“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 off-line. 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 off-line 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 t
he 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.
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