Fear God and Dread Naught (43 page)

“A moment, Commander, please,” begged the System Commander, turning away from the Imperial and toward myself. “What is this, Admiral?" LeGodat demanded desperately. “You told me you would be restrained and when I questioned you after hearing the name of the Imperial Commander, you told me there was only some old, outdated family business from before you were born between you! You can’t do this!” The System Commander looked like a man powerless to stop a train wreck, yet desperate to try anyway.

I drew myself up into my most Princely and regal pose, “Commodore LeGodat, let me assure you, I have been the height of reason,” I said looking down my nose at the System Commander.

“It's just ‘Lieutenant Commander,’ not Commodore,” said the Fleet Officer in charge of system command and the Corvette squadron, “and I’m sorry to have to say you’ve been anything but, Admiral.” LeGodat looked like a man caught between a rock and hard place, a slight sheen of sweat growing on his forehead.

“Listen, Commodore,” I repeated the title purposely.

“It's
Commander
,” exclaimed the Fleet Officer.

I shook my head, trying for my most condescending bearing. “It’s simply not proper for a ‘Lieutenant Commander’ to command a Star Base of this size and tactical importance. Commodore has a much nicer ring to it, wouldn’t you say? So I’ve promoted you,” I said grandly, accompanying this statement with a regal tilt of the head.

I then snapped my head around to face the Imperial Commander's image. “But neither is it proper for a member of the Caprian Blood Royal to let a Cornwallis slip through his fingers, not when the Imperial Commander has been caught red-handed in the act of piracy against the Confederacy!”

“I regret to have to inform you, Admiral,” said the System Commander, looking grey-faced, “that if you engage the Imperial Strike Cruiser in combat, I will have no choice but to fulfill my mandate to protect this system and its inhabitants by firing on your vessel.”

The Imperial Commander looked like a man who’d just swallowed something bitter.

“You’ll do as you feel you have to, Commodore,” I said in a sympathetic voice. “In the meantime, every Imperial vessel that hasn’t pointed its nose to the hyper-limit and started a maximum burn will feel a taste of my wrath! Ex-Com, cut the transmission and redirect us to the Promethean Cruisers. Continue on the open frequency,” I instructed.

The entire bridge staff sat rigidly in their chairs, fingers and hands clenched tight.

“What was that, Admiral?” Tremblay began in despair. “You’ve not only cast us as the aggressors in this conflict, but you’ve implicated the home world, not to mention potentially the entire Confederacy as well!”

I ignored him and turned to the tactical section instead. I caught the eye of the grey-haired individual manning the main console.

“If we actually pass between the Imperials and the Constructors, and we’re within range of our weapons, instruct Gunnery to aim for non-critical areas and most importantly of all, they are instructed to miss their targets,” I said firmly.

The Tactical Officer pursed his lips and then nodded.

Officer Tremblay looked angry and surprised, “Was this whole thing a ruse then,” he demanded. “What’s the big plan now? Bluff them until it's time for us to turn around and run away with our tail firmly between our legs, having made ourselves the laughing stock of civilized space?” I could imagine him envisioning his career's former projected trajectory, now watching it go down in flames, and had to stifle a smile.

I shook my head. “You and your insistence that everything I do is a bluff, up until I actually go and do it,” I said warningly. "When will you learn, Mr. Tremblay? Now, on the other hand, threatening to fire on unarmed civilians? Unarmed Confederation Civilians? That was a legitimate ruse of warfare, not a bluff. Threatening to fire on and destroy an Imperial ship caught in the act of pirating Confederation vessels,” I slammed my good fist into the bent side of the Throne. "No. That was no bluff, Mr. Tremblay, that was a stated fact. If they don’t high-tail it out of here faster than we can catch them, that Strike Cruiser will soon know that they’ve been in a fight.”

I deliberately turned my face away from the First Officer and back to the main screen. “Ex-Com, the Prometheans please,” I said harshly.

The tech jumped, “Yes, Sir,” said the person manning the Ex-Com section. “You’re live now, Admiral.”

“Members of Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,
Pride of Prometheus
and
Prometheus Fire
, you are immediately instructed to heave to and prepare yourselves for inspection teams from the Confederation Flagship, MPF Lucky Clover,” I said harshly. “Resistance will be met with overwhelming force. Put your power generators into shutdown mode and do not attempt to spin up your hyper drive systems. You are being detained on the suspicion of mutiny and piracy.” I glared unmoving at the screen for several moments, making sure they had the opportunity to see my ruined face in all its terrifying glory.

“Ex-Com, cut transmission,” I said when I felt an appropriate dose had been administered. I was really going now.

A saw a yeoman out of the corner of my eye. I leaned back in my chair and said "Yeoman, a spot of tea, if you'd be so kind. All of this reasonable communicating makes for an awfully dry throat.” I couldn't help myself.

After the Tech indicated they were off the air, I leaned back and heaved a sigh of relief.

The signal, when it came back, was twofold.

A swarthy, medium-sized man neither fat nor slim, middle aged and with a haggard look to him appeared on the screen first. “The Medium Cruiser,
Prometheus Fire
, regrets to inform you that she has been voluntarily withdrawn from the Patrol Fleet, as per agreed upon protocol. The Fire stipulates that it has been, and continues to be, in compliance with all applicable Confederation and Confederated Empire statutes and ordinances. Costel Iorghu of
Prometheus Fire
, out,” said what must have been the captain of the ship.

Then the transmission from Captain Stood came in. Grey hair slicked back and still as fat as ever, the older man jiggled as he slammed his hands down on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “The Empire’s all but gone and the Confederation dead and buried. I think you have more pressing worries than us and what happened to your fancy little prize ship, right this moment,” he sneered before cutting the transmission.

I paused, uncertain for a moment. It was a good opportunity to take a sip of tea the yeoman had just delivered. “That went well,” I commented in an off-handed fashion.

No Middle Ground Cover Blurb (Spineward Sectors: Middleton’s Pride, Book One of Five)

by Caleb Wachter

When the Empire of Man abandoned the Spineward Sectors of the Confederation to their own devices, it was left to an underappreciated few like lifelong military man Tyrone ‘Tim’ Middleton and his crew of misfits aboard the aged
Pride of Prometheus
to keep their corner of the galaxy safe from forces which would tear it apart.

But just three weeks into their maiden ‘wave the flag’ voyage as part of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, the
Pride
’s crew stumbles upon a Sector-wide conspiracy which could threaten to destroy the already dangerously fractured Old Confederation before it can even attempt to restore order.

How far will this crew go to protect their homes, their loved ones, and the principles upon which their way of life was built—and will their battle-worn, outdated warship be equal to the task of pushing back the forces which would devour the Spineward Sectors whole?

Prologue: The Big Chair

 “Have a seat, Lieutenant Commander,” the young Admiral, Jason Montagne, gestured to the seat opposite his own in the Admiral’s office adjacent to the Flag Bridge.

Lieutenant Commander Tyrone ‘Tim’ Middleton was apprehensive about the nature of the meeting, but he was more intrigued than concerned. So he took his seat as indicated, acknowledging with a nod, “Thank you, Admiral.”

After he had been seated, he felt the Little Admiral—a moniker which was far from respectful in its origins—pour the weight of his gaze over his features. The young man had absolutely zero military training, having been born into a relatively minor branch of his home planet’s nobility and being placed aboard the
Lucky Clover
as little more than a face-saving piece of political theater. Just a few months earlier it would have been inconceivably ludicrous to suggest that he would be commanding one of the most powerful mobile assets in the entire Spineward Sectors. But, as is so often the case, reality turned out to be more incredible than the cheapest fiction.

“I’ve been going over our latest status reports,” the young Admiral began, gesturing languidly to a neat stack of data slates on the desk before him, “and it seems that the 
Lucky Clover
 has no further use for you on her bridge.”

“Sir?!” Middleton said in surprise. He had been the First Shift Tactical Officer ever since Admiral Montagne had fully assumed command of the aged battleship, and to his mind he had performed his duties precisely as needed.

Admiral Montagne nodded coolly, lacing his fingers before his face as he explained in his aggravating, Royalist manner. “The 
Clover
’s crew, while still a tick or two below a proper military standard, have rounded into form nicely under the direction of her various department heads—your own department included.”

“We’ve just been doing our jobs, Admiral,” Middleton said guardedly. The truth of his own circumstances was that if the Imperial Navy had not withdrawn the entirety of its mobile assets from the Spineward Sectors just a few short weeks earlier, he likely would have already retired and moved on to the next phase of his life. He had no great wish to abandon the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—the peacekeeping force to which he had been attached for the past several years—but the time had come for him to move on from his twenty year military career.

“As have we all,” Admiral Montagne agreed easily, but Middleton felt the younger man’s gaze probe his eyes for some purpose of which he was uncertain. “And, in keeping with that particular sentiment,” the Little Admiral continued, reaching to the top data slate on the pile and sliding it across the desk, “you have a new assignment.”

Lieutenant Commander Middleton picked up the data slate, and within a few seconds his eyebrows rose in surprise—and then lowered darkly as he realized what those orders entailed. “Admiral—“ he began to protest, but the younger man cut him off.

“You’re the top bridge officer aboard this ship, Lieutenant Commander Middleton,” the Admiral said smoothly, “or, at least, the top one with the necessary credentials to fulfill this particular duty.”

Middleton shook his head dubiously, knowing there had been supposedly good reason why he had not advanced higher up the chain of command than he had already done. “My psych profile—“

“Is just one of several data points I’ve incorporated while making my decision,” the Little Admiral interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I assure you, Lieutenant Commander, that this will be a simple ‘wave the flag’ mission. The people of the Spineward Sectors need to see friendly faces in light of the recent chaos caused by the Imperial withdrawal; a month-long patrol on the border of Sectors 24 & 25 should alleviate some portion of the anxiety felt by those citizens living there.”

Middleton considered the younger man’s words, and as he did so he realized he was probably right. The people of the Spineward Sectors needed a stabilizing force—or at least the appearance of one—and with that in mind he arrived at what most would deem an unnaturally quick decision. But as a Tactical Officer, it was Middleton’s job to adapt to new variables as quickly as possible—and there were precious few TO’s in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet who were as good at that particular part of the job as Lieutenant Commander Middleton.

“I’ll need a few days to draw up a roster,” Middleton said as he leaned back in the chair and considered possible crew for the mission.

“You’ve got forty eight hours to submit your transfer requests,” Admiral Montagne said with what Middleton suspected was a false smile, and the young man stood to offer his hand across the desk. “Congratulations, Captain Middleton.”

Chapter III: Earning Hazard Pay

Three weeks after the
Pride of Prometheus
was seized by the Mult-Sector Patrol Fleet and sent on patrol by the order of Vice Admiral Jason Montagne

“Airborne biohazard detected on decks four, five and six,” the Comm. officer reported frantically, clarifying the nature of the alarm—and only then did Captain Tim Middleton understand the pirates’ intentions in surrendering so quickly. “Emergency lockdown protocols are now in effect, sir.”

Captain Middleton closed his eyes briefly and thought,
That’s why the torpedo didn’t destroy us when it impacted—it was carrying a bio-weapon instead of a ship-busting warhead
.

He punched up the ship’s doctor on his chair’s comm. unit and was quickly rewarded with the image of the aging doctor’s face. “What is it, Doctor?” he asked, feeling an odd mixture of anxiety and serenity now that the final piece had fallen into place. It was terrifying to have a biological contagion aboard the ship, but he now fully understood the tactical situation and would no longer need to analyze and re-analyze each and every piece of new information. To Middleton, this was a more significant relief than anything.

“Computer’s reading some kind of multi-part, auto-recombinant airborne virus,” Doctor Milton replied grimly. “It beat the standard filters because it only recombines inside the host’s body. Frankly, we’re lucky it got detected by the outdated filters in here,” he said with a hard look.

Middleton kept his features firm despite the roiling sensation in his abdomen. “Can you treat it?”

The Doctor shook his head as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Realistically the best thing we can do is lock the ship down, shut off the primary air circulation systems, and hope to Murphy it’s been contained.”

“Can we re-route the air circulation through the systems in Engineering and the Bridge?” Middleton pressed, knowing it was a long shot. The
Pride
’s critical areas—the bridge, Engineering, the gun deck and sickbay—had independent air re-circulation systems which, when activated, could keep those portions of the ship separate in the event of a contaminant like the one just discovered. They could also filter out and destroy any potential bio-contaminants for several days with no more than emergency power. Tapping into those filtration systems was a long shot, but Middleton had to do everything possible for his crew.

“If we do that, we risk exposing the crew that are already protected within the high-security sections,” the Doctor shook his head firmly. “Protocols are clear on this situation, Captain; I’ve already initiated the lockdown, and now only you or I can override it. As Chief Medical Officer, it is my opinion that you should leave the lockdown in place until this contagion has been identified and treated, or run its course in containment.”

Captain Middleton felt the urge to sit back in his chair but fought it, remaining precisely where he was so he could maintain eye contact with Milton. “How long, Doctor?” he asked after a lengthy pause which saw all activity on the bridge come to a grinding halt.

“If this is a high-grade bioweapon—and I’ve got no reason to believe it isn’t—we’ve got no more than twelve hours, barring extreme luck with the available treatments,” Doctor Milton replied matter-of-factly. “That still gives me a few hours here to determine what it is we’re dealing with…in the event we don’t have ‘extreme luck’.”

Middleton could feel the eyes of the entire bridge crew on him as the reality of the situation sank in for them. But to him, Doctor Milton’s report was just another piece of the puzzle which explained the second corvette captain’s behavior perfectly. To Middleton’s mind, the fact that the Liberator torpedo had carried a bioweapon rather than a ship-busting bomb was good news since it meant that at least some of the crew would survive. They were already in full lockdown containment mode, so there was little point in worrying about the inevitable aftermath of this weaponized virus just yet.

“I’ll leave you to it then, Doctor,” Middleton said with a short nod which Milton returned before cutting the com-link. Straightening himself in his chair, Captain Middleton turned deliberately toward Ensign Sarkozi. “Has Captain Raubach’s vessel come to a full stop?”

Sarkozi stared blankly at him for a moment before snapping to and checking her console with a glance. “No, Captain,” she said with a note of surprise, “she’s cut her engines and stopped her acceleration, but the corvette’s inertia is still carrying it forward with only the gravity of the gas giant slowing her down fractionally, and they’ve already gone well past orbit-breaking speed.”

Middleton had expected such, so he continued calmly, “Are their shields still raised?”

Sarkozi glanced down and shook her head. “Negative, Captain; her shields are down and her primary generator is off-line. Aside from her forward momentum, she’s dead in space.”

Replaying the sequence of events in his mind, Captain Middleton shook his head at his own lack of experience. Foreseeing the presence of not one, but
two
banned weapons in the Liberator torpedo and the bioweapon it carried, required an unreasonable amount of foresight. But he now knew that he should not have accepted Captain Raubach’s unconditional surrender as readily as he had.

“Tactical,” he began evenly, feeling his face go red with anger, “have the gun deck transfer fire control of the forward batteries to my console.”

“Captain—“ Tactical Officer Sarkozi began, but the rest of her words caught in her throat at Middleton’s hard, unyielding look. “Transferring now, sir,” she said professionally before bracing to attention several seconds later and adding, “transfer complete, Captain.”

“Comm.,” the Captain said, his eyes fixed on the main viewer, “hail the corvette.”

“Hailing now, Captain,” Ensign Jardine replied after a brief pause.

A moment later, the screen was filled with Captain Meisha T. Raubach’s smug features. “We are prepared to receive your boarding party, Captain Middleton,” she said officiously, but Middleton could plainly see the outright arrogance in her visage. She clearly knew that the
Pride of Prometheus
would catch her eventually, but she also just as clearly knew that the
Pride
would be in lockdown and that sending a boarding party would be next to impossible until that lockdown was over—which could either take hours or days.

Still
, Middleton thought to himself bitterly as he leaned forward in his chair,
at least we won’t have to worry about them sending a boarding party of their own
. “Captain Raubach,” he began in an officious tone of his own, “you have deployed outlawed ordnance, including weapons of mass destruction in the form of an engineered bioweapon, delivered by a universally banned ship-to-ship delivery platform. Your crimes have been noted in my ship’s log and are witnessed by the members of this crew and the ship’s sensor feeds; under the Confederation War Crimes statute you are hereby sentenced to summary execution.”

Captain Raubach stiffened visibly as she shook her head in negation, her curly hair bouncing around her oddly handsome features. “The Confederation War Crimes statutes are outdated,
Captain
,” she said smugly. “As Imperial citizens, both I and my crew are to be afforded safe passage to an Imperial outpost—as stipulated under both the Union Treaty
and
the United Space Sectors and Provinces Act—where our legal status can be impartially determined. We have complied with your demands by powering down our fusion reactor and disabling our weaponry—as well as our engines,” she added with a triumphant smirk, “and are even now awaiting your boarding party. I assure you we will cooperate fully with your inspection and seizure teams whenever they arrive.”

“The Union Treaty has been dissolved, Captain Raubach,” Middleton said evenly, “and with it your so-called ‘protection’.”

“Even if that’s true,” she countered easily, “as an officer in the Imperial Navy, the United Space Sectors and Provinces Act stipulates that I be remanded into Imperial custody before any provincial legal action can proceed.”

“Captain Raubach,” Middleton began, feeling his collar begin to heat at the incessant back-and-forth wordplay but knowing he needed to keep calm, “are you saying that your actions here are condoned by the Imperial Navy?”

Raubach laughed in open derision. “Of course not,” she spat with a piteous shake of her head, “I, and my crew, seized this ship and station in an act of piracy in order to take financial advantage of the political instability in the region. But, as a mutinous Imperial officer, my superiors will naturally want me remanded to their custody immediately following my arrest.”

Middleton felt the urge to scream at the top of his lungs, but he kept his best poker face throughout the exchange. His mind raced as he tried to devise a way to outmaneuver this woman, but it was clear that she had the legal framework on her side—which meant this had been a well-coordinated effort, likely with significant backing. “Raubach,” Middleton mused as he tried to buy time, “I’ve heard that name before. Your family’s one of the most powerful in the Imperium, isn’t it?”

“My
husband,
James’, family,” she corrected with a disdainful shake of her head, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. “My maiden name is Tate,” she added in her insufferably smug tone.

Ensign Sarkozi approached Middleton’s chair and leaned close to say under her breath, “In three minutes they will have left our heavy lasers’ extreme range, Captain.”

At Middleton’s momentary hesitation, Captain Raubach snickered triumphantly. “Face it, Captain,” she said, taking a triumphant step toward the viewer’s pickup, “there’s nothing you can do now; I’ve got complete legal immunity.”

Middleton closed his eyes and his hand hung suspended over the arm console of his chair. He knew full well that what he was contemplating bordered on a capital offense in and of itself. But even assuming the
Pride
caught up to the corvette and secured both it and its crew, all that would do is buy more time for the merchantmen to conclude their business at the mining facility—and Captain Middleton was now certain that said business was far from legitimate.

Conversely, if he turned his back on the corvette to secure the gas facility and merchantmen, there was nothing to stop it from coasting further and further away until it was outside the
Pride
’s effective zone of control. And if there was even a half-reasonable possibility that the gas facility had been turned into a bioweapons manufacturing site—

His eyes snapped open after he had worked his way through the situation, and he knew what he had to do—no matter how much it might cost him personally.

“Your ‘immunity,’ Captain Raubach,” he began coldly, his fingers tapping the Captain’s fire control code into the console on his chair, “has just been revoked.”

His finger rammed down on the firing icon, and the look on the pirate Captain’s face was one of shocked incredulity as the
Pride
’s forward batteries fired in unison. Captain Raubach made to protest, but the connection was severed before any sound passed her lips.

The viewer shimmered to replace her smug visage with a real-time image of the corvette. Its superstructure buckled from the combined power of eight heavy lasers landing in concert on the drifting vessel’s lightly-armored hull.

Seconds later there was a series of explosions which cascaded through the corvette’s hull, sending sections of hull plating flying in every direction as the vessel began to topple end over end from the force of the internal ruptures. Debris went spinning off with every rotation, and after less than a minute all power signatures aboard the corvette went dark.

There was shocked silence on the bridge, into which Middleton smartly ordered, “Helm, best possible speed to the gas collection facility; I don’t want a single ship escaping this system under any circumstances. Comm.,” he continued, bracing himself against the arm of his chair, “transmit on all channels the order for vessels in system to heave to—or, if docked, to remain where they are—and await MSP inspection. Failure to comply will result in…” he cocked a cold grin in spite of the situation’s severity, “further revocations.”