Middleton continued drumming his fingers contemplatively before saying, “You never make things easy, do you, Kongming?”
“In my experience, Captain Middleton,” Kongming said respectfully, “nothing worth doing is easy.”
“Well said,” Middleton grunted before grasping the data crystal in the palm of his hand. “It’s good to have you back aboard. Get some rest and we’ll talk further after I’ve gone over this report.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kongming said graciously.
After Kongming left the conference room, Middleton shook his head in bewilderment. He had suspected Kongming was on the edge of his ability to cope with their situation, but it seemed he had vastly underestimated just how badly in over his head the young man had been.
The only thing that had changed between the Needle’s departure and its return was that now, after hearing Kongming’s story and reviewing the information he had provided, Middleton felt as though he too was nearing the end of his tether.
If Kongming’s information checked out—and he had no reason to think it would not—it would radically change the nature of Middleton’s efforts in the Gorgon Sectors.
“There are days I wish I’d taken up drinking,” Middleton grumbled before plugging the data crystal into the conference table’s secure terminal.
“I think we’ve reached an agreement,” Chancellor Foles declared after the multi-day summit to discuss the distribution of salvaged warships—as well as their repair schedule—finally reached its conclusion.
“The League is satisfied with the outcome of these proceedings,” President Chow said officiously.
“As are the Void Hunters,” Mrr’shan purred.
“Primarch?” Middleton turned to Primarch Nail, who had been elected by a moot to stand as the Stalwart representative.
“We are content,” Nail nodded.
“Good,” Middleton said, “then, on behalf of the Prichtac, and as the Supreme Military Commander of the Alliance Gorgonus, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your participation in these negotiations.” He turned to the Extra-Orbital Cooperative’s representative, Mr. Gauss, “How soon can your mobile yards be ready to accept hulls?”
“We’ll have the Corvette yard up in two weeks,” Gauss replied. “The Cruiser cradle will take two months after that.”
“It looks like you’ll have plenty of customers,” Middleton said approvingly before turning to President Chow, “When will the League’s repair operation be up and running?”
“Our Constructor will take two months to complete the flexible cradle required to service the three salvageable Imperial Battleships,” she replied. “We can have the first hull serviced and retrofitted forty days after that.”
“Good,” Middleton said in surprise. It seemed that President Chow was genuinely interested in getting off on the right foot; her initial estimates had put the cradle’s completion at three months and fifty days to refit the first hull. “Then I think it would be best if we went about our business.”
President Chow nodded agreeably before moving to mingle with the planetary delegates, at which point Middleton discretely pulled Primarch Nail off to the side. “Primarch,” Middleton greeted after they were out of earshot of the other representatives, “I have a proposal for you…”
Two hours later, Middleton was back aboard the Prejudice with Mrr’shan, Nail, and the EOC representative, Mr. Gauss.
“Are you serious about this?” Nail asked in disbelief for the third time since Middleton had made his proposal.
“I am,” Middleton nodded before turning to Mr. Gauss, “I trust you received my proposal after you agreed to rejoin the AG?”
“I did,” Gauss replied, “but I found it difficult to believe.”
“Well,” Middleton said, tapping a series of commands into the conference table’s interface, “believe it.”
Gauss’s eyes—as well as those of Nail and Mrr’shan, who had already accepted Middleton’s proposal a week earlier—locked onto the projected image, which was of an Imperial turbo-laser mount.
“Power requirements generally prevent turbo-lasers from being installed on any warship smaller than a Destroyer,” Middleton explained, “but the power draw isn’t the only problem, especially since it’s simple enough to overcome by installing a bank of mid-yield capacitors. Targeting computer capacity, the size of the physical mounts themselves, and a host of other factors also contribute to the difficulty of mounting such large-scale weaponry on smaller warships. But,” he continued, bringing up a new screen which showed Raubach modifications which had made turbo-lasers mountable on warships as small as Corvettes, “in my previous deployment, I encountered an Imperial House that had solved these problems. The bad news is that the enemy already has this technology. The good news, however, is that we do too—and unlike our Imperial adversaries we’re in a position that take advantage of it.”
Gauss examined the schematics and cocked his head dubiously before pointing at the neural tissue which made it all work, “What is this material?”
“I hate to be cloak and dagger,” Middleton confessed, “but that’s classified. Suffice to say that my people are capable of cultivating this material and that, in three months’ time, we can have every single Corvette under the command of the nations represented here armed with a turbo-laser.”
Nail snorted as he turned to Mrr’shan, “That is why you traded your bigger ships for Corvettes?”
“It is,” Mrr’shan flashed her teeth in a feral grin.
“I couldn’t make this offer to the others,” Middleton said to Nail, “especially since I knew the Commander was only waiting for his opportunity to leave. I need to keep our possession of this technology compartmentalized so the enemy doesn’t catch wind of it before we demonstrate its existence to them firsthand.”
“Our Constructor will need these schematics,” Gauss said.
“And you’ll get them after we’ve reached an accord here,” Middleton assured him. “What I need from you before that is a timetable—as well as a firm commitment as to how many other resources you have coming this way. We need to divert as many of them as possible from this star system so we can set up a secondary repair site.”
Gauss cocked an eyebrow, “You don’t trust the other members of the AG?”
“I trust them to serve their own agendas,” Middleton assured him, “but unfortunately I don’t know them well enough to know those agendas.”
“However little you know of them,” Gauss narrowed his eyes, “you know even less of me and my people.”
“I know that you were already packing up when my offer reached you,” Middleton said knowingly. “And I know that your people are consummate frontiersmen, which precludes cowardice. I know the only reason you left the AG in the first place is because there were certain actions taken which you could not condone or support. I also know,” Middleton leaned forward, placing his knuckles on the conference table, “that someone is treating this region of space like their own private game board—and that, whoever they are, they’ve been behind most of the chaos which has swept through the Gorgon Sectors.”
“Who?” Gauss asked, and judging from his expression he was far from surprised by Middleton’s last statement.
“I don’t know that,” Middleton confessed, “but I aim to find out. In order to do that, I’m going to need crews, weapons, ships and a will to go where others won’t.” He swept the room with a commanding gaze, “Will you come with me? Will you strike back against whoever it is that has used you—and everyone else in the Gorgon Sectors—for their own secret agenda?” he stood to his full height, “Will you stand with me?”
“Why?” Nail asked gruffly. “Why would you stand with us? This is not your home.”
“Because, Primarch,” Middleton said fiercely, “I almost lost everything I cared about to machinations like the ones that have tried to swallow everything you care about. I was lucky,” he declared, knowing it was true, “and the things I ca
red about were saved because of it. But now I want nothing more than to put an end to this conflict—and other conflicts like it—before they claim the prosperity, freedom, and lives of people who weren’t as fortunate as I was.” His lip curled in a smirk, “Also…I happen to enjoy a good fight.”
Laughter echoed through the room as the others nodded approvingly at his sentiment.
“Are we ready to go to work?” Middleton asked.
Gauss proffered his hand, “With pleasure.”
“Good,” Middleton took the other man’s hand in his own, “then let’s get started.”
Chapter XLIII: An Errant Hornet’s Journey Home
“Mr. Scarlet,” Sarkozi heard Mr. Black’s voice over the ship’s intercom, “join us on the bridge.”
Sarkozi shared a brief look with Mr. Six, who had taken up what seemed to be a permanent position at the workstation alongside Sarkozi’s.
“Bring Mr. Six as well,” Mr. Black added just as Sarkozi stood from his chair.
“Come on,” Sarkozi said, and the other man silently obliged.
They made their way to the ship’s bridge, which was open and seemed abuzz with activity. “Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black greeted, gesturing to the ship’s main viewer, “can you identify that ship?”
Sarkozi examined the disc-shaped craft, which appeared to be somewhere between a Cutter and Corvette in size and had a golden hued hull. It appeared to be on an intercept course with their Pulsar-class Cutter, and a quick check of the bridge’s instruments suggested to Sarkozi that their stealth suite was in full power mode—and still the enemy ship appeared headed straight at them.
“I have never seen that design before,” Sarkozi shook his head, and Mr. Black gave him a searching look for a moment before turning to Mr. Six.
“And you?” Mr. Black asked of his brother, Mr. Six.
“Of course I have,” Mr. Six said grimly. “And where there is one, a dozen more will soon follow.”
“This is the ship which destroyed yours?” Mr. Black pressed.
“I cannot confirm that,” Mr. Six said, his voice unusually taut, “but it is of an identical design to those which destroyed my command.”
“Sensors,” Mr. Black said without taking his eyes off Mr. Six, “are there any indications of Locust activity in this star system? Unusual ion trails, disrupted EM fields, or signs of trillium extraction conforming to established patterns?”
“Negative,” the woman at Sensors promptly reported. “This star system appears to be untouched.”
“Mr. Black,” the Comm. stander said in a rising voice, “I am receiving a hail.”
“They did not hail us during our previous encounter,” Mr. Six said tightly. “They merely closed distance and opened fire.”
“Perhaps this one is alone,” Mr. Black offered, but to Sarkozi that seemed unlikely. According to Mr. Six’s debriefing, his ship had encountered one such vessel in similar conditions to these. But instead of that ship heading straight for them, it had veered off and made for the hyper limit at maximum speed—a speed which somehow managed to outpace the fastest warship, the Pulsar class, ever produced by the Imperium of Man.
“Mr. Black,” Sarkozi stepped forward, drawing a diamond-hard look from the ship’s commander, “there is something different going on here. In Mr. Six’s previous encounter with this ship design, they retreated and quickly returned with reinforcements before presenting overwhelming force and destroying his ship.”
“I read the report, Mr. Scarlet,” Mr. Black said icily.
“I understand that, sir—” Sarkozi said adamantly, only to be cut off.
“This warship is the finest example of Man’s engineering to be found in the cosmos, Mr. Sarkozi,” Mr. Black said confidently. “Even if the Locusts can somehow penetrate our stealth systems, Mr. Six’s report suggested that it took no fewer than three of these vessels working in tandem to bring his command down. The opportunity presented here, to capture and study the Locusts’ technology, is simply too great to pass by.”
“That might be precisely what they want you to think, Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six observed.
“Or they might have their own stealth systems which are concealing a dozen more of those ships out there,” Sarkozi suggested. “There are too many variables present here, Mr. Black. Protocol dictates we withdraw and re-evaluate the situation before proceeding further beyond the rim of the Gorgon Sectors.”
“Protocol, Mr. Scarlet?” Mr. Black repeated coolly. “Protocol is meant to govern known conditions; the primary purpose of this mission is to investigate the Locusts—which are, as yet, an unknown quantity. Protocol has no bearing on this situation. Time to weapons range?”
“Three minutes,” the ship’s Helmsman reported.
“They have repeated their hail,” the Comm. stander said neutrally.
Mr. Black steepled his fingers before his face as he peered intently at the image of the inbound ship. Eventually he gestured to the Comm. stander, “Put them on.”
An androgynous human image appeared on the screen before them, and when he, she, or it spoke it only further confused Sarkozi as to its gender. “You should not be here,” the person said grimly, “you must withdraw at once.”
“Who are you?” Mr. Black demanded.
“I am the Crafter,” the person replied, “and if you do not leave this star system immediately you will jeopardize everything I have spent the last thirty years preparing. You are not supposed to be here,” the Crafter repeated urgently, but to Sarkozi it seemed as though the Crafter’s voice was filled not only with a warning, but with surprise—surprise, perhaps, at their being in this particular location? “Leave—now,” the Crafter said urgently, “or all of this may have been for nothing! Go back to your masters and tell them—no, plead with them to withdraw from this region of space. The Empire of Man does not need the Gorgon Sectors. Turn your fleets back before it is too late.”
“My dear,” Mr. Black said casually, “we are not going anywhere. But I invite you to come aboard my ship so we might engage in a productive dialogue. I am sure there is much we could learn from each other.”
“If you refuse to heed my warning,” the Crafter’s visage hardened, “then you leave me no choice.”
The image vanished from the viewer and the Helmsman—who, on such a small ship, also doubled as the gunner and Tactical Officer—reported, “Bogey is increasing speed, sir.”
“Shields to maximum,” Mr. Black ordered, “prepare gravity mines for deployment and arm missile tubes one through six.”
“Mines ready; missile tubes primed,” the Helmsman acknowledged.
“Plot collision course,” Mr. Black commanded, “flank speed—that ship is mine.”
“Collision course, aye,” replied the Helmsman.
The ship shuddered under fire, prompting Sensors to report, “Multiple particle wave impacts—the forward shields are holding, but down to forty percent.”
“Particle waves from a ship that small…and at this range?” Sarkozi said in surprise as the ship passed into extreme laser range—a range exclusively reserved for turbo-lasers.
“Stay on course, Helm,” Mr. Black said steadily, “rotate the port shields to reinforce the bow.”
“Reinforcing,” the Helm acknowledged, “port shield emitter is now reinforcing the forward emitter: forward shields at one hundred thirty percent.”
“Your report didn’t say anything about particle waves,” Sarkozi turned to Mr. Six, who seemed entirely too relaxed at that particular moment. “It said these ships were armed with highly-confined, superior ranged lasers which were relatively ineffective against shields and somehow created resonance within locsium structures on direct contact.”
“Oh?” Mr. Six asked blithely as his eyes remained fixed on the main viewer. “I’m sure I mentioned the particle waves somewhere. Why would I omit a detail like that—especially when it now seems obvious that particle waves are how the enemy lowered our shields so they could carve us into pieces with those la
sers of theirs?”
Sarkozi saw something come over Mr. Six’s countenance, and acting purely on instinct he took a step backward. Even before his brain had processed what was happening, he found himself flat on his back with a lance of pain searing across his face.
“Mr. Six?” Mr. Black asked as Sarkozi blindly scrambled for the door leading off the bridge. “Secure him!” Mr. Black barked, and a moment later sonic pistols discharged into the area where Mr. Six had been standing.
“It is too late, Mr. Nine,” Mr. Six said, and there was suddenly something decidedly unnatural—or artificial—about the tone of Mr. Six’s voice. “There is no escape now; it has begun!”
Wiping a smear of blood from his face, Sarkozi blinked his eyes forcefully just in time to see a metallic tendril no larger in diameter than his little finger lash out from Mr. Six’s hand and stab into the base of the Helmsman’s skull.
“Security—“ Mr. Black began, only to be silenced when a similar tendril erupted from Mr. Six’s other hand and pierced Mr. Black’s larynx. Flailing wildly with his hands, Mr. Black made the briefest of eye contact with Sarkozi before his hand found the emergency lockdown icon on his command chair’s console.
The crystalline door leading onto the bridge slammed shut less than a second after Sarkozi had scrambled into the safety of the corridor, and the last thing he saw were Mr. Six’s eyes—which were now hauntingly cold, impossibly black, and utterly lifeless.
When the door slammed shut there was no sound, no light, and no other sensation he could detect from the bridge. For a moment all he could do was catch his breath in shocked silence as he tried to process what had just happened.
The Middle Road (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 7) Page 43