Her voice took on a practiced, soothing tone, “As soon as you’re cleared by Medical—“
“—Not later, NOW!” he bellowed. “Just get me the tools and I’ll take a look at this mess of hardware slapped on me.”
The Nurse shook her head in negation. “I’m afraid the Doctor has strictly forbidden the import of any repair tools into this room for the duration of your stay,” she soothed with a smile to take the sting out of her words, but the angry engineer would be blasted if he was put off by a pretty face.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” someone said by the door.
“Of all the foolish space rot, who does that Doctor think he is….” Spalding trailed off, his eyes catching on the new woman in the doorway. All thoughts of his anger with Medical and their attempt to utilize base trickery and deception to befuddle a wily old engineer like himself flew out of his brain in an instant.
Built as stout as a brick and with a no nonsense look about her, he could tell this was a woman who brooked no slackers lightly. On the wrong side of middle age, her grey was hair done up in a long, flowing bob at the back of her head. The civilian work coveralls were only an added bonus, as far as Spalding was concerned.
“Lieutenant Spalding,” she began, looking at him questioningly. He found it hard to imagine how many other old cyborgs medical had hacked together that she could possibly confuse him for someone else, but her dark brown eyes sucked him in and kept him from commenting on it.
He gave him an angry shake and started to turn to roast the nice little Nurse up one side and down the other, when his eyes arrested on the side of the newcomer’s uniform.
It was at the moment he saw the emblem of the Fraternal Order of the Wrench and Sprocket emblazoned on the arm of her civilian work coveralls that he knew he was smitten. For a long while, he merely gaped at her.
“Careful, you’ll catch flies,” she said sounding amused.
His mouth snapped shut and he took himself to task for staring like a fool.
“Aye, I’m Terrence Spalding,” he replied gruffly.
She gave a no nonsense nod and stepped into his room. “Glenda Baldwin, Construction Manager for the Multiplex Constructor,” she introduced, sticking out her hand.
Perplexed, he took her hand and gave a quick shake. “Sweet Murphy, what did they do to your eye,” she cocked an eyebrow in dismay, “it looks like it’s entirely out of alignment.”
Spalding opened his mouth for an angry retort, wondering if she had something against unwilling cyborgs, but his growing head of steam was cut off just before it could get going. He stopped in confusion, and he could feel his ornery old heart melted just a bit.
“Pikers from Medical,” he said instead, gesturing around the room widely to indicate the entire medical unit, “I told them something felt wrong, but they don’t like listening to a mere Engineer like myself when it comes to high and mighty medical equipment,” he scowled.
She stepped over and placed a firm hand on his head, forcing him to lay back down in bed and pulled out a sensor wand in the other hand.
“Here, let me just take a look at that,” Glenda Baldwin insisted in such a no nonsense voice that he let her have her way.
“The migraines were something terrible the first few days,” he grumbled, “I told them to take a look at it, but they said the autocorrect feature would kick in soon and a few days later it seemed to get better, so I just figured I’d take a look at it as soon as I busted out of this joint,” he explained.
“Hold still for a moment,” she said, her tongue between her teeth as she produced a precision diagnostic tool from her pocket.
“Now wait just a second, lass,” he started, but before he could say anything else the tool blocked his entire field of vision and a sharp pain went through his head like a pile driver as everything in his right field of vision went black.
“Got it,” she announced with satisfaction, waving her trophy (his right eye) around with apparent satisfaction.
“Confounded woman,” he cursed, clutching at the side of his head.
She rounded on him and shoved the hand holding his eye in his face.
“Watch your tongue, you old space dog. It’s not like I don’t know one end of a diagnostic scanner from another, I’ve only been at this job for the past thirty five years and I’m not about to tolerate any lip,” she barked ironically.
“Thirty five,” he sneered in response, “why, I’ve been in this business for more than six decades!”
“This was my second career path,” Baldwin quipped defensively, “I can’t help it if my planet didn’t have a university growing up; I had to start out as a simple air-car mechanic first.”
“I’m not judging,” he hastened to assure her, “went mustang myself back in the day, don’t you know and…” Spalding trailed off with horror as she started taking his eye apart. “Hey,” he exclaimed with outrage, “careful with that now, that’s me eye you’re foolin’ with there!”
“Substandard piece of junk,” she cursed.
“See,” Spalding agreed triumphantly, rounding on the Nurse, “I told you…” he trailed off, realizing that the nurse must have left sometime during the past few minutes.
“Let me see that,” he scowled thunderously and tried to swipe the eye out of her grasp, but his depth perception was off with only one eye and he grabbed hold of her diagnostic wand instead.
“What do you think you’re doing,” Baldwin demanded.
“If you’re going to keep a hold of my eye, I’m going to use this here diagnostic and take a good hard look at these legs,” he glared at her.
“I don’t tolerate poachers trying to walk off with my tools,” she snapped irritably, matching him glare for glare.
“And just how am I supposed to walk off with anything, when I’m stuck in this bed due to a pair of malfunctioning droid legs!” he retorted, rolling his good eye as he threw back the blanket on his bed. Leaning over, he picked up his knee and started checking it with a diagnostic wand.
“Don’t you have a dedicated scanner,” he complained when the wand failed to directly interface with the chips in his leg.
“That’s disgusting,” she said as her face began to turn green before grabbing his blanket and tossing it back across his waist.
“I can’t help it if they put the evacuation port in the front instead of the back,” he protested. “Blasted quacks in Medical get it all twisted around.”
“Without the sense Murphy gave a turnip,” she said looking at the ceiling as if for inspiration.
“Now now, Lass,” he replied absentmindedly, as he finally managed to get the diagnostic wand to interface with his right leg.
“Who you calling lass, you old fuddy duddy,” she sniffed.
“Why I never,” Spalding sputtered, “a fuddy duddy is it!”
She folded her arms and he saw a chip fall out of the eye she was still working on.
“Careful with that,” he shrilled.
“Watch your tone with me, you old coot,” she warned, leaning down to pick up the chip. Then, seemingly just to spite him, she proceeded to roll the chip across her knuckles as if it were an old-style metal coin, and she some kind of mechanical magician.
“Why I’ve half a mind to get up out of this bed,” he growled, swinging his legs over the side.
“What are you going to do, you malingering old slacker,” she sniffed scornfully.
“A slacker!” he roared, and before he knew it the legs that hadn’t been worth a pint of spent oil were suddenly functional for the first time since he woke up. Towering over the infernal woman, he jammed his finger in her face.
“And he says those legs don’t work worth fig, which is why he has to steal my diagnostic scanner,” Baldwin said angrily, pushing his hand aside and snatching her diagnostic wand back. “If this isn’t the worst sort of slacking I’ve seen in my sorry old life, then it’s pretty blasted close!”
Spalding sputtered, making an aborted attempt to retrieve
the wand before giving it up as a zero sum game. Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. He wasn’t really a tool poacher after all; he’d just needed to borrow it for a few mikes, and it’s not like he could have made it as far as the doorway of his room until his legs started working properly.
There was a knock on the door and Gants came into the room, a jaunty set to his stride.
The smile on the face of the head of the Armory department slowly wilted.
“Hi chief, it’s good to see your legs are finally working right,” he said brightly.
Ms. Baldwin gave a noisy disbelieving sniff in response and pointedly turned back to dismantling his plucked eye.
Spalding purpled.
“What’s going on here, Sir,” Gants continued much more cautiously, eyeing Spalding’s disassembled eye with alarm.
“It’s this-this-this… woman, Gants! Why, she…” he trailed off incoherently.
“I know a man who’s ready to get out of Medical and back to some honest work when I see one,” she raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the Chief Engineer. “Raise four children and sixteen grandchildren, and you know sandbagging when you see it.”
“You see what I have to put up with in here, Gants,” Spalding declared angrily, pointing an accusing finger at the woman. “I’m barely off my deathbed and here she comes barging in. Before I’ve said as much as two words, she rips me peeper right out of me head!”
“It’s a defective chip, with a little gunk around the miniature servo,” she said stiffly, and then set his eye down on the bedside table. “Fix it and you’ll be fine.”
“Then she calls me a tool poacher, can you believe that,” he continued in a rising voice.
“I see—” replied Gants as he stepped to the corner of the room, safely out of the way. “Hello Ms. Baldwin, Mr. Spalding,” he tried to restart the conversation.
Both the Chief Engineer and the Construction Manager ignored him.
“I originally came to ask after your health and request your opinion on a few engineering matters regarding the Little Gift you lot lifted off the Imperials,” she said coldly, “but since your legs appear to be suddenly working and your floppy old tongue is clearly allocated towards yelling and shouting instead of reasoned discourse among fellow engineers, I think I’d leave instead,” she tossed data slate down beside his halfway disassembled eye. “Just in case you suddenly come back to your senses, the data’s right there.”
The old Engineer’s ears perked up at the thought of getting his hands on some of the design specs belonging to the Imperial Strike Cruiser. “Now Glenda me girl, there’s no need to storm off in a huff,” Spalding replied, “I’m sure we can hash out our differences like men.” The doctors had refused to let him have so much as a dataslate, and naturally his eyes shot over to the device she’d ever so carelessly left on his table.
“The name is Miss Baldwin to the likes of you, Mr. Spalding,” she ground out, “and as should be obvious even to a cyclopsed old reprobate like you, I am no man. Nor am I interested in hearing any of your excuses!
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” Spalding exclaimed. For a moment there he’d almost forgot he was talking to a woman, but there was no need to tear him apart over and honest mistake. “And surely a fellow member of the Fraternal Order of the Wrench and Sprocket could be a little more understanding than this—”
Unfortunately, the female engineer was already too far gone for the likes of him to smooth things over. If only I’d been born better with women, he thought unhappily.
“Don’t you dare bring up the Order to try and bail you out of this,” she growled. “I’m no girl to be talked to so familiarly, Mr. Spalding, I have a family back home and sixteen grandchildren,” Glenda declared with some heat, dragging out a holo-picture with the images of her extended family.
Spalding observed with interest that while there were children and grandchildren, he didn’t see a man of the right age in the photo.
So saying she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Spalding stared after her, admiring the flame resistant material of her work suit and the way her tool belt was designed to weight balance and auto adjust as its wearer was moving. At the sight of all those fancy new tools (and by new, he meant top of the line), not unused as these were clearly the tools of a hard working engineer, he stared enviously. There were no decorative trophy tools riding on that set of perfectly wide hips.
Then he blinked.
“What about me eye, lass!” he called after her when he realized she was leaving and the job was still only half done.
“I’m sure such a complete professional as yourself can figure it out,” she tossed it over her shoulder on the way out.
“With no bloody tools!” he shouted after her in protest.
She laughed mockingly.
“I hear they put a multi-tool in your left hand; it’s all over the station, so use that,” she replied scornfully.
“A Multi-tool!” he yelled with outrage, “that’s hitting below the belt!” But she was already gone, and all he could do was stomp from one side of the room to the other and curse the doctors that had removed all his hair and replaced half his head with metal.
Stomping over to the sink, he peered into the mirror, and then shook his head. The right side of his skull was metal from just above the gaping hole that was his empty eye socket halfway to the back of his head.
He bellowed wordlessly.
This was the first time he had used a full length mirror to observe the loss of not only his beloved hairdo, but all of his hair entirely.
“They’ve taken the last of me beloved hair, Gants,” he said unhappily.
Spalding scowled at his bald looking chrome dome. The parts that were not actually chrome gleamed almost as brightly in the medical light as if they were, as there was not a single remaining hair follicle in sight.
No wonder the last conversation had gone so poorly, he convinced himself. With his incredible ‘do gone, he was just another washed-up old engineer; there was nothing left to attract the attention of the ladies.
Gants nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something and then silently closed it. Gesturing to the door, Gants gave him a quizzical look.
“What was that all about, Chief?” he sounded concerned.
Spalding turned to face the younger man, and he felt a tugging sensation somewhere in the vicinity of his recently rebuilt heart at the thought of Glenda’s perfectly arranged tool belt.
“I think it’s love,” he finally admitted.
Chapter 8: Spotted!
“Admiral, we’re about as close as we’re going to get before they spot us,” the voice of the lead Sensor Officer cut in.
You’d think that these words would have filled me with anxiety and caused all my insides to clench up tight but actually quite the opposite was the case. Two days of near sleepless nights while we coasted in on what our Navigator and Helmsman called a ballistic course had worn me out. I no longer had the energy to get beside myself with anxiety.
“Thank you, Sensors,” I said approvingly. It was nice to see backs straighten with pride at my words over in the sensor section. If a few words from me were able to help, I was more than willing to dispense them. As for myself, getting past the worrisome might-go-wrongs and solidly back into the reality of the now was a big relief. I hadn’t been sure how much more of this waiting game I could take. I was used to jumping in, raising some cane and jumping right back out again once my work was done. This incessant creeping around like some enviro-varmint trying to sneak into the mess-hall for a few crumbs of cheese was unfamiliar.
“I’d like to point out for the umpteenth and perhaps last chance we’ll get, that we could still change course and make like a yellow-bellied coward even now, and turn around pointing our nose out-system,” Tremblay said tightly, “we’d probably make it out without more than a few scratches.”
“And be pursued by every penny ante pirate who scented indecision a
nd incompetence in the air,” I asked rhetorically.
“Admiral, if we bug out now they probably won’t even know we were here,” Tremblay entreated.
My First Officer was clearly undermining my command, but I’d learned back in the Royal Court that the best way to deal with flagrant subversives like Tremblay was to orchestrate their public humiliation at a later date, so I bit my tongue since I was focused on bigger problems.
“We’re already committed,” I said dismissively.
“No we’re not!” Tremblay nearly shouted before visibly stopping himself. After he had taken a deep breath, he continued curtly, “I apologize, Admiral. That was out of line.”
I nodded graciously. “Don’t worry Mr. Tremblay, if everything’s gone according to plan, then the Merchant Captains already deployed the majority of their Royal Marines several hours ago,” I said shortly, as I neurotically checked the main screen for updates.
“What! What’s this?” Tremblay blurted, his face turning red, with what looked suspiciously like rage.
“If you would like to ride this one out in the brig…” I trailed off threateningly with a meaningful look to the pair of lancers posted by the blast doors.
Tremblay appeared to regain a measure of his composure. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Admiral,” he said, completely ignoring my magnanimous offer.
“Officer Laurent, Glue and myself made a few little modifications to the plan we shared with the rest of the command staff,” I explained, making a throw away gesture with my right hand, “nothing that significantly changes the general outline you’re familiar with. The broad sweeps are still the same.”
“Glue,” Tremblay said grimly, “you felt free to share your plans with that genetically engineered monstrosity and ask for its input on our battle plan, but didn’t think to include your own Chief of Staff?”
“Chin up, CoS,” I said using a diminutive of his title as Chief of Staff, one I’d just come up with on the fly, “our Tactical Officer assures me he’s quite bright.”
“You’re going to get a lot of good men killed today, Admiral,” Tremblay said, sounding close to the edge.
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