Up The Middle (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  When the shuttle had disappeared into the low cloud cover which seemed to permeate the entire continent of the planet, Lu Bu turned and made brief eye contact with Atticus. The look she saw in his eyes was one somewhere between grudging respect and annoyance, and she returned it with an iron-hard look of her own as she made her way to the handful of specialists who had been assigned to the mission.

  “Forge Master Haldis,” she said as the middle-aged Tracto-an man drove a final piton into the ground to secure their main tent, “we must go to Argos.”

  Haldis nodded as he stood to his full, impressive height—a height which somehow seemed small to Lu Bu. After spending so much time with four of the Tracto-an warriors like Atticus, who served in the Pride of Prometheus’ Lancer contingent, she somehow found a man like Haldis to be noticeably smaller. But she suspected he was only a few inches shorter, and no less broad, than most of his countrymen were.

  “We should approach during morning hours,” he replied. “Our business will be better received at that time; my people prefer to set about their duties as quickly as possible. We will not find sufficient foot traffic to warrant a foray this evening.”

  Lu Bu considered his words and nodded. “We go at dawn,” she said with a nod of agreement.

  Haldis nodded in reply and Lu Bu continued toward the other members of the specialist team. She had read each of their names during her review of the mission brief on the ride down but had never exchanged words with any of them prior to that moment.

  One was a nurse from the Pride of Prometheus’ sickbay; another was a petty officer for the gun deck; and the last was a member of the Engineering department who just happened to have some sort of background in psychology.

  They were checking their gear, which had been stored in stackable, polymer crates and would allow each of them to conduct their individual examinations of the Tracto-ans.

  Sergeant Gnuko had come up with a plan—a plan which Captain Middleton had endorsed within minutes of hearing it—which would take advantage of a major loophole in Tracto-an society and, potentially, provide every bit of unskilled labor the Pride of Prometheus would require for its upcoming mission.

  Lu Bu sliced another glance over at the pompous Atticus, who looked as though he truly believed in his own unique perfection. He had supposedly never lost a single fight, and Lu Bu suspected he never would—for as long as he lived, anyway, which was a period likely to be determined by the first time his supreme self-confidence was shattered.

  Lu Bu, like Sergeant Gnuko—and Walter Joneson before him—believed in the value of defeat as the only teacher one should never ignore regardless of the message it conveys.

  And she was eager to put that belief to the test.

  Chapter IV: A Demonstration

  “Thank you for seeing me, Captain,” Fei Long said as he made his way into Captain Middleton’s office.

  Middleton eyed the young man and suppressed a sigh as he saw a small stack of boxes, papers, data pads, and even a few tiny tools used for adjusting sensitive electronics. “Mr. Fei,” he said with a wave to the pile of material the young man placed on Middleton’s desk, “what, exactly, is all of this?”

  “This,” Fei Long said with more than a hint of pride, “is my latest project. I must still refine the sensitivity of the motivators and micro-servos, but I believe I have achieved a degree or efficiency which will facilitate a demonstration you will no doubt find—“

  “Mr. Fei,” Middleton held a hand up to forestall the young man’s technobabble, “please…if you’re here to demonstrate something, I’ve just got one question: is it dangerous?”

  Fei Long actually seemed to consider the question—an act which did little to allay Middleton’s rising fears—before shaking his head. “The probability of harm coming to either of us during this demonstration is statistically negligible, Captain,” the young man said confidently.

  “How negligible,” Middleton asked dryly before adding, “statistically?”

  Again, Fei Long appeared to consider the question and shrugged his shoulders lightly, “Perhaps one in ten thousand?”

  Middleton exhaled quietly and nodded. “Proceed.”

  Fei Long opened the box and carefully withdrew an almost egg-shaped piece of metal with an irregular surface dotted by dozens of what seemed to be tiny emitters of some kind. “This,” he said as he set the eight inch long, egg-shaped device on the table, “is Vladimir.”

  Middleton cocked an eyebrow. “Is that the extent of the demonstration?”

  Fei Long shook his head as he withdrew a glove from the box—a glove which looked suspiciously like part of a VR suite—and affixed it to his hand. “Please do not be alarmed, Captain,” he said as he fiddled with the last of the clasps, “it may take me a moment to align the controls.”

  A few moments passed as Fei Long adjusted the output of the glove, but eventually a small, blue, light came to life on the top of the egg-shaped device. Before Middleton could ask what that light meant, the device sprang upward several inches from the desk and, before it landed, sprouted a half dozen tiny, mechanical, spider-like legs and turned to ‘face’ Captain Middleton.

  “A pet?” Middleton asked after a few moments of consideration.

  “Not just a pet, Captain,” Fei Long said knowingly, “but an attack dog. If you will permit me a temporary breach of ship’s security, I believe it would be illuminating as to the possibilities we might explore by incorporating Vladimir into various tactical scenarios.”

  Middleton narrowed his eyes. “What kind of ‘breach’ are you suggesting? If this is another attempt to peep on the ladies’ showers—“

  “No, no, no,” Fei Long said, going red-faced with embarrassment immediately, “I assure you it is nothing of that nature. No ship’s functions will be affected, I assure you.”

  Middleton was of half a mind to deny Fei Long’s request, but he had learned a week earlier that the young man had locked himself away in his quarters day and night while working on this particular project. And if Mr. Fei believed it was worthwhile, then Middleton needed to at least hear it out—after all, raging hormones or not, Fei Long was easily the most intelligent person Tim Middleton had ever met.

  “All right, Mr. Fei,” he said, before raising a finger warningly, “but consider yourself on a short leash.”

  Fei Long shot him a look which was a mixture of resentment and resignation, “Of course, Captain; bear in mind, however, that the remote control mechanism I have employed will permit me to achieve this degree of control at tactical combat ranges…and possibly beyond.” He then flipped a switch on the back of the glove and the ‘Vladimir’ unit quickly scampered across Middleton’s desk until arriving at his private access console. The console activated—without the tiny, mechanical unit even touching it—and the screen began to flip through its activation sequence before coming to the login page.

  “Mr. Fei—” Middleton growled, but before he could even finish the thought his private console had been activated and the entirety of his private information was on display for everyone to see—which, in this case, meant himself and, if it had eyes, the egg-shaped, spider-like automaton.

  “One more demonstration, Captain,” Fei Long said and the spider scampered to the edge of the table before launching itself with surprising power into the far wall some fifteen feet away.

  When it landed, its needle-sharp legs dug into the metal of the bulkhead and a small cutting laser began to slice into the wall, producing a tiny cloud of acrid smoke as it did so.

  “Turn it off!” Middleton bellowed as he leapt to his feet and, almost surprisingly, Fei Long complied and the unit deactivated immediately. “Just what the blue blazes kind of havoc are you trying to wreak here?!”

  Fei Long turned, slipped the glove from his hand, and met Middleton’s gaze with a cold, calculating one of his own and said, “I have just hacked this ship’s most sensitive systems in less than three seconds, remotely, via Vladimir.” He gestured to the egg-shaped,
spider-legged machine, which was still ‘standing’ on the wall before looking back at Middleton before going silent for several seconds.

  During that time, the Captain was processing just how ‘Vladimir’ might be used, and his mind raced with the possible applications.

  “Captain, I understand all too well the extraordinary nature of the request I am about to make,” Fei Long continued, “but if I was given access to the DI architecture diagrams for any hostile vessels we are likely to encounter—the SR class of Corvettes, for example—then I have every confidence I would be capable of wreaking precisely this kind of…” his lips twisted slightly, “havoc on our enemies. All I would then require is a delivery device which could intercept a warship in a fight, punch through its shields, and deliver the units into the enemy vessel.”

  Middleton pressed his knuckles against the top of the desk and resisted the urge to shake his head in resignation. “Mr. Fei…how many of these things do you have?”

  Fei Long virtually deflated before Middleton’s eyes, “I fear I have only constructed three, and the other two are not yet functional…but I believe I could craft nearly thirty of them in the coming weeks, should I be granted access to the proper materials and equipment.”

  “What kind of materials are you talking about?” Middleton asked warily. He had visions of Fei Long dismantling droids and repurposing their constituent parts for this plan, and for a moment he was reminded of a mad scientist he had seen once in a holo-vid.

  “I assure you, Captain,” Fei Long said, gritting his teeth briefly, “I have not deconstructed the droid cores for this purpose. However,” he admitted after a moment’s pause, “several of their units were destroyed beyond repair and I was able to salvage enough of the micro-transceivers from their chassis’ before they were disposed of. The transceivers are composed primarily of rare elements like…the names of which are unimportant,” he said, correctly identifying Middleton’s diminishing patience and hurrying his speech. “But their replication is beyond our ability to replicate—at least on short notice and without a proper workshop. I currently have thirty eight such transceivers in total, but I anticipate only three fourths of those being usable in this application.”

  Middleton considered the matter before shaking his head. “You’ve been on the Pride for months; you could have hacked my passwords or placed a virus in the system which was dormant until you activated it. How do I know this isn’t all some elaborate ruse designed to make me sign off on this project?”

  “I assure you, Captain,” Fei Long said indignantly, “I have done nothing of the kind. I merely availed myself of the DI infrastructure schematics for this vessel’s class and then wrote a security cracking algorithm which I installed in Vladimir’s operational firmware, and this algorithm is specific to a Hammerhead’s DI. Most vessels—especially military vessels,” he added with a knowing look, “maintain absolute discretion between the systems of the ship and any outside communication sources, thereby preventing subversion of key systems from outside the vessel. But,” he said with a hint of pride, “a DI is vulnerable to such an attack from within, and would be unable to stop a program of this variety from causing, as you say, short-lived havoc on their internal systems. The DI would eventually counteract such an intrusion, but by using these attack dogs we might manage to even the odds during a crucial moment.”

  Ignoring the ‘attack dog’ line, Middleton nodded slowly as he swept up the data slate Fei Long had brought with him. “Does this contain all of the relevant data?” he asked.

  Fei Long nodded confidently. “Everything is there, including several possible applications and alternate configurations which might provide for maximum efficacy when deployed within specific mission parameters. This,” he gestured to the spider-legged drone, “is merely one such configuration.”

  “Then I’ll keep this,” he said, sliding the data slate to one side of his table before waving an arm at the rest of the materials Fei Long had brought, “and you can take…the rest of this back to your quarters.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Fei Long said with a gracious nod as he began to collect the items from the table. When he had finished, he turned and made for the door.

  “Mr. Fei,” Middleton called out pointedly, and when the young man turned to make eye contact, the Captain pointed to the mechanical ‘creature’ still attached to the far wall.

  Fei Long flushed briefly before making his way over and, using only one hand, carefully removing the remote device from the wall and then making a hasty egress of Middleton’s office.

  With the young genius gone, Middleton sank into his chair and began to peruse Fei Long’s notes. Amazingly, while the young man had become increasingly scatter-brained in recent weeks, his writing was as clear as a person could ask for. After just twenty minutes, Captain Middleton had scanned the contents and concluded that this little project of Fei Long’s would warrant further review…as well as support.

  Chapter V: A Gambit at Gambit

  “I’m sorry,” the station manager repeated as Middleton, accompanied by Chief Engineer Garibaldi, attempted to negotiate on the Pride of Prometheus’ behalf, “there simply isn’t enough time to satisfy this request list.”

  “C’mon,” Garibaldi said irritably, “we all know there’s a little slop around the edges. All we’re askin’ for is a few extra hours in the cradle and a replacement of the Pride’s basic weaponry—you know, the stuff the Imps ripped off her when they tucked their tails and ran home.”

  The manager—a woman named Glenda Baldwin—nodded irritably, “I am well aware of that, Chief Garibaldi, but in case you haven’t noticed we simply do not have enough yard time to devote to such an extensive refit.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Garibaldi said, smirking as he gesticulated emphatically, “we’re not asking for a refit; the old girl just needs a little extra time to let the paint dry, that’s all.”

  Baldwin cocked an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the requisitions list. “You’ve submitted a request for the installation of eight light lasers and four short-ranged plasma cannons along your broadsides; an overhaul of your secondary power grid; and a completely new sensor suite to be installed parallel to the current one. I hardly think that qualifies as ‘letting the paint dry’,” she said in an appropriately dry tone.

  “These modifications aren’t expensive; you’ve got the materials out in your bone yard,” Middleton cut in, waving the data slate the Gambit engineers had provided, which included the tallied wreckage of several vessels deemed too badly damaged to warrant any kind of refit. “We can salvage the gear with our own teams,” he continued, “but we’re going to need the extra yard time—“

  “Which I can’t give you,” Baldwin cut him off adamantly. “There’s a whole fleet out there, and while your ship is second in line—behind only the Admiral’s—I’ve got to see each and every one of the others in turn. Four days is the most I could give you, and I’m tying myself in knots at that! I’ll probably be unable to swap out a leaky fusion reactor on the Silent Strike; I shouldn’t have to tell either of you the dangers of excessive radiation exposure—to say nothing of an unreliable power plant which may or may not keep up under a combat load—which is precisely what the crew of the Silent Strike will get if we experience so much as a three hour hiccup in our schedule here. There is no more room, gentlemen.”

  “Bah,” Garibaldi scoffed, waving his hands angrily as he began to stomp off.

  But Middleton thought about what she was saying and a plan came to him. “Manager Baldwin,” he said, referring to her by the title ‘Construction Manager’ which appeared next to her name on the forms he had been reviewing.

  “Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” she snapped, “I’ve been conscripted into military service; I’m a Lieutenant now.”

  “Lieutenant, then,” Middleton said agreeably, “it sounds like you’re short on time…” He let the words linger for several seconds before continuing, “How long will the radiation
purge of the Pride’s primary hull take?”

  Baldwin rolled her eyes. “That’s the lengthiest part of the whole op,” she replied in a patronizing tone as she rubbed her eyes wearily, “if all goes according to schedule, we’re looking at another fifty two hours to complete the job.”

  Middleton nodded slowly, “And, stop me if I’m wrong, but it seems the limiting factor here isn’t one of resources so much as it is available cradle time, is that also correct?”

  Baldwin’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re wasting what little time I’ve got—“

  Middleton shook his head and Chief Garibaldi turned around to listen in on the conversation. “That’s the exact opposite of my intention, Lieutenant,” Middleton assured her. “How about this…” he tapped out a few revisions to his requisition form—most of which were deletions of previous requests—and handed it to her, “might this ease your logistical burdens a bit while providing my people with the resources they’ll need to do the rest of the job later?”

  “Later?” Garibaldi interrupted. “Tim, what are you—“

  Middleton held up a hand haltingly and, thankfully, his Chief Engineer stopped mid-sentence. Lieutenant Baldwin accepted the data slate with a skeptical look on her face and began perusing its contents. Her stern, scowling expression softened as she went through the list, and her eyebrows actually lifted in surprised before reaching the end of the list, when much of her former scowl returned.

  “I can agree to all of this, on the condition you return the last items before leaving the system,” she said, and Middleton shook his head adamantly.

  “I can’t do that,” he said with a piercing look, “what I’m offering you is a chance to take a huge load off your crew and your equipment, but the final items on that list are what I need in exchange for that relief. If you can permanently transfer those materials to the Pride’s inventory, I can cut our time in your cradle by half. That should ensure that all essential repairs get done to ships like the Silent Strike, and all it costs you is equipment you’ll be able to reproduce here after the Fleet’s out of your hair.”