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 p
lanet—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.”
No Middle Ground (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride) Page 6