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

by Caleb Wachter

  “I know plenty,” Garibaldi retorted, his voice lowered to a growl, but by then the scene between the two of them had already garnered the attention of every crewmember in the hangar bay. “You think you’re the only person who’s been lied to, Tim? Do you think you’re the only person on this ship who has lost something they didn’t even know they had?” Garibaldi shook his head condescendingly, “Look around you, Captain; this crew is on the brink, and they’re here because you—because we—asked them to follow us. We’ve all lost something, and it’s high time you cut the ‘woe is me’ act and moved on with your life. At least you’ve got people left who care about you,” Mikey finished, his eyes brimming with angry tears. “Don’t piss it away, Tim. For Murphy’s sake, this crew needs to know its Captain has his own life under control, or what faith will they have that you can possibly have theirs under control?”

  “That’s enough, Chief,” Middleton said unyieldingly, even though his old friend’s words had the ring of truth to them. He knew that his crew looked to him, but he had never really considered it likely that the situation between himself and Jo had become an issue for anyone but the two of them. He was also more than a little surprised to hear Garibaldi had learned the nature of his and Jo’s argument. “I suggest you get back to work,” he said, very much wanting to avoid sending his Chief Engineer to the brig for insubordination.

  Garibaldi raised a finger accusingly, but Middleton gave him a look which he hoped would convey that he had received his friend’s message loud and clear.

  Thankfully, the Chief appeared to understand as he wordlessly turned and made his way back to the patchwork heat sink. “No, no, no,” he barked at the crew assembling the sink, “that’s the intake side; you’ve got the blasted valves backward!”

  Middleton turned and made his way to the doors. His com-link chimed as he reached them, prompting him to answer the call, “This is the Captain.”

  “Sergeant Gnuko’s team has returned, Captain,” Winters reported. “He’ll be docking in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” Middleton acknowledged before severing the connection. He knew he needed to give Mikey’s words a considerable amount of thought, but right then he had more important things to deal with.

  Like getting his ship put back together so he could complete his mission.

  “So we’ve got a meeting set up with this arms dealer, Lynch, three days from now,” Sergeant Gnuko concluded. “I’m not an expert, Captain, but it does look like this guy can get us enough gear to at least get us underway. It’s possible he can even provide everything he says he can…in fact I’d probably lay odds that he can, given his peculiar personality.”

  Middleton nodded slowly, both impressed and concerned with how quickly the team had made contact with the arms dealer. “Mr. Fei, did you have a chance to check any of the merchandise?”

  Fei Long nodded. “I was unable to inspect his entire inventory, but the few samples he provided were indeed compatible with the ship’s systems.”

  “He even had the Artemis lasers?” Middleon asked doubtfully.

  Gnuko nodded hesitantly. “He has those, and more weapons besides,” he said, giving a look to Mr. Strider. Apparently there had been an altercation of some kind during the meeting, and Mr. Strider’s leg had been broken. Before leaving Capital the team had taken him to a hospital and had the wound tended to, but he was quite clearly still uneasy about something.

  “Mr. Strider,” Middleton turned to the former pirate, “how do you know this ‘Lynch’? Is there anything we should be aware of before completing the deal?”

  Strider looked uneasily between Gnuko and Fei Long before leaning forward. “They call him ‘The Beast,’ and he be known by every law dog this side of the Verge, savvy?”

  Middleton furrowed his brow in confusion as he gave Gnuko a look. The Lancer Sergeant nodded grimly, “His nickname fits him, sir. Apparently during the last two years he’s consolidated a considerable portion of the Sector’s black market under his banner. The only reason we were able to see him at all was because of prior dealings between him and Mr. Strider.”

  “I see,” Middleton mused, recalling an entry he had read referencing a criminal figure nicknamed ‘Beast.’ It was a far from original moniker, but apparently this particular man had been pursued by no fewer than eleven separate law enforcement agencies throughout the Sector. He had somehow beaten every single case which had successfully been brought against him, and Middleton didn’t even want to think about how such a high-value target could manipulate such events to his benefit. “Do we have any other options?” he asked, and Gnuko shook his head doubtfully.

  “We don’t think so, Captain,” the Lancer Sergeant replied. “Not if we want to get it all in one shot; I’m sure we could acquire the gear piecemeal from other suppliers but it would take a considerable amount of time.”

  “Agreed,” Middleton grudged. He knew that dealing with a man of Lynch’s stature was risky, but the Pride was little better than a hulk in her current condition. “All right, we proceed with the deal. I’ll have Chief Garibaldi compile a list of priority equipment just in case there’s any last-minute dispute over the value of our currency. Dismissed.”

  “Yes sir,” Gnuko acknowledged as he stood. Strider did likewise and left the room, followed by Fei Long, but the Lancer Sergeant remained behind. When the others had left he asked, “What kind of incidents have there been in my absence?”

  Middleton slid a data slate across the table and gestured at it, “The short version is that nothing’s changed. If we don’t get Atticus’s people under control, and soon, the only options available to us are ones I can’t entertain.”

  Gnuko nodded grimly as he picked up the slate. “I understand, sir. I’ll deal with it.”

  Middleton shook his head. “I’ve been reading up on their culture, and I don’t think a classic approach is going to work. If we throw him in the brig and issue an ultimatum, the odds are he’ll resist and every hour he spends in confinement is another hour his people have to work themselves up into a furor that may literally tear what’s left of this ship apart.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about throwing him in the brig, sir,” Gnuko said darkly.

  Middleton nodded, having understood as much even without Sergeant Gnuko’s insistence. “I’m aware of your options, Sergeant, but his people aren’t likely to respond well to them. Even if he was killed—and I’m not saying that’s what we should be contemplating,” he said with a hard look that he hoped made clear that he was making no unspoken insinuations. The last thing he wanted was for the people under his command to be involved in something like the death of a subordinate, which was what Gnuko was suggesting might be necessary. “But even if he was killed, I doubt you could get them all in line before the situation deteriorated to the point of widespread violence.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Captain?” Gnuko asked.

  The Pride’s captain sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Double the guards at the lift access points and make sure each guard is armed with sonic rifles. I doubt a pistol would bring down a Tracto-an.”

  “Isn’t that just forestalling the inevitable, sir?” Sergeant Gnuko pressed, a hint of defiance creeping into his voice.

  Middleton stood from his chair and met the other man’s gaze levelly. “I’m not against making hard decisions, Sergeant,” he said harshly. “But Atticus and his people have stood alongside the rest of us every time they’ve been called.”

  Sergeant Gnuko softened his visage slightly and nodded. “I just can’t keep from wondering…was it a mistake for us to bring them aboard?”

  Middleton had wondered the same thing recently, but shook his head. “No, it was the right move,” he said confidently. “But their culture is even more fascist than we had initially believed. It’s up to us to integrate them, is that clear?”

  Gnuko didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and said, “We’ll follow your orders, Captain. I saw that the Tracto-ans are being rotated t
hrough the work areas like the shuttle hangar, alternating between Atticus’ group and the others,” he said, clearly thinking aloud. “I’ll head down there during Atticus’ next shift. I might be able to suck some of the wind out of them with some old-fashioned fisticuffs. Besides,” he said grimly, “I could use a diversion right about now.”

  Middleton arched an eyebrow. “Walt didn’t seem to think going at them head-on was a great idea,” he said doubtfully.

  Gnuko snorted. “Respectfully, sir, I’m not Walter Joneson,” he said tightly. “I’ve got to do this my way.”

  Middleton held up a hand by way of apology but he threaded his voice with iron, “That isn’t what I meant, Sergeant, and you know it.”

  Gnuko’s eyes flared briefly but he quickly regained his composure. “I know, sir,” he sighed, “that trip to Capital brought back memories I wish had stayed buried. I won’t let it interfere with my work, sir.”

  The Lancer Sergeant raised his hand in a salute, which Middleton returned before saying, “Deal with your people as you see fit, Sergeant, but keep it above board.”

  “Yes sir,” the Sergeant replied before exiting the room.

  Fei Long had thought about his revenge for nearly every waking minute since Atticus had placed his hand on him in sickbay. He had considered every possible angle, every possible reaction, and after several days of perfecting his plan he knew it was time to act.

  He had made a purchase during his time on Capital, unbeknownst to the other members of the team. He had logged into a local pharmaceutical procurement business’s virtual kiosk and purchased a packet of entirely legal chemicals which he was about to put to use.

  He approached the ship’s laundry services area, which was attached to Environmental—the department to which he had initially been assigned after arriving on the Pride of Prometheus. Before he opened the door to enter the laundry station, he saw an acquaintance lugging a bag full of laundry that likely weighed as much as he did.

  “Sun,” Fei Long greeted the man in his native tongue. He was twenty four and had been recruited from Fei Long’s home world at the same time as Fei Long and Lu Bu, “Allow me to help.” He reached up and took the bag from the man, who nodded graciously as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  The bag was even heavier than it looked, serving as yet another reminder of Fei Long’s physical ineptitude. But he wrestled the sack of soiled clothing into the laundry station after Sun Xian opened the door for him. “My thanks, Long,” the other man said after the laundry had been deposited in one of the bins.

  “Of course,” Fei Long replied easily. A quick glance at the bag he had just carried showed it belonged to Engineering, prompting Fei Long to scan the bank of laundry machines until his eyes came to rest on the one washing the clothes he had come for. “We do not speak as often as we should,” Fei Long said easily as he reached into his pocket for the vial of powder he had procured on Capital.

  “You are busy,” Xian replied dismissively. “How is Lu Bu?”

  Fei Long nodded agreeably, “She is sleeping in her quarters under Dr. Middleton’s observation. I am told she will make a full recovery.”

  “That is good to hear,” Xian said, once again wiping sweat from his brow. “Laundry detail…this is absurd. I should be working on the air cyclers on Deck Five; they have not worked properly since the battle.”

  “I am confident this will be a temporary arrangement,” Fei Long assured him. “Once we have repaired the ship to the captain’s satisfaction I am certain that things will return to the way they were.”

  “I hope so,” Xian grumbled. “What brings you down here, Long? I heard you were on some sort of away mission.”

  Fei Long nodded knowingly as he reached into the pocket opposite the one storing the powder. “I remembered you,” he said casually, producing a data crystal.

  Xian cocked is head, “What is it?”

  Fei Long leaned in and lowered is voice, “The last six seasons of General Disarray.”

  The other man’s hand went to his mouth. “You…how?” he managed to gasp.

  Fei Long feigned indignation, “You believe this beyond my abilities?”

  Sun Xian shook his head quickly, “Of course not. But…I…thank you,” he stammered, reaching out for the crystal.

  Fei Long withdrew the crystal slightly. “I need something, first,” he said conspiratorially, “and I need it quickly.”

  “What can I get for you?” Xian asked skeptically.

  Fei Long hesitated deliberately before sighing, “I need a new adjustable micro-spanner. I broke the last one, and if I check another out under my own name the quartermaster will make me fill out two dozen forms. I dearly want to finish the last round of modifications to my attack dogs before going to sleep tonight. The ideas are still fresh in my mind, but I doubt—”

  Xian held up a hand haltingly. “Fine, I will get it for you. But…I need to see a sample.”

  Fei Long had expected as much, so he plugged the crystal into his data pad and played the introduction sequence to the popular—and banned, at least on Shèhuì Héxié—holo-vid series. It was entirely too predictable and formulaic for Fei Long’s liking, but that was the case with nearly all such media.

  “Jessica cannot die!” Xian declared incredulously after seeing the recap of the previous season. Fei Long then deactivated the pad and slipped the crystal into his pocket.

  “The spanner,” Fei Long said, tilting his head to the door, and Sun Xian nearly leapt toward the door.

  He had almost reached it before stopping and turning with a concerned look on his face. “This is my station,” he said, a note of worry in his voice, “I cannot abandon it…”

  “I will remain here,” Fei Long assured him. “It is only laundry, after all,” he added pointedly.

  Xian looked concerned, but he then shrugged and a gleam entered his eye. “I will return in ten minutes,” he declared confidently before leaving the laundry station.

  Finally alone in the room, Fei Long went to the laundry machine containing Atticus’ clothes and found that it was already finished and merely awaited placement in the individual crewmembers’ net bags.

  He did not have time to fold all of the laundry, which would have been ideal, so he sorted through until he found Atticus’ articles. There were three full sets of clothing belonging to the War Leader, but Fei Long was only concerned with the undergarments.

  He produced the bottle of powder and very carefully sprinkled it across the inner surface of the War Leader’s underwear—specifically the parts which would touch the Tracto-an’s groin. He knew that putting too much would possibly alert Atticus that something was amiss, but the odorless, colorless powder would almost certainly go undetected otherwise…at least until it had begun to take effect

  After repeating the process with each of Atticus’ undergarments, he quickly folded them and placed the articles on the shelf with the War Leader’s service number properly presented. It was standard procedure for crewmembers to claim their own cleaned laundry, but even if that had changed Fei Long was certain that Atticus would receive his own clothing.

  After all, Fei Long thought with a snicker as he began folding other clothes to cover his activities, no one would mess with Atticus’ clothes.

  Fei Long pocketed the powder just a few seconds before Xian returned, proudly holding a micro-spanner—which Fei Long actually did need for his projects.

  “Long, you did not need to do that,” Xian said graciously.

  “It is the least I can do,” Fei Long assured him as he gestured to the half-finished pile of laundry. “Can you finish the rest?”

  Xian nodded anxiously, and Fei Long traded him the data crystal for the micro-spanner before leaving the laundry station.

  Chapter XXXIX: A Showdown

  Fei Long awoke quickly to his alarm, having set it so that he would have time to reach the shuttle hangar before Atticus’ duty shift began there.

  He quickly dressed himself, and pic
ked up his crane feather fan from its resting place near his bed. He gripped the fan tightly in his fingers, thinking that he still had time and opportunity to abandon his plan.

  But Bu had been right when she had suggested there was little—or nothing—he could do to a man like Atticus. And that realization had spurred his mind into concocting the very plan which he would now see through to its completion.

  He knew there was risk involved, even if everything proceeded as he expected, but he also knew that he would be unable to look at himself in the mirror if he did not stand up for himself—and for the others who Atticus deemed ‘beneath’ him.

  So he set off for the shuttle hangar with the crane feather fan gripped in his hand, with images of what may await him in less than twenty minutes flashing in his mind.

  Most of the thoughts were unpleasant, but he was past the point of caring. He was going to do his very best to earn the respect of his crewmates, and if that was not enough then he knew he could accept the defeat and move on.

  He entered the shuttle bay and saw that it was nearly devoid of workers. Only a pair of technicians was present, and they were apparently working to repair a power conduit which powered the main airlock doors.

  Fei Long looked around, and determined that a position near the exterior doors would most likely be out of the way, and that was where he wanted to be—at least initially.

  The minutes ticked by, and Fei Long sat atop a crate awaiting the arrival of the next shift of workers. The shifts were primarily broken into two groups: the group of Tracto-ans under Atticus, who were mostly Lancers; and the group of Tracto-ans which had been recruited by Bu, most of whom had suffered significant injuries prior to joining the Pride’s crew, and were therefore deemed by Atticus and his group to be unworthy, or failures, or something of that nature.

  Fei Long did not care to understand Atticus’ bigoted thinking, but he would very much like to confront him on that matter. Unfortunately, he had to pick his battles and he doubted that he could weave the two conflicts into one effectively.