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. Yout
h, 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 d
own 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?”
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