected?”

Silence filled the shuttle, and Lu Bu knew that most of the Sergeant’s men had already received this particular lecture. She, herself, had read a very similar dissertation which was widely-disseminated on her home world, having been penned back on Ancient Earth by one of the Ancestors.

When he received no reply, Joneson called over his shoulder, “Lu, you’re not much newer to the group than the Tracto-ans; how many variables must the typical force gain superiority in, in order to expect victory?”

“One, Sergeant Joneson,” she replied promptly.

“Which one?” he pressed.

“A significant advantage in either of the last two will assure victory in any circumstance,” Lu Bu said confidently. “A single arrow can defeat an army if it slays the general, and one false report can lead an otherwise superior force into a decisive ambush.”

“Well said,” Joneson replied with an approving nod. “This is why, despite having superior physical talent and dead even terrain, Team Gnuko lost today: the object of the game was unclear, so Team Joneson possessed an intelligence advantage,” he said, casting a look to the Corporal.

Gnuko was nursing a sprained ankle as he stood with a tight grip on a nearby cargo strap, but it quickly became apparent to Lu Bu that the Tracto-ans had not been the only students which Sergeant Joneson had been lecturing out on the field.

“The rest of this week will be spent on light duty,” Joneson added, “but I expect each member of this unit to review Captain Middleton’s after-action reports on the naval battles which took place this past week. He knows combat strategy and tactics better than anyone here, and we’re lucky to serve under a man like him.”

While Corporal Gnuko appeared to have learned the lesson and was nodding silently to himself, the Tracto-ans looked skeptical but they, too, remained silent.

“Probably goes without saying, but the game ball goes to Lu Bu,” Joneson said, flipping the ball to her before taking his own seat and strapping in. She took the ball and cradled it in her lap, noting approving looks on the faces of her fellow Lancers—including grudging nods from the four, still-silent, Tracto-ans.

Chapter XXXIII: An Unexpected Guest

“We can’t thank you enough, Captain Manning,” Middleton said after eight days at dock, taking advantage of a first-class repair facility and top-shelf components. “Please relay our appreciation to your father when next you see him.”

The younger Captain Manning’s visage on the bridge’s main viewer was covered in grease and sweat, but he was all smiles as he made a quick, two-finger salute. “It’s me that should be thanking you, Captain Middleton; without you my ship would have been taken and what was left of me would probably have burned up on re-entry by now after being spaced by those blighters. You ever find yourself in our neck of the woods again, look me up and we could have an Elysium SDF vs. MSP game of smashball; I hear you’ve got quite the roster over there.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Middleton replied graciously.

“My government has ensured me that you should be fully re-supplied before leaving,” Manning added. “It’s not quite like them to be so generous, but we should probably count ourselves lucky.”

“And we do, Captain Manning,” Middleton said heavily. “The Pride is as close to 100% as I’ve ever seen her, and we have your people to thank.”

“That being said,” Manning added hesitantly, “I’ve been told you’re to receive a guest before disembarking.”

Middleton furrowed his brow in confusion. “A ‘guest’?” he repeated.

The younger Manning nodded. “I just received the orders a few minutes ago; he should be arriving with his retinue any time now. It’s all very hush-hush, but the orders have my father’s signature—which I’ve personally verified—so I must officially request you at least meet with him prior to departure.”

“It seems a bit irregular,” Middleton mused before making up his mind, “but in light of your people’s support, I’m inclined to meet with him.”

“Excellent,” Manning said before adding, “good hunting, Captain.”

“Likewise, Captain,” Middleton replied before severing the connection.

“Reading a civilian shuttle on approach, Captain,” the Sensors operator reported. “They’re squawking Sector-Gov. idents.”

Middleton set his jaw but did his best to keep his features even. “Verify the idents and clear them for landing. Have Sergeant Joneson meet me in the hangar,” he said as he stood from his chair. “Commander Jersey, you have the con.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Lieutenant Commander acknowledged.

Not long after Middleton had arrived in the Pride’s hangar, Sergeant Joneson did likewise. A few minutes later the civilian shuttle—bearing external markings which appeared similar to those used on Shèhuì Héxié—touched down.

The ramp descended and a man stepped out onto it, with red skin and a long, black beard. He took a look around the hangar before his eyes settled on Middleton, and he descended the ramp as soon as he had done so.

“Captain Middleton, I presume?” the man asked graciously, speaking in an accent that was reminiscent of his new crewmembers’ from Shèhuì Héxié.

“I am Captain Middleton,” he acknowledged, “and you are…?”

The man clasped his hands briefly before himself, clearly more out of protocol than true deference like the members of his crew displayed. “My name is Kong Pao; is there a place we may speak privately? I imagine you wish to get underway, and now that I am aboard you may do so.”

“Kong Pao?” Middleton repeated, remembering the name of his contact at Shèhuì Héxié had been named Kong Rong. And when he looked hard enough, he could see a physical resemblance between the two men, who were clearly separated by several decades in age. “Your shuttle’s idents checked out well enough that I agreed to receive you, but I’m going to need a little more than a name before we go anywhere.”

“Forgive me, Captain,” the man said as his eyes flashed with something akin to anger, “I am Kong Pao, the Primus Judge of Sector 23, and I believe we can help each other—or, at least, I believe I can help your organization. We should speak further after you get underway,” he suggested, his eyes flicking to Joneson and then back to Middleton.

Middleton did a double-take before swallowing the knot in his throat. “Excuse me…you’re a Sector Judge?”

“Indeed,” the other man replied, “and as I said, I believe we may be able to provide some, hopefully significant, mutual assistance to one another.”

Captain Middleton knew he had just met with one of the most powerful officials in the entire Spineward Sectors. Even planetary monarchs or elected presidents wielded less raw power than a Sector Judge. “Your honor,” he began awkwardly, uncertain how he should address the man.

“I am not here in an official capacity related to my posting as a Sector Judge,” Kong Pao waved a hand dismissively. “You may simply use the honorific ‘Representative,’ since that is the role which I have accepted on behalf of the people in this region of the Spineward Sectors.”

“Fine, Representative,” Middleton said hesitantly, “this ship’s about to embark on what is almost certainly the most dangerous mission it’s engaged in to date…and if you knew our recent history, that would probably be enough to make you run screaming back to your shuttle.”

Kong Pao clucked his tongue and sighed. “Captain Tim Middleton,” he began officiously, “a former Lieutenant in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet who was granted command of one of said fleet’s constituent vessels after Vice Admiral Jason Montagne had re-taken it from a band of…pirates,” he said with a knowing look. “The field rank of Captain was bestowed upon him by said Admiral Montagne, whereupon he embarked on a patrol of Sector 24, since that Sector is a contributor to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s interests. Lost roughly half of his crew during a bioweapon attack at gas mining facility in low orbit of Pegasus VI, during which he…” He paused briefly before continuing heavily, “During which he destroyed a pirate vessel in clear observation, and accordance with, several admittedly outdated laws which this court finds to have resumed primacy during these difficult times—pending official review of all pertinent details, of course—thereby ensuring the Pride of Prometheus may continue its patrol as directed by Admiral Montagne.”

Middleton knew exactly what the man meant, and he had to work extra hard to keep his teeth from grinding at the thinly-veiled threat.

“Now,” Kong Pao said, taking a calm step toward him, “shall I continue with my recitation of your recent…activities, or would you like to have Sergeant Joneson here escort me to my quarters where I will patiently await the opportunity for a private audience with this ship’s Captain?”

“I thought you said you weren’t here in the capacity of a Sector Judge,” Middleton said coldly.

“I am truly desperate, Captain Middleton, as are the people in my Sectors,” the Representative said with a nod that was anything but gracious. “Please forgive me for pleading our case in the most effective method available to me. I am certain you would do the same, were our roles reversed.”

“What I’m certain of,” Middleton said evenly, “is that I have a mission to carry out. If you’re content with being a passenger aboard my ship until that mission is concluded, then I will, in fact, have Sergeant Joneson escort you to your quarters.”

“I am perfectly willing to travel as a passenger while we return with all haste to your fleet’s commanding officer, Admiral Montagne,” Kong Pao said, his words seeming to twist and writhe in Middleton’s skull as he fought down his rising irritation.

“Oh we’re going to return to the Admiral, Representative, but not just yet. We’ve got a classified operation to conduct first, after which,” he said pointedly as the Representative made to interrupt, “we will return to Sector 25 and report on the goings on of Sectors 23 and 24.”

Kong Pao considered Middleton for several moments. “How long will this ‘classified operation’ require to complete?”

“I honestly have no idea,” he said seriously before stiffening his spine. “But in any event, Sector 23—the Sector over which you preside in your official capacity as a Sector Judge—is not a contributory member of the MSP. As such, this ship does not fall under your immediate jurisdiction, so let’s stow the threats for the time being.”

The Representative’s eyes flashed with a hint of amusement—and something darker—before he nodded. “Very well, Captain,” he said, and this time when he bowed his head Middleton actually thought there was a tiny sliver of respect being displayed, “I will accompany Sergeant Joneson to my quarters and await your summons.”

“Welcome aboard, Representative,” Middleton said, pointedly not offering his hand. Middleton hated politicians with the fury of a supernova, but he knew that whatever this one wanted was way above his pay grade—and he suspected that Admiral Montagne wouldn’t exactly appreciate one of his Captains making enemies of Sector Judges…especially not after such a protracted mission.

Chapter XXXIV: An Update…and the gift of Red Hare

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton greeted as the young man entered his ready room. “I’d like an update on the status of your project.”

“Of course, Captain,” he replied as he sat down and slid a data slate across the desk. “This is my official report, but the truncated version says that my comrades on the world of my birth were able to access the vestiges of my network and reconstruct the majority of my program, which was then returned here via one of Captain Manning’s courier vessels. However, there are certain gaps in the software which I must reconstruct from memory; a process I believe will require no more than six days’ uninterrupted work in a harmonious environment.”

“A ‘harmonious environment’?” Middleton repeated skeptically.

“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied. “I do my best work in a controlled environment without distractions and with certain materials at my disposal—none of which are difficult or expensive to acquire,” he added hastily. “I have listed them on the slate for your approval.”

Middleton perused the slate’s contents and nodded slowly. “Private quarters can be arranged on an interim basis,” he allowed before his eyebrows jumped at the list of food items Fei Long was requesting. “Don’t you know this stuff will kill you?”

Fei Long tossed his head back and laughed briefly. “With access to modern medical services and pharmacology, I have been assured that the deleterious effects of such an unhealthy diet can be easily counteracted. I am of course capable of working without these items, but I have done so before and experience a roughly twenty percent decrease in output.” He shrugged emphatically, “It is simply what works for me.”

“All right,” Middleton allowed, “I’ll see what the mess can dig up, but I’m afraid that most of this stuff isn’t even distributed in this sector. Still, I’ll tell the quartermaster to make reasonable substitutions as needed and using materials available.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Fei Long said. “After this program has been reconstructed in total, it will be ready for deployment at the earliest convenience. I must be physically present to upload the program, however, as it will require last-minute adjustments to the parameters—to say nothing of the expertise required to overcome whatever security measures are in place aboard the hub.”

“Understood,” Middleton said as he signed off on the list after he had completed it. “What’s the status of that Storm Drake project I approved?”

Fei Long nodded graciously. “I appreciate the Captain’s generosity; the material has been fashioned into as many suits of armor as possible, given the limited supply. I am assured that they will be delivered to the Lancer Sergeant at the start of next shift.”

“How many suits did we get?”

“Eleven,” Fei Long replied. “We could have crafted twelve, were it not for your preference to include the larger Tracto-ans.”

“You said it yourself, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said pointedly, “a smaller team increases the chances of success for this mission. Those Tracto-ans, pound for pound, pack more punch than anyone on this ship…well,” he added belatedly with a lopsided grin as he remembered reading Joneson’s smashball report on Lu Bu, “almost anyone.”

Fei Long laughed again, this time somewhat nervously, and nodded. “I should begin my work then, Captain.”

“Come to me personally if there’s anything else you need,” Middleton said. “This project is top priority for the ship; I’ll pass your requisition list on to the quartermaster immediately.”

“Thank you, Captain Middleton,” the young man said before clasping his hands, bowing, and leaving the room.

When he left, Middleton chuckled as he took another look at the list of junk food Fei Long had concocted. “Re-constituted corn-salt snacks, single-use self-cooking pizzas…and carbonated caffeine extracts,” he sighed. “Yep…looks about like a grocery receipt from my bachelor days.”

“Lu, front and center,” Sergeant Joneson called across the Lancer quarters—which Lu Bu still thought of as ‘barracks, even though her fellow crewmates had informed her that ships did not have ‘barracks.

She stood and made her way to the Sergeant’s side, and saw he was standing in front of a trio of crates. The four Tracto-ans and Corporals Gnuko, Sherman, and Thomas were also present, along with two of her countrymen: Gong and Lei.

“Armory put together a care package for us,” Joneson explained, kicking each of the crates in turn. “They’re marked for their intended wearer; I assume this will be the first time you’ve worn a tailored suit of any kind, Gnuko?” he added with what Lu Bu now knew was nothing but good humor.

The Corporal chuckled, and Sergeant Joneson kicked off the lids of the crates one by one. “Dig in, boys and girl,” he said with a knowing look at Lu Bu, “you’re to assemble in the rec room in twenty minutes for acclimation to these new threads.”

The Lancers began to sort through the suits of dark, leathery material which did indeed look to have been tailor-made for each of the Lancers present. There was even a helmet for each one fashioned in the vague shape of a dragon’s head, as well as a pressure seal at the collar.

“Storm Drake?” Gnuko said appreciatively as Joneson took a suit with Sergeant stripes on the sleeve from the crate. “Is this…legal?”

“Let’s leave the legality to the paper pushers,” Joneson said as he made to leave the room with his own suit and helmet under his arm.

Lu Bu took her own suit—which had what seemed to be a unique, red hue to its dark, almost black, surface—and saw her own name emblazoned over the left breast. There were additional characters beside her name, and she immediately knew who had put them there…which gave her mixed feelings she would need to examine at a later date.

When they had all donned their suits, they carried their helmets under the crooks of their arms and made for the rec room. When they arrived, Sergeant Joneson was wearing his own suit. Even though he was past his physical prime, the musculature of his body was apparent through the form-fitting, dark leather of the suit. He had a standard issue sonic rifle in his hands, which he used to gesture for the Lancers to line up before him for inspection.

They did so, and after the group had come to attention, Joneson looked up and down the line. “This is Storm Drake hide, which is one of the most durable, organically-created substances in existence. Its energy reflecting and dissipating qualities make it unparalleled in personal protection, and it’s favored among the criminal elite for its flexibility…as well as the badass factor it instills in its wearer.”

The Lancers collectively snickered, and Lu Bu could indeed attest to the suggested effect. She did in fact feel measurably more menacing in this armor than she had ever felt—even when wearing power armor.

“The look of the material is only part of it,” Joneson explained as he paced up and down the line, “as close proximity with the leather somehow creates a magnetic effect within the brain. I won’t bore you with the details—mostly because I can’t understand that medical crap,” he added, eliciting another round of chuckles from the Lancers, “but I can tell you that reflex times have been measured in controlled studies involving Storm Drake armor, and those studies suggest a possible six percent increase for the wearer. Obviously, this material is in high demand, and just as obviously it is rather expensive—so much so that Storm Drakes have been hunted to near extinction through the Spine. Now normally I wouldn’t humiliate the rest of you by wearing something so incredibly sexy,” he deadpanned, to great affect yet again as the Lancers laughed collectively. “But for our upcoming mission I’ve been informed that not only will it be beneficial; it might actually make the difference between success and failure, or life and death—not that Lancers care about the latter.”

The assembled Lancers roared wordlessly as one.

Sergeant Joneson then smoothly, and without warning, turned and fired his sonic rifle into Gnuko’s chest. The Corporal barely even flinched as the energy wave splashed against his armor.

“This material renders sonic weapons all but useless on anything but the highest settings, and even then they do little more than pin the wearer down,” Joneson explained as he gestured for Gnuko to brace himself, and after the Corporal had done so, the Sergeant flicked the setting switch to maximum before firing again. This time the energy wave smashed into him with what should have been bone-crushing force, but he was merely staggered back a pair of steps before regaining his composure.

A round of murmurs filled the room, and Lu Bu looked down in wonderment at the armor she now wore. It was truly a marvelous material—one might even think of it as ‘magical,’ if one were possessed of such silly, girlish notions.

“Unfortunately,” Joneson continued, “we’re unlikely to encounter any sonics on our mission, but the point remains that this is easily the most expensive piece of gear any of you have ever touched with your grimy little fingers. You will care for it like it is your most vital organ, and you will do so without deviating from my outlined maintenance schedule—do you get me, Lancers?”

“We get you, sir!” the Lancers barked in perfect unison, and Lu Bu felt herself trembling with excitement; she couldn’t wait to put the armor through its paces!

“Now the primary weakness of Storm Drake,” Sergeant Joneson said in a raised, drill-Sergeant voice like from the holo-vids Lu Bu had seen recently, “is vibro-weapons. And while it’s still better in that regard than regular leather by enough to make the comparison laughable, if you’re going to get violated while wearing this super hero-looking stuff it’s probably going to be via blade. So hand-to-hand and bladed weapon drills are the order of the day, Lancers,” he barked as he waved the barrel of the sonic rifle toward the assorted practice blades by the nearby wall. “Pair off and get to it!”

Chapter XXXV: Meetings of the Minds

“Representative Kong,” Captain Middleton greeted, standing from behind his desk to greet the Sector Judge as he entered the ready room, “please come in.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the Representative said graciously as he made his way to the chair opposite Middleton’s own.

“I apologize for the delay,” Captain Middleton lied after sitting down, having willfully pushed this meeting back as long as he felt would be tolerated, “but my ship has been through a lot and we’re sorely lacking in experienced officers, so I’ve been needed to oversee a great many matters personally.”

“The delay is understandable, Captain,” Kong Pao said with the hint of a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mount. “But now that we have met, I would very much like to dispense with the wordplay; you are obviously a busy man and the sooner we conclude this business, the sooner you can return to doing…whatever it is you are doing out here. And the sooner that is completed, the sooner we may speak with your Admiral Montagne.”

“I do tend to prefer the direct approach, Representative,” Middleton agreed. “Now, tell me what it is you think the MSP can do for you?”

Kong Pao leaned forward. “There is a grave threat spreading throughout Sectors 23 and 24,” he began. “An…artificial threat, if you take my meaning?”

“Droids,” Middleton said dryly, to which the Judge’s eyebrows rose slightly before lowering. “I and my senior officers have been briefed on the situation, although it seems the accuracy and timeliness of reports becomes problematic the further out we go from Elysium.”

“High Captain Manning is a predictable, blunt man,” Kong Pao said with a barely audible sigh. “However, in this instance I am glad that he obeyed his base nature; it will save us considerable time as well as facilitate greater understanding on your part, regarding the severity of this threat.”

“I’m well aware of the situation as the High Captain relayed it,” Middleton said. “Frankly, I’m not sure I should be discussing the matter with you, since your branch of the Sector Government is clearly not connected to the military in any official capacity.”

“Then I will share what I know,” the Representative said. “Elysium was one of the hardest-hit worlds in Sector 23, obviously due to its strategic and resource value as a primary Trillium production site. But High Captain Manning and his family have done a remarkable job in repelling these attacks…which is unfortunately more than can be said of my own home world. We still hold out against the invasion, but our fleet is battered and I fear that we will soon fall. And when we do, a half dozen systems will be snapped up by these Droid Tribes within days. The Core Worlds in Sector 23 have been isolated in a well-coordinated effort by these machines,” he veritably spat the last word, “with only Elysium proving able to break these blockades—at least, they are able to break them for the time being.”

“What do you know of Sector 24?” Middleton asked.

“Less than of 23, to be certain, although my sources say they have experienced a similar, if less intense, wave of attacks,” Kong Pao replied. “But if our projections are accurate, once Sector 23 reaches a tipping point in the coming months—or perhaps even weeks—Sector 24 will most certainly be next. And should these artificials manage to seize the infrastructure and materials they need for mass replication…” he trailed off pointedly.

Captain Middleton knew all too well the price which would be paid by the Sector specifically, and the Spine as a whole, if these droids were allowed to do just that. “I can assure you that after we’ve completed our current mission our top priority is to relay this information to Admiral Montagne. And if I know the man,” he added as he recalled the young Prince-cadet’s orders to engage Captain Cornwallis at Easy Haven, “then the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet will do everything it can to prevent these machines from taking control of Sectors 23 and 24.”

“I cannot stress enough the urgency of my task, Captain Middleton,” Kong Pao said seriously. “I am certain that my mission must take precedence over whatever covert operation you have been engaged in these past five days I have been on board.”

“Unfortunately we’re of differing opinions there, Representative,” Middleton said, acutely aware of how this must look. “But let me assure you that I wouldn’t be pursuing this other matter if I didn’t genuinely think it could be of direct benefit to the people of Sectors 23 and 24, in addition to benefiting my own organization, the MSP.”

Representative Kong sat back in his chair and his eyes seemed to search Middleton’s features but the Captain had put his best poker face on for the occasion, so the two sat in mutual silence for several seconds before the Judge nodded curtly. “Very well, Captain Middleton, I will anxiously await the completion of your ‘secret mission’.” With that, he stood and left the ready room.

After the door had closed behind the Representative, Middleton muttered, “You and me both.”

“Doctor, may I have a seat?” Captain Middleton asked after having his tray filled at the chow line and making his way over to the Doctor.

Lancer Lu Bu was sitting across from his ex-wife, and she shot to her feet as soon as Middleton spoke. “Captain,” she acknowledged, snapping a salute.

“At ease, Lancer,” Middleton said, returning the salute.

“It’s your ship, Captain,” Jo said neutrally as she took another bite of food.

Middleton gave Lu Bu a brief look, which was all it took for the ship’s youngest—and, to hear Walter Joneson tell it, most promising—Lancer to turn to the Doctor and say, “I thank you for these new books, Doctor. I like to read them now.” She turned and nodded respectfully to the Captain as she took her empty tray back to the drop-off at the door to the mess hall.

Captain Middleton slid his own tray beside where Lu Bu’s had been, and sat down on the light, metal bench.

“Don’t often see you in the crew’s mess,” Jo said after finishing her portion of food which, thankfully, did not include duck. The Elysium SDF had gone all-out and provided fresh meats, vegetables, grains, and even fresh dairy products by the metric ton. Needless to say, the variety far more suited to Captain Middleton’s palette than what they had picked up from Shèhuì Héxié, which had actually made him long for military rations toward the end of their supply. It appeared today’s meal was lasagna, which was a luxury he intended to savor.

“I make it down here off-shift for leftovers every day,” Middleton explained. “Never did get used to the senior officers’ mess, but I take my breakfasts in there since it’s expected. Besides,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “these people are what make this ship run. How can I think to command them if I don’t share in their experience? At least, to whatever capacity doesn’t interfere with my own duties.”

Jo snorted softly as she pushed her tray forward a few inches. “You always were the analyst. Everything’s just cold, hard facts to you, isn’t it?”

This wasn’t precisely how Middleton had wanted to broach the subject, but now that it had been brought up, he set his first bite of lasagna back down on his plate and considered his words carefully. “Actually, yes,” he said heavily, “that is how I see the world—and everyone in it.” He paused, allowing the silence to linger for several moments before adding, “But while those ‘cold, hard facts’ must often—or, even most of the time—dictate a life’s course, they don’t, and can’t, control how we get from here to where we’re needed.”

She narrowed her eyes for a moment before nodding slowly. “Maybe I’m not the only one who’s grown since then,” she allowed as her expression softened fractionally.

Middleton nodded slowly before collecting his fork and slipping the first bite of his lasagna between his teeth and closing his eyes as the taste of fresh mozzarella flashed across seemingly every square millimeter of his mouth. “Chef’s outdone himself this time,” he said appreciatively.

“I’m not normally for dairy,” Jo admitted grudgingly, “but I’m not sure I’ve ever enjoyed a meal as much as this one.”

Middleton’s eyes snapped open and he cracked a grin as he prepared his second bite. “You mean, even more than first year’s finals celebration eating those tortas behind…blast, what was the name of that old roach coach?”

“Tacos El Rey,” she said with a knowing nod before adding pointedly, “but if I recall, you weren’t exactly interested in the food on that particular night.”

“Well, yeah,” he said with a chuckle, remembering what he considered to be a fairly creative application of sour cream and guacamole—to replace portions of his then-wife’s clothing, of course, which he then dutifully removed, “but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a memorable meal.”

Jo feigned a shudder as she leaned forward with a smile of her own. “I’m still scraping the plaque from my arteries all those late-night runs caused. But I will grant you this: that place was a feast for the senses.”

“College,” Middleton said in a mixture of resignation and wistfulness, “the world was a different place then, wasn’t it?”

Jo shook her head. “It’s the same place it’s always been, Tim,” she said hollowly, “the only things that have changed are us.”

Now it was Middleton’s turn to shake his head. “People don’t change, Jo.”

She gave him a sharp look which he had expected to be reproachful, but instead he saw something closer to surprise in her eyes. “Not that old argument,” she sighed as her expression cleared.

“It’s true,” he continued, ignoring the strange look he had seen in her face. “Just look at us? I’m still governed by my logic, and you’re still ruled by your passions. What’s changed?”

She regarded him quietly for several moments before her eyes drifted downward. “Plenty has changed,” she said hollowly, “for both of us. For instance, you re-married.”

Middleton was actually surprised she chose to bring it up. The truth was he had expected her to do so much, much earlier in the trip, or to ignore the topic altogether. “I did,” he admitted, “and for a time I even thought it was the right move. Things seemed…stable, even happy, all the way until Thomas, our son, got into secondary school.”

“You always said you were going to teach your children at home,” she interrupted with a cocked eyebrow.

“We are…or, rather, we were,” he corrected before knowing the conversation was taking an unexpected turn—one which he doubted led anywhere productive. “The truth is, it just took her longer to see the things about me that you learned in college,” he said, cutting straight to the point. “Not only that, but my son doesn’t feel much differently about me than his mother.”

“Alfred said your family was settled on Tracto,” she said in confusion.

He nodded. “That’s a long story, but the short version is I didn’t want my family—however estranged—traveling to a Rim colony for their fresh start without supervision, so I decided to accompany them and provide whatever assistance I was able when they arrived. I emptied my private pension, took out loans against every single asset I’ve accumulated, and turned it into things they could barter with if things took a turn for the worse. You know,” he added, keeping the bitterness from his voice, “module-sized atmospheric cleansers, medical supplies, portable condensation units, etc.. Let me tell you something: whoever’s manufacturing all of those ‘approved’ colony supplies is getting rich, because there doesn’t appear to be much difference between those units and the standard ones that cost a quarter as much.”

“So then…you’d taken a leave of absence?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, “I’d actually retired—the official term for it is a ‘T-672 Reduction,’ which for all intents and purposes is the first step in retirement from active-duty. I hadn’t decided what I was going to do, but I’d given serious thought to settling down somewhere out on the Rim. Maybe even on the same planet my family chose.”

“You?” she asked incredulously. “Retired?”

“I’d done my twenty,” he said, “and while the benefits weren’t as robust as the thirty and forty year marks, I realized that no matter how much I thought it was my life’s calling to serve like my father did, I could never have the life I wanted—no,” he corrected, “the life I needed, as long as I was hopping around on starships.”

“So what changed?” Jo asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity.

Middleton had tried to come up with a way to say this last part, but nothing had sounded quite perfect, so he just decided to ad lib the best he could. “Not long after the Imperial withdrawal, a settlement ship was attacked by pirates,” he explained, “and as fate would have it, the ship I was assigned to, the Lucky Clover, was first on the scene. Without so much as a single, functioning weapon, Admiral Montagne,” he said before adding, “the ‘Little Admiral’—as even I was guilty of calling him on several occasions—charged headlong into the fray and beat the pirates back. It wasn’t until after the battle that I realized it was the same ship my soon-to-be-ex-wife and son were on.”

Jo exhaled softly after he finished. “Still,” she said after a pregnant pause, “you had to know the odds they would be on that particular ship.”

“On that day, 17.3%,” he agreed absently, having gone over the figures time and time again. “All colonists are routed to central hubs to await disembarkation at the Colonial Authority’s schedule. So without the ComStat network to check the outgoing manifests on a daily basis, I calculated there was a 17.3% that everything I held precious in the universe was not only in peril, but that I would play a part in protecting it—protecting them—without even knowing I had done so. Now, you know me, Jo,” he said seriously, “I’m not one of those blowhard, ‘the Saint will provide’ types, but after I learned that Katie and Thomas were on that ship…for the first time in twenty years I knelt down and prayed to whatever space gods might have been listening. I told them that I’d heard their message, and would work to repay their favor…no matter the cost.”

“See?” Jo said softly. “People can change, Tim. You would never have prayed to the space gods when we were married.”

“Oh, I had a few…choice words for them back then,” he grudged. “But we didn’t exactly leave things on cordial terms. Which brings me to a question of my own,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood, “why did you keep my name after all these years? And don’t tell me it was because of the paperwork.”

Jo shrugged indifferently. “Ever since I met you, all I wanted to be was ‘Mrs. Middleton’,” she explained as though it was nothing. “Even after we separated and the divorce was finalized, I found that hadn’t really changed. I—or rather, the girl I’d been—still wanted nothing more than to be Mrs. Middleton, and I wanted to do everything I could to protect that girl and what was left of her dreams for as long as I could. Plus, I knew that I’d never re-marry after you. For all your infuriating flaws, you set the bar pretty high…it just wouldn’t have been fair to the field to compete against even the echo of you.”

Middleton had absolutely not expected this type of a reply to his question, and from the look in her eye he knew she didn’t say these things lightly. He sat in stunned silence for several seconds until she leaned forward.

“But I do understand that it’s just an echo,” she said evenly, “and it’s entirely possible that what I thought I loved in you was nothing but a reflection of what I wanted you to be. But like a wise philosopher said, ‘Belief is more important than fact; without belief in them, facts cannot create change. But belief, even without supporting facts, can—and more often than probability suggests, does—create change.”

Middleton was again stunned into silence, this time at hearing his own words—written out in a philosophy paper during their freshman year of college—spoken back at him.

“I’m not here for you, Tim,” she said, her features taking on a hardened cast. “I need to be perfectly clear on that.”

Middleton stood from the table with his meal half-eaten, disappointed at hearing her utter those words but knowing they were to be expected. “I don’t care why you’re here, Doctor,” he said with genuine, heartfelt feeling. “But I am grateful beyond my ability to express at this time that you are. I find your counsel, support, and perspective to be sorely lacking aboard this ship. And that ship—as well as her crew—benefits every time you offer such counsel to its Captain. I hope I can continue to depend on your continued contributions.”

“You can,” she said with a curt nod. “But I’m going to need some larger quarters eventually—something with two separate beds, if possible.”

“I’ll have something arranged.” Middleton said before nodding his head officiously, knowing that whatever she had planned did not involve him. “Thank you, Doctor Middleton.”

She stood and collected her tray. “Captain,” she acknowledged, using his rank for the first time, which provoked an unexpected mix of feelings to roil around inside his chest.

After dropping off his tray, Captain Middleton made his way to the bridge. All things considered, the meeting had gone far better than he had feared, and far worse than he had hoped—which made it a fairly typical result in the interpersonal relationship department.

But he had secured the services of the best doctor he could hope for, and that was more than enough for him…for now, at the very least.

Chapter XXXVI: A Hub and a Surprise

“Point transfer complete,” the helmsman reported. “We’ve broken free of the inertial sump.”

“Scanning the system now, Captain,” the Sensors operator reported as the system’s tactical overlay began to populate with signals. After a few minutes, the operator reported, “No vessels detected, sir. This system appears clear.”

Middleton turned to the Comm. section. “Mr. Fei, begin your scans.”

“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied as he went through the same sequence of gestures he had done each of the two dozen jumps the Pride of Prometheus had made in search of an elusive ComStat hub. It had been two weeks since they had left Elysium, and Middleton was beginning to believe that their priorities might require readjustment—a belief clearly shared by Representative Kong Pao.

“Tactical,” he turned to Ensign Sarkozy, “keep your eyes peeled and coordinate with Sensors; let’s make sure there’s nothing lurking in that relatively hot asteroid belt. The radiation will probably prevent standard scans from getting a clear picture.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replied.

“Captain,” Fei Long said in his usual, patient voice, “I believe I have something.”

Middleton turned his chair quickly toward the Comm. station. “So soon? Confirm, Mr. Fei,” he said evenly.

“I have already done so, Captain,” the young man said. “There is unquestionably a ComStat hub nearby; it will require several hours’ time to determine its precise location and plot a subsequent point transfer, but we have indeed located a hub.”

Middleton leaned back in his chair. “Maintain Condition Two, XO,” he said to Commander Jersey. There was no reason to expect an imminent danger to the ship, but Captain Middleton had learned a long time before that a few hours of extra tension rarely served as a detriment to morale or operations efficiency. And with Commander Jersey’s stern, yet fair, hand at running readiness drills since becoming the XO, Middleton had been more than pleased to find performance improved across the board.

“Aye, Captain, maintaining Condition Two,” the older man replied gruffly before relaying his orders. A light blue light bar along the joints of the deck plates and bulkheads continued to flash gently, signaling that the ship was on heightened alert, but not expecting imminent danger.

“Ensign Jardine,” Middleton said, turning to his Comm. Officer, “assist Mr. Fei in whatever manner you can. And inform Sergeant Joneson that his people should expect deployment as soon as we can recycle our jump engines.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jardine replied.

Middleton felt a flare of anticipation as he reviewed the tactical reports from the Elysium SDF—as well as a handful of other intelligence sources recently provided by Representative Kong Pao—as he prepared for what he had a hunch would be a fairly predictable surprise when they reached the hub.

Much like maintaining Condition Two aboard the Pride, he had no reason to believe there would be trouble waiting for them when they arrived, but he also had come to expect the unexpected over the course of his tenure as Captain of this now well-oiled machine.

There was no way he would get caught with his britches down.

“Point transfer plotted; we’ll be ready to jump in twenty minutes, Captain,” reported the helmsman.

“Captain,” Sarkozy said snappily, “as far as we can tell we’re transferring into cold, extra-stellar space just outside of a relatively uncharted nebula; there’s no telling how far we’ll be from our target since there’s no catalogued gravity well nearby for our nav-computer to plot against. Recommend we take the ship to Condition One.”

“Agreed,” Middleton said, less-than-surprised to find the ambitious young Ensign making such a suggestion, “XO, set Condition One throughout the ship: battle stations, Commander Jersey.”

“Aye, Captain, setting Condition One,” the other man replied. A few seconds later, the pulsating blue bars on the floor had shifted their hue and were now a deeper shade of blue. Those lights were also joined by a similar bar of red lights flashing at the joint of the ceiling and bulkheads.

“Captain,” Fei Long said respectfully, “I believe we should prepare for the pull of a significant gravity well upon arrival.”

“Explain,” Middleton demanded, feeling a knot form in his throat.

“I cannot confirm,” Fei Long began hesitantly, “but certain readings in the ComStat hub’s baseline signal would seem to suggest the presence of a not-insignificant mass nearby.”

“There’s nothing on the scanners,” Sarkozy interjected, “and Confederation stellar cartography doesn’t show any stars or black holes in the nebula where your readings suggest the hub is located.”

“All the same,” Fei Long said, his voice taking a harder tone, “I believe we should compensate for a potentially powerful gravity well in near proximity to our target deep within the remnants of the ancient, nearly nonexistent, nebula. I have already made the appropriate adjustments to our impending point transfer’s navigation solution, but preparing the engines for an immediate overdrive may also prove beneficial.”

“Do it,” Middleton nodded to the Engineering petty officer on the bridge, who went to work relaying the Captain’s orders to his Chief over the com-link. “And this kind of information would be appropriate to bring up before we’re about to jump, Mr. Fei—and I do mean ‘something a bit more substantial than ten minutes before,’—do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Captain,” Fei Long assured him calmly, “but I did not detect the subtle variations until six minutes ago. I have multiple hypotheses regarding the nature of the suspected gravity event, but I believe that verbal speculation at this time would be counterproductive.”

“Very well,” Middleton grudged.

“Transfer in two minutes,” the helmsman called out somewhat needlessly, seeing as the information was clearly depicted on the main viewer. But Commander Jersey had implemented a strict set of bridge protocols governing all manner of situations, and while Middleton probably wouldn’t have been quite so strict or demanding, he understood that his former helmsman’s method produced the desired result.

The seconds ticked down until the helmsman called out, “Point transfer in five…four…three…two…one.”

The ship shuddered and lurched violently, and Middleton was suddenly grateful for the Condition One status which Sarkozy had suggested, as he was quite certain that at least half of the bridge crew would have been thrown from their seats.

“Report!” he bellowed.

“We’re caught in a massive gravity well, Captain,” the helmsman replied as he hauled himself up against the edge of his console before the grav-plates finally began to compensate for the extreme variance. “The inertial sump is over three hundred percent of maximum; attempting to shed it now. Shields are down to 62% and falling rapidly.”

“Three hundred percent?!” Jersey snapped as he staggered over to the helmsman’s station. “Re-check your readings, Helm—” he said irritably before the color drained from his face. “Murphy’s monkey,” he breathed, “we jumped next to a black hole.”

“Negative,” Sensors reported after the ship had regained its apparent orientation and the drag only felt like twice the normal gees, “I’m reading outgoing x-rays in all directions and only a subtle bending of inbound starlight. This is definitely not a black hole, Commander.”

“Helm: shed that blasted sump, overdrive my engines and make all-stop,” Middleton barked before turning to Fei Long. “Is the hub here, Mr. Fei?”

“It is, Captain,” the young man replied confidently. “Based on the signal strength it is within roughly one hundred million kilometers of our current position.”

“Captain,” Sarkozy interrupted, “my calculations show the only way to shed the sump is to overcharge the entire shield grid by diverting all primary reactor output to the shield array.”

“Check those calculations,” Middleton said as he, himself, made to do precisely that.

After a few moments’ silence, he nodded grudgingly just as Fei Long interrupted, “Confirmed, Captain; doing as the Ensign suggests will yield a 58% chance of shedding the sump; if we fail to shed the sump in the next thirty seconds, we will fall well past the neutron star’s calculated point of no return, given our engines—”

“Do it,” Middleton snapped, cutting the young man’s verbosity off at the pass.

A moment later the power grid aboard the Pride of Prometheus visibly sagged, with lights dimming and consoles flickering as they went to their local, emergency power supplies.

“The sump is shed, Captain,” the helmsman reported tensely.

The Damage Control stander interjected, “I’m reading a cascade failure of the ship’s primary and secondary power grids. Engines are still operational, Captain, but all other systems including life support are now on emergency backups. Weapons and shields are offline.”

“Plotting a parabolic course to slingshot around the neutron star, Captain, adjusting for our weakened grav-plates,” Commander Jersey said in a raised voice as he worked in tandem with the helmsman to do precisely that. “This is gonna be close,” the older man added after finishing his inputs to the helm.

The ship’s bow planed downward toward what appeared to be empty space, but if Fei Long was correct—and there was no apparent reason to believe he wasn’t—there was a neutron star somewhere off the port bow. Almost as if someone had read his mind, the tactical overlay populated with icons for the Pride, the ComStat hub, and the neutron star—which was far closer than Middleton thought possible.

The Pride careened dangerously close to the star’s point of no return as the ship gained momentum along its projected, gently curving course which took a relatively sharp turn right as they passed the star at the closest point along the route. Middleton actually saw his bridge crew’s bodies list slightly to port as they did so, in what he would have believed to be an impossible display of the star’s gravity working against, or somehow with, the grav-plates.

Then their aged ship began to pull away from the star, and Commander Jersey stood to face the Captain. “We’ve broken the neutron star’s gravity well, Captain; estimate twenty minutes before we reach the recommended safe maneuvering distance from the object.”

“Very good, Commander,” Middleton said with conviction as he straightened himself in his chair. He was fairly certain that, regardless of how much confidence his XO showed in their current helmsman, the Pride of Prometheus would have never survived its close shave with one of deep space’s most enigmatic bodies without Commander Jersey’s hand at the tiller.

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton said, turning deliberately to face the young man, “I believe you have an engagement to prepare for.”

“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long said with a grin as an eager light filled his eyes.

“Report to the shuttle hangar,” Middleton nodded, aware of just how much this meant to the young man in his own, strange hierarchy of needs, “and join Sergeant Joneson’s boarding party.” The young man clasped his hands and bowed low, holding the pose for several seconds before turning and exiting the bridge.

Shaking his head at his new crewmembers’ still foreign-seeming customs, he turned to the Damage Control stander stationed near the Engineering petty officer. “Dispatch teams to the primary power relays and get Chief Garibaldi on the line; I need repair estimates, and I need them yesterday.”

Chapter XXXVII: Protecting the Ball

“All right, Lancers, listen up,” Sergeant Joneson barked as soon as the ramp to the shuttle had closed and the twelve person team had entered the craft. “We’ve got a mission to carry out, and I want everyone aboard this craft to understand what we’re getting ourselves into. You’re all the best the Pride of Prometheus has to offer,” he said, letting his eyes linger on the young man sitting near the cockpit, “which is why you’ve been selected for this important task. The details of this mission are to remain classified—whoever survives this mission is to share none of what they are about to learn with the rest of the crew, as doing so will compromise MSP security…and then some.”

Lu Bu had never heard her Sergeant speak in such dour terms so even her straying thoughts regarding the young, conventionally-armored Fei Long wearing what looked to be a bomb-proof suit, were pushed aside as her Sergeant continued.

“This mission is an intelligence operation,” he explained, casting a pointed look toward the Tracto-ans before continuing, “and if we are successful, it will change the balance of power in this Sector. Intelligence is the most critical component of warfare, modern or otherwise, as Lancer Lu correctly explained during the ride back from Elysium.”

Lu Bu felt herself swell with pride, and felt Fei Long’s eyes on her. She did her best to ignore them, but found herself casting a glance in his direction before forcing her eyes back to her Sergeant. Those mixed feelings the gift of her armor had stirred within her had only strengthened with each passing day…and she very much disliked where they seemed to be going.

“We are about to board a ComStat hub,” Joneson explained, evoking a round of whistles from the more senior members of the unit as he pointed at Fei Long. “And once we have done so, our expert here will perform a series of very technical, very geeky,” a chorus of snickers filled the cabin, “and most importantly, mission-critical interfaces with the hub’s mainframe. Indications are that conditions will be cramped, extremely hot—that means ‘electrically,’ Gnuko,” he added, taking the opportunity for yet another jab at what the entire unit knew to be Joneson’s eventual successor, “and more importantly, jammed with ionic interference. Thus, the new skins the Saint’s seen fit to bless you overgrown monkeys with,” he gestured to Thomas’ form-fitted Storm Drake armor. “These suits won’t be affected by the interference, which will render all complex electronics save those built specifically for such environments completely useless. That means com-links, HUD’s, tactical sensors and pretty much anything else with an ‘On’ switch that doesn’t look like this,” he gestured to the trigger of his blaster rifle. “Unfortunately, due to the sensitivity of the hub’s equipment, we won’t be bringing ranged weaponry—that includes grenades, Gnuko,” he said with a smirk as he discarded his rifle to the floor before drawing a vibro-knife from his belt.

Lu Bu was glad she had opted for an extra vibro-knife in addition to her standard issue piece, rather than the short boarding axes which the Tracto-ans appeared to favor, or the longer swords which Thomas and Sherman had selected. In cramped conditions maneuverability would be a decisive factor, and a smaller weapon would make for less of a liability.

“So it comes to this, Lancers,” Joneson said, twirling the blade over in his hands. “We have no idea what to expect when we board this hub, but since it is one of the most technologically advanced and valuable pieces of equipment known the humanity, I’m guessing we’ll get more than a personalized cake in the welcoming ceremonies.”

“Sarge,” Corporal Thomas interrupted, “what’s the play? Limited intel means limited deployment package options.”

“Nothing gets past you, Thomas,” Joneson quipped dryly before straightening. “The play is from the first page of the book: a Leeroy Jenkins. This will be a blind, up-the-gut, grindfest during which we can expect heavy resistance from various automated defense systems including: ion turrets, fluctuating grav-plates, and a dozen other things as to which your guess is as good as mine. But we will drive to the heart of this hub,” he said adamantly, “and, with Murphy’s blessing, a few of us might even make it back to the shuttle afterward.”

A chorus of chuckles filled the cabin, with even the Tracto-ans joining in this time. Only Fei Long remained silent as he kept his eyes on Lu Bu—which filled her with a mixture of emotions that she knew had no place in the pre-game huddle, so she cast him a reproving look before returning her attention to Sergeant Joneson.

“Ion turrets?” Sherman asked as the chuckles died down and the shuttle banked perceptibly, probably during final approach to their target. “I thought you said this thing was filled with delicate electronics?”

Joneson nodded approvingly, “You catch everything, don’t you, Sherm? Imperial tech’s different than ours; for the most part their high-end hardware is shielded from ionic interference, so weapons employing ion pulses are the only ranged deterrent we’re likely to encounter. The rest of our contact should be of the up close and far-too-personal variety—just like Gnuko around shower time.”

“Hey, c’mon! I already said that was an accident—it was wet, so my feet slipped!” Gnuko objected loudly as an infectious smile betrayed his protestation. The cabin was filled with nervous laughter at his duplicitous protest—laughter to which even Fei Long joined in, as Lu Bu saw from the corner of her eye.

“It’s the showers, Gnuko,” the Sergeant deadpanned with a disbelieving shake of his head as he, too, began to chuckle, “they’re supposed to be wet.” The laughter rose to a deafening roar in the cramped compartment as Lu Bu found herself joining in with the merriment.

“Touchdown in thirty seconds,” the pilot called over the comm., interrupting the pre-battle mirth.

“You heard the woman,” Joneson barked as the group’s laughter slowly died down. “Saddle up, check you gear, and prepare to move out. High-end Imperial facilities are rumored to be insertion-proof,” he swept the cabin with a serious look, “but the wall hasn’t been built that can stop determined Lancers from climbing over it—especially when they look so damned good!”

The Lancers bellowed their wordless assent as the braking thrusters fired on the shuttle and there was an audible clang beneath their feet, causing Lu Bu’s muscles to tense with anticipation.

“Mr. Fei is the ball,” Joneson bellowed as his hand went to the doorway’s activation button. “Gnuko, Sherman, Thomas and Lu: protect the operative in a tight, two-by-two shell. Atticus, Peleus, Brasidas and Laertes: you’re on point with me. Gong and Lei: cover the rear. Move out!” he barked as he slammed his Storm Drake-clad hand against the button, causing the cabin to depressurize gently, with the majority of the atmosphere having already been vented during the approach.

The four Tracto-ans leapt down the ramp after Sergeant Joneson, and even Fei Long managed to insert himself into the formation of the unit’s protective detail before they made their way out of the shuttle and followed the squad on point.

They descended the ramp quickly, and Lu Bu scanned the nearby environs for signs of motion. They were clearly in some kind of docking area, with a single corridor leading directly ahead—presumably toward the heart of the ComStat hub.

Lu Bu looked briefly over her shoulder and saw the emptiness of space on the other side of the boarding shuttle, and for the first time in her life she realized she was doing something she had never truly dreamed possible. During the boarding action on the enemy Destroyer, she had simply kept her mind free from distractions and focused on the immediate needs of the situation. But looking out at that star field, she knew that doing so may have actually changed something within her.

She pushed the thought from her mind as they entered the corridor, with a vibro-weapon in the hands of each team member, and she noted that the corridor was nearly three meters wide. It was a fairly tight fit for the protective unit, but they managed to make their way down in quick order, with Gong and Lei bringing up the rear.

She saw a flash of light up ahead and instinctively placed a hand on Fei Long’s bulky, padded shoulder, which she pressed down with probably more force than she should have and sent the boy to the deck.

If he protested, she was unable to hear it as she saw another pair of flashes, and this time she saw that the Tracto-ans were taking blue-white bolts of energy weapon fire.

The protective squad tensed and used hand signals to communicate, with Gnuko taking the lead as squad commander. He ordered them to continue their advance and the unit quickly did so, despite the incoming fire the point team was taking.

Lu Bu saw Atticus brandishing his boarding axe as he tore into a nearby, pop-out style turret, sending arcs of electricity flaring intermittently from the weapon as Sergeant Joneson did likewise on the other side of the corridor with the turret’s paired unit.

The other Tracto-ans surged down the corridor as a flicker of movement further down indicated another pair of turrets popping out to take aim at the oncoming Lancers. Brasidas and Peleus each took a bolt in the chest, but the Storm Drake hide proved Sergeant Joneson’s assertion that it was an unbelievably resilient material as they did little more than stagger from the impacts before laying into the turrets with their own boarding axes.

With their work at the first turrets finished, Sergeant Joneson and Lancer Atticus leapfrogged the savagely chopping Peleus and Brasidas. Joneson, Laertes, and Atticus then methodically tore into another set of turrets before they even had time to fully pop out, and Lu Bu’s squad was able to advance at a brisk pace behind their lead blocking unit comprised of the Sergeant and four Tracto-ans.

As Peleus and Brasidas made to leapfrog Joneson, Laertes, and Atticus, a nearby conduit exploded and Laertes was enveloped in a wreath of angry, blue flame. His body crashed into the opposite bulkhead and he went immediately limp as the flames quickly died down—but not after destroying his life support unit and causing it to vent its stored gases.

When it was clear Laertes did not survive the explosion, they continued to advance until they reached a junction of some sort. To either side was a short, blind corridor extending approximately eight meters perpendicular to the main corridor down which they had just advanced, and it was into one of these corridors which Fei Long quickly ducked and knelt down.

Thinking him a coward, Lu Bu made to grab him and set him back onto the path, but before she could do so she saw him extend his hands through thin, delicate gloves set beneath his bulky work-suit’s main arms. He then withdrew a small, clearly modified data slate and uncoiled a tiny wire from around it, which he then inserted into a nearby slit which Lu Bu had barely even noticed.

A moment later the data slate powered up and a sequence of images and glyphs began to populate its screen before rapidly cycling blank and re-populating with a different sequence. This process repeated as Fei Long deftly tapped the icons as quickly as it seemed human fingers could move, and once again Lu Bu was impressed by his apparent abilities.

He continued for several seconds until Corporal Gnuko moved to Lu Bu’s side and made the ‘status update’ gesture.

She quickly flashed the signs for ‘controlled stop,’ ‘computer,’ and ‘access.’ The Corporal nodded curtly and gestured for the other nearby Lancers to form up on the junction.

A few seconds later, she saw Fei Long remove the wire from the wall and replace the data slate into a cleverly-concealed pocket in his work-suit. He then tapped the side of his obtrusive helmet while giving Lu Bu a pointed look.

She tapped the side of her helmet to activate the com-link and immediately heard his voice, “We have comm. access for approximately three minutes. I suggest you inform the squad and we continue.”

Lu Bu turned and gestured for comm. check to the other Lancers, who all immediately tapped their activation switched on the outsides of their helmets. “We have comm. for less than three minutes.”

“Regroup with the Sergeant,” Gnuko ordered, and just as Fei Long made his way back to the corridor the squad resumed its journey down the corridor.

Thirty seconds later they had rejoined Sergeant Joneson, who activated his own comm. unit after Gnuko gestured for him to do so. “How’d we get comm.?” he demanded.

“I sent the hub’s broadcast system into a rapid diagnostic cycle,” Fei Long said over the channel. “The process will only last for another two minutes, after which we will be blacked out.”

“Can you open that door?” Joneson gestured down the corridor about ten meters.

“Yes,” Fei Long replied simply.

“Then move out,” Joneson snapped as his squad moved to secure the door before the rest of the Lancers followed.

When they arrived at the door, Fei Long withdrew another data slate with an entirely different wire connected to it as he tilted his head toward a bulkhead panel near the floor. “Please remove that panel.”

“Atticus,” Joneson said, stepping aside for the larger man.

“Delicately, please,” Fei Long said sharply as Atticus brought his axe up. He lowered the weapon and reached down to grasp the panel before giving a mighty heave. Unfortunately, the panel did little more than budge. He adjusted his grip and posture before trying again, but again he found no success.

“Move,” Lu Bu said to Fei Long, who did as she said and after he had cleared the area, she knelt beside one edge of the panel and gripped with her fingers. “One, two, three,” she said after making eye contact with Atticus, and between the two of them they tore the cover off the complex series of circuits and crystalline boards which it had protected.

“Thank you,” Fei Long said as he knelt beside the panel and carefully inserted the free end of the cable attached to the new data slate. After he had done so, he again began to cycle through page after page of data before apparently finding what he was looking for and rapidly inputting commands to the slate.

“Comm. blackout in forty five seconds,” Gnuko said.

“Larry that, Corporal,” Joneson replied just as Gong and Thomas yelped in surprise.

Turning to see the source, Lu Bu barely had time to twist out of the way as a small, needle-like projectile silently flew through the space her left shoulder had occupied prior to reacting. The weapon impacted on the panel behind her and she saw a drop of green, viscous fluid drip from its tip after it fell to the deck.

“Take cover,” Joneson bellowed and the Lancers followed his instruction and flattened themselves against whatever nearby surfaces they could find. A few seconds later Thomas and Gong began to spasm violently, writhing uncontrollably on the floor for several seconds before going limp. Each had a needle-like projectile similar to the one Lu Bu had narrowly avoided protruding from their torsos.

Down the corridor in the direction of their shuttle was a hovering orb of some kind that looked to be around a meter in diameter. It had several external armatures protruding from its spherical body, and three of those armatures were spinning as they clearly meant to re-load.

Lu Bu, having studied armaments for the past several months, recognized the platform as an MR-93 defensive hover-unit. It was a fairly common unit in this part of the Spine and was often used by criminals or other outfits operating on a tight budget. But she had never heard of an automated system like that being deployed by the Imperials—or being outfitted with poison projectiles.

“Protect the operative, Lancers,” Joneson roared, making eye contact with Lu Bu as he stood and drew his vibro-knives. “Complete this mission—no matter the cost!”

With that, he charged down the corridor with his knives brandished, bellowing a wordless, primal roar.

Lu Bu felt like charging after her Sergeant, and she might have just done so a few weeks earlier. But he had given her one last look before doing precisely what he had ordered the rest of them to do—and she knew what that look had told her:

Protect the ball.

So it was with a mixture of emotions—all of which she knew needed to be forced from her mind—that she watched as her commander closed to grips with the hovering orb that had already cost two of her fellows their lives.

He rammed his vibro-knives into the bases of the armatures, the force of his blows knocking the floating orb into the bulkhead as he savagely removed the first arm with repeated strikes. Lu Bu felt tears well up in her eyes as the Sergeant continued his attack, even after being struck by two of the needle-like weapons which the platform fired point-blank into his chest while arcs of electricity from other armatures on the orb’s surface scorched holes in Sergeant Joneson’s armor.

His vibro-knives fell to the ground before he could remove the second weapon arm, and Lu Bu saw a pair of turrets pop out near some fifteen meters down from the Sergeant’s position. In the most incredible display of courage, determination, and physical prowess Lu Bu had ever seen, Walter Joneson—the greatest smashball player to ever don the pads—wrapped his arms loosely around the MR-93 series defensive unit and drove it back with all his awesome power.

He easily overcame the MR-93’s lateral stabilizers with his churning legs and incredible balance, and physically drove it back five…ten…then fifteen meters down the corridor as the turrets opened up on continuous fire, hammering his torso with repeated impacts just as he neared the turret’s position.

It was there that the vile poisons coursing through his veins worked their evil, and the peerless Walter Joneson finally succumbed to their foul effect and collapsed to his knees—but only an instant before the MR-93 defensive unit struck the turret on the left side of the corridor.

As the MR-93 crashed into the turret, there was a bright, flameless explosion which would have made any of the Great Ancestors proud to call their own funeral pyre. The raw power of that explosion tore the mighty Lancer Sergeant Walter Joneson’s body apart—as well as reduce the MR-93 and two defensive turrets to piles of slag, and even less recognizable fragments.

“On task, Lancers,” Corporal Gnuko snapped, and Lu Bu felt the tears stream down her cheeks as she turned to see that Fei Long had managed to open the door.

Doing her best to focus on the task at hand, Lu Bu was filled with pride at having been able to serve alongside Sergeant Walter Joneson, and she silently promised to construct a tablet for him and place it prominently wherever she called her home for the rest of her life.

With that, she managed to push the rising tide of emotions from her mind and re-focus on the task at hand. She knew in that moment that she had finally learned the lesson which Walter Joneson had taught her at the price of a broken jaw, and that she would honor his memory with her actions forever.

“Move out, Team Atticus,” Gnuko ordered, and the Tracto-an did as he was instructed, moving Brasidas and Peleus through the doorway and into the chamber within just as the com-link died once again.

When the rest of the Lancers entered, Lu Bu checked the environment and saw a massive, glowing, cylindrical structure in the center of the circular room. It must have measured four meters across, and extended upward and downward, apparently through the ceiling and floor of the chamber.

There were several access stations in the room and after Gnuko had signaled that the room was clear, Fei Long moved quickly to one of these stations and withdrew yet another data slate. This one had three separate wires neatly coiled against each other, and he carefully uncoiled them as he inserted them into the console before himself.

The glowing, cylindrical structure in the center of the room slowly increased in its intensity, and Lu Bu moved to cover Fei Long’s flank as he continued to work furiously—and simultaneously—with the data slate and the now-active access console. The light emanating from the cylinder intensified until her helmet’s auto-filtration systems kicked in and blocked a significant portion of incoming light.

She felt heat through her suit and looked down anxiously at Fei Long’s efforts, which were so foreign to her she wondered why she even bothered, in what appeared to be her last moments. The cylinder was almost certainly a power source, and it was certainly building up to an overload—one did not require multiple degrees in engineering, or particle theory, or whatever else it was the officers studied, to see that.

His fingers flew faster across the dual consoles faster than she could believe, and his eyes flicked back and forth between the readouts as he shook his head fiercely. Through the narrow slit in his work-suit’s viewer, she saw that he was squinting through the blinding light, as apparently his own visor’s light filter had failed. She quickly stepped between himself and the reactor, cupping her hands beside his visor as she did so, careful not to obstruct his view.

Impossibly, he seemed to work even faster after she did this, and just as she felt a palpable thrum begin to shake the deck plates, the light of the reactor began to dim and Fei Long’s efforts become more deliberate, his pace slowing until he was moving no faster than the average computer operator aboard the Pride of Prometheus.

“The self-destruct sequence has been disabled,” he said in a tremulous, scratchy voice. “I have assumed control of the primary computer.”

“Lancers, sound off,” Gnuko snapped, causing Atticus, Brasidas, Peleus, Lei and Lu to do so. When Sherman’s voice was notably absent, Lu Bu turned to see that he had collapsed near the door. A closer inspection revealed that his helmet had been compromised by one of the poisoned needles, the body of which was still lodged in his visor. But it looked like the tip had not made contact with his skin, at least from where Lu Bu was standing.

“Among men, Lu Bu,” Fei Long said, his voice having returned to something approaching his normal, admirably calm, tone.

“Among horses, Red Hare,” Lu Bu responded with a curt nod, which she hoped adequately conveyed her thanks, as she finished the famous saying regarding her namesake and his legendary steed.

The tag on her armor which bore her name, using the characters of her home world rather than Confederation Standard lettering, contained additional characters which formed the complete phrase: Lu Bu’s Red Hare. She knew that only two people aboard the Pride of Prometheus were likely to have read the ancient tome Romance of the Three Kingdoms, which she had nearly completed. Doctor Middleton was one, but she was unlikely to have participated in the creation of military equipment of any kind, which left only Fei Long.

“You have my eternal respect and gratitude, Lu Bu,” Fei Long said in a tone that took her by surprise, and she felt a flash of something which spread from her belly to her fingertips.

Before she could reply, Gnuko interrupted, “Can the chatter, you two. How long until you’ve finished, Mr. Fei?”

“I require three minutes and twenty three seconds to complete the upload of the program. A verification of its installation will require an additional minute, after which time we may return to the ship, Corporal Gnuko,” Fei Long replied matter-of-factly.

“Hear that, Lancers?” Gnuko barked. “We hold for four minutes; all other considerations are moot. Protect the ball!”

“Protect the ball!” the other five Lancers, including Lu Bu, repeated in unison. Lei and Atticus quickly took up positions flanking the door, while Gnuko and Brasidas swept the room. Peleus moved to Lu Bu’s flank, and the seconds ticked by slower than Lu Bu had ever known time to pass.

She felt sweat beading on her forehead, and she forced herself to take deep, measured breaths, but no further attacks materialized.

Fei Long finally stood from the console and withdrew his data slate’s connections.

“I have finished,” the young man said simply. “We may now return to the ship.”

“Repeat, Mr. Fei,” Corporal Gnuko said sternly. “Are we ‘mission accomplished,’ and is there anything else we need to do aboard this blighted thing?”

“My work here is done, Corporal Gnuko,” Fei Long said with conviction. “We have indeed accomplished our mission, but I suggest we make all haste to return. I have initiated a complete system’s reboot requiring approximately five minutes which has shut down all systems aboard the hub. After that interval, I make no guarantee that additional countermeasure will not be brought online.”

“You heard the man,” Gnuko snapped. “We move out; Peleus, bring Sherman. Lei, Brasidas: you get Thomas and Gong.”

“Yes, Corporal,” the Lancers replied.

They collected the bodies of their dead, with Atticus stopping to recover what was left of Laertes, which he then carried back to the shuttle.

As each Lancer passed by the place where Walter Joneson had fallen, they paused fractionally to make their respects to their fallen commander, and Lu Bu did likewise. She saw one of his vibro-knives lying on the deck and leaned down to collect it, finding it damaged but apparently repairable. She tucked it into her belt and clasped her hands reverently, with Fei Long doing likewise, before they returned to the shuttle in reverent silence.

Chapter XXXVIII: Repair and Regroup

“The shuttle has touched down in the hangar, Captain,” Commander Jersey reported.

“Good,” Middleton said absently, knowing it would be several hours before Garibaldi’s work crews had brought the priority systems back online. He wanted nothing more than to bug out as quickly as possible, but his strange particle generators were currently offline and he had prioritized repair of life support, weapons, and sensors—in that order—ahead of the point transfer system.

“The Chief says decks one through four have life support restored, Captain,” the Engineering petty officer reported.

“Would you ask the Chief, in as gentle a manner as you are capable, to ignore the manual if it expedites matters?” Middleton asked dryly.

The petty officer hesitated before nodding. “Yes, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Middleton muttered before activating Sergeant Joneson’s com-link. “I’d like an after-action report as soon as possible, Sergeant.”

When there was no reply, he checked to see if the message had gone through and saw that the connection had never been made. Furrowing his brow and assuming Joneson’s com-link had been damaged, he cycled through to the coded Lancer command channel and repeated, “Sergeant, I’d like an after-action report as soon as you’ve seen to your people.”

The connection was live, but there was a brief delay before a vaguely familiar man’s voice said, “This is Corporal Gnuko, Captain. I’ll have that report ready for you as soon as we’ve been cleared by Medical.”

Understanding the unspoken message the Corporal had just sent all-too-well, Captain Middleton swallowed the sudden knot in his throat. “That will be fine, Corporal,” he said staidly. “See to your people first.”

“Yes, Captain,” Gnuko replied stiffly before signing off.

The silence throughout the bridge was truly deafening, and Middleton’s ears began to ring at learning of Walter Joneson, his Lancer Sergeant and one of the few people he had called a friend, having fallen in the line of duty.

Lieutenant Commander Jersey approached the command chair and, clasping his hands behind his back, said, “I can take over here if you’d like to inspect the Lancers, Captain.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Middleton said evenly, “but that’s not necessary. The task before us is to get this ship’s systems back online as quickly as possible, and we can’t afford to indulge in distractions.”

“In that case,” Jersey said with a consolatory nod, “I’d like permission to go help the repair crews. I spent two tours in Engineering on one of these Hammerheads back when the clean-head look was fashionable, and I think I can help.”

“Permission granted, Commander,” Middleton assented, and after he had gone the Captain began to peruse the stream of reports coming through to the bridge.

Six hours later, a comm. request from Chief Garibaldi came through to Middleton’s chair.

“How’s your progress, Chief?” the Captain asked.

“We’ve got every spare relay installed and have hotwired more systems than a lifer doing time for grand theft whatever,” Garibaldi replied raggedly. “But the life support system’s back up, you’ve got sensors within operating specs, and the weapons are ‘up’ in theory, but we put too much of a strain on these systems concurrently and we’re in for it. The strange particle generators are almost finished; I’ve just got to run a few tests from my little instruction manual here—unless you want me to ignore the point transfer calibration process entirely?” he added sarcastically.

“How long, Chief?” Middleton asked.

“My guess? Twenty minutes,” Garibaldi replied seriously. “Then we can spin the systems up and make a jump—so long as we don’t try fighting at the same time. There is just no way that this grid will support more than one or the other, and we haven’t even gotten the shields back online yet. But I can rig them up with enough juice to make a point transfer between now and jump-time.”

“Good work, Chief,” Middleton said just as seriously. “Update me as you feel appropriate.”

“Will do, Captain,” the Chief replied before severing the connection.

Just then the doors to the bridge cycled open, and Corporal Gnuko set foot on the bridge, followed by Fei Long and, surprisingly, by Jo.

“My ready room,” Middleton gestured, standing from his chair. “Ensign Sarkozy, you have the conn.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replied as Middleton led the trio to his private office.

Once inside, he gestured for them to sit before realizing he only had two chairs opposite his own.

“I’ll stand, Captain,” Gnuko said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Very good, Corporal,” Middleton said as he sat in his own chair, and Fei Long did likewise beside Jo. “Let’s have it,” he said, gesturing to the trio in no particular order.

Fei Long leaned forward. “We successfully infiltrated the ComStat hub and I was able to upload the program into the mainframe.”

“Do we have control of the system?” Middleton asked, his hopes rising even in the face of the mission have carried the price it had.

“Not control, no,” Fei Long said hesitantly. “I was unaware of certain protocols in place, but now that I have interfaced with the system and collected the pertinent data, I am certain I—“

“Please, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said through gritted teeth, “the short version.”

Fei Long took a short breath. “We can now fully monitor all activity across the ComStat sub-network of which this particular hub is a part,” he explained. “However, to send a transmission at this point using my hidden program would reveal the program’s existence and likely result in its deletion; trapping data for later perusal, however, is a simple matter which is already under way.” His face took on a look that bordered on frustration and disappointment, “To create a two-way communications system will require a slight modification to my program, and subsequent installation at a separate hub.” He hung his head deliberately. “I have failed you, Captain, and I willingly submit myself to whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”

Middleton realized he had been holding his breath as the young man reported his partial success, and he released that breath as he processed the update. “In truth, Mr. Fei,” he said while leaning forward with his fingers laced together over his desk, “I doubted you could do this at all. You have done something which, frankly, most would consider impossible.” Middleton shook his head emphatically, “You haven’t failed this ship, its crew, or the MSP; you may have just dealt the biggest blow to the anarchy and discord spreading like wildfire through the Spineward Sectors. I don’t want to see you hanging your head over this minor setback, do I make myself clear?”

Fei Long raised his eyes, and Middleton could see the sting of defeat in the young man’s countenance, but it was clear that his words of encouragement had not been dismissed outright. “You do, Captain…thank you,” he said graciously, bowing his head in deference.

Middleton nodded and turned to Gnuko. “How is your unit, Corporal?”

“We took losses, Captain,” the Corporal said, clearly uneasy about this first debriefing as the Lancers’ commanding officer. “Six of us made it back, but we managed to retrieve the remains of all but the Sergeant.”

“I can assure you, Corporal Gnuko,” Middleton said with a snort, harsh laugh, “that Sergeant Joneson would have been more upset about a funeral with his body than a memorial service without. It’s the way he would have wanted it.”

Gnuko nodded, and Middleton could see a sliver of relief cross his features. “Thank you, sir.”

“Doctor,” the Captain continued, “can I assume you’re here to discuss the strike team’s status?”

“Yes, among other things,” she replied. “The entire away team was exposed to incredibly high levels of radiation with most of the exposure found in the cranium; I’ll spare you the details, but I’ve already started them on a therapeutic regimen which will require them to be on active bed-rest for at least a week. During that time they’ll experience neurological deficits which, in my professional opinion, would make them unfit for military duty. If not for that illegal armor of theirs,” she added grudgingly, “they would have all collapsed before reaching the shuttle.”

Middleton was surprised to hear of radiation poisoning, but nodded slowly. “What’s their long-term prognosis?”

“Given the short interval between exposure and first treatment, excellent,” Jo replied with certainty. “After the recovery period, given twice daily therapy sessions and adherence to the prescribed chemical treatments, they should have no long-term effects.”

“Excellent,” Middleton said feeling genuinely relieved. He very much disliked the idea of operating with only a dozen Lancers on the ship for any longer than absolutely necessary, and he was glad that his people would make a complete recovery. “Good work, Doctor.”

Jo shook her head. “I can’t take all the credit; Doctor Cho knows a lot more about this type of treatment than I do. Without him, I couldn’t guarantee such a positive outcome.”

“Please relay my thanks to Doctor Cho,” Middleton said, keeping the surprise out of his voice. Doctor Cho had filed a rather venomous complaint against Doctor Middleton over the triage incident which had made the rounds through the Pride’s social grapevine. That they were at least working together again was just extra good news, as far as the Captain was concerned. “Also, given the ship’s current condition, I’m inclined to place the strike team members on a twenty four hour medical hold,” he held a hand up when Jo made to argue, “after which, circumstances allowing, they are to follow your regimen to the letter. In the event of emergency and the ship requires their service, I would appreciate if sickbay were to conduct a thorough neurological exam in conjunction with each therapy session, so that their capabilities are properly measured. Is that satisfactory, Doctor?”

Jo bit her lip for several seconds before nodding. “It is.”

Captain Middleton stood and gestured to Gnuko’s sleeve, “You’re going to need to get that fixed, Sergeant.”

Gnuko clamped his teeth quietly before nodding and snapping a salute. “Thank you, Captain.”

“I can’t exactly make it official, of course, given the degree of separation between our given branches of the MSP,” Middleton said, “but Sergeant Joneson made it quite clear to me his preference to succeed him in the event of his inability to continue in the role. You were at the top of his list, Gnuko, and I’d like to be the first to congratulate you on impressing the Hades out of a man who was not easily impressed.” Middleton then stood and thrust his hand across the desk.

The newly-made Sergeant nodded and accepted his hand. “Thank you, Captain; he was a good man.”

“Yes he was,” Middleton agreed, “and he’s left some awfully big shoes to fill.”

“I’ll do my best, Captain,” Gnuko said confidently.

“Dismissed, Sergeant,” Middleton said as warmly as he could manage.

After the Sergeant had left, Middleton turned to Fei Long. “I’ve arranged for the quarters you’ve been using to become your permanent lodgings,” he said. “Your service to the ship, the MSP, and your fellow Confederation citizens in general has earned that and more. Unfortunately for you,” he said with a wry grin, “you’ll have to settle for a private bed and bath for pulling off a hack that should be celebrated among your peers.”

“I understand the need for secrecy, Captain,” he said, standing from his chair. “You have my word that I will not violate your trust in this matter. Besides,” he added with a lopsided grin of his own, “I do not seek praise for my actions. I merely seek to test myself in the most challenging ways I can; the satisfaction of passing each test is reward enough.”

“So you won’t be needing the quarters, then?” Middleton asked straight-faced.

Fei Long hesitated before catching Middleton’s eye and bowing his head. “I defer to your judgment in that matter, Captain.”

“Good answer, Mr. Fei,” the Captain said evenly. “Dismissed.”

After the young man had left, Middleton allowed a smile to creep over his face.

“You enjoyed that far too much,” Jo chided, and he found the familiarity in her tone more than a little comforting.

“Someone’s got to keep these kids in line,” he sighed as he slumped back into his chair. “With Walt gone to meet the Saint, the only military man aboard the ship who’s older than I am is Lieutenant Commander Jersey.” He rubbed his eyes for several seconds as the past few hours seemed to catch up to him in a sudden, draining flood of images, voices, and emotion. “When did I get to be ‘the old guy’?” he asked rhetorically as he ran his fingers over his head before gesturing to his short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. “At this point I just might prefer an early grave to seeing the rest of this turn grey.”

“It suits you,” she said with a shrug. “It can’t be said of all men, but it really does make you look more distinguished.”

“Distinguished,” he scoffed. “Now there’s a word that women virtually invented so they could tell a man he’s past his prime without coming out and saying it.”

“Take it how you will,” she said, clearly hiding a self-satisfied smirk behind her suddenly businesslike demeanor. “But there is another reason I came here.”

“What is it?” he asked after flipping a mental switch and bringing himself back into the moment.

“Proximity to that neutron star, combined with the dangerously powerful emissions coming off that ComStat hub out there,” she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, “wouldn’t normally be a problem. But without the ship’s shields to deflect the various radiations—including an unhealthy dose of x-rays—we’re now bathing ourselves in, I’m going to have to administer basic radiation countermeasures for the entire crew,” she explained, to which Middleton nodded his approval, prompting her to add, “I’ve only got enough supplies on board for three days’ worth of treatments, and we’ll need at least three weeks’ worth even if we manage to get out of here in the next six hours. Every hour we stay here increases the amount of radiation we’ll carry with us, and require further treatments in the future until we can clean the ship.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Middleton said cautiously.

“It’s not that serious,” she assured him, “at least, not in the immediate sense. The level of exposure we’ve received will result in something like a three thousand percent increase in cancerous cell formations, as well as instigate the development of certain progressive motor neuron diseases. Both of those conditions are treatable with modern medicine even if we wait for symptoms to develop over the next few years, but the expense and discomfort are significant. Whereas if we get medicine at a nearby Core World,” she added pointedly, “the cost will be less than one percent financially speaking, and the side effects of treatment shouldn’t adversely impact more than a handful of crewmembers to the point they need to be taken off active duty for any length of time.”

Middleton breathed a sigh of relief. “All right,” he agreed, “we’ll make the nearest Core World our first stop on the way back to Sector 25.”

“Sector 25?” she asked in open puzzlement.

“It’s where the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is currently headquartered,” he explained, adding with a shake of his head, “that is, if the MSP still exists, or if Admiral Montagne is still in command. We didn’t exactly have a lot of time to circle the wagons, if you get my meaning,” he said before his mood darkened. “I’m not even sure I’ll be in command after reporting in…I haven’t exactly followed his orders to the letter.”

Jo held up a hand haltingly. “I’d really rather not discuss military politics, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

“Of course,” he acquiesced. “Thank you for your report, and your flexibility, Doctor.”

Jo nodded curtly and left the ready room, after which Middleton took a look at the local star charts and felt his guts tighten when he saw that the nearest Core World—in fact, the only Core World within three days’ travel from their current position—was the Hedonist system.

But the system’s name didn’t bother him. What bothered him was that it was solidly in the ‘grey’ portion of the Sector map which High Captain Manning had secretly provided the MSP.

Meaning its current droid status was anything but certain, which was far from a good sign.

Chapter XXXIX: One Headache after Another

“Point transfer complete, Captain,” the helmsman reported. “Shield drain is within parameters; shedding sump now.” A tense few seconds ensued until the ship broke free of the sump, after which the helmsman breathed a short sigh of relief. “We’ve broken through, Captain.”

“Good work, Helm,” Middleton acknowledged as the tactical overlay began to populate with the local system’s features. It was a relatively less-traveled, binary star system. This made it essentially uninhabitable outside of properly-shielded modules, or those which were positioned within the EM field of one of the system’s three gas giants.

“Captain,” Fei Long said in his usual, calm voice from the Comm. section, “I am detecting unusual transmissions…they appear to be consistent with droid activity.”

“Set Condition One throughout the ship,” Commander Jersey barked. “Battle stations!”

“Give me a picture, Sensors,” Middleton said evenly as the crew sprang into action, knowing they had been fortunate to avoid an encounter during their previous series of jumps. There was only one more jump from their current position to the Hedonist system, so all the Pride of Prometheus needed to do was maintain distance from the enemy vessels until the jump drives could spin up.

If only it would actually play out that way, Middleton thought as he readied for the inevitable battle.

“Reading four vessels, Captain,” Sensors reported. “The readings are distorted…it will take some time to get precise measurements, but it looks like three of the ships are in formation and emitting radiation profiles identical to the ship we exchanged fire with at the depot.”

“What about the fourth?” Middleton pressed as he flipped through the accumulated tactical information on the droid vessels contained in the Pride’s database.

“I’m working up a reading now, Captain,” the Sensors operator replied. “There’s a lot of interference from the nearby gas giant; it’s almost large enough to be a brown dwarf. But preliminary data…” she trailed off before nodding her head curtly. “The fourth ship’s radiation profile is a match for the one we recorded five months ago at the bioweapon plant, Captain Middleton.”

Middleton felt his stomach tighten. “Well, at least we’re all acquainted,” he said grimly as he saw that the fourth vessel was far closer to the Pride of Prometheus than Middleton would have liked—especially since Garibaldi been unable to get more than 50% out of the power grid since the near-miss with the neutron star. That meant they wouldn’t be fighting and cycling the jump drives at the same time, and against four droid ships the odds of the Pride and her crew surviving were…less than good.

“All four vessels are moving to intercept, Captain,” Sarkozy reported, and Middleton found the anxiety he had come to expect in her voice notably absent. “At current acceleration rates, the three ship formation will enter extreme firing range in thirty two minutes; the fourth, larger, vessel will do so in eight minutes.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could outrun them?” Middleton asked dryly.

Lieutenant Commander Jersey shook his head. “The fourth ship’s not much faster than we are, but the other three are moving like corvettes; there’s no way we stay out of firing range, and there’s no nearby planet to use for cover.”

“Then the decision’s made,” Middleton said as he set his jaw. “Open a hailing frequency.”

“Captain,” Ensign Jardine said evenly, “the droids haven’t been reported to accept any offers of surrender thus far in the crisis, or even respond to such messages.”

“I’m well aware of that, Ensign,” Middleton said coolly. “Open the channel.”

“Channel open, Captain,” Jardine reported after a brief delay.

“This is Captain Tim Middleton of the MSP Cruiser Pride of Prometheus,” he said in a carrying voice, opting to use the name he preferred rather than the one he was born with. “I would like to negotiate on behalf of my crew to safeguard their well-being…but judging by intelligence we’ve gathered on the engagements between my kind and yours, it’s clear you wouldn’t care to listen to my plea.”

He stopped mid-sentence and closed his eyes before taking a deep breath. He knew this situation was utterly hopeless, but that didn’t mean he was going to go gently into the night.

“Which is why I’ll save us all the act,” he said fiercely as he opened his eyes. “Your kind has fired on hundreds of vessels and invaded dozens of star systems, resulting in the deaths of as-yet uncounted sentient beings. You have made no attempt to negotiate a peaceful end to these hostilities, which would at least mark you as sentient beings yourselves. However, given your apparent lack of such a simple emotion as ‘sympathy,’ I have no choice but to treat you like the disease that you are and eradicate however much of your vile horde I can. But long after we’re dead and gone, with the hull of our ship dismantled and repurposed into components which will no doubt serve to support your continued acts of mindless aggression, I promise that those who follow us will prove more than capable of grinding your processing units into sand and casting the remnants of your blighted plague into the nearest sun.”

Middleton made a slashing gesture across his throat, and Ensign Jardine cut the channel. “Transmission ended, Captain,” the Ensign reported crisply.

“Let’s not make this any easier on them than we need to, people,” Middleton said, sweeping the bridge with a piercing look. “Let’s spit in their eye and meet the Saint with our heads held high.”

“Aye, Captain,” came a chorus of confident voices which filled him with the only kind of pride he had ever known: the pride of working alongside such fine people as these.

“Shields to maximum,” Middleton barked, “and divert all available power to the forward array for an overcharged salvo; I want to bloody their noses before we go down.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarkozy replied promptly.

“Helm,” Middleton continued, “adjust course to make orbit of the nearest planet.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman replied. “Estimate we’ll make orbit in forty eight minutes.”

“Engineering,” the Captain continued, as he issued what may well be the final round of pre-battle orders of his career, “tell Chief Garibaldi to prepare for maintenance on the forward laser array. We’ll need to keep them online as long as possible.”

The Engineering officer relayed the orders before replying, “The Chief wants to confirm you’re pulling his crews off maintaining the shields.”

“Confirmed,” Middleton acknowledged. “He is to tend the forward array to the exclusion of all else, including life support.”

“Aye, Captain,” the crewman replied.

“The fourth vessel will enter extreme firing range is two minutes, Captain,” Sarkozy reported. “It will take another six minutes until our heavy lasers enter their maximum range.”

“Understood, Tactical,” Middleton replied, and judging from the size of the fourth vessel—whose configuration was completely different than the other three—they would be lucky to still have firing control in eight minutes.

“I do not understand, Doctor Middleton,” Lu Bu said as she followed the doctor through the corridor at a jog.

Not long after the ship had completed its point transfer, during which Doctor Middleton and Lu Bu had just been making their way to the mess hall for the midday meal, the Doctor’s hand had gone to her head as though she were suffering from a severe headache.

Then she had grabbed Lu Bu by the wrist and told her to come with her in a dire tone.

“I can’t explain, Bu,” the Doctor said tersely. “But you must come with me to the bridge.”

Lu Bu shook her head as she followed the other woman into the lift. “Bridge protocol very strict,” she argued. “Lu Bu is only Lancer; this one cannot enter bridge unless summoned!”

Doctor Middleton, for the first time since they had shared their meals, completely seemed to miss Lu Bu’s mis-tense in not using the first person to describe herself, which only served to heighten Lu Bu’s general anxiety at seeing the Doctor so clearly upset.

The lift began to move and Doctor Middleton turned with a grave look on her face. “Bu, I need you to understand that what I’m about to do won’t be well-understood by the rest of the crew. You’re going to learn something about me that I wish we’d had time to talk about privately first…I just ask that you make up your own mind as to what it means, and only after you’ve had time to think about it on your own. Can you do that?” she asked as she input her Condition One bridge access code into the lift’s interface.

“Doctor Middleton…” Lu Bu felt a surge of conflicting feelings. What could the Doctor be planning that would require her to ‘make up her own mind’ about? “If you are planning to endanger the ship,” Lu Bu said as she drew a frightening conclusion, and almost without thinking she took a step toward the older woman—a woman who, in many ways, Lu Bu had come to think of as the mother she always wanted.

“No, Bu,” Jo said fiercely as the computer chimed, having accepted her codes, “I’m planning to save it!”

The doors to the bridge cycled open just as Sarkozy reported, “Enemy vessel will enter firing range in thirty seconds.”

Middleton turned to see Jo step onto the bridge, with Lu Bu standing so close to her as to almost touch. The young, powerfully-built Lancer had a look of concern on her face, while the Doctor locked her eyes with the Captain’s.

“Doctor, this isn’t the time—“ he began just before his ex-wife reached up beside her head and giving her hair a sharp tug, causing a small tuft to come off. He watched in horror as she reached up with her other hand and withdrew a small, crystalline device the size of a finger—apparently from within her skull!—and held it out toward him.

“You need to transmit the message contained in this and you need to do it now, Captain,” she said urgently.

“Jo,” he said, his mouth suddenly agape at what he had just seen—and drawing a startling conclusion he very much did not want to believe.

“Tim!” she said sharply, rousing him from his momentary shock as she glanced up at the countdown on the main viewer. “You need to do this right now.”

All his experience and all his training told him he should do anything but what she had suggested. But he knew this woman—or at least, he thought he did—and he also knew that she had never once given him cause to doubt her sincerity. Of all her flaws, dishonesty was not among them.

“Mr. Fei,” Middleton snapped, his mind made up, “transmit the message.”

“Yes, Captain,” the young man said as he plucked the device from her fingers. A few seconds later, he had accessed its contents using a portable scanner and uploaded it to his console. “Message sent, Captain,” he said.

“Firing range in five…four…three…two…one,” Sarkozy reported, and what ensued was the longest three seconds of Middleton’s life as he awaited the inevitable pounding from the oncoming warship—which was easily half again as large as the Pride, and likely packed a far bigger punch than even its size suggested.

“Status report,” Middleton growled after it became clear the enemy vessel would not fire—yet.

“The enemy vessel is coming about, Captain,” Sarkozy reported in surprise bordering on shock.

Just then, Jo fell to her knees and clutched the sides of her head as her face twisted in agony.

“I am reading intense comm. activity, Captain Middleton,” Fei Long reported an instant before Jo had fallen to her knees.

“Can you make anything of it?” Middleton demanded, very much disliking the sudden uncertainty of the situation. He didn’t wish to die in a firefight with an overwhelmingly superior foe, but at least when that had been the inevitable outcome he knew he could manage the last few minutes of his life reasonably well. Now, however, new wrenches had been tossed into the gears…and Middleton disliked unaccounted variables almost as much as the prospect of death.

“No, Captain,” Fei Long replied promptly. “I can only conclude, from the apparent structure and duration of the exchange, that this is a significant exchange of information.”

“They…say,” Jo breathed between sharp, panting gasps as she knelt on the deck, “they say…they…can’t win…against three of them,” she yelped wordlessly as her body was wracked with a brief spasm. “They say…you should…retreat!”

It took him only a second to realize what Jo was saying—and to realize that doing as she suggested ran wholly counter to his way of thinking. “Tactical,” Middleton barked, “I want fresh simulations based on current intel on these vessels and I want them ten minutes ago!”

“Re-running for a three-on-two scenario, Captain,” Sarkozy replied promptly.

“Make it fast, Sarkozy,” he growled before turning to Jo, who was still gasping on her knees as she clutched her head in obvious agony.

Lancer Lu Bu wore a look of shocked disbelief as she looked at the Doctor.

“Lancer,” Middleton said, and when the young woman failed to respond he repeated, “Lancer!”

Lu Bu tore her eyes from the Doctor and raised a numb salute. “Captain.”

“Escort Doctor Middleton to her new quarters,” the Captain said through gritted teeth before adding, “in the brig. You are to report to me when you have done so, do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Lu Bu acknowledged, just as Jo’s hands fell from her temples and her features relaxed fractionally.

“Transmissions between the vessels have ceased, Captain,” Ensign Jardine reported before adding, “I’m reading a blanket of jamming signals from the three vessels. Our comm. can’t penetrate this level of interference, sir.”

“What is the current attitude of the fourth vessel?” Middleton demanded as Lu Bu physically helped the Doctor to her feet before leading her off the bridge.

“No change, Captain,” reported Sensors. “They’re continuing to maneuver for an interdictory position between the Pride and the hostile formation, which is still on an intercept course with us. Estimated time to firing range is eleven minutes.”

“Sarkozy,” Middleton said evenly, “I need the results of those simulations.”

“The initial batch is seventy percent complete, Captain,” the Ensign reported, “I will have results in two minutes.”

“We don’t have two minutes,” Middleton snapped before deciding on a course of action, “and we’re not going to tuck our tails and run. Helm: maneuver to support the fourth vessel; we’ll act as its wingman like Sarkozy did for us aboard the Elysium’s Wings.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman acknowledged.

“Captain,” Commander Jersey interjected, “our maneuvers were carefully coordinated between the Pride and the Wings due to constant communication.”

“We’ll just have to play this one by feel, Commander,” Middleton grudged, well aware of the myriad obstacles before them.

“Then I request permission to take the helm, sir,” Jersey said without missing a beat.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Middleton said dryly, gesturing to the console. “Permission granted, Commander.”

After Jersey had taken over at the helm, Middleton knew he needed to bolster morale however he was able. So he activated the ship-wide announcement channel and raised his voice, “This is the Captain. We are about to engage in a firefight with an uncertain ally and an even more uncertain outcome. I’m not going blow smoke up your skirts or make a lengthy speech; you all know your jobs better than anyone else on the ship. Stay focused, stay calm, and stay in the fight,” he said sternly before smirking. “Whoever said ‘Pride goes before a fall’ never met this crew.” He could almost feel the bridge crew respond to his words as he cut the channel and swiveled to face Fei Long. “Mr. Fei,” he said lightly, “this ship could use some fire support, don’t you agree?”

“I do, indeed,” Fei Long replied as he stood from his console. “I will require several able-bodied crewmen to assist me with readying the ten remaining Starfire missiles for deployment.”

“They’ll meet you in the cargo bay,” Middleton said with a nod.

“Simulations complete, Captain,” Sarkozy reported after Fei Long had left. “I’m forwarding the relevant results to your console, as well as to the gun deck.”

“Very good, Ensign,” he replied, knowing they would need every available resource, no matter how small.

Chapter XL: Fight Out of It

The Pride of Prometheus shuddered slightly as the first strikes of enemy fire splashed against its shields.

“Forward shields at 42%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported, which was more than slightly surprising.

“That shot should have brought the forward shields down outright,” Middleton said darkly. He was equally glad for the fact that his shields were still up, and upset by the continuing unpredictability of the battle as it began to unfold.

“I’m reading several, distinct impacts, Captain,” Sarkozy reported. “This was not the same primary weapon like we encountered during our first exchange with a ship of this type.” The icon of their ‘ally’ vessel flashed as Sarkozy reported, “Massive power surge detected from the battle cruiser.”

Just then the lead vessel of the oncoming trio had its icon flash red, signaling that it had been grievously damaged.

“The first destroyer is showing major fluctuations on its power grid like nothing I’ve ever seen. They might be going critical,” Sensors speculated.

“The destroyers are showing similar power surges; they’re returning fire,” Sarkozy reported as the battle cruiser’s shields visibly flared. “I’m reading shield collapse along the battle cruiser’s dorsal facing; she’s rolling to present her ventral side.”

The chime on his chair signaled an incoming com-link, and Middleton glanced down to see it was from Lu Bu. “Report, Lancer.”

“Doctor Middleton is transferred to brig, Captain,” the young woman replied.

He had seen the status update flash across his chair’s console when the Master at Arms had received the Doctor into his custody, but he had wanted the young woman to report to him directly regardless. “Thank you, Lancer; get down to the cargo bay and help the other Lancers.”

“Yes, Captain,” she replied before he severed the link.

“Continue on course, Helm,” Middleton ordered, “I want to add our guns to the fight as soon as possible.” He then flicked his com-link on as he activated the main speakers inside the cargo bay. “Mr. Fei, where are my missiles!?”

Fei Long deftly activated his wrist-mounted com-link and replied, “Four missiles are loaded on the shuttle, Captain. I estimate another twelve minutes before we have loaded all ten weapons onto the craft,” he said confidently.

Just then Corporal Gnuko fell over unexpectedly, dropping the nose of the missile which he and the Tracto-ans had been maneuvering into the shuttle’s cramped cabin and causing Fei Long to wince at such careless handling of a live, thermonuclear device.

“Perhaps thirteen minutes, Captain,” he corrected, attempting to relay the most accurate information possible as he maneuvered the grav-cart next to the makeshift rack the crew had built to hold the Starfire missiles.

“Why are you loading them onto the shuttle?” demanded the Captain. “I want them dropped out of the cargo bay, Mr. Fei, not prepared for transfer.”

“I appreciate your demands, Captain,” Fei Long replied calmly as he unclamped the safety latches holding the next missile in place as the grav-cart slowly rose in the air to accommodate the four meter long, half-meter in diameter device’s not-insignificant bulk. “But, to give you the short version, deployment will require manual target acquisition and programming due to the heavy jamming signal which the enemy vessels are putting out. Seeing as only I am capable of doing this, I will accompany the missiles on board the shuttle before manually assigning targets and releasing them.”

There was a brief pause. “If that was the short version, assume I’ll never require the long one, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said eventually. “Have the pilot bring you back as quickly as possible when you’ve finished deploying the weapons.”

Fei Long hesitated before replying, “Understood, Captain.” The channel went dead and Fei Long breathed a sigh of relief at still being able to breathe at all, following his utterance of a borderline falsehood. The device implanted in his brain made such an infraction a potentially deadly act, but Fei Long had not wished to trouble his Captain with such a trivial matter as the one he had yet to deal with regarding the shuttle’s assigned pilot.

The young man risked a glance at the pilot, whose unconscious body was still propped up against the side of the craft. The pilot had slipped during the loading of the first missile and struck his unprotected head against the edge of the ramp. The injury did not appear serious, but he had not yet regained consciousness in any capacity.

“Lu,” he heard Gnuko snap, “get over here and lend a hand, for Murphy’s sake.”

Fei Long felt a thrill course through his body at hearing that the young Lancer had arrived in the cargo bay. But he fought down his base, animal urges as he knew that they would do nothing but hinder his efforts to assist the crew he had come to think of as his family—and right now that family, very much unlike the one of his birth, desperately needed him.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Lu Bu replied from the doorway just as Fei Long finished prepping the fifth missile for transfer, and he noted—with hopefully-concealed appreciation—just how tightly her armor, Red Hare, hugged the broad, powerful lines of her body.

Snapping his thoughts back into focus, Fei Long called over the din, “Missile ready, Sergeant.” Just then a series of klaxons went off overhead, signaling incoming fire.

A second later the ship was rocked by an impact, and it was only by blind luck that Fei Long managed to stop the missile from crashing into the floor as his hand fell on the grav-cart’s control and managed to compensate for the sudden shift in the ship’s attitude.

Then he looked up and saw that it hadn’t been totally blind luck—Lu Bu had grabbed hold of the missile’s far end and using her incredibly powerful physique, physically held the end of the twelve hundred pound device in place as the grav-cart stabilized under the new weight distribution.

“Thank you,” Fei Long said shortly as his eyes lingered on her hips for a moment before he directed the grav-cart to move over to the shuttle’s loading ramp, down which Gnuko and the three surviving Tracto-an Lancers were only now descending after successfully loading the fourth weapon.

Lu Bu helped him direct the sleek, new-style grav-cart into position, after which time she assisted the other Lancers in maneuvering it into position on the stack of missiles already inside. Fei Long then returned the grav-cart to the metal rack containing the other half of the Starfire missiles.

“Forward shields at 35%, Captain,” the Shields operator reported.

“Status of the battle cruiser?” the Captain demanded.

“Their ventral shields are holding against the smaller weapons the enemy are bringing to bear,” Sarkozy reported. “I can’t be precise, but they’re still over half strength on that facing and at maximum on the bow and stern, while the dorsal facing is recharging.” The spherical representation of the Pride of Prometheus’ effective firing range slowly moved forward until the nearest of the three enemy vessels was just within it, and Sarkozy reported, “Firing range achieved, Captain.”

“Helm, provide a firing window for the forward battery,” Middleton ordered.

“Window open in ten seconds, Captain,” Jersey replied gruffly.

The bow of the Pride swept around slowly as the ship briefly shifted course out of its proscribed vector which would move it to provide support for the droid battle cruiser.

The forward batteries fired in unison less than a second after the Pride’s bearing stabilized, and less than a second after they had fired, Commander Jersey returned the vessel to its original course.

“Seven for ten, Captain,” Sarkozy reported before adding bitterly, “enemy shields are holding. No damage detected.”

“Captain,” Jardine called in a raised voice, “I’m getting strange signals from the wounded destroyer. It looks like—“

“I’m reading multiple inbound missiles from that ship, Captain!” the Sensors operator shrilled. “Ten—twenty—thirty six distinct, inbound objects.”

“Verify that count,” Middleton said heavily, knowing full well that thirty six Starfire missiles would easily destroy the Pride of Prometheus in its current state.

“Count confirmed, sir,” the operator reported.

“Those aren’t missiles, Captain,” Jardine interrupted, and when Middleton turned to face him the Comm. Officer’s skin had turned ashen. “They’re ships.”

“What?” demanded Middleton.

“Confirmed, Captain,” Sarkozy piped in as she slid over to the Sensors station, “we’re reading individual shields, drives, comm. traffic, the works; they share the same twelve-sided design as the destroyers, but measure ten meters across and appear to have launched from the damaged warship.”

Just then the damaged destroyer’s icon flashed red several times before going grey. “The first destroyer is gone, Captain; its point transfer system went critical just after those smaller ships cleared the vicinity.”

“Are they lifeboats of some kind?” Middleton asked during a rare instance of his mouth working faster than his mind. He immediately rebuked his subconscious for seeking the easy way out of their current circumstances.

“Negative,” Sarkozy said after returning to her Tactical group, “they look more like fighters, judging by their acceleration and energy output.”

Middleton felt the urge to squirm but resisted. The one thing the Pride of Prometheus was completely ill-equipped to deal with was a full wing of fighters, which could easily swarm the larger, slower Cruiser and pick it apart while staying clear of her big guns’ firing arc.

“Let’s prime the point defense turrets,” he said, as though it was necessary, “and pray to the Saint our big guns can pick them off before they get here.”

“The battle cruiser is firing its primary weapon,” the Sensors operator reported, and Captain Middleton looked up to the tactical overlay to see the second destroyer’s icon flash red before going grey. “Target vessel is destroyed, Captain; no fighter launches detected.”

Before anyone could celebrate the total destruction of the second ship, the icon of the battle cruiser flashed red several times, making Middleton’s stomach turn.

“The remaining destroyer has fired its main weapon,” Sarkozy reported. “The battle cruiser’s shields have completely collapsed and I’m seeing structural damage to their ventral hull. Those fighters are closing fast on the battle cruiser’s position—ETA twelve minutes.”

“Engage the fighters,” Middleton ordered, and Commander Jersey began to do precisely that as the Pride adjusted its course and speed to move away from the faltering battle cruiser. “That cruiser’s going to have to handle the destroyer on its own.”

“If the destroyer fires its primary weapon again,” Sarkozy said after performing some calculations, “it appears the battle cruiser will sustain, at minimum, critical damage and be knocked out of the fight.”

“If those fighters close to grips with either of our ships, it’s only a countdown to the inevitable,” Middleton countered, knowing full well that the Tactical Officer was correct. “We’re just going to have to hope our wingman’s got enough left in the tank to knock the destroyer’s primary weapon offline before it can fire again.”

“The interval between shots of those siege weapons, combined with the continued fire being exchanged, suggests—“ Sarkozy began.

“I know the situation, Ensign,” Middleton cut her off before activating his com-link. “Mr. Fei, I need an update.”

Lu Bu grunted with effort as she slid the final missile into the shuttlecraft, wiping the sweat from her brow as she saw Corporal Gnuko—and even Peleus—begin to tremble from the extreme exertion of the past few minutes.

“The missiles are loaded aboard the shuttle, Captain,” the young man replied a few seconds after Lu Bu and her companions had finished loading the final missile. “We will launch in one minute; I require a package of targets to program once we have cleared the shuttle.” A moment later, Fei Long looked down at his com-link and nodded, “I have received the package, Captain; I estimate the weapons will fire in seven minutes.”

Lu Bu cast a doubtful look at the still-unconscious shuttle pilot, who Atticus was dragging into the shuttle via the side door. “We need new pilot,” she said in Confederation Standard.

“Of that, I am aware,” Fei Long replied curtly as he jumped up on top of the first row of missiles before sliding toward the cockpit with a look of determination.

“You are not rated for this craft,” she snapped in her native tongue while Corporal Gnuko entered the cabin via the rear, cargo ramp. “Captain Middleton must have his best pilot on this mission; we should wait for a replacement.”

“I assure you that I have logged over three hundred hours in various small craft cockpit configurations,” Fei Long riposted. “I am more than qualified to fly this mission.”

“You?” she scoffed as she clambered over the missiles while the cargo ramp slowly raised behind the four of them—five, including the unconscious pilot. “You have never flown any spacecraft; I have read your file!”

“I confess my only experience is in virtual sims operating at three hundred percent regular speed. Still…I am pleasantly surprised to find you have been reading up on me,” he quipped as he slotted into the co-pilot’s chair.

She felt herself go red-faced at his suggestion and slapped the back of his head with probably more force than she should have. “I have interfaced with this craft, and of the four conscious crewmembers aboard the shuttle, my reflexes are best and I am rated for emergency operation of such a vehicle.”

“Why do you think I chose this chair?” he said with an exasperated sigh as he rubbed the back of his head before gesturing toward the pilot’s chair. A moment later, Fei Long’s fingers flicked across the various switches and control icons which put the shuttle through its pre-flight routine, and there was an audible hum as the systems came online.

Lu Bu strapped into the pilot’s chair and assisted in the pre-flight routine wordlessly, casting occasional glances over at Fei Long as he carried out his portion of the procedure.

Corporal Gnuko ducked his head into the cockpit and proffered a pair of head bags with attached com-link ear buds before asking hesitantly, “Are you sure you two can fly this thing?”

“Yes,” Lu Bu snapped as she snatched a head bag and placed it over her face, after which she placed the ear bud and gave it a test. She then activated the self-sealing apparatus to lock behind her jaw, ears and occipital bone, at which time it sealed and she began to breathe her own recycled air.

Fei Long did likewise, and when he spoke she found his irritating voice to be thankfully muffled, “Shuttlecraft Galileo making emergency liftoff in twenty seconds; all personnel are to evacuate the shuttle bay. Repeat: evacuate shuttle bay in sixteen seconds in preparation for rapid decompression.”

The seconds ticked by, and the light above the cockpit’s main viewport flashed yellow before turning green, which said the shuttle bay was now cleared for an emergency liftoff.

Lu Bu pulled back on the manual controls and the craft lifted a half meter from the deck as the twin set of doors at the shuttle bay’s exit opened, causing a rush of air as the remnants of atmosphere inside the chamber escaped through the rapidly opening airlock doors.

“Commencing flight,” Lu Bu said, having forgotten the actual phrase she was supposed to use as she twisted the left side of the manual interface and spurring the craft forward.

They exited the Pride of Prometheus’ shuttle bay and Lu Bu immediately banked wide, in an attempt to get clear of the ship’s flare-zone—the immediate vicinity surrounding an actively-shielded vessel—so as to avoid any potential redirected, incoming weapons fire from catching the Galileo in the dissipation wave caused by impact on a warship’s shields.

She risked a glance at the Pride of Prometheus, for the first time having a chance to see their vessel’s exterior with her own eyes. The ship was even more impressive to the naked eye than its technical schematics and scantlings could ever convey, and she felt a surge of pride as its forward batteries fired in rapid succession, with each of the ten heavy lasers sending a blast of fiery red shot forward as the Pride’s engines burned with a bluish-green light.

“Where do we deploy the missiles?” she asked in their native tongue, knowing that perfect communication was more important than protocol in this particular circumstance.

“Anywhere,” Fei Long replied as he undid the harness which secured him to the chair, “we are already well within the tactical range of these devices. Cut the engines while we prepare to deploy the missiles.” He scampered out of the cargo bay and withdrew a data slate from his pocket as Lu Bu cut the engines.

They made their way into the cabin, and found that Gnuko and Peleus had already removed the access panels from each missile. Fei Long set down beside the first missile and made a hard connection between it and his data slate, which had yet another type of cable connected to it. He finished more quickly than she thought possible, and as he moved to the next unit Gnuko made to replace the access panel.

“There is no need, Sergeant,” Fei Long said dismissively as he repeated the process, which took him ten seconds per missile. When he was finished he gestured for the Sergeant to open the cargo ramp, and wrapped his arm around a nearby cargo net. Lu Bu and Peleus did likewise, while Gnuko went to the control panel and began the gradual decompression cycle of the cabin. Normally they would have stored the atmospheric gases in the shuttle’s reserve tanks, but that process would have taken several minutes. So there was a gradually increasing rush of air as the ramp lowered slowly, but after just a few seconds the effect diminished until dissipating entirely, and the ramp lowered completely.

“Do we need to point these things in a certain direction?” Gnuko asked over their ear bud com-links after the door had opened.

“Simply slide them out one by one,” Fei Long urged, “and keep them as straight as possible. The onboard guidance systems will do the rest after they are activated. We must hurry, however,” he added almost as an afterthought, “they are on a manual countdown of two minutes before their drives will ignite.”

Needing no further encouragement, the three Lancers aboard the shuttle forcibly shoved each missile out the back of the shuttle, which created a rather ominous sight. After each missile cleared the grav-plates of the shuttle, they floated directly behind the craft—with their noses pointed directly at the tiny, all-too-vulnerable shuttle.

When the tenth missile was out, Lu Bu turned and entered the cockpit, finding Fei Long had already done so. Gnuko closed the cargo door, and a few moments after the seals had locked down, the cabin began to fill with life-giving atmosphere.

Before she could re-gain her seat, Lu Bu saw Fei Long bank the shuttle toward the Pride of Prometheus, which was only visible by a pinpoint of blue-green light marking its engine flare, and then by another red-hued volley from the forward batteries.

“Missile engines lighting in three…two…one…fire,” Fei Long said calmly, and his words were followed by a sequential flaring of white engine fire as the missiles activated in a line, starting at the front of the group and leaping like dominoes to those behind.

As the weapons surged toward the fray of battle, Fei Long sat back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and breathed a short sigh, “Our task is now complete; we should attempt to rendezvous with the Pride of Prometheus.”

“Negative,” Gnuko said severely as he leaned into the cockpit, “protocol dictates that we hang back so we don’t limit the Pride’s maneuvering options. This shuttle’s unarmed, and our shields can’t withstand the capital weapon exchanges out there; we sit tight for now and stay out of tactical range. We can’t do anything else from here.”

“Starfire missiles on approach, Captain,” Sarkozy reported. “If their timers are correctly set, they’ll fire in forty seconds.”

“Make sure there’s no overlap between their assigned targets and the gun deck’s shots,” Middleton reminded as the battle cruiser received another volley of fire from the remaining destroyer.

“The battle cruiser’s ventral weaponry is mostly offline; that destroyer’s firing with surgical precision, Captain,” Sarkozy said with obvious admiration.

“Remember,” the Captain reminded, “those guns are under the direction of computers.”

“Man, not Machine, Captain,” Sarkozy said unexpectedly, and while Middleton had never cared for that particular expression, he knew that many of the crew would share the expressed sentiment. He had issued a fairly damning repudiation of the droids’ potential sentience himself at the outset of the battle, so he let the political catchphrase slide. “If recharge rates are constant, the battle cruiser’s primary weapon should fire in two minutes,” the Tactical Officer added.

“They aren’t ‘recharge rates,’ Ensign,” Middleton corrected. “Those big guns are powered by antimatter so it’s not an issue of power generation. The siege weapons should fire as soon as they’ve loaded another pellet into the breech; we just don’t know enough about their weaponry to guess how long that will be. Still,” he added pointedly, “we’ll use your interval until better information is available.”

“Starfires to fire in three…two…one,” Sarkozy reported, and the swarm of enemy fighters on approach with the battle cruiser flashed as the icons of the Starfire missiles winked out in unison. “Ten hits, ten kills,” she said fiercely, “that leaves twelve fighters entering short combat range now, Captain.”

The twelve remaining fighter icons approached the battle cruiser and flashed, indicating weapons’ fire. The icon of the battle cruiser became bright red, and it began to strobe rhythmically, indicating serious structural damage had been indicated.

“The battle cruiser’s primary weapon should fire in twenty seconds” Sarkozy reported as the Pride’s forward batteries took what would likely be their final shot at the fighters before their proximity to the battle cruiser made such fire too great of a liability to continue doing so. The seconds ticked by, and when the clock reached zero there was no great flash indicating weapon fire.

Middleton tensed. “If their primary weapon is offline,” he said darkly, “then the table just tilted against us. Concentrate all fire on the destroyer, Ensign.”

The battle cruiser rolled to present its freshest facing and unleashed a fresh volley of standard weapons fire on the relatively fresh destroyer. “The battle cruiser has overcharged her turbolasers, Captain…the destroyer’s shields are fluctuating like nothing I’ve ever seen. Enemy fighters are attempting to veer off from the battle cruiser, sir.”

The fighters had actually closed to ‘swarm range,’ meaning they were so close to the capital vessel that distinguishing their signals had become too difficult for the automatic sensors.

The Sensors operator chimed in, “I’m seeing power spikes all along the battle cruiser’s grid…if I’m reading this right, they’re—“

The background image of the battle cruiser on the main viewer showed a sequence of explosions running along its hull—right before the vessel’s reactor went critical and a miniature nova formed where the formidable warship had been.

Middleton understood full well what had just happened—and what message he had been given by it. “Verify those fighters were caught in the blast,” he said grimly.

“Verifying,” Sarkozy acknowledged before nodding her head with certainty, “all twelve fighters are confirmed destroyed, Captain.”

He leaned forward in his chair and considered his next course of action. The droid battle cruiser had sacrificed itself to cover the Pride’s escape, and flight was almost certainly warranted given the circumstances. But the Pride was simply too damaged to flee; if her systems were at maximum, the odds were good that they could reach the hyper limit and bug out before the destroyer could bring her down, but with a faltering shield grid and potential inbound fighters…

“Helm,” he said, his mind made up, “give me flank speed.”

“Course, Captain?” Commander Jersey asked, as though it needed to be said.

“The only way out of this mess is through it,” Middleton replied, knowing that given the two vessels’ relative courses and velocities, there was no way they could come about and create any meaningful distance between themselves and the enemy vessel. “Let’s see how these droids handle a game of ‘chicken’.”

“Aye,” Jersey replied in his usual, sour tone, “adjusting for ‘chicken’ course.”

“Captain,” Sarkozy interjected as the Pride adjusted its course to bear down on the enemy vessel, “if their primary weapon is still online—“

“Then we’re dead no matter what we do,” Middleton interrupted. “Our shield grid can’t handle even one of those shots, and we have to assume that ship has fighters like the first one. The only way we get out of here is by knocking that destroyer’s engines offline and pressing our own hard enough to escape the range of those fighters.”

“Yes, Captain,” Sarkozy acknowledged stiffly, clearly stinging from the rebuke.

“Tell the gun deck we’ll get more two shots,” Middleton said heavily after performing some mental math, “and they need to make them count.”

The seconds began to tick by as the Pride of Prometheus entered medium weapons range. The destroyer actually seemed to accept the challenge, as it poured its own engines on and began firing its weaponry, which was thankfully light by comparison to the Pride’s first, concerted volley of the run.

“Our first volley was eight for ten with five direct hits on the hull,” Sarkozy reported. “Their shields still haven’t recovered, and I’m registering multiple internal explosions throughout their ship.”

“Our own shields have collapsed, Captain,” the Shields operator reported after a short burst of incoming fire rocked the deck beneath their feet. “I’ve got multiple blown relays along the grid; working to restore the stern shields now.”

“Good work, Shields,” Middleton said approvingly. If this recent hail of lighter weapon fire was all the destroyer could bring to bear, the Pride’s forward armor could almost certainly absorb it before the two ships passed each other. Middleton risked exposing his engines after the pass, but the stern shield grid was currently their best defensive facing, so it was a risk he had to take.

“I’m getting a strange reading, Captain,” Sensors said nervously. “It looks like their jump engine is on a critical overload.”

“Verify that,” Middleton barked, understanding now why the droids had chosen to accept his game of ‘chicken.’

“Readings verified, Captain,” Sarkozy said with certainty. “They’ve set their jump drive to overload in three minutes.”

“Which is about how long it will take for us to pass by,” Jersey said pointedly. “Looks like they’ve thrown down the gauntlet, Captain.”

“Even if their drive goes,” Middleton said as he recalled the total energy involved in a destroyer’s jump drive going critical, “they’d have to be right on top of us for it to cause any damage to the hull.”

“But if it goes off directly in our path,” Sarkozy said in a calm, professional tone, “then the radiation will pass right through our unshielded bow and into the ship’s compartments. If they time it right…”

“Then while the ship itself will survive with minimal damage, every living thing on it will be dead within an hour,” Middleton finished for her before grudgingly adding, “clever. We’ll have to take our forward weapons off them to shield ourselves from the incoming wave of radiation, at which time they’ll launch their fighters to prevent our guns from picking them off.”

The sole, decisive advantage to having the forward batteries essentially fix-mounted was the resulting accuracy the finer adjustment mechanisms they employed afforded the gunners. Normally heavy lasers would have difficulty accurately firing on individual fighters, but at medium or even short range, the Pride’s heavy lasers could pick off even the individual fighters with the same degree of accuracy as they could land on larger ships at long range.

“Never played such a complicated game of ‘chicken,’ Captain,” Jersey scoffed as the Pride of Prometheus continued on its collision course with the enemy destroyer.

“First time for everything, Commander,” Middleton replied. “Steady on course; we’ll bank hard to port after our guns have landed on the destroyer’s hull. We don’t have any choice in the matter.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey acknowledged, “banking after the cannons clear.”

The recharge cycle of the forward array ticked up one by one, with battery four taking an extra sixteen seconds likely due to some damage it had sustained during the recent exchange.

“Firing,” Sarkozy reported as the laser cannons pierced the vacuum of space, and the bow of the enemy destroyer erupted in a series of violent explosions. “Ten for ten,” she said with subdued enthusiasm, “the enemy vessel has extreme damage to its forward hull and its entire superstructure is deforming violently.”

The image of the enemy destroyer, which was a battered dodecahedron with multiple large gashes opened along its many forward facings, seemed almost to explode as the stern of the craft began to deform. For a moment, Middleton thought they had caused critical damage to the enemy vessel—then he saw that what he had assumed was a cloud of fractured hull material was actually a dozen, smaller, twelve-sided vessels which fired their thrusters and took off from the ruined destroyer at what looked to be maximum speed.

“I’m reading fourteen fighters,” Sarkozy reported as Commander Jersey finally slewed the ship to present the still-shielded starboard broadside of the Pride.

The enemy vessel exploded, and rings of energy could be seen expanding in multiple directions a few seconds before the Pride of Prometheus’ warning alarms went off.

“We’ve passed into the radiation field,” Sensors reported.

“Keep our stern facing the epicenter, Helm,” Middleton ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” Jersey grouched, and for some reason Captain Middleton felt reassured by the older man’s sullen demeanor, which had been largely absent during his tenure as the ship’s XO.

“Incoming fighters,” Sarkozy reported as the roughly circular formation of fighters began to close on the Pride. “They’re braking against their forward momentum, Captain,” she said in obvious surprise.

“What?” Middleton asked before drawing the only conclusion he could and feeling a knot form in his throat. He thumbed the com-link on his chair and raised the Lancer priority channel, “This is the Captain to all Lancers: suit up and prepare to receive boarders.” With that said, he turned to Tactical, and was pleased to see that Sarkozy appeared to have taken the revelation in stride—either that, or she had drawn the same conclusion, “Coordinate with Commander Jersey, Ensign Sarkozy; I want our stern lasers to fire on those ships before they latch onto our hull.”

Taking a deep breath, Middleton looked at the tactical readout and knew they only had a few minutes before the corridors of his ship became a battleground.

“Captain,” Commander Jersey said in a raised voice, “the Lancers are short-handed; I’m rated for power armor and we’ve got more than enough empty suits down there in need of filling. I can’t do any more good at the helm anyway, sir.”

“Agreed,” Middleton said with a sharp nod, knowing there were only a handful of power armor-rated, duty-ready members of the crew outside of the Lancers. “Get down there and suit up.”

The previous helm stander resumed his post and worked with Ensign Sarkozy to maneuver the ship, as Commander Jersey sprinted to the bridge’s exit as fast as his venerable legs could carry him.

Chapter XLI: The Fray

“This is the Captain to all Lancers: suit up and prepare to receive boarders,” Captain Middleton’s voice came over Lu Bu’s ear bud unexpectedly. They had continued their course toward the Pride of Prometheus, and were apparently just within communications range of the tiny craft.

“The last vessel is gone, and the comm. blackout is gone with it,” Fei Long concluded with raised eyebrows, “but apparently, Captain Middleton believes there is more to these ‘fighters’ than first appears…interesting.”

“Interesting?” Lu Bu snapped in their native tongue. “Our crewmates are about to receive Ancestors-only-know how many boarders, and you think it’s ‘interesting’?! We must return to assist them!”

“Switch it back to Standard, you two,” Gnuko snapped.

Lu Bu turned to her new Sergeant and said, in Confederation Standard, “We must return to Pride and help crew, Sergeant.”

Gnuko was clearly torn. “We don’t have power armor,” he said doubtfully, “and that jump drive threw off a load of lethal radiation when it went. We’ll need to circumnavigate the danger zone, which will take an extra few minutes of maneuvering—assuming the shields on this shuttle can withstand even the less-intense rads on the periphery of the blast zone.”

“We cannot sit here!” Lu Bu objected furiously, feeling a vein in her forehead bulge unexpectedly.

“Lu Bu is correct,” Fei Long interjected. “Without the Pride of Prometheus, this shuttle is little better than a life pod. We must return to the ship and lend whatever assistance we are able, even if that is merely to ram an incoming fighter to diminish the threat to our crewmates. Anything else would be passive. Passivity is the path of prey, and prey exists only to feed the predator.” His eyes flashed with an inner strength which Lu Bu had never seen in his countenance, and which gave her cause to reconsider several of her preconceptions regarding the boy as he added, “I am not prey.”

“Agreed,” Peleus said with a sharp nod as he, too, leaned into the cockpit. “We must rejoin the battle however we are able.”

“All right,” Gnuko agreed, and Lu Bu realized he had only vacillated in order to gain consensus among the team. It seemed to her that while this was different from how Sergeant Joneson operated, Walter Joneson had wisely chosen his successor. She hoped that she could learn from her new Sergeant as she had from her old one. “Set a course for the Pride, Lu; push the engines as hard as you can.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” she replied with gusto before lighting the engines and initiating a maximum burn toward the Pride of Prometheus, which had just unleashed a flash of fire resulting in a pair of explosions among the approaching fighters.

“Two targets down, Captain, with twelve remaining,” Sarkozy reported. “We’ve cleared the lethal rad zone; recommend we bring the forward guns to bear on the incoming fighters. We should be able to take out a handful with some fancy firing.”

“Do it,” Middleton agreed, knowing that clearing the ‘lethal zone’ and clearing the zone entirely were two completely different things. But to survive what had clearly been a well thought out strategy on the part of the droids, he knew they needed to destroy as many individual units as possible before they reached the hull of the Pride.

His com-link flashed, and he opened the incoming packet to receive a status update of his Lancers that made him wince. In all, including those members of the crew who had been temporarily assigned, he had twenty one bodies in power armor. Seeing as Sergeant Gnuko had gone aboard the shuttle to assist with the missile deployment, command of the unit had fallen to Lancer Atticus and Commander Jersey.

Satisfied with his XO’s suggested plan to repel the boarders, Middleton acknowledged the report and wished the Lieutenant Commander a good hunt.

“I’m receiving a transmission from the shuttle,” Ensign Jardine reported. “They’re on approach and offering assistance.”

Middleton marveled at the courageousness of the people aboard the tiny craft. They couldn’t hope to influence the outcome in any fashion other than to make a suicide ram against one of the inbound fighters, and much as he hated to admit it, Captain Tim Middleton actually considered ordering them to do precisely that.

But the truth was that the four members of the shuttle’s complement were worth more to the ship if they somehow managed to re-board it, with Sergeant Gnuko, Peleus, and Lu Bu representing a significant increase in Lancer strength—to say nothing of whatever Fei Long might be able to contribute.

“Inform them to prepare for combat landing procedures on final approach,” Middleton ordered. “They are to re-board the ship; we’ll cover them with our PD grid.”

“Aye, Captain,” Jardine replied just as the first of the fighters entered immediate range, causing a set of quickly-muffled klaxons to go off.

The Pride of Prometheus—in what a less-logical man might consider a conscious act of defiance against its would-be killers—fired a pair of its forward lasers at an incoming craft and saw that craft disintegrate by the second shot.

“Two fighters have entered immediate range,” Sarkozy reported as a second icon entered immediate tactical range, “we’ll get shots on five more of the blighters before it’s down to the Lancers.”

“Make ‘em count, Tactical,” Middleton said as the impact alarm went off. Middleton gritted his teeth as he saw that the first fighter had just touched down on the hull—directly over the main engines. “Inform Commander Jersey that his first guests have arrived, and relay their location.”

The last phase of the battle had just begun, and Middleton knew that at this point the outcome was largely out of his hands.

“You’re sure you can land this craft?” Gnuko asked hesitantly as the shuttle made its final approach. Flashes of weapons fire could be seen along the hull of the Pride toward the stern, and as they continued to bear down on the ship.

“I am,” Fei Long replied confidently, knowing that there was little chance he could fail to execute such a simple maneuver.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the Sergeant growled, turning to face Lu Bu.

“I believe…yes, Sergeant,” the young woman replied in a less-than-inspiring tone.

“All right,” Gnuko said bitterly, “you’re on the stick, Fei. These are combat conditions—“

“I am well aware of the conditions, Sergeant,” Fei Long interrupted as he reached over to transfer primary control from the pilot’s console to his own co-pilot’s station. He expertly manipulated the various settings on the dash as he adjusted their rotation and velocity to match the Pride’s.

“We’ll need to break for the Armory,” Gnuko said, turning back to Lu Bu, “we’ll get some ordnance and form a rapid response team to deal with whatever gets past Jersey and the others.”

“Understood, Sergeant,” she replied curtly as Fei Long saw her eyes flit over to watch as he made final preparations, including activating the emergency landing system. As he did so, the shuttle bay’s external doors opened and he saw the internal doors do likewise, leaving the shuttle bay exposed to the vacuum of space—and, more importantly, making it vulnerable to a droid insertion.

Fei Long brought the shuttle into the hangar and set it down deftly, making barely a sound as he felt a self-satisfied smile spread across his lips. “We have touched down,” he said as neutrally as he could manage after successfully completing such a delicate task—a task he had silently given himself a seventy percent chance of accomplishing, which was nearly double that of Lu Bu’s likelihood of doing the same.

“Move out, Lancers,” Gnuko barked as the pressure doors began to close.

“Commander Jersey reports they’ve cleared the first wave of droids from the dorsal hull, Captain,” Jardine reported. “The first fighter has been secured and removed from the hull using grenades and shaped charges, but two more have touched down on the ventral facing.”

“Status of Corpor—make that, Sergeant Gnuko’s team?” Middleton demanded as he read the Commander’s report, which showed he had already lost two Lancers to enemy fire.

“I show they’ve just checked into the Armory, Captain; Mr. Fei is no longer with them,” the Comm. Officer replied. Just then he received an incoming message from Fei Long, stating he was making preparations to implement one of the countermeasures he and Middleton had developed in recent weeks. It wouldn’t do much more than redirect the droids temporarily, but it was worth a shot, so he signaled his approval to Mr. Fei via the link before returning his attention to the bridge.

“Massive decompression near the gun deck, Captain,” the Damage Control stander reported.

“The Gunnery Chief is reporting droids have infiltrated Battery Two,” Jardine reported.

“Tell Sergeant Gnuko and his team to double-time it to the gun deck,” Middleton growled, only fractionally grateful that the droids had gone for the Pride’s heavy weaponry rather than something more critical at this juncture—like Engineering or Environmental.

“All right, listen up,” Sergeant Gnuko barked over his three-man-unit’s channel as the team hustled down the corridor in their full, Storm Drake armor, “we’ve got droids infiltrating the gun deck and our crew needs a hand. Lu, you’re on point; Peleus and I will cover you while you set up. We move in five meter intervals until we’ve engaged.”

The doors in front of them, marked ‘Battery Three,’ were closed and after a few seconds Sergeant Gnuko entered his access code and they slid open to reveal a relatively one-sided firefight within.

Lu Bu surged through the breach and kept her blaster rifle trained as she made it the designated five meters. Just as she knelt for cover, she saw a roughly humanoid shape enter her field of fire, and without thinking she snapped off a shot where a human’s head would have been.

The blaster bolt struck home and the mechanical creature staggered sideways before turning to level its arms in her direction. Both arms appeared to end in weapon apparatuses of some kind, and those weapons flared before she felt a pair of impacts on her torso which knocked her into the wall.

Without even looking down to assess the damage to her suit, Lu Bu regained sight of her target and snapped off a pair of shots by way of reply. The first went wide, but the second shot struck the creature in the side of its torso, sending a spray of greenish fluid into the air near where it was standing.

Sergeant Gnuko leapfrogged her position on the other side of the short corridor before assuming a similar posture to hers and firing his own weapon across the room at a target which Lu Bu could not yet see.

Peleus quickly followed, and took up a position directly opposite Gnuko’s as he added his own fire onto Lu Bu’s target. She took another shot at the droid after Peleus had cleared her field of fire and saw the thing explode in a shower of metallic fragments.

After the droid was destroyed, Lu Bu moved past Gnuko and Peleus, making for a nearby console to use as cover as another pair of droids came into view, one of which Sergeant Gnuko hammered with a pair of shots from his blaster rifle.

A nearby crewman wearing Engineering patches—a Tracto-an, from the size and look of him—came into view with a large drill of some kind in hand, which he rammed into the second droid’s back. The drill quickly penetrated the mechanical creature’s midsection, and the two foot long bit drove completely through the droid’s body and erupted through the creature’s ‘chest.’ But the droid fought on, and tried to spin its torso bring its weapons to bear on the large, light-haired Tracto-an.

The Tracto-an, using sheer, brute strength managed to keep a grip on the drill as the droid’s mechanically-driven movements threw his powerful body around like he was a child.

Lu Bu knew her crewmate couldn’t maintain a grip on the weapon for long, so she took a risk and snapped off a shot at the droid’s legs. The round struck home and the droid’s leg blew apart in a shower of fluid and metallic fragments, some of which struck the Tracto-an. But the large man took advantage of the opportunity and shoved the droid to the ground. After the droid crashed into the deck, Lu Bu snapped off another shot at its torso. She saw her squad-mates do likewise, and their combined fire caused the mechanical to go limp after a brief, violent seizure which saw it flail in an uncoordinated fashion for a few seconds.

The Tracto-an—who Lu Bu now realized was fairly old for his kind, having seen at least forty years—nodded his thanks as he recovered the drill from the droid’s ‘corpse.’ “This was the last of them on the gun deck,” he said as he reached up to wipe the fluid from his face, which had clearly been burned by the stuff, and Lu Bu only now realized the man had a mechanical prosthetic hand. “We will clean up here.”

“Larry that,” Gnuko replied, and Lu Bu nodded curtly to the man as her Sergeant asked for status updates.

“You know,” the Tracto-an said as he approached with the drill gripped in his prosthetic hand, “I could not have made that armor without help.”

Lu Bu’s mouth went briefly agape before she bowed her head in deference. “You are truly a master of your craft,” she said graciously. “I have never seen this armor’s equal.”

“Nor I,” he said matter-of-factly. “But mine was merely the hand that shaped it; I cannot claim to have authored its design,” he said with a pointed look at her name patch. “Such a fine gift should not be taken lightly—and make no mistake, that armor was a gift. In my world, such a token constitutes a…significant gesture.”

This caused her to narrow her eyes as she nodded respectfully. “I would be honored to receive your wisdom, Master Smith.”

“I wouldn’t claim to know how another should act,” the other man said with a shrug as he checked his makeshift weapon’s integrity. “But a life of shaping metal into weapons and armor, while other men carried them into battle, has taught me one lesson worth sharing—”

Before she could ask after the smith’s lesson, Gnuko called out, “Lu, we make for the hyper dish on the double.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” she replied before nodding respectfully to the smith and exiting the gun deck.

Fei Long’s fingers flew over his data slate as Chief Garibaldi made the final physical adjustments to the same makeshift transmitter they had installed on the day which Fei Long had first gained ‘freedom’ from the brig.

The Chief was sweating profusely as he continued his work inside the Jeffries’ Tube. “This is just typical,” he groused tremulously, “everyone assumes that because I’m a Belter I’d be right at home in cramped spaces. It’s a physical condition!” he snapped to no one in particular, judging from his tone and continued work. “I can’t help it if me and tight spaces don’t mix, ok?!”

“We each possess a unique collage of failings, Chief,” Fei Long said evenly as he ran some last-second checks to his calculations. “I find yours to be refreshingly obvious.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?!” Garibaldi snapped as he glanced irritably at the younger man while re-connecting the primary power source to the transmitter.

“I assure you I meant no disrespect,” Fei Long said as he finished his calculations, “but in my experience, most people attempt to hide who they truly are—not only from others, but from themselves. A person who is unafraid to admit their weaknesses to others will find themselves capable of counteracting the limitations those weaknesses create. A person who is unafraid to admit their weaknesses to themselves, however, is capable of turning those weaknesses into strengths.”

“You’re an awfully chatty little guy, aren’t ya?” Garibaldi asked sarcastically, but Fei Long knew he had correctly navigated the Chief Engineer’s volatile temper.

“It is a weakness of mine,” Fei Long said simply while a lopsided grin played over his features, causing the Chief to chuckle harshly.

“Too smart for your own good, too,” Garibaldi quipped. “The transmitter’s connected; we’re ready for this little surprise of yours.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Fei Long said as he activated his com-link, “Captain Middleton, I am ready.”

“Good work, Mr. Fei,” Middleton said. “Let’s hope this works.”

“I have no reason to doubt that it will, Captain,” Fei Long replied.

The ship shuddered from an explosion which saw it tilt off its axis for several seconds and cause the grav-plates to fluctuate before resuming standard operation.

“We’ve lost contact with Commander Jersey’s squad out on the hull, Captain,” Jardine reported. “At last report they were setting charges on fighter number four while Atticus’ squad dealt with fighter number five. The gun deck is secure, and Engineering managed to neutralize twelve droids with an ionic burst before taking them apart with plasma torches. Twenty six casualties reported thus far, Captain, including eight Lancers out on the hull.”

“Captain,” the Damage Control stander cut in, “that explosion was from fighter four’s location.”

Middleton closed his eyes briefly, knowing that in all likelihood his XO had just been killed in the blast. An explosion with enough power to knock the Pride off-course was certainly powerful enough to kill anyone in the immediate area—power armor or no power armor.

When he opened his eyes again, he knew he had only one play remaining to him. Middleton calmly switched on his com-link, “Mr. Fei, make your move.”

“Yes, Captain,” Fei Long replied just as Sergeant Gnuko had finished deploying Lu Bu and Peleus, who had taken up firing positions at the mouth of the only entrance to the blind corridor in which they now found themselves.

Using his data slate, he remotely accessed the primary power grid control system. Chief Garibaldi did likewise from a nearby console while preparing to shunt the power from Reactor One.

“I’m not sure this is going to work,” Garibaldi said as he finished his own task.

“Neither am I,” Fei Long admitted. “However, it might draw them to us, providing our shipmates a clear target.”

“Yeah,” Garibaldi quipped, “with us at the center of that target.”

He flipped the virtual switch via his data slate, and the transmitter thrummed as it physically vibrated from the paces through which it was now being put. The power grid showed signs of severe fluctuation, which Fei Long worked via his data slate’s virtual interface to keep from reaching a tipping point and forcing a shutdown of ship-wide power.

After a few seconds, he thought he had managed to create a relatively stable constellation of settings throughout the ship before saying tersely, “Some feedback would be appreciated, Sergeant.”

“It’s working,” Gnuko replied after a brief pause. “The droids have broken off and are now en route; ETA one minute.”

“Excellent,” Fei Long said dryly as he worked to maintain the delicate interplay between the transmitter, the ship’s power grid, and the primary fusion reactor of the Pride of Prometheus.

“Mr. Fei’s transmission appears to be working, Captain,” Ensign Jardine reported with a note of awe in his voice, “I would have never thought the ship’s primary power grid could be used as a signal amplifier.”

“Let’s just hope Mr. Fei’s signal confuses them long enough to snap the trap shut,” Middleton said severely. “Either way, we’ll only get one shot at this.”

“Internal sensors are showing thirty nine active droids still operating within the ship,” the Sensors operator reported. “All but four of them are converging on the hyper dish. It appears that Lancer Atticus’ team has cleaned the rest off the hull and are currently re-entering the ship. ETA to the hyper dish junction…two minutes.”

“Four strays, we can deal with conventionally,” Middleton grudged. “But a three-man team holding out against thirty plus droids for a minute is going to be a tall order.”

“The first wave is approaching the junction, Captain,” the Sensors operator reported tensely.

Let’s hope you picked the right man, Walt, Middleton thought to himself as a horde of angry, red signals converged on the trio of blue icons representing the Lancers at the junction.

Chapter XLII: A Wall of Iron

“They’ve broken through the outer door,” Gnuko called over the Lancer channel. “Lu, your aim’s the best in our group; take deliberate shots at them center-mass while Peleus and I provide suppressing fire.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” she replied as she checked the power cell of her blaster rifle one last time. Both she and it were as ready as they could ever be.

“Contact in five…four…three…two…one,” Gnuko called, and Lu Bu gripped her blaster rifle tightly from her standing position behind Peleus, who knelt in preparation for the first wave.

There was a flash of motion to the right side of the T-junction, and Lu Bu waited a fraction of a second longer than she normally would have done in order to get a clearer shot at their first guest. Once its torso was exposed, she snapped off a round which struck the mechanical creature precisely where she had aimed. The force of her shot staggered it, and she could see a spray of green fluid erupt from the wound as its forward momentum sent it crashing to the deck.

Peleus and Gnuko added a shot each on the fallen droid just before two more came around the corner. Lu Bu took aim at the left side of the open portal and snapped off an equally-precise shot at the next droid, but this one kept its ‘feet’ beneath it as it brought its weaponized arms up to fire.

It never got the chance, as Peleus hammered the near weapon-arm with a shot that nearly saw the appendage fly off in a shower of sparks. Lu Bu disengaged from that target and took aim at a fourth droid coming in behind the one to the right—which Sergeant Gnuko had already struck, nearly blowing its lead leg off. A careful shot from Lu Bu sent the machine crashing to the deck in a spasming heap, its weapon arms firing bolts of energy into the panels lining the corridor.

After that, the horde was too numerous, and too fast, for even Lu Bu to track precisely. She continued to add carefully aimed shots but once the droids managed to clear the corner, their armored torsos enabled them to soak up at least three shots each before crashing to the deck. Some of them even fired their weapons from there, and Lu Bu felt a pair of impacts on her own torso which sent her reeling—but she kept the sights of her weapon lined on the enemy throughout.

Six droids fell to their fire, then eight, and ten as a lucky shot from Gnuko sent one droid spinning into another just as its arms fired, causing it to fry its neighbor.

Sergeant Gnuko took a shot to his helmet, the force of which would have broken a lesser man’s neck. But he tucked his chin and continued to pour round after round into the approaching mass of artificial life.

Peleus took a pair of shots to the torso, followed by a swarm of follow-up fire clustered so tightly on his chest that even his mighty Storm Drake armor succumbed, leaving his torso a smoking ruin.

But like nothing she had ever seen, the man continued fighting even as his vital fluids fell away in amorphous, congealed lumps. He fired his weapon into the approaching horde of droids—who were only a few meters from the trio of Lancers—before finally falling limp when the enemy concentrated their fire on his wound.

Lu Bu felt a cold fury grip her as she snapped off a round at an incoming droid’s weapon arm, which had clearly been re-training onto her. The arm exploded, and the force of that explosion knocked the droid into its fellows.

A split second later, the panels to either side of the oncoming droid flared with a deep blue light, and arcs of electricity went surging through the droid horde—a horde reduced to no more than thirteen members. The droids’ limbs seized up, and both Lu Bu and Sergeant Gnuko took advantage of the precious seconds this bought them, sending round after round into the line of droids which had nearly descended on them.

They managed to drop six more of the creatures before the remainder regained control of their bodies and resumed their charge. Lu Bu was suddenly struck by a strange thought: Why do they continue to charge when they have ranged weapons?

Regardless of the ‘why,’ she had no intention of rejecting Heaven’s will or her Ancestors’ blessings. She made to press her trigger again, to lay low another of the seemingly mindless droids as she acquired a nearby target.

But before she could do so her weapon exploded in her hands, the force of which threw her arms wide and her helmet flying as she went crashing into the nearby panels. She felt a pair of shots hammer into her gut and fought to keep to her feet as another struck her right shoulder, and she temporarily lost her sense of sight.

Lu Bu’s vision returned just in time to see Chief Engineer Garibaldi, brandishing a plasma torch in one hand, hurl his body into a droid that was less than a meter from her—and whose miniature, cannon-shaped arms were aimed squarely at her head.

The chief deftly shoved the plasma torch into an opening in the droid’s flank before the creature’s torso was filled with a blue-white fire which erupted from every nook and cranny the vaguely humanoid figure’s torso had.

The droid spun so quickly to face the Chief that Lu Bu barely even registered that she had launched her body at the thing and rammed its own arm against its torso. Its weapon fired before she could grip it with both hands and, using every ounce of genetically-engineered, torturously cultivated strength she possessed, she tore the far-too-delicate-looking appendage from the droid’s body.

Filled with a primal rage—and knowing these were likely to be her final moments—Lu Bu gripped the droid’s severed arm in both hands and smashed its barrel end into the creature’s opposite arm just as it attempted to fire point-blank at her, sending the shot wide by just a few inches. She hammered the weapon arm again, and again, and again, until both arms—the one still attached, and the one she now brandished—were ruined and on the verge of disintegration.

She saw the image of Peleus being torn apart in her mind’s eye, and she hammered her gauntleted fists into the droid’s shoulder joint while pinning its arm with her right knee. She pounded repeatedly until a jolt of electricity ran through her gauntlet and up her arm, vaguely realizing she had severed the arm’s control lines.

Lu Bu then had an experience which she would never forget. For a fleeting moment it seemed as though she was hovering just above her own body, which was still savagely assaulting the remnants of the droid. When she looked around she saw Walter Joneson standing over, his arms folded across his burly chest and a faint look of approval on his face.

Then she was back inside her own body, and realized the droid beneath her was no longer moving at all. But this was irrelevant to her. Reaching into a seam between its torso’s armor plates, she strained and screamed with everything she had as the plates resisted her. Redoubling her efforts, Lu Bu took a deep breath and arched her back as she heaved against it, and she was filled with a surge of satisfaction as the plates came apart and revealed a faintly glowing compartment of some kind within.

She plunged her hands into that compartment and grabbed a twelve-sided object perhaps five inches across, which was held in place by pitifully weak clamps. Lu Bu tore it from its housing and the light within the droid disappeared entirely.

Lu Bu raised it over her head, intent on hurling it at the next droid to come at her, and only then realized there was no weapons fire. She blinked forcefully as she looked around, seeing Chief Engineer Garibaldi clutching his left leg—which ended as a stump just above the knee—while Fei Long attempted to create a tourniquet with some nearby electrical wires.

She looked toward the horde of droids and saw hulking, humanoid silhouettes picking through the wreckage. It took her a moment to realize that they were not more droids, but Lancers in power armor.

Wiping her forehead, she realized her skin had been burnt there and was covered in a hot, sticky substance of some kind, which she removed as quickly as she was able for fear it might ruin her eyes if it touched them.

“Stand down, Lancer,” Sergeant Gnuko panted, and she only then noticed that he was leaning against the wall and nursing a smoking hole in his abdomen. “We got ‘em.”

Lu Bu had to replay the words in her mind before feeling her body begin to tremble so violently that another person may have called it a spasm, or seizure. Her eyes filled with tears, and for the first time since coming aboard the Pride of Prometheus, she did not fight them. She did not sob like a frightened child, but neither did she fight against the rush of emotion which overtook her.

“Among men, Lu Bu,” she heard a man’s voice to her right, and when she looked she saw Fei Long standing at a respectful distance with a calm, determined look on his face. He then held out his hands, “I believe I should take that.”

Furrowing her brow in confusion, she realized after a few seconds that she still held the dodecahedron-shaped device in her hand. After looking down at it, she nodded and stood gingerly—feeling her leg threaten to buckle as she did so—and handed the object to the young man.

Lu Bu then felt light-headed, and before she knew what had happened the world spiraled into darkness.

Chapter XLIII: Cleaning Up

“Sergeant Gnuko,” Middleton said as the large man entered his ready room, “I’m not normally inclined to ask for it, but in this case I hope you’ve got good some news.”

Gnuko, using a cane rather than a crutch, slowly made his way into the ready room with a data slate in hand. “I believe I do, Captain,” he replied as he sat himself down in the chair opposite Middleton’s. “Over the last week the hull’s been scraped clean; not even a kilo of foreign material is left out there. The droid remains have been catalogued and disposed of, except for a handful of intact ‘droid cores’.”

“Droid cores?” Middleton asked, accepting the proffered data slate.

“It’s Fei Long’s term, Captain,” the Sergeant replied, “not mine. He spends every waking moment—which apparently is every moment—examining them. If you ask me, he’s a little too excited over the things.”

Captain Middleton nodded as he perused the report contained in the slate, which did seem to suggest that these devices were some kind of control units. Fei Long even went so far as to liken them to human brains—a comparison which troubled Middleton for more than a few reasons. “I’ll see that proper security measures are maintained,” he allowed, “but right now we need all the intel we can get.”

“Of course,” Gnuko replied, wincing for a moment as his hand went to his knee.

“How’s the leg, Sergeant?” Middleton asked.

“Doctor Cho says I’ll get 80% functionality back within a month of standard rehab, but begging the Captain’s pardon,” he added somewhat awkwardly, “I don’t exactly trust the man’s neuro-orthopedics.”

Middleton knew all too well what the Sergeant meant by that, but he shook his head calmly. “A serviceman’s life is making do with what’s available, Sergeant,” he chided a bit more coldly than he would have liked. “Doctor Cho is the Medical Officer aboard this ship, and without him we would all be suffering severe radiation sickness right now.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant replied, looking properly rebuked. He sat stiffly in his chair for a moment before changing the subject, “Captain, I fully intend to carry out the duties of the Pride’s Lancer Commander, in spite of my injuries.”

Middleton nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to hear it, Sergeant; we can use your expertise and steady hand. Sergeant Joneson made it fairly clear to me in what might be considered his ‘will’ that you’ll do things differently than he did, but that I should have the utmost confidence in your approach.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Gnuko said, clearly put at ease by Joneson’s last sentiment, “I guess in a way, that’s just what I wanted to talk about.” He withdrew a second data slate and handed it across the desk.

“What’s this?” Middleton asked, feeling more than slightly intrigued.

“Obviously we’re going to need some fresh recruits before most of this matters,” Gnuko said hastily. “But I thought that given the likely nature of our upcoming missions, we should divide our Lancer contingent into two—or eventually even three—separate units in order to maximize available hardware and personnel.”

Middleton scanned the report which, while completely unexpected, did indeed present an alignment which offered multiple benefits. “You’re suggesting Atticus be promoted to the effective rank of Corporal, but given a different in-unit designation of ‘War Leader,’ as well as tactical command over roughly half the Lancer contingent?”

“His command authority would be strictly off-ship; anything aboard the Pride will still be under my direct authority,” Gnuko explained. “Sergeant Joneson and I put him through his paces recently, sir, and we concluded that this would be an ideal deployment of his abilities. Plus,” he added pointedly, “it opens up the possibility to include more Tracto-ans within the unit, should the opportunity present itself. I happen to share some of Sergeant Joneson’s reservations regarding their kind’s closed-minded and arrogance, Captain, but after seeing Atticus incorporate the Sergeant’s lessons…as well as how Peleus comported himself down in the junction,” he added gravely, “I’m inclined to soften that stance somewhat.”

“And it gives you a chance to measure him during our trip back to MSP command, while you’re on the mend,” Middleton nodded approvingly. “All right, Sergeant, you have my full support.”

“Did you get a chance to read the rest of the report, Captain?” Gnuko asked.

Middleton glanced at the slate and nodded. “All of this meets with my approval, Sergeant,” he assured him before affixing his digital signature to it and handing the slate back to the other man. “You should run your department how you see fit. If I have any concerns we will discuss them in private, but given your service record and recent accomplishments, I have every reason to give you my complete support.” He deliberately did not include Sergeant Joneson’s absolutely glowing recommendation of then-Corporal Gnuko, because after just a week on the job, the man had proven his own merits and did not require another’s expressed support to bolster his claim to Lancer command.

“Thank you, Captain,” Sergeant Gnuko said, and Middleton liked to think that his slowly-improving ability to read people suggested the younger man swelled with pride at his commanding officer’s endorsement. The Lancer Sergeant stood from his chair, and Middleton did the same.

“I’ll be seeing you in the shuttle bay at mid-third shift?” Middleton asked.

“Of course,” Gnuko said stiffly, “a broken neck couldn’t keep me from paying my respects, let alone a torn-up leg.”

Captain Middleton nodded approvingly. “Dismissed, Sergeant.”

The sternward cargo ramp of the shuttle craft was lowered, and Captain Middleton stood at the base of the ramp as over two hundred crewmembers had stuffed themselves into the cramped conditions of the shuttle bay.

“You’ve come to know me over these last six months,” Middleton said, sweeping the assemblage with his gaze, “and over that same time I’ve come to know you. I’m not one for long-winded speeches, so I’ll keep this brief.”

He turned and began to pace along the front line of the throng, which was filled with faces with which he had become more familiar than he ever would have dreamed possible. Six months earlier, he had thought that starship Captains sat in their cushy chairs, drinking high-end caffeine sources and sending the ship’s problems running down the proverbial hill toward the unsuspecting crew. But the truth, as is so often the case, held little resemblance to reality.

“A year ago we were all going about our lives,” he continued, “and I imagine that if you’d asked each other back then what the odds were that you would be here, in this moment, after doing the things that you’ve done…you would have dismissed it as a billion to one. Moreover, you probably would have asked ‘Why would I go stand on the wall if even the Imperials won’t? Let someone else deal with it,’ you might have said.”

He turned to face the line of bodies, for which the Hedonist system’s main world had graciously supplied enough proper burial tubes. The Pride’s supply of fifty such devices had only met roughly half the demand their recent efforts had created, as ninety three crewmembers had been killed during the droid attack alone. Each tube was draped with the flag of its occupant’s home world.

“These men and women,” Middleton pointed to the neatly stacked tubes bearing the Multi-Sector Patrol fleet’s emblem at the top, “stood on that wall, and they did it not because they were forced to, or because they were compelled to. They did it for their families back on the seventeen worlds from which they came, including Capria, Prometheus, Shèhuì Héxié, Tracto, and the many colonies under the shields of protection which those worlds provide.”

He turned to face the assembled crew and regarded them silently before sweeping across them with his outstretched hand.

“But that shield isn’t some vague, abstract thing made of words written on the pages of some moldy book; that shield is you,” he said forcefully, allowing the word to hang for several moments before continuing. “The majority of our fallen crewmates have requested their remains be returned to the worlds of their birth, which we will do to honor their memory. But for some, they have asked us—their true family—to see them returned to the stars. They did not fail us, so we must not fail them.”

Middleton already knew the names of the fallen for whom they were about to provide a star burial, so he gestured for the pallbearers to approach. The first were mostly from his own world of Capria, and were entirely made of Lancers—some were active-duty like Corporal Gnuko, and some, like Bryant and Rice following the bioweapon attack, had been transferred to other departments after sustaining grievous injuries. Only one member of the group neither from Capria, nor a man, and Middleton gave her a curt nod as he said, “Walter Joneson, Lancer Sergeant of the Pride of Prometheus.”

The bearers carried the burial tube up the cargo ramp of the shuttle and set it down reverently before turning back and rejoining the crowd.

“Gong Wei, Confederation Lancer who volunteered to serve aboard the Pride of Prometheus,” Middleton continued as Lu Bu peeled off from the Lancers and made to carry the second tube bearing the Lancer emblem. Lu Bu was joined by a handful of her countrymen as they carried the tube up onto the shuttle.

“Norbert Jersey, Lieutenant Commander in the MSP,” he said as the bridge crew bore his former XO’s casket up the shuttle’s ramp past the previous group of pallbearers.

One by one, Captain Middleton read off the rest of the twelve names of those who had requested a star burial. After he had completed, the shuttle’s cargo ramp closed and the craft gently floated toward the air lock. Once inside that chamber, the inner door closed shut.

Captain Middleton then read the names of those who wished to have their remains returned to their home worlds, and after he had finished he turned to the crew and regarded them for several, silent seconds before nodding curtly, “Dismissed.”

The Pride of Prometheus’ internal viewscreens were all set to a single camera feed, as the aged warship drove almost directly toward the sun. The shuttle launched when they had entered the designated zone, and most of the crewmembers—even those on duty—watched as the burial tubes were ejected one by one from the shuttle’s cabin before the tiny vessel returned to its hangar.

The tubes formed a nearly perfect line which fell toward the sun, and the external video feed stayed on those tubes until it was no longer able to filter out the intense light from the system’s primary, causing the camera to go black and the feed to disconnect.

Such was the traditional star burial of a Confederation serviceman or woman. With the task concluded, the Pride of Prometheus set course for what would be the final destination of this particular mission and, for many, it was a return to that part of space which they called home.

But for Captain Middleton, it was just another stop along the way. He had a mission to complete and by the Saint’s mercy, he would carry it out with every breath in his body.

Tim Middleton had learned many things during his tenure as the Captain of the Pride of Prometheus, and chief among those hard-won lessons was the harsh reality that no matter where a person was, or what they did, there was always someone—or something—lurking in the shadows.

Sometimes they want your money, sometimes they want your life, and sometimes they want even more than that. And when they came to do you harm, they often did so in the guise of offering help—or worse, compromise, and the promise of reaching the elusive ‘middle ground.’

He knew he had been right when speaking to Captain Rodriguez: the reason that ‘middle ground’ is so elusive is because there is no middle ground. There’s right, and there’s wrong, and the precious few times a person’s life when can tell the difference they had better act in accordance with their principles, because the universe is rarely generous enough to do so twice in a lifetime.

The middle ground is all that stands between what is right, and what is wrong, and as such it should never be surrendered. Once the lines become blurred, a person can no longer reliably determine their course. The surest path from clarity to confusion is compromise.

For Captain Middleton, life had been distilled down to a series of battles between people with diametrically opposed ideologies, where competition was the best filter through which those ideologies could be examined and refined. And he, like the late Sergeant Walter Joneson, had resolved to give no ground in that particular battle.

Especially not the middle.

Epilogue I: Advice…and an Airlock!?

“Bu, you shouldn’t come down here,” Doctor Middleton said wearily.

“I am permitted to do so, Doctor Middleton,” Lu Bu said stiffly as she pulled up a stool and sat outside the Doctor’s cell. “Do you wish me to go?” she asked pointedly.

Doctor Middleton was clearly torn, but she shook her head after a brief delay. “No, Bu, of course not…I just don’t want my actions to bring you harm.”

Lu Bu snorted unthinkingly. “Captain Middleton is sagacious,” she replied confidently, “he will understand.”

“No,” the Doctor replied, “I don’t think he will.”

“You must have…faith,” Lu Bu said, failing to find the perfect word. “Now, where were we?” she asked rhetorically as she flipped to page 1853 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

“Bu,” Doctor Middleton sighed, “I’ve already read that book.”

“As have I,” Lu Bu agreed, stressing the first person pronoun. “But must do something together; you all I have.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Doctor Middleton said sharply, causing Lu Bu to wince at the other woman’s tone. Doctor Middleton took a short break and shook her head. “Bu, you need to understand that I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to spend time together—at least not while I’m in here, which may be for quite a while.”

“If not Lu Bu, who?” Lu Bu demanded. “Doctor Middleton saves lives of crew in sickbay, but then crew turn backs on Doctor Middleton; Doctor Middleton saves whole ship during attack, but none offer thanks!” Lu Bu felt the data slate snap between her fingers as her grip had tightened unexpectedly. “If this how crew treat each other, Lu Bu not wish to speak with crew!”

“Bu, calm down,” Doctor Middleton said with a pointed look at the younger woman’s hands. When Lu Bu looked down, she saw her palms had a few drops of blood caused by the broken edges of the data slate, which she set down on the bench in favor of hurling it in frustration.

“Lu Bu spends whole life in compound,” she said after a moment’s consideration and trying to find the right words. “Until government raid, Lu Bu never speak with outsiders; even when play smashball Lu Bu make no friends; all distrust, or afraid of, Lu Bu. But Doctor Middleton not afraid,” she said, leaning forward. “If Doctor Middleton not afraid of Lu Bu, Lu Bu not afraid of Doctor Middleton or her shadow,” she said fiercely. “We are family, not enemies.”

Doctor Middleton’s eyes had filled with tears while Lu Bu had spoken, and the older woman shook her head softly. “You have no idea how much that means to me, Bu,” she said in a tremulous voice. “Please…I don’t want you be here right now.”

Lu Bu stood from her stool and was momentarily taken aback by the Doctor’s quiet sobs. “If Doctor Middleton wishes,” she said, “I will come back tomorrow.”

Doctor Middleton nodded quickly. “Please do,” she said as she made eye contact with Lu Bu, after which the younger woman nodded.

“Tomorrow, Doctor Middleton,” Lu Bu said before bowing her head in respect and exiting the brig.

She made her way to the mess hall, realizing her stomach had been growling for quite some time. After receiving her tray she sat down at a nearby table and began to eat, as she remembered the doctor’s words.

“Is this seat taken?” she heard a man ask, and she looked up to see Fei Long standing across from her.

She narrowed her eyes slightly and shook her head. “It is not,” she replied in their native tongue. When she was frustrated it became too difficult to converse in Confederation Standard, so she opted for their native tongue.

“Thank you,” the young man replied in kind, and after sliding his tray onto the table opposite hers, he took a bite and sighed. “The only thing I miss about the world of our birth is the cuisine.”

Lu Bu barely even heard his words as she fought against the rising surge of emotions welling up inside her. She had no idea what half of them meant—and the half she did understand made her want to punch herself. She had always been heavily influenced—her mother had said ‘ruled’—by her emotions and urges, and Walter Joneson had helped show her that she could control those feelings if she wished to do so.

“Still,” Fei Long continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that all she wanted was to be left alone in that particular moment, “in my particular case, the merits of life aboard this ship greatly outweigh the demerits, even including the often questionable food.”

She felt her fists tighten and her fingernails—which were thankfully trimmed short—dug into the callouses of her palms. “Some people must worry about more pressing issues than the menu,” she growled in their native tongue.

Fei Long nodded as he took a sip of water. “Of that, I am acutely aware—“

“Then why do you go on and on and on about it?” Lu Bu snapped. “You sound as if you and you alone are inconvenienced by the current state of things!”

Fei Long looked surprised and put his utensils down. “I only meant to make pleasant conversation,” he said meekly—at least, meekly for him. “I am sorry if I offended you; such was the exact opposite of my desire.”

Lu Bu gritted her teeth and held back a dozen scathing things which were dancing on the tip of her tongue. She took deep, angry breaths as she struggled against her impulse to grab him by the collar and make him feel her current frustrations.

Fei Long made a gesture of surrender and stood from the table, collecting his tray as he did so. “I apologize to you, Lu Bu,” he said with what seemed to be genuine feeling. “I know how close you are to Doctor Middleton; I, myself, have visited her to offer my thanks regarding her action on the bridge. I merely wished to offer some measure of consolation,” he said before hanging his head. “It would appear that I have failed in this regard. I shall leave you be.”

He turned and left the mess hall, dropping his tray off on the way out, and Lu Bu felt her ears turn red with the rising anger she felt. It wasn’t that he had particularly offended her, and the truth was she had been guardedly looking forward to her next encounter with the young man. The strength of his character had been proven during their two battles together, and he was the only other person aboard the Pride of Prometheus who was even within four years of her age.

“All members of a unified state fight in his or her own way, each according to their individual talents,” she heard a deep voice from behind her, and she turned to see Haldis, the armorer who had battled the droid unarmored, and with nothing but a drill in hand.

“What?” Lu Bu demanded, rather than asked, before realizing her miscue and exhaling completely before clasping her hands before herself in deference. “I am sorry,” she said, “I do not understand.”

Haldis shrugged indifferently. “That is the lesson I learned after years of shaping metal into arms and armor for others to wield, but did not have the time to relay to you on the gun deck,” he explained. “Our ship is more like a sovereign state than it is an army,” he added with a look around the mess hall, “and once I understood this, it made my adjustment less…difficult.”

“Do you believe I require ‘adjustment’?” Lu Bu asked evenly, trying hard to keep the emotion from her voice.

“As a warrior?” he scoffed. “Of course not; your fellow Lancers speak very highly of you and I have seen with my own eyes that your valor is second to none aboard this vessel.”

“Then I do not understand,” she said after a brief pause, finding herself strangely uncomfortable with such an unmitigated compliment.

Haldis sat down on the bench across from her and slid his tray slightly to the side. “When I was young—about your age,” he said with an appraising look, “I wanted two things: to be a warrior, and to have sons. I will spare you the details, but during my sixteenth year I took an injury,” he gave a hard look to his metal, prosthetic hand, “that stopped me from joining an army or even a defensive force. On my world, a man who cannot fight is barely a man at all; no woman would choose a cripple to sire her daughters, so both of my dreams appeared to have vanished.”

Lu Bu had never been good with stories but the man had proven invaluable in crafting her Red Hare armor, as well as proven his fortitude on the gun deck, so she remained silent as he continued.

“There was one woman, however,” he said as his eyes drifted into memory, “her name was Phedra and she overlooked my…shortcoming. She was two years my elder when we met during my twentieth year, and I jumped at the opportunity to compete for the right to be her Guardian—husband, if you will,” he added at Lu Bu’s look of confusion. “Hers was not a wealthy family, but they had a large grain farm with fertile soil, ample running water via two, intersecting creeks, and a fine house built of stone atop a ridge overlooking a wide valley. In the end it came down to myself and a brash young man named Laomedon, and she challenged us to ‘create a work which displays dedication to guarding her lands, and her children’s interests.’ We were given one month to complete our works before presenting them on the harvest’s eve.”

“What did you craft?” Lu Bu asked, her mind temporarily distracted from the tumultuous events of the last days—and minutes.

Haldis sighed. “In what I will always remember as my finest effort, I spent every day and night in a nearby forge which my mother’s sister owned. I shaped wood and metal into a series of improved plows to work her fields, specially designed to work in her particular ground. I even borrowed the designs from my brother for constructing a water mill, the major components of which I fashioned at the forge. I was well pleased with the result so, having finished some three days earlier than I had anticipated, I thought I should add another article to it. In that moment, when I decided what that article should be, it was as if something deep inside of me rolled over and presented a side of myself which even I had never seen. Given my shortcomings,” he gave another pointed look at his hand, “I fashioned perfectly-weighted javelins, since those were the only ranged weapons I could use properly.”

“You adapted,” she said, believing she understood the broad meaning of his lesson. “You know you have no future on battlefield, but still wish to defend family while improving Phedra’s farm. This is noble.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “it would have been…but harvest’s eve came and went, and I did not present my creations to Phedra. She would have certainly chosen me over Laomedon—who made for himself a fine sword and shield but clearly did not understand her needs or desires.”

“Why?” she asked in confusion. “Why not present to Phedra?”

“I didn’t want to accept something that was somehow less than my ‘ideal’ life,” he said with a shake of his head. “So like the fool I was, I took my javelins and rushed to the nearest citadel where I attempted—futilely—to enlist as a guardsman. They eventually relented somewhat and made me a smith, where I made a life working metal for men and women with two good hands.” He leaned forward and locked his eyes with hers, and she almost felt like withering under the weight of his gaze, “But not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could go back and drag that fool of a boy down to the harvest festival and make him present his works to the only woman who understood—and accepted—him for what he was.” Haldis then cast a deliberate look at the door through which Fei Long had exited minutes earlier, “I don’t know what you two said to each other, but some things are only clouded with words; actions are what really count in this life. With that in mind, I’ll leave you with one more piece of advice.”

The large Tracto-an stood from the table and collected his tray. For some reason she did not understand, Lu Bu stood as well. She then clasped her hands and bowed her head slightly, “What is your advice, Master Smith?”

There was a pregnant pause before Haldis replied, “Never pass up a good thing.” With that, he turned and made his way to a table further down the line and proceeded to eat his meal.

Lu Bu believed she finally understood the other man’s message and, seeing as what he was suggesting hadn’t exactly been far from her mind even just a few short minutes earlier, she nodded and left the mess hall having completely forgotten about her meal tray.

Fei Long worked his way down the corridor at a leisurely pace. He knew he needed to return to his examination of the intact droid cores, but his heart simply was not in it at that moment. Still, he knew he would find no respite from what others would call a ‘broken heart.’

It wasn’t as though he had shared much time with Lu Bu, but ever since learning of her story from within the confines of his isolated cell, he had viewed her as a source of inspiration. And, as recently as a few minutes earlier, he thought he understood her plight better than most.

But the universe was a fickle mistress, and Fei Long knew it was only a matter of time before all hopes are shattered against the cruel bulwarks of reality. So with a heavy heart he made his way down the corridor, noting airlock number four to his left as he took a step past it.

Hearing footfalls behind him, he turned to see the very person he had contemplated come around the corner and fix her gaze on him. Lu Bu had a hard, strange look on her face, and Fei Long was suddenly more than slightly fearful for his well-being.

“Lu Bu,” he said in Confederation Standard, bowing his head as she approached. “I truly did not wish to give offense; please accept my apology—“

As soon as she was within reach of him, she grabbed him by the collar with her left hand and placed her right index finger against his lips. Fei Long felt his heart skip a beat as she looked around, clearly uncertain where they were.

Not wanting to waste even the extremely unlikely possibility that he was not, in fact, hallucinating, Fei Long quickly turned to the access panel and entered an override code he had learned during his tenure in Environmental as the pitifully-named Wang Xiu. The code would place the airlock’s inner door on a diagnostic cycle, which would complete before the door’s activation registered by Environmental or the bridge crew.

The inner door slid slowly open and, clearly needing no encouragement to do so, Lu Bu shoved him into the two meter square chamber before activating the closing cycle of the door behind them.

“We will only have nine minutes before they discov—“ Fei Long began before Lu Bu covered his mouth with one hand, while placing the other hand where no one—save him—had ever done so.

“Less talk, more action,” she growled before pressing him up against the wall, causing a thrill of excitement like nothing he had ever experienced in his young life to course through his body as the door slid shut and the airlock was plunged into darkness.

Epilogue II: Coming to Terms

“Ensign Sarkozy, have a seat,” Captain Middleton said as soon as the young woman had entered the ready room.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said with a curt nod as she sat down. Her shoulders were tight with obvious anxiety, and Captain Middleton kept his features unreadable as he regarded her silently for several seconds.

“You’ve done an admirable job following Lieutenant Commander Jersey as acting XO, Sarkozy,” Middleton said neutrally. “The ship has barely missed a step following the Commander’s death, and I want to extend my congratulations on a job well done. Managing the duties of both XO and Tactical Officer is a tall order, but you’ve done a better job than I could have hoped for.”

“I’m just doing my job, Captain,” she replied, but Ensign Sarkozy’s eyes told Middleton that she was braced for the eventual ‘but,’ so he decided to lay it out there.

“Six months ago we shared this office,” Middleton said with a pointed look around the ready room, “and you attempted to file a report. Do you recall?”

Sarkozy nodded stiffly. “I do, Captain.”

“I do as well, Ensign,” Middleton said with just a hint of iron threaded in his voice. “However,” he continued while leaning back in his chair, “to my mind, that particular situation has been resolved. Your actions, your department’s consistently high performance, and your prompt, accurate reports,” he paused fractionally before continuing, “as well as adherence to the codes of conduct to which we as officers must hold ourselves has been exemplary.”

Her eyes seemed to flicker for a moment, as she had clearly not expected this particular turn in the conversation. “I…I only want to serve the Confederation, Captain. My actions have only ever been consistent with what I judge to be in the best interests of the ship.”

“Well said, Ensign,” Middleton allowed with a hint of a smile. “And, judging by your recent behavior, it appears that the…lapse in your otherwise sound judgment six months ago was nothing but a blip on what has otherwise been a truly stellar track record. With that in mind,” he said, standing from the desk and thrusting his hand out pointedly, “I’d like to make your new posting official, XO. You’ll need to hand off your Tactical duties over the next couple weeks while we return to fleet HQ, and I’d like that process to begin immediately.”

Ensign Sarkozy looked completely stunned as she stood from her chair, her mouth barely managing to snap shut before the back of her throat was visible. “Thank you, Captain,” she said while accepting his hand.

“Care for a word of advice, Sarkozy?” Middleton asked.

“Of course, Captain,” she replied smartly as her face veritably shone with pride.

“Do your best to vet your subordinates; take a good, hard look with both eyes before giving them the keys to the stand,” he said seriously. “But after you’ve done that, turn one of those eyes to other issues and understand that nobody will do things precisely as you would. The people beneath you need to work to earn your trust, but once they’ve done so you need to let them have it, understood?”

Ensign Sarkozy had a faint look of confusion. “I doubt I can understand your meaning entirely just now, Captain,” she said before nodding, “but I’ll remember it and do my best to apply your advice in the future.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Middleton said with a nod of his own. “Now, let’s talk about these security measures we’ve drafted.”

“Yes, Captain,” Sarkozy replied before sitting back down in her chair. “The first droid boarders we dealt with were easy enough to spot on our internal sensors, but we’ve since encountered a pair of the twelve-sided, fighter-sized vessels which our sensors were completely unable to spot. This old ship’s proven to be tough as nails, but its sensor suite hasn’t been updated in nearly a century,” she said bitterly.

“It’s on my list, XO,” Middleton said grudgingly. “What about War Leader Atticus’ disposal teams?”

“They’ve been able to contain the threats before the ship took any serious damage, Captain,” she replied. “It seems that these stealthed vessels carry twelve individual droid units each, and they don’t appear to be primarily concerned with damaging our systems so much as gaining to access our databases. Mr. Fei Long assures me the databases are now secured against such attempted breaches, but the truth is we don’t have anyone on board who can verify his work; it’s just too far over our heads,” she said with obvious displeasure.

Middleton allowed himself a smile as he remembered a report of just a few days earlier, authored by the newly-titled ‘War Leader’ Atticus, who had been performing routine security sweeps and found the aforementioned Fei Long in a…post-coital state, along with a rather surprising companion from the Lancer contingent. They had apparently locked themselves into an airlock and fallen asleep afterward, where they had remained for nearly an hour before the sweep found them. Youth, he thought to himself with a shake of his head, good for them.

“I’m fairly certain we’ll never have anyone aboard this ship who can keep up with Mr. Fei,” he said before adding, “who, I understand, has requested an official name change.”

Sarkozy cocked an eyebrow. “That makes at least three dozen of his countrymen who have done likewise since joining the ship.”

Middleton shrugged, wanting to keep the conversation on topic. “They weren’t exactly highly-valued by their home world,” he said pointedly, “I can understand wanting a fresh start. A new name seems a fairly significant step toward that end, and they’ve acquitted themselves far better than I had hoped they would during this tour—especially for being almost entirely selected from a prison population. But back to the droids,” he prompted.

“Yes, Captain,” she said, “we’ve modified the visual identification system to perform periodic sweeps for these ships at extreme close range, but even this only gives us a roughly 50% chance to sight one of these pods before they latch onto the hull. Once they’re there, it will take physical inspection teams to locate them. War Leader Atticus has submitted a patrol schedule which Sergeant Gnuko has co-signed,” she said, gesturing to Middleton’s console. “It should be in your inbox now, Captain.”

“I’ve already reviewed and approved the War Leader’s plan,” he replied with a slow nod. “Still, we need to improve our warning system to better than a fifty-fifty chance; I’m not a gambler by nature, Ensign Sarkozy,” he half-lied. He enjoyed a game of poker as much, or more, than the next person, but he had never believed that particular game to be one of chance.

“Nor I, Captain,” she agreed, “but I’ve already gone over this with the entire senior staff, and there is simply no way we can do better than what we’ve got without new equipment. The Chief says that with a weeks’ time at a fully-equipped shipyard we could insulate the hull plating to the point we could temporarily polarize it and kick these cling-ons off our back with the flick of a switch.”

“Excuse me, ‘cling-ons’?” Middleton repeated, unfamiliar with that particular term.

“It’s just a name the junior officers have come up with for the droid pods, Captain,” she said apologetically.

“I see,” he said in understanding. He had never been particularly good with wordplay, with many subtle phonetic jokes going right over his head.

“But beyond that, we’ve already started training in a new batch of security personnel under Sergeant Gnuko,” she explained. “We’re updating the entire crew’s small arms proficiency, and making power armor training mandatory for all crew members. Obviously they won’t have time to complete the entire course,” she added hastily, “but with a modified program and a few minor modifications to the unused suits, Sergeant Gnuko thinks he can give a crash course in just four sessions of eight hours each that will at least give a crewmember a fighting chance, and provide roughly forty percent the tactical value of a fully-trained Marine—”

“Lancer,” Middleton interrupted pointedly, “we don’t have Marines in the Admiral’s Fleet.”

“Of course, Captain,” she said before shaking her head, probably at the archaic term which the Admiral had chosen for their elite deck-pounders. “On a rotating schedule, we should have the entire crew up to this new minimum standard within two weeks’ time.”

“Excellent,” Middleton agreed. “What’s next?”

An hour later, Captain Middleton had concluded the meeting with his new XO and found himself making his way to the brig at a leisurely—no, at a deliberate pace.

He had put this meeting off as long as he thought possible, but knew he needed to face the issue before returning to debrief the Admiral on the matter.

He was surprised as he rounded the corner and saw Chief Garibaldi hobbling down the corridor, apparently having just exited the brig.

“Chief?” Middleton said in surprise.

“Captain,” Garibaldi acknowledged with a nod as he turned stiffly.

Middleton looked down at the man’s new, mechanical leg and inclined his head, “How’s the temporary leg?”

Garibaldi cracked a grin. “Well, I won’t be doin’ the two-step any time soon,” he quipped, “but truth is I’m kinda getting used to the thing. I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but I’m leaning toward keeping it.”

“Really?” Middleton said incredulously. He had assumed the Chief would want a new limb grown for him once they returned to Easy Haven—or wherever the MSP called ‘home’ these days…assuming there even was an MSP by the time they got back.

“Yeah,” Garibaldi nodded, rapping his knuckles loudly on the top of the metal limb before tilting his head toward the brig, “Doc says it could take three months to even learn how to walk on a tube-grown replacement, and I don’t think this ship could do without me for that long.”

“Mikey—” Captain Middleton began to protest.

“It’s my decision, Captain,” Garibaldi said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Besides, I won’t have to worry about stubbing my toe when I kick our next batch of replacements in the exhaust port for failing inspection. I’m fine with it,” he said seriously. “Another week or two and I won’t even notice the thing’s gone…except for the itching,” he added with a wince. “It just won’t go away; Doc says I have to ‘wait to get the sensory nerves ablated until after the bionics’ pathways have been completed,’ whatever the Hades that means,” he said with a demonstrable eye roll. “In terms I can understand, she said that could take a couple months.”

“Chief…this ship does need you,” Middleton allowed, “but I can’t let you do something rash which you would end up regretting.”

“It’s already done, Captain,” Garibaldi replied evenly. “You pulled my keester out of the fire more than once, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t repay the favor.” He plastered an overly cheerful, at least partially sarcastic, grin on his face, “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Middleton sighed. “I’d be lying if I said I was disappointed; the Pride will need you for the repairs and whatever refits we can manage while at port. The ship needs to get back out as quickly as possible, so bear that in mind when making your wish list,” he said pointedly.

Garibaldi feigned indignation, “And here I’d planned to rip the keel out of this old girl and replace it with a brand spankin’ new Locsium one.” He sighed emphatically. “Oh well; looks like field repairs again. Just promise me one thing?”

“What is it?” Middleton asked warily, causing the Chief Engineer to lean in conspiratorially.

“No more duck?” he whispered. “I don’t care if they’re ground up, dehydrated, rehydrated and mixed with ricotta cheese; those things give me nightmares, always have. Sometimes I still wake up and think there’s a man-sized one hovering over my bunk.”

Captain Middleton laughed more loudly than he had expected and nodded. “Duly noted, Chief,” he grinned.

“Alright then,” Garibaldi said before turning and making his way back down the corridor. Just before he reached the junction he turned and hesitated, clearly wanting to say something.

“What is it?” Middleton asked, taking a step toward the other man with a look of concern on his face.

“She did help us, Captain,” Garibaldi said after a long pause. “That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

Middleton had expected to hear this from someone even earlier, but he still had no idea what he was going to do with the ship’s former Medical Officer. “It should,” the Captain agreed darkly, “but I’m not sure it can. Trust me, Mikey; no one has given this situation more thought than I have.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Garibaldi allowed. “I’m just saying, I haven’t heard anyone express a sentiment to the contrary—and you know how much I like ship gossip.”

Middleton straightened himself and nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Chief; I’ll take that into consideration.”

Garibaldi nodded and turned, disappearing down the adjoining corridor.

Middleton then took a breath and entered the brig with his stony features in place. He had no idea what to expect from Jo, but he found himself wishing desperately for a simple solution to his current conundrum…so long as that solution didn’t end in a particularly final measure of sanctions.

“Lancer,” Middleton nodded to a man named Rice, who had been one of Sergeant Joneson’s finest subordinates before being wounded by the bioweapon which Captain Meisha Raubach had unleashed on them.

“Captain,” Rice acknowledged, standing from his desk before shaking his head, “I’m no Lancer any more, sir. Nerves are shot,” he said, holding out his hands, which trembled uncontrollably.

“You’ll always be a Lancer aboard my ship, Mr. Rice,” Middleton said in a tone that brooked no argument. “So if you don’t like it, you’ll have to request a transfer somewhere they coddle minor ticks like that,” he waved his hand contemptuously at the man’s shaking hands.

Rice was clearly surprised but he broke into a smile and nodded. “Still,” Rice said, “I think it might be best if I was stationed more or less permanently somewhere I don’t need to exercise trigger discipline.”

“I suppose we can arrange something,” Middleton allowed, knowing full well that the man had already been formally transferred to the ship’s Armory department to oversee small arms and armor maintenance. “If you feel it necessary,” he added with a half-smile of his own.

“Captain,” Rice nodded graciously. “I’ll log you in, sir; I assume you’d like to interrogate the prisoner?”

“Yes,” Middleton agreed before making his way down to the blacked-out doorway to Jo’s cell. “Buzz me in if you will, Lancer.”

“Yes, sir,” Rice agreed, and a moment later the door slid open and Captain Middleton entered the tiny, cramped cell. Jo was lying down on the bed and sat up as soon as he entered the room.

“Captain,” she said evenly.

“Doctor,” he replied, fighting the urge to fidget.

“I don’t want to make this any more difficult on you than it needs to be,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I know of the droids, as well as my history with them, and then I’d like to request a transfer to the nearest prison facility…I could bear living out my life on a penal moon somewhere, but my continued presence is disrupting the lives of the very people I had come to think of as…” she hesitated before adding, “as my family.”

Middleton sat down on his haunches and shook his head. “I just have one question, Doctor. Mr. Fei Long tells me that based on the available evidence, you were the author of the suspicious transmissions we detected which used our grav-plating to manipulate the strange particle field. He also says that, after reconstruction using the last piece of the puzzle which you provided on the bridge, those transmissions match, identically, the message you relayed to the droid battle cruiser seconds before it came about and moved to our defense,” he said heavily. “So, as I said, I have just one question.”

“I won’t lie to you, Captain, but I don’t know anything about grav-plating or transmissions,” she said and he actually believed her, which only served to heighten his concern.

Middleton locked eyes with his former wife, and recent Chief Medical Officer, and asked, “What did that message say?”

Jo leaned forward on the edge of the cot and shook her head while briefly breaking eye contact. “It’s…difficult to explain,” she said haltingly.

“I have time,” Middleton said through briefly clenched teeth.

Jo nodded and said, “It was a short message, which included your ship’s name and its designation as part of your fleet—the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol fleet,” she added quickly. “Beyond that it contained, essentially, just two words.”

“And those words were?” he asked guardedly, knowing that if an officer had divulged even that small amount of information it would be grounds for, at minimum, a court martial for having provided intelligence to the enemy during a time of war.

She hesitated before meeting his piercing gaze and answering, “The words were ‘potential allies’.”

“’Potential allies’?” Middleton repeated, temporarily taken aback.

She nodded. “I don’t claim to know the tactical situation even half as well as you do, Tim—I mean, Captain,” she corrected hastily. “But the entities which you think of as one, massive droid force are actually multiple different factions. One such faction—the one whose battle cruiser came to our aid,” she said pointedly, “was responsible for the…repairs you saw on the bridge.” She gestured to her head, where she had removed the finger-length device containing her message while on the bridge.

Middleton leaned back against the wall and exhaled deeply. If she was telling the truth, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had feared…but he could not, in good conscience, treat her word as anything but potential disinformation at this point.

“How?” he heard himself ask unthinkingly. At her look of confusion he sighed, “How did they make those…repairs?”

She shook her head. “I would really prefer not to talk about it,” she said tremulously.

He had heard that voice before, but he had a ship to protect and a mission to accomplish. He couldn’t be swayed by personal feelings. “What you prefer is irrelevant, Doctor,” he said hotly. “You could have come to me with this information earlier, but instead you compromised my ship’s—and potentially the entire fleet’s—security! I need answers and I needed them before we entered that firefight, but I’ll take them now since they might still be of some use.”

“I…” she began as tears welled in her eyes, “was living on a colony in Sector 23…the Firaxis Colony. We,” she said hesitantly before lowering her head and sobbing, “we never even knew we were in danger before they destroyed the colony center from high orbit. Most of us were killed in the first two minutes…including my daughter, Jill.” She clearly tried to fight her tears back, but like they are prone to do, they seemed to consciously react by doubling their flow.

Middleton’s eyes widened at this revelation. He knew she had gone forward with her life, since she had only been mid-way through her medical training when he had enlisted. That enlistment had been the cause of their divorce, and it had been the single most impactful event of Tim Middleton’s life—even including those events of the past year.

But he had never heard of her becoming a mother…which was doubly surprising since it was her reluctance to have a child with him so many years earlier that had begun their eventual dissolution.

“I had no idea,” he said softly, knowing he should fight the urge to sympathize with her but finding himself unable to do so.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and shook her head. “It was over a year ago,” she said almost dismissively, as though that made one iota of difference.

Middleton knew from personal experience that, contrary to popular wisdom, time heals absolutely nothing; all a person can do is learn to live with a wound like that. The worst kinds of pain never really go away.

“The last thing I remember was holding her hand when our hab module was struck, and then there was a loud, grinding sound from above us.” Her voice had regained a measure of composure as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Then I woke up in some kind of medical suite. They had chased the attackers off and…repaired my injuries. They tried to do so for the others, including Jill…but she was already gone.” She stopped and took a few deep breaths before explaining, “In return for their assistance, they asked only that I do one thing for them.”

“What was that?” he asked after a moment’s consideration while fighting the rising wave of sympathy. He wasn’t sure how any of this changed his current dilemma regarding what to do with her, but he owed it to her to hear out the entirety of her story.

“There was a gas mining facility,” she explained pointedly as she met his gaze again. Her tears had stopped and her eyes were once again clear, “They needed someone to infiltrate it and determine if it would be of value to them…or their enemies. They knew it was of strategic value but were uncertain if it was worth a full-scale operation, so they assigned a small, cloaked ship to shadow me and await my report. They had no idea the Pegasus mine would be seized by the pirates and used as a weapons manufacturing site, so I remained a prisoner on that facility until you arrived.” She gave him a significant, pleading look, “The droid tribe that saved my life believes in cooperation, Tim, while the others believe in more…absolute compliance with their own particular ideologies. But they all need resources to fuel their growth.”

“You mean ‘replication’,” Middleton said darkly as he found himself suddenly turning cold to her plight. “They’re machines, Jo, not people.”

“They are sentient beings, Tim!” she argued. “Just because they’re built differently than us doesn’t make them any less deserving than we are of the chance to follow their primary directives—including procreation!”

“Spoken just like a true sympathizer,” he said acidly, more disappointed with himself for not having seen this turn of events coming than angry at her for doing what she had done. He could understand her motivations if her story actually checked out, but the truth was she had become his largest security concern on the Pride of Prometheus. Regardless of his personal—and increasingly strong—feelings for the woman, he had a duty to his fleet, his ship, and its crew.

“I really don’t want to argue with you, Tim,” she said despondently. “I did what I agreed to do, and what I had to do; now that I’ve reported back to them I have—and wish for—no more contact with those droids. I don’t agree with any of this violence,” she said adamantly, “but I couldn’t turn my back on them after what they had done…and what they had tried to do for my daughter.”

Middleton stood slowly to his feet, realizing his legs had gone numb during his crouch. “I have no way to confirm any of this without the use of force,” he said, more to himself than to her before shaking his head. “But I won’t do that.”

“You have to do your duty, Tim,” she said, and in her voice he heard a measure of understanding he would never have expected. “Just like I had to do mine.”

Captain Tim Middleton hesitated, torn between the need to fulfill his duty and the desire to treat her statements as factual and put the whole situation behind them. But he knew that he couldn’t do either one properly, so while he now had more information than when he had entered the brig, he still had no clear course of action.

“Doctor,” he said eventually, “in consideration of your voluntary service to this crew, and the very real fact that you quite literally saved this ship, its mission, and potentially,” he grudged, “the entire Spine with your actions, I’m inclined to confine you to quarters until I have time to sort this out with fleet command. I’m not capable of making this decision on my own due to our mutual history,” he said, knowing it was the absolute truth. “If I have your word that you won’t author any more transmissions, and that you will abide by house arrest in your new quarters—as well as limiting your interactions with the crew to those which I pre-approve—I think it would be best for everyone involved if I released you from the brig.”

“You can’t let me go, Tim,” she shook her head. “You said it yourself: you’re not capable of thinking clearly, and I’m an admitted sympathizer.”

“By your own admission,” he said pointedly as he turned to the door and knocked to signal he was ready to egress, “you’re a former sympathizer. But, as I said, I can’t lock you up for saving the very ship I would be trying to protect by keeping you in this cell. You give me your word that you’ll adhere to my restrictions, and I’ll accept it.”

She stood from her cot and nodded slowly. “I have a request then,” she said meekly.

The door slid open and Middleton turned to face her with a hard look on his face. “Don’t push it, Doctor,” he said, returning to the proper formalities rather than the familiar first-name-basis they had slipped into.

“I’m not trying to,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I would like to know if it would be possible for Bu to share my quarters,” she said, and he saw tears begin to well in her eyes again.

It was a risk to do as she asked, but in truth he knew from Sergeant Joneson’s reports that Lu Bu had latched onto Jo the moment they had met. He had suspected that she wanted to have Lu Bu share her new, split quarters the moment she requested them, and he had already made up his mind to allow the two to continue their interaction uninterrupted.

“She’s a Lancer and member of the MSP,” Middleton said stiffly before relaxing, “but I won’t deny your request.” He leaned forward fractionally and lowered is voice, “Don’t do anything to hurt her, Doctor, or to compromise her dreams…regardless of whether you approve of them.”

She looked mortified before collecting herself. “You don’t need to lecture me on parenti—” she began coldly.

“Give me your word,” he cut in harshly.

She recoiled slightly before nodding. “You have it.”

Middleton stepped out of the cell and nodded. “I’ll put your transfer order in the system, then,” he said evenly. “You should be out of here before the shift is finished, Doctor.” He hesitated as he made to leave the brig before hearing himself ask, “What happened to your daughter’s—Jill’s—father?” It wasn’t a question he had intended to ask, and he silently cursed himself for asking it.

Jo’s eyes drifted to the floor and silence hung between them for several seconds before she whispered, “She never met him,” her gaze remained fixed on the floor for several seconds before briefly meeting his, and what he saw there gave her words their full meaning, “and he didn’t know about her.:

Middleton felt his entire body go numb as he processed what she had just revealed, and he honestly had no idea what he was supposed to say in response. He was angry—furious, even—but he could also, in some small way, understand why she had done it. So instead of saying something hurtful, or venting his sudden rush of emotion, he nodded stiffly. He tried to act as though he had just received a particularly difficult order, and left the brig without another word.

Epilogue III: Debriefing the Admiral

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Captain Middleton said after entering the Admiral’s office.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Vice Admiral Jason Montagne replied from his chair as Middleton cleared the doorway. The young man gestured to the chair opposite his own, across a far larger and more regal-looking desk than the one in Middleton’s ready room aboard the Pride of Prometheus. Where that desk had barely enough room for three people to sit on one side—even if he had three chairs, rather than just the two—this one could easily sit twice as many, and had the chairs to prove it.

Middleton sat down awkwardly in the chair opposite the admiral’s. He had brought a data slate, as well as an encrypted data crystal, with him for this debrief. He deliberately separated the objects and slid them across the desk toward the Admiral before assuming a rigid posture opposite the young Admiral.

It took less than a glance to see that the young Royal’s recent history had been at least as tumultuous as Middleton’s own—an observation that would have been obvious to him, even without access to the local rumor mill, which said the Little Admiral’s recent trials and tribulations would put Middleton’s to shame.

Admiral Montagne steepled his fingers and flicked his eyes down to the two objects before meeting Middleton’s and holding him with an assessing gaze for several seconds before saying, “Now, if you’d be so kind as to tell me just what the blazes happened, that caused a simple one month border patrol to turn into an almost one year odyssey, I would be most appreciative!” Admiral Montagne said with an emphatic thump of his fist against the impressive desk.

Captain Middleton nodded, swallowing the unexpected lump in his throat. “Yes, Admiral,” he replied, gesturing to the data slate and crystal. “The complete details are listed there—“

“To the Demon with the details,” the Vice Admiral snapped. “You’ve brought a storm of trouble on your heels, Captain,” he stressed the rank ominously, “and I’m not sure I can handle any more crises at the present moment. I need officers who contribute to the removal of obstacles, not those who add to the seemingly endless supply of troubles the universe seems determined to hurl our way!”

The Admiral leaned forward, his eyes burning with an inner fire like Middleton had only ever seen a handful of times in his life—and only ever in the countenances of men such as High Captain Archibald Manning IV, who had seen more than their share of the universe’s worst.

“Give me one good reason,” Admiral Montagne seethed, “why I shouldn’t strip you of your command and put you on the first ship to Capria.”

Captain Middleton hadn’t exactly expected such a vehement outburst from his superior officer, but he had honestly feared worse—with ‘worse’ being outright dismissal from service without the chance to plead his case—and was grateful for the opportunity to present his side of the story. “In truth, Admiral,” he said gravely, “I’ve had a similar conversation not long ago, where I asked a man for just such a reason. I hate to borrow another man’s words,” he said evenly, “but in this case I can’t think of a better way to make my case.”

“By all means—parrot this other man’s words. This should be good,” Admiral Montagne leaned back in his chair and fixed Middleton with his steely gaze.

“I’ll leave that for you to judge,” Middleton said neutrally as he took the data slate into his hands and entered the password, which populated the screen with a series of shifting shapes and colors that were frankly nauseating to look at for more than a few seconds. With the visual representation live, he turned the slate over and pushed it toward the Admiral, who snapped it up without breaking eye contact with Captain Middleton.

He held the slate in his hands for several seconds before finally glancing down at its contents for just a few moments before waving the slate demonstrably. “A screen saver?” he demanded coolly. “I expected something more…I don’t know,” he said dramatically as he shot Middleton a piercing gaze, “substantial? Backside covering? Filled with mystery and innuendo perhaps?”

“That,” Captain Middleton said, feeling his stomach doing somersaults, “is a representation of the raw data stream for the local, Sector 25 branch of a certain communications system which, until recently, was believed to have been rendered inoperable around the same time as you assumed command.”

The Admiral’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before resuming their former, cold expression as he looked back down at the data slate’s contents more intently.

Captain Middleton leaned back pointedly and folded his arms across his chest, determined to deliver the words with just as much gravity as Fei Long had done in his own office not long before. “Admiral, despite reports to the contrary, that comm. system is still very much intact and in operation throughout the Spineward Sectors. If you allow us to resupply and make a few much-needed modifications to the Pride…I can give you the ComStat network.”

Admiral Montagne’s eyes flicked back and forth from the data slate as he, like Middleton before him, silently assimilated the full meaning of what he had just been told.

“Captain Middleton,” Admiral Montagne said eventually, deactivating the slate and leaning back in his chair as a half-smile came over his battle-hardened features, which only vaguely resembled the clear, boyish countenance Middleton remembered, “you have my complete and undivided attention.”

The story continues in Admiral Invincible, book six of the Spineward Sectors series, and also in Up The Middle (working title), book two of Middleton’s Pride

Join the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet for updates and alerts regarding upcoming promotions, the chance to join a beta reading group, sneak peeks at exclusive artwork and more!

Table of Contents

Chapter I: With These Rings

Chapter II: A Dance of Ice & Fire

Chapter III: Earning Hazard Pay

Chapter IV: Starting Over

Chapter V: Lacking Political Capital

Chapter VI: Tit for Tat and Letter vs. Spirit

Chapter VII: New Game, Same Rules

Chapter VIII: Mixed Signals

Chapter IX: Playing to Strengths

Chapter X: The Sleeping Dragon, the First Visit

Chapter XI: A New Player

Chapter XII: Walk a mile in another’s feet…

Chapter XIII: Prejudice, Pride, and the Past

Chapter XIV: Bread Crumbs

Chapter XV: Sleeping Dragon, the Second Visit

Chapter XVI: Breaking Bread

Chapter XVII: Disappointment

Chapter XVIII: Warmer…

Chapter XIX: Sleeping Dragon, the Third Visit

Chapter XX: Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter XXI: After Action

Chapter XXII: Raising The Bar

Chapter XXIII: A Plan Comes Together

Chapter XXIV: Springing the Trap

Chapter XXV: Closing the Trap

Chapter XXVI: Answers

Chapter XXVII: Shopping for a Gift

Chapter XXVIII: Last Minute Details

Chapter XXIX: Twilight’s Fall

Chapter XXX: Taking a Stand, and Shaking a Hand

Chapter XXXI: A New Plan

Chapter XXXII: A Lesson in Game Theory

Chapter XXXIII: An Unexpected Guest

Chapter XXXIV: An Update…and the gift of Red Hare

Chapter XXXV: Meetings of the Minds

Chapter XXXVI: A Hub and a Surprise

Chapter XXXVII: Protecting the Ball

Chapter XXXVIII: Repair and Regroup

Chapter XXXIX: One Headache after Another

Chapter XL: Fight Out of It

Chapter XLI: The Fray

Chapter XLII: A Wall of Iron

Chapter XLIII: Cleaning Up

Epilogue I: Advice…and an Airlock!?

Epilogue II: Coming to Terms

Epilogue III: Debriefing the Admiral